by David Beers
“I’m okay, thank you, though.”
“Right down to it, I guess?” Mrs. Stinson said.
“Sometimes it’s best to get me out of here as quickly as possible.”
The woman nodded and sat down at the table, gesturing for Susan to follow.
“What would you like to know?”
Susan leaned back in her chair and looked around the kitchen for a second. “Did you do your kitchen?”
“I did.”
Susan nodded. “I really like it. The longer I sit here, the more I like it.” Susan reined her focus back in and looked at the woman across from her. “What we’re trying to do here, my partner and I, is understand your husband better. I want to know where he went, who he went with, what he liked to do, basically anything and everything about him. The more we know, the further we can search to find out who did this.”
“You don’t think it was random?” Mrs. Stinson said.
“It’s possible, though unlikely. Most crimes are committed by people we know, and given that your husband was in the person’s car, we think they might have known each other.”
“I see,” Mrs. Stinson said. “I suppose the biggest thing in his life besides his family—nowadays, anyway—was Sexaholics Anonymous. Have you ever heard of it?”
24
A Portrait of a Young Man
Years Earlier
“Just last week we said I hadn’t worried about Clara and my kids for a while right?” Lori said.
“Sure,” Dr. Vondi said.
“Well, consider me worried again,” Lori said.
“What happened?”
Lori wasn’t shaking like the last time John got in trouble at school. Her hands sat still and tears didn’t rain down her face. She let out a sigh.
“He got into a fight again.”
“How old is he? Thirteen?” Dr. Vondi asked.
“Yes.” Lori didn’t say anything else. She truly wasn’t sure what the question had to do with anything.
“You didn’t have brothers so I wouldn’t expect you to know this, but that’s when boys start fighting. Their testosterone levels are rising and they’re finding the opposite sex attractive. This is normal,” Dr. Vondi said.
Normal. Normal wasn’t how Lori would describe any of what happened a few days ago.
“Why did he get in a fight?” Dr. Vondi said.
“He was looking out for Harry. I think that’s the truth; pretty much everyone says a couple of kids were giving Harry hell at lunch. Calling him a faggot and other things like that.”
“Kids are awful at that age. So what happened?”
Lori almost laughed, just thinking about the ridiculousness of such a scene. “John stood up, his lunch tray in hand, like he was throwing away his trash. He, apparently, walked around the table to the other side—where the kids picking on Harry were—and brained the first one he saw with the lunch tray. It broke in half.”
“Jesus,” Dr. Vondi said, a smile on his face. “He broke the lunch tray?”
Lori nodded, looking out the window so she didn’t have to smile too.
“Is he in trouble, John?”
“He got a day suspension. Scott was proud of him.”
“And you?”
She looked back, her face serious. “Scared. I don’t like it. He didn’t consider calling the kids names in return, but went straight to violence, just like the bathroom incident.”
“Is the kid hurt?”
“He has a huge bruise covering half his face, but nothing serious,” Lori said.
“I understand why you’re afraid, Lori. Truly, I get it. However, you’re missing some perspective. Psychopaths don’t murder to protect people. Psychopaths hurt because they’re compelled. John stood up, defended his friend, and then let it go. He didn’t do anything else did he? Didn’t try to keep stomping the kid?”
Lori shook her head.
“See, a psychopath most likely would have kept going. Clara for instance. She kept ramping up her violence until your father died, and even then, she took that violence to something else. John doesn’t show that pattern. If there is any pattern, which I don’t think there is, it’s that when confronted he uses violence before words. That’s not great, but there are much worse things.”
“Maybe,” Lori said. “I don’t know, though. I don’t know what Clara was like when she was young, but I know Alicia has never been in any sort of spat. Certainly nothing like this.”
“She’s a girl. We bring them up differently than boys.”
“We don’t, not in our house.”
Dr. Vondi nodded. “That may be true, but you don’t control the socializing that goes on outside your house. What teachers do. What their friend’s parents do.”
Lori said nothing.
“I know you want to go back to that place where your life almost revolves around this idea that Clara is inside your kids, or a part of her, but that’s not a good place, Lori. It’s not true, either.”
25
Present Day
“This guy is absolutely perfect,” Harry said.
John’s office was large and private, and in moments like this, he felt extremely grateful for it. Because Harry was pacing around like a madman, walking from one end of the office to the other, looking at his feet and not much else.
“You know what’s the best part?” he said, finally glancing up to John as he moved. “He’s in this building.” Harry smiled huge, the energy moving through him almost palpable.
“What do you mean, in this building?” John said.
“I mean, he works here!”
“You’ve lost your mind,” John said. “Absolutely no. No way.”
“Wait, wait, wait, wait,” Harry said, jogging across the office, his bloated, fat skin jiggling beneath his tattered shirt (today, he wore the one he died in). “I’ve been scouting this guy out, John. He’s perfect. No friends. If he has family, they don’t call him and he doesn’t call them. The only people he talks to are in this office, and from what I can tell, he only discusses work.”
John blinked, looking at his dead friend, no longer hoping that when his eyes reopened Harry wouldn’t be there. He knew that wasn’t a possibility. John looked around his office, complete with white walls and wood furniture. All the work he’d put in to get to this place, a corner office at the age of thirty-five.
He swung his chair around, turning his back to Harry, and looked at the two degrees hanging on his wall.
How had he done all this while still managing to carry around someone like Harry?
“What are you doing?” Harry said from behind.
“Just thinking.”
“On when we can go see Larry from marketing?”
“No. Thinking about how I’m going to throw all this away. Somehow you’ve taken over, Harry, and I’ve got no choice but to go along with it, but in doing so, my whole life will end.”
“You’re so morose.” Harry moved around the desk and grabbed the back of John’s chair, turning it so that they looked at each other. “Has anything terrible happened yet? Even last time, when the cops got close, we took care of it didn’t we?”
John didn’t say anything, only looked at the large burst pupil staring back at him.
“I saw how you looked when we were out there with your pal from SA. Your eyes were enraptured. You loved it, John. You’re just scared that someone might find out, and I’m telling you, no one will. Not with this guy.”
John nodded. “You’re sure?”
“Yeah, I’m sure, man. Have I ever done something I wasn’t sure about? You get mad when I take over while you’re sleeping, but Jesus, that’s how I make sure we get away each time.”
John nodded again. Would it be nice, just one more time? He had fought this. He went to church. He had prayed … practically begged. He did everything that he could to fight it, and not one of those institutions—hell, not one person in his life—intervened. They all left him here to deal with this by himself and now Harry stood here staring at him, t
elling him that everything would be okay; John could do what he wanted and Harry would make sure he got home safe in the end.
“See,” Harry said. “You’re worrying for nothing, sweetheart. You want to go meet Larry? I’m telling you, you’re going to love him.”
Larry from Marketing, as Harry continually referred to him with near glee, was two floors below John. He looked up Larry on his computer, finding his desk, though not much description about his job.
“His job doesn’t fucking matter, John,” Harry said. “He won’t be missed and that’s all that really matters.”
John walked out of his office and stopped by his administrative assistant on his way to the elevator. “Stepping out for a few minutes. I need some air.”
“Okay, John,” she said.
He walked on, hitting the elevator button, and climbing on. Three others besides Harry got on with him, which made a total of five.
“Why are you looking for people where I work?” John said.
Harry was crammed in, looking like a bass trying to fit into a sardine can. “I looked at a lot of people! I didn’t just land on Larry from Marketing. We’re lucky I found him, to be honest, because heading back to the lake is a no go.”
John shook his head. “Larry from Marketing. How long did you stalk him for? Is there anyone that can tie me to him, did anyone see you looking around? I mean, I know you had to see him first in the office.”
“No one saw shit, John. Just like no one ever sees shit. You act like this is my first rodeo or something.”
The elevator doors opened and John walked off with Harry following.
“Now listen,” Harry said. “You can’t stop and talk to him, I just want you to get a look. We’ll have plenty of time to talk to the guy later. You talk now and someone will notice.”
“It’s not my first rodeo either, Harry,” John whispered as he walked by row after row of cubicles. A cube farm. Humans somehow corralled into these things where they spent at least eight hours a day, before being allowed to return to their barns.
“Why wouldn’t you kill them? They let this happen to them every single day of their lives,” Harry said.
John kept walking, moving at an even pace. He rarely came down to this floor, as marketing had nothing to do with his job, so he certainly didn’t want to be noticed when this Larry guy went missing.
“Here he is …” Harry whispered, his voice revealing a prize.
John saw the guy stand up, his eyes briefly finding John, before looking down the hall. He had shaggy brown hair, was a good looking kid—probably mid-twenties or so. Brown eyes and thin. Strength wouldn’t be a problem with this one. John didn’t slow down and looked away after hanging on for perhaps a second too long.
“You like him, don’t you?” Harry said.
John did. John liked him a lot.
He kept walking down the aisle, Larry stepping out of his cube maybe fifteen feet in front of him.
“Don’t follow him,” Harry said, but he had to know it was too late for that. He had to see that John was going where Larry went, at least for the next minute or so. “This is stupid,” Harry said. “Fucking idiotic.”
John didn’t listen, but followed behind, watching as Larry turned into the restroom.
John went in too, opening the door, immediately seeing Larry at the urinal. John headed to the sink, and Harry hung back at the door.
“What, are you going to talk to him now?” Harry said.
John looked at the mirror, seeing the kid’s brown hair.
“This is just gross, man,” Harry said.
John ignored him. He was busy thinking, imagining what it would be like to put the gun down against his skinny chest. To pull the trigger and feel the kickback vibrate all the way up his arm. Larry from Marketing’s eyes growing large with agony as the bullet pushed through his organs, opening them up in ways they were never meant to be. He saw the blood blooming like a beautiful red flower across his chest.
He saw the man dying, and God, he loved it.
John parked the car.
“You can’t be serious,” Harry said. “You’re going back in there?”
John left the keys in the ignition and looked over to Harry. “There are appearances to be kept if this is going to work, which at this point, it has to. One of these appearances is that I go to meetings, especially since we just killed someone that attended these meetings. Me missing them from now on might be just a bit suspicious, right?” He took the keys out, then looked back again. “The other appearance is that my wife can’t know what’s happening. She can’t even suspect that something is wrong.”
“Look, man, you’re the one bringing that on yourself. You go in there arguing with me all night and of course she’s gonna think you’re up to something, because you’re not paying attention to her. Stop arguing with me.”
John just shook his head and opened the driver’s side door. He got out and listened as Harry followed. John was fine with that; at this point, it would feel weird without Harry there, he supposed.
He opened the door to the church and walked in, seeing the table sitting in the middle of the room. The usual crew was here, but John immediately saw the differences in them.
“Christ,” he said.
“You didn’t think about that, did you?” Harry asked. “Didn’t think that his death might actually affect anyone? Better quickly put on the sad face.”
Harry was right—John hadn’t considered what the people in this room might feel. He thought, somehow, that he would walk in here and everything would be normal. The people sitting around the table didn’t look normal, they looked absolutely wrecked.
John felt his anxiety rising while outwardly displaying the sadness that everyone around him gave off like heat from a star.
He found a seat at the table, sat down, and said nothing, just looked at the books placed on the table, ready to be picked up and read. Ready to give the gift that Alcoholic’s Anonymous gave to all addicts when they wrote the first book which passed largely unchanged to all Anonymous groups.
“Not much of a gift to old Paul, huh?” Harry said from the front of the room, laughter filling his voice.
The sharing got started and John did his best to keep his face both calm and sad. Harry kept quiet for the most part, clearly understanding the stress running through John’s veins.
The conversation finally got around to him and he said some bullshit about a time that Paul helped him, keeping it short, and then passing on to the next in line.
“Good job,” Harry said from behind him, completely serious now. “No one will remember it. Nothing stands out.”
At last the meeting ended and John felt relief like a death row prisoner who gets his midnight call from the governor. He wanted out of this room and away from these people, their sadness, their cluelessness about anything going on around them. In truth, he wanted to be around Harry and no one else, because at least he understood.
Susan spit her gum out in a tissue and stuck it inside an empty Coke can. Her window was open and she listened to any sounds from the building in front of her. The SA community (AA for that matter, Susan imagined) had what was called a ‘home group’. Each person might attend multiple meetings throughout the week, but most of these meetings were on an as needed basis. The home group, however, was something that shouldn’t be missed—according to Paul Stinson’s wife, it kept the person grounded.
Susan sat outside Paul Stinson’s home group, waiting on the crew inside to finish up.
She hadn’t done anything like this before, not exactly. Hanging outside an anonymous society, one that probably had some shame mired in it. She didn’t know what kind of reaction to expect when they saw her, but she hoped everyone would be civilized.
Most of the people in this thing are men, Mrs. Stinson told her. Women, Paul says, go to another group. Sex and Love Addicts or something like that.
So she was about to walk into a hyper-libido driven group of men who might be upset at
being cornered by a cop.
Good times, great oldies.
She heard the church door open and she did the same with her car door, stepping outside without locking it. Her badge hung around her neck though the car she drove was unmarked. She didn’t know what to expect from these men besides what Mrs. Stinson said—all of them, from what Paul says, are truly repentant for what they’ve done. There’s a lot of guilt inside the group, but she might see things through rose-colored glasses given the status of Mr. Stinson. She may be lionizing him in her post-Paul life. He certainly hadn’t been an angel; Susan gathered that much while talking with her this afternoon.
Susan walked along the church sidewalk, the orange lights casting shadows around her, but keeping the place well lit enough. She had her gun holstered, open and visible—calm the hell down, Susan. They’re at a church praying to God for help.
“Hello,” she said to a group of men standing just outside the building. They stood in a semicircle, each one smoking a cigarette. “My name is Detective Merchent. I’ve been told that Paul Stinson used to come to this meeting.”
The lighting was less bright here, the shadows deep across each man’s face. She saw them look to one another, briefly, before the man on the right side spoke.
“Yeah, Paul came here.”
“I was wondering if any of you would talk to me about him? I recognize there are certain parts of your organization you can’t talk about, but as I’m sure you’re all aware, we’re in the middle of a murder investigation.”
The man on the right nodded. “Sure, we know. We can talk about Paul, though, as I’m sure you’ll understand, we have to respect the privacy of our other members.”
“I’m going to need to speak to everyone here,” Susan said, doing her best to show finality.
“No, I’m sorry; I didn’t mean that we would keep the members quiet, I meant, some of the things we say in there.” He motioned his head to the church. “I hope you don’t expect us to bare our souls,” the man said, smiling.