The Case of the Psychic and the Psycho

a short mystery story by Robert Arvay

        As our story begins, a woman is walking alone on a country road.  As you can see by her demeanor, she is under emotional stress. She is wearing a waitress uniform with a logo on it.  The logo says, “Ken’s Café.”  A car approaches from behind her and slows down.  The driver is a man who appears to be in his thirties, clean cut, and wearing a tan suit.  “Need a lift?” he asks cheerfully.

        The woman hesitates, reluctant to accept, but finally says, “Okay.”

        “Great,” the man says.  “Hop in.  Where ya goin’?”

        The woman opens the door, slides onto the front seat, and in the same motion, she opens her purse.  A look of terror comes across the man’s face as he sees the gun in her hand, a snub-nose 38-caliber revolver.

 

        The Desert Palace Motel was anything but a palace, but Meredith Lazlo was tired, and she signed in at the front desk with her real name.  The receptionist’s faded name tag identified her as “Joanne,” to anyone who might care.  She looked almost as worn as the motel, a bit on the gruff side, but she noted the logo on Meredith’s waitress uniform, and commented about it.  “Ken’s Café,” she remarked.  “You been working there long?”

        “Too long,” Meredith said. 

        “Where ya been staying?  I ain’t seen you before.”

        “Look, I don’t mean to be rude, but I am really, really tired.  Can I get the key?”

        The receptionist pushed it to her.  “Door eight, out and to the left.”

        “I’d like a wake-up at six AM please.”

        “You got it.”

 

        Deputy Frank Pelter, driving his patrol car with the Sheriff’s emblem on it, pulled into the parking lot of the Desert Palace Motel, and slowly cruised from one end of the line of rooms to the other, scanning the parked cars, before stopping at the check-in office.

        “How’s business?” he asked Joanne

        “Oh, hi Frank.  Slow as usual.”

        “Joanne, I’ll get right to the point.  A guy was car-jacked about two miles up the road.  He was shot pretty bad.  He’ll probably live, but he’s in surgery as we speak.  He couldn’t say much, but the people who found him say that he said something about a woman hitch-hiker doing this to him.  So, just on a hunch—”

        “We got some women who checked in today, all of them with their husbands or whoever.  Except one.”

        “Can I see the register?”

        “Sure, have a look.”

        Frank took a few moments to read through the list.  “Everybody signs in with their license plate number, I see.”

        “Yeah,” Joanne said.  “Half the time they have to go out to their car and look.  Nobody seems to remember their own plate number.”

        “Number and state.  You got two from out of state.”

        “I guess so.”

        “But you have twelve plate numbers on the register and only eleven cars in the parking lot.”

        “Really?” Joanne shrugged.  “Probably somebody went out for food.  Ken’s Café is five or six miles away.  Jimmy’s diner is about eight in the other direction.”

        “Just out of curiosity, Joanne, let’s see whose car is missing.”

        “Okay, but if we just wait, they’ll come back—oh, I get it; you never do anything just out of curiosity, do you.  Okay, let’s go down the list.”

 

        Meredith had just finished showering.  She was washing her clothes in the bathroom sink, underclothing first, when there was a knock on the door, firm, loud, definitely not the timid tapping of a cleaning maid.  She was startled.  To Meredith, the knocking sounded almost like gun shots.  “Who is it?”

        “Sheriff’s office.”

        Meredith suddenly stiffened up.  She stood still as a statue, then began looking about for an escape route.  Desperately, she calculated her options.  There weren’t any.  There were a few more seconds of silence, after which the deputy spoke again, this time with more authority in his voice.  “Meredith Lazlo, I need to talk with you.”

        “Okay.  I gotta get dressed.”

        “I’ll wait. Make it snappy.”

        For a few frantic moments, Meredith wondered what to do.  Not only was there no escape, but with no dry underwear, she felt embarrassed.  She wondered if she should wrap herself in a bedsheet, but finally decided to wear just the dress, which she had not yet washed.  It was dry, and it offered adequate coverage, even if one could see, on closer examination, that underneath it she had nothing on.

        As she opened the door, she tried to keep the chain locked in place, but her hands were too unsteady for that.  After nervously fumbling with it, she gave up, and before she knew it, the door was opened more widely than she had intended.  Very self-conscious now, she noted the uniformed deputy.  He was darkly tanned, with what many people would call a weathered look, slightly overweight but stout, the way a wrestler would be, fit enough to wrangle the average criminal to the ground and hold him there, hog-tied if necessary.  He had done it often enough. A few of them had even been murderers. The deputy was clean shaven with a haircut that was skin-tight on the sides.  His Glock was holstered high up at his waist, none of this low-slung western cowboy stuff that some unserious lawmen played at. “What can I do for you, Sheriff?”

        “Sorry to bother you ma’am.  And I’m not the sheriff, just a deputy.”

        “Oh.  I didn’t know there was a difference.”

        “It’s a common enough mistake.  Miss Lazlo—is it Miss?  Missus? Mizz?”

        “Yes. Miss.”

        “I was just wondering, where is your car?  The license plate you gave, it doesn’t match any of the ones out here.”

        “Oh shit—I mean, sorry.  I can explain that.”

        “Okay, I’m listening.”

        “You see, Sheriff—I mean—well, this nice young couple came along, and well, they gave me a ride.  I don’t normally ride with strangers, but I could tell they were just a couple of innocent kids.  I asked them to let me out at the next motel, and they dropped me here.  Then I realized that if I checked in with no car—with no luggage—well, it would look bad.  So, I made sure to catch their tag number, as they drove away, and I used that to sign in.”

        Pelter nodded.  So far, he believed her story.  He had already run the plate number, and telephoned the owners.  Meredith’s version of events closely resembled theirs.

        “I didn’t think it would matter,” Meredith said.  Her tone sounded lame, as if making an excuse.  “They only use those numbers to tow away cars that don’t belong here, anyway, and since—is that what this is about?  I assure you, I’m not a hooker.  I’m a—”

        “Waitress,” Pelter interjected, “just like it says on your dress, Ken’s Café.  I stop there for coffee now and then.  Nice place.”

        “Okay.  So why—what is this about?”

        “Did you say you have no luggage?”

        “I had a suitcase, but it was stolen at the bus terminal when I got into town last week.  I reported it.  You can check.  Look, I’ve had a bad few days, one thing after another, okay?”

        Frank hesitated for a moment, while he thought about his strategy.  How could he get this woman to spill the beans?  There must be beans, he knew.  She seemed more edgy than he thought she should be.  “I’ve been interviewing people about a shooting that happened between here and Ken’s.”

        “A shooting?”

        “That’s right.  Miss Lazlo, do you have a gun?”

        “A gun?  Uh—yes, I do—but it’s legal in this state.  It’s legal to carry one, right?”

        “Perfectly legal, Ma’am.  May I ask what kind?”

        “What kind of—oh, of gun, you mean.  Yeah.  It’s a pistol.”

        “Revolver or automatic?”

        “Uh, I don’t know what that means.”

        “May I see it?”

        Meredith stammered, then said, “Why?  What is this?  Do you think I killed somebody?”

        Frank replied, “No, I didn’t say killed.  I said there was a shooting. What made you say killed?”

        “I don’t--I just assumed—do you—are you accusing me of something?”

        “You’re not a suspect right now.  What I would like to do is clear you, so that I can move on and look for whoever might have done this.”

        “It doesn’t feel like that.  You’re trying to trick me somehow, so that you can blame this on me, close your case and maybe get a medal or a promotion, or something.”

        “No ma’am, but if you don’t want to talk to me, you don’t have to.”

        “I don’t.”

        “Okay, then—hey wait.  What’s that?”

        Meredith looked downward at her dress, where Frank had noticed something.  When she saw it, she abruptly tried to slam the door.  Frank was much quicker.  Before Meredith knew it, Frank had grabbed her arm, twisted her around and placed handcuffs on her wrists.  “Until you can explain, what looks to me, like a fresh bloodstain on your dress—damn, I almost didn’t see that—I’m calling for backup.”  Frank requested a female deputy, who soon arrived.

 

        “I’m state’s attorney Jeremy Fowler.  We’re here today for an informal hearing at the request of Miss Meredith Lazlo through her attorney, Chenh Minh.  This process is unusual, but not unheard of.  The purpose is for the prosecutor, me, to make known, as is required by law, the evidence that the state has in this case, including any exculpatory evidence that might favor Miss Lazlo.  Miss Lazlo, on the other hand, has the opportunity to persuade the prosecutor that there are reasons to reduce the charges or drop them altogether.  While no one is under oath, a transcript of this proceeding will be presented to a judge who may rule on any improprieties by any party in the case.  Mister Minh?”

        “Thank you, Mister Fowler.  This is indeed an unusual procedure, but it is warranted because this is a remarkably unusual case.  Remarkably unusual, as you will soon agree.  My client, Meredith Lazlo, is being charged with attempted murder in the commission of a concurrent violent crime, that of car-jacking.  Miss Lazlo admits that she shot one Nelson Carver, took his automobile, drove it for a mile before attempting to conceal it by driving it off the road and part way down a steep incline where it was obscured by thick vegetation.  Miss Lazlo, under interrogation, voluntarily told police where to find the car.  With all that being said, we are ready to proceed.”

        Jeremy Fowler glanced about the conference table, barely concealing a scowl.  “Yeah,” he said, with more than a hint of sarcasm. “Miss Lazlo did indeed tell us all these facts, but only after we tested Mister Carver’s blood spray on her dress.  It’s his blood, alright.”  He watched carefully for any reaction from Meredith or Chenh, but neither of them seemed disturbed by the subtle accusation. 

        The prosecutor continued.  “In lieu of calling any witnesses to testify at this stage, we are presenting sworn affidavits.  This one is from Kenneth Blechner, the owner of Ken’s Café on Ridgeline Road, five miles south of the Desert Palace Motel.  Mister Blechner states that, on the morning of June eleven, he fired Miss Lazlo, settled her wages by paying in cash, for which Miss Lazlo signed.  She was ordered to leave the café and never to return.  Miss Lazlo, do you find this to be an accurate account so far?”

        Meredith spoke briefly with her attorney, and then said, “Pretty much, so far as it goes.”

        “Okay.  Mister Blechner goes on to state that the reason he fired you was that you engaged in an unprovoked verbal altercation with a customer, a Mister Terrence Foster.  Foster has threatened to sue Ken’s Café for defamation, because you publicly accused him, in front of other customers, of a domestic crime in his home, that of battery against his wife, Jean Foster.  She is defending her husband, Terrence, denying your accusation.”

        Meredith responded.  “Terrence will not sue. The last thing he wants is discovery.  He is a wife-beater, no matter what Jean Foster says.  If you, Mister Fowler, investigate, you will find my accusation to be true, and in cases of defamation, as you know, truth is a foolproof defense.”

        “Miss Lazlo, can you prove your accusation?”

        “No, but you can.  You’re the prosecutor.”

        “But as I am sure that your attorney has counseled you, Miss Lazlo, we cannot prosecute without evidence.  What evidence do you have?”

        “As I said, sir, my evidence is that, he will not sue.”

        “Perhaps not, but there could be many reasons for not suing, even when the defamed party is completely innocent.”

        “Which I am, Mister Fowler, and he is not.  I will continue to publicly speak out against him.  It will become very obvious that the only reason he has for not suing me, or Ken, is that he knows that in discovery proceedings, he will be found out.”

        “How can you be so certain, Miss Lazlo, that he does not have innocent reasons for not suing?  You are accusing him of serious violations of law, violations which I will prosecute if I get the necessary evidence.  But not suing is not evidence.  You are, however, in effect, saying that you have sure and certain knowledge of serious crimes.  If you have that knowledge, why don’t you tell me what it is, and how you got it?”

        “I will tell you,” Meredith said, with emphasis on the word, “will.”  She then said, "But you won’t believe me.  First, I have to convince you that I’m not guilty of these felony charges that you’re pressing against me.  Once I prove that, to your satisfaction, after I prove that I had good reason to shoot Nelson Carver, then you’ll believe me about the man who is saying, but not suing, that I defamed him.”

 

        You will remember that, as our story began, a woman, whom we now know as Meredith, was walking on a country road.  She was wearing a waitress uniform with a logo on it.  A car approached from behind her and slowed down beside her.  The driver was a man who appeared to be in his thirties, clean cut, and wearing a tan suit.  “Need a lift?” he asked, cheerfully.

        The woman hesitated, considered the offer, reconsidered, and then reluctantly said, “Okay.”

        “Great,” the man said.  “Hop in.  Where ya goin’?”

        The woman opened the door, slid onto the front seat, and in the same motion, she opened her purse.  A look of terror came across the man’s face as he saw the gun in her hand, a snub-nose 38-caliber revolver.

        Reflexively, he swatted at it, but the woman had, without hesitation, already fired a shot.  The bullet crashed through the side of the man’s abdomen, exiting on his left side and embedding itself in the door.  He grimaced in agony, his foot came off the brake pedal, and the car began moving forward.

        Quickly, the woman jumped from the car, and running around it from behind, she tried to open the driver-side door.  It was locked.  She shot through the window and smashed it.  She reached inside, and opened the door.

        The man was groaning in pain, barely conscious, as she pressed the release on his seat belt and roughly pulled him from the car.  He collapsed onto the road.  Blood pooled beneath him.  The woman got into the car and drove away.

        A few days later, at the hospital, with cameras in place, Nelson Carver sat on his bed.  His back was propped up against the raised part of the mattress.  He looked weary and uncomfortable, but otherwise he seemed alert.  The surgery had gone well, but there were weeks of rehabilitation yet ahead of him.  A miniature microphone was attached to the collar of his robe.

        “Mister Carver,” Jeremy said, from his conference room, his gaze on the computer screen, “Are you feeling well enough to speak to us?”

        “You’re damn right I am,” Nelson said.  “I want that bitch locked up where she can’t do this to anybody else.”

        “Mister Carver,” Jeremy said, “I understand that you are in pain, but if you cannot maintain decorum, I will have to end this interview until we continue it in court.  Can you stick to giving direct answers to direct questions?”

        “Yeah, sorry about that, but—yeah, whatever it takes—to lock this—this woman away for good.”

        “Very well.  Mister Carver, can you tell us what happened to you on the morning of June 11?”

        “Yeah.  I’m a salesman. I represent Charlton Industrial Machines.  We manufacture small-scale assembly lines for custom fabricators.  You probably never heard of us, but I am proud to say that our business is part of the critical infrastructure that keeps our economy strong.”

        “Yes, Mister Carver,” Jeremy said.  He dismissed what was obviously a well-rehearsed sales pitch, one that Norman Carver had delivered a hundred times before.  He continued the interrogation. “But right now, we have to focus on the events of June eleventh. You were driving from one sales call to another—”

        “I had just opened talks with a new customer and—”

        “And you saw a young woman who fits the description of the accused, Meredith Lazlo.”

        “Yeah.  She was on a long stretch of empty road, and I thought that she must be getting really tired.  It’s miles from anything.  So, I thought it only proper to see if she would like a ride.  But when she got inside my car, she already had a pistol in her hand and was shooting.  I felt like my stomach had exploded; the pain was unbelievable.  My mind fogged over and I don’t remember anything clearly after that, but I am very definite up to that point.  I identified the killer from a photo line-up, and you have forensic evidence—”

        “Mister Carver, I must repeat my warning.”

        “What did I do wrong?”

        “You called Miss Lazlo a killer.  She is accused of attempted murder, but has not been convicted of anything.”

        “Hell, your honor, she confessed!”

        “Mister Carver, I am not a judge.  I’m the prosecutor.  Thank you for your input, but I am ending this interview.  I wish you a speedy and complete recovery.”

 

        “Mrs. Carver?  I’m Detective Janet Chambers.  This is Deputy Thomas Hanover. “

        Wanda Carver looked worried, almost fearful, as she glanced at the proffered identification card, and at the deputy’s badge.  “Is my husband—?”

        “He’s still recovering nicely,” Janet said reassuringly.  “We’re just doing some routine follow-up, and to see if there’s anything you need from us.”

        “Oh.  No, I don’t think so.  Unless you want to babysit my two kids.  They’re inside.”

        Janet smiled.  “We might be able to arrange that.”

        “Really?”

        “We could try.  Mrs. Carver, could we come in?”

        “Uh, no.  I mean—I don’t want to be rude, Detective, but my husband gave me strict orders.  Very strict.  I shouldn’t even be talking to you right now. He’ll be very upset at me.”

        “Mrs. Carver, we’re here because the prosecutor asked us to check on you.  He’s trying to lock up the woman who shot your husband.”

        “I know, and I appreciate that, but really, I’m sorry, I can’t speak with you. My husband said—please go now. Please.”

        “Alright, we’re going.  By the way, I have something to show you.”

        Wanda Carver seemed unnerved for some reason, but she said, “Show me? What?”

        Janet reached into a small, cloth bag, an evidence bag, and showed Wanda a pink, laced, woman’s thong.

        Wanda was clearly taken aback.

        “Mrs. Carver, I fully understand that you want to be loyal to your husband.  I love my husband too, and almost no matter what he might ever do, I would support him.  We wives are like that, aren’t we?”

        Wanda seemed about to weep.

        Janet continued.  “But there are limits, Wanda.  Look, I don’t want to make threats, but if we have to come back with a search warrant, the whole neighborhood will see a police van in front of your house, and a crew of forensic investigators going in and out.  All of that can be avoided if you just let us look around for a few minutes. I promise you, you will not be blamed for anything—and if you’re afraid of Nelson, we can protect you.”

        A tear escaped from Wanda’s eye and rolled down her cheek.  “Come inside,” she said.

        As Janet and Thomas walked from room to room, they seemed—to Wanda—to know exactly what they were looking for.  Finally, Janet tried a closet door but found it locked.  “What’s in there?” she asked.

        Wanda replied, “Just some of Nelson’s old stuff.”

        “Like, what kind of stuff?”

        “I’m not sure exactly.  He never lets me go in there.  I don’t have the key.”

        “Why not?”

        “I don’t know exactly.  When I asked, he got real upset.  He said it’s none of my business.  Then later, he tried to soothe me down, and said it was just some souvenirs and trophies, and that someday he would show them to me.”

        Janet glanced knowingly at Thomas.  “Souvenirs and trophies.  I believe that.”  Then to Wanda, “If you don’t have the key, I think we need to get a locksmith.  If you give us permission, we won’t need a warrant.”

 

        “When the car pulled up beside me and stopped, I was really tired,” Meredith testified.  This time she was under oath.  The judge had seemed very skeptical of her story thus far. Meredith knew that it was about to get worse.  She continued, “I had only my purse and the clothes I was wearing—the rest were at a wash-and-fold service.  My legs were getting weak, and my back was hurting from a busy morning waiting tables at Ken’s.  Something told me not to get in that car, but I did.  Then, even before I was all the way in the car, I suddenly realized what was happening.  This guy was going to kill me.  He already had it all planned out.  He always had the plan ready, just waiting for the right opportunity, just as he had so many times before.  I knew then, without the slightest doubt, that Nelson Carver is a serial killer.  He has murdered six women, and I was going to be number seven.”

        Chenh Minh turned away from the witness stand and faced the judge.  “Your honor, the court can reasonably doubt that my client has occasional episodes of extra sensory perception, but what it cannot doubt is that my client informed the detectives that, in the securely locked trunk of Mister Carver’s car, in a secret compartment, bolted shut under the spare tire, was a woman’s thong—an undergarment I mean—and also the driver’s license of a woman, Kelly Wilkerson, who had gone missing two weeks before all of this happened.  She has not been seen since.  No reasonable person can think that my client framed Mister Carver for all that.

        “In addition, your honor, police found in a locked closet, in Mr. Carver’s house, with his wife’s consent to search, a number of what psychologists recognize as the sorts of trophies that serial murderers keep, souvenirs of their victims—locks of their hair, driver licenses, underwear, newspaper clippings and so forth.  That inventory, along with Mrs. Carver’s testimony, is more than enough to convict Nelson Carver of five murders.  The prosecutor has told me this.

        “Your honor, I move for acquittal on the grounds of self-defense.  Had Miss Lazlo not shot Nelson Carver when she did, she would not be alive today.”

 

        Nelson Carver was subsequently convicted of five murders.  He avoided the death penalty only by a plea bargain, in which he led police to the site at which he had buried Kelly Wilkerson, his sixth and final victim.  He is serving life without the possibility of parole.

        Wanda Carver divorced, and now works as a medical receptionist.

        Jean Foster filed for divorce after police found her beaten and with a broken arm.  Her injuries were deemed to have been life-threatening.  Her husband, Terrence, a frequent diner at Ken’s Café, was later convicted of domestic abuse and aggravated battery, and was sentenced to a lengthy term in the state prison.

        Ken’s Café remains a popular restaurant.  The owner, Kenneth Blechner, apologized to Meredith Lazlo for firing her, and offered to rehire her.

        Meredith Lazlo graciously accepted the apology but declined the offer.  She left the state and returned to her home town.  She avoids publicity, and denies that she is psychic.  She cannot explain what happened, saying, “Sometimes, you just get hit with feelings.”

        Deputy Pelter was awarded a medal.

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