John steeled himself as he gently drew the blood-stained bandana out of the ziplock bag. Psychometric readings were a total grab-bag of experiences. They could be pretty mundane, or they could be very powerful. “Like a box of chocolates,” in his best Forrest Gump impression, “You never know what you’re gonna get.” When work got slow, John liked to sort through boxes of evidence that no one knew anything about. Nowadays, there are strict procedures for logging evidence, but this had been sitting in the Dallas Police Department’s evidence room for years. No one knew what case it belonged to, and yet, no one was willing to authorize its destruction.
John closed his eyes and slowly brought the bandana to his nose. A deep breath brought him the faint smell of blood, perspiration, dirt, and . . . something else, fear. More strongly now, as John felt his senses slip into the psychometric reading, came fear, layered over lust and anger.
She was fighting! A hand held her throat, the other hand clawed at her clothes! She kept fighting, and the man began to hit her in the face! John forced his calm awareness through the combined fear and terror of the woman, and the rage and lust of the man, focusing his attention. Skinny arms lacked the power to subdue her with fists, and reached for the hammer that had been laid aside when she was first grabbed. The hammer blows succeeded where the fists had failed. John floated alongside, detached as the he had been taught, yet still aware, watching, searching for details. Wedding picture on the bedside table. Pictures of the woman with a baby. The attacker was skinny, possible drug addict, tanned and weathered arms, not very strong, dirty clothes, worn but not ragged. Shaking hands dropped the hammer. The man looked around, giving John a good look at his face. Hatchet-faced, scraggly beard and mustached. Definitely not the husband! Something is familiar, though. Have I seen his face before? The man turns suddenly. A boy, perhaps 3 or 4 years old, stands in the doorway, clutching a blanket, watching in frozen horror. John’s concentration wavers! Oh no! That poor kid! No, focus!
John slows down the scene, focusing closely on the man’s face and upper body. There! A hint of a tattoo on the chest! I’ll find you now, you &$@%^%$! The man climbs off the bed, hands shaking. The boy shrinks away as the man walks out of the room. The man pulls a bandana from his pocket, wipes the woman’s blood from his face, hands, and arms, and absentmindedly stuffs it into his back pocket, but not all the way. The man leaves the house through the back door, slinks through the back fence into the woods behind the neighborhood. On the trek through the woods, the bandana finally works its way loose, falling to the ground.
With a shuddering breath, John comes out of the vision. Holy ^#$@! John begins to make notes on all the details he can recall, noting that the bandana may have DNA from both the victim and her attacker! Barely legible handwriting scratches out his notes, and his search begins.
John closed his eyes and slowly brought the bandana to his nose. A deep breath brought him the faint smell of blood, perspiration, dirt, and . . . something else, fear. More strongly now, as John felt his senses slip into the psychometric reading, came fear, layered over lust and anger.
She was fighting! A hand held her throat, the other hand clawed at her clothes! She kept fighting, and the man began to hit her in the face! John forced his calm awareness through the combined fear and terror of the woman, and the rage and lust of the man, focusing his attention. Skinny arms lacked the power to subdue her with fists, and reached for the hammer that had been laid aside when she was first grabbed. The hammer blows succeeded where the fists had failed. John floated alongside, detached as the he had been taught, yet still aware, watching, searching for details. Wedding picture on the bedside table. Pictures of the woman with a baby. The attacker was skinny, possible drug addict, tanned and weathered arms, not very strong, dirty clothes, worn but not ragged. Shaking hands dropped the hammer. The man looked around, giving John a good look at his face. Hatchet-faced, scraggly beard and mustached. Definitely not the husband! Something is familiar, though. Have I seen his face before? The man turns suddenly. A boy, perhaps 3 or 4 years old, stands in the doorway, clutching a blanket, watching in frozen horror. John’s concentration wavers! Oh no! That poor kid! No, focus!
John slows down the scene, focusing closely on the man’s face and upper body. There! A hint of a tattoo on the chest! I’ll find you now, you &$@%^%$! The man climbs off the bed, hands shaking. The boy shrinks away as the man walks out of the room. The man pulls a bandana from his pocket, wipes the woman’s blood from his face, hands, and arms, and absentmindedly stuffs it into his back pocket, but not all the way. The man leaves the house through the back door, slinks through the back fence into the woods behind the neighborhood. On the trek through the woods, the bandana finally works its way loose, falling to the ground.
With a shuddering breath, John comes out of the vision. Holy ^#$@! John begins to make notes on all the details he can recall, noting that the bandana may have DNA from both the victim and her attacker! Barely legible handwriting scratches out his notes, and his search begins.
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