Byron Starr - Doppelgänger

By the time Bill and the deputies were finished at the scene and James was booked. Greg was off duty, but he didn’t go home. He went back to the cells to talk to James.

James was trying to get some sleep but not managing very well when Greg pecked on the glass. Dressed in one of those bright orange jumpsuits the county supplied for the inmates, James got up and walked to the door. Greg opened the slit below the window used to give the inmates their meals so James could hear him. “James, I think the only way out of this is to tell Bill everything, dreams and all.”

“He won’t believe it.”

“No, not at first. But maybe after you’ve informed him of the beast’s movements a couple times he will start to come around.”

“In other words, you want me to sit in this cell, see someone get ripped to pieces, then report it to the sheriff?” James asked wryly.

“Maybe you’ll see a landmark or something and be able to tell us where it’s at. Maybe you’ll wake up during an attack, and we’ll have time to get there before it kills someone, like you tried to do with old man Youngblood.”

“Yeah, and maybe pigs will grow wings and fly. It didn’t work when I was only a few houses down, so how’s it going to work now?”

“James, I don’t think there’s any other way.”

James stood there for a while, leaning on the cell door, shaking his head. Then he said. “You’re right. The damn thing’s gonna kill again whether I’m watchin’ or not.” James sighed, “Go ahead and tell Sheriff Oates.”

“I need a favor though,” Greg said.

James couldn’t imagine he was in any position to do anyone a favor, but nevertheless, he said. “Sure, anything.”

“When I tell Bill that you had told me about Sharon Perrett and I didn’t tell him, he’s going to come unglued. I was thinking that to get him off my back a little I could tell him I talked you into an interrogation without a lawyer present.”

James scratched his head. “Wouldn’t it be easier to just skip that part? I mean, we don’t have to tell him I know about Sharon, do we?”

“I think we do. If we’re going to tell him what’s going on, we need to tell him everything. We need to really come clean with him.”

“What about the interview without a lawyer, is that necessary?”

“I think so. He’s going to want to talk to you anyway and there’s no sense in bringing in some lawyer.”

“Okay, but he’ll probably chew me up and spit me out.”

“I’ll be in there with you.”

James corrected himself. “Oh, excuse me. He’ll chew us up and spit us out.”

“Well, what did you need to talk about?” Bill asked, leaning back in his chair.

Greg came in and sat down, “It’s about James.”

“I figured as much,” Bill said dryly. Then, with a motion of his hand, he said, “Go ahead.”

The cold steady gaze of Bill’s blue eyes, along with his gruff demeanor, had a way of making people uneasy when he was in disagreement with them, and Greg was no exception. Greg shifted nervously in his chair. Every time he’d had these conversations with Bill, one in which they didn’t exactly see eye-to-eye, Greg had always felt a strong urge to confess everything he’d ever done wrong, all the way back to stealing Harvey Morrison’s lime green crayon back in the second grade.

“I don’t think James is our killer,” Greg finally said.

“Oh, really?”

Greg had been standing outside the door to Bill’s office for the better part of fifteen minutes trying to figure out exactly what he wanted to say. He hadn’t been able to come up with a single thing that would make the story more believable for Bill or easier to tell for him, so he had decided just to do what ol’ Bill himself would do in such a situation — get straight to the point.

“The reason James was at Mr. Youngblood’s trailer was because he saw the thing attacking him in a dream.” Greg spat it out almost as if it was one long word. As he saw the blank look on Bill’s face he suddenly found himself wishing he could get up, walk out of the office, then come back in, and start over.

“That’s the stupidest damn thing I think I’ve ever heard,” Bill said in a flat tone, without changing his expression or diverting his cold gaze.

Greg blushed furiously and found it hard to maintain eye contact with the old sheriff, “Just humor me for a second.” Greg took a deep breath and continued. “On the morning Sharon was killed, James told me he’d dreamed that some sort of big animal had killed her. This was before she’d been killed. And while he was staying with me and Sandy, he told me the night his wife and son were killed that he had nodded off while he was on his way to Beaumont and saw something at his front door. That’s why he turned around and came back.”

Bill leaned forward and grasped the edges of his desks so hard his knuckles turned white, in stark contrast to his cheeks, which were glowing red. “Greg, you’ve always been a little flighty, but up ‘til today I’d never have figured you to be stupid. He tells you about one murder before we find the body and shows up at the other two scenes before we get there. Do I need to paint a picture for you? Hell, I ought to fire your ass right now for withholding information on the Sharon Perrett case.”

By God, Greg added silently.

“Let me finish,” Greg said. He had meant to say it forcefully, but it came out somewhere between a whimper and a squeak. Nevertheless, Bill, still red-faced, nodded for him to continue. “There’s more to it than just that. Ever since I’ve known James, he’s had these dreams. Remember when Matt Garret and Bubba Saunder’s wrecked up on eighty-seven? Matt was hit by an eighteen-wheeler while trying to flag it down but he had walked several miles from the accident, and we couldn’t find the Bubba or his pickup. Remember, two days later when said I saw tire marks in the mud going off into the woods and found the wreck?” Greg asked, but continued without waiting for an answer. “Well, that’s not how I really found the truck. There wasn’t any tire marks. Not that could be seen from the road, anyway. James told me he’d dreamed the accident and he went with me and pointed out where the truck was. And that wasn’t all. He knew that Jeff Breaux robbed and burned down Mollie’s fruit stand before we caught him. He also told me about Charles Wellman beating his wife to death then blowing his brains out. I can remember dozens of times that James has just simply known something that there was no way to explain how he knew other than those dreams he has.”

“Are you trying to tell me he’s some sort a psychic?” Bill said. Greg could tell the old sheriff wasn’t believing a word he said.

Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea after all.

“Yes and no.” Greg continued, “He doesn’t see the future. Sometimes, when he’s asleep, he sees what is currently happening through someone else’s eyes. He hasn’t had any of his dreams in a long time. I think Jeff Breaux was the last one he told me about and that was over three years ago. But now it seems he’s got some sort of direct link to whatever it is that’s doing all this killing.”

Bill said nothing. Greg could see in Bill’s eyes there wasn’t the slightest touch of belief in them. Greg was probably going to be fired or at least suspended. It was time to deal the one ace he had up his sleeve and hope for the best.

“Well, now that I’ve got that off my chest. I told James I would have this talk with you if he would agree to allow us to interrogate him without a lawyer present,” Greg paused, then added. “I have to be present though.”

Bill’s eyes widened just a touch, almost unnoticeably. Other than this minor change, his expression was still hard and unflinching as stone. “When do y’all want to do this?” Bill asked.