Obsidian Butterfly - Laurell K. Hamilton [71]
I frowned at him. What he said made sense, but it still felt like he was keeping secrets. I sighed. “If this was a person, I’d say he or they stake out the houses night after night, waiting for that one night when all the neighbors are out of the way. But do you know the odds of an entire street clearing out on any given night in the suburbs?”
“Long odds,” Edward said.
I nodded. “Damn straight. A few people had plans for that night. One couple went to a niece’s birthday party. Another family had their once a month dinner with the in-laws. Two couples from different crime scenes were both working late, but the rest of the people didn’t have plans, Edward. They just all left home about the same time on the same night for different reasons.”
He was watching me, eyes blank, but steady, intense, and neutral at the same time. From his face I didn’t know whether I was saying something he’d heard a dozen times before, or something brand new. Detective Sergeant Dolph Storr likes to stay neutral and not influence his people so I was kind of used to it, but Edward made Dolph seem positively loaded with influence.
I continued, but it was like slogging through mud without any feedback at all. “The detective in charge of the second case, he noticed it, too. He went out of his way to ask why they left their houses. The answers are almost identical where the police take the time to ask details.”
“Go on,” Edward said, face still blank.
“Dammit, Edward. You’ve read all the reports. I’m just repeating what you already know.”
“But maybe you’ll end up someplace new,” he said. “Please, Anita, just finish your thought.”
“They all got restless. A spur of the moment trip to get ice cream with the kids. One woman decided to go grocery shopping at eleven o’clock at night. Some of them just got in their cars and went for a drive, no place in particular. Just had to get out for a while. One man described it as cabin fever.
“A woman, Mrs. Emma . . . shit. I’ve read too many names in too short a space of time.”
“Was it an unusual name?” Edward asked without a single change of expression.
I frowned at him and leaned across the table, lying on it to reach the reports. I shuffled through them until I found the one I wanted. “Mrs. Emma Taylor said, ‘The night just felt awful. I just couldn’t stand being inside.’ She goes on to say, ‘Outside the air was suffocating, hard to breathe.’ ”
“So?” he asked.
“So I want to talk to her.”
“Why?”
“I think she’s a sensitive, if not a psychic.”
“There’s nothing in the reports that say she’s either.”
“If you have the gift and you ignore it or pretend it’s not real, it doesn’t go away. Power will out, Edward. If she’s a strong sensitive or a psychic that has neglected her powers for years, then she’ll be either depressed or manic. She’ll have a history of treatment for mental illness. How serious will depend on how gifted she is.”
He finally looked interested. “You’re saying that having psychic ability can drive you crazy?”
“I’m saying that psychic ability can masquerade as mental illness. I know ghost hunters that hear the voices of the dead like whispers in their ears, one of the classic symptoms of psycophernia. Empaths, people who draw impressions from other people, can be depressed because they’re surrounded by depressed people, and they don’t know how to shield themselves. Really strong clairvoyants can spend their lives getting visions from everything they touch, unable to turn it off, again seeing things that aren’t there. Psycophernia. Demonic possession can mask itself as a multiple personality. I could give you examples for the next hour matching mental illness with different types of power.”
“You’ve made your point,” he said. He sat up and didn’t seem the least bit stiff. Maybe the floor was good for his back. “I still don’t understand why you want to talk to this woman. The report was taken by Detective Loggia. He was very thorough. He asked good questions.”
“You noticed that he took more time with why people left than the rest of the cops, just like I noticed