It reminded Harry of some movie about aliens he had once seen. He opted not to tell Caswell this observation, deciding instead to keep his mouth shut until he found out if he were still on the force, let alone heading up the butcher investigation. When Caswell spoke, his voice cracked under the strain of trying to keep from yelling. “Are you telling me that I just went on live television and made an absolute jackass of myself on the information furnished you by a psychic? Have you two lost your minds?” “Chief,” Jim began, “remember the psychic in Omaha who broke the Underwood case? The one who was actually on the police payroll? That’s who this young woman is.” Caswell sat down on the edge of his desk and pulled a rumpled package of Camel cigarettes from his shirt pocket. He carefully straightened out the last bent cigarette and stuck it in his mouth. His hands shook slightly as he brought his lighter to his mouth. “So,” he said as he lit the Camel and inhaled deeply, “what you are saying is that the same person who got Underwood’s case thrown out of court, waltzed in here and took a crack at Clark, which means if he is our killer, then there is a better than even chance he’ll walk.
