by Roger Hayden
In response, Trudeau walked from one end of the room to the other with his hands behind his back. “Who would do such a thing? Are you suggesting that someone in law enforcement is involved in the kidnapping?”
“No,” Miriam said. “I don’t think it’s anyone in law enforcement. He’s more of an advisor. An expert in his field.”
Trudeau halted mid-step and looked at Miriam, narrowing his eyes. “You don’t say?”
Miriam took a deep breath and swallowed as the day’s latest, tragic events came back to her. “This evening we lost some men in an improvised explosive attack, men who weren’t supposed to be there. In his suicide letter, Frohman left directions to a van not far from here. He said that the girls would be found there. Except all we found were several pressure cookers rigged to explode. It’s possible that Frohman conceived the idea to have one last laugh at the expense of law enforcement. But it all seemed very elaborate for a young grocery store stock boy. And why not make an anonymous call? Why list directions in a vague suicide note? Better yet, why kill yourself at all?”
She studied Trudeau’s serious face and unblinking eyes as he stared back at her, motionless and not saying a word.
“The point is, Doctor, we’re dealing with a conspiracy not just in kidnapping innocent girls, but a plot to kill law enforcement officers. The person behind this needs to be stopped before they harm others. We can make it happen if you just explain your involvement.”
At first, her words didn’t seem to register. Trudeau remained standing across from her, blank-faced and oblivious. His eyes twitched as his head jerked to the side with an incredulous expression. “Excuse me? What did you just say?”
Miriam rose from the couch with her right hand inches from her holster. She maintained eye contact with Trudeau even as he glared back with dismay.
“You had to know that we’d look up Ken Frohman eventually. I searched his records. He had been charged with theft. He and Browning served time together. He received psychological examinations, two of them, with your signature at the bottom. Why would you deny that you knew him? Especially when you must have known we’d find out otherwise?”
Whatever the answers, Trudeau wasn’t speaking. He casually crossed his arms and exhaled loudly through his nose. Miriam, however, was just getting warmed up. She reached into her satchel and pulled out the book recovered on the scene. “This was found at the scene of the explosion. Coincidence? It could very well be. It could be just as strange as your message to me in my signed copy. You know, where you told me to have a blast.”
His face remained perfectly unaffected as he leaned forward and held his arms out. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Lieutenant, but maybe I should call the department after all. Something tells me you’re a little out of your element on this one.”
“If you cooperate, I promise to make things easy for you. There’s still time to try to do the right thing.”
He tilted his head back and laughed while holding his sides. “Is this some kind of joke? Please tell me that you’re joking, Lieutenant Sandoval.”
Miriam, however, showed no signs of amusement. “There are investigators dead right now because of this case. Tell me what you know.”
Trudeau stepped back toward the fireplace and leaned against the mantle. “I’m absolutely stunned by these far-fetched accusations. A little hurt too.” He placed a hand over his heart as his voice grew louder. “You think that I have something to do with this just because I wasn’t forthcoming with Mr. Frohman? That’s your theory?”
“Part of it, yes,” Miriam said.
Trudeau appeared visibly frustrated and nearly defeated with his wide-eyed stare and head shaking. “I just can’t believe it.” He raised his head up and looked at her with a sincere sadness in his eyes. “I want to help you, Lieutenant Sandoval. That’s what you don’t understand. I didn’t mention Mr. Frohman because technically, he was never my patient. I did meet him twice to provide the state-ordered examination. I also helped both men find employment at the Food Mart. Mr. Hutton, the assistant manager, is a good friend of mine.” He paused and raised a stern finger in the air. “But that is the extent of it. What those two were doing had nothing to do with me.”
“Have a blast,” Miriam said, unconvinced. “That’s what you told me. And I sure did, Dr. Trudeau. We all did.”
Trudeau lowered his head, staring at the floor in silence. For a moment, Miriam considered arresting him right then and there, but she still didn’t have any solid evidence of what to charge him with. Her implications had already appeared to rattle him. She could only imagine his response after she outright accused him of being involved. No. Now wasn’t the time. She was close to getting somewhere with him. Truth or lies, she was going to get him talking.
“After all I’ve done to try to help you on this case,” he said in a vacant voice of disbelief. He then approached Miriam, counting along the fingers of his open palm. “I met Mr. Frohman, yes. But I did not know him in the same manner as Mr. Browning.” He stopped, inches from the glass coffee table, and leaned closer, displaying white teeth in his gaping smile. “You sound stuck, Lieutenant, and this strange fixation on me explains it perfectly. Perhaps you should go back to the drawing board.”
Miriam glanced at his bookcase, scanning the titles until she stopped at The Manchurian Candidate. She then turned to Trudeau as he waited in anticipation for an answer. “You’re a fan of literature, correct?”
“Of course,” he said. “Isn’t it obvious?”
“I just wonder someday if I’m going to see this story written in a book. Maybe under a pen name. Have you ever used a pen name, Dr. Trudeau?”
His face was a combination of amazement and disbelief. “What on earth are you talking about?”
It was the kind of rhetorical question meant to have Trudeau admit to something without realizing it, but he remained dumbfounded. He raised both arms up as the sleeves of his bathrobe slid down toward his elbow. “Look. I think there’s been a big misunderstanding here. How about I pour us each a glass of wine and we discuss all of this without trick questions or petty accusations. Just two people talking about a case. Deal?”
In a show of solidarity, Miriam sat down and nodded. “That would be fine.”
“I’ll be right back. I already have a bottle out,” he said, walking out of the room. Miriam kept a careful eye on him until he turned out of view. She stood up again and crept to the corner of the living room, looking down the hall and toward a spacious dining room surrounded by windows displaying the night sky. She watched as Trudeau grabbed the wine bottle on the table and went into the adjacent kitchen. She didn’t want to let him out of her sight, and she certainly wasn’t going to drink whatever was offered. Despite his innocence or guilt, there was no one she trusted least.
She looked around the living room in his absence in search for anything out of the ordinary. A closer inspection of his bookcase revealed that half of the books on the top shelf were on the human anatomy. It was a strange collection for a psychiatrist to have. Unless, of course, he wasn’t always a student of that particular school. A strange thought hit Miriam, a sudden realization that Dr. Trudeau wasn’t always who he said he was. She heard him pouring wine from the kitchen and decided to investigate further.
The hallway was adorned in framed artwork, including Van Gogh’s famous self-portrait with his ear wrapped in a bandage. She entered the dining room in hopes of seeing other bedrooms or unusual sights in her midst. To her right was another hallway leading to a series of rooms where all the doors were closed.
To her left, Trudeau stood in his large, modernized kitchen with his back toward her. The kitchen sink and counters were spotless and free of dirty dishes. The sterling silver exterior of the oven and double-door refrigerator glimmered in the overhead lights. Trudeau certainly kept things impeccably clean. As he poured a second glass of red wine, his back remained to Miriam, though he took notice of her reflection in the window.
“I j
ust can’t leave you alone, can I?” he said with a chuckle. “Relax, Lieutenant. Your wine is coming.”
“You have a very nice house,” she said, scanning the kitchen.
Trudeau finished pouring and re-corked the bottle. “Thank you.”
“Very clean,” she said while approaching a center counter console with a cutting board, toaster, and a stack of mail. Trudeau turned with a wine glass in each hand. “Shall we retreat back to the living room?”
“Sure,” Miriam said. Her attention moved behind him and toward the pantry where the door was open, revealing a row of stocked shelves in the darkness, organized as anything else in the house. Something on the floor then caught her eye and caused her to lean against the center counter to get a better look. There were spots on the white kitchen floor leading into the pantry. But they weren’t just any spots, they were small and red.
If she didn’t know any better, she’d surmise that it was a blood trail. The sight was even stranger given how clean Trudeau kept his floors. His smile dropped as he noticed her distraction. He turned toward the pantry in the corner and then looked at Miriam as she looked away. But it was too late. Her eyes had given her away.
“What is it, Lieutenant,” he said, setting the glasses on the counter. “You look like you’ve seen something.”
Miriam brought her hand to her side and touched the handle of her pistol. “That’s enough, Dr. Trudeau. Don’t make another move.”
His face was a picture of absolute shock as nervous laughter followed. “What? This again? Are you serious?”
Miriam knew that she was going to have to jolt him back to reality, lest they stand in the kitchen all night not getting anywhere. She drew her pistol with deft precision, startling the doctor.
“Hands up, now!”
Trudeau stared ahead in vacant disbelief. He brought his hands up slowly, feigning shock.
“On your head!”
He brought his hands to his head, interlacing his fingers. “I think you’re making a big mistake here, Lieutenant. I’d advise you to reconsider this before you do something you might regret.”
“What’s inside the pantry?” she shouted.
Trudeau jerked his head back, wide-eyed, and laughed. “What are you talking about? Can you hear yourself right now?” He then lowered his arms and began to walk toward the pantry.
“I said don’t move!” Miriam fired a warning shot to the side of him, blasting out one of the kitchen windows behind him. Trudeau stopped dead in his tracks and stumbled into the counter with his hands in the air, trembling.
“I won’t hesitate to shoot you,” she said. “You know enough about me now.”
“Yes…” he said. “Listen to me, Miriam. This has gone far enough. I think you need psychiatric help. Your paranoia is raging. Let me help you.”
“Where are the girls?” she shouted.
He stared ahead with a disappointed expression and no initial response. “See, that’s what I’m talking about,” he said with a sigh. “You’re bordering on psychotic delusions.”
“Turn around, and keep your hands on your head. Legs spread out,” she commanded as one hand went for a pair of handcuffs.
“Miriam…”
“Do it!”
After a momentary pause, Trudeau slowly turned and then leapt into the pantry without warning in an immediate charge.
“No!” Miriam shouted, firing three shots into the counter behind him. She’d lost him but didn’t think he’d get that far. She crouched down and rushed toward the center counter, aiming toward the pantry. Several cans and boxes had fallen over with Trudeau’s hasty retreat inside.
“Come out of there now!” she said. “Last chance!”
She then heard the click of a switch and all the lights went out. Miriam knelt in the darkness, the night sky her only guide. She could hear shifting coming from the pantry like an entire wall was being moved. Her instincts told her that Trudeau was trying to escape, and she wasn’t going to let that happen. She rose and moved swiftly to the side counter with her back pressed against it and used it as a guide as she shuffled toward the pantry, pistol raised up with both hands.
Movement from the inside of the pantry continued—something large and heavy like that of a door in an ancient tomb. She turned and ran toward it as her eyes tried desperately to adjust to the darkness. Without warning, a blast came from the pantry, followed by a great force plunging into her chest and tossing her back into the center counter where her head smacked against the surface. In an instant, she had been debilitated, taken down in one shot.
She lay on her back, dazed and short of breath as a figure emerged from the pantry, approaching her with steady ease. She gasped for air as Trudeau loomed over her, his hands clutching something that looked like a shotgun.
“Just beanbag rounds, Miriam. Don’t worry. I imagine you’ll be in a fair amount of pain once the shock wears off, but that’s okay.”
She tried to speak, but nothing would come out. Her eyes watered, further blurring her vision. She lay contorted on the ground with her hands reaching for her pistol. Her fingers stopped once she felt the very tip of its barrel. She wasn’t sure how well Trudeau could see, but she was aware that he was standing right over her.
“I think you’ve done enough talking,” he continued. “And let me say, I’m very impressed, even though I tried to throw you off. You came at me like a bloodhound, fresh on the scent. I underestimated you, Miriam.”
“Where… where…” she said in a queasy, faint voice as her stinging chest rose and dropped sporadically.
“Where are the girls?” he said.
Miriam nodded as tears streamed from her cheeks.
“They’re here. Just as you deduced.”
She tried to move but felt paralyzed and numb. Trudeau didn’t look like he was in any rush to let her go. Her fingers pulled the hot barrel closer, trying to grab the handle and dispense with Trudeau before it was too late. Though she had her suspicions, she was shocked to hear him admit that he was behind everything from the beginning.
“Those girls are special to me. They are my subjects. Only one of them, however, will reach the final stage of the experiment. That’s how it has to be.” He paused and stared down at her. “They’re downstairs, Miriam. Just like you suspected.” He paused and then playfully slapped his head. “Foolish me. I can’t believe I trailed in blood from the room.” He studied Miriam for a moment and then sighed with reluctant acknowledgment of her fate. “This isn’t how I wanted things to end between us, Miriam. I knew you’d be too smart to fall for the van stunt, that’s why you’re still alive. But you were never supposed to track me down like this. You were never supposed to find me.”
He set the shotgun on the counter and then pulled a butcher knife out from a nearby holder. Miriam shook with fear as the moonlight gleamed from its blade. He walked toward her with caution, clutching the knife, and then took a knee inches from her neck. “I don’t want to make a mess, so it’ll be quick. Just one slash across the throat. Just like I did to Frohman’s wrists after I forced him to write that suicide letter.”
Miriam struggled to move as rage and adrenaline consumed her. “Bastard…” she seethed.
“Yeah,” he said, looking up. “Nobody’s perfect.”
She felt the pistol handle in her hand, gripping it with all her might and aiming the barrel toward him. She pulled the trigger, firing a round in a loud blast. Trudeau flew back into the pantry and crashed against the shelves. Miriam fired another round, but she didn’t know if she hit him or not. Another trigger pull, and she was out of ammunition. She heard Trudeau kicking and writhing on the ground.
“Stupid bitch!” he shouted. “You shot me in the shoulder!”
She grabbed the bottom counter and pulled herself along the floor and away from him where another ammo clip was stored in her satchel. Her senses slowly returned to her with each heave, followed by intense pain where the round had hit her in the chest. It was no ordinary beanbag round.
As she crawled to the living room, she heard Trudeau stumbling around in the darkness, groaning in pain. He wasn’t going to escape this time. However, by the time she reached the living room, grabbed her satchel, and crawled back to the kitchen, he was no longer there.
Miriam loaded her pistol and waited. She lifted herself up and held onto the counter for support. “Trudeau! Show yourself! It’s not too late.” But she heard nothing. Vision returning to her, she saw a thick pool of blood leading into the pantry, not just a trickle like before. A drawer had been yanked out with towels scattered on the floor and drenched in blood. She inched toward the pantry, prepared to take him down, but suddenly heard a car engine rev from outside.
“No,” she said. “It’s impossible.”
She nearly fell to the ground while trying to rush toward the kitchen. She limped along the way and ran to the living room window just in time to see a silver Mercedes peel out of the garage and speed away from the house in a fury, leaving a cloud of dust in its wake. He had escaped, badly wounded.
Miriam limped back to the kitchen and pulled her flashlight from her satchel. She shined it into the pantry and saw that an entire wall had been moved, revealing a small door with several locks. She unlocked the door and went down the stairs, shocked to find two beds, one empty and one occupied, and a trail of blood leading to the empty one.
Fueled by adrenaline, she rushed toward the bed to her left where a young girl was blindfolded and tied at her wrist to both bedposts. The girl shuddered and cried out as Miriam brushed her hair back, removing her blindfold and offering comfort.
“It’s okay, honey. You’re safe now. We’re going to get you out of here.”
“He’s here!” she cried. “He’s here to cut us up!”
“He’s gone,” Miriam said. “Don’t worry.”