--16--
Heilmann couldn't face the audience. He sat there for maybe a minute after Dennis left, completely unable to move, before he stormed away, back to his office.
He knew his reputation was in tatters. He probably wouldn't recover from this, at least not into any reputable psychological society. He'd be condemned to the realm of new age literature babbling about paranormal phenomena, if he even achieved that. He wasn't sure he'd want to even if he could. He'd made a gross error in judgement.
His secretary informed him that he'd had a call from his wife. He sighed and walked into his office, not feeling like phoning his wife at all, especially after what he'd done with his PhD student that morning. He picked up the cup of coffee that the secretary put in front of him and took a large mouthful, swilling it around, hoping to rid himself of the bitter taste but already quite sure that it would take more than unsweetened black coffee. He set it down and cursed when he saw the ugly ring it imprinted on the papers.
He hadn't left any papers there, he was sure. He always cleared his desk before leaving for home, without fail, every night. All the papers went into his briefcase, and they were still there. He picked up the paper.
Immediately he recognised it. A friend working in Japan had faxed the report through to him unexpectedly one day five or six years earlier, knowing that he'd had some interest in the field and had once inquired about the case. The name smiled up at him from the top of the sheet. Yamamura Shizuko.
The irony wasn't lost on him. He'd been planning to come into the office that morning to pick up the tie he had lying in his desk drawer - a Christmas present from his wife - but he'd met Molly in her dormitory instead. If he'd just come into the office that morning, none of this would have happened. He would have seen the report lying there out of place on the clear desktop and he would have known what Dennis was planning. It was so clear.
Dennis was scared. He didn't want to face a vilifying crowd, all those accusations and all that fanatical disbelief. He didn't want to be put through it, and he'd decided that he wasn't going to let what happened to Yamamura Shizuko happen to him. That's what the report told him, sitting there so seemingly innocent on the otherwise bare desk. If only he'd seen it before. If only.
Heilmann rested his head down beside the paper. The phone was ringing but he wasn't going to pick it up. He was going to sit there and let his career fall apart around him. There was nothing else he could do.
***
The career of Dr. Erik Heilmann, as he had suspected, never fully recovered. He became a regular on several talk shows and began to express an interest in paranormal phenomena outside his usual area of ESP, but he never regained his previous status. He never even tried. He just settled into his new life and never looked back.
He made good money but his wife divorced him. Elijah Beck never called him again. He was never asked to consult with the FBI and he was never put on the case of another serial offender. Instead he wrote books about haunted houses and people who could read minds. All reputable psychologists shunned him. He was too bitter by that time to care at all.
He never did prove the existence of ESP. Maybe he never convinced another living soul of its existence, either. But that didn't matter. He'd met Dennis Rafkin and he knew it was real.
Heilmann died alone in a small apartment in New York. He was seventy-four years old and had written fifty-six books. You probably wouldn't find any of them if you looked, unless you're a psychology student. Some schools still use his textbook, though they're careful to note that the author lost his mind sometime after he'd written it.
***
Heilmann couldn't face the audience. He sat there for maybe a minute after Dennis left, completely unable to move, before he stormed away, back to his office.
He knew his reputation was in tatters. He probably wouldn't recover from this, at least not into any reputable psychological society. He'd be condemned to the realm of new age literature babbling about paranormal phenomena, if he even achieved that. He wasn't sure he'd want to even if he could. He'd made a gross error in judgement.
His secretary informed him that he'd had a call from his wife. He sighed and walked into his office, not feeling like phoning his wife at all, especially after what he'd done with his PhD student that morning. He picked up the cup of coffee that the secretary put in front of him and took a large mouthful, swilling it around, hoping to rid himself of the bitter taste but already quite sure that it would take more than unsweetened black coffee. He set it down and cursed when he saw the ugly ring it imprinted on the papers.
He hadn't left any papers there, he was sure. He always cleared his desk before leaving for home, without fail, every night. All the papers went into his briefcase, and they were still there. He picked up the paper.
Immediately he recognised it. A friend working in Japan had faxed the report through to him unexpectedly one day five or six years earlier, knowing that he'd had some interest in the field and had once inquired about the case. The name smiled up at him from the top of the sheet. Yamamura Shizuko.
The irony wasn't lost on him. He'd been planning to come into the office that morning to pick up the tie he had lying in his desk drawer - a Christmas present from his wife - but he'd met Molly in her dormitory instead. If he'd just come into the office that morning, none of this would have happened. He would have seen the report lying there out of place on the clear desktop and he would have known what Dennis was planning. It was so clear.
Dennis was scared. He didn't want to face a vilifying crowd, all those accusations and all that fanatical disbelief. He didn't want to be put through it, and he'd decided that he wasn't going to let what happened to Yamamura Shizuko happen to him. That's what the report told him, sitting there so seemingly innocent on the otherwise bare desk. If only he'd seen it before. If only.
Heilmann rested his head down beside the paper. The phone was ringing but he wasn't going to pick it up. He was going to sit there and let his career fall apart around him. There was nothing else he could do.
***
The career of Dr. Erik Heilmann, as he had suspected, never fully recovered. He became a regular on several talk shows and began to express an interest in paranormal phenomena outside his usual area of ESP, but he never regained his previous status. He never even tried. He just settled into his new life and never looked back.
He made good money but his wife divorced him. Elijah Beck never called him again. He was never asked to consult with the FBI and he was never put on the case of another serial offender. Instead he wrote books about haunted houses and people who could read minds. All reputable psychologists shunned him. He was too bitter by that time to care at all.
He never did prove the existence of ESP. Maybe he never convinced another living soul of its existence, either. But that didn't matter. He'd met Dennis Rafkin and he knew it was real.
Heilmann died alone in a small apartment in New York. He was seventy-four years old and had written fifty-six books. You probably wouldn't find any of them if you looked, unless you're a psychology student. Some schools still use his textbook, though they're careful to note that the author lost his mind sometime after he'd written it.
***