“I live for now. That’s how I make it.

You should too, but you won’t.

It’s got you by the throat.”

“Not it,” I say at last, “he has.”

THE PSYCHIC DETECTIVE: INFINITY

“I’m packing it in, Bob,” I say,

“I’m tired of ‘seeing’ things,”

but he just laughs and runs gloved hands

over the slash marks on the body

he is studying to find a pattern

by reading the cuts made

when the perp attacked with a hatchet

and pure malice.

“I don’t want to interrupt your tête-à-tête,

but this was jammed inside her,” says the coroner.

It is a page from the Brothers Grimm.”

“Whoo-who a clue,” I say, but I already knew

this killer’s into fairy tales,

because he thinks reality has failed him.

“You’ll never guess what else I found,” he adds,

bending down and looking inside her.

Suddenly, I feel embarrassed and turn away,

then turn back and say, “It’s round and metal

and when you shake it, it rattles.”

“You are good,” he says, removing the object.

“Do you think he made her insert it,

or did he do it himself, after he killed her?” he asks.

Before, I think, after he took it from his mouth. I add.

“His mouth?”

“He did it to fill her with his hatred, not just to kill her,

but to humiliate her first,

then as if quenching a thirst, drank in her hurt.”

“See all the blood,” adds Bob,

“the contusions? . . . Maybe he beat her with a belt, or—”

“Maybe his fist,” says the coroner, sighing

and removing his gloves,

as he prepares to turn his attention elsewhere.

“Lunch?” he asks,

as if we could eat now and we decline

as we begin to define this killer by his actions.

“First one?” Bob asks.

I nod and say, “He’s been thinking about it a long time,

then he snapped.”

“In other words, the usual occurred.”

In the parking lot, Bob says, “No semen because—”

“—Because this guy’s not an ejaculator,

at least not in the body of his victim

and not on her either.”

“Maybe he’s impotent, or uses an article of

clothing,” says Bob

and I tell him I’m beginning to think

these killers are really demons,

but he says, “They’re all too human. You know—”

“—Because I’ve got second sight

which more and more means I can’t see

what is right in front of me,

like the reason you are looking at me funny,” I say,

“I mean funnier than usual.

There’s blood in your eye, dare I say it?

It’s my fault for noticing things. I can’t help it.

The feeling that tells me you have something to hide

is stronger than ever.

“What is it, Bob?” I ask.

“You drive this time,” he says

then out of nowhere, he tells me,

“Leave it alone.”

“What?”

“You know,” he tells me,

getting in the driver’s side after all.

“He’s underground,” I say.

“A basement?” Bob asks.

“Too obvious.”

“A tunnel,” we say in unison.