Mike Ashley - The Mammoth Book of Perfect Crimes and Impossible Mysteries

The barn was insulated inside, and quartz space heaters radiated warmth from all four corners. It was barely enough. About a dozen people ranging in age from twentyish to fiftysomething sat on pine folding chairs facing a long table. Behind that stood a portable blackboard. Most shivered in their coats.

Grandmaison announced, “We have two guests from the Boston police investigating a mysterious death in the RV community.”

A woman raised a hand. “Are we going to work it?”

“If we were, you know I wouldn’t frontload you first, would I?”

The class laughed.

“Detectives Murex and Knuckles are just here to satisfy their curiosity.”

Murex stepped forward, showing a morgue photo. “Does anyone here know this man? John Doom?”

No one stirred.

“Does anyone here have a gray room, or knows someone who does?”

Heads shook all around. Murex stepped back.

Grandmaison said, “We’ll begin by debriefing on the overnight target. Who wants to start?”

A man stood and began reciting from a black binder notebook. “My perceptions of the target were of a tall spidery latticelike structure situated in a wide flat area.”

“Good. Next?”

“My perceptions of the target suggest an oil derrick on a land platform-”

Grandmaison interrupted, “Stop. How many times do I have to drill this into you guys? Describe, do not identify. Premature target identification will get you into trouble every time.”

“Sorry. Target was metallic, vertical, man-made, and I got strong sensory impressions of cross-braces and oil smells.”

“Probably associational noise from the derrick concept. Next!”

As the class went around the room, they described structures ranging from a NASA shuttle on its launch pad to high-voltage power line transmission towers.

Murex whispered to Knuckles, “They’re all over the map.”

When the last student was done, Grandmaison rolled up a portable overhead projector.

“Target 2004/0013 is very challenging because of the tendency of the viewer’s conscious mind to force a familiar identification. Hence, a class will bring back similar descriptions, dimensionals and other data, but will often lean toward different interpretations, usually biased by personal knowledge or analytic overlay.”

Grandmaison clicked a switch. The Eiffel Tower appeared on the screen – a white sheet nailed to the wall behind him.

A woman gasped, “No one got it!”

“On the contrary. Most of you got it. The Eiffel Tower is structurally similar to an oil derrick or a electrical transmission tower, and because it also functions as a TV and radio broadcasting antenna, those of you who are sensitive to energetics will perceive it that way. Who described a Shuttle on its pad? You decoded the Eiffel Tower and its elevator as a gantry structure and its elevator. Good signal acquisition. Not so good decoding.”

The class seemed impressed. Murex was not.

“How do they know he’s not throwing up a picture to match what they get?” he whispered to Knuckles.

“Why were they getting basically the same stuff?” Knuckles countered.

“Okay!” Grandmaison announced. “Ten minute comfort break.”

The class made for the house.

A woman walked up to Murex and Knuckles, saying, “If you guys need help with your case, I’m a professional spirit communicator.”

When Murex hesitated, Knuckles took the card. “We’ll keep you in mind, Miss… Carter.”

“No problem!”

Grandmaison drifted over, grinning. “Not bad for only three days’ training.”

Murex asked, “Your class didn’t seem to react when I flashed Doom’s photo.”

“The RV community is exploding. I teach people. My former Stargate colleagues teach other people. We don’t all keep track of each other.”

Bob Knuckles asked, “Where were you the night John Doom checked into the Plaza?”

“Here. Home. We were selecting targets for next week’s ERV class in LA.”

Knuckles nodded. “You teach all over the country?”

“And local classes in between.”

“We’ve determined that Mr Doom was dead approximately four days before he checked in to the hotel,” Ray Murex said suddenly.

Trey Grandmaison didn’t skip a beat, although a vein in his forehead suddenly leaped to life. “You have your work cut out for you. And so have I. Excuse me.”

The class was filing back in. The break over, Grandmaison wrote a set of coordinates on the chalkboard and said, “Okay, this is your next target. Go to it.”

The class gathered up sleeping bags, futons and the like and spread them out at scattered places on the floor.

“Target is to be viewed in present time. You have one hour. View until the data starts to repeat or the signal line runs dark. Don’t interpret. And no snoring.”

Grandmaison led them out, saying they needed absolute quiet.

“Where’s Mrs G?” asked Knuckles.

“Shopping.”

“I have a hypothetical question.”

“Shoot.”

“Would it be possible, in your professional opinion, to remote view Hell? Assuming of course that there is such a place?”

Grandmaison didn’t hesitate. “Absolutely.”

Murex asked, “Are there any other RV instructors or schools in this area to your knowledge?”

“No. I’m the only one in New England. There were only a dozen or so people in the unit, and those who are teaching civilians are scattered around the country.”

“Would you know of any other gray room in the area other than yours or Doom’s?”

“I thought mine was the only one. I would suggest you look into other schools. I didn’t train this guy, but if he built a gray room, he’s a very serious viewer.”

“How do I go about that?”

“Google,” smiled Trey Grandmaison.

On the ride back to Boston, Murex was very quiet while Knuckles cleaned his fingernails with a nailfile, carefully placing the scrapings in a napkin.

“Guy had survival training,” Knuckles said quietly.

“So?”

“So – he was ex-intelligence. Probably knows a lot of ways to kill a guy so that it looks like natural causes.”

“It still doesn’t fit.”

“No, it does not,” said Knuckles, looking at the business card that read Beverly Carter, Spirit Communicator. “If Grandmaison made that Hell tape, he’s a fabulous voice actor. Guy has a voice like a bullfrog.”

The next two days were bleak. The weather was bleak. Progress of the case was bleaker. The weatherman kept promising snow, but all the skies mustered up were flurries.

A forensic handwriting analysis of the hotel signature proved that John Doom had not checked himself into the Plaza. No known relatives or friends of John Doom could be found.

Trey Grandmaison’s military records revealed that he received a dishonorable discharge for psychological reasons in 1993. The records were sealed. Otherwise he checked out clean. No record anywhere.

On the third day, Bob Knuckles was trolling the net and came across a website advertising an on-line course called Tom Morrow’s Practical Remote Viewing. The instructor’s photo caused him to say, “What ho!”

Ray Murex took a look and said, “That’s John Doom.”

“Now we know what he does for a living. Time to give Miss Carter a buzz.”

“Why?”

Knuckles smiled broadly. “Why not?” He dialed a number.

“Miss Carter, this is Detective Knuckles. How are you? Good, I’m calling you rather than bother Mr Grandmaison. Do you keep your class assignments? You do? Good. If I read you a set of coordinates, could you identify them for me? Sure, I’ll hold.” To Murex, he said, “She’s getting her class notes. Hand me that TIRV business card, will you?”

Murex scaled it over.