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“I WONDER WHY THERE are police cars everywhere.” Priscilla said as the hydraulic lift lowered her and her chair to the pavement. Ham had moved to the side of the van, in the striped no parking area, to be there for her in case something happened. He knew there was little he could actually do, but Pris felt better when he was there.
“Mr. Jenkins was murdered in his office Friday night, according to the rumors flying around,” Ham informed her. “Or he was abducted by aliens, and his lifeless husk was dropped back in his office over the weekend. I’ve heard both,” he shrugged his one good shoulder.
“Isn’t he the dark man with no sparkle?” Pris asked as Marrisa came around the front of the van.
“What did you just say, Priscilla?” Marrisa asked, having overheard her last question.
“Oh, I said he had no sparkle. You know, he just sort of shuffled around, looking at the ground?” Pris answered, hoping her prevarication wouldn’t catch up to her. “And he was always frowning, like he was angry. You know; a dark personality?”
“Hmmm,” Marrisa replied, uncertain whether to press the issue.
“We really should be heading to class, as your chair takes a little longer than mine,” Ham offered hopefully.
“I’ll see you at four,” Marrisa said to her daughter. The look on her face said he’d touched a nerve, but he didn’t understand what.
“Mom, we have a Debate Club meeting after school, and it’s not over until five,” she reminded.
“Then I’ll be right here at five,” Marrisa promised. As she got in the van and pulled away from the parallel parking spot, another man stepped from behind an SUV parked in the next space in the row.
“I need a few minutes of your time, and I’ll vouch for your tardiness,” he said in a no-nonsense voice, simultaneously pulling his jacket off the front of his belt to reveal a police detective’s shield.
“Of, course, detective, how may we be of assistance?” Ham inquired immediately.
Pris was once again impressed with how easily Hamilton maneuvered in the presence of strangers. She looked at the detective and smiled what she hoped was a friendly, cooperative expression.
“Your name is Priscilla?” he asked her.
Surprised, she nodded mutely, but Ham was quick to respond. “Interesting how you already know our names, Detective...?” he paused inquisitively.
“Where are my manners?” the detective quipped. “I’m Detective Lieutenant Frank Kratos of the Chickasha PD; and your name, young man?”
“Ah, you overheard Mrs. Benson call her Pris, and took a guess it wasn’t a nickname but rather short for Priscilla,” Ham guessed. “I’ll bet you’re really good at detecting. I’m Hamilton Nichols.”
“Any kin to Martin Nichols, works for Alert Medical Systems?” Frank inquired.
“He’s my father,” Ham replied quietly. The dark wings of misery which flitted for an instant through his eyes said he didn’t really like being identified as his father’s son.
Frank’s expression took on a hooded look for a moment before he peered up from his notepad and smiled. “Your father does a lot of good work for the ADA community in Chickasha.”
“And just how are you associated with our community, Detective?” Pris spoke for the first time.
“Mt wife is bedridden; has been for nearly a decade,” he replied solemnly. “MS took her mobility at a young age. Your father went out of his way to help the department get the very best medical equipment available for her condition, even when the insurance wouldn’t cover specific models and features.”
“Ah,” Ham replied. “Yeah, he designed and had the factory custom build this model for me,” he shared.
“So, back to you, Priscilla; your last name is?” Frank asked politely.
“Benson,” Pris responded. “I suppose you knew my father as well?”
Frank was quick enough to catch the past tense, and his eyes clouded as he searched his memory. “Phillip Benson; his car was struck by a tractor-trailer after it jumped the median, three years ago. The truck driver had a massive heart-attack, and was DOA. Benson was killed instantly, and his daughter...” he stammered to a stop. “I’m very sorry, Priscilla, I sometimes do that without thinking, hazard of the job. I read about all the surgeries you endured, and the struggles you and your mother have suffered. I’m sorry for you loss,” he finished in a whisper.
“You’re very kind to remember,” Pris offered.
“Yes, well, I’ve had some little exposure to auras, and I believe you have as well, haven’t you?” he asked candidly.
“Ah, I’m not sure exactly what you’re talking about...” Ham said, attempting to intercede, but Pris called him off.
“It’s okay, Ham, he’s one of the good guys.” She had been studying his aura and was beginning to understand she was in the presence of a rare human being, indeed.
“Tell me what you see, Priscilla, if you would, please?” Frank asked.
“Magenta aura, bright reddish-purple, with beautiful gold and peach striations coursing through it. The aquamarine halo around it helps me understand how very special you are,” she replied breathlessly.
“I’m having a good day, then,” Frank responded. “Clara says my peach doesn’t manifest as often as I should let it, and the blue-green only comes and goes.”
“Clara is your wife, I’m guessing?” Pris said.
“Yes, and I tease her about it all the time,” he smiled, “Clara the clairvoyant.”
“But I’m not clairvoyant,” Pris argued. “I just see auras. I don’t see the future, or tell fortunes, or read palms or Tarot cards...”
“Yet,” Frank interjected. “After MS began to take portions of her mind, Clara developed unusual talents of being able to see and follow people anywhere within the greater city area. She’s helped my with many of my cases, and the department begrudgingly admits I’m not smart enough by myself to have the highest closing rate of any officer on the force.”
“I’d love to meet her,” Priscilla enthused. “I have so many questions.”
“We can probably arrange that, but we’ll have to wait for a cogent day,” Frank explained. “Clara, unfortunately, can go for several days at a time unable to communicate even by grunting. And the next day she’ll wake up, quite literally, singing.” The look on his face spoke of how much he adored his beloved. Shaking himself as if he’d felt a chill, Frank returned to the business at hand.
“So, tell me about Mr. Jenkins.” It wasn’t a suggestion; he was now all business.
When Pris got to the part about the sparkle, it was Frank’s turn to be in awe. The look on his face said all that was needed; his response verified it. “You see people’s souls,” he breathed.
“What?” both young people exploded simultaneously.
“Yes, my wife has described the ability as she learned about it from her mentor.” Frank was almost effervescent. “An honest-to-God swami lived right here in Chickasha, Oklahoma until about five years ago when he passed away at a very old age. He used to come and sit with Clara, and I swear they were telepathic. They’d sit silently for the entire period, especially when Clara couldn’t speak. And yet, when she could, she’d tell me he was teaching her so much.”
“But how do you know I see people’s souls?” Pris insisted.
“Because you described it exactly the way Clara said Swami Maukra did,” Frank explained, “a sparkling of bright energy centered around the heart. Speaking of which; what a day of discovery, but let’s get back to Mr. Jenkins. What was it about him you were saying when you got out of the van?”
“His aura was totally black, and he had no sparkle,” Pris confirmed.
“No sparkle meaning what; he had no soul?” Ham interjected. “How is that possible? Everyone alive has a soul,” he stated emphatically.
“Actually, according to Swami Maukra, there are many people who have no soul, as we know it,” Frank shared. “Clara says they lose it because they have no compassion, faith, or trust in humanity. They’ve been injured or damaged by an event, their environment, or society to the point their soul has been suppressed to where it no longer exhibits, or at least that any mystic can see.”
“How many people can read auras, or see souls?” Pris wanted to know.
“That’s a good question, miss,” Frank replied. “From most of the research Clara and I have conducted together, it’s about one in 250 thousand for auras. The number is much larger in Tibet, India, and parts of Pakistan, but that may just be due to the higher exposure and number of mystical people available to point the way. Soul-readers are much more rare; there’s not even a statistic of which I’m aware.”
Pausing to reflect, Frank spoke again. “So, if Jenkins had a black aura and no soul, it’s possible he wasn’t killed at all. Maybe he just gave up living. That would explain the MEs preliminary finding of natural causes.”
“So, he wasn’t murdered or abducted by aliens?” Ham asked.
“The first part is inconclusive; the second, I can’t speak to. That would be Sgt. Smithman, the desk sergeant,” Frank supplied. “He’s the X-Files fanatic. I suppose you two should get to class,” Frank conceded. “I’ll walk you into the office and vouch for you.”
As they approached the building, Frank hesitated before deciding to forge ahead. “I think it best if we keep your talent from the general public, at least for now. There’s no telling how many kooks there are out there, and you’re pretty vulnerable. I’ll inform the assigned Security Officer to keep an eye on you, but better no one else know for now. Does your mother know?” he asked, looking straight into Pris’ eyes.
“No, I’m pretty sure she wouldn’t believe me,” Pris responded dejectedly.
“I’ll wager I can be a big part of her accepting the truth,” Frank offered, “especially if she learns of it while visiting my house with you during your visit to see Clara.”
“And don’t worry too much about me,” Pris said as Frank opened the door. “Ham is all the protection I need; he’s telekinetic.”