Glass Eye: Confessions of a Fake Psychic Detective

Chapter 27

Only white paint and a damp cold rest on the walls of the interrogation room at the police station. Not much for Zandra to analyze. It says enough all on its own.

The authorities gave Zandra what they call "a break." Let Charlie do the questioning. Try to put Stevens Point's most notorious celebrity at ease.

How considerate.

"Am I under arrest?" are the first words out of Zandra's mouth when Charlie sits down at the metal table bolted to the concrete floor.

"No," Charlie says. Tries to keep her emotions in check. Plenty for Zandra to see in the corner of Charlie's eyes. It's all rage. Probably fueled by a healthy sense of being "had" by Zandra.

Not that anyone is formally accusing Zandra of anything. As the officer said on the ride over, "this is to clear a few things up, that's all." Sounded like someone reassuring a toddler the slide at the playground won't break his leg. Zandra can already feel it in her ankle.

"If I'm not under arrest, I can leave, right?" Zandra says.

"I'd rather you didn't," Charlie says again.

"Then tell me what the hell I'm doing in this room," Zandra says. Her better sense tells her she already needs a lawyer. Her bank account says otherwise.

Charlie pulls an attaché case onto the table. Zandra expects a formidable stack of papers to follow. The load is actually a little light. It's a few sheets of hand-written notes.

"Earlier today, one of your neighbors called your landlord about a stench coming from your apartment," Charlie says, paraphrasing the scribbles. "Your landlord, concerned about the wellness of the apartment, entered your apartment. The quote, 'incredible odor,' unquote, came from inside a locked filing cabinet."

Zandra gets the feeling where this is headed. Her stomach clenches so tight she swears she hears a rib crack.

"Law enforcement obtained a warrant to force open the cabinet. Each of the four drawers contain what were apparently pieces of a decomposed human stored inside vacuum-sealed bags," Charlie says. She pauses. Now it's her turn to read Zandra's face.

Zandra vomits. It misses the table and hits the floor. An officer rushes into the room with a towel and a bottle of water. Once she's cleaned up, Charlie continues.

"We're waiting for the medical examiner to identify the remains. But you can already guess what I think," Charlie says.

Zandra mouths the words, "Elle Carey." Charlie nods in response.

"What's interesting to me is what else was discovered in your apartment. You keep quite the record of Stevens Point's residents. Stacks and stacks of files, in fact. Interesting," Charlie says.

Zandra takes a swig from the bottle of water. Relieves her dry mouth. Tries to say something. Can't.

"My cousin is a troubled man. Can't help himself but to drink and pop pills. Always stealing from family members," Charlie says. "But you know what? He's the first one to offer to help find what's missing. That way he can cover his ass. You know what I mean?"

An officer comes in and whispers something to Charlie. They nod to each other before the officer leaves.

Zandra finds her voice again. It's dry and sloppy at the same time.

"An eye for an eye. A child for a child. That's how it looks. Like I wanted revenge on the Carey family," Zandra says. "You're missing two pieces to this puzzle. First, you don't know the identity of those remains, if they even are human. Second, I haven't confessed to anything."

"Not confessing and not having anything to do with a crime are two very different things, Zandra," Charlie says.

It's a mental slip on Zandra's part. She'd wished ill on the Carey family with enthusiasm for years. Despite knowing the supernatural is nothing more than placebo effects and theater, a part of her isn't so sure her wishes didn't manifest into reality. Call it coincidence. Call it pareidolia. Zandra can't shake the flicker of guilt in her gut. Especially since a piece of her is excited to learn Elle may be dead.

"Is anyone planning on charging me with anything? Or are you just hoping I crack and tell you something?" Zandra says.

Charlie folds her hands. Leans in close. "That's up to the county attorney. My job is to gather enough evidence to make an arrest," she says. "But until you answer my simple question, we're going to sit here."

"Which is?"

"Why do you have what appear to be human remains in your apartment?"

Now Zandra leans in. Closes the distance between their noses.

"Listen to me very carefully," Zandra says. "I have no fucking idea. Someone put them there, but it wasn't me. And again, you don't know that they're human remains."

"And it's just a coincidence that you've kept files on damn near everyone in town?" Charlie says.

"I don't have to explain a thing to you. What I do in my free time in my own home is my business," Zandra says. "When all this is over, those files damn well better be back in my hands. Now either get the county attorney to file some charges or let me out of here."

Charlie leans back. Runs a hand through her hair.

"That officer that came in here just now, he told me it'll be 24 hours before we have the results back on those remains. Which means for the next 24 hours, you'd better not leave town," Charlie says. "Once those results come back, you can bet the county attorney will be making any charges official. Until then, you're free to leave."

Zandra doesn't think the word "free" is the right fit. More like "allowed."

An officer enters the room to see Zandra out.

Zandra passes a reporter in the hallway on the way out of the station. Recognizes him right away. He's the cops and courts beat reporter for the Stevens Point Journal. And he's on his way to talk with Charlie.

It's happening again.

Zandra shuffles through the fading light of day back to her apartment. Chain-smokes the entire way. Mulls over what to do next. Her brain feels scrambled in a way it hasn't in years. Her focus, the one thing she needs more than anything, is gone. It doesn't help that her apartment on the ground floor of the building is sealed off. She'll need a hotel room.

It's for the better anyway. She can lay low away from her home address, free from the accusing fingers of the world. And they'll come, just as surely as they did all those years ago.

Zandra settles in to her hotel room. It's the most expensive in town. The cheap ones make you pay upfront. Good. She can't pay anyway. Her only credit card with space on it is back at her apartment, along with everything else. Zandra's stuck with the clothes on her back and the props in her pocket.

She soaks her ankle in the room's tub before collapsing on the bed. It takes everything to fight sleep. As alluring as it is, sleep isn't what she needs right now.

Instead, Zandra tries to freeze herself in that spot between alertness and dreaming. When her mind is open and can wander in the buffer of reality and fiction. Where information seems to slip in and out of reception, like rabbit ears on an old TV. Where answers live if only she'll listen. To what, she doesn't know. Doesn't matter. It worked one time, years ago, more or less by accident. Back when it happened.