(twenty-three months ago)
The Doctor smiled at his success. The one percent had gotten so rich, they could pay almost any amount for their guilty pleasures.
He had already produced a dozen of these short, poor quality videos as he learned his craft. Each production was better than the last. The one he was currently selling was the first. Mike Smith confirmed they were worth at least $1,000,000 each.
And now he was ready to work on his high quality productions. The facilities were prepared. The screenplays were written, costumes acquired, props prepared, settings designed. His facility was almost full of the actors he needed. He would work quickly. Both he and Mike Smith would make a fortune. And then they would come for him.
Wednesday ⌁ day 3
“Nick, you’re in early,” said Chief Herde. “Got a couple of minutes?”
Nick had known Randy Herde for thirty years. They first met in the sixth grade, when Randy’s parents returned from a church mission in Japan. Randy was two years old when his parents moved there, so until age eleven he was fully immersed in the Japanese culture. Nick and Randy quickly became best friends and had remained so over the years.
“Sure,” Nick replied compliantly, standing up to follow the Chief into his office.
The first question came before both had settled, the Chief’s gaunt figure swiveling to fit into the massive desk chair. “Nick, how’s it going?”
Nick put his elbows on his thighs and lowered his head into the palms of his hands, staring awkwardly at his friend. “Good. Better. I do think I’m starting to come out of this.”
“Really?” responded the Chief. “How so?”
“I got a new case yesterday. A real case, not one of the cold cases like what I have been working. I think that’s going to help.”
“Bosworth told me about that,” replied Herde. “I think that’s great for two reasons. First, I think it will help you get your head screwed back on right. You need to be working. Secondly, we really need you around here. We miss your productivity. It’s important. I’m glad it’s making you feel better.”
Nick felt the constriction in his chest, the pressure. It bore down on him. “Thanks, Randy. How are you doing, anyway? I know this new job has to be weighing on you.” Herde had been promoted to Chief of the Denver Police Department only eight months earlier.
“I’m doing okay. It’s quite a burden for Jana and the kids because I am working a lot, but we’re getting through it. You know I’ve always wanted this job, so I’m having a great time.”
The silence was deafening. Three months earlier this would be the time in the conversation when the next racquetball game was set up, or the family barbecue would be arranged. Now the awkwardness of the situation prevailed.
“I better get back to it,” Nick stated as he stood.
“If there’s anything you need from me, let me know,” Herde countered.
Phyllis Goodwin rolled over to tickle the Governor awake. She was surprised to find his eyes already open, staring at her in a mock menacing way. She giggled and moved closer to him. “Mr. Governor,” Phyllis started, “shall we take up where we left off last night?” Phyllis had not lost her youthful playfulness; she simply no longer shared it with Nick.
McFadden’s face softened, and he moaned, “Absolutely.”
The two went at each other like hungry young lovers. When they were done, Phyllis rolled over and looked at the clock. “Shit. It’s almost eight. I have to get ready. I really should be down there before my speech.”
“What time are you on?” the Governor asked.
“Nine,” she replied, as she hopped, naked and shameless, from the bed to the bathroom.
The Governor was already pulling on his clothes. “I’m headed to my room. I’ll talk to you later.”
Nick returned to his desk. The fog from Randy’s office had lifted, and he was ready to get to work. He pulled out his notes from the previous day.
Of Nick’s many talents, one was organization. As a homicide detective, it was crucial to fully understand every aspect of the investigation, to move forward in an orderly fashion. Detectives who failed to learn these skills tended to flounder, and their success rates were much lower. If he had chosen another line of work, he could easily have been a successful project manager for a large corporation.
Nick knew other detectives, some much younger than him, eschewed computers. They would rather work with a pad and paper, continually ridiculing the contraption as a gimmick or worse. He remembered the old days when everything was disorganized and hard to find, with multiple redundancies caused by this disorganization. His recent cold case assignments reminded him of the bad old days of poorly organized files and cases. He loved the new toys available.
Nick’s software of choice for organizing an investigation was Microsoft Excel. He knew there were other, more sophisticated ways to go about organizing and scheduling, but he understood Excel, and somehow it seemed to understand him. First things first. Nick laid out all he had and started building his spreadsheet routine.
He created separate tabs for each of the different aspects of the investigation and findings. First, he had a tab to coordinate the schedule of the investigation. While he was not naïve enough to believe he would actually follow this schedule, over the years he had found if he approached the investigation this way, he would more effectively utilize his time. Next, he had a tab for all the interviews he and others would conduct, including findings and observations. After that, he constructed a tab for all the physical evidence found. He built a tab for miscellaneous findings. Each case typically required multiple unique tabs for that investigation. And, finally, he would have a tab that tied everything together, effectively laying out the case for the District Attorney. In the DA’s office, he was known affectionately as Mr. Anal. All the Assistant DA’s loved this, though, because when he had a case, it was in perfect order when it arrived on the ADA’s desk.
Each time, as Nick built his homicide investigation project plan, he used his previous plans to construct all the steps required. While each case is unique, they all nevertheless have many similarities in approach. Through the years he had refined his project planning process such that for each new investigation, the plan was developed quickly and efficiently. While it had been some months since Nick’s last plan, he soon regained his abilities. The preliminary plan for what he called “The Mayflower Case” would be developed before the day was done.
“Dr. Goodwin, I want to thank you for that inspiring presentation,” offered Dr. Christine Crawford. “You are able to so crisply articulate our science. As a young therapist, I still have a tremendous amount to learn. I know you must hear this all the time, but I really appreciate how well you deal with this most difficult subject.”
Several therapists, young and old, surrounded Phyllis and poured out compliments and questions. Phyllis glowed in the accolades. She still remembered the day when her specialty was the scorn of the profession, and she took no small pleasure in having been one of the sane voices to lead psychiatry, specifically the field of malevolent sexual deviancy, into the twenty-first century. Phyllis suspected over time she would grow tired of the attention and scrutiny, but not yet. Now was the time for her to bask in the warmth of success. From Phyllis’ point of view, she was a rock star, at least in the field of Psychiatry.
“Thank you, Doctor, uh, Crawford,” Phyllis responded awkwardly as she glanced at her colleague’s name tag. “I assure you this is an accumulation of many years work, and I have repeatedly honed this presentation to make it meaningful. Your kind words tell me I’m getting there.”
“I do have a question for you, doctor,” said Dr. Crawford. “As a practicing therapist, what is your experience in spotting, no, that’s probably not the right word, maybe detecting malevolent sexual deviancy? I know you get a lot of patients through referrals from law enforcement, so you already know the answer for those folks. But I guess what I’m asking is, for a patient who walks in on his own,
how do you go about determining whether or not he’s a malevolent sexual deviant?”
“Dr. Crawford, you have hit on one of the big questions for us,” Phyllis responded, speaking slowly, enunciating clearly and precisely to enhance the view of her as an expert. “My ongoing research will try to deal with this effectively. But as for me in my practice, I believe I have studied this and dealt with this long enough that I am able to sniff out, if you will, malevolent sexual deviancy. In all my years of practice, I don’t believe I have ever missed a determination. I can usually tell halfway through the second session, if not before. I don’t think I’ve ever had one go beyond that timeframe. If you read my literature and gain the many years of experience I have, I suspect you will become adept at this as well.”
A few of Phyllis’ colleagues drifted away after this arrogant diatribe. Phyllis, painfully un-self-aware, continued, further damaging her credibility with the few around her. To most who knew Phyllis, they understood her strengths lay much more in theory than in practice. Phyllis was not a compassionate soul.
Christine Crawford, however, was constructed much the same way as Phyllis Goodwin. At thirty-two, she was a tough, up-and-coming therapist. She had idolized Dr. Phyllis Goodwin from the first time she wrote a paper on her almost ten years earlier, and she was enchanted at the opportunity to hear her and even ask her some of her more pressing questions.
“But doctor,” Christine continued, “as a young therapist, I’m not there yet. I’m not sure I’ll ever approach your ability to identify people suffering this affliction, but I certainly aspire to do so. I’ve only been practicing for about six years. When you were at this point in your career, how did you deal with these situations?” Christine’s eyes glowed with adulation.
“Dr. Crawford,” Phyllis smiled, “it’s a matter of patience. Trust me, you will get better at this with experience.” With that as the introduction, Phyllis Crawford proceeded to bore all but Christine Crawford with her lengthy expository on recognizing and dealing effectively with malevolent sexual deviants.
“Hey, doc,” Nick announced as he snuck up on Dr. Erwin Tasser again.
Tasser jumped. “Dammit, I’m going to kick you in the nads if you pull that crap anymore.”
Nick laughed, and Tasser put his meaty paw around Nick’s shoulder. At 6’5” and many years north of 300 pounds, Erwin Tasser was an imposing figure. He also loved Nick like the son he never had.
“C’mon, I’ll show you what I’m finding,” Tasser continued. It was 11:15, and Tasser had substantially completed his autopsy of John Doe.
Nick followed Tasser through the office and out to the floor. Tasser lifted the sheet all the way off the corpse and began explaining what he had found.
“This guy has thirty-eight stab wounds, from right below the neck to slightly above the waist.”
Nick took a long look at the cadaver. He could see the deadly march across this poor man’s body.
Tasser continued. “Here’s what I want you to focus on, and to think about. This guy has been cleaned from top to bottom. If you look at the wounds, you’ll see this guy doesn’t have a drop of blood on him, even though he lost more than fifty percent of the blood in his body. His back is also all scratched up, as are his knees and palms. I dug dirt and some kind of rough sediment out of those wounds. His hair’s been washed, hell, it even smells good. His fingernails and toenails have been clipped. I’m telling you, Nick, I don’t know if I’ve ever been this clean.”
“What do you think, Tassy?” Nick replied, using the fond nickname he had created and only he was allowed to use.
“I’ve been doing this for over thirty years now. I’ve never seen anything like this. This is cold, it’s calculated, it is without remorse. You’re dealing with pure evil here. This doesn’t have anything to do with Colfax Avenue, prostitution, or anything like that.”
Nick studied the coroner. He had known Erwin Tasser since his earliest days on the force. The man was an institution. He was brilliant, thoughtful, and measured. He did not quickly draw conclusions. Nick stood chilled by the man’s observations.
“I’m glad you’re handling this, Nick,” Tasser said. “This requires high intelligence, a lot of organization, and a certain doggedness. Even with that, I’m not sure we’ll be able to catch this guy. If anyone can, it’s you. But I’m also worried about you. Are you sure you’re up for this?”
And there it was, the real question, Nick thought. Nobody knew the answer, probably least of all him. At that moment, he burned for a drink. Who cares, what difference does it make anyway? He looked down.
“Tassy, you probably know me better than anyone in the world. What do you think?”
Tasser took Nick by the arm and led him back to the office, where he sat down with him on an overstuffed, smelly, cheap sofa.
“I know it’s been hard for you ever since Alisha died. You know I love you like a son and always will. But it’s been three months now. I don’t believe a parent can ever, truly, get beyond the death of a child, and I would never expect that of you. But you do have to get on with your life. You have two beautiful children who absolutely adore you, and I know you adore them. And while things have been difficult for you and Phyllis, it’s probably getting to be the time when you need to kick back into the world here.”
As Nick sat across from his friend, he bent at the waist and looked down, mussing the back of his head with his hands. Tasser put a huge paw on back of Nick’s neck and continued.
“I really would do anything in the world for you, and I know you know that. It’s time.” With that Tasser rose and left the office. He knew Nick needed to think.
After some time, Nick walked back into the laboratory. He reached up and put a hand on the back of Tasser’s shoulder. The doctor turned around, recognizing the deep sadness his friend was battling.
(two years ago)
“Are you sleeping again?” The Doctor asked.
Victor roused slowly from his deep sleep, suddenly aware of his sparse surroundings. The sedative in his orange juice had done its job.
“It is now time for us to work. This, of course, is an elaborate screenplay. You will act your part, and, I trust, perform it well. Your script, costume, props, and directions have been provided.” The Doctor sounded amused.
Victor looked toward the slot that had provided breakfast and saw a variety of items on a new tray. His breakfast tray was gone.
“Start with the directions. They are in the envelope.”
He moved forward and tore open the envelope.
You are about to participate in a most elaborate play. While we have attempted to fully script this, there will be elements of improvisation required of you and your leading lady. In acting, improvisation is considered the height of talent, so I trust you will take your responsibility seriously.
What follows will be difficult for you to comprehend the first time through, so please read these directions a second and third time to fully understand what is expected.
You will find the actual play with lines and instructions on the pages following. While they are minimal, it is important for you to practice and memorize your part, as any good actor does. Practice until the light goes out tonight.
Next, look through the props and find your clothes. When the lights come on again, remove the clothes you are currently wearing, put them in the duffle bag, place the bag up against the slot, and put on your new clothes. This play is a period piece, set during the earliest colonial days in the United States. Therefore, you will be dressed as a minister from the mid-seventeenth century.
As Victor read, he chilled with understanding. Warily but dutifully he would follow the directions implicitly.
Nick left Tasser’s office after 1:00, ready for lunch. He grabbed a copy of the Denver Post and headed to The Blarney Stone, a greasy spoon that had existed longer than Nick had. He was certain it had never been cleaned, the grease used to cook all his favorites had never been changed, and the coffee mugs would make se
rviceable coffee if only boiling water were added to them. It was great.
Nick ordered the chicken fried steak with mashed potatoes, cream gravy, green beans, a side salad with Bleu Cheese, Texas toast, and iced tea. For dessert he would have their famous coconut cream pie—all in all, a fabulous lunch. He would start getting back into shape and head down to one-ninety-five soon. But not today.
After ordering, Nick scoured the paper for the story on the Mayflower case. He started in the “Denver & the West” section, guessing the story would not rate much of note. You had to be a big name to receive significant news coverage for getting murdered—otherwise, you were a footnote, buried deep within the human-interest part of the papers. Nick surmised correctly, finding the story in the left-hand column of page four, along with the other stories of knifings and what-not in Denver from the previous day.
Unidentified Man Found Dead in Colfax Motel
Denver—At approximately 3:00 yesterday, the Denver Police Department received a call from the manager of the Lonesome Dove Motel, at 5233 E. Colfax, notifying them of a dead body. Upon arrival, the police found the body of an unidentified white male, approximately thirty-five years of age. Detective Nicholas Lynch of the Denver Police Department refused to speculate on the cause of death, pending the results of an autopsy. Detective Lynch did acknowledge this is being treated as a homicide but would not comment further.
“Good, pretty bland,” Nick muttered to himself. He finished his lunch and found a similar article online as he dug into his coconut cream pie, which was delicious. He headed back glowing in the warmth of too much grease and sugar, feeling better than he had in some time.
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