“How can you not hear it?” the man demanded, still yelling. “Is it . . . Is there something wrong with me?”

“Just describe the sound, please,” repeated Jackaby.

“It’s so . . . so . . . so . . .” The man’s voice wavered and softened with each “so,” and his eyes fell downward. “So sad.”

“Remove the cushions, if you would, Mr. Henderson,” said Jackaby. He had selected a small metal rod that forked into two long prongs.

Henderson glanced back up. His eyes had welled slightly with tears, and his brow, no longer knit in aggravation, melted into a pitiful, pleading look.

“Mr. Henderson,” repeated Jackaby, “the cushions, please.”

Henderson slowly raised his hands and pulled the belt off his head. The cushions fell away. His eyes immediately slammed shut and his whole body flinched, tensing into itself as a silent wail apparently assaulted his ears.

“Where are the cries coming from?” asked Jackaby firmly. “Can you tell what direction?”

Tears dripped from Henderson’s clenched eyes, and he shook his head, whether to answer “no” or to shake away the sound, I couldn’t say.

Jackaby held the rod loosely and tapped the metal prongs against the table. A clear, pure, sustained note rang out. It was a simple tuning fork. Henderson’s body instantly relaxed, and he nearly collapsed onto the sofa. He sniffled, and gazed up, wide-eyed. The note hummed pleasantly for several seconds, growing quieter and quieter. Before it could fully fade away, Jackaby tapped it again.

“And now?” Jackaby inquired.

“I—I can still hear it,” stammered Henderson, his voice a mix of relief and confusion. “But more distant. Still so sad, the wailing. It sounds like . . .” He sniffed and cut himself off.

“Like what?” prompted Jackaby, gentle but relentless.

“Reminds me,” the man continued with difficulty, “of the way my mother cried at Papa’s funeral. Just . . . just like that.”

Jackaby tapped the tuning fork again. “It’s a woman’s voice, then?” Henderson nodded. “And now, can you judge where it’s coming from?”

Henderson concentrated, and his eyes drifted to the ceiling. “From above us,” he decided.

“Directly?” Jackaby asked. “The apartment above yours, perhaps?”

Henderson focused again, and Jackaby tapped the tuning fork to help. “No,” he answered, “just a bit . . . that way, I think.”

“Excellent. We shall attend to the matter directly. While I have you lucid, however, I would appreciate it if you could think back to yesterday evening. Did you happen to notice anything odd? Strangers in the stairwell, perhaps?”

Henderson breathed heavily and scratched his hair where it was still pressed flat from the cushions. “I don’t think so. Nothing very odd. Her voice . . .”

“Anything before the voice? Anything at all?”