"Captain Dobrogost is with an appointment right now," the officer in the police station lobby says, referring to Fred. "He'll be with you in a few minutes. Please take a seat."
Zandra and Herman shuffle to a set of chairs to wait. It's one of the rare times they look no more out of place than anyone else. A young man with a bloody nose and no pants on holds a towel to his face. Two women dressed identically in blue, 1950s-style dresses sob in a corner as they redial the same number on their cell phones over and over. An older gentleman asleep in a chair drools into a box on his lap labeled, "AMMO."
Zandra wonders how Fred will react when he sees Herman accompanying her instead of Amanda. She was supposed to produce Amanda alive and well for the police captain per the most recent conversation. There's little chance that will ever happen. Amanda, for reasons known only to her, is shying away from Zandra.
The keys to everything, from Amanda to Chris to whoever met me on the other side of that window, is in Dvorak's basement. Hell, even my lawnmower knife is probably down there, if his band of merry dipshits didn't sell it already.
To kill time, Zandra's attention drifts to the young man with the bloody nose. She concentrates her "powers" on reading him. Were he a client, Zandra wouldn't focus on the bloody nose. There's nothing exciting to pull from that. It's too obvious. No, she'd start with his tennis shoes, the one article of clothing that's more revealing than anything else.
She listens as he walks up to the attending officer for an update. He's told an officer will be available soon to take his statement, so he returns to his seat. It's not the sight of the shoes that catches Zandra's attention. No, it's the sound they make. Clop. Clop. Clop.
Although they're tennis shoes, it's clear they're too large for his feet, but only by a size or two. He doesn't have trouble walking, though, and in fact seems quite natural. He didn't borrow them. These are his shoes.
Who would buy shoes that are purposefully too big? Someone who grew up in a poor household, that's who. When money is tight, it makes more sense to buy shoes that are too big so that the feet can grow into them rather than going for the perfect fit. Eventually, he came to think that's how shoes are supposed to feel, so that's why he buys them a size too large.
Were the young man a client, Zandra might start the session by saying, "Tell me about the struggles you had growing up." It's specific enough to grab his attention, but full of fuzzy trapdoors if needed. Who hasn't had troubles growing up? She'd let him fill in the blanks before creating a larger profile of him in her mind. On about the five-minute mark, she'd deploy another statement, this time a little more specific, to keep the conversation going. On and on it'd go until the mass of evidence points to something actionable, like "Don't trust the banks" or "Dump your girlfriend."
"Why are you staring?" Herman says, breaking Zandra's concentration.
"What?" Zandra says and hacks into her sleeve.
"Did you pick up a psychic impression?" Herman says.
Herman, ever the intellectual oaf, begs the question that doesn't need asking.
"Yes, Herman, my third eye senses the good captain is ready to talk to us," Zandra says, rolling her eyes.
Herman raises an eyebrow. "I didn't hear them call us back."
Before Zandra can respond, an officer enters the lobby and calls her name.
Lucky guess.
"Sit. Stay," Zandra says to Herman like he's a dog before joining the officer.
Zandra fills in Fred about everything up to this point. She conveniently forgets to mention how she broke into Dvorak's house and threatened the occupants with the lawnmower knife, as well as any other incriminating details.
I didn't want to get the police involved, but I don't have a choice now. It's like that old saying goes. If you can't do the dirty work yourself, get the law to do it for you.
Fred leans back in his chair and sucks on a piece of candy while he listens. Zandra can't tell if he looks concerned or amused.
"You need to get a SWAT team together and get in there. Now," Zandra says after she finishes her play by play.
Fred shoves the candy into his cheek and clears his throat. "I don't know where to even begin. First you tell me someone is stalking you and leaving severed fingers in your mailbox. Then you fail to prove to me that the person with matching fingerprints is alive and well..."
Zandra cuts him off. "But Amanda is alive and well. She's just..."
"Let me finish. You're obviously upset, but you need to calm down and hear me out," Fred says and holds up a hand.
What a prick.
Fred says, "Next you say there's a drug operation going on at this William person's house, and that he's keeping someone locked up in his basement, the place where he conducts what I can best describe as mad scientist experiments. Not only that, but he's abducted your TV producer, Chris, and possibly some of his crew. This is the same person blackmailing you into doing a debate, or a showdown as you called it, about supernatural phenomena, not to mention him being the culprit behind the severed fingers. Did I get that right?"
"Not quite. William and his buddies also took my knife, so there's that, too," Zandra says.
"A knife. I see," Fred says. He motions in the direction of the lobby. "I was told you brought a friend."
"More of an acquaintance than a friend," Zandra says, recognizing how Herman's presence doesn't help her situation.
"Then maybe you don't know that your acquaintance was recently evicted from public property. He's a squatter. He's lucky he wasn't arrested in the process," Fred says.
"So arrest him if you're going to arrest him," Zandra says and hacks once again into her sleeve. She tastes the salty iron of blood in her mouth. "What are you going to do about these things I mentioned?"
Fred shrugs. "You come in here with these wild stories, that tells me you're a little off kilter. It happens to people from time to time, and I can understand if the stress of celebrity is getting to you. But then you have the audacity to walk in here with a known criminal, that tells me something else."
That you're an asshole?
"Oh, yeah? Like what?" Zandra says.
"That you're losing it, Zandra. I've seen it a thousand times before. Paranoid delusions. It's the combination of tall tales about people out to get you combined with downright stupid decision-making. You need a doctor, not a police officer, and certainly not a SWAT team," Fred says.
"Are you calling me a liar?" Zandra says, barely able to contain the venom in her voice. The hypocrisy of her outrage is lost on her in the heat of the moment.
Fred crunches down on the candy and swallows before saying, "No, you're not a liar. You just need help. There's no shame in it, and I can recommend a few local doctors who do excellent work. I know this must come as a shock to you, but there's a saying from medicine that I think you'll come to appreciate: When you hear hoofbeats, think horses, not zebras."
I wish I still had my knife.
"Coming here was a complete waste of time," Zandra says. She rises from her seat across from Fred, kicking it over in the process.
"Do you really think it's a good idea to start throwing things around in a police station?" Fred says loud enough for the other officers in the department to hear. In doing so, Zandra catches a whiff of his breath.
Peppermint.
Gene.
Oh, shit.
Zandra pulls it together enough to calm down. In a quiet voice, she says, "Maybe you're right. Maybe I need to go see a doctor."
"That's the spirit. Good job," Fred says like he's heaping praise on a toddler.
"Sorry I bothered you, but thank you for the advice. I think I'll take it," Zandra says as she starts back for the lobby.
"If you need anything, I'm always here to talk," Fred says from behind her.
Back in the lobby, Zandra motions for Herman to follow her outside.
"So when does the cavalry arrive?" Herman says as they head back on foot to Sneak Peek.
"It already did," Zandra says. "And it showed up for Gene Carey."