If These Walls Could Talk

Author’s Note: This story is a work of fiction. Some names of real persons have been added for historical context, but are, in no way, associated with any of the activities related to the story.

~ Thursday, June 24, 2010 ~

The two men stood quietly in the elevator, watching the numbers increase. They both had a lot on their minds. Being at City Hall was something they both hated, especially going to the 16th floor. They despised briefings from politicians: It meant they were dealing with a case that had political correctness written all over it. Detective Michael Winesbach was ever present of the imposing presence his partner, Randall Kunes, presented. He towered over Mike by half a foot and at least fifty pounds. Randy was a young detective with the police force and still had a lot to learn. Still, he would be beneficial when questioning suspects using the good cop bad cop technique.

Finally, Randy could not keep quiet any longer, “So, you say she’s a psychic?”

“That’s what they say,” Mike responded, “she’s going to tell us who our killer is just by touching things.”

“Parlor tricks,” Randy commented with a sneer, “why don’t they leave the detective work to us REAL detectives?”

Mike chuckled. They had known each other six months, but this was their first case working together as partners. Randy was still in the trying to impress his boss phase of their relationship and how to be a real detective himself. He had not yet learned that Mike was a very down-to-Earth guy who did not like to play games and did not need to be impressed. Mike had a good reputation in the division and the whole police department, but this case had BAD written all over it.

“What did you think about the article I sent you from the Investigative Journal?” Mike asked.

Randy frowned, “I was supposed to read that?” with the same inflection of a child having been caught playing instead of doing homework, “I thought it was just FYI.”

“Yeah, you were,” Mike sighed, rubbing his temple, “she is licensed in fifteen states as an expert witness, and several more are looking at approving her, including California. Our governor, present and former city mayors, think very highly of her. This case involves a historic site near and dear to the Governor’s heart. Psychic or not, she gets results. You need to take her very seriously.”

Randy made a mental note not to blow off articles e-mailed to him by his boss. The elevator dinged as they arrived at their destination and the doors opened. They went down the hall to the mayor’s office. They were expected, and the secretary escorted them into the office.

“Mike, Randy,” Mayor Michael Nutter greeted warmly, even though they had never met, “good to see you.” They both cordially shook hands with the mayor. He motioned to his secretary to make sure they were not disturbed. “May I introduce Miss Clara Hughes,” he motioned to a high-backed chair. They had not noticed her before, but she quietly stood and nodded her greeting. She had her hands folded in front of her and wore white designer leather gloves. Her clothing was plain and non-descript, almost frumpy. Mike extended a hand to shake hers, but she did not take it.

“I don’t shake hands,” she greeted apologetically, “I don’t do it to be rude, that’s just the way I am.”

“No worries,” Mike replied, trying to keep the mood light. Randy smiled but kept quiet. Mike did not consider himself sexist, but he was awestruck by her beauty despite her plain clothes. She was obviously of mixed origin as her facial features appeared European, but her dark skin hinted of somewhere else. Standing only a few inches shorter than he, her build was athletic, but her clothing downplayed her feminine form. The mayor motioned them to their seats.

“I was waiting for Police Chief Ramsey to join us,” Mayor Nutter started, “but he got delayed with other matters. Let me start off by saying I can’t stress enough how important this case is. Not only has the media given it national attention, but I got a personal call yesterday from Governor Rendell about it. He does not want any sort of tarnish on Fort Mifflin, or the Betsy Ross House. Old City Philadelphia is full of history, and we depend on tourism for a lot of our income. We do not need any type of Jack the Ripper stigma chasing people away.”

“Understood,” Mike agreed. Randy mimicked his boss’s nod, “are you officially linking the two cases? I thought we hadn’t made that leap yet. Other than both happening at historic locations, the murders were completely different.”

“They were made to look that way,” Clara interjected, “the mayor and Chief Ramsey allowed me access to the Betsy Ross House evidence, and I toured the site with Detective Wagoner. I have looked at the pictures of the murder scene at Fort Mifflin. I believe there are similarities.”

“Such as?” Mike inquired.

Mayor Nutter interrupted, “I will let all of you discuss the evidence in the field on your own time,” he continued, “I just wanted to make the introduction between you two and Miss Hughes, and to let you know she has the full backing of City Hall and the state of Pennsylvania through Governor Rendell’s office. I expect your full cooperation with her.”

“I read up on her when I heard she was joining us,” Mike reassured, “I know her specific field is still experimental, but she comes with impressive credentials and her testimony as an expert witness comes with high praise. She gets results. She will have our complete cooperation. I’m more concerned about Detective Wagoner. Again, I’ll ask … are you officially linking the two cases?”

“Yes,” Nutter replied, “based on Miss Hughes’ evaluation, I believe they were committed by the same person.”

“And just for my peace of mind,” Mike continued, “who are you appointing lead investigator, me or him? I’m not on a power trip, just wanting to know where we stand. His murder case happened first, and I don’t want to step on his toes.”

“You have seniority, so the lead is yours,” Nutter answered, “Chief Ramsey has already informed Detective Wagoner. He and his partner will continue to work with you, but you oversee the overall investigation. I want him to focus on completing evidence collection so we can get the Betsy Ross House cleaned up and back open to the public. The longer we wait the more the media speculates. I want people back in there seeing it’s just the same as it was before, that we have nothing to hide.

“Personally, I think Detective Wagoner is relieved,” Nutter continued, “the press was already starting to mount up on this case and he’s not the type of person that wants national attention. Chief Ramsey will be holding a press conference this afternoon announcing the linking of the two cases. As soon as he mentions your name you know your life is going to change. I need you to stay focused. I need results. I need both these cases solved as quickly as possible.”

“Well,” Mike said with a forced smile, “I’m sure with Miss Hughes assisting us we’ll get a break quickly.”

“I still think it’s premature,” Clara protested, alluding to an earlier discussion with the mayor, “if we publicly link the cases, it will tip the killer off and driver him underground, as he has done before. I have worked very hard to keep him from suspecting I’m on his trail.”

“I think we have things well in hand,” the mayor replied, and cordially showed them to the door.

Clara did not hide her frustration as they left the office. The three of them took the elevator down to the ground floor and they returned to the detective bureau a few blocks away, with Clara Hughes riding in the front passenger seat of Mike’s personal car. Randy did not like sitting in the back seat. He was way too big and had no legroom. They drove without talking and Mike did not push the issue. He did notice she did not touch anything. He opened and closed the door for her, and she kept her hands in her lap. The only thing she touched was the seatbelt.

In the article he read about her, it was noted she used her hands to pick up the history of just about anything she touched. That was how she solved cases. He wondered just how much of it was true. Would he get to witness her working, or would they be ushered out of the crime scene, so she could work in private? Her presence had already been brought to the attention of the media, so the psychic speculators were working overtime.

All eyes were cast on the three of them as they walked to Mike’s glassed-in office. The detective’s room fell silent while others shared quiet whispers. Clara was used to that sort of treatment everywhere she went. He offered her a cup of coffee as he motioned her to a chair next to his desk. She accepted the invitation for coffee, provided it came from a disposable cup.

“You don’t want to accept my offer of using my favorite Eagles coffee mug?” he smiled, trying to be polite yet feigning personal insult, “It’s clean, I promise. I don’t loan it out to just anyone.”

Clara smiled, cordially, “I guess we should get this out of the way,” she sighed, “may I see the mug?”

Mike and Randy exchanged curious glances as Mike set the Philadelphia Eagles mug next to her at the corner of the desk. Ever cognizant of the curious glances from everyone outside the plate glass panels that made up the walls of his office, providing aural privacy if nothing else, she gently removed her gloves and placed them in her lap. She moved her head around, studying the mug from various angles as if it might be wired with explosives. She gently cradled the mug with both hands, as if she were warming them with hot cocoa. Closing her eyes, she lowered her head. She was quiet for a long time as she was deep in thought. A smile crossed her face.

“Your father gave you this mug,” she finally said, “it was a gift while you watched the Eagles in Super Bowl 39 in 2005.” Her smile faltered, “he didn’t want to spoil the mood and tell you his pancreatic cancer had not only resurfaced but progressed to stage four. He died four months later. He used this mug while he was in hospice. He thought of your mother often while drinking from it. Although it’s your favorite, you haven’t used it since he passed.”

She opened her eyes and gently set the mug back down on his desk, “Thank you for offering to let me use it. I consider it an honor. But I wouldn’t want to be clumsy and drop it. It’s far too sentimental.”

She sat back and tried to smile. He could see her eyes were red. She sniffled and wiped a tear from her eye, trying to divert attention while putting her gloves back on.

Mike realized he was staring at her with his mouth open. “I am … impressed,” he finally admitted.

Randy looked at him. Now he knew why that mug was always under glass on his bookshelf and no one was allowed to touch it.

“My family has always referred to my talent as a gift,” she explained, “to me it’s more of a curse as I am unable to touch anything–or anyone–without having it channel memories to me, but I use it for helpful, constructive purposes. As you can see, I am highly empathetic through touch. Every object has a story. The older it is, the more it tells.

“I apologize for getting emotional,” she continued, again wiping her eyes, “I tend to absorb any feelings associated with the object I’m touching. I could feel your pain from losing your father, and his pain facing death and missing his wife. As you can imagine, if an object has been involved in a crime–especially a violent crime–it can be quite taxing. Please don’t laugh, but the story your mug told me was highly emotional. You and your father were exceptionally close.”

Mike sat in silence trying to be objective and keep an open mind. He looked up at Randy, who returned a blank stare as he was trying to process what he had just seen as well.

“Well,” Mike ordered to Randy, “get the lady some coffee … in a disposable cup.”

Randy nodded and moved to the door, “Cream and sugar?”

“Two each, please,” she answered.

In a few moments the two of them were alone. The room fell silent. He glanced out the glass window, casting a disapproving look at those standing and gawking, all wondering what she had been doing with his mug?

“I know this may sound stupid,” Mike asked, “and I’m sure you get this all the time, but can you feel the history of the coffee, the cream and sugar?”

She shook her head, “All of those things are made from other items,” she explained, “once an item is either destroyed or changed, the memories are lost. For example, if you had a silver coin in your pocket, I could feel what the coin has experienced. But I can’t tell you the history of the silver prior to being struck as a coin. I could touch a wooden jewelry box and sense what has happened to it in that form, but not when the wood was part of a tree.”

“I see,” he said, trying to grasp all she was saying, “please forgive my skepticism, I imagine it was profound.” His mind was returning to his last goodbyes with his father. “Although everyone here knows of my father’s passing, they obviously didn’t know about his history with the coffee mug. It’s one I haven’t shared with anyone, which I’m sure it’s why you chose it to convince me of your authenticity.”

She smiled her forgiveness, “I hope I didn’t embarrass you in front of your partner,” she also apologized, “I usually try and dispel any issues as quickly as possible. I can read something of his if it would help put your mind at ease.”

“You did no harm,” he replied, “I was impressed, reading your article in the Investigative Journal. Now I’m even more impressed. I imagine that’s the reason for the gloves?”

She nodded.

“Can you turn it off, or does it come through regardless?” Mike asked, genuinely curious of her abilities.

“It developed when I was around thirteen,” she explained, “it almost drove me crazy because I could not understand what was happening to me. My mother worked with me to get it under control. But, no, I cannot turn it off. The gloves help retard things trying to get through, but if there are strong emotions associated with an object, it WILL get through.”

“How is your gift on people … living things? Could you feel someone’s guilt just by touching them?”

Clara shook her head, “Living things are much more complex, they don’t project simple stories like inanimate object do,” she explained, “I can’t read thoughts, but I can sense their mood, anxiety, past experiences. I let my testimony of the objects from a crime scene tell their story, and the accused indicts himself … or herself. I prefer not to touch people … too many conflicting emotions, too many lies … too many secrets.”

“That must make dating a problem,” he interjected, trying to keep the mood light.

“I don’t date,” she replied sternly, taking his comment as a serious question, “I did … once … in high school. He had told me all sorts of sweet, romantic things. The first time I held his hand all I felt was his cold desire to make me his sexual conquest, something to boast about to his school friends. I couldn’t exactly read his thoughts, but I could sense his overpowering emotion. I could sense what horrible things he had planned. He was seventeen, I was barely fifteen.”

“I’m sorry,” Mike apologized, “the male species can be quite cruel.”

“Women as well,” she added, deep in thought, “yes, women can be exceptionally cruel.”

“Yes, I would imagine so.”

“Everyone has evil lurking in their hearts,” Clara explained, “even me. The evil is only kept in check by the consequences of getting caught. On the other side, there is also good.”

“It must make you quite jaded against humanity,” Mike responded.

“In truth, I don’t normally open up like this,” Clara redirected, trying to smile, “your mug gave me quite an insight into you. I can feel your sincerity. I apologize if I got overly informal. I get skeptics every time I meet someone … every time. Call it a parlor trick, but I find it confirms my abilities to them if I give them a little history on something they carry with them … something of sentimental value. I tell them things I couldn’t possibly know. Sometimes it helps, especially when I’m working with the police. I need you to trust me–and believe in me–as much as I will be trusting and depending on you.”

Mike frowned, “I know why you need my trust,” he asked, “yours is implied, isn’t it? That’s why they bring you in.”

“Why do you carry a revolver,” Clara abruptly changed subjects.

As her brain was constantly working multiple tasks simultaneously, she often let herself get pulled off track to answer questions that puzzle her.

“Most police I work with carry semi-automatic pistols.”

Mike pulled his coat back to reveal the revolver in his waistband. He pulled it out of the holster and set it on the table for her inspection. She did not pick it up but leaned forward to get a better look.

“Smith & Wesson model 66, second series in stainless steel with a 2½” barrel,” she stated, “.357 Magnum. I would guess it was manufactured sometime around 1983.”

“Very good,” Mike responded, returning it to his holster, “I’m not sure when it was made, but that sounds about right. You know your firearms.”

Clara shrugged, as if the information were of no consequence, “It’s just a byproduct of my work. Why do you carry it instead of a semi-automatic? You strike me as a man who doesn’t do anything without a reason.”

Mike smiled as he took his seat again, “Semi-autos can jam … and one did, at a very inopportune moment. It took me two seconds too long to clear, and that was two seconds my partner didn’t have.”

“Did he die?” Clara asked.

“No,” Mike added, “but he spent three weeks in the hospital recovering from his injuries. Fortunately, I was able to neutralize the criminal.”

“So, you would rather have six confident shots as opposed to fifteen that may not be reliable for you?”

“I didn’t have the choice of a revolver when I was on the street,” Mike explained, “but in the detective division I’m given a lot more latitude.”

Clara looked down at her lap as she considered his response. Now satisfied, her mind returned to his previous question.

“We’re looking for a serial killer, detective,” Clara said, “one who I personally believe is connected to many more than just the two here in Philadelphia. If I am right, that will put both of us in mortal danger. This man does not want to be caught but, more importantly, thinks he cannot get caught. He kills without remorse and is constrained by none of the societal norms the rest of civilization and humanity abide by.

“He is arrogant and thinks of himself above the law, unable to be captured. When he finds out we are on to him, he will eliminate us without hesitation. Obviously, I want to remain alive. With the media taking this case nationwide, it could publicize details of the other cases. If certain details about the deaths are released, but it could drive our killer underground.”

Mike sat up in his chair, “That is a pretty serious accusation. What is your proof? How do you know there are more killings?”

“It’s hard to explain,” Clara tried to vocalize, “everything I touch gives off a certain vibration. I can feel when an item is associated with a particular person. I have felt the same vibration in several active and cold cases going back at least fifteen years. I have been fortunate to be able to examine the physical evidence of these cases and I am hoping to prove beyond reasonable doubt that they are all linked.”

“So, you aren’t here as a personal favor to our mayor and governor?” Mike chuckled, “You have a personal vendetta with this person.”

Clara did not see the humor in his statement.

“One of the victims was a cousin of mine,” she started, “I have followed this man from California … two murders in the greater Owens Valley. Those are the earliest I’ve found, with the first case being in Bodie, a ghost town in the high desert. The second was in Bishop. He moved over to Phoenix, Arizona, followed by El Paso, Texas. Those two occurred within two weeks of each other. The next was three years later in New Orleans, Louisiana.

“Six months later he’s in Knoxville, Tennessee. He laid low for six years, picking up again in Richmond, Virginia and Baltimore, Maryland only a few months apart. That was four years ago. And now he has resurfaced here in Philadelphia. He usually only hits a region twice before moving on, and it could be months or even years before he picks up again. He searches for something very specific in his victims. We need to catch him before the trail grows cold.”

By now Mike was on the edge of his seat, “How certain are you of this?”

“He’s looking for something,” Clara added, “I’m not sure what, but these people all had something in common and either had knowledge of or a link to what he is looking for.”

“But you don’t know what that link is?” Mike asked.

Just then Randy returned with her coffee, “You know, I was just thinking,” he interrupted with a chuckle, “you’ve heard the phrase ‘if these walls could talk’, I’ll bet this old building could tell a lot of stories.”

Clara smiled, cordially, dismissing his interruption, “It depends on the building,” she explained, “whenever there is a remodeling or renovation, the overall memory is destroyed.”

“What about something like Mike’s car?” Randy asked, “did it tell you anything?”

She smiled, knowing she was being patronized, “The rear passenger tire is low,” she informed, “it needs air.”

Randy stopped and frowned, “It told you that?”

“No,” she said with a smirk, “I saw it was low on air when I got in the car.”

“Oh,” Randy responded, realizing he had been played.

“Several years ago, I visited the Alamo in San Antonio,” she elaborated, “I was in the famous chapel where the last of the fierce fighting happened. It was their last stand, where most of the defenders retreated after being overrun. As a crowd came through, one gentleman pushed against me, knocking me into the wall. As I touched it, I felt the anguish of a defender as he had three bayonets run through him.”

Randy and Mike listened without moving.

“With all the killing, it was just that one person,” Clara continued, “I touched other sections of wall and could only feel that one man. Then … when I touched the floor, where I expected to sense the deaths of many … shot, bayoneted, clubbed, axed … there was nothing at all.”

She could see the confusion on their faces as to what she was telling them.

“The man was leaning against the wall when he was bayonetted. The floor was only dirt at the time of the battle. It was not covered in stone until many years later. The memories of the floor and wall were separate, although, I’ve never known dirt to hold memories.

“Fire also destroys memories … if you lead me to a burned-out building, even if hundreds died there, there would be nothing for me to feel. I was brought to ground zero in New York City after 9/11. I only did so because I knew there would be no memories. If there were … the experience would have killed me or driven me insane.”

Mike sat in silence, listening to all she said. He thought of her school story.

“Randy,” Mike suggested, “why don’t you go read that article I sent you … the one I wanted you to read? Now would be a very good time.”

“What,” Randy frowned, “the one about her?”

Subtlety was not his forte.

Mike bit his lip and feigned a smile, “Yes, the one about her.”

The room fell silent, and Randy realized the next move was his. Knowing he was politely being asked to leave, he finally took the hint, nodded, and quietly left the room.

Mike gave a big sigh. “I’m sorry about that,” he apologized, “Randy is new to the detective’s squad, and he has a lot to learn.”

“Article about me?” Clara asked, not really concerned with the detective’s behavior.

He noticed her do something he thought out of character … she removed her gloves to drink her coffee, wrapping her hands around the paper cup to warm them. He could tell she felt safe in the office, at least with him.

Mike blushed, “The article from the Investigative Journal,” he explained.

“You weren’t kidding, you actually read that?” she chuckled.

“I thought it was a good introduction to your work,” Mike defended.

“The writer of the article didn’t believe in my work at all,” Clara explained, “he patronized me with every question.”

“So, what item of his did you read for him … to make him a believer?” Mike asked.

Clara smiled, not expecting him to catch on so quickly, “A pocket watch,” she replied after a pause, “it belonged to his great grandfather. He asked me how it got broken. I told him his ancestor was a locomotive engineer and was involved in a collision between two steam engines. He was one of the few survivors, but the watch was damaged when he jumped from the engine.”

“Impressive,” Mike commented, “well, Clara, I don’t doubt the authenticity of your talents. So, shall we solve this crime?”

Clara sat quietly, deep in thought. Mike thought she had not heard him, but he sensed she had something to say.

“Detective, I––”

“Mike,” he corrected, “you can call me Mike.”

“Detective,” she continued, wanting to keep their relationship professional, “one of the huge curses of my gift is that I learn all sorts of things through the objects I touch. Your mug–your father–held a deep secret … he wanted to tell you, he was going to, but he passed away before he could confess …”

“Confess? What?” Mike scowled.

“You weren’t with him when he died,” Clara explained, “you would spend many nights with him, but you would always stop by to visit before you went to work.”

“That’s right,” Mike confirmed, “they said he passed away just minutes before I arrived. They didn’t even get a chance to call me.”

“He had pencil in hand,” she continued, “his hands were shaking too much to write … his heart was failing. But his hand was on the mug.”

“What did he want to confess?” Mike pressed.

“Your father’s name was John,” she explained, “your mother’s, Claire. You had an older brother, John Jr., he was only a week old when he died. He’s buried in the same cemetery. Your father wanted his grave relocated to be with his parents, but he died––”

Clara fell silent, bowing her head and sniffling. Mike sat back in the chair, feeling as though he had been told of his father’s death all over again.

“He wanted to tell you,” she whimpered, “your mother always felt his death was her fault. She was ashamed and didn’t want anyone to know. Forgive me for crying, the emotions are exceptionally strong.”

Mike absentmindedly handed her a tissue from his desk drawer. She accepted it and blew her nose. He grabbed another tissue for himself and wiped his eyes.

“I had a brother?” Mike muttered, “They never told me.”

“It was always foremost in his thoughts,” Clara added, “he wanted to tell you, but she made him promise not to … on her deathbed. He honored her request.”

“I’ll look into it,” Mike quietly said, “I’ll find the grave and have him moved.” He did not doubt the existence of the grave in the least.

“I’m so sorry,” Clara smiled, looking up through reddened eyes, “You can see why I often think of it as a curse.”

“I don’t envy your gift at all, but I thank you for it.”

For the first time, he saw a genuine smile. She took a few moments to compose herself, trying her best to contain her emotions. She tried to shrug it off with a chuckle, “Please, never let me drink from that mug.”

Mike sat in silence, looking at all the personal items in his desk. If a simple mug could convey that much, the entirety of his desk would be overwhelming. He gained a newfound respect for her abilities, and the curse that went along with it. She had to isolate herself from the entire world to keep herself sane.

“Miss Hughes,” Mike started, being formal to impress his respect for her, “I feel sorry for this serial killer.”

“Why is that?” Clara asked, curious.

“Because you’re going to bust this case wide open.”

She appreciated his confidence in her abilities, “I’ve been close to him before, he just slips away.”

“Not this time,” Mike winked.

“Why this time?” she asked, “What’s different?”

“Because we’re both on the case,” he replied, “I’m a damn good detective, we’ll be a good team.”

“I hope so,” Clara muttered.

Mike could sense another comment left unsaid, and he did not want to ask.

“First of all,” she started, getting back on track, “I need to see the list of personal items found on the body. Particularly, there should be an old silver dollar. The date on it should be 1910.”

“Close,” Mike smiled, pulling the inventory report from a folder, “1911, not bad. What’s the significance of the date?”

He saw the color drain from her face and her smile disappeared, “The killer always uses sequential dates on the coins he leaves behind at his crime scenes, always placed in the left front pants pocket … always. It’s a game to him, like he’s daring us–me–to try and catch him. If there’s a gap in the dates, it means there’s another body we haven’t found yet, and it’s in this city.”

“How do you know?” Mike asked, his expression serious.

“The coin found on the body at the Betsy Ross House was a 1909,” she explained.

“You said he was a serial killer … how many coins are we talking, how many other murders?” Mike questioned.

Clara hesitated, for she was not sure she wanted to trust him with all her information, but she had a feeling about him: His mug transferred a sense of honesty and integrity she had not experienced before. She took a chance.

“With this one,” she replied, “eleven.”

“So, the date on the first coin was 1901?”

She nodded, “We have another body. He always does them in linear order, and sequentially. If nine and eleven are in Philadelphia, so is ten.”

Before she finished her sentence, he had his phone in hand, calling the property room, “Tom, I need a favor–high priority–can you do a search through all inventories for the last month … dead, alive, arrested, released, I don’t care. I’m looking for a 1910 Morgan Silver Dollar. And if you could put feelers out to the area departments, that would be great. Put it on official letterhead if you need, I seriously need an answer on this. And it needs to remain confidential. I can’t let the press hear about it.”

When done with the conversation, he hung up.

“I must impress upon you the importance of keeping the knowledge of the coins strictly confidential,” Clara urged, “linking the two cases at historic sites in Philadelphia is logical, and the killer would not suspect much. But if we release the knowledge of the coins, that is a direct link to his modus operandi. He would know we’re on to him.”

It was then he saw Randy standing outside the office, staring in like a puppy dog wanting to come back into the house. Mike held back a chuckle and motioned him in, he had tortured his partner enough.

Randy seemed humble as he returned, “I’m sorry for the way I treated you,” he apologized, “that was a very good article. I didn’t know that about Mike’s father, and that was no parlor trick.”

“Good,” Mike agreed with a smile, “sit down and let’s solve these cases.”

Randy remained standing, “My nickname is ‘Big Ugg’,” he chuckled to Clara, “my older brother gave it to me when we were kids. He was four years older than me, but I towered over him as a teenager.”

“And this is important because?” Mike asked.

“I lost my brother, Tommy, when I was twelve,” Randy explained, “my family never had any closure, his murder was never solved. If you can, could you read something for me … like you did Mike’s mug? It belonged to my brother. I know it’s been over twenty years, but …”

Clara was well familiar with this tactic; once someone realized her abilities, they always had something they wanted read to validate her to them.

“Sure,” she nodded her consent.

Randy reached into his pocket and retrieved the trinket. Removing its protective holder, he handed it to her. She did not look at it before taking it as she still had her gloves on. The second she touched it, a spark ran through her. Mike could see it, as if struck by static electricity, she reeled and pulled back in pain. Was physical contact that excruciating for her?

Clara cradled her hand in the other. She looked at Randy with a combination of pain, fear, and sorrow. She slowly stood and backed away from the chair, looking at the object that had fallen on the floor. Mike could tell something was seriously wrong.

“What happened?” Mike asked, “Clara … what’s wrong?”

Clara trembled, still backing away. Randy looked at her with a combination of confusion, concern, and amusement. He had no idea what was going on.

“Tommy was stabbed,” she stuttered, visibly shaking, “multiple times … from the back. He knew his killer, they were friends.”

“Yes, he was stabbed,” Randy replied, trying to hold his emotions, “a friend of his was with him, but there was another. The friend disappeared and was never found. We don’t know who the third person was … the killer.”

“You could tell all that in a split second,” Mike asked, “through your glove?”

“It’s the strongest I’ve ever felt,” Clara stated, still holding her hand.

“What is that?” Mike demanded, looking over the desk, “Give it to me.”

Randy picked up the object and handed it to Mike. It was an old silver dollar.

“1909?” Mike asked Clara, “the missing coin?”

“No,” Clara said, still trying to regain her composure, “1900!”

Mike scowled as flipped the coin over. She was right … a 1900 Morgan Silver Dollar.

“Explain this,” Mike asked, not of Randy, but of Clara.

Randy joined Mike’s stare as Clara raised her head, now over the shock of what she experienced, “It belonged to the killer,” she addressed to Randy, “he placed it in Tommy’s left front pocket after he was dead. He was killed in 1989 … Lone Pine, California. THEY WERE FRIENDS!”

She could tell by Randy’s reaction she was correct. This huge imposing structure of a man tried to contain his emotions as she laid bare the secret he carried in his pocket for 21 years.

Clara turned her attention to Mike, “We have a new first victim, and your partner knew him … and the killer.”