Chapter 3
Sunday, December 3, 1967, 5:56 A.M., Nutley, New Jersey
The first glimmer of morning, like the onset of first dreams, was just discernible in the cloudy sky. And just as dreams give way before the impression of a new day, so the brilliance of the stars yielded to the light of the sun.
In her bed Dorothy stirred under the blankets. Her whole body moved, doubling over, then straightening and quieting. Her breathing was heavy; muttered words escaped her lips in half whispers. Thought and energy, images and reactions, swirled in a strange mental dance.
The sequence of fragmented pictures now pulsating through her consciousness had a force and life unlike most dreams. At first a shock of light glared in her vision. As the brilliant illumination diminished, an image of a small boy began to pulsate through.
"A little boy," she whispered. "Oh, my God, it's a little boy." He faded into the light. Her forehead wrinkled from the intensity of the illumination.
Once again the light began to change: first into a yellow brightness, then swirling into a cloudiness, a murkiness. The yellow gave way to the boy's image.
She saw his face, the face of a beautiful child, but with an unnatural, eerie pallor. Slowly the image floated toward her, moving in a stream of deep blue water. His flesh glistened. A haunting light was reflected in the boy's face.
"Eyes. I see his eyes," Dorothy cried. And his hands, clasped in front of him, looked black, as if charred.
In slow motion the little boy floated in her consciousness, without gravitation or weight. The blue liquid oozed and bubbled, then it quieted for a moment, only to gush forth with a force that caused Dorothy to writhe.
"His shoes are on the wrong feet. Poor child," she groaned. "Water. It's water. He's drowning," she half screamed. Her stomach and pelvis bolted forward.
The little body flashed before her: his flat blond hair was parted far over on the right side; she saw his green snowsuit, striped shirt, and a religious medal pinned underneath; his tiny shoes were on the wrong feet.
"My God. Who are you? Answer me, dear God," she pleaded. "Tell me where I can find you?" She heaved uncontrollably.
Faces of children populated her vision. Her grandchildren, her children, nieces, nephews, little boys, girls, strangers, faces familiar, faces unknown.
Who is this child? echoed through her mind. She strained to face the child, thinking that identifying him might prevent something from happening.
In desperation she willed her being in search of the child. With spiritlike speed she passed down a dark street, rain pouring all around. Warehouses loomed on the side. Gold letters flashed before her from the front of a building. She moved forward effortlessly, following some instinct, some power that propelled her into movement that was neither walking, nor running, nor flying, but sheer motion.
She passed piles of lumber stacked high in the darkness. A school. The number eight appeared. She glided beside the school building. A large cyclone fence glistened in the rain, surrounding the school yard. Behind the school, behind the fence, she came to a precipice.
The rain washed down the hill. The boy, she felt, was down below in the darkness. Down the hill she made her way over three large slats of wood and through dense underbrush.
Through the pitch, rain glistened on the water. "The boy is in the water," she gasped. She felt a rushing in her body; she felt the darkness, the vastness.
Water was everywhere. Dorothy's body was soaked. She saw the child's dead body passing freely through pipes. She felt him inside her.
Suddenly he stopped. Solid. Stuck. Dorothy's pelvis moved. She tried to help him, straining to relieve him. He wouldn't budge. Her forehead tightened, her temple throbbed. Electricity raced eellike through her being; water rushed around the boy. She groaned loudly.
In an instant the waters swirled backward, and the body receded into the darkness, disappearing totally in the wide cavernous darkness of a pipe.
The images flowed in her mind. For an uncontrollable instant Dorothy was suspended in space as she rode between two worlds; she was seeing and recording the images, and beginning to realize their significance at the same time.
Dorothy's eyes opened. Her breathing was rough. She put her hand on her stomach; her abdomen was tight with pain. Her flannel nightgown stuck to her wet body. She sat up at the side of her bed.
"Dreams ... I've had dreams, but dear Lord, this is incredible." The image of the little boy beat strongly through her temples. Her right eye throbbed mercilessly. "Who is he? Where is he?" She pushed at her husband. "Wake up!"
Her husband's eyes barely opened. He exhibited little awareness of the world.
"Listen," Dorothy pleaded. "I just had a dream. I think I can help this kid," she said.
Dorothy ran to her dresser and jotted down on a piece of paper, "6:00 A.M. Nightmare," and underlined it several times. Next she went to the bathroom, washed her face with warm water, and massaged her temples. Her head pounded.
She looked in the mirror. "Oh, my God," she screamed. "Look at my eye!" Her right eye was a deep bloody red.
"This has never happened before," she yelled at her husband. "I'm telling you, something is going on here. My eye is bleeding, and some kid is drowning."
"You're just having a dream," her husband mumbled.
"You're wrong. I am telling you now that you're wrong. I know I've had dreams before, but this one is somehow part of me. I can't explain it, but I know this is different. If I can get to the park, I can help the kid."
"Dorothy," her husband mumbled, "it's only six in the morning. People will think you're crazy. You aren't making much sense."
Dorothy sat on the edge of the bed. "This is what I saw. Listen to my dream." She wrapped herself in a blanket, took a deep breath, and recounted her dream. As she recalled the ghastly, haunting image of the little boy, she cried.
"I know I can help him, save him. I should go to the park," she implored.
"Dorothy, do you know which park?" Bob asked.
"No, I'm not even sure it is a park. But there's no place in this area that has trees like that except for a park."
The thought suddenly occurred to Dorothy that it was possible her dream was not local, that the boy was a total stranger. She knew, however, that he was real. His identity was the mystery.
Not since the death of her father, more than twenty years before, had she suffered a vision with such physical intensity. This vision, however, ran deeper through her being, emanating from a source never before felt, a place in her body she had never before detected. Only in labor had she felt such physical intensity and pain. Never before had the connection between her dreams and her body been one: what she saw, she felt.
She looked at her husband. He was asleep. She pulled on her robe and went downstairs to the kitchen. It was still dark outside, and a cold morning rain pelted against the window. She had thought it was going to be a clear day.
Dorothy felt that some explanation might be achieved astrologically. In the early fifties, she had discovered the world of astrology from drugstore periodicals. She soon read and absorbed many books on the subject, becoming a fine, highly regarded astrologer.
In her Eighth House, known as the House of Death, Saturn (or Father Time) and Scorpio ruled supreme. The influence of the two stars gave her the extraordinary ability to sense death in any time period whether past, present, or future.
The child inside Dorothy cried out for help. She saw him floating somewhere, but did he drown yesterday, did she see it as it happened, or would he drown tomorrow, and could she prevent it? Her heart battled with the deep frustration and total helplessness that overwhelmed her.
A child. She had raised three children, done everything possible, often battling obstacles with superhuman energy and tenacity, to give them the advantages she never had as a child. She looked around her kitchen; it contained as much space as her brothers had had in the bedroom they all shared, and she felt rich in her own way, having a house in Nutley, New Jersey, with a yard in front and back, with a garage and with neighbors who had chosen the quiet, green community for its charm.
She wanted desperately to find the little boy and protect him. Tears came to her eyes as she thought of the little boy's mother, crying somewhere in fear that her son had disappeared, perhaps never to be found.
The clock over the refrigerator read 7:00. One hour had passed since her vision. Her body ached from the tension; she was exhausted. Soon Justine and Paul would awaken, and she would have to decide whether or not to pursue her vision.
She opened the refrigerator, pulled out a bowl of pancake batter, slid it across the counter toward the stove, and removed the orange-juice bottle, shaking it up and down. As she filled the kettle with water for coffee, she again saw the blond-haired boy, his blue eyes reaching out to her as if he were still vibrantly alive.
She called her brother, Tony. Tony was a skeptic. He did not adhere to Dorothy's astrological beliefs; nor could he explain her knack of predicting the future. But they had been very close as children, and Dorothy respected their differences, making sure her charts were off the dining-room table when Tony and bis wife came to visit.
"This is different, Tony," she told him. "A kid's life is at stake. I've got to find out who the little boy is."
"Dorothy," Tony's strong but gentle voice began, "listen to me. You can't figure on knowing who the kid is. He might be thousands of miles from here, or he could be a combination of several kids you've seen lately. He could be someone you passed at the store." His voice got louder. "If he's real, he could be anyone and anyplace!"
"You're wrong!" Dorothy snapped. "Tony, answer me this. Why did my eye blow up and why does my stomach feel like I ate lead?"
"It may be some time before you find put his identity. You're going to have to relax until then."
"Relax?" Dorothy shrieked. "Me relax? When I got a house to run? And people floating around in my brain? How am I supposed to relax?"
Tony tried to assuage her. "You've been having dreams for years. Maybe not quite like this one, true," he hesitated for a second. "But you've had enough of these psychic experiences in your lifetime to know that answers don't come easy."
"Psychic? Is that what I am? You're smarter than I am, tell me if there are psychic doctors who can help me?" Dorothy pursued the word, tumbling it around in her mind, wondering what exactly it meant to "be psychic."
"I really don't know. I can't tell you because I've never met any psychics. Sometimes they show up on Johnny Carson's show," Tony's voice was teasing. "If I hear about any lost little boys, I'll call you right away. Okay?"
Dorothy put the phone down without hearing Tony's last words. The word "psychic" reverberated in her mind. She knew that Uranus, planet of intuition and the unexpected, ruled the world of the psychic, and that the remote star was high in her aspects. Now, it seemed, the time had come for Uranus, in the Twelfth House of Private Matters, to connect with Karma, their union bringing to a peak her visionary experience. As interpretation, Dorothy felt it was sound, and this helped her to accept the extraordinary phenomenon. Somehow, in astrological terms, she grappled with the notion that she was unique among men and women in the world.
"Mother!" Justine, Dorothy's sixteen-year-old daughter, suddenly stood before her. "What in God's name happened to your eye? Are you all right?"
Justine sat at her mother's side and held fast to her hand.
"I've had an awful night," Dorothy said. "But I'm okay. I'm just tired. I'm going to call the eye doctor and find out what this is about," she reassured Justine. "It really doesn't hurt. It just looks sinful."
Dorothy looked at her daughter who was taller than herself and had the eyes of her own mother. She was appreciative of her concern, but she didn't want to upset her.
"Is there anything I can do, Ma?" Justine asked.
"Make sure your brother wears rubbers. It's raining outside," Dorothy instructed her daughter.
"No, it's not raining anymore, Ma," fourteen-year-old Paul bellowed from the kitchen, overhearing their conversation.
"It's not raining?" Dorothy inquired. "Well, that's good news." If it clears, Dorothy thought to herself, I can walk down to the park and see if the kid is there.
Dorothy never went to the park that day. The entire day she stayed home, depressed and confused. The child's image haunted her. She made a few phone calls, checking those relatives and neighbors who had children the age of her little victim. Everything in her immediate society seemed totally in order: no children were missing.
For one month Dorothy questioned family, friends, and people who came over to have their charts read. Her vigilance was constant. Often she awakened in the early morning hours, her stomach knotted and cramped, the boy's image in her sight, her jaw clamped down, smashing her molars against each other as she tried to relieve the little boy and allow him to move. Already many years of subconscious but powerful dreams had severely damaged her jawbone. Eventually she would have to undergo several operations to build up the bone and muscle that had deteriorated from stress.
The boy, however, remained stuck. As Dorothy vacuumed the living room a few days, later, she was suddenly struck by a stomach cramp. She sat down to catch her breath.
The image of the little boy came to life before her. His body moved in a solid, tightly bound manner, as if it had been preserved in a gel. Slowly, bathed in an eerie blue silence, he gyrated in circles, as if being drawn backward by an invisible force.
Her stomach ached. She pounded her jaw tightly and suddenly loosened it again. The boy moved through the water freely. He moved, he turned, he grided through her consciousness. What seemed like miles of movement wisped quickly through her mind. Seconds later the comet figure stopped abruptly. He was stuck again.
"Oh, no," she cried. "Not again. What can I do for this poor little boy? How can I help him?"
Dorothy climbed upstairs to wash her face and calm down. She had resolved to seek help.
Nutley, New Jersey, is a conservative, tucked-away community twenty-five minutes from Manhattan's George Washington Bridge. It is one of many towns in northern New Jersey to which ethnic families have escaped from the density of their early ghettos. It is predominantly Italian, Irish, and German.
The town's most evident landmarks are the enormous office compounds of two gigantic companies: pharmaceutical giant Hoffman La Roche and the defense research division of ITT.
Apart from the encircling highways and the two industries, Nutley is a quiet, green community. In its center is Booth Park, which meanders through the heart of the community neighborhoods. Approximately a hundred yards wide, Booth Park is five miles of serpentine land, with a lively stream running through its center. Little Japanese footbridges mark its path.
The stream branches out in several places, disappearing underground through an intricate system of pipes, all running under various parts of the ITT complex and finally coming together at a point known as Bleachery Pond, which is in the adjoining town of Clifton, directly across the highway from ITT. From here, water pours into the Passaic River, eventually finding its way into Newark Bay and the grand Hudson River.
For the Nutley Police Department, the highways and water systems pose many problems. Closed in on all sides by neighboring towns, Nutley receives the bodies of victims who happen to have been disposed of in the New Jersey rivers that flow through the towns. The Nutley police are often relieved that Bleachery Pond is in Clifton's jurisdiction, for people often use it as a dumping ground for everything from dead animals to barrels to ordinary trash.
Chief Francis Buel, Nutley's chief of police, had worked eighteen years in the Nutley Police Department. Chief Buel liked order and sameness; in the eyes of his men his German heritage and his attitude toward people were closely linked.
A large, red-haired man, Chief Buel received Dorothy Allison cordially. It was January 3, 1968, and he was feeling tolerant in these first days of the new year.
Patrolman Don "Vic" Vicaro led the short woman into the chiefs office. Dorothy wore a blue polyester suit. Her brown hair was in beauty-parlor order, still giving off the scent of that morning's hair spray. Her eyes did little to hide the fear she had been living with for a month. She knew in her heart that what she was about to do was going to change her life irrevocably.
Left alone, Dorothy and the chief looked at one another. He sat behind his large, official Danish-Modern desk.
"Now, Mrs. Allison, what can the Nutley Police Department do for you? I trust nothing serious has happened?"
"No, everything is fine with me, I guess. It's just this kid I think has drowned, and I wonder if you might have heard about it."
"Did you see this child drown, Mrs. Allison?" The chief sat up in his large, padded chair.
"No, not exactly. I saw it, but not officially." Dorothy considered the best way to impart what she was trying to say.
"Did you or didn't you see a child drown?" the chief was trying to understand.
"I did. In my dreams. Or rather, in a vision," she stammered.
The chief's light red brows rose. "In a dream, you say? DO you often have dreams of this nature, Mrs. Allison?"
"No, not too often. I've had some incredible dreams in my lifetime, but not too many that I discovered to be real," she explained.
The chief looked at Dorothy. She seemed to be perfectly rational, though nervous and slightly excited.
"You mean you are psychic, right?" the chief asked.
Dorothy sighed. "I guess so," she said reluctantly, never having discussed anything of that nature with a stranger.
"I haven't had a moment's peace in a month," Dorothy began. "I saw this kid drown on December third, at six in the morning. I wrote it down when I woke up. Never before have I had a dream like that. It was so real that I felt it through my body. My right eye exploded and I had to wear sunglasses till last week."
"Exploded?" the chief asked.
"The doctor said a blood vessel broke from tension. The tension was the kid drowning, I tell you."
"What would you like me to do, Mrs. Allison?"
"Maybe you'd recognize the description of the little boy. Not you personally, of course, but maybe someone in the department knows about a missing kid."
"Mrs. Allison - " the chief began.
"Call me Dorothy, please," she interrupted.
"Dorothy, I want you to tell me about the little boy. Describe to me what you are seeing."
Dorothy wondered if his attentiveness meant that he believed in her ability to see, that he believed in psychics. She did not want him to think she was a crazy woman wandering in from the street.
She took a deep breath and her expression relaxed as if she had temporarily gone inside, like a snail, to find something. Her voice had a distant quality to it, though she looked directly at the chief.
"I see a little boy. Maybe five or six years old. It's hard to tell. He has blond hair and it's parted far over on one side, not like most kids. I see his poor little body in the water. His shoes are on the wrong feet and he's wearing a green snowsuit and a religious medal on his shut. His hands are clasped together, and I don't know what could have happened, but they look black, like they've been burned."
"Where is this boy?" Chief Buel whispered.
"In a pipe somewhere, like a sewer pipe. He's stuck. I think the pipe must be in a park, because I see some trees and a school."
Chief Buel sat back, absorbing the barrage of facts. He mentally scanned the latest reports and records regarding missing or murdered children. He must have had a gnawing feeling that the child Dorothy described might indeed be a little boy who was missing in Nutley.
"Chief Buel, the kid has got to be somewhere and maybe if you find this pipe he's in, you'll find him," she challenged him. "The pipe looks broken or crooked. I can't tell, really."
Chief Buel stood up. "Wait here a moment, Dorothy. I'll be right back." And his large frame exited through the door.
"Get me the missing-persons file," he said to his assistant, "dating back two months, I'd say."
Patrolman Vicaro asked the chief about the woman he showed into his office.
"Why? Do you know her?" the Chief asked.
"Not really. I saw her come in. She looked interesting, that's all," the officer replied. "Is she missing someone?" he inquired, pointing to the missing-persons file being handed the chief.
"No more than a few loose screws," the chief snarled. "She hasn't lost anyone. In fact, she's found someone. She thinks she's found a little kid who we might be missing. A kid who drowned, she says."
Vicaro's curiosity was piqued. "Hey, we lost a kid about a month ago, and we never found him. Remember three times into the stream in Booth Park in freezing cold weather? The kid who was playing with his brother ..."
"Wait! I do remember," the chief's eyes brightened. "Get me the file and come into my office. Don't mention anything about this case in front of the woman. We'll see how much she can tell us first," he instructed the patrolman.
Patrolman Vicaro looked the part of an Italian crooner, with his salt-and-pepper hair combed straight back, his gravelly tobacco-laden voice, a blue star-sapphire pinky ring, and a pack of cigarettes neatly tucked in his socks. Raised in a house of four families, he had become a cop in 1954 after serving in the army, a time when being a cop meant elevating oneself to first-class citizenship.
As a kid Vic had seen movies in which hypnosis had been used, and it had stimulated his fantasies. He sensed the mind was a wonderous machine, and that hypnosis might be the key to it. That curiosity was heightened while serving in the army, when he saw a stage show in which hypnosis was performed on members of the audience.
One day, after he had left the service, he was walking around New York City when a book on hypnosis caught his eye in a shop window. He bought the book, read the entire thing that night, and the next day practiced on Ms brother.
When Vic left the service, the country's economic situation was not good. His trade had been laying carpets and tile floors, and he had hoped to expand it into a business of his own. But the economy did not allow for people without financial means to begin businesses. His father, who had come to the United States from Italy when he was two, had been a laborer all his life, working his way into the society and gaming the respect of others.
When Vic's post-army alternatives looked slim, it was his father who suggested he go into police work. Reluctant to don another uniform, Vicaro took the exams anyway and passed. He was a patrolman.
Chief Buel reentered the office.
"When is your birthday?" Dorothy asked him.
"My birthday?" the chief repeated as if a difficult question had been posed. "Well, my birthday is August third."
"Ah! A Leo," Dorothy pronounced. "I'll have to be careful," she said. She wondered if asking him the time of his birth would be too brazen. The thought was interrupted by the arrival of Patrolman Vicaro.
In the next half hour Dorothy recataloged the details of her vision, giving the chief and Vicaro a chance to mentally compare notes with the case they had on hand.
Vicaro queried Dorothy about various aspects of her life and her familiarity with Nutley. He discovered through brief interrogation that she did not know the Kurscics family, the surname of the drowned five-year-old on file, nor was she at all familiar with the Kurscics's neighborhood, or Booth Park for that matter. Vic was surprised Dorothy had never actually been in Booth Park, the largest, most attractive land area in the town.
"My kids always play around the corner at Nicholas Park. We're a one-car family," she explained.
When she heard the name "Kurscics," she simply asked, "Is that the little boy's last name?"
Chief Buel explained that, yes, one of their missing cases was a little Polish boy named Michael Kurscics. That was all they told Dorothy at that time.
Twenty minutes later Chief Buel, Dorothy, and Vicaro were driving in a police car, while two policemen followed in another car: Buel's escape car.
Dorothy's heart halted in mid-pulse when the patrolman sitting in the front seat turned to her and asked, "Have you ever been hypnotized?"
"No, I never have," she gasped. "I don't think I've ever wanted to be hypnotized, either."
The policeman saw she was frightened. "It's really nothing," he told her. "If I know how to hypnotize people, it can't be too difficult. I went to school to learn to use hypnotism in police work. We use it all the time," he lied.
"You do?" Dorothy wanted reassurance. She was surprised that hypnotism was used in Nutley.
"Oh, sure. It helps people remember things they might otherwise think they forgot. Like where the little boy's body is right now."
Chief Buel interrupted at this point, not sure he wanted his cop to hypnotize Dorothy. Never having worked with a psychic before, he might not have been comfortable with what he might find in her mind. However, he admitted to himself that he had seen some interesting work done with hypnosis, and Dorothy's description did sound too close for comfort.
"Mrs. Allison," Chief Buel said. "I assure you that hypnosis is a routine affair and not harmful. Perhaps if Vicaro hypnotizes you right here in the car, you might be able to direct us to Michael Kurscics's body."
Dorothy's mind reeled with images of levitation from the Ed Sullivan Show, and sleepwalking horrors from films and television. "But these are the police," she thought to herself. "If I can't trust them, who can I trust?"
"You want to hypnotize me right here in the car?" she asked.
"If that's okay with you," Chief Buel said.
"Sure," Dorothy finally agreed.
Buel looked at his watch. "It's twelve-thirty now. Why don't you tell some of the men to go on to lunch," he said to the policeman driving the car. "I'll hang around for another couple of minutes to see what comes up. Otherwise I'll be back at the station around one-thirty."
Vicaro switched places with Chief Buel, and Dorothy leaned on the door, stretching her short legs on the floor. She tried to seem calm, wanting to help the police in understanding her dream. If hypnosis would bring them closer to a solution, then she would participate, in spite of her fears.
Within minutes the patrolman had relaxed her into a deep trance. Her nervous breathing was now quieter, as if an inner metronome had changed tempo for slower music. Her head rested against the window.
"What do you see, Dorothy?" he asked.
"An old broken-down house on a huge empty lot. No one is living in it. There's a "No Trespassing" sign on the door."
"You mean the old shack across the highway?"
"Yeah, the one we call the haunted house."
They drove on and parked beside a large, empty lot where the last house stood in an area that would soon be developed for shopping. It was now blanketed in snow. The windows of the two-story wooden structure were boarded up, and the porch looked dilapidated.
"Is Michael Kurscics's body near here, Dorothy?" inquired Vicaro.
"No, not now," she replied. He began to wonder where this might lead them. "What do you see now?"
"I see a room full of books and papers all over a big desk. There's a tall blond woman walking back and forth, like she's waiting for someone. She lives between two cemeteries ..."
"Dorothy, wait a minute. I think you're picking up things from the area that have nothing to do with the kid. Let's move to another area," Vicaro suggested.
Chief Buel motioned, to Vicaro. "I'm leaving," he said. Then in a low voice, "You better know what you're doing. I'm leaving her in your hands. Let me know if anything comes up."
Chief Buel drove away with one of his men. He must have wondered about this woman who seemed such a bundle of energy and nerves, seeing a little kid drown and then coming to the police with the information. He must not have felt comfortable working with a psychic, if indeed she proved to be psychic. He had not built his reputation on being lenient and liberal, and was not sure he wanted his name associated with the woman.
Vicaro was feeling frustrated. "Let's go to the place where we know the kid drowned," he said to the driver, "Maybe you're not seeing things right," he suggested to Dorothy.
Dorothy was hurt by the questioning.
Several minutes later they parked near the beginning of Booth Park, fifty feet from the bridge Michael and Pat Kurscics had played on that drizzly December 3 Sunday morning-the morning of Dorothy's dream. It was here that the police had begun their search, dragging the water which two miles downstream emptied into the Passaic River. The Nutley police had been aided by the Essex County Park Police, including a pair of skin divers, in a day-long search of the river. Assisting in the search were volunteers of the Nutley First Aid Squad and Civil Defense group.
All these men together had found nothing in the swollen river, whose current they clocked at faster than thirty miles. Even the paint can, which seven-year-old Pat Kurscics reported had lured his younger brother to the edge of the water, had disappeared.
Dorothy knew none of these facts.
Vicaro once again put Dorothy under hypnotic trance.
"Okay, can you hear me, Dorothy?" he questioned.
"Yes, loud and clear," she confirmed.
"Describe Michael Kurscics to me, if you can."
Dorothy squinted as if a bright light confronted her. "I see him. Oh my God, he looks so still and dead. There's a light around his body. He's not moving right now. He's stuck in the pipe."
"Is he stuck right here, near the bridge?" the officer pursued.
"No, I don't see the bridge. I see the school and a broken pipe. A crooked pipe. At least it looks broken."
Vicaro brought her out of the trance. He decided that enough had been done for one day, and she obviously wasn't going to find the boy that day. Something, he felt, had to be done to clear her vision.
"Are there any broken pipes that you know of in the park?" Dorothy asked the patrolman.
"Not that I know of, but I'll have it checked out. Maybe the chief will know."
When Dorothy and Vicaro appeared in the police parking lot, she felt weary and cold. The temperature had dropped below freezing and her feet were frozen.
Vicaro turned to her. "Do you mind if I give you a call later, or drop by your house? Maybe we could try again tomorrow, or whenever it's convenient for you."
"Sure. Let me know what tune you boys want to come by and I'll fix you lunch. How's that?"
Vicaro smiled to himself. It's hard to think that this little lady is making all this up, he thought.
"You get some rest, and maybe we'll find the kid's body tomorrow. I think you know where he is," Vicaro concluded.
Dorothy was pleased to hear him confirm his belief in her dream. Sharing it seemed to ease the burden, but she was still frightened for the child. More than fear, she felt a constant sadness. Sadness for a boy she did not know, whose family had meant nothing to her before December 3, and whose death still haunted her daily existence. She had a gnawing feeling that it she had acted upon her dream a month earlier, the boy might have been saved. Then again, there was the chance that her dream had nothing to do with Michael Kurscics, at all.
"Why me?" she asked herself as she drove past the large Hoffman La Roche complex of buildings, known locally as the "Pill Box." "Why did I dream about this kid when there're all these people around who might have recognized him?" The ghastly image in her mind would not budge from its place, wherever that place might be.
She was stymied by the little bridge where Vicaro her the child had drowned. She had no picture of that place in her mind. Nowhere in her dreams had she seen the little footbridge. Nor did she recognize the surrounding area. The scene of her dreams did not resemble any spot she had seen in the park that day.
Chief Buel, listening to Vicaro's report, wondered about the same points. "Where do you suppose she's seeing the kid?" he asked the patrolman. "Or do you think she's seeing this kid at all?"
"I don't know. I really can't make out what she's talking about. How could the kid get up around the haunted house if he fell into the stream? There isn't a stream next to the house," Vicaro said.
"I think the kid's in the Passaic, to tell you the god| damned truth. The kid drowned thirty days ago in fast-moving water." Chief Buel shook his head slowly. "I'll he won't be washed up till spring, and by that time, there won't be anything left to bury but a religious medal."
Vicaro thought for a moment. The religious medal was in Dorothy's description, not in the Kurscies's description. The chief was integrating Dorothy's facts, as well.
"I'd like a few days to work with the woman. With another couple of days of hypnosis, I figure I can find out all she's got to say. I'd like to walk her through the park see if she gets any strong feelings."
"I don't know," the chief looked perplexed. "I'm afraid she might be a waste of time."
The phone rang. Chief Buel picked it up.
"Yeah? Mrs. Who?" He cupped his hand over the phone. "It's your lady, Vic."
"What can I do for you, Mrs. Allison? Yes, I mean Dorothy."
"One moment. Let me ask Vicaro here. Maybe he'll know." Once again he cupped the receiver. "She wants to know if she can talk to the kid's mother. She thinks that hearing her voice and meeting her will help her find the kid."
"The kid's mother isn't in the area right now. I'll try and find her, but I don't think she's around."
"Dorothy," the chief piped into the phone, "the patrolman here says he'll find you the kid's mother. He's not exactly sure where she is right now, but he'll get on it right away." He hesitated for a moment. "No, I don't think she's on vacation. What's that? You say there's a crooked pipe in the park? I'll ask Vicaro about it. Thank you, Mrs. Allison."
"That woman needs something, and I don't know what it is, either," the chief muttered, dropping the receiver. "Or maybe I do know," he smiled. "Okay, Vicaro, you can spend some time on this case. If you don't find anything by Friday, though, you'll have to use your own time." He looked out the window. "You're going to have a rough time finding anything in this cold weather. It's supposed to snow again tomorrow. If that kid is in ice, there ain't a cop this side of Manhattan that'll find Mm. Unless he's a seal."
"Okay, Chief, as you say." Vicaro thought for a moment. "What do you think about using a real doctor to hypnotize her? She makes me nervous. I never messed with a psychic before."
"You really think something is there, don't you?" The chief looked Vicaro in the eyes. "You believe in this, don't you?"
"What do you want me to say, Chief?" Vicaro lashed out defensively. "This little woman walks in and describes almost exactly a kid we've been missing for a month, and she's never even heard of the family. I think we should do anything we can to find this kid."
"I don't see the kid's parents knocking down our doors, either. We slopped through every foot of freezing water in the park and you're telling me we've done nothing? You want to drag that goddamned stream again in all this ice and find the same crap? If you do, you're welcome to do it on your own time. Okay?"
"Sorry, Chief," Vicaro said in a quieter tone of voice.
"Find out who the city cops are using for hypnosis.
There're some big people in New York. Just don't tell the other cops that this woman is a psychic. Hear me?"
"Great." Vicaro was relieved "See you later, Chief," Vicaro closed the door behind him.
Chief Buel sat for a quiet moment. Suddenly he remembered Dorothy's mentioning crooked pipe in the park. He picked up his phone and buzzed his assistant.
"When Vicaro comes back, tell him I want him to the underground map of Booth Park from the city engineer's office. I want him to find out if there's anything in the park that's crooked."
At home that evening Dorothy pondered the day's events as she finished washing the dinner dishes and straightening her kitchen. The police seemed nice enough, but she did not trust them completely. How many people come into the police department like I did today? she wondered. Probably not many. I wonder how my chart re for tomorrow. I have a feeling I'm going to find that kid ... I know it's Michael Kurscics. I really just know that "I don't know how in God's name I know that," she to the dishes, "but I do."
Her thoughts were interrupted by the ringing of the phone. Patrolman Vicaro was calling.
Vicaro asked Dorothy if she would be available the next afternoon for another spin in the park. "I'd like to try hypnosis one more time. And then, I have a suggestion," said. "I'd like to take you to a real doctor in New York for hypnosis and interrogation. They have doctors in the city who do this kind of thing all the time," he explained. "I got the name of one of the biggest. The New York City cops use him all the time. Why don't you think about it tonight and you can let me know tomorrow when I pick you up How's that?"
Dorothy was pleased by the call. It somehow made her feel important. "Terrific. Come by anytime. I'll be here all day, except when I take my kids to school. Did you find out if that park has crooked pipes?"
"Chief Buel and the city engineer say there ain't none They should know. Both of them were there when the park was laid out, too."
The image of the little boy stuck in the crooked pipe flashed before her, as a television picture struggles to focus. "I know there's a crooked pipe somewhere. That kid is stuck there."
"The chief says if you pick out where you feel this pipe is, he'll dig it out. How's that?"
"You tell the chief I love him." Dorothy's elation was evident. "See you tomorrow, Vic."
For the next few weeks Vicaro and Dorothy tried to locate the child's body by traveling through the area and walking endlessly through Booth Park. Through snow and slush Dorothy plodded on in her efforts to resolve the vision.
Vicaro had a copy of the city engineer's map of Booth Park and its environs.
"As far as I can tell, Dorothy, there's nothing in the park that's crooked or bent," he explained to her as she looked over the map, seeing nothing but squiggles and lines.
"There are places like this," his finger pointed to a place where two lines met at perpendiculars, one line meeting the main pipe line. "But," Vicaro continued, "nothing can get stuck at these points. Too big and too much flow."
"Well," Dorothy thought, "I don't understand it either."
"Why don't we go ahead and see if you feel anything as we walk through the park. Chief Buel did say he would dig anywhere you pointed."
It was not until two days later that Dorothy, Vicaro, and another policeman put the chiefs promise into action.
Dorothy walked ahead of the two policemen who were talking about cases she did not want to hear about, for fear her concentration would be interrupted. In her hypnotic state, she sensed the closeness of something. The image of the boy was constant in her vision.
Her feet moved slowly as she made fresh tracks in the snow. She turned to Vicaro with a ringer extended downward.
"Here," she called excitedly. "I feel it. I think there's a crooked pipe down there."
The two policemen looked at the spot Dorothy designated. Nothing unusual was evident aboveground. The terrain did not alter drastically.
Vicaro went to his car radio and called for help. While waiting for the arrival of the digging crew, the three figures sat in the car, where warmth revived them.
An hour later, anyone passing Booth Park might have thought that a film crew was at work. Tremendous high-intensity lights illuminated the area Dorothy had pinpointed, brightly reflected in the snow and frozen soil.
A crew of six men began digging around 3:30 P.M. It was dark and cold already. They picked their way through several feet of mud and rock.
Two hours had passed when Chief Buel stopped by on his way home. He found Dorothy administering coffee and doughnuts to his men. He smiled at the sight of the small woman rendering care as if to the wounded, bolstering their cold and weary spirits, bouncing around to see what progress was being made.
"Your men are so beautiful," Dorothy ran up to the chief. "They've been working for over two hours now, and I think we're getting closer every minute." Dorothy was feeling anxious about putting so many people to work in such cold weather, all due to her vision.
As the two stood talking, one of the men standing in the trench called out to them. "Over here. I bet this is what you're talking about."
Dorothy ran over to the man. There, in front of his boots, was a large, round, broken pipe. The cold weather had worked its way through the seam, causing it to crack. Movement in the soil below had pushed a section of it up, causing it to jut out several inches like a broken jaw.
Chief Buel looked down. "A five-year-old body could get stuck in a snag like that." He looked at Dorothy. "The city engineer will be surprised to know he has a crooked pipe in Booth Park."
"We're getting closer," Vicaro said. "There's no body here now. You'll find that kid soon, I bet," he said with assurance to Dorothy and the chief.
Dorothy looked tired. "Let's call it a day, okay?" Vicaro suggested. He and the chief escorted Dorothy across the field.
"Those boys must be hungry now," she said to Vicaro. "How about my fixing you and the boys an Italian dinner at my house?"
Later that evening, when Vicaro was leaving Dorothy's feast, he told her that he would take her to New York City on Saturday for a session with a doctor.
"What kind of doctor?" Dorothy wanted to know.
"What do you mean, what kind of doctor?" Vicaro kidded her. "A shrink!" he exclaimed. "You know, a psychiatrist."
"Oh, Holy God above, now a psychiatrist! What will my family say now?" she moaned, half enjoying the drama, and definitely intrigued by the notion of a psychiatrist.
"What time?" Dorothy inquired. "Do shrinks get up early on Saturdays?"
"How'm I supposed to know," Vicaro jested. "I told him we'd be there around eleven. How's that with you?"
"That's just dandy with me. The earlier the better. I got a ton of shopping to do in the afternoon. You know something, Vic?" Dorothy's voice had suddenly softened and was almost contemplative. "Looking for a dead body is not the easiest work in the world. Nor the happiest." She clutched the gold medal on her chest with her fist. "As long as I've got my Saint Anthony with me, I'll never quit. I'm already seeing other things, other faces, and I know I won't be able to let go of them easily. I think I have my work cut out for me. We'll have to wait and see."
"I think you're onto something, Dorothy," the officer said. "I know it's not easy. And I hope we're right about this little boy."
"I know we're right," Dorothy said as she closed the door behind her. Thirty seconds later her head popped out the door again. "Hey, Vicaro," she hollered into the night. "Get me that baby's mother!" And she slammed the door.
The following Saturday morning, January 16, Dorothy was up early, cleaning the kitchen and preparing breakfast for her sleeping family. These were the times when she could think, reflect over events involving her children, and plan strategies she would set forth to her family when they descended for breakfast, too groggy to be resistant to an old pro like Dorothy.
"Not a very good day for a visit to the city," she thought out loud. Through the kitchen window the world was gray and cloudy; frozen remnants of snow were piled high against the house. Neighbors' Christmas lights still flickered in the trees.
Vicaro was supposed to pick her up at 10:00, and she still had a full list of errands and chores she wanted done. If Justine had time, she would delegate some chores to her. Dorothy did not believe in asking the men of her household to perform household duties.
"I'm going into New York today with the police," Dorothy said to Justine and Paul. "I don't know what time I'll be home, but I have a feeling it won't be till late this afternoon."
"Think you'll find the little boy today, Ma?" Justine asked.
"No," Dorothy said. "But I have a feeling some important stuff is going to happen. I'm not nervous with the hypnosis now, like I was before. I think I'll be able to see more with a real good doctor and hypnotist.
"Anyway," she handed one end of a curtain to Justine, and they began to fold them automatically, "Uranus is high in my Tenth House today, which is a good sign for mental powers. But I have to be careful about my natal Venus, which will definitely affect the whole mess."
"Are you sure this doctor knows what he's doing?" her husband asked. Bob knew his wife would do what she thought best, regardless of any advice or warnings anyone might offer.
"How'm I supposed to know?" Dorothy shrugged. "I never did this sort of thing before. God knows, no one in my family ever went to a psychiatrist. I still don't know exactly what they do."
Dorothy thought for a moment. "All New Yorkers are weird," she proclaimed. "But this doctor, or whatever he is, isn't charging me a penny, and I think that's terrific.
"He's going to help me figure out what I'm seeing, too," Dorothy went on. "That isn't easy. This morning, while I was cleaning the den, I kept having crazy flashes. First," she raised a finger dramatically, "I see pots and pans on a big wall in a huge kitchen, so I figure I got to get breakfast made. Then," she raised a second finger, "I see lots of people moving through the kitchen, like it's a restaurant." She raised both arms to the ceiling. "God save me if all those people ever set foot in my kitchen!"
Dorothy sat down and poured more coffee for her husband. "I see all these people going crazy, like someone is getting hurt," she continued. "Someone doubles over and hundreds of people pounce on him. Just as I'm getting close to focusing on faces, Michael Kurscics's face appears."
She sat back and took a deep breath. "I swear, there's no way all this doesn't add up to mean something. I just got to have help figuring it out."
Dorothy looked at the clock. "Oh my God, Vicaro will be here in an hour. I've got to get moving." She fingered her hair. "I'm running over to let Rosemary do something with this mop. I can't look this way for the doctor. Especially since he's not charging me."
Vicaro and Dorothy had spent at least a few hours daily looking for clues to the whereabouts of Michael Kurscics. She still had not met the boy's mother, who was reported to be living in another town at the time of her son's drowning. Vicaro promised he would find the mother for Dorothy the following week.
"I won't be able to find the kid till I meet her," Dorothy nudged. "I don't care what kind of woman she is, a mother is hurt when she loses a child."
When the doorbell rang, Dorothy registered a feeling of panic. What's going to happen today? she asked herself in the mirror, positioning her scarf and tying it securely under her chin. What a strange world this is.
When Dorothy opened the door, Patrolman Vicaro smiled. "Ready?"
She jumped forward and gave him a smack on the cheek and a quick hug. He returned the affectionate gesture, calming her nerves a bit.
"Hey," he stood back, "you look terrific. Is that a new coat?"
"Honey," she winked at the officer, "if not now, when?"
Vicaro smiled as the two drove off in the police car for Manhattan. Circling on the highway for entry into the Lincoln Tunnel, Dorothy looked out over Manhattan's sky-line, gray against the winter skies. For much of her life she had seen the majestic city from the poor man's vantage point of Jersey City. She saw the city as a symbol of formidable strength.
"I love to come to New York City, but I'd never want to live there," she said to Vicaro. "It's a crazy place, isn't it?"
"Yeah, a lot of crime and dirt," Vicaro responded. Dorothy smiled at the policeman's response, realizing that his profession gave him a particular attitude toward New York.
As Dorothy looked out over the West Side, and at the ships docked alongside the piers, she felt anxious. wasn't sure why, but she had an inkling that something she saw along the waterfront had some special significance.
They stopped in front of one of Central Park West's Art Deco triumphs, a building with an imposing brick and silver chrome facade.
"Isn't this something?" Dorothy admired the lights in the chrome of the entryway. Her fingers ran up the shiny surface. "And not a bit of dust, either," she nodded approvingly to the doorman.
When the correct apartment had been found, Vicaro pushed the buzzer. Seconds later a dark, curly haired man, well manicured and in his late thirties, opened the door.
"Hello, there, I'm Dr. Ribner." He extended his hand to Dorothy and Vicaro and led them into the vestibule.
"Please come right in. I'm so pleased to finally me you, Mrs. Allison," he said. "Why don't we sit down for moment, talk some business, and then I'd like to step outside with patrolman Vicaro so he can give me a quick rundown on the case." He looked at Dorothy. "I don't want you to be influenced by any details," he explained.
As Dorothy walked into the doctor's office, she admired the wall of dark-wood bookcases with glass doors jammed full of books and knickknacks from all over the world. A large blue and white Victorian urn stood on a bookcase.
"What do you use that for? It's too big for cookies." Dorothy asked with childlike curiosity.
"It's from my parents' home. Big enough to hide a kid, isn't it?" the doctor teased her.
Dr. Ribner escorted Dorothy to the seat in front of his gilded Empire desk. Vicaro sat next to her. Ribner assumed command from behind the desk.
"Dorothy, how are you feeling?" Ribner inquired softly.
"Nervous. Very scared, to be honest. I was hypnotized recently, for the first time, and I assure you, I was plenty frightened."
"I can appreciate that. But you don't need to be frightened now," he reassured her. "At least, not of hypnotism. I imagine your visions might be frightening, though."
"Yes, I can't begin to tell you. My whole life has not been the same since December third."
"We'll get into that in a moment." Dr. Ribner leaned forward. "I see your gifts are not only psychic, but that you are gifted with beauty, as well."
Dorothy felt her head pound. The vibrations are right, she thought to herself. This man is on my side. Much of her fear slipped away and she began to ease into her surroundings.
The doctor became serious. 'To be honest, I don't exactly know what role-hypnosis can play in helping you or anyone else understand what you're seeing. For the most part, psychic phenomena are outside the realm of scientific data and research. That is not to say that there isn't research going on, because there is. Not as much attention is being given to the workings of the mind as, let's say, physical diseases like cancer. But scientists - mostly physicists - have been trying to apply their branch of science to ESP, telepathy, and all the other varieties of parapsychological wonders."
He paused, looked into Vicaro's eyes, then Dorothy's, waiting for questions. When there were none, he concluded, "Just believing in it is the first and most important breakthrough to understanding."
Dorothy reached out and touched the doctor's hand. "I think I love you," she said. They all smiled. They all understood.
Dorothy looked around the room toward the only window, which offered a view of other buildings and a great expanse of New York winter sky. A large assortment of coleus and dark green snake plants cluttered the window-sill. Between the window and the desk stood a soft, yellow leather reclining chair. Dorothy gulped.
"That's right," Ribner smiled. "Every psychiatrist has a couch."
Dorothy smiled nervously. "Does every patient have a dream?" she asked.
"No," he replied.
"Good, then you won't mind working on one more."
"Dorothy, why don't you excuse Patrolman Vicaro and me for one moment. We'll step into the waiting room."
"Go right ahead. I'll sit right here and stare at this beautiful desk and rug," she looked down. "My God, it's so clean!" she exclaimed. "Don't you ever have patients with muddy feet?"
"Not many, I suppose," the doctor replied as he closed the outside door behind him.
Dorothy looked at the diplomas on the wall and thought about the Latin she had heard as a child. Latin meant church to Dorothy. Latin was everything she had been forced to learn by her mother and oldest sister as a youngster. Latin was the language she aspired to know so that she would be accepted, like everyone else in the church. Latin was the unintelligible language of God, the language that drifted from her mother's bedroom as she and her friends prayed in the afternoon. In the afternoon, Dorothy smiled to herself, so that my father wouldn't see them.
She sighed nervously. I had enough Latin to choke a horse when I was a kid.
"Okay, Dorothy," Dr. Ribner's voice interrupted. "Why don't you lie down on the couch and we'll proceed. I've asked the officer to remain outside while I hypnotize you, so that you aren't distracted. Later he will help me in the questioning."
Dorothy plopped into the reclining seat, her legs not quite making it to the end. She looked to her right and saw a small black rectangular box with two large dials on it. She read out loud, "Dose ... Output ... Frequency."
"This little machine helps you to focus your concentration," Dr. Ribner explained.
"I'm not mechanical, but if this little box can help me focus, I'll marry it," Dorothy announced.
"It's really very simple. What I'm going to do is prick your ear a tiny, tiny bit with this," and he held up a small clamp connected by one red and one white wire to the box, and touched it to his ear.
"What you will feel is no more than a slight run of electricity in the ear. We use this rather than an acupuncture needle."
"Don't explain it to me," Dorothy warned. "I get too nervous around doctors and neediest
"Do you have any questions?" Ribner asked as he pulled the window shade down, covering half the window.
"Nope. Let's get going."
The clamp was applied to Dorothy's ear, and soon she felt a slight buzz of electricity. "Now, I want you to think of the word relax. I want you to think about its meaning. Spell it out. Feel it. Just relax now," Ribner's voice was smooth and firm.
"Close your eyes and relax your body. Concentrate on the feelings in your ear and relax. Just relax."
Vicaro could barely hear muffled voices from the waiting area. His ear to the door, he strained to hear what was happening in the doctor's office. He wondered what methods the doctor used for hypnotizing. He felt embarrassed to discuss the topic. As he strained closer to the door, it opened and caught him by surprise.
"Step quietly," whispered Ribner. "She's perfectly fine. An easy subject."
The doctor sat directly in front of Dorothy, one arm on the windowsill. Vicaro sat next to the door, in front of the desk. He caught sight of the clamp connected to Dorothy's right ear and felt a shiver go up his spine. Brave lady, he couldn't help thinking.
"Dorothy, how do you feel?" the doctor began.
"Fine. I think."
"Do you know where you are?"
"Yes, with you."
"Okay, Dorothy, breathe easily for a moment and describe to me how you see Michael Kurscics."
Dorothy's heavy-lidded eyes appeared relaxed to the observer. Behind the eyelids, distance melted into nothingness, time lost its meaning. Images flickered before her as she reached for an image of Michael Kurscics.
"Michael Kurscics," the doctor repeated.
The image of the little boy, now dead six weeks, glimmered before her.
"I see him now," Dorothy's calm voice stated. "He looks awful. He's still stuck in the pipe. I don't know if it's the same place."
"Can you stand above the pipe?"
She paused as she realigned her vantage point.
"I see the pipe. I see the water rushing over the pipe and the little boy's body."
"Describe for me what you see above the pipe. What can you identify in the area?"
"I see snow. Tall trees with no leaves. There's a large square thing with blue in it. It looks painted, but it's meant to be water, I think."
"You mean the stream?" asked Ribner for clarification.
"No, this is different," Dorothy said.
"A swimming pool?" Vicaro interjected. "Do you see a swimming pool, Dorothy?"
"Yes. It's up on a hill."
Vicaro nodded his head approvingly to the doctor. He recognized the pool as the one directly above the spot where the little boy drowned.
"What happens to Michael Kurscics near the pool?" Ribner queried.
"I see him falling into the stream. He's poking around for something, a can of some sort, and he's falling as he reaches out for the stupid can. It's slippery and cold. The water is very cold. It stuns him, shocks him."
"Is he there now, Dorothy?"
"No, he's stuck now. But he was there awhile ago."
"Where?"
"In the pipe."
"Which pipe? Where is the pipe?"
"Which pipe?" Dorothy repeated. "Well, I see ITT. I see a school. There's a lot of water, like a bigger river, or something. Bigger than the stream. And I see something poking out of the water, it looks like a chimney. Like a smokestack."
"Okay, Dorothy," Ribner stopped her. "You say you see the boy in a pipe. Right?"
"Right."
"Has he been in the same place for the whole time?"
Dorothy thought for a moment. "I don't think so. It's hard for me to say. I know I keep seeing him in different places, though."
Vicaro was trying hard to put all the landmarks together. It didn't make sense. Most of the time she was describing things along the path of Booth Park and the stream. But the haunted house was nowhere near that stream. Anyway, the stream had been searched several times and had produced no body and no pipe. Chief Buel's notion that the kid's body was somewhere in the Passaic or Hudson made more sense with every passing day.
Vicaro was beginning to sense that there was something strange about the sequence of Dorothy's visions. The spot she described in her first dream, on December 3, was yet to be found. Now, for the first time, she was seeing the beginning of the boy's accident. Was it because she had overheard details during the investigation? Because she had become familiar with Booth Park?
Vicaro sighed. I'll bet the kid she saw isn't Kurscics at all, he thought. Then a voice in him said, But what about the clothes and the timing?
Dr. Ribner was pleased with Dorothy's work. He looked at Vicaro. "Is there anything you would like to ask?"
"No, not right now," Vicaro replied.
"Fine," the doctor concluded. Within seconds, Dorothy was out of the trance and able to remember everything she had said.
She looked at Vicaro. "Where is that pool?"
"It's near the place where the two little kids were playing. I'll shew you tomorrow."
"Dorothy, how do you feel?" asked Dr. Ribner.
"Never felt better. Got to find that little boy before my heart breaks."
"We will, and I think soon," Dr. Ribner predicted. "I would like to hypnotize you again next Saturday. Perhaps with time, we can desengage the little boy in your head. I don't know if he is stuck, or perhaps it is your own thoughts that are stuck. Only time will tell."
The following Saturday was agreed upon for the next session.
Tuesday evening Dorothy and her husband had dinner at Don Vicaro's house. Vicaro was anxious to have his wife meet Dorothy. Present at the meal was Mrs. Vicaro's sixteen-year-old brother, Robert, a tall, handsome boy wearing a high-school jacket.
Dorothy asked the boy if he liked motorcycles.
"Yes," he muttered.
Dorothy asked him if he knew anything about a "brand new red motorcycle with V-shaped ornamentation on its front?" She described the motorcycle in detail.
Robert said he had never seen one like it.
"Well, if you do," Dorothy warned, "be careful, because it could cause you injury."
"The next day," Vicaro later reported to Dorothy, "at a local ball park, Robert met an out-of-town friend who had just bought himself a new motorbike exactly like the one you described. The friend asked Robert to go for a ride."
Robert refused, telling his friend about the prediction. The friend laughed at such "nonsense" and took off on the new motorbike.
A few hundred yards down the road, a car shot out of a side street and struck the motorbike. The friend's arm was injured.
"Robert's face was white as a sheet when he came home and told us about the accident," Vicaro told Dorothy on the phone.
Dorothy was excited by Vicaro's news, because she felt she might have saved a boy's life.
A few days later Dorothy sat in her dining room working on her charts; astrological books and magazines, papers, and charts were spread out all over the dining-room table. She had already worked out the charts of Michael Kurscics and his parents, based on birth information the police had provided, to see if they supported her psychic vision.
Michael's parents were born into poor Polish families in New Jersey. Neither parent had a very stable astrological chart, especially when matched side by side. Dorothy wondered how a little five-year-old boy could be left in the care of his seven-year-old brother in such awful weather. The charts, however, helped her to understand the craziness that prevailed in the victim's home.
Looking at Lydia's chart, Dorothy discovered a point of what seemed to be personal tragedy in early childhood. Dorothy deduced that the incident had occurred when Lydia was in her tenth year. She looked into the mirror that covered the wall in her dining room and smiled. She felt she had made an important discovery, but she needed to meet Lydia to check it out.
Dorothy sat at the large table in her green flannel housecoat, two rollers in her hair, one over each ear. She felt that her life was only just beginning. Examining Lydia's chart - a woman considerably younger than herself, whose life looked difficult and whose prospects seemed not likely to improve - Dorothy felt compassion: compassion for the stranger whose child she somehow shared.
Dorothy lit a cigarette and went into the den, put her feet up on the couch, and looked at the photographs of her three children. They all shared her prominent brow and square jawline. She felt proud of her children. The world, she knew, could be terribly cruel. Children, no matter whose, needed protection. Her two sons had been raised with the ability to defend themselves, as had Justine, who could whip any boy on the block, if necessary.
The sound of the doorbell broke into her thoughts. Dorothy looked at the clock. It was already 10:30. She had worked on charts for two hours and had expected no visitors until lunchtime.
She buttoned her housecoat. The two rollers bounced in her hair as she went to the door. From the front window she caught a glimpse of Vicaro's patrol car.
"Dorothy." Vicaro moved into the house, out of the cold January day. "I'd like you to meet Lydia Kurscics."
Standing before Dorothy was a tall, thin woman wearing a long red coat, her hair pulled back under a brown knitted cap.
Dorothy took her hand, pumping it up and down. "I am so thankful to meet you. I was beginning to think Vic had personally hidden you."
The woman looked embarrassed. She assumed everyone knew that she had left her husband and children weeks before her son's disappearance. Now, standing before this psychic, Lydia Kurscics felt shy.
"Throw your coats on the couch," Dorothy instructed them. "Vic, put some water on the stove. I've got to run upstairs and put something on," she yelled as she darted up the staircase.
Moments later Dorothy stood before the kitchen sink, her back turned to her guests. "I've been extremely busy these last few weeks," she explained. "Please excuse the mess. My children keep me on the run. What's really keeping me busy," she turned to look at Lydia, "is your little boy. He just won't let go, and we can't find him. It's really too much for me."
Dorothy gently pushed coffee cups across the table and watched them skate, stopping just Shy of their intended destinations. Each cup bore a different sign of the zodiac.
"Milk? Yeah, I can see you take milk," Dorothy said, reaching into the refrigerator.
Dorothy sat down at the table with her Capricorn cup and poured coffee all around. "Here, have a sweet roll, you're too thin." The box of rolls flew to Lydia's side.
Vicaro began. "I've told Lydia about your seeing Michael and how much time you've spent with us working on the case."
"I can't tell you how appreciative I am," Lydia said softly. "I'm afraid I have no money to repay you, but maybe my husband will be able ..."
"Money?" Dorothy cut her short. "Who said anything about money? Vic isn't charging. Dr. Ribner didn't ask for anything. Saint Anthony never charged," she said, holding the medal around her neck. "I just want to find that poor little boy, that's all."
"Do you think you'll be able to find Mm?" Lydia asked. "You know they've already said the Mass of Angels for him."
"They didn't ask me about it. I would have told them to hold off," Dorothy said. "That's all right, now you know God is waiting for him and will protect him. Now that I've met you," she continued, "I know I will find him. Seeing you has confirmed for me the feeling that you are the mother of the boy I'm seeing. That's why I knew I had to meet you. Listen, Lydia, can I ask you something personal? Or should I kick Vicaro out first?" Dorothy asked.
Lydia turned red. "You can ask me anything in front of Vic, I guess," she stammered. She sat up stiffly and folded her arms before her.
Dorothy looked her in the eyes. "I see you were molested by your father when you were ten years old."
Vicaro turned white. Lydia gasped.
"I was nine," Lydia whispered, not sure if a correction was necessary.
Dorothy stamped her foot. "Sometimes I'm a year or two off, but I didn't know the exact time of birth," she said in her proud defense. Now Dorothy knew that she had a believer in Lydia Kurscics; she could tell the woman all about her son.
"I really feel for your kid, Lydia. That's why I've got to find him. We also have to do something with you," Dorothy said. "I know you have no place to go now. Right?" she probed.
Again Lydia was surprised. "You're right. I had an awful fight with the man I've been living with. I have no place to sleep and no job." Tears flowed down her cheeks.
"Well, just relax and we'll get some nourishment into those bones. You can stay right here until we find you a job. I've got plenty of room," Dorothy said spontaneously. "Woman need protection from men in the world," she said to Vicaro. "That's why there should be more women cops, so that women can be understood by the law, too."
Dorothy looked at the clock. It was 11:45 and she expected company for lunch. She placed a pile of small white onions on the Formica table, handed a knife to Lydia, and said, "Chop, sweetheart, we've got no more time to waste." Lydia moved in that afternoon and shared a bedroom with Justine. It was not until the end of March, two months later, that she finally left the Allison house.
The following Saturday, January 23, Dr. Ribner warmly received Dorothy and Vic. Dorothy at once sat in the lounge chair. No long explanations were necessary. They all knew their roles. Dr. Ribner had already been briefed as to the previous week's progress.
"Doctor, I've been seeing lots of crazy things this week. I don't know why, but the world seems to be sleeping in my head." Dorothy dropped her head against the leather couch.
"We'll see what happens today," Dr. Ribner said as he adjusted the clamp to Dorothy's ear, regulated the dials, and lowered the shade.
"You're certainly looking well, Dorothy," the doctor said. "Maybe all those people rummaging around in there," he pointed to her head, "help keep you beautiful and thin."
"You know something," Dorothy smiled and looked at the doctor, "I think you're blind as a bat. Is this what psychiatrists do, tell funny-looking middle-aged women they're beautiful? Next tune you'll probably tell me I look like Sophia Loren," she laughed.
Dr. Ribner blanched slightly at Dorothy's bluntness and decided he'd better get on with the questions. In moments he had her hypontized.
"Where do you see the boy?" he asked.
"He's not moving right now. He has been moving for awhile through the pipe. Yes, he has been flowing freely."
"Is he the only thing you see?" Dr. Ribner asked.
"No," Dorothy replied. "I see chunks of ice and little things, like garbage, moving around."
"Dorothy, do you think the boy is in the stream, or in a large river?" Ribner asked.
"Oh no, I'm sure it's not a river. I think he's in the sewer. But that's not where you're going to find him," Dorothy assured them.
"Where will we find him?" Vicaro asked.
"I've already described it to you. Where I saw him the first time. Wherever that is."
"Are you sure?" the officer pursued.
"Of course I'm sure," Dorothy sounded piqued.
"Why can't we find him there now?" Vicaro asked.
"Because he's not there now," Dorothy snapped. "You haven't even figured out where I'm talking about, to begin with."
Dr. Ribner felt Vicaro was pushing too hard, so he intervened.
"Dorothy," he said calmly, "relax for a second. Try to get a feeling of how long it will take Michael to get where you say we'll find him."
Dorothy's face was calm. Her entire body was limp as she searched for the moment the little boy would be discovered. The image of the little boy floating through the pipes faded in and out as other images blurred through. She remained quiet for a moment, trying to discern what was happening.
"Dorothy," Dr. Ribner called to her softly, "is something wrong? Are you seeing other things?"
"Yes, I don't know what, though. I've seen it before, recently. But now it's getting a little clearer." Her breathing quickened.
"What is it? Michael Kurscics?"
"No. Completely different," she said.
"What are you seeing?" The doctor moved closer to her.
"I see a kitchen. A huge kitchen with pots and pans all over the walls and huge counters. With a kitchen like that I could feed an army." She paused for a moment.
"I see a ship, too. A big ship like I saw coming into the city. There," she said, as if pointing to something all could witness. "I can't make out the letters on the ship. It's big black script. Not English, or anything like that. The letters are funny, like Greek letters.
"There's a dark man in the kitchen." Dorothy paused again. "Now there are a lot of people. People dressed up. Some of them have cameras. Pictures are flashing all around."
"Do you recognize any of them?" The doctor's voice was more excited.
"The faces aren't too clear. Wait a second," she held her breath. "I'm getting an image of someone." She strained for a clearer focus. "He looks familiar to me, but I can't see him clearly."
The room seemed consumed in a single breath, as Dorothy traveled through dimensions measureless to them in order to see. Both men sat transfixed.
"Who do you see?" Ribner gently probed.
"Kennedy," she said. Dorothy's voice was almost a whisper, as if she weren't positive of her vision. "I see one of the Kennedy boys. I don't know which one. Wait," she screamed. "Now I see two Kennedys."
"Which Kennedys?" Vicaro was anxious.
"The Kennedys!" Dorothy exclaimed. "What other Kennedys are there? I see both Robert and Teddy Kennedy. I think they're in trouble. At least, I feel that one of them is in serious trouble."
"Trouble? What kind of trouble?" the doctor asked.
"I'm not sure. I see a kitchen and a dark-skinned man. I feel he's the trouble. The dark man. If we find out who he is, then we'll know. But," she stopped for a second, "I think someone else in the kitchen might harm them, too."
"Know what?" Vicaro prodded.
"How should I know? I can't even tell which one is in real trouble."
"The ship, Dorothy, is it near the kitchen? Or is the kitchen on the ship?" the doctor pursued.
"No, they're two different places. I feel the ship is nearby. Here in New York. I see the writing is big on the side of the white ship."
Dr. Ribner considered the information for a moment, mentally scanning his familiarity with Mediterranean languages for one similar to Greek. He was Jewish and familiar with Hebrew script.
"Is the dark-skinned man connected with the boat?" he asked.
"I feel he is," Dorothy answered. "Maybe he came to this country on that ship. Maybe his parents did, I don't know."
"Does he work on the ship? Is he a crewman?"
"He's working for the United States, I feel."
Ribner looked at Vicaro. Both men looked surprised. Neither knew exactly what to do with the information. The doctor motioned to Vicaro, asking him if he had any further questions.
"Dorothy," Vicaro queried, "will Robert Kennedy be the next President of the United States?" President Johnson had just announced his decision not to run in the forthcoming election, and Robert Kennedy was a likely candidate.
Dorothy shook her head from side to side. Her eyes were closed, and she seemed anxious. She saw a newspaper headline, the word "Assassinated" across the top.
"No, no, he won't be President." Her breathing had quickened, her hands were holding tightly to the armrests. "I fear he'll be dead before then."
"Dorothy," Dr. Ribner intervened, "try and relax now. You're probably recalling President Kennedy's assassination. Let's try and focus on Michael Kurscics for a moment, then we'll talk about this later. Okay?" he said firmly, not wanting a response.
A minute later Dorothy reported she had the boy's face before her.
"Once again," Ribner led her, "try to sense how long it will take us to find Michael Kurscics."
"February seventh, around one-twenty in the afternoon," she said as If she had just checked her appointment book. "That's when we'll find him."
The two men were again excited, even stunned by her prediction.
"February seventh, around one twenty in the afternoon," Vicaro repeated aloud as he wrote it down in his notebook.
"That's right," Dorothy responded. "That's when someone will find Michael."
Vicaro looked at Ribner. "Now," he whispered, "if we only knew exactly where."
Dr. Ribner rose, lifted the shade, and looked out over the neighborhood buildings toward the west. "Okay, Dorothy, when I count to three, you will awaken and remember everything."
"Wait till I tell Justine I saw the Kennedys," Dorothy jumped out of the trance. "She won't believe it." She looked at Vicaro and the doctor. "Well, what are you thinking? I think we should get in a car and see if I can find that ship. What do you think?" Dorothy challenged them.
Both men looked at Dorothy. "I know what you're thinking, and you don't have to be psychic to see it. I'm not making this up. I see what I see," she shrieked. "I've got a house full of junk that needs to be cleaned. I don't have time either."
"Okay," Dr. Ribner moved toward his desk. "It's fine with me. I don't have an appointment until five, so we have plenty of time. Are you willing?" he asked Vicaro. "After all, it is your car."
"Sure," Vic snapped to his feet. "We've got to do something. I think I'll make a report of this, just in case."
Dorothy was in the waiting room already, wrestling with her new coat. "Report!" she exclaimed. "We've got to tell the FBI, or someone."
"I think we're a little premature, Dorothy. We should have at least one more session to see if we can get more information. You haven't exactly spelled out very much," Ribner suggested reasonably.
"We'll see," Dorothy replied from the elevator.
Two hours of driving up and down the West Side Highway produced no clear identification of a ship. Dorothy did recognize the script on a large freighter, though. The doctor thought it was Egyptian.
Vicaro's patience wore thin, so a date was made with the doctor for the following Saturday in Nutley, at Dorothy's home.
On Saturday Dorothy spent the whole morning feeding her family and straightening the house.
"There's a very important doctor coming here with Officer Vicaro, so I don't want to hear your voices anywhere. You can go over to a friend's house and stay all afternoon," Dorothy told Justine and Paul.
The prospect of finding the little boy excited Dorothy. By the time Ribner and Vicaro arrived, she had worked herself into a frenzy. Boxes of pastries and piles of canned goods were being hurled into their proper quarters when Dorothy heard the doorbell. She had successfully booted everyone out of the house. She went to the door with hands full.
"Dorothy, we've interrupted you," the polite doctor took her hand.
"No, no, come on in. I've been expecting you. I just never seem to get my work finished. My children always seem to be needing more and more, instead of less and less."
The two men entered the house, and Dorothy gave the door a light kick with her foot. Ribner saw the baby grand piano and ran his ringers over the keys.
"One of my sons plays beautifully," she told them. "One day he'll study at Julliard."
"Dorothy," Vicaro interrupted, "do I hear whistling somewhere?"
"Oh, it's the water boiling," she said, and disappeared into the kitchen. She called to them from the stove. "Come on in here. You've got to have a little nourishment first."
The two men proceeded into the kitchen. Dr. Ribner noticed a painting on the wall of John F. Kennedy walking in a celestial field in shirt-sleeves. Next he noticed the astrological calendar on the wall. "What does today look like?" he asked her.
"Well, my chart is not very good today. There are definitely signs for caution in my chart," she warned them.
"I know you are a Leo," she said to Ribner. "It's not the day for you to make a total discovery, either."
He smiled. "I suppose you're right. There's a lot of illness in my family right now."
"We won't find the kid today, but we'll get closer. You two finish this and we can go to work," Dorothy poured more coffee.
As the second cup was downed, Dr. Ribner explained the virtues of using sodium amatyl, or truth serum. Vicaro had suggested the use of the drug. Dorothy felt a new jolt of anxiety at the prospect of being injected with anything, especially truth serum.
"This way," Dr. Ribner explained, "I can control the level of hypnosis more closely. If you're being blocked, perhaps we can break through."
"Break through my brain, that's what you'll do. Well," she sighed, "here I go again."
Dr. Ribner erected the IV stand in Dorothy's bedroom, and her right arm was bared for the injection. She lay on her bed, nervous and squeamish at the sight of the medical equipment. Now she felt terribly alone in her own home. She had sent her family away, and now she longed to hear their footsteps.
"Count slowly backward from a hundred," Dr. Ribner said, pressing the needle into her arm and regulating the drip-by-drip movement through the clear tube. Dorothy's mind seemed to soften, the Outer world easing away as she relaxed.
"Dorothy, how are you?" Dr. Ribner began the inquiry.
"I feel okay. A little heavy around the eyes, but I'm okay."
"Good. Now, let's concentrate on Michael Kurscics. Do you remember where you saw him last?"
"Yes. But I don't think he's there now. I see his little body, and it's not moving. Last time he was moving."
"What about above him?" Dr. Ribner asked.
"I see the ITT, the school, and a hill. I think there are three pieces of lumber on that hill. It's a pretty steep incline."
Vicaro remembered the details as being similar to Dorothy's original dream. For the first time she seemed to be returning to the site she described almost two months prior. Vicaro was hopeful.
"Is there any sort of hardware store in the area?" the patrolman pursued.
Dorothy thought for a moment, as her inner eye telescoped the area in search of details, symbols that would identify the location.
"Yes," she said calmly. "I see a lumberyard above the hill."
"Can you see the ITT building from the hill?"
"Yes, but it's further away from Michael Kurscics."
As she said his name, her body began to tighten and contract. Dr. Ribner and Vicaro watched her reacting to some inner vision, not knowing what to do. Dr. Ribner let another drop of liquid enter Dorothy's vein, in the hope of calming her.
Her body relaxed for a moment. Drops of perspiration speckled her forehead. She was warm and felt nauseated.
Michael Kurscics's eyes opened before her, as if he were looking straight at hers. Eye to eye, Dorothy felt her stomach ache, her neck muscles tense, and her jaw clamp down.
"The eyes. I see his eyes and they're haunting. I feel like he's trying to tell me something. What a pitiful sight. I feel him. I see him. He's stuck. How he wants to move. He needs to move. Oh, my stomach," she gasped, bending in half.
Worlds of strength and psychic power combined in Dorothy's being as her body reacted both to the emerging child and to the drug.
She felt her head spinning, distancing her from the other world where the two men stood in suspense, not knowing what was happening. She was at once the seer, the mover, the little boy, the dead body. She was both the inertia and the movement.
Dorothy's flesh was hot and perspiring, A fear pervaded her consciousness that she would not have the strength to move the little boy. As she merged with the universe and the little boy, she felt a rush of waters and energy overtake her, the flow of which carried Michael Kurscics nearer to his final resting-place. Dorothy knew her entire being had given way to the child, that every part of her body, physically and spiritually, was drained. She felt a sudden burst of fluid as though she was giving birth.
In her delirium she whispered to the two men, "He's free now. He's moving toward the place he'll be found. Oh, God, help me. What has happened to me?" and she slipped from consciousness.
The doctor checked her pulse and breathing. She was excited, but everything seemed normal. He looked at her face. She looked like a mother who had just given birth.
Hours passed before Dorothy regained consciousness. Her body ached; her head rang with the pressure of her clamped jaws. The sheets were tossed about her, damp with perspiration. They were also stained. She had her period.
She managed to get up and bathe, and the warm water soothed her body.
Over and beyond her physical discomfort Dorothy was depressed and frightened. The drugs gave her a shrouded feeling, as if a pall were over her. She had no strength to fight.
The next day Vicaro suggested they might make another stab at driving around.
"If he's free, then maybe we'll find him." "Vicaro," Dorothy explained, "I am what is known as tired. My body feels like a used car that was hit by a crane. And," she added, "I look like one, too.
"Please, I said Michael would not be found until February seventh. There is no sense in trying to outguess what is destined. Nine times out of ten, fate wins."
"Okay, Dorothy. Have it your way. If I get a chance, I'll look myself. How's Lydia?" "She needs a job." "I'll ask around," Vicaro offered. Dorothy did not regret having taken in Lydia. Growing up without money or resources, she had known many down-and-out people. Moreover she felt that women had it hardest in society, and Lydia impressed her as a woman who had suffered in a man's world. It was almost time, she felt, that Michael was found and his mother sent on her way.
Thinking about February 7, Dorothy could not explain why she felt so strongly about the date. Astrologically the day was a good one not only in her chart, but in the victim's as well. But that didn't fully explain the feeling she had about that day. She, like everyone else, would have to wait and see.
She reflected over the past month and the changes that had occurred in her life. Powers and abilities she had never known in herself had somehow chosen this time in her life to come out, giving her a sense of rebirth.
As she grew more accustomed to living and dealing with her psyche, Dorothy would develop abilities that allowed her to gain more and more control and focus. Now she knew that believing in herself was the most important thing.
The biggest news in the New York area on February 5 was the weather; for on that day the temperature inexplicably began to rise. For three days the sun radiated springlike heat in the dead of winter. The temperature reached a high of sixty degrees.
At noon on February 7 Bill Werner left work to return home in Clifton, New Jersey, to eat his lunch. His wife, Sylvia, had called him at work that morning to tell him that Mamie, their cat, was dead. "What am I supposed to do with a dead cat?" his wife cried.
Bill agreed to return at lunch and take care of the dead animal. He decided that after two days of warm weather the soil would be in good enough condition for digging a small hole. He would take the cat over to the nearby water hole, Bleachery Pond, and bury it there.
When he arrived at home, his wife told him the trying saga she had suffered, discovering Mamie in the clothes hamper, dead.
"How could I lift her up?" she said. "It's so awful."
As he walked to the bathroom and contemplated the sight he would probably encounter, his stomach turned. Nausea would overcome him if he allowed it to.
Bill placed the stiff black cat into a burlap bag and placed it in his trunk. He drove to the side of the elementary school, just above Bleachery Pond. He looked out and saw the ITT tower standing tall in Nutley and the Shell station on the highway, above the pond.
With sack in hand he began the steep descent to the water's edge. The ground was still moist from the snows. Barren branches caught in his coat. Several times he had to retrace his steps where the underbrush was impassable.
His eyes searched the water's edge for a possible resting-place for Mamie. Suddenly Bill Werner stopped short and put Mamie down. His eyes, he hoped, deceived him.
He edged closer to the water, careful not to trip. There, approximately seven feet in front of him, floated the remains of Michael Kurscics.
It was 1:30 when Bill Werner called the Clifton Police Department to inform them of his discovery. Twenty minutes later a call was placed to the neighboring Nutley Police Department for a missing-person's check.
Vicaro had been sent out to check on an accident in the Shop Rite parking lot just prior to the Clifton call. When he got back to the department around three, the sergeant told him that the Kurscics kid had been found. Vicaro bounded up the steps to Buel's office. "I hear they found the kid," he said to the chief. Buel told him that the boy's body was found floating along the edge of the Bleachery Pond in Clifton, across the highway.
Vic called Dorothy and told her to prepare Lydia; he was coming to pick them up and take them to the funeral home for identification. He told her not to tell Lydia that the boy had been found, because he wanted to hypnotize her first, helping her to prepare psychologically for what she was going to see.
Vicaro did hypnotize the mother and prepare her. As it turned out, however, she never identified her son. Vicaro did, and later the father.
The funeral director asked Dorothy, "Are these the clothes you saw in your vision?" He showed her a plastic bag containing the child's snowsuit. She blanched; her insides quivered as she identified the clothing as that seen in her vision.
Not only was Dorothy correct about the date of Michael's recovery, but everything he wore was exactly as she had seen. It was the funeral director who mentioned the boy's overshoes were on the wrong feet. And his hands, which Dorothy had seen as charred, were dark with mud. Dorothy prayed to St. Anthony, thanking him for Ms assistance in helping her. The burial of the little boy was paid for by Dorothy, as the parents could not afford it.