The Empathic Detective: A Mystery Thriller
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
No part of this work may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission of the publisher.
Published by Kindle Press, Seattle, 2016
A Kindle Scout selection
Amazon, the Amazon logo, Kindle Scout, and Kindle Press are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
For Tess
Contents
Author’s Note
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Epilogue
Historical Notes
Author’s Note
Detective Gerald Bryce first came to life in a short story with a similar name as this book. In it, the empathic detective discovered a female suspect in a murder case with powers startlingly similar to his own, but after overcoming his initial desires for companionship he does the right thing and turns her in.
Originally I intended to write more short stories featuring Detective Bryce, then combine them all into one book. However, the question of what happens to Gerald and Desiree, and the relationship they had or could have had, always intrigued me.
Jaxon Reed
April, 2016
Chapter One
Bryce walked through the open French doors and gore assaulted his senses. Blood everywhere. Entrails, bone fragments, and pieces of flesh lay strewn about the floor, the walls, the furniture.
“A bloody mess, hey Bryce?”
“Yeah,” he nodded to Jenkins, busy recording the scene. “Where’s the Chief?”
No feelings emanated from Jenkins. He busied himself with the job at hand. Bryce recognized it as a defense mechanism shared by many who worked in Homicide or other divisions where human tragedy could easily overwhelm a cop if left unchecked.
Jenkins had seen it all over the years, several times over. Approaching retirement, his gray hair topped a wrinkled face. His stomach betrayed a paunch, and he walked around with his head permanently bent slightly downwards.
Bryce glanced at an ornate mirror hanging on the wall. He stood an even six feet tall. Stout, with close-cropped brown hair, he worked out regularly and stayed trim despite leaving his prime years behind. His permanently crooked nose (broken four times) punctuated a no-nonsense face. Lines started to seriously make their presence known, especially around his eyes.
Pushing forty now, he reminded himself, staring at his reflection. Just one year away.
Jenkins nodded toward the adjoining room. “Chief’s in there.”
Bryce stepped carefully around the corpse and walked between puddles of blood through another doorway.
The Chief stooped his head, listening to Miller’s explanation of the murder weapon. Miller waved his hands around as he talked.
“What I said. It’s the only thing explaining that mess out there. Israeli made. It’s not gunpowder-based. It’s energy propulsion. Latest thing on the market. Costs a fortune, too. Requires a batt pack and special ammo. It’s loaded with highly frangible bullets that have an exploding core. And I mean highly frangible. You saw what they did to the body. Black market stuff. I don’t even know where somebody could get it. Last I heard you could only find things like this in the Middle East. That’s gonna be our murder weapon if we can locate it. Hi, Bryce.”
Bryce idly wondered how Miller managed to pass the physical year after year. A good forty pounds overweight, bald and double-chinned, Miller would not put the best face on the department if he appeared on the evening news.
It seemed likely Miller did not care. He and his partner Jenkins were nearing retirement. Both seemed increasingly dispassionate about their work as time marched on.
The Chief towered over the other two men. Dark skinned, African American. Sharp eyes with a Machiavellian glint peered out from a remarkably handsome face. He was as much politician as cop. This was probably a good thing, Bryce considered, since rumor had it the City Manager was searching for an excuse to fire the Chief.
The Chief’s presence came as no surprise, considering the high-class neighborhood. This would be all over the news soon, and the Chief would be taking charge of the media. Calm and reassuring, he would make certain the citizenry knew his department was taking every possible step to bring about justice.
The City Manager, on the other hand, would not be making a public appearance until the following morning after he showed up for work. Bryce felt the political calculations behind the Chief’s move in calling a press conference tonight.
“Detective Bryce. Glad you’re here.”
The Chief was not glad to see Bryce, the greeting merely a formality. No one in the department was ever truly glad to see him.
“Detective, we’ve got a suspect. The wife. We need your . . . abilities.”
Bryce sensed the distaste so tactfully hidden behind the Chief’s words. He nodded.
“Where is she?”
“The library. Down the hall to your right. You can’t miss it.”
Detective Miller resumed his speculations concerning the high tech handgun and illegal ammunition as Bryce found the door to the hallway and left the room.
He found the library, and a uniformed female officer doing her best to console a crying woman. The shelves were filled with older volumes. He noted several titles from the 19th century, collector’s items all.
Probably worth a small fortune, he thought.
The officer turned when Bryce came in. Her eyes grew wide in recognition and he sensed the fear within her, along with deep trepidation.
“It’s alright, Officer. I’ll take over from here.”
Her relief swept over him. Almost immediately a faint sense of disgust replaced it as she hurried from the room. Bryce ignored her feelings. He was used to it.
“Ma’am, I’m Detective Gerald Bryce. I realize this is a hard time for you, but I need to ask you some questions.”
She looked up. Blue eyes, shot red from crying. Long, curly blonde hair. All the womanly pieces were in place, everything in proper proportions. Mid to late thirties, he decided. She took care of herself. Fit, trim, well-toned.
She extended a thin, long hand, artificial nails painted red.
“Desiree Lamont, Detective. I’m sorry I’m such a mess.”
An odd thing to say at a time like this, thought Bryce.
He sensed her sincerity concerning her looks. He squeezed the hand lightly, then retrieved his police computer from a coat pocket.
He held the computer in his left hand and surreptitiously activated the record mode feature. The stylus would not be needed, but he kept it in his other hand as a prop.
“Now, Mrs. Lamont . . .”
“Please, call me Desiree.”
His eyebrows squeezed together and the lines on his forehead creased. He felt it again. Sincerity. Here was a stab at openness. Perhaps even kinship. An odd experience for him, especially since making detective several years ago.
“Desiree. Could you explain to me in your own words e
xactly what happened here tonight?”
“Well, I came home at eight o’clock and I walked into the living room and . . .”
He zoned out, absorbed in his own thoughts, waiting for her feelings to wash over him. How many perps had he winnowed out since joining the force? Close to two hundred now. His abilities as a detective were invaluable. Everybody knew that, from the Chief on down. Yet, shunned by his fellow officers, he found himself something of a pariah. Not a single person on the force he could call a close friend.
He gave up long ago trying to socialize after hours. No one wanted to be near him. He was a freak. Worse than their revulsion was the fear he sometimes sensed in them, most of them, when he was near. Fear he could discern their secrets somehow, and tell everybody.
For a while life had been tolerable so long as Melody had been with him. He could sense her love, and coming home after work made the long hours and high stress worth everything, just to spend some time with her.
Then came promotions, longer hours, calls in the middle of the night, more stress. A miscarriage, marital discontent, and her feelings toward him changed.
He could not handle the changes well. His ability to understand her feelings turned into a source of argument, then fear, then hatred. Finally divorce left him completely alone, and heartbroken.
As word spread of Bryce’s remarkable abilities within the force, rumors grew. More than half the department’s personnel had been divorced, but his divorce was said to be a direct result of his power.
“Wife couldn’t take it,” they whispered. “He knew everything she was thinking. Drove her nuts, she had to leave.”
An exaggeration, of course. He could not tell what anyone was thinking. But he could certainly feel their emotions. The emotions others felt toward him hurt most of all. Fear. Disgust. Hatred.
To fight all the negative aspects of his life after the divorce, he threw himself into his work more than ever. And suspect after suspect fell thanks to dogged detective work combined with his power.
“. . . And then, I saw his body. It was on the floor, and there was blood everywhere. It was horrible!”
Desiree broke down sobbing.
He caught it. Something. Genuine grief flowed from her, especially from the memory of her husband in a bloody heap on the floor. But something before that flashed through, faint but discernable.
She looked up, wiped her tears and composed herself. Her head tilted as she looked at him.
“You’re not interested in that, are you?”
“I’m sorry, Desiree. I don’t want to sound like I’m not interested. I hate to do this, especially right now, but I need to continue asking you some questions. Was your husband involved with any other women?”
“What? Well, yes. There were affairs. He was a powerful man and women are attracted to that.”
“I see. How about yourself? Any other men in your life?”
“No, no. Nothing like that. There are times I wish there were.”
He sensed the truth. And along with it, a trace of desire. For him.
He gulped. That was unexpected. He shoved down the slowly rising tentacles of lust within him.
Next question.
“Now please don’t take this the wrong way, I have to ask. Do you stand to receive any money now that your husband is dead?”
“What? Yes. Well, I mean, of course there are insurance policies and there’s the matter of the estate, and . . . Yes, I mean yes.”
Indeed. He could feel it. There’s a lot of money involved, he thought. Even more than she verbally acknowledged.
He could sense her anticipation. The sum must be truly enormous for her emotion to transmit so strongly.
“Have you had any arguments with your husband lately? Any particularly nasty spats?”
The strength of her feelings snapped his head up.
“We had one recently. I won’t lie to you. It was bad.”
“Did it have to do with money?”
There again, sweet anticipation swept over him.
“No. It had to do with his upcoming trip to Europe. Charles didn’t want me to go with him.”
“I see.”
Got her, he thought. He sensed deception. Time to burrow.
“Are you sure that’s all there was to it? Let’s talk about this some more.”
“Detective,” she put her hand lightly on his arm.
Something passed between them. Something electric. He shot her a look, his brows furrowed. She smiled back.
“Let’s not talk about that. Let’s talk about you. I’m . . . interested in you.”
She was intent, he could tell, on changing the course of the conversation. Grief no longer flowed in the mix of emotions streaming from her. He felt her concern . . . for something.
There’s definitely an attempt to hide something here, he thought. There was something else, though, something he could not yet put his finger on . . .
She stood up suddenly, and stretched. She caught him looking, then tilted her head and held his gaze for a moment.
“Are you a lonely man, Detective?”
He blushed, startled. In his innermost self, in the deepest part of Gerald Bryce, lurked an emotional beast locked up and hidden away from public view. Loneliness. He had nobody to turn to, nobody to confide in. Nobody to love, or love him back. The divorce still hurt after all these years.
“Mrs. Lamont—”
“Desiree.”
“Desiree. Your husband was murdered tonight. We really need to continue with your statement.”
She sat down again, and scooted the chair closer. She cupped her chin in her hands, studying him.
“You know, Gerald, I don’t think we’re all that different, you and me. I’ve been lonely for years myself. Oh I know what you’re thinking. How can a woman be lonely when she’s surrounded by all this wealth? When she’s married to a rich man like Charles Lamont?”
She leaned back and her eyes drifted as she slipped into memory. He sensed sadness, mixed with regret and bitterness.
“I was his trophy wife. I made him look good. I attended all the functions and performed my wifely duties. He had other women for other things. I suppose they were better than me in that way.”
Bryce snorted, involuntarily. He rather doubted it. She doubted it too, he could tell.
She smiled at him, as if reading his mind and acknowledging the compliment.
“Anyway, he liked variety. Over time our marriage grew cold.”
She stopped, and looked at him again with a critical eye, squinting lightly.
“I grew lonely, just like you. Eventually I realized he no longer loved me. In fact, he no longer cared for me at all. I was just an ornament. A decoration by his side. My demands for his time and attention were nothing more than a nuisance.”
She sighed, stretched, and looked off in the distance again.
“I grew tired of trying to make him love me. In time we grew to hate each other. The fact he hated me made me hate him all the more. Hatred is one of the most powerful emotions, certainly the most vicious. It’s the diametric opposite of love.”
He grunted.
“I thought apathy was the opposite of love.”
Her eyes came down and locked with his. She scooted her chair closer again, licked her lips, and drew very close to his face.
“I don’t think we are all that different, Gerald Bryce.”
He felt he was being sized up, as if she were weighing matters and coming to a decision. She stood up suddenly.
“Detective, can I show you something?”
He stood up with her. Out of habit and the latent suspicion all police carry, he put the stylus away, freeing his right hand in case he needed to retrieve his gun. He sensed anticipation in her, not always a good thing with people in his line of work.
“Certainly, I suppose. What would you like to show me?”
She walked to one of the bookshelves and removed a red, leather-bound book. Activated by this hidden switch, the
shelf drew back into the wall and rolled slowly to the left. The door to a large safe appeared in a recess behind the trick shelf. She stooped to a microphone in the safe’s door and spoke softly.
“Desiree Lamont. Three, nine, seventeen, eight, sixty-two.”
The bolt snicked back and the door swung silently outwards. He sensed her avoiding something in the back of the safe. The feeling came in faint, but he noticed it.
She pulled out a thick sheaf of papers and returned to the table with a sparkle in her eyes. She tossed the sheaf on the table.
“Do you know what these are, Detective Bryce?”
He glanced at the top sheet. An official paper artifact of some kind. He read, “Bank of Zurich,” printed in gold leaf at the top. It reminded him of old corporate stocks.
“Why don’t you tell me?”
“These, Detective, are gold certificates. They are one of the last physical manifestations of money redeemable at any bank in the world.”
Her voice lowered and her lips drew close to his ear. She trembled with excitement, and he could feel it course through her emotions, her words.
“This is fifty-eight million credits.”
“Your husband’s?”
She nodded. “Mine now, of course. He didn’t know I knew about them. You see, Charles has been liquidating assets for some time now. He had a particularly fetching strumpet in the south of France he’d been dreaming about running away with. He wanted to drop all his responsibilities here, say goodbye to me and my demands, and spend the rest of his days with her.”
Their eyes locked. A strong temptation swept over him. He struggled to push it down again.
“Why are you showing me this?”
She paused before answering, giving him another long look.
“You see, I’m lonely too. I’ve been lonely for a long, long time. And now I’ve got nearly sixty million credits and no one to spend it with. No one who understands.”
His mind filled with one glorious emotional mix. Lust, excitement, adventure, pleasure, wealth. It could all be shared. With her. He had trouble discerning which emotions were his and which were hers. They all churned together.
Suddenly, it clicked. He realized what she had been hiding. He struggled to control his emotions, particularly the elation at discerning her secret. Instead, he feigned interest. Intrigue. He threw in a little lust, just to be safe.