Elliot Dunstan lives in one of the scores of apartment complexes that outskirt the University of Wisconsin–Stevens Point campus. The apartments skirmish with the single-family homes that make up the old, core neighborhoods. One look at Elliot confirms why.
He answers the door in Ninja Turtle pajama pants, bare feet with a phonebook's worth of calluses beneath them and a Modest Mouse T-shirt, but the music coming from inside his pad is Nickelback. Zandra and Charlie busted him listening to a guilty pleasure.
"You here to tell me to turn it down?" Elliot says. The alcohol on his breath burns Zandra's eyes.
Zandra starts to say something, but Charlie beats her to it. She unfolds the badge from her pocket. The suppressed grin creasing her cheeks tells Zandra that Charlie just wants to rile up the day-drinking college student. Elliot looks right on the line of 21. Probably wouldn't answer the door if he were underage, though.
The badge gets a rise out of Elliot's eyebrows, but that's about it. "And?" he says.
"I'm wondering if you can help us out about a van. Would that be OK?" Charlie says.
"My van? Did something happen?" Elliot says. He runs a grubby hand through his dirty hair. "That's my only ride."
"Is your van a Pontiac Montana?" Charlie says.
"Yeah, my cousin, Seth, he asked to borrow it for a while for deer hunting. That was cool with me, since I can walk to school. What happened?" Elliot says.
Zandra doesn't see any reason for Elliot to lie. Alcohol can throw off how she interprets body language, but he seems sincere enough. The worry in his eyes cut through the booze. And his hands don't disguise his face. They only run through his hair. Hands are the body's truth curtains. They cover what the person doesn't want others to see. With hair that filthy, it's no wonder his fingers scrape his scalp.
"Nothing happened, we were just following up on something," Charlie says.
"Am I in trouble?" Elliot says.
"Not at all. Sorry to have bothered you."
Charlie and Zandra turn to leave. Elliot grabs Zandra's arm to keep her put.
"Hey, aren't you that psychic lady?" Elliot says. His grip is less aggressive than excited.
Zandra shakes Elliot's hand loose. "Yes, that's me," she says.
"Oh, cool. Would you read my palm or something?" Elliot says. The burn coming off his breath is even more intense with his enthusiasm.
Zandra looks to Charlie. Charlie shrugs. It's getting late in the day anyway, it's not like they'd miss anything.
"I suppose. But it'll have to be quick," Zandra says. She's not happy with how quickly Charlie ended the visit. This wasn't supposed to be a dead end.
Elliot unfurls his fingers from his right palm. He holds it out for Zandra to inspect.
Elliot's right-handed, and it's a dirty one at that. Judging from the stains on his pointer and middle fingers, he likes to smoke cigarettes, probably as a means of social lubrication. He had jam for breakfast, if the glue holding a thick crease in his palm together is any indication. Calluses at the base of his four fingers suggest he was physically active for most of his life, maybe on a farm or a sports team. He likes to chew his nails. A peculiar bend to his pinky suggests he broke the digit at some point.
Overall, he seems to be a typical college kid. If this were a reading at Sneak Peek, she'd flesh out the details with a few benign yet leading questions. Not this time, though. Elliot reeks.
The actual lines in his palm, those are about as useful as a dick in a wildfire. Window dressing for the way palm readers actually practice their divination.
She clasps his wrist to get a pulse. Slow and steady.
"Your heart, head and life lines all indicate a satisfying future, but only if you do one thing," Zandra says.
"What's that?" Elliot says.
"Take a shower, kid. You stink like a smear in a trash can," Zandra says.