Chapter 2 - Evidence

Beth Leroy investigates the crimes that normal police can't. This one seems easy: a man murdered in cold blood, his neighbour more than happy to see him dead. But all is not as it seems to be....

24^th May, 11:00, The Station, South London

“So tell me about our main suspect,” Merrill asked, brushing back a few stray blue-black hairs from his eye-line.

“The name's Oliver Lancet, 29 years old. He was already in the system, so it was easy enough to identify him,” Beth replied, arms crossed.

“Really? What did it say on there?”

“Seems he was fined for disturbance of the peace just over a year ago. Apparently the apartments above and below him complained of 'loud, distressing noises' coming from his residence.”

“Right. Strange.”

“You're telling me. He's been a handful.”

“Oh yeah,” Merrill said, a broad grin appearing on his face. “I heard that he's quite attached to you. You must be flattered.”

Beth groaned.

“Don't laugh. It's f*****g creepy. When I'm around him, he's calm and could almost pass off as normal: a bit cagey and jumpy, but normal. Anyone else enters the room and it's like someone flicked a freak the f**k out button in his head. Just curls up in his chair and can't unwind until they leave,” she said, eyeing the sergeant with weary eyes.

“Everyone?”

“Yes, everyone. Trust me. Something has gone seriously wrong in his head.”

“Great. Because this'll make it so much easier to interview him,” Merrill said, his former smile more akin to a rictus grin. “Gleaned anything else?”

Beth hesitated. She knew that what she was about to say would probably not go down well.

“Well, your boys were right about him knowing more than he should, but... I can't see it.”

“What can't you see?”

“Him killing this guy. He might know too much, but I seriously doubt that he could do so much as land a punch. Have you seen him? He's practically the poster child for anorexia right now.”

“Well, we had a closer look at the crime-scene after you'd left and forensics think that there may have been someone else in the apartment. Maybe he had an accomplice?”

“The way he acts around people? I'd be surprised if he could have a normal conversation with people, much less plot murder with them.”

“The accomplice could have taken advantage of his mental state.”

Beth merely raised an eyebrow at that: while it wasn't an implausible idea, this probably wouldn't be the guy that she would want helping out with murder. Too messy. Although his mental state probably made him a good fall guy, which would be a plus. Still too risky though.

Her train of thought was cut off by Merrill's question of, “Hey, mind helping me conduct this interview? I figure he might be more receptive to talking if you were asking the questions.”

“Yeah, sure. Why not?”

“Hello Detective. How are you?” Oliver asked, watching as the woman from earlier sat opposite him.

“Look Lancet, quit the small talk. All I'm here to do is find out how the f**k you know about our crime-scene,” she said, a now-familiar scowl tightening her mouth.

“Can I at least get your name? You already seem to know mine.”

He tried smiling at her; evidently it was a bad move, as her scowl only became more pronounced.

“Private Investigator Leroy. Now I get to ask the questions.”

“Fine.”

“Lie to me, and I get angry, get that?”

“I assumed you already were angry.”

“No, this is my normal mood.”

Yikes.

“So,” she continued. “You know what we've pulled you in for?”

“Murder.”

“Well, you were lucid for that part at least. Who's the dead guy?”

“My neighbour. Something Bayliss.”

“You have issues with him?”

Oliver felt himself wet his lips, his mouth suddenly feeling dry.

Forcing the memories down, he replied, “We never talked.”

She glared at him, like she knew he was hiding something.

“Why's that?”

“At first, I tried: you know, standard neighbour stuff. But then, a few days after he moved in, I heard... unpleasant things from his apartment. Since then, I... just couldn't.”

“Unpleasant things? Like?”

He felt nausea rise up in his stomach. He shook his head, and forced himself to calm down. When he could bring himself to look her in the eye again, he couldn't help but wonder at her reaction. Most people tended to start pitying him, a sensation that never failed to feel cloying and unpleasant. There was no sign of such a reaction on her face: instead, she was just observing him, with a cold detachment that seemed almost alien.

“Fair enough. You don't want to talk about it.”

“If you don't mind.”

She shrugged.

“If needed, we can come back to it later.”

“If needed.”

“Alright then. Mind telling me what condition the body was in?”

“Ripped to pieces.”

“Who was in his apartment when he died?”

“There was a boy, didn't seem more than 18. Ran the first chance he could get, not that I can blame him for it. There was someone else there too.”

“Oh?”

He concentrated, trying to draw on that last memory.

“I don't know who. There was just another presence there.”

“Right. And how do you know this?”

At the sound of the last question, Lancet got cagey again. It was the look of someone who had heard that question many times before and knew what reaction he would get.

After a lengthy silence, she added, “Well, you could not answer the question. It'll just be a bit difficult to convince a jury that you didn't do it. Perfect knowledge of the crime-scene, but I didn't do it, honest guv. See my predicament?”

He considered her a moment, then sighed.

“Fine. You'll only laugh.”

“Oh?”

“It's a little out there.”

“Try me,” she said, leaning back and crossing her arms.

Closing his eyes, he said, “I'm telepathic.”

Ah, now that was an interesting line to take. Certainly put her on more familiar ground.

“I take it you don't tell that to people often?”

He opened his eyes, the shock evident in every part of his body.

“I don't understand. This isn't the reaction I normally get.”

“Most people don't do what I do for a living,” Beth said, handing him one of her business cards.

It was a simple enough card. White, fairly low quality card with the words, “Elizabeth Leroy, Private Investigator, Supernatural Expert” printed on it.

“Huh. I knew you had to be a lucky omen,” he said eventually, a shaky smile on his face.

“Hey, I'm not saying I believe you yet. I'm just more open to the concept,” she said. “So how does this work?”

He looked at her, an odd expression on his face.

“Normally, I can just feel thoughts in the air around. The more intense the feeling behind the thoughts, the clearer they are to me. Physical contact tends to amplify them a bit as well.”

“So that's why you were doing your whole foetal position thing, right?”

“Yeah. I'm over-sensitised at the moment. My neighbour's activities have been far too regular and intense for me to cope with,” he said, the ill look from earlier reappearing. “Even thinking of it hurts.”

“So why am I the exception to the rule?”

“No idea. If it thinks, in any shape or form, then I can usually hear it. Maybe if you were telepathic as well?”

Beth snorted.

“Nah, I'm just good at reading people. What about dead people?”

He raised an eyebrow.

“Ms Leroy, I don't go looking for corpses. I suppose if they're not fully brain dead? I honestly don't know. I never got any readings from next door, if that's what you're asking,” he said.

Beth felt herself smile grimly.

“Partially.”

“I suppose you still want me to prove it?” he asked, looking pained.

“Yup. Much as it makes sense to me, I'm just a consultant. They're unlikely to just believe me.”

He sighed.

“Fine. Just one at a time, and tell them to try and not get excitable.”

“Want me to stay in with you during?”

“Yes. If you wouldn't mind.”

“Fine. Stay here.”

She left the interview room, and was almost instantly confronted by Merrill and a couple uniformed officers.

“Telepathic? Is he trying to bullshit us?” one of the officers asked.

Beth smirked, recognising him as the one who had stopped her earlier.

“You're new here, huh?”

“Yeah, why?”

“You wouldn't doubt so much if you knew what I can do,” she said.

The officer looked doubtful, but said nothing.

“Alright, how about we test him out on you?” she asked, grinning.

“Fine. Prove to you that he's lying about all this mumbo-jumbo.”

“Deal. Just try and stay calm. I'll signal at the camera when you can come in.”

Merrill just laughed, looking forward to what was in store; he knew by now not to doubt Beth's intuition about the weird stuff.

Re-entering the room, she took a seat next to Lancet.

“Ready?”

“Give me a minute,” he said.

He sat in silence for nearly a minute, just gathering his nerve.

“Go ahead,” he said, his jaw tight.

She gave a thumbs up to the camera blinking in the corner. The officer entered the room, closing it. He went to move forward, but stopped when he saw the tenseness in Lancet's shoulders.

“Please, don't get any closer Adam,” the telepath said, voice shaking.

Whatever the officer was going to say died in his throat at the sound of his name.

“No, you never told me your name before now. If you had, then you certainly wouldn't tell me your first name,” Lancet continued.

He glanced sideways.

“Want me to continue?” he asked.

“If you can,” she replied.

Looking at his lap, Lancet concentrated. Scanning his face, Beth noticed that her earlier impression hadn't been far off: his eyes were definitely dimming, the iris and pupil slowly but surely fading beneath a milky film. It wasn't long before he started speaking again.

“You live with your mother following her stroke, she brought her two cats with her and you wish you could boot the little buggers off the nearest roof, you transferred to this department because of an office affair gone sour and... wow, I didn't need to know that much about your sex life,” Lancet said, his voice sounding more pained as he went on. “Can we stop?”

“I think that's enough,” she said, patting his shoulder.

She didn't even need to address the new officer, who just about sprinted from the interview room, door left ajar.

“Any more asinine tests?” Lancet asked, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Hey, be thankful. Your test is nothing compared to what lengths I had to go through to convince Merrill,” Beth snapped.

“I somehow doubt that. That was immensely painful.”

“Yeah? Well, I'm sure I've had worse. With my life-span, it would be hard not to.”

“Come off it. You're hardly out of your twenties.”

“I'll admit, I'm looking good considering I was born in 1533.” 

Author's Note

Mainly concerned about Oliver's reactions here. I'm trying to give a feeling of PTSD, and it's not something I'm used to.