think that the killer shot Peter Wald and then ran into the vacant lot and dropped the gun and also lost the watch?”
“We thought so at the time.”
“The stopwatch was introduced as evidence in court?”
“No, it wasn’t. The DA didn’t need the watch—not when we had the gun.”
I ask, “Where is the gun?”
“In storage. It’s a snub-nosed .32. That probably doesn’t mean anything to you.”
He couldn’t be more wrong. Among the furnishings in my Aunt Jo’s Barlow Square townhouse condo are two handguns, one of which
is a .38. Jo Cutter was not a markswoman, and I have no idea why she had these guns. It was shocking to discover them. They
are scary and intriguing.
I say, “So Peter Wald was shot at close range.”
He puts down the fork. “How do you know?”
“Because a snub-nosed .32 is wildly inaccurate beyond fifteen to twenty feet.”
“Is someone in your family a sportsman, Reggie?”
“Sportsperson, you mean.” A feminist daughter and a divorce tune up a woman’s ears to gender pitch. I drink my lukewarm coffee.
Clearly, Devaney knows nothing about these guns of Jo’s. “Nowadays everything’s on the Internet, Frank.”
He looks relieved. “So you’ve kept the watch all this time?”
“I got it from a warehouse.”
“Why not the gun?”
“First things first.” He moves the donut and broken fork to the side. “I couldn’t just check out old evidence like a library
book. I needed a little help from my contacts.”
So the watch isn’t officially in his possession. Maybe Stark is right: there’s mounting pressure to reopen the case. “How
about DNA evidence?”
“We didn’t have test kits back then.”
“Personal items? Something with skin flecks? Clothing with blood?”
“Physical evidence rots if it’s not refrigerated, Reggie. Maybe you watch too much TV.”
“Don’t brush me off, Frank. I’m trying to help.”
“It helps when you tune in your psychic station. You ready?” I feel pushed but nod yes. “It won’t bother you to try it here
in the donut shop?”
“Psychics can work anywhere, Frank. It’s not like a seizure. I won’t froth at the mouth.”
“I just mean—” He looks almost embarrassed. “It seems a little cheap.”
I have to laugh. “If it bothers you, we can go for cocktails at the Ritz.” He chuckles. I smile. From an inside pocket comes
the watch, which he puts down on the table. It’s a small black plastic digital thing with tiny buttons and a liquid crystal
screen, which is blank. The battery is dead, of course, though its working order shouldn’t matter. It just looks so impersonal,
mass-produced.
I admit to this: a paranoid flicker of suspicion that this isn’t really evidence but a deliberate feint on Frank Devaney’s
part. He could have taken the watch from, say, a dish of old keys and rubber bands and dried-out pens to test me, to make
certain I don’t fake visions in order to stay connected to police work. Or to be sure that the so-called silent partner is
straight with him, even if he’s not with me.
What do we know about each other, the ex–corporate wife and the homicide detective? That we come from different worlds, that
our paths ordinarily would never cross. Yet both of us seek freedom from a troubled past. The Henry Faiser case offers us
a fresh start.
I pick up the watch and clasp it between both hands and close my eyes. I hear voices out front—a dozen honey-glazed, three
cinnamon, coffees. I hear greetings and good-byes. I press the watch between my palms as if to warm it. Still nothing happens.
I’m ready to give up and hand it back when my hearing changes. It’s as though I move to a different frequency, underwater
or high in the earth’s upper atmosphere. Then all feeling, all sensation, throughout my body seems to drain toward my right
arm, to my hand, then my thumb, my right thumb. The thumb burns, and I see something raw and red. I see red
“We thought so at the time.”
“The stopwatch was introduced as evidence in court?”
“No, it wasn’t. The DA didn’t need the watch—not when we had the gun.”
I ask, “Where is the gun?”
“In storage. It’s a snub-nosed .32. That probably doesn’t mean anything to you.”
He couldn’t be more wrong. Among the furnishings in my Aunt Jo’s Barlow Square townhouse condo are two handguns, one of which
is a .38. Jo Cutter was not a markswoman, and I have no idea why she had these guns. It was shocking to discover them. They
are scary and intriguing.
I say, “So Peter Wald was shot at close range.”
He puts down the fork. “How do you know?”
“Because a snub-nosed .32 is wildly inaccurate beyond fifteen to twenty feet.”
“Is someone in your family a sportsman, Reggie?”
“Sportsperson, you mean.” A feminist daughter and a divorce tune up a woman’s ears to gender pitch. I drink my lukewarm coffee.
Clearly, Devaney knows nothing about these guns of Jo’s. “Nowadays everything’s on the Internet, Frank.”
He looks relieved. “So you’ve kept the watch all this time?”
“I got it from a warehouse.”
“Why not the gun?”
“First things first.” He moves the donut and broken fork to the side. “I couldn’t just check out old evidence like a library
book. I needed a little help from my contacts.”
So the watch isn’t officially in his possession. Maybe Stark is right: there’s mounting pressure to reopen the case. “How
about DNA evidence?”
“We didn’t have test kits back then.”
“Personal items? Something with skin flecks? Clothing with blood?”
“Physical evidence rots if it’s not refrigerated, Reggie. Maybe you watch too much TV.”
“Don’t brush me off, Frank. I’m trying to help.”
“It helps when you tune in your psychic station. You ready?” I feel pushed but nod yes. “It won’t bother you to try it here
in the donut shop?”
“Psychics can work anywhere, Frank. It’s not like a seizure. I won’t froth at the mouth.”
“I just mean—” He looks almost embarrassed. “It seems a little cheap.”
I have to laugh. “If it bothers you, we can go for cocktails at the Ritz.” He chuckles. I smile. From an inside pocket comes
the watch, which he puts down on the table. It’s a small black plastic digital thing with tiny buttons and a liquid crystal
screen, which is blank. The battery is dead, of course, though its working order shouldn’t matter. It just looks so impersonal,
mass-produced.
I admit to this: a paranoid flicker of suspicion that this isn’t really evidence but a deliberate feint on Frank Devaney’s
part. He could have taken the watch from, say, a dish of old keys and rubber bands and dried-out pens to test me, to make
certain I don’t fake visions in order to stay connected to police work. Or to be sure that the so-called silent partner is
straight with him, even if he’s not with me.
What do we know about each other, the ex–corporate wife and the homicide detective? That we come from different worlds, that
our paths ordinarily would never cross. Yet both of us seek freedom from a troubled past. The Henry Faiser case offers us
a fresh start.
I pick up the watch and clasp it between both hands and close my eyes. I hear voices out front—a dozen honey-glazed, three
cinnamon, coffees. I hear greetings and good-byes. I press the watch between my palms as if to warm it. Still nothing happens.
I’m ready to give up and hand it back when my hearing changes. It’s as though I move to a different frequency, underwater
or high in the earth’s upper atmosphere. Then all feeling, all sensation, throughout my body seems to drain toward my right
arm, to my hand, then my thumb, my right thumb. The thumb burns, and I see something raw and red. I see red
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