The Man on Little Sweden

by Sam Harding

  “I’m rather fond of it,” I say, deadpan. “What’s with the guards anyway? Rick’s not the typical security guard.”

  “Indeed not.” He pauses once again. “We’re nearing the 24th, Micah. And although I know the killer prefers far younger victims, I can’t help but worry he might change his mind. Call it paranoia, because that’s exactly what it is – but I can’t help myself. I’m afraid.”

  “I’m afraid, too.” Fuck! I can’t believe I just said that. I’d worked hard to keep that part of myself inside and now, in front of perhaps the most important client I’ll ever have, I admit I’m scared.

  “Don’t!” Shultz snaps, the sharpness of his breath catching me off guard. “I can see in your face that you regret what you just said. Don’t. That fear is the very reason I chose you. No other person fears the killer the way you and I do, therefore no other person can possibly be ready for what the killer is capable of. Fear is the oldest of emotions, it is what has ensured the survival of the human species for the past two-hundred-thousand years. Embrace it, son.”

  I swallow hard and nod. I whisper, “Okay,” not really sure what else I can say.

  “Did you know Henry was a patient of mine?” Shultz asks, changing the subject again.

  “I didn’t until he mentioned it earlier today.”

  “He has been for years. I initially asked him to take this case, but when he told me you had gone to the private detective world, it was like a sign from God Himself.”

  I find the phrase ironic, knowing fully well Dr. Shultz was once an outspoken atheist, but I don’t question it. “He told me this was my one chance at revenge.”

  “Indeed, it is. For the both of us.”

  “So,” I say, leaning forward. “Where do we go from here?”

  “I assume this all means you accept the contract?” He raises an eyebrow again.

  “Yes.”

  “Splendid,” he says and a delightful smile breaks across his face. It’s as if I’ve just lifted the world from his shoulders even though I’ve yet to actually do anything. Growing serious again, he says, “You must understand, I cannot go to the grave knowing I did nothing to avenge my dear Simon. You are the only real hope I have of not being afraid and riddled with guilt. Thank you for that.”

  Not really knowing what to say, I simply leave it at, “You’re welcome.”

  “You are now on a case, six murders deep,” Shultz says, his eyes narrowing. “Six murders and a seventh scheduled for next week.”

  A chill races up my spine. “Which means, I need to get to work.”

  “Indeed, it does.” He looks up at the high ceiling as if in deep thought, and then says, “Five of the six are children – the anomaly – a very unfortunate circumstance.” He then looks to me, his eyes like a hawk’s as they look into mine. “Use that circumstance to fuel you, Micah.”

  The words cause my chest to briefly seize. The anomaly he is referring to is that of my wife. Five children and my Dani. The first child was, of course, Dr. Shultz’s little Simon in 2016. The second was the ten-year old boy of a county commissioner in 2017. In 2019 there was the ten-year-old boy of the city fire chief, and in 2020 the ten-year-old boy of the former mayor’s brother. In the middle of all that, in 2018 there was the four-year-old boy of the Solace Police detective assigned to the case, Thomas Donovan.

  Only, the killer had failed. He had diverted from his M.O. and had gone after a much younger child just to get to me. Only Thomas survived, but it was at the cost of Dani’s life. It had nearly costed me my life too, but thanks to Jason Kohl, my leg was as far as the killer had gotten before narrowly escaping.

  The result of that had been the horrific death of a ten-year-old boy from the group home in the hills to the east of the city. The kid had been the killer’s consolation prize for having failed at killing my own son and myself, even though he had taken my wife’s life.

  “My boy, are you alright?”

  Dr. Shultz’s voice jerks me from my memory and I’m transported back to the present. I see both the doctor and Kathryn are now staring at me with concern on their faces. This is the first time they’ve seen me do this – transport back in time to memories I’d rather forget – but I do it multiple times a day, unable to stop the tape in my mind from going into rewind.

  “I’m fine,” I say. “I apologize. You were saying?”

  “Son, if this is too much for you to deal with –”

  “I said I’m fine,” I intentionally snap back. “Excuse me – it’s just –”

  “No apologizes necessary.” Shultz shook his head. “PTSD is never anything to be sorry for.”

  The doctor is referring to Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, a condition common in war veterans and police officers who have undergone terrifying events in the course of their duties. Although I know for a fact I have PTSD, I refuse to let it define me. Most heroes have PTSD, but I am no hero to be sure.

  “It’s been four years, Heinrich, almost five.” I say, trying to put the train back on its tracks. “After all this time, do you have any idea who this guy is?”

  “I know who he is,” Shultz says matter-of-factly. “But I don’t know his name.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I mean, I know his type. For example, his primary targets have been ten-year-old boys. That alone leads me to believe he was abused as a child, that he was that helpless ten-year-old boy once upon a dark time. Also, each of the boys was found with bruising all over their bodies. If memory serves, I remember hearing many of those marks were consistent with punches and slaps, and that a couple of the boys had bruising on their knuckles – defensive wounds.”

  I nod, remembering back. “That’s right.”

  “What if the killer was giving these boys a chance to win? What if while in captivity, the killer gave the boys a chance to fight him? To earn their freedom? What if their deaths had been punishment for not being strong enough to defend themselves?”

  I feel my head beginning to spin. “Wait, your theory is that these kids were taken because the killer wanted them to fight him? That, because he was abused as a child, he wants to see if these boys have what it takes to survive what he survived?”

  “Indeed, bravo.”

  I go silent for a moment, as if contemplating Shultz’s theory. What I don’t say is that the doctor has described myself. My father had abused both me and my mother endlessly and I still have a few scars to remember him by. Every night, he’d come home from work, drunk and angry – until one night, I’d decided I wasn’t going to let him hurt mom and I anymore.

  “I’m sorry, Doc, but that’s quite a stretch. I’m not saying you’re wrong, but I’m saying that’s one of hundreds of possibilities. How can you be so sure that’s the right one?”

  “I can’t be sure,” Shultz admitted. “But it makes the most sense to me. You know most child rapists do what they do because they too were raped as children?”

  “Of course.”

  “I believe this could be a similar situation – only in this case, our killer is now the tormentor and he’s giving the kids a chance to fight back, to escape their tormentor”

  “Even if you’re right,” I allow, “that’s hardly much of a chance. These kids are ten years old for Christ’s sake.”

  “In your mind that is true,” Shultz says, pointing a bony finger at me. “But in the mind of the killer, those ten-year-old boys are versions of himself. Which is precisely why he took it so bloody personal when you tried to intervene. In his mind, your investigation was disrupting him from his very own social experiment.”

  “He’s giving these boys a chance to escape their tormenters as he once escaped his.”

  “Yes,” Shultz says in a low rasp. “And their punishment for weakness, is death.”

  Although I’m not entirely convinced, a part of me has to admit what Shultz is saying makes sense. But still, even though it’s a plausible theory, it is only one theory of literally hundreds of possibilities. For all I know, th
e killer could just be a born-psycho who enjoys hurting little boys, although I doubt that very much.

  “I know that was a lot to take in,” Shultz says. “But I’ve had a lifetime of education and five years of pain to come up with what I’ve just shared with you. That said, I don’t expect five years of obsessive research to make sense to you in a thirty second explanation. But even still, I hope you will take what I’ve just shared and consider it to great lengths.”

  I nod. “Of course. As I said, I’m not saying I think you’re wrong. I’m just pointing out that if I’m going to investigate this again, that I’ve got to consider all possibilities and not tie myself down to just one. Not yet, at least.”

  Shultz separates his hands and lowers his head in a gesture that I can only interpret as one of understanding. “All I ask is that you consider it. You are the detective, after all. I may have my experiences in my field, but the pain I see in your eyes speaks volumes to your own experiences.”

  I’m not really sure what Shultz means by that, but I nod anyway, not wanting to delve too deep into the pain he sees. I’m sure for The Man on Little Sweden, figuring me out isn’t too complicated. What’s complicated about a man driven by pain, anger, and fear?

  “There were originally two suspects following the – following the first killing,” I say, trying to sound as professionally delicate with the words as possible. “Both of which, are patients of yours.”

  “Were patients of mine,” Shultz corrects. “They haven’t been my patients for four years. They left my care not long after Simon’s death. I blame myself, of course – I was so distraught, I wasn’t of real help to any of my clients. That’s mainly why I decided to shut down my practice and only take special requests, such as your friend Henry.”

  “Do you still have their files?”

  “Of course.”

  “I’d like to see them.”

  “Out of the question.”

  “Excuse me?”

  Shultz’s expression turns into a stern glare. “Son, do you not recall me denying this very same request from you five years ago? The files of my patients are private.”

  “But –”

  “They are private, Detective Donovan!” He says, his voice booming. “I do not wish to repeat myself on this matter. I don’t have much time left on this earth, and so, I do not wish to spend what little time I have left having to say the same thing twice. Do you understand?”

  I bite my tongue and sigh. I am very aware of Doctor/Patient confidentiality, but this, in my opinion, is ridiculous. Why in the fuck wouldn’t anyone give up the files on the potential murderer of their very own son?

  “Fine,” I finally say, not really attempting to hide my frustration. “But even though they were ruled out five years ago, I plan to start from square one, which means I need access to them in one way or another.”

  “Dennis O’Leary.”

  “The name rings a bell. He was one of your patients, right?”

  “Indeed. He’s a paranoid schizophrenic with a history of violence.”

  “Which is why he was the first suspect,” I say, remembering back. “He had a total mental breakdown and nearly beat a kid to death with a tire iron at the bus stop not long before –”

  “Before Simon’s murder,” Shultz says, finishing the sentence for me. “Even though Dennis was eventually ruled out as a suspect, the trauma of police interrogations and accusations nearly broke Dennis. Every year since then, at around the same time of year, Dennis will find himself locked up at the county jail for assault. He has just enough good days, however, that the courts feel Dennis is able to live on his own.”

  I remember Dennis’s violent outbursts in situations unrelated to Simon’s murder, and for a good while, I was almost convinced he was the killer. But there just wasn’t enough evidence for me to build a solid case against him. I remember he biggest red flag in fingering Dennis is that he’s not a very smart person. His condition makes him spontaneous and uncalculating, whereas the killer is extremely meticulous and methodical. That said, because I have to start somewhere, Dennis is back on my list as a possibility.

  “Since you won’t give me Dennis’s file, can you at least give me an address?”

  “Pleasant Valley Apartments, number 108”

  I blink a couple times. “You know it off the top of your head?”

  “Of course. Dennis was one of my more – special patients. When he left my care, I made a point to see where he would go. I remember being delighted to see he got his own place and made a real attempt to be a part of society. He even got a job at Safeway as a bag boy, a job I’m fairly certain he still obtains.”

  I pull a small notebook and pen from my jacket and scribble down O’Leary’s address and last known place of employment. “Okay, and your other patient –” I struggle to remember his name but it eventually comes to me. “Lex Irving.”

  Shultz nods thoughtfully. “Alexander Irving. He used to get so annoyed when people called him Alexander instead of Lex.”

  “Before he went into your care, Lex had done time for kidnapping a child,” I say. “Although he never hurt the child, he did threaten to kill him if anyone tried taking him away. That child was three, though, and not ten.”

  “He also suffers from schizophrenia, but unlike Dennis, Lex left my care doing quite well. His medication had worked splendidly, and as long as he keeps on his regular dosage, he’s able to fit quite well into the general public. He actually called me a couple years ago just to tell me how well he was doing. I highly doubt Lex is the killer.”

  “He’s probably not, but he and Dennis were your two most violent patients at the time, which is why they were my first two suspects. If you would, I’d like Lex’s address too.”

  This time, when Shultz rattles it off, I am not surprised. It’s clear to me that even in his cancerous state, Shultz is still every bit the doctor he was prior to when everything went to hell. I can see in his eyes that his former patients still mean a great deal to him, and the passion in his voice still carries a blazing fire for the field of psychiatry.

  “I know Dennis and Lex don’t match your theory,” I say, putting my pad and pen back into my coat. “But they’re my only real lead. If they’re not who I’m after, then maybe they can help me get closer to the right guy.”

  “And what if they can’t?” This time, it’s not the doctor who speaks, but his daughter. She leans forward, absorbing every word of the conversation between her father and myself.

  “Then I need to get creative,” I reply, being as honest as I can. “As soon as I leave here, I’ll head to the police station and see if I can get some of my old files from the case. Hopefully something in there will point me in the right direction.” I also consider the fact that it’s still an active case, and whichever detective is assigned to it might be of some help, but I keep that to myself.

  “Then I believe you need to get started,” Dr. Shultz says, his voice suddenly sounding far weaker and more tired than it had before. “But first, I believe you are forgetting something.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Your payment, of course.”

  “I don’t need payment,” I say, shaking my head. “Not for this.”

  “Nonsense,” Shultz says sharply. He looks to Kathryn and nods.

  Kathryn unfolds her legs and bends down to reach underneath her chair. When she comes up, she’s holding a leather attaché case in both hands. She hands the case to her father and re-crosses her legs, leaning back into the chair. There is a trace of a smile on her face, and I can’t figure out what in the world for.

  “This is your payment,” Shultz says, holding the case out to me on wobbly arms.

  I hold my hand up, “No. That’s not how I do things. I take payment after, and only after I complete the job. Never before.”

  “Son, take the fucking case.”

  I’m shocked by the doctor’s language, but grab the case only because I’m afraid he’s going to drop it on top of the gla
ss table below his arms. With the case now in my possession, I say, “Sir, I’m serious –”

  “No, I’m serious. You will take this money, and you will take it now. By the time you finish this case, I might not even be alive to give it to you. So, before you really piss me off, son, respect the wishes of a dying old man and take the bloody fucking case.”

  Again, I’m surprised by Shultz’s language, but I can’t deny his use of the word fuck makes for a compelling case of desperation. Considering the circumstances, I decide to make the exception to my rule. “Fine. I’ll take your money.”

  “Open it.”

  “Here?”

  “Open it,” he says again, nodding towards the case.

  I say nothing as I look down at the leather box on my lap. Indulging the old man, I undo the clasps on both ends of the attaché case and lift the lid. “Holy shit,” I say, seeing what’s inside. “This – this is –”

  “One point five million dollars.”

  Hardly able to breathe, I look up from the signed check. Considering the attaché case had been lightweight, I expected to see maybe a few thousand dollars inside, but I see now that the doctor enjoyed a little dramatic flair in the things he did.

  “I can’t,” I say. “This is too much.” I look from the doctor to Kathryn, who’s smile is even bigger now.

  “Nonsense,” Shultz says sharply. “Look around you, my boy. I hate to break it to you, but one point five million isn’t exactly a lot of money in this house.”

  Good point. “But still, for a job like this –"

  “For a job like this it’s exactly the appropriate amount. What you’re holding in your hands is your son’s ticket to whatever college he wants and much, much more. If you don’t feel you deserve this money, then surely you must feel Thomas does.”

  I think about my nightmares and Thomas’s murderous hate towards me. His hate becoming reality is one of my greatest fears, and I would do anything to keep it from becoming true. If I take this money, it won’t be for me, but for him.

  Slowly, I close the lid to the case and eventually, I nod. In a near whisper I say, “Thank you.” I don’t know what else there is to say.