Detective Dick crossed the room to me and put his arm around my shoulder. "Let's go back to my office."
Agent Osborn was embarrassed at not knowing I was present but I waved off her apology as I followed Carl Dick from the room. He waved me to a side chair, closed the door and plopped down in his desk chair."
"How did your friend Howie recognize Grasso?" he asked without preamble.
"I'd rather not say,' I answered. He simply nodded.
"Fair enough. I do have to say, I don't necessarily agree with my guys in the trenches that this psychic business is crap. I don't profess to be a believer, but I'd like to think I have an open mind."
"You need one, believe me."
He waited for me to continue but when I didn't he asked, "Do you suppose if there were a tipster, he or she could help us out?"
"As I understand it, the so-called visions were perpetrated with the assistance of a second person, now dead." Saying the words resurrected the near-forgotten facts; Quinn, and Martha, both dead and gone. It was as if I hadn't had time to come to grips with that tragedy with the world wind swirling around me.
"So it's not possible?" Then he added, "I can't believe I'm having this conversation."
The scene was so familiar; abduction, outlined by Betsy, facts presented, Quinn and Howie removing to their basement sanctuary while we waited and Martha recorded. It was so simple. I'd call a tip, relate details to the authorities.
All that was absent was Quinn; obdurate Quinn, first to argue, first to grumble and sole engineer of his sensitive equipment. And so missed. Was he truly the only person capable of doing those wondrous deeds? He so insisted on multiple times that none of us either questioned him. We were content to allow him this small title of uniqueness knowing it was killing him to be so close to a scientific miracle with hands tied and mouth gagged against announcing his findings to the world. I had to try. Howie and I had to try. I told Detective Dick I wanted to return to the hospital.
Santa Barbara County, California. I love the isolation of my mountain retreat. It remains as I remember from years gone by. My mother hated the isolation and would have sold it when husband number two died, but I wouldn't let her. I used it and filled its piney scent with sweet memories of my past successes. Here it sits, undisturbed, waiting for the lord of this small but cozy manor house. I could yell my lungs raw and not a soul could hear. Just the three of us are in residence, soon to be two.