I was asking myself why there are so many unsolved murders. I was wondering how I could help the police force solve the unsolved murders in the city I lived. I went to the police station and looked at the wanted posters, and got a chill, like someone walked over my grave. I could feel it in my bones, but it wasn’t the images that were frightening me; it was someone or something in the station.
I went to the front desk asking questions that the officer couldn’t answer, so when she asked if I had information about an ongoing investigation, I said, “Yes?” holding my questioning expression to a look of confusion that I hoped the officer passed off as fear.
He sat me at the side of a desk to wait for a detective, who was involved with the case that I claimed to have information. Following the officer with my eyes who sat me there to the back of the room, where she told another officer about me, and theft for the front desk. Watching the other officer sit down and getting back to what he was doing was unsettling.
I felt as if I was being ignored, so I sat staring across the room at the officer trying to use my skills, and before long I heard him recapping what had happened last night. He was reading and entering new information about the murder I claimed to have had information about, but then he stopped. He heard a door open from behind him, as did I, and I lost the connection.
He stood and called to the detective who was leaving a back room with a disappointed expression. The two talked for a moment and looked in my direction. The new detective was walking in my direction, and as I stared at him, his thoughts were of hope. He sat at the desk with a folder of information that was gathered about last night’s murder.
He greeted me with a smile, and said. “I hear that you have information to share with us about last night.”
Looking like a scared little girl, I said. “Yes, about Mich Broadbent, and how he killed—Stacy Macgregor.”
This detective was dumbfounded with hope that I was the brake that will make spending the night at the station worth wile. “Excuse me? I’m detective Rogers, and who exactly might you be?”
I was questioning how I should answer him, I finally said. “I’m a concerned citizen.” After saying this the feelings I was getting from him changed to, hope lost.
The images I have been receiving from the detectives were grim and hart ranching. The slaughtering of a twelve year old girl would have caused tears to pool in my eyes if I saw what these detectives have seen. I saw the images that I would have had trouble seeing, but I’ve learned to keep myself detached from the images. Throughout my childhood, I was disturbed by what I couldn’t help to see, but over the years, I’ve learned to ignore most of the things that pop in to my head.
I thought I should make my intentions clear. “Detective Rogers, I understand that you have Mich in the back room, and I would like to help you find the evidence to prove him guilty or innocent, if that so be it.” Detective Rogers was becoming offended. “Sir, if I may. You believe it was him who sliced Stacy’s belly opened after cutting up each of her legs, and then continued up each arm before slicing her belly opened and letting her bleed to death.”
He razed a hand, and I stopped. “How do you know of this?”
I have been dreaming of writing a story like this one for a while, but couldn’t get it started. Story’s about a consultant with ESP has been done too much, so this character needs something more. I was thinking of a story of a telepath with a table on the boardwalk doing card tricks. Things would get out of hand impressing the group of people who had gathered, and a security guard would need to save him when someone was asking too many questions.
The guard’s family would be officers and he would tell them about the telepath who’s tricking people into believing he’s magic. The guard’s brothers would joke about bring the telepath with them to interrogate suspects, and that would lead to the telepath becoming a consultant.