Page 12 of Absent Feeling

“Ms.Young, is that from the murder scene? Is it a puzzle?”

“Haveyou worked out what it all means yet, Ms. Young?”

Simonstepped in the way. “Step back, all of you. We’re in the middle of aninvestigation here!”

Therewas a sense of authority in his voice, one that proved to be enough to get thereporters to step back. The two of them headed towards the house where RaymondWerdly’s family was staying, with Simon looking determined but also a littleangry.

“Theygot pictures of the inkblot,” he said. “They’ll put it all over the news bytonight.”

Amberrealized how much she’d just messed up by looking at the inkblot out in theopen like that. “I’m sorry. I just got so focused on it, trying to see if therewas anything there that might be useful. It looks like it should meansomething.”

“It’sa Rorschach test,” Simon said. “They’remeantto look like they meansomething.”

“Iknow that,” Amber replied. “I’m just trying to remember if I know anythingabout Rorschach tests that might be useful.”

Now,she seemed to have caught Simon’s interest. “And can you?”

“Notmuch. Just basic facts about them. They’re a projective psychological tool,attributed as a diagnostic tool to Hermann Rorschach, but inkblot patternsexisted in art well before him. Even the likes of Leonardo da Vinci made noteson the idea of using ambiguous patterns to assess personality. Rorschach seemsnever to have intended them to be a general personality test but to be usefulin diagnosing schizophrenia. A scoring system for the test known as the Exnersystem was introduced in the 1960s to try to make the interpretation morerigorous, but some critics still say that the test is excessively subjectiveand open to influence from the person administering it.”

“Youcall that ‘not much’?” Simon said, looking impressed.

“Iread a book on it once.” For Amber, that kind of information tended to stick inthe back of her mind somewhere, ready to be pulled up whenever needed for aquiz or a puzzle. There were days when her mind felt like the home of a hoarder,stuffed almost to bursting point with facts just in case any of them everproved useful. “But I can’t remember if there’s anything specific about themeaning of this pattern that might prove relevant. I’ll have to look it up.”

Thatwas the part she really needed, not the kind of information about who had comeup with what and when that was the mainstay of quiz questions.

“Maybeit will help,” Simon said. “For now, though, we need to make sure that thepress doesn’t get hold of more details about the murders from us. The more wecan hold back, the easier it will be to know if any further kills are the workof the same murderer or a copycat.”

Theprospect of more murders was enough to fill Amber with worry. The idea thatthere might be a media storm around this leading to a copycat was in some wayseven worse. And now, any copycat would leave inkblots behind at the scenes,because she had let the press photograph the one that she was carrying.

Theyreached the neighbor’s house. The reporters followed them as far as the end ofthe driveway but, with a glare from Simon, they stopped, obviously not willingto set foot on private property while there was an FBI agent watching them.

Thetwo of them went up to the door, which opened as they approached, revealing awoman in her mid-forties.

“Whoare you? Can’t you see that Rea has been through enough?”

Simonheld up his badge for the woman to see. “I’m Agent Phelps, with the FBI. Thisis Amber Young, who is consulting with me on this case. We need to speak to RaymondWerdly’s family.”

Amberheard the woman sigh. “Yes, all right, come in. But try not to stress Rea outany more than she already is. This … well, you can imagine how it’s hittingher.”

Ambercouldimagine it now. She’d seen the aftermath of murders before, seenthe grief and pain they caused to families, the anger and the disbelief. Amurder seemed to send out ripples into the world, affecting everyone ittouched, everyone who even heard about it. The wife of the man who had beenkilled, though, so soon after the murder … these were going to be some of thehardest moments of her life.

“Whoare you?” Simon asked the woman at the door.

“I’mBeth, Rea’s friend. Come on through if you’re coming, before any of thosereporters start trying to get in.”

Ambercould hear the contempt there. She knew that not all reporters were vultures,trying to pick up any scrap of information they could get, but she doubted theother woman would believe it right then. She found herself thinking aboutJoseph. If he’d been there, Amber wanted to believe that he would be less pushythan the reporters out there were being, but was that really true? He wouldhave a job to do, after all, and Joseph prided himself on getting the story.

Shefollowed Beth and Simon into the house. Beth led them through into a kitchenwhere another woman sat at a large kitchen table, huddled around a mug ofcoffee as if the heat from it were the only thing keeping her from collapsingcompletely. She was in her late thirties, with dark hair and thin, palefeatures, her dark eyes red now from crying. Amber could see her shakingslightly, obviously still in shock about it all in spite of the time since themurder.

“Mrs.Werdly?” Simon said.

Thewoman nodded mutely.

“I’mAgent Phelps, with the FBI. This is Amber Young. We need to talk to you aboutyour husband.”

ReaWerdly looked as though she didn’t understand. “Why aren’t you out there,catching the man who did this?”

“That’swhat we’re here to do,” Simon assured her. “But for that, we need to learn asmuch as we can about your husband.”

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