By Laura L. Zimmerman
Darkness hangs around me in the twelve-by-twelve-foot room like the sour coating of lemon on my tongue.
“Can you tell us who did it?”
Detective Smith motions toward the glass pane, the only source of light flooding the room. A chalky film grits against my teeth.
I lick my lips and assess the five men lined up against the wall.
“We’ve got two eyewitnesses who identified him, but I’d prefer to have your expertise as back up, Sam.” Smith crosses his arms.
His height dwarfs my own medium frame. But the respect he garners goes beyond just his physical command. Smith is Lead Detective. I am a mere early-twenty-something kid with high aspirations and a gift to offer unlike anything they’ve ever seen.
So, I’m important. Somehow.
Despite this, sometimes I don’t feel like a normal adult. Let alone a man.
I have psychic abilities. At least, that’s what the local police believe. My real secret is far more complicated.
I glance at the first joker in line and focus on his stance. The unmistakable aroma of stale tacos and under-ripe avocados floods my mouth. Annoyance. Dumb police work interrupted his day.
Man number two tastes of bitter grass. Thai peppers. He’s angry for having been pulled from his job. Revenge laces his spirit. If he loses his position at the warehouse because of some police investigation, there will be fallout.
Suspects three and four are similar in emotion. Expired yogurt with a touch of blueberry to cover the aftertaste. Flat beer, but beer all the same. These guys are nervous. Not out of guilt, but because of petty crimes they’ve committed—none that would warrant a day in jail.
All these men are innocent.
My gaze settles on suspect number five.
My mouth fills with a rush of rotten eggs, maggot-infested meat, and milk left in the sun to bake. I gag.
Guilt.
The sins of this man come in a deluge. I can’t stop the onslaught of pukish flavors that attack over and over and—
“Number five,” I spit out.
Dear God, please let this end. Now.
“You’re sure?” The detective wears a subtle smile.
Another wave of mud-flavored coffee. “Positive.”
I race out of the room.
“One more thing.” The detective joins me in the brightly lit hallway. “Have a moment to do a reading on someone? We’ve got a millionaire widow in custody. I’ve got a hunch we’re not getting the whole truth from her.”
My psychic reading. Right.
Why not? Nothing waiting at home but my final college paper and day-old pizza.
I nod and lope down the hall, careful not to focus on any one person around me. My taste buds are fried.
We step into a well-lit room, a single desk in the middle. Seated behind it is a woman, maybe forty or so, two vacant chairs across from her.
I freeze. I’ve never been asked to face someone directly. It’s always been behind glass as strong as metal.
Metal.
That’s what I taste when I see her. What could that mean?
The chair scrapes against the concrete floor as I pull it out and sit, careful to avoid eye contact. The less I see, the better.
“Mrs. Morris.” Smith shuffles his papers across the desk. “This is Sam. He’ll be assisting me today.”
“Haven’t I given you all the information you need?” The woman’s voice quivers.
I glance up. Crusted tears cake her cheeks. Tendrils of old mascara stretch beneath her eyes.
Spicy cologne glides over my lips, coasts along my tongue. Yuck.
“It’s strictly precautionary.” The detective gives her a reassuring smile. “Please repeat the details of your confession.”
Mrs. Morris huffs and presses her lips together. “Larry hurt me. He hurt my son. I warned him to stop, but he didn’t.” She pauses. “I—” She swallows. “I killed him.”
Brand-new leather glides across my palate, immediately followed by acidic tingling. The image of hundred-dollar bills floats through my mind.
She did it for the money.
The woman worries her hands. “I hid his body in our walk-in freezer.”
The detective leans forward. “Why confess to his murder?”
She looks to the ceiling, then her lap. “I knew as soon as I’d done it that I couldn’t live with the guilt. That I’d crack eventually.” She shrugs. “Figured I’d make things easy and turn myself in.”
Smith tilts his head toward me. I give a curt nod. She’s telling the truth.
He shakes his head in disbelief but stands, motioning for me to follow him into the hall.
“So that’s it?” he asks. “That’s the whole story?”
“From what I can tell, yes.” I look away and shove my hands in my pockets.
“Well, thanks for your help.”
On our way through the department, we pass a teenage boy slumped in a chair. He taps his foot with annoyance, a cocky grin in place.
I blink and walk by quickly. Too much cologne.
Outside the building, Smith extends his hand, and I shake it. “Thanks for your help. We’ll be in touch.”
I nod and turn toward the parking lot. Sitting in the front spot is a cherry-red sports car, the convertible top left open.
Why would a wife kill her husband for his money and then confess, ensuring she could never spend it?
Wasabi washes through my mouth. “Detective!”
He turns back to me. “Yes?”
“Question the son.”
“The son?”
“Mrs. Morris’s son. I believe he’s the boy sitting in the lobby. Question him. I have a feeling Mrs. Morris didn’t commit the murder. She’s covering for her son.” A fresh taste of sweet vanilla ice cream melts across my tongue. “You’re right. You aren’t getting the whole truth from her, after all.”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Wow this is very well done! I love the diversity of the taste palette and the range synonymous to their response/reaction. Loved the ending too!
Thank you! It was fun to write! :)
This was such a fun story! Would love to see more of Sam’s adventures in the future. 😊
That would be fun! I’ll have to give that some thought… ;)
Ooooh so intriguing!!! Loved it! I would read a whole book about this!
Thanks! Wouldn’t this super power be so cool to have? :)
That was so interesting! I like how the tastes correspond to people’s emotions. But why wasabi at the end?
Thanks so much! The wasabi was supposed to be more of a sting that alerted him to the deception. :)
Nicely done, good read thanks.
Thank you so much! :)
Love the clever concept!
Thanks so much, Kat! This one was fun to write. :)
Ooh, love his ability!