From my balcony, I had watched the two detective leave in the manner I
have already described. I also noticed that while the uniformed officers were still
parked near the green and white canopy that covered by apartment building's
entrance, a tan car stopped on the opposite side of the street from the black and
whites. One of its occupants, a man in dark slacks and a navy blue windbreaker,
walked over to the police car and spoke for a few moments with the officers, after
which they drove away. The man in the windbreaker then walked around to the side
of the building and disappeared from sight. Obviously, I was being kept under
surveillance. I wondered if I had chosen the right course of action --- but, then, it
seemed the only course of action.
It was still early, not yet nine o'clock. Curious they came so early. I decided
to go back to bed for a while --- the incidents of last night and this morning had
quite drained me. I closed the chocolate brown drapes covering the sliding glass
doors which opened onto the balcony. As I walked across the thick shag carpeting
of the living room and up the spiraling iron staircase to the second floor, I thought,
"Someday I'm going to move. This place is too sterile and inhuman --- no warmth ---
no color. That's the trouble with renting furnished; you take what you can get. One
day I'll be ready for San Francisco." I kicked off my moccasins and dropped into
bed. I pulled over me the many-colored, heavy afghan that Grandmother had made
for me long ago, and was quickly swept off into oblivion.
It was noon before I awoke; it had been a wise decision, going back to bed, I
felt much refreshed. I cleaned myself up, made myself some breakfast, and
straightened the place up a bit. The only problem about being a bachelor is that one
must do these nuisance daily household chores oneself, even if one does have the
advantage of being able to afford a cleaning lady. After accomplishing these duties,
I decided to practice my piano for a few moments --- music has always had a
soothing effect upon me (and now I was becoming unduly nervous over the
upcoming interview), it is the only thing that one can do that calls for absolute
concentration --- the mind can be occupied with no other thoughts. I like to believe
that, should I ever have need of money, I shall be able to earn a living with this
instrument, perhaps even on the concert level.
Having played a smidgen of Chopin and Grieg, I slipped on my jacket,
locked the door, and descended the stairs to the garage. At first, as usual, the
ignition of my old MG wouldn't kick over, but at last, according to custom, it did,
and off I went, up the ramp and into the street. I was careful to observe in my
mirror that the tan automobile followed me part of the way, thereafter, I suppose,
some other car, which I did not notice, took over the detail.
Upon arriving at the police building, bustling with all variations of the human
race; it would have been a marvelous place to people watch, as good as the airport,
had I the time, but it was now two o'clock. I inquired of the uniformed woman at
the main desk the way to Lieut. Carter's office and received the rather abrupt reply
of "third floor --- to the right." She didn't even look up. I proceeded to the waiting
elevator and pressed button three. I have never felt at ease in an elevator. As a
child, I was terrified of them. Evidently, I have a touch of claustrophobia. There
was a slight jolt and the doors slid open.
I shall never cease to be amazed at how barren and impersonal these
government buildings are, even the oldest of them --- really somewhat like my
apartment. Even the people in them have the same quality and there's always a
governmental smell. I walked down the cold, beige corridor, in which only the
sound of typewriters clacking reverberated. One of the flourescent lights was
weakening and beginning to flicker. I tried to casually glance into each of the
offices as I passed, attempting to spot either the lieutenant or Sgt. Williams, but
with no success. Then the printing on the door straight ahead caught my attention ---
"homicide". "That must be it," I thought, as my heart leaped into my throat. "Why
do I always get so nervous?" I took a deep breath. Time to put on the mask.
I turned the knob and entered a cheerless room containing eight to ten
identical desks, each equipped with their own chair and typewriter. Photos of
various brutal crimes were pinned to the bulletin board; probably included among
them were the two I had become involved in, but it was too great a distance to see
them clearly. Five men, with and without coats and ties, occupied this office --- two
were typing, one was eating lunch, and two were carrying on a rather animated
discussion. At the opposite side, to my right was another, smaller chamber, from
which sounded the distinctive voice of Lieut. Carter. No one looked up as I made
my way across the room.
"Ah! There you are. We've been waiting," the lieutenant boomed with a false
goodwill. Also, did I detect a note of disappointment? "This is Dr. Takahaki, and,
of course, you know Sgt. Williams."
I nodded in Williams' direction and attempted a feeble smile while shaking
the doctor's hand. I notice a glare pass over Carter's face, when Takahaki
inadvertently mentioned that he was the police psychiatrist. Certainly, Carter would
have been happier had I not obtained that piece of information.
"Won't you have a seat?" the lieutenant asked, indicating the only chair in
the room besides his own. "I'm sorry to have to ask you to repeat the whole thing
over again; this time I'll be recording it."
"Of course you're sorry," I thought with sarcasm. "I wonder how you treat
everyone else who tries to help you." I had forgotten for the moment the unusual
way in which I was offering my assistance.
Once more I described the two experiences. Every now and then, Carter,
steadily drumming his fingers silently on the desk top, would interrupt to ask the
questions he had asked this morning --- about the characteristics of the man and so
forth. All the while Williams absent-mindedly leaned against a file cabinet, on the
other hand, Dr. Takahaki listened intently with the true interest. At the conclusion he
spoke up.
This man gave just the opposite impression from Lieut. Carter; he was calm,
almost serene in his movements, and had one of the quietest, gentlest voices I think
I have ever heard. "He must come from a very traditional Japanese family," I
thought.
"May I ask you a few questions about this ability you have?" He stepped
forward to lean against the desk.
"'Course," I turned in my seat to face him more directly.
"What sort of things can you see?"
"Just about anything --- horse races to murders." That feeble try at a joke
flopped dismally. "But I never see a thing concerning myself; I may have feelings,
like intuition, but I never actually see me. I suppose it's better that way. Also I
usually see things as they happen, however, once in a great while, I'm able to see it
before it happens."
"Can you tell the difference?"
"I used to couldn't, but now I can."
"How long have you had these experiences?"
"Ever since I can recall."
"Can you make yourself have them?"
"No. I can make myself more receptive to them my emptying my mind, but they
don't always come. I've tried to force it, but it's like looking --- how does that
poem say it --- 'through a glass darkly'. I can only see fleeting shadows and hear
muffled voices. It gives me a headache."
"You have head pains connected with some of these episodes, don't you?"
I nodded affirmatively. "Goes with the territory, I guess. How did you know
about that?" I asked pointedly.
Dr. Takahaki smiled, obviously intending that I should understand that he
didn't feel like telling me his source for that item of knowledge, which most
certainly had to be some person at U.C.L.A.
"Barry," said Carter, handing his subordinate the tape cassette, "you'd better
get this over to the stenographer for transcription, and don't forget that comparison
I wanted you to do." (He was referring to the voice print analysis, as I found out
later.) Then turning to me, after Williams had left on his errand, I hope you aren't
offended at the request to take a polygraph; it's just so that no one else will have any
doubts of your statement, since they are a bit unusual."
I nodded and smiled again --- I knew quite well that that was hardly the
reason. If I had any guts, I would have told him then and there what I thought of
him, but I'm the type of person who can hide anger for an exceptionally long time;
just out of the desire to minimize any difficulty. No one can then read my face. I
guess I'm lazy.
"It's right down the hall," Carter indicated, allowing, with a wave of his
large, tanned hand, the doctor and I to pass through the door first.
Walking down the beige corridor once more, I thought, "I'm going to take
the wind our of his sails." I asked with faked casualness, "It's too bad it was such a
chilly morning; those officers you had watching me must have gotten cold."
My impudence failed to produce the desired affect; there wasn't even a
glimmer of reaction. Needless to say, I felt rather idiotic, and deserved it.
The room where I was to take the test was another characterless, beige office
with flourescent lighting --- strictly government issue. The only furniture consisted of
a gray metal desk, three gray chairs, several gray file cabinets, and a machine that
resembled one that had been used during a series of experiments at U.C.L.A.
"Jack must have stepped out for a moment. Just sit down over there." Carter
spoke authoritatively. At that instant a jovial, middle-aged man in plaid slacks and a
white lab coat walked through the door. He was in complete contrast to his
surroundings; at least not everything around here was dead.
"Hello, Frank, George. Sorry to be late."
"This is Lucian Randolph. Mr. Randolph, this is Jack Dillinger," introduced
the lieutenant.
I grinned slightly and we shook hands. "That Jack wouldn't by any chance
be a nickname for John, would it?" He nodded his bald head bashfully and laughed
while his face reddened with good humor. He had evidently been asked that one
before.
"No relation though, I hope," he bubbled. "Wouldn't do at all for a man in
my position to have a gangster like John Dillinger for kin." This was the kind of
man one instantly likes, eternally bursting with joy and optimism. "Have a seat,
please."
I resumed my former position and, while I was being hooked up to that
contraption by a series of electrodes, this happy little man forced himself to become
more and more serious. "Just relax Mr. Randolph," he repeated over and over, "just
relax." However, I think it was more for the calming effect that it had on himself
than it had on me. I did take several deep breaths in order to compose myself, but it
did not help much, at least not on the interior --- I was still exceedingly nervous.
"Now then, you must answer these questions 'yes' or 'no'. Relax. Your name
is Lucian Randolph?"
"Yes."
"You live at 524 South Angeles Street, Apartment 7, Westwood?"
"Yes."
"Now, I want you to deliberately answer falsely to these next two questions.
Were you born in 1953?"
"No." It was beginning to bother me that I could not see what the machine
was doing.
"Did you attend U.S.C.?"
"Yes."
"All right, now you can tell the truth again. I was only checking to make sure
that everything was functioning properly. Did you witness the murders of Denise
Sanders and Barbara McIntire?"
"Yes."
"Were you present at the scenes of the murders?"
"No, not physically." This question and answer session was becoming
monotonous. Mr. Dillinger did not deviate from the same tone of voice.
"Are you personally acquainted with whoever committed these crimes?"
"No." Lieut. Carter and Dr. Takahaki stood impassively watching the
movements of the machine's needle, which was unknown to me.
"Do you have what is commonly called ESP?" he droned on.
"Yes."
"Was it through this ability that you witnessed these murders?"
"Yes."
"Have you had this ability since childhood?"
"Yes." I wasn't quite sure how to answer that one, since I had gained it
through heredity and so must have had it before birth.
And so it went for about an hour. More questions being asked about my
special talent and more about the particulars of the crimes and their perpetrators. At
last the drone ceased and the mirth returned to this pudgy man with he dark and
gleaming, but rather beady eyes.
"Well, that does it," said Carter. "If you'd like some coffee, there's a
machine just down the hall." I took his not so sly hint to get lost, but not too lost.
I was delighted to have the chance to be alone for a few moments.
Sometimes when I am around people for very long I feel like I'm suffocating. Their
emotions crowd me. People are not my favorite animals.
I put my dime in the machine Carter had spoken of, but what I got was more
like brown hot water than coffee. I saw Williams, stepping at a brisk pace, enter the
room that I had only now exited. I could imagine the scene that was taking place
behind that door. Dillinger was saying I was telling the truth; Takahaki was trying
to persuade them that my records verified my ability; Williams was insisting that the
phone call last night indicated that I could not have been present at the murder scene;
and, Carter was fighting them all, saying obviously I believed in my ESP, but that
didn't alleviate his suspicion of me. However, I knew that eventually he would have
to give way to the truth.
After about then minutes, Lieut. Carter, exceptionally red-faced, came
through the door, slamming it behind him. He trampped down the corridor toward
me, his fists jammed into his pants pockets. "You can go now," he spurted with a
sharp iciness, "but stay where we can reach you."He then turned his back on me and
marched toward the door labeled "homicide." As I stepped into the elevator, I could
hear both that door and the door to his office slam shut.
"That," I thought," is not a man I'd like to have as an opponent very often."
