Black Cat Weekly #51

Chapter 5

byShortly after The Seer started dispensing her prophecies, we had more business than we could handle. We were hiring several new employees every month to keep up with demand, and it was only a matter of time until my partners and I were forced to look for larger offices. It was like we had a license to print cash, and there was no sign the bubble was going to burst any time soon.

Take, for instance, Mr. Frank Fortenberry, a typical example of the dozens of new clients we processed on any given day. He was thirty-five, looked to be in good shape and had no health issues. Married for eleven years, with two children. Good job. Plenty of friends. Hobbies. In the prime of his life.

A sheet of exquisite vellum paper sat on my desk. KILLED BY BROTHER, it said, in The Seer’s distinctive, ornate handwriting, a prognosis delivered after she scrutinized a vial of the client’s saliva.

“Isn’t there anything I can do to stop him?” Fortenberry asked.

I took a deep breath. I’d been over this hundreds of times, so I had to focus to keep from sounding bored while I delivered the spiel. “Our years of experience tell us, Mr. Fortenberry, that The Seer is never wrong. Often vague, sometimes misleading, but ultimately always accurate.”

“What if I killed my brother first?”

“You wouldn’t be the first person to suggest that,” I said. “Doesn’t work.”

“Why not?”

“Something always goes wrong.” I sat up straight. “Take it from me—we’ve seen this more times than you could imagine. I wish I had better news.”

“What if I moved to a remote South Pacific island for the rest of my life?”

I shrugged. “That’s been tried, too.”

“Is that all you’re going to do? Shrug and tell me there’s nothing I can do? What am I paying you for?”

“You are paying us, Mr. Fortenberry, to investigate your death when it happens. To make sure the guilty party is arrested, charged and convicted of the crime.”

“That’s not what happens in films. If a guy goes to a private detective saying someone is trying to kill him, the detective finds a way to prevent it.”

“There’s a reason they haven’t made many PI movies since The Seer.” I picked up the sheet of paper. “We’ll include this in your file and keep tabs on your situation.”

“Wait for me to be stabbed or poisoned or shot or whatever, that’s what you mean. I don’t even know how it’s going to happen. Or when.”

I looked him straight in the eyes. “Then you’re not any further behind than you were before you decided to visit The Seer, are you?”

“Not any further ahead, either. I wish I didn’t know.”

Who does? I asked myself. Who honestly believed their life would be improved by knowing how they were going to die? Even if The Seer declared someone’s cause of death would be OLD AGE, that wasn’t necessarily a comfort. Some miserable people hoped for a hasty end to their sorry existences. The Seer’s message condemned them to live. Or the universe did, with The Seer acting as its emissary. The philosophers were still debating that.

Then, of course, there were the twists. The Seer’s pronouncements were sometimes frustratingly ambiguous. Did it mean Fortenberry’s brother, or someone else? Perhaps Fortenberry had an old Brother typewriter perched on a shelf, waiting to fall on his head. I’d seen stranger things. That was why we were still detectives and not simply ghouls waiting for people to die so we could sign off on the paperwork.

I handed him off to an associate who would enter his information into a computer that scanned news reports, obituaries, blogs, and social media for matches against our client list.

An attractive woman of about thirty clutching a manila folder to her chest waved me down in the corridor when I was returning to my office. “Mr. Cannon? I have one,” she said. Vera was one of the newer employees assigned to confirm database matches. She wore a dark blue dress that clung to her generous curves and stopped just above her knees. My eyes were drawn to the long stretch of legs below the hemline.

If she minded the attention, she didn’t show it. She handed me the file.

“This is your first match, isn’t it?” I asked.

Her eyes widened ever so slightly. She nodded.

“Thought so. I’ll walk you through the process.”

She followed me into my office. I indicated the chair Mr. Fortenberry had recently vacated. She crossed her legs and tugged at the hem of her dress.

I forced myself to concentrate on the paperwork. The top sheet in the folder was our standard intake form. The client was Loraine Odegaard, wife of Charles Odegaard. The next page was The Seer’s prediction: STABBED BY SISTER WHILE ARGUING OVER INHERITANCE. More detailed than most, and relatively unambiguous, unless “sister” meant “nun.”

You’d think a person with this much information could avoid arguing with her sister over an inheritance, but greed and anger were strong motivators—stronger than a sense of self-preservation, apparently. From the moment of her birth, Mrs. Odegaard’s life was one long, inevitable journey toward the fatal argument predicted by The Seer. Were we all just actors in a drama scripted for someone else’s benefit? That was a question I seldom contemplated. It had no answer and led only to more questions.

The next page was a copy of a news item that summarized, in two column inches, the demise of Loraine Odegaard. Her neighbors had reported hearing cries of anguish and pain. The police arrived on the scene in time to arrest her sister, Eleanor Tisdale, red-handed. The final document contained the police report. Everything appeared to be in order. I noted the lead detective’s name.

“Good work,” I said, although this was as straightforward as they came. The computer could have handled it automatically, but we always had an employee confirm the results. Multiple people can have the same name, even something like Odegaard. “E-mail a copy of Mrs. Odegaard’s intake documents to Detective Rayos.”

Vera beamed at the compliment. Then she frowned.

“Something wrong?”

“That’s it?”

I nodded. “Pretty much.”

“She paid us a lot of money.”

I glanced at the file. “The standard fee at the time. It’s more than that now.”

“And that’s all we do?”

I gave Vera my warmest smile. “This document guarantees that Eleanor Tisdale will be punished for her sister’s murder. Courts accept statements from The Seer as conclusive evidence, the same as DNA or fingerprints. This one even establishes the motive.”

“Mrs. Odegaard could have just stored it in a safety deposit box,” Vera said, “to be opened upon her death.”

I put an index finger to my lips. “Shh,” I said. “That’s our little secret.”

Her brow furrowed.

“Not all cases are this clear-cut. Often the police don’t know who the killer is. We can supply that information—or at least a clue. Occasionally, a murder is committed so cleverly that it looks like an accident or suicide or natural causes. We alert the police that they should treat the death as a homicide.”

“I see,” Vera said. She scrunched up her nose. “What if Mrs. Odegaard had more than one sister and the killer wasn’t caught at the crime scene?”

I could tell she had been giving it a lot of thought. The new ones usually did. “After notifying the police, we would conduct our own investigation and do our utmost to make sure the culprit was identified.” I hesitated, wondering how much information to give her. “The truth is, we only have to look closely at about five percent of our cases. Most are like this one. You confirm the identity of the client against the news report or obituary, match the cause of death with the known facts, and send the documents to the cops. Make a note in the file to check for updates on the status of the prosecution. End of story.”

Her face didn’t reveal her thoughts, but I enjoyed examining it for clues all the same.

“You want to ask something else,” I said after our eyes met for the third time in as many seconds. “Don’t worry. You won’t make me mad or risk your job.”

She bit her lip. “Is it fair?” She paused, as if searching for the right words. “That we charge people all that money and do so little in return?”

“Think of it as a life insurance policy. There you pay year after year, never knowing when or if you’ll use it. The Seer shook up that industry, let me tell you. Not in a good way, either.” I grew serious again. “For those five percent, we definitely earn our fee. Complicated investigations that last for weeks. Months, sometimes. Besides, if we didn’t do it, someone else would. We’re not the only agency out there. We were just the first.”

She seemed to ponder that for a moment, then nodded. She uncrossed her legs and rose to her feet in one fluid motion. I opened my mouth to ask her something, but she beat me to the punch. “Would you like to have dinner with me? Tomorrow night, maybe?”

How could I resist?

* * * *

Once people started visiting The Seer, the police were swamped. They were used to handling at most a few homicides on a bad day. Almost overnight, many of the murders that were going to be committed over the next fifty years were reported to them all at once.

Their resources were limited, and they had other crimes to handle, including actual, unpredicted murders. At first, they tried to prevent the future homicides, but they soon discovered that was futile. Finally, they established a new policy. They wouldn’t investigate murders reported by The Seer until after the fact.

Identifying a new and potentially lucrative business opportunity, my partners and I decided to run TV and internet ads, and put splashy banners on every bus and park bench in the city. We were careful about what we promised: we couldn’t prevent the inevitable, but we would make sure the killers didn’t get away with it. The idea caught on like wildfire. Life was good.

* * * *

Vera rapped on my office door one morning a couple of weeks later. I thought she wanted to thank me for dinner the previous evening, and the bedroom gymnastics that followed, but she had a file folder in her hand and I realized her visit was business-related.

“Come in. Have a seat,” I said.

“I think I found one of those cases,” she said, after her long, lanky legs were properly crossed and her short skirt duly tugged.

“What kind’s that?”

“The ones you told me about. The five percent where we actually earn the client’s fee.”

I ignored the implied criticism. We had talked a little business over dinner that first night, and she had peppered me with questions upon waking the next morning, but since then she hadn’t raised any more concerns about the nature of our business. “Show me,” I said.

According to the file, Erik Watrous had become a client nearly four years ago, shortly after we got into the future homicide business. The document attached to his intake form said: DROWNED BY LOVER.

I flipped to the police report. Watrous’s n***d body had been found in his swimming pool. No one else was home at the time of his death, which had been classified as an accident. According to the obituary, he left behind a wife, two daughters, and a son. Funeral services were pending.

“Okay,” I said. “First, we notify the police.” I checked the report for a signature. “Start with Officer Puentes.”

“This is going to destroy her.”

“Who?”

“His wife,” she said. “She thinks it was an accident. She probably doesn’t even know he had a lover.”

I nodded because she seemed to need a reaction of some sort.

“Do we really have to... ?” She tugged at her skirt again.

My eyes widened. This was unexpected, considering her ethical qualms. “You don’t think we should tell?”

“I don’t know,” she said, staring at her knees. I didn’t blame her. They were lovely. “It’s just that...” I let her struggle with her thoughts. Finally, she looked up. “Wouldn’t telling her do more harm than good?”

“Erik Watrous was our client,” I said. “Not his wife. Our obligation is to him. He knew the nature of the information we’d have to expose.”

“No matter what it does to his family?”

“Do we let a murderer get away with it? To spare someone’s feelings?”

“I don’t know.” Her voice was soft. She chewed on the inside of her mouth.

“Suppose the killer doesn’t stop there.”

She looked up again. “What do you mean?”

“Maybe our client’s wife is next on her to-do list.”

“You don’t know that.”

“No. Neither do you.”

She gave her hem another tug. “Who’ll tell her?”

I reviewed the intake form. In the Next of Kin Notification box, Watrous had written “Wife.” I sighed. “He wanted us to.”

“Can I do it?” she asked.

“Want company? It won’t be easy.”

“No,” she said. “I can handle it.”

* * * *

The case turned out to be more complicated than it seemed. I let Vera run point, because she was so invested in the outcome. When she came to my office door to report the detectives’ findings, she had a sheepish look on her face.

Apparently Watrous had taken The Seer’s prediction to heart and had lived an exemplary, faithful life. His wife, on the other hand, wasn’t as squeaky clean. She’d had a string of lovers over the years, and it was the most recent of these who, fueled by jealousy, ended her husband’s life. Our detectives turned their findings over to the police, who dug up all the evidence they needed. They arrested the lover and obtained a full confession. Case closed.

“She looked me in the eyes and lied,” Vera said. “And I believed her.”

I was tempted to say something about how we provided a valuable service but, when I saw the humiliation and disappointment in her eyes, I kept quiet.

* * * *

“Have you visited The Seer?” she asked.

It was late, and I’d been on the verge of falling asleep. “No,” I said. People never tired of that question. It was what they asked at parties after one drink too many or on dates when the conversation lagged.

“Why not?”

I contemplated the darkness for several seconds. Her arm rested against mine. The warmth and pressure were comforting. Having someone that close made everything seem all right with the world. Most of the time it didn’t even matter who it was. Just someone.

“It’s empty information,” I said at last. “You can’t do anything with it. You can’t do anything about it. Why bother?”

“Aren’t you going to ask me?” The bed shifted as she turned to face me.

I stayed on my back. “Legally, I’m not allowed to,” I said. “You’re my employee. The law is very clear about that.”

“Is that what I am? An employee.”

I shrugged, although she couldn’t see the gesture. “That, too.” I rolled onto my side, feeling compelled to dig myself out of the hole that had materialized around me. I reached out and found her face in the darkness and brushed the hair away from her cheek. I was surprised to find moisture there, so I brushed that away, too. “I can’t ask. But you could tell. If you wanted to.”

“No,” she said.

I didn’t know if that meant she hadn’t been tested or that she didn’t want to tell me. I kissed her and held her tight until we found other ways to make the dark, empty night pass.

* * * *

We didn’t last long. She was always trying to get inside my head. Women like her expected to find something meaningful in there and ended up frustrated and angry when they discovered it was a hollow, vacant place. But still they tried. After a while, I got frustrated, too, and pushed them away.

I started referring her files to my associates. I stopped taking her calls. She got the point, eventually. I had enough experience with broken relationships to know how to keep it from being awkward. For me, at least.

I buried myself in a new case. The sheet of paper in the file said MURDERED BY YOUR HUSBAND. Not one whit of ambiguity there. However, the client had died of a heart attack when her husband was overseas on business. He was reportedly devastated by her loss. The client had no ex-husbands, so he had to be the culprit. The Seer said so. All hail The Seer.

The medical examiner repeated the autopsy after we contacted the police, but it only confirmed the original results. Neither the police nor our detectives could find any proof that her husband played a part in her death. We had a partners’ meeting to review the paperwork to make sure no one had screwed up at our end. The signature on the intake form matched the victim’s. Payment had been authorized to her credit account. Everything was in order.

The husband’s lawyer advised him to plead guilty to avoid the death sentence. That sheet of vellum was all the court needed to convict. He took the deal but refused to confess. The case nagged at me because it felt wrong. But no two fingerprints were alike, and The Seer’s predictions were always accurate.

It happened again two weeks later. The computer kicked out one of our clients’ names for confirmation against an obituary. The funeral home write-up said the man died after a lengthy illness. His intake form said POISONED BY NEXT-DOOR NEIGHBOR. That told us the cause of death and narrowed the suspect pool. However, the client lived in one of those suburban neighborhoods where everyone waved at each other, but no one really knew anyone. The client’s wife was adamant that there was no conceivable reason for any of their neighbors to kill her husband. The police and our detectives couldn’t identify a suspect. None of the neighbors had purchased poison and the medical examiner found nothing toxic in his system. The case remained open.

The number of irregularities mounted.

* * * *

One afternoon, Vera knocked on my office door. She’d left me alone recently. If we passed in the hallway, I nodded and continued to my destination—usually to a meeting to review the details of another death that seemed at odds with The Seer’s prediction. I was tempted to tell her I was busy, but I couldn’t keep avoiding her. “Yes? What is it?” Professional. Nothing to make her think I’d had a change of heart. Another lesson I’ve learned: people cling to hope and can convince themselves of anything if it’s what they want.

“I have a new intake,” she said.

I looked up from my paperwork. “Petersen can handle it,” I said.

She seemed pale. Her cheeks had lost some of their fullness and there were dark circles under her eyes. Breaking up had taken a toll on her, I thought.

“I think you should take this one.” Her brow was furrowed.

I knew how determined she could be, but surely we were past that by now. “I don’t—”

“You really need to see this one,” she said. She sat without invitation and placed the documents on my desk. Her dress was long, almost to her ankles, and she didn’t cross her legs.

I shrugged. Best get it over with instead of getting into an argument. Who knew where that would lead? I didn’t want to air my personal business in the office. We had enough problems.

The name on the form caught me by surprise: Vera Paulsen. I looked at her. She met my gaze. I raised my eyebrows. She nodded. I reviewed her information, trying to figure out why she needed our services. “Cause of death?” I asked.

She plucked a sheet of paper from her purse and handed it to me. There was a hint of a smile on her lips. Our fingers brushed when I accepted the document. It seemed deliberate. I pretended not to notice.

I leaned back. Adjusted my shoulders into a more comfortable position. Then I raised the page and read its pithy death sentence: MURDERED BY FORMER BOSS/LOVER.

I inhaled sharply but there didn’t seem to be enough air in the room. “What is this?” I demanded, getting to my feet. I threw the offending paper on the desk.

“A prophecy?” she said. Her inflection rose at the end, turning her words into a question. “By the way, I quit.”

“I’m not going to kill you,” I said.

“According to this, you will.”

“Never.” What was the catch? The loophole. I’d faced dozens—hundreds of people—in denial about The Seer’s results. “You’re young,” I said, grasping at straws. “You’ll have other bosses. Other lovers.”

“I doubt it,” she said.

“I’m not going to kill you,” I repeated.

“How are you doing with those other cases?” she asked.

I towered over her, seeing her—really seeing her—for the first time in weeks. She looked terrible. Nothing at all like the beautiful young woman who had succumbed to my charms. Or was it the other way around?

“What cases?”

“The ones where you can’t verify what The Seer predicted.”

“What about them?”

“Did it never occur to you that The Seer documents clients bring in might not be their own, or forged.”

I couldn’t think of anything to say.

She continued. “Suppose a vindictive man wanted his ex-wife or former lover to take the blame for his death. The Seer is never wrong. The courts accept her prognoses as absolute proof. You told me that.”

I could tell where she was going, and I didn’t like it. Not one bit. Once I saw it, though, it seemed so obvious. I was surprised it had taken someone this long to figure out the angle.

“Or suppose a spurned lover with total access to your database took it upon herself to research obituaries and forge client files. What would happen then?”

I knew what would happen. It came to me in a flash, like a doomsday vision. “We’d be discredited,” I said. “Our business would go up in smoke.”

She sat back, a smug look on her face.

I felt sick. “You?”

She shrugged. “Given sufficient motivation and time, who knows how many files such a person might fabricate?”

“Hundreds,” I said. I swallowed. Perspiration formed on my brow.

“Maybe even thousands,” she said.

I grabbed for the sheet of paper on the desk—very possibly the firm’s death sentence. Or mine, if her scheme worked out.

She beat me to it. “Did you know there’s a black market in these things? You can find almost anything if you look hard enough.” She gave me a strange look. “I think I’ll hold onto this,” she said, slipping it into her purse. “Put it in a safe place. To be opened after my death.” She got to her feet, though the motion was nowhere near as fluid as I remembered. “Did I mention that I’m not well? Bad prognosis. Didn’t need The Seer to tell me—the doctors were clear enough.”

She turned to leave. I needed to stop her, but I didn’t know how. If I exposed her, our business would collapse overnight. The courts would be thrown into disarray. Every case ever decided by The Seer’s predictions would have to be reviewed. If the firm survived, we’d be back to where we were in the old days, struggling to make a living stalking philandering husbands and wives, and hunting down deadbeat dads.

I always knew the bubble would burst eventually, but I’d thought we could ride it a little longer. Milk it for all it was worth. Step up the intakes and then sell the business to some unsuspecting sucker before the s**t hit the fan. Retire to Costa Rica.

All this went through my head before she took her first step toward the door. Was she really dying? Soon? How soon? When she did, that little single sheet of paper would brand me a killer. How could I prove it didn’t belong to her without ruining the lucrative business that supported my extravagant lifestyle?

If I had myself tested, I suspected The Seer would say something simple, like A LIE.

I had to do something before she planted her time bomb.

A prophecy, she had called the document. Maybe it was.

Perhaps The Seer wouldn’t say A LIE after all.

Maybe she would say THE TRUTH.

Bev Vincent is the author of several non-fiction books, including The Road to the Dark Tower and Stephen King: A Complete Exploration of His Work, Life and Influences. He co-edited the anthology Flight or Fright with Stephen King and has published more than 120 stories, with appearances in Ellery Queen’s, Alfred Hitchcock’s and Black Cat Mystery Magazines. His work has been published in twenty languages and nominated for the Stoker (twice), Edgar, Ignotus and ITW Thriller Awards. Recent works include “The Dead of Winter” in Dissonant Harmonies with Brian Keene and “The Ogilvy Affair.” To learn more, visit bevvincent.com.