Miriam's mystery (part 2)

[Jordanna]

"It was worse than it's ever been before, Henry. I'm a little afraid... Part of me isn't sure if this murder was really just that bad, or if... this 'talent' of mine is getting stronger."

Frowning deeply, Henry Casselton sat down beside Miriam and poured her a cup of tea from the antique silver service on the table. They were in one of the visitors' parlors of his funeral home, Casselton Mortuary; it was a warm and comforting room in tones of burgundy and mahogany, with thick curtains and old English pastoral paintings. Ordinarily it was used to discuss funerary arrangements with bereaved families, but with only two appointments scheduled for later in the afternoon, Henry had appropriated it to give private counsel to Miriam.

After her collapse at the coroner's office, she had been dismissed from work for the day, with a somewhat veiled suggestion that she spend the time visiting a doctor. That was the last thing she wanted, and she had sought out her friend instead.

"How much do you remember of what you saw?" Henry asked, stirring extra sugar into Miriam's tea, just as she liked it.

Miriam spread her hands. "I think I must have lost some of it when I passed out. Besides, it was more what I felt than what I saw." A shudder passed through her. "That woman died in terrible pain, Henry. She was tortured. But... it was all inside her. That's what I felt, and the police report said there didn't seem to be any marks on the body. What could have done that?"

"Some kind of poison?" Henry suggested.

"I don't know. Somehow that doesn't feel right." Miriam took a sip of tea, then wrapped her hands more tightly around the cup, trying to draw some warmth from it to ease the chill she felt within herself; it didn't help. "It was something more... direct than poison. Someone was doing it to her--and she knew it."

"I suppose the autopsy will shed some more light on precisely what 'it' was," Henry mused. "But you--that is, she--didn't see her killer?"

"She did. I'm sure of that. But... from what I sensed, and what I remember, I only caught the briefest glimpse of something that was more like a ghost than a person. For a split second, there was someone with a pale face and dark hair." Miriam shivered again. "I think... I think I heard it laughing."

Henry's hand stretched out and gently patted hers. It was a natural gesture, chaste and comforting.

"You can't remember anything else?" he asked softly.

Miriam sighed and rested her head in her hand, thinking for a long moment. She had learned to bear delving again into the memories she absorbed; recalling the horrors still turned her stomach, but the initial shock was gone. At last she looked up at Henry again, with doubt written on her face.

"The eyes," she said. "It seemed as if they were black--solid black. I must be imagining things." She shook her head. "Anyway, after that things really did black out."

"Perhaps you should find a pretext to study some mug shots," Henry suggested. "You still have one or two helpful acquaintances among the police, don't you?"

"I don't think I'll find this person in pictures of petty crooks and thugs. I have an impression he was well dressed." Miriam abruptly leaned her head on Henry's shoulder, closing her eyes as he put an arm around her. "This one frightens me, Henry. It isn't my sense, just intuition I suppose, but... I think he's killed before... and I think he will again."

[Jordanna]

One evening, a week after the incident of the unidentified murder victim, Henry found Miriam at the door of the mortuary.

"You shouldn't be here," he said hurriedly, even as he ushered her inside. "We're having a viewing in the chapel, and I don't want to see you go through any needless--unpleasantness."

"It's alright. At this end of the building, I should be far enough away from the body." As she spoke, Miriam moved briskly through the reception area and on into the parlor. "I thought you'd like to know about last week's mystery victim."

"Of course." Henry removed a newspaper from the sofa and gestured for Miriam to sit. He himself had been there for the last hour, waiting to close up after the viewing. As he sat down beside her, he reached out to pour another cup of tea, but Miriam raised a staying hand.

"For one thing, they identified the woman," she began. "A prostitute, just as the police thought. As for the autopsy, I was put off the case after my collapse, but I sneaked a look at the report." Miriam twisted her hands in her lap. "Something unbelievable happened to her body--before she died. Nearly every organ ruptured. Blood vessels burst. It's like something tore her apart from the inside... but there's nothing there. No toxins, no viruses that could do anything remotely like that."

"And you had to relive it through her eyes," Henry said quietly, an equal measure of awe and sadness in his voice. He paused, then asked, "What do the police think?"

"They don't even know how to classify her death." Miriam ran a hand through her hair with a frustrated sigh. "But it was murder. I know it."

"I'm sure they'll keep investigating." Henry smiled gently in encouragement. "You're sure you wouldn't like some tea?"

"I'll get it myself, thank you." Miriam leaned forward, reaching out to the tea service on the table. While she was thus preoccupied, Henry's gaze shifted about, falling at last upon his discarded newspaper--and the article he had been reading when Miriam arrived.

"I'm curious. What do you know about Nicholas Tiernan?" he asked idly.

Miriam glanced up. "I know that he runs some kind of consulting business, and that he's an advocate for mutant rights--just about the only one in New York, I suppose." She lowered her eyes. "It's nice to know someone with some money and influence cares about people like me."

"It's peculiar, though." Henry picked up the paper. "There's a fascinating profile of him in the newspaper. He calls it a 'consulting firm', right enough, but no one seems to know exactly who they consult or what about. All that's really on record is the millions he's spent on pro-mutant charity. Apparently he's claimed he had a mutant brother who was murdered in a hate crime... but one wonders, eh? Especially since he seems to think he's Howard-bloody-Hughes. You might think he'd want all the publicity he could get, but he's a reclusive chap with a violent aversion to reporters--especially photographers."

"I can appreciate the sentiment." As a medical examiner, Miriam had occasionally been tasked with facing the media herself. She found that enduring the effects of her mutation was preferable to that chore.

"At least one dogged fellow has managed to get a picture of him, though. Here, look." Henry held out the folded newspaper, displaying a grainy, black-and-white photo of a crookedly-built, dark-haired man, his face partially obscured by a hastily raised hand.

There was a sudden clatter of porcelain, as Miriam's teacup and saucer met the carpeted floor. Henry glanced up at her quickly. She was staring at the newspaper photograph, her eyes wide and her face white.

"Miriam!" He dropped the paper and took her by the shoulders, turning her to face him. "Miriam, what's wrong?"

"That face..." Miriam looked away, raising a hand to her forehead, and her voice trembled slightly. "Henry, it's him. It was his face I saw in that woman's last memories."

Henry drew in a sharp breath. "You mean--"

"Yes." Miriam looked up, with a sudden fire in her green eyes that Henry saw rarely, but understood all too well. Her voice was quiet and steady when she spoke again.

"Nicholas Tiernan is a murderer."

[Jordanna]

After Miriam's frightening discovery, she was understandably shaken. Henry left her alone to gather her thoughts for a while. He made his usual condolent appearance as the guests of the viewing filed out, then dismissed his employees and locked up for the night. When he went back into the parlor, Miriam had regained her composure, and was sipping from her refilled teacup with a grim and pensive expression on her face.

"How could Tiernan have killed someone the way you describe?" Henry asked, sitting down beside her.

"He's a mutant." At Henry's look of surprise, Miriam shook her head. "No, I can't prove that. But it's the only explanation. You suggested it yourself: why should he be so interested in mutants if he wasn't one himself?" Her eyes hardened. "If they only knew what their great benefactor has really done."

"What are you going to do?"

Miriam shrugged ruefully. "I don't know. The autopsy couldn't prove the woman was murdered, much less who did it." A chuckle of nervous tension escaped her. "I can just imagine telling all this to the police. Even if Tiernan's charity work isn't popular with normal people, no one would believe he's a murderer without evidence. And if I tried to explain that I know because I'm a mutant..."

"It would be the end of your career, at the very least," Henry finished for her. He stared thoughtfully down at his clasped hands, then up at her again. "Is there anything I can do?"

Miriam smiled at him gently. "No, Henry, I don't think so. And even if there were, I wouldn't want you to get involved in this." She sighed heavily and sank back on the couch. "I need to know more about Tiernan."

"That's a daunting prospect. You heard what I read from that article; he's a very difficult man to meet. And besides... if what you say is true, this could be dangerous."

"I've got to do something, Henry." Miriam fell silent for a long while, lost in thought. At last, she raised her head, then sat up straight with a renewed energy.

"Regina Dawson," she said.

Henry frowned. "Who is that?"

"A private detective--and a mutant. I met her once, last year, when she brought a client to the morgue to identify a body." Miriam shrugged. "Maybe she could investigate Tiernan, or at least have a better idea of what to do. In any case, it can't hurt to have someone else's help."

"If she's a mutant, she might not be very friendly toward the idea of investigating the city's biggest mutant-rights advocate," Henry observed.

"But as a mutant, she might believe me when I explain what I saw with my gift."

Henry's expression became shadowed. "But even your parents don't know what you are. You're quite sure you want to share that secret with someone else?"

With an affectionate smile, Miriam patted Henry's arm. "I can't hide forever, Henry." Thinking back to her single brief encounter with Regina Dawson, she added solemnly, "Some of us can't hide at all. In any case, I made the decision to use this power of mine for something good, and I can't back down from that."

"You're a very courageous woman." Henry put his arm around Miriam and drew her closer, kissing her very lightly on the forehead. "Please be careful."

"Don't worry," Miriam said softly, laying her head on Henry's shoulder. "I will."