"If you can tell me that you're no longer seeing Spiderman playing the string bass in the corner of this room, maybe I'll believe you." Don Eppes leaned forward in his chair. The chair creaked, and Don wondered if it would continue to hold his weight. Well, if I fall, at least I'm in the right place: a hospital. They can pick up the pieces.
Charlie tried to look honest. "He's gone," he lied. "And so is the octopus with ten tentacles on the marimbas who kept hitting the B flat instead of the C sharp." It was tough trying to fool his older brother. Charlie felt like he'd been run over by a truck. Who knew that being all but par-boiled in the trunk of a car could nearly kill him, let alone leave him barely able to lift his head off of this ultra-flat and ultra-uncomfortable hospital pillow? "Now will you go after Ralph and that reporter accomplice of his?"
Don settled himself back on the chair. "You never told me about the octopus."
"What? It had ten arms. I knew it was an hallucination. Anyway, it's gone, and it took all the sharps and flats with it. I'm better. No more drugs. No more hallucinations."
"Right. And you're going to try to tell me that The Great Vervette and Ken Randall weren't an hallucination?" Don shook his head. "The D.A. would take one look at this case and burst out laughing. Then she'd tell me that my stand up comedy routine needs more work than my investigation. You have all the credibility of those kidnapped kids. Less, actually. Buddy, somebody pumped you full of a narcotic cocktail that the Forensics Lab back at headquarters is still trying to decipher."
"So that's where all my blood ended up. No wonder I'm dehydrated and thirsty."
"Couldn't possibly be because you were stuck for hours in the trunk of your own car under the blazing desert sun." Don took that as a cue to offer his brother another cup of water. Charlie sipped at the straw, trying to pretend that his hands weren't so shaky that he needed the help. Don fought down another pang of terror. It had been so close! The docs had verified what Colby had said: another twenty minutes, and they might have been too late. The world would have been out one slightly eccentric genius. "So you understand that we can't consider you the most reliable witness around."
"Don, I've got a lump on my head the size of a golf ball. That's not an hallucination."
"You could have fallen down the stairs," Don pointed out.
"Right. I fell down the staircase in the back seat of my car, whereupon the banister administered the narcotic cocktail, ably assisted by the top step." Charlie lay back on the pillow, frustrated that all his energy had fled. "The fourth and fifth risers collaborated to stick me in the trunk." The last words came out in a whisper.
"Hey, I'm not saying that's what happened," Don protested, "just that you're not a good witness under these circumstances. And, let's face it, you haven't been exactly best buds with The Great Vervette. Any defense attorney would take one look at your testimony and ask if you expect a cut of the fee for making his job so easy."
"Don, I'm telling you, Ralph Maurer and Ken Randall are the kidnappers! Think about it! What better way for a psychic to 'prove' that he's psychic than to get an accomplice—namely, a live-in lover who happens to be a reporter—to kidnap a kid, pin it on someone else, and then the psychic can 'find' the kid because he knew where the kid was all along?" Charlie paused to catch his breath and, not incidentally, his strength. It felt good to breathe in air that was less than four hundred degrees, even if it was through a plastic mask that made it smell bad. "Then he does the same thing to me!"
"Which reminds me." Don pulled the smile off of his face. "Where did he snatch you from?"
Oops. "That doesn't matter," Charlie muttered.
"Beg to differ, brother mine. The NSA is breathing down my neck, wanting to wrap you in a cocoon in case this happens again, wondering if they need to assign you a full time bodyguard instead of the temporary pair outside in the hall. Where did this assailant of yours grab you?"
Silence.
"Charlie?"
"Oh, all right." Charlie turned his face away. "Ralph invited me into his house. Which is when I realized that the relationship between psychic and reporter wasn't limited to the professional. And they realized that I realized, and it went downhill from there." The confession hurt worse than all the bruises.
"And what were you doing at Ralph's house?"
More silence.
"Charlie?"
"You wouldn't listen to me!" Charlie burst out. "Don, you completely dismissed my calculations and refused to pay attention! What was I supposed to do? Let them get away with it?"
"As a matter of fact, yes," Don returned, keeping his own temper under control. Dammit, his brother looked so, so exhausted, lying there against the white sheets. Don wanted to rip into him, terrify him as much as Charlie had terrified Don when he'd gone missing. Dammit, he'd almost died! Didn't Charlie realize that? "Charlie, not one of us wanted that case to get left unsolved, but we didn't have a choice! So you found that Ralph lived in a nearby neighborhood and had a black sedan with the right letters on the plates. So do a bunch of other people. While it was a hot case, we could look around, and we did. But once the kids were safe, other cases needed to take priority. What, you think all we do around here is track down anomalies? News flash, buddy: lots of cases go unsolved, with or without consultants. Consultants, Charlie: not field agents. What the hell did you think you were doing, going out there?"
"So you do believe me!" Charlie whispered triumphantly. "You know that I was there, that I'm telling the truth! The Great Vervette is a fraud!"
"Sure. And so is your friend the ten-armed octopus with a thing for marimbas. Charlie, it doesn't matter what I believe. What matters is what a jury will believe, and if we go into court with a story of butterflies marinated in martinis, Ralph and Ken are gonna walk. You want that, Charlie?"
Charlie sighed, his eyes closing in spite of what he wanted.
Stab of fear: Don shook Charlie's shoulder. "You okay, buddy?"
"Yeah." Another sigh, this one even more tired. The eyes tried to re-open, and failed. "I just wish I could decide which one of you is the real one: the one with the green pointy ears or the one with the clown's nose."
Relief. "You idiot." Don sat back, releasing his brother's arm. "Sleep it off, buddy," he advised gently. "Things'll look better in the morning. Really better."
"No more dragons on the ceiling?"
"No more dragons," Don promised, but Charlie had already drifted off in slumber.
Don watched him sleep for a few moments, the breaths coming even and regular under the plastic oxygen mask. The machine controlling the IV whirred quietly. Don's eyes went hooded; the kidnapped kids were a closed case, but this one wasn't. This one was fresh. And personal. But not closed.
But it would be. Soon.
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Charlie blinked, and closed his eyes against the blinding sun. A frown; he'd fallen asleep on the short journey in the Suburban when Don had come to the hospital to spring him from their medical clutches. Not fair; Don got shot, and got out after a bare four hours in the Emergency Department. Charlie only got stuffed into a trunk and they'd kept him twenty four hours. Dammit, was he really that worn out from the whole kidnapping thing that a fifteen minute drive was enough to put him into a ten minute coma? Apparently so. He blinked again, trying to focus on the building in front of them. "This isn't CalSci."
"Brilliant deductive powers," Don said dryly from behind the wheel. "No, it's not."
"I thought we were going to swing by so that I could pick up some papers to grade—"
"Amita says she has that under control," Don interrupted. "And she's arranged to have your classes covered for the next week."
"The entire week? Don, that's—"
"Just what the doctor ordered," Don interrupted yet again. "I was there. I heard him."
"I was there, too, you know—"
"Still hallucinating?" Don asked innocently. "Auditory hallucinations, this time? Hearing voices?"
Charlie hurriedly changed the subject—almost. "If I'm not supposed to be working, what am I doing here? FBI headquarters isn't home. At least, not for me," he added sarcastically.
"Need your help."
"And that's not work?"
"Not really. You're a witness, remember?"
"A crazy one. No use to anyone. That's what you said."
"Not any more. The docs claim that it's all out of your system. That you're back to being your normal, flaky self, not crazier than usual."
"Gee, thanks."
"Anyway, I need your help."
"I left my laptop…" Charlie trailed off. "Actually, I'm not sure where my laptop is. My office, I think."
"Don't need it," Don replied airily. "All I need is your sweet self."
"Why do I think that this is a trap?" Warily.
"Not for you, buddy." There was a smirk on Don's face but it didn't seem, to Charlie's relief, to be aimed at Charlie. "All you have to do is sit there. You can relax." He took Charlie's arm, worried that the man would topple over onto his face. Just what he needs: another bruise to go with the lump on his skull.
But Don successfully maneuvered Charlie onto the elevator, steadying him only once when the knees seemed a little wobbly, guiding him to Don's office where Don had made certain that his own chair, the one that was the most comfortable, was available for his brother.
"Charlie," Megan greeted them, sticking a pencil behind her ear. "Good to see you. How are you feeling?"
"A lot better," Charlie lied. There was a lot of that—lying—going on, he reflected. I lie to Megan, Don lies to me, and psychics lie to everyone. Reporters? They aren't supposed to lie. Ken Randall is an anomaly. Charlie caught himself allowing his thoughts to wander into uncomfortable arenas—that wasn't a three-headed bullfrog that he didn't see over there in that corner, was it? Charlie had had enough of hallucinations to last him a lifetime. He forced his mind back to the present.
David and Colby too greeted him warmly, as well as people he barely knew, people whose faces he recognized but names were a lost cause. Charlie hadn't realized just how well-known his work had become to the FBI.
"Yeah, a bunch of people around here take your work pretty seriously, buddy," Don said, which was how Charlie realized that he'd spoken out loud. Charlie flushed uncomfortably. But Don moved on. "Listen, I want you to just sit here, okay? Don't go anywhere. Don't move from this chair, all right?"
"Don—"
"David, you sit here with him. Make like you're interviewing him. Pad and pencil, make it look convincing. He's giving you a statement. Charlie, you don't budge."
"Got it." David plopped himself in another chair, grabbing a stray pen from Don's desk. "Listen, Charlie, if you face sideways to the door, people can see you but not your face. You can take a nap, if you need to. You can close your eyes."
Charlie frowned. "What's going on?"
David's smirk had the same character to it that Don's had had. Come to think of it, both Megan and Colby had also boasted canary-swallowing expressions, Charlie reflected. There was something about to happen. Charlie relaxed in Don's chair. Whatever it was, Don and team had set it up and they didn't expect him to do anything more than sit right here. That was a relief, because his eyelids were growing heavy by a seriously exponential factor…
"Charlie. Charlie, wake up."
"Huh?"
"Thought you'd want to be awake for this part." David sat back down, picked up his pad and pen. There was a surprisingly well-crafted doodle on the paper, Charlie noted, but that wasn't what truly caught his attention.
Don walked by the office on his way to the interrogation room, The Great Vervette at his side. Ralph Maurer did a double take upon seeing Charlie behind the door, his mouth opening as if to say something. Charlie blinked.
"Hey, Charlie," Don called out in an off-handed greeting but kept walking past, dragging Ralph along with him through the corridor. Ralph's mouth closed with an almost audible snap. Don kept a straight face. "Ralph, did you say something?"
It came out in a squeak. "No. No."
"Okay. David, we'll be in Interrogation Room Three. You coming?"
"As soon as I finish up here, Don." David pointed his pen at Charlie, making sure that The Great Vervette could see his actions. "I should have something for you shortly."
"Good. I'll be glad to close this case. Unlike the others." Don walked off, Ralph throwing nervous stares behind them at Charlie.
"I thought he was in the hospital. That he had been drugged. That he couldn't be a witness." Ralph's nervous voice trailed away in the distance. "What is he doing here?"
Charlie stared back, turning to David as soon as the pair turned the corner. "What was that all about?"
David held up a finger. "Wait. There's more."
Next to walk by was Colby. His companion was Ken Randall. The reporter towered over the shorter FBI agent, but Colby seemed completely uncowed. "Hey, Charlie. Glad to see you're looking better." He waved with awesome nonchalance.
Randall paled at the sight of his erstwhile victim, but he collected himself rapidly. "Dr. Eppes. Nice to see you again. Have you been ill?"
"He was abducted," Colby told Randall curtly. "Almost killed. Another twenty minutes in that car trunk, and he would have been dead. And I have to tell you, we're none of us too happy over this. Charlie's one of us. We take care of our own."
Randall allowed his reporter's instincts to come to the forefront with just enough hesitation for Charlie to realize that it was studied. "Killed, you say? Can I have the story? Dr. Eppes, an exclusive? I can almost promise you page two, maybe even page one."
"Maybe later," David put in coolly, quickly enough so that Charlie didn't need to respond to the man. David turned back to his 'witness'. "I have my own exclusive to take down first."
"Let's go." Colby pushed the reporter on down the hall.
"What's this about, Agent Granger? You have my notes. What more are you after?" The voices grew faint as the pair moved away.
"It's okay, Charlie." David put his hand on Charlie's arm, and only then did Charlie realize that he was shaking. David's expression grew concerned. "Listen, you don't have to go through with this. Don just thought you might like to be in at the end. You want me to take you home?"
Charlie blinked, and took a deep breath, willing his hands to stop trembling. "No, I'm okay." It was as much to reassure himself as David. "What do you want me to do?"
"You okay to walk to the Observation Room? You're not going to fall over on me?"
"Observation Room?"
"You can see them, but they can't see you." David searched Charlie's face, estimating if the man could actually travel that far. "They won't be able to see you, Charlie."
Don wanted him to do this. Charlie could do it. "Let's go."
But he was glad that it was only a short walk. Embarrassing, for a man who used to bike back and forth to campus every day. He ought to be stronger. He all but fell into the chair beside Megan, covered up by grabbing the arms and easing himself the rest of the way down onto the seat.
This Observation room was situated between two Interrogation Rooms, and Charlie could see into both of them. The first contained Don and The Great Vervette. The second held Ken Randall alone, Colby having dropped the man off and exited. A moment later Colby himself joined the trio in the Observation room, sitting himself in a chair directly behind Charlie.
"You should have seen Randall," Colby grinned, "after we walked past you. All he could do was to talk about his notes on the kidnapping cases. Talk about nerves! The guy was ready to freak out." He leaned back in his chair. "I'm looking forward to this, Charlie."
"Me, too," Charlie echoed faintly, not certain if he was telling the truth. His own memory seemed awfully dim right now. The last twenty four hours were a cacophony of the improbable interacting with the utterly ridiculous, all of it played in front of him until he couldn't tell what was real and what was drug-induced hallucinations. There were only a few things, bolstered by the evidence, that he could point to as real: the lump on his head, for one. The hospital bruises on his arms that made him look like an incompetent drug addict, for another, from the IV's and the blood-letting. And the fact that they'd found his car, with Charlie inside the trunk, out in the middle of the high desert. Not a lot to show for twenty four hours.
Did this really happen? Don was right, Charlie realized; the drug that whoever had given him had effectively wiped out his reliability for the last twenty four hours. Odds of being right? Vanishingly small. In fact, if he really put his mind to it—his conscious mind, not the drug-tormented one—Charlie could just bet that he could assign it a probability in terms of something like thirty six thousand to one. What if Charlie was wrong? What if he really had let his dislike of the Great Vervette taint his hallucinations until he was ready to accuse the wrong man? Charlie had to be honest: there was no way he could stand in a court of law and swear to it being The Great Vervette and his reporter. Not under these circumstances.
Interrogation Room Three was not large. There was a bare metal table in the center with a folding chair on either side of it. Don gestured for The Great Vervette to sit, taking the other chair himself. He glanced at the glass on one wall, a one-way see through mirror that fooled no one. The only advantage it had was that the occupants of the room couldn't observe the observers. Charlie found that that helped only slightly.
Megan flipped the switch that allowed the voices to come through.
"Wh—why are we in this room, Mr. Eppes?" Ralph Maurer looked a great deal smaller with no one to impress and the FBI agent impressing him a great deal.
Don ignored his question. He ruffled through the manila folder in his hands, opening it so that the observers behind the mirror could see the contents that remained obscured to The Great Vervette. It was a cartoon of a turbaned magician floating on a carpet. In the next frame, the magician had fallen off of his carpet that had slipped on a banana peel. It wasn't particularly funny, but it got the point across. Charlie started to feel a little better.
"Mr. Maurer." Special Agent Eppes finished perusing the 'information' contained in the folder. He remained standing, the better to look down on The Great Vervette. "I find that we need to have a discussion about the events of yesterday, namely the abduction of Dr. Charles Eppes. Were you aware that, as a consultant for not only the FBI but the NSA, Dr. Eppes is considered high risk? That his whereabouts at all times is the interest of the federal government? That anyone involved in his abduction is incurring the possibility of being arrested for treason?" Actually, that possibility bordered around slim to none, but there was no reason to let Ralph know that.
"Tr—treason?" One more octave, and Ralph would have hit high C.
"Treason?" Charlie swiveled his head around to Megan for confirmation.
Or Charlie.
Megan shook her head. "That's going a little far," she assured him.
David shrugged. "I don't know. It's not that far off. The NSA sounded pretty upset when the Area Director called them. You saw how fast those two bodyguards showed up at the hospital."
Charlie gulped.
"Treason, Mr. Maurer. With the potential for the death penalty, if proven. That should attest to how serious this is." Don left the manila folder closed on the table in front of him. He seated himself in the chair across from Ralph. "Tell me what you know of the abduction of Dr. Eppes," he invited in an icy voice.
"I—" Ralph looked around. There was no help anywhere in the featureless room. "I—" He swallowed again.
"Mr. Maurer?"
Ralph took a deep breath and launched into his story. "I first became aware that something was amiss with your team two days ago, Mr. Eppes. You remember that; I came to your office. My powers had told me that someone was in danger, but I had no idea of who that could be." When Don showed almost no reaction, he warmed to his story, gaining confidence in the tale he was spinning. "The next day I was certain of it, and I returned. You confirmed that it was your brother, and I simply knew where he was." Don could hear the italics in The Great Vervette's voice. "I sensed his danger, and his location. I led you to him." The Great Vervette lifted his chin, daring Don to argue.
Don declined the dare. "That's all?"
"That's all, Mr. Eppes."
"Are you certain of that, Mr. Maurer?" There was a frozen invitation in Don's words. Charlie shivered, grateful not to be sitting on the other side of the table from his brother. He'd heard that his brother was good at interrogations, but it was an entirely different experience to be watching it in person.
The stiff expression wavered. "Yes. Yes, that's all."
"Last chance to amend your statement."
"Statement?" The Great Vervette squeaked. "Am—am I under arrest?"
"Not at this time," Don told him. He did a classic double take, without any trace of humor. "Is there some reason that you thought you might be, Mr. Maurer?"
"No. I mean, I found him—alive, he was alive. The first one to find him. Suspect, maybe. The first one is always a suspect. I'm not a suspect. I mean, I'm not the one that you want. I didn't put him there, in the trunk. Of the car. In the desert. Suspect. Not me." The Great Vervette was sinking into a healthy spate of babbling. Charlie wondered if he himself had spouted that quantity of gibberish while drugged, and had the sinking suspicion that he'd sounded worse.
"You're quite right about that, Mr. Maurer. Anyone with information about an abduction victim is automatically considered a suspect. I'm going to ask you to remain in this room for a few moments while I retrieve some additional data. There is a good chance that I will be requesting the details of your whereabouts for the last two days, including your trips to this office. Just to rule you out as a suspect, of course." Don slid a pad of lined paper at Ralph. "You may use that. I will return shortly."
"But—"
"If you need some water, you can knock on the door." Don let himself out.
Charlie looked at Megan in bewilderment. "What's going on?"
"What, you don't like Don's interrogation technique?" Megan grinned. "He's always boasting about your lecturing. Likes it a lot, to hear him tell it."
"He does?" That was as much a revelation to the younger Eppes as anything he'd heard yet.
"Flip the other switch," Colby prodded Megan. "Don's about to go after Randall." Colby's face was wreathed with a wide grin. "I'm going to enjoy this one. You will, too, Charlie."
"I will? Why?"
But Colby only would repeat, "watch. This is the good one."
Charlie certainly hoped so. His head throbbed, the lump that Randall had put there aching all the more at the sight of the big man. His arm too remembered a certain less than sharp needle with some vicious drug inside.
The room was identical to the one that The Great Vervette had been placed in but Ken Randall was too nervous to sit.
"Sit down," Don invited coolly.
"I'd rather stand. What's this all about?"
"The abduction of Dr. Charles Eppes."
"Your brother? The consultant who wasn't able to find those kids?" Randall had his own share of iron-clad nerves, Charlie had to give him that. Charlie himself would have cracked under Don's steely gaze. Come to think of it, he had, back when they were kids. Charlie could never keep anything from Don. Is that where you got your technique from, brother? Practicing on me? It worked.
"The very one."
"I wasn't aware that he had been missing. Did you try consulting The Great Vervette?"
"Actually, Mr. Maurer came in and offered his services. He was apparently aware of the abduction before we were."
"Good for him. How ironic that your brother was the one who didn't believe in The Great Vervette's powers. I'm assuming that The Great Vervette was successful, since I saw Dr. Eppes sitting in that office a few moments ago." Randall wasn't rattled.
"Very. He was able to lead us to Dr. Eppes in the nick of time. Had we been much later, we would have been pursuing a murderer instead of a mere kidnapper. That's a much more serious charge, especially under these circumstances."
"These circumstances?" Ah, a crack in Randall's chitin exterior. Charlie barely caught it but all three of the watching FBI agents leaned forward in anticipation.
"Yes. You were aware, were you not, that Dr. Eppes also consults for some of the highest agencies in the federal government? If Mr. Maurer hadn't been successful, there would have been a great deal of high level activity reaching through several levels of government."
"But he was successful." Randall pulled out his own pad of paper, trying to take control of the discussion. "An exclusive, Special Agent Eppes? Perhaps a sidebar with your brother? I'm certain that I can talk with The Great Vervette, assuming that you haven't refused to let him discuss the case."
"Oh, he's done a great deal of discussing." Don declined to let Randall know just what that discussion included, letting the reporter worry. Has Ralph cracked under the pressure? Did your partner in life give you up?
But Randall refused to take the bait. "Where was he found, Special Agent Eppes? You said that he almost died? Your people removed my recorder; I'd like to use it for this interview."
Don ignored the last statement. "Dr. Eppes was found in the trunk of his car, in the high desert. Yes, he was almost dead, which makes it attempted murder. And premeditated." He indicated the chair. "Sit down, Mr. Randall." Don seated himself, all but forcing Randall to do likewise in order to continue the conversation.
"What do you need me for? Ah." Randall allowed an expression of comprehension to emerge. "You think that's there some connection with the kidnapping cases that The Great Vervette helped you with earlier. You're welcome to my notes, Special Agent Eppes, but I thought that your people already had a copy of them."
"Yes, we do think there's a connection," Don told him. "Tell me; what do you know about the kidnapping of Dr. Eppes?"
Confusion, this time, carefully applied to both face and voice. "Nothing. I just heard about it, from you. What's this all about? What are you trying to say?"
"My people have finished interviewing my brother." Don leaned forward. "He seems to think that you had something to do with it. There's a lump on his head where someone hit him over the head." Don hardened his voice. "Where were you, Mr. Randall, two afternoons ago?"
"You can't possibly believe anything that he says," Randall protested. "He's not a reliable witness!"
"Why not, Mr. Randall? He seems very reliable to me."
Randall darted a glance at the one way mirror. Charlie clutched the arms of his chair before telling himself again that Randall couldn't see him. His arm throbbed, reminding him of the needle that Randall had slid into his vein, pumping in whatever concoction he'd come up with to scramble Charlie's thoughts.
"He almost died!" Randall grated out. He was finally close to shouting, losing his cool under Don's insinuations. The pad lay forgotten on the table. "He was out of his head. He was drugged. He wasn't thinking clearly! No one could say what was going on under those circumstances! You can't possibly take his accusations seriously! He hates Ralph! He just made it up, that Ralph and I are involved!"
"Really?" Charlie could see it: Don had just let Randall make his first mistake. What was the mistake? Don knew, and his team knew. The FBI agent closed in with all the delicacy of a mako shark. "What makes you say that, Mr. Randall? Why would you think that he was out of his head?"
"Why…" Randall looked around the room for help. "It—it just makes sense. You said that he almost died. He couldn't possibly have been coherent…"
"Actually, you're correct," Don told him. "My brother was dehydrated to the point of death, had suffered concussion from the blow to his head, and was drugged. The Forensics Lab is still working on the exact formula to the drug."
"Then you can't possibly believe what he said!" Randall said triumphantly. "I realize that he's your brother, Special Agent Eppes, but—"
"Tell me, Mr. Randall: how did you know that Dr. Eppes was drugged?"
Randall stared at Don. "Why…you told me."
"No, I didn't." Don remained collected, keeping his temper under iron control. "I said that he'd been hit over the head, and that he almost died. How did you know that he'd been drugged?"
Randall looked around the room, begging the bare walls for an answer. "I must have heard it from someone. Maybe as we were walking through the hallways. I haven't seen your brother in days. Weeks, even. Not since the last kidnapping. If anyone says anything different, they're lying. Or out of their heads. Or on drugs," he finished triumphantly, repeating the word for emphasis.
"Possibly," Don agreed. To Charlie, Don looked like he was about to pounce, cat-like, ready for the moment. What was Don up to?
The moment came. "Care to explain how your fingerprints were found on the steering wheel of his car?" Don leaned over the table to put his face six inches away from Randall's. "Care to explain how your fingerprints were on a car that you'd never seen, let alone driven? Care to explain how your fresh fingerprints are on the steering wheel of the car belonging to a man you haven't seen for weeks? I do believe my brother, Mr. Randall, but not because he's my brother. I believe him because the facts support his version of what happened." Don glanced at the mirror, unable to see Charlie but knowing that he was there. "Logic, Mr. Randall. Cold, hard logic based on cold, hard fact."
If he hadn't still felt so weak, Charlie would have jumped up and cheered.
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"So, let me get this straight." Amita finished the bite of pizza. "This never was about ransoming kidnapped kids. Maurer and Randall concocted this whole scheme in order to pump up The Great Vervette so that he could cash in on his fame by fleecing other people? They never intended for the kids to be hurt?"
"Right." Don snagged the last pepperoni slice before Charlie could. "Both times Randall took Maurer's car just to throw us off the track, snatched the kid, then paid someone else to 'collect' the ransom. The first time he suckered in a two-bit hood who panicked and went out in a hail of bullets. The second time he hired a two-bit actor, but both times he went for someone that the kids could potentially identify as him, with general similarities in body structure. Randall always wore a blond wig when hiring and kidnapping, and both Barris and Stashov were blond and of similar builds. Randall's alibi seemed solid; he was alongside the families, 'reporting' on The Great Vervette, whenever any of the action was going on. No one would have suspected either him or Ralph Maurer."
"So how did they manage the phone call to the parents?" Larry asked. "And I hope that you have left me the last slice of white pizza."
"Still there, Larry," Charlie said, his mouth full. "The white's all yours. Phone calls through the miracle of technology. David told me that they reviewed the tapes of the phone calls. It was all pre-planned. The caller never actually responded to any of the parents' questions or demands, just keep on talking about what the kidnappers wanted. That's why the kids never could talk to the parents. It was all taped ahead of time. Then Ralph would miraculously 'find' the kids where Randall had stashed them, and collect his fame and the grateful thanks of the public on his way to establishing one of the more prosperous clairvoyance studios." He turned to Don. "But what did Randall get out of this?"
"Same thing," Don told him. "Fame and fortune. Randall raked in a bundle from those articles he wrote, especially because they were 'exclusive'. He was getting offers from major news agencies around the country, was going to head straight to the top. And the two of them were living together; when one benefited, so did the other."
"Told you he was a fraud," Charlie said, words barely intelligible through the munching.
"And I agreed with you."
"No. You thought he was a real psychic."
"Did not. I said he was a fraud, too."
"You said he was a successful fraud."
"Well, he was. He got away with it."
"Until Charles entered the picture," Larry observed. "With a potential jail term of ten or more years to look forward to, I can scarcely describe either Mr. Maurer or Mr. Randall as successful any longer."
"Yeah, well, that's science for you." Don looked at his brother with barely disguised affection. "Skeptical mathematician. Can't take anything on faith. You take all the fun out of life."
"Gullible FBI agent. You pretend that psychic powers work, even when there's no reasonable data to support it."
Don folded his arms and sniffed. "Spoilsport."
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For more spoilsport stuff, google the following terms: P.T.Barnum Effect, the Forer Effect, and The Skeptical Inquirer. Have fun!
