by Lee Goldberg
"Yes and no, but we'll leave that to Steve to explain," Amanda said, giving Jesse a stern look. "Won't we, Jesse?"
"Sure. We won't tell Mark how we're this close to nailing the killers." Jesse pinched his index finger and thumb nearly together to illustrate his point.
"Killers?" Mark asked. "There's more than one?"
Amanda swatted Jesse's shoulder. "Stop it. Do you want Mark to bolt out of this bed right now to get on the case?"
"You have a point, medically speaking." Jesse glanced back at Mark. "Forget what I said."
Mark thought that it was nice to be asked to forget something rather than being told that he'd lost two years of memories. He was glad he'd stepped in front of that bus.
Amanda gave Mark a kiss on the cheek. "I'll call Steve, and then I'll come by to check up on you later."
"If I'm still here." Mark grinned.
"You better be." She glared at him, then at Jesse, before walking out.
Jesse turned to Mark. "Okay, boss. You know the drill. Can you stick your tongue out at me?"
Mark could and did.
Steve used the DMV database to find out the make, model, and license plate number of the car Paul Guyot drove, and then he went to the John Muir Hospital parking structure to find it. Unfortunately, there were no syringes, stolen drugs, files on the dead patients, or signed confessions in clear view inside the ten-year-old Acura.
So he returned to his Ford pickup, found a parking spot that he could see the parking structure exit, and settled in for a long wait.
Next to writing reports, stakeouts were the dullest part of Steve's job. They were also hard on his lower back, legs, and bladder.
If he was alone on a stakeout, which he preferred to being saddled with a talkative partner, he passed the time by listening to Dr. Laura or enjoying a detective novel on CD. His favorite reader was actor Joe Mantegna. Steve wondered what it would be like listening to Joe read an account of one of his investigations, but he decided that even the acclaimed actor couldn't make sitting in a car eating potato chips and relieving yourself in a Porta Potti sound exciting.
Bladder control was a serious issue in a stakeout. Steve learned that early on. He'd learned to go without drinking as long as he could and, when he did drink, to have only a few sips.
Guyot left the structure at about six o'clock and then drove a few miles to the Trader Joe's market at Fallbrook Center. It wasn't until Guyot got out of the car to go into the market that Steve got his first good look at the killer nurse. The man was still in surgical scrubs, his hair curly and askew, which was a contrast to his neatly trimmed goatee. He wore wire-rimmed glasses that gave him the studious, scholarly look of a graduate student.
Guyot was about six feet tall and a little soft in the middle, though not enough to be called fat. Steve judged him to he in his mid-thirties.
There was nothing even slightly menacing about him, nothing in his manner or body language that betrayed the act that he'd killed at least five people.
Steve had to restrain himself from beating the crap out of the man or, at the very least, placing him under arrest. Not that anyone in the store was in danger. Guyot killed only people who were weak, vulnerable, and defenseless.
Paul Guyot wasn't just a sociopath. He was a coward.
Steve waited outside, watching the customers go to their cars with their grocery carts full of organic this and free-range that. Was a chicken who ran free, eating whatever crap he could stick in his beak, really any healthier to eat than one that was given a controlled diet of chemically rich nutrition? Who knew what a free-range chicken was consuming? It could be toxic waste.
That's why Steve preferred to eat Kentucky Fried Chicken. Whether those chickens ran wild, crowing the theme from Born Free or not, he was confident that whatever poisons they had in them got pressure-cooked and irradiated into oblivion and rendered impotent by the Colonel's secret blend of eleven herbs and spices.
Guyot came out ten minutes later with a single grocery bag and two bottles of wine. He put them in the trunk of his car and drove off. Steve stayed a couple of car lengths behind him, careful not to get too close.
It didn't seem as if the nurse knew he was being followed. Guyot didn't try any switchbacks, sudden turns, or abrupt lane changes to flush out a pursuer.
Guyot drove south on Topanga Canyon Boulevard into Woodland Hills, crossing Ventura Boulevard and then making a right into one of the side streets that carried him into a tree-lined community of tiny ranch-style homes. He pulled into the driveway of a blue house.
Steve drove slowly past, noting Wendy Duren's Honda on the street and, at the comer, Tanis Archer's black Mercury Marauder sedan, which looked like a police car without the insignia, antennas, and flashing lights.
Steve pulled up beside her parked car, and they rolled down their driver's side windows simultaneously.
"Subtle," Steve said, tipping his head towards her car. "Why don't you just drive a black-and-white and turn on your siren?"
"Is this how you encourage people like me to help you on your unauthorized investigations for no salary, no credit, and the risk of complete career ruination?"
"I'm relying on my winning smile," Steve said, offering her one. She didn't seem impressed.
"I think we know what Guyot and Duren's relationship is," Tanis said. "She let herself into his house with her own key. I wonder if these killings are some kind of kinky sex game."
"Funny you should put it that way," Steve said. But before he could finish the thought, his cell phone rang. It was Amanda.
"I have some good news," she said.
"You've got that list of former critical-care patients or Appleby clients whose first or last names begin with the letter V."
"Better than that," Amanda said. "Mark is awake."
The four of them—Steve, Amanda, Jesse, and Susan—were gathered around Mark's bed as if it were a campfire. He was sitting up and was about to tell them about how he'd spent the last three days.
"We know what you were doing," Steve said. "You were lying right there unconscious."
"I was doing more than that," Mark said. "I was dreaming."
"About what?" Steve asked.
"The investigation I was conducting before someone tried to run me over," Mark said.
"Of course you were," Steve said. "What a dumb question."
"Well, to be honest, there was also some romance involved," Mark said.
"There was?" Susan said, raising her eyebrows.
"Now you want to hear the story, don't you?" Jesse said.
"I'm not sure that I do," Steve said. "How romantic was it and how much detail are you going to get into?"
"Don't worry. It's nothing that's going to make you or me uncomfortable," Mark said. "But I suspect it's going to turn out to have some important symbolic value."
"Symbolic?" Jesse said.
"Something that is one thing but actually represents something else," Amanda explained.
"I know what it means, thank you," Jesse said. "But sometimes three Hawaiian Tropic swimsuit models wrestling in Cool Whip are just three Hawaiian Tropic swimsuit models wrestling in Cool Whip."
Susan gave him a look. "You dream about swimsuit models wrestling in whipped cream?"
"No, of course not," Jesse said. "It was only an example of a typical dream that some desperately lonely person who isn't me and isn't happily married to the most beautiful woman on earth might have. Someone like Steve."
"Gee, thanks," Steve said. "But I believe we were talking about my father and his dreams. So you're saying he's a desperately lonely person?"
Mark hadn't thought of himself as lonely. And yet he missed Emily, a woman who existed only in his dreams. He figured he wasn't the first man haunted by a fantasy.
"No," Jesse stammered. "What I meant was—"
Mark interrupted him. "I can assure you that no one was wearing swimsuits in my dream."
"They were naked!" Jesse said.
Susan swatted Jesse's
shoulder. "Please go on, Dr. Sloan."
"In my dream, I was still looking into the sudden, often accidental deaths of individuals who'd recently survived life-threatening illnesses or injuries," Mark said. "Like Grover Dawson."
"It was an accident—" Steve began, but Mark cut him off.
"It was murder," Mark said. "I found the key to proving it during the last couple of days."
"While you were unconscious," Amanda said.
"Yes, and I believe if we can correctly interpret the symbolic elements of my dreams, it will lead us to the identity the killer."
"You want our help analyzing your dream so we can solve a murder," Steve said.
"More than one," Mark said. "I think we're dealing with a serial killer."
Steve sighed. "It's not enough that you're a better detective than half of the LAPD combined. If word gets out that you can solve murders in your sleep, a whole bunch of us homicide detectives are going to be looking for new jobs. Me included."
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Mark could tell by the way they were looking at him that they thought he was crazy.
"Are you saying that slamming your head against concrete has made you psychic?" Jesse said. "Because if you are, there could be a TV series in this."
"I'm not psychic, but solving the mystery in my dream is not as ridiculous as it sounds," Mark said. "I'd already completed most of my investigation before I got hurt. All those facts and observations were swirling around in my subconscious. The dream was simply my subconscious working it all out."
"You call that simple?" Steve said.
"How do you know the facts and observations you were using in your dream weren't imaginary?" Susan asked.
"That's why you're all here," Mark said. "I'm going to tell you what I discovered and you're going to tell me if I based it on imaginary facts."
"This is a first," Amanda said.
"I can just imagine how this is going to play out in the courtroom when I'm on the witness stand," Steve said. "The defense attorney will say, 'Tell me, Detective, how did you discover the so-called connection between my client and the alleged murder?' And I'll reply, 'My father saw it in a dream while he was in a coma.'"
"Everything I'm going to tell you can be independently corroborated by data I assembled before I hit my head," Mark said.
"We've been doing some investigating of our own while you've been unconscious," Steve said. "We went back over a lot of ground you covered and questioned many of the same people. We came to a few conclusions of our own."
"Let me tell you what I discovered first while it's all still fresh in my mind," Mark said.
"Besides, I want to hear about this romance," Susan said. "Go ahead, Dr. Sloan. Tell us the story."
And with that, Mark began his tale. He told them how, in his dream, he woke up in Community General in much the same condition as he was now, only he'd suffered severe amnesia and Jesse had been killed saving his life.
"See," Jesse said. "Deep down, you do resent me for causing your injury."
"I don't think that's what it is," Mark said.
"My heroic death was definitely symbolic," Jesse said.
"It's going to be literal if you don't shut up and let Mark go on with his story," Amanda said.
Jesse turned to Susan. "Are you going to let her talk to your man that way?"
Susan nodded. "It saves me the trouble."
Mark explained that in his dream the last thing he remembered was Jesse and Susan's wedding, which, he'd been told by Dr. Emily Noble, had occurred two years earlier.
"Who is Dr. Noble?" Susan asked.
"A pediatric surgeon," Mark said.
"Then why were you her patient?" Jesse asked.
"She was my wife," Mark said.
"Your wife?" Steve said.
"I have a hunch that's one of the symbolic things we need to figure out," Amanda said.
"Clearly, she represents something important, but I can't figure out what it is," Mark said. "Is it her name? Is she someone I know? Is it her medical specialty?"
"Maybe it just means you were married to the case," Susan said. "That the victims were all connected to you."
"Could be," Mark said. "But I have a hunch that if we figure out why she was in my dream, we'll find out the identity of the killer."
He described how he promptly resumed his investigation into the deaths of his patients Grover Dawson, Joyce Kling, and Hammond McNutchin, among others. He started by going over notes he'd left in his office at Community General. There was a list that included two insurance companies, a pharmaceutical company, and several odd items like dentures, a glass fish, and a pearl necklace.
"You must have a photographic memory," Steve said. "I found those same notes, and they mentioned the items you just listed."
"That's reassuring," Mark said, and continued with the rest of his story. He went home, where he'd converted the first floor of the beach house into an office that was dominated by dry-erase boards that were covered with details culled from the research conducted by Amanda and Jesse.
"I can explain what that means," Jesse said, raising his hand. "You'd like Steve to move out sometime before he turns fifty."
Susan shot him a look and Jesse swatted himself on the shoulder, saving her the trouble.
"You've got him well trained," Amanda said approvingly.
Mark talked in detail about his meetings with the epidemiologist and the cardiac specialist, as well as his encounter with Grover Dawson's daughter.
"I can vouch for your account of what you got from those doctors," Steve said. "I spoke to them and the sociologist, too. But I don't know if you really spoke to Dawson's daughter."
"I did," Mark said. "In my dream, I was reliving the real meeting I had with Mallory Dawson the day before I nearly got run over. Only in reality, of course, my wife wasn't with me. The important discovery in both my real and my fantasy lives was that Grover Dawson had lost his wedding ring."
"Maybe he took it off before his hot date," Amanda said.
"I don't think he had a date," Mark said. "I think either someone swapped his regular meds with Viagra or forced him to take those pills."
"Can you prove it?" Steve asked.
"It's all in their medical files. All the victims lived alone, died sudden or accidental deaths, and had their prescription drags delivered by Kemper-Carlson Pharmaceuticals," Mark said. "But the clincher is that they were all missing a personal item. Grover Dawson's wedding ring was gone. Sandy Sechrest's glass fish disappeared. Joyce Kling's pearl necklace was lost. You'll find that Leila Pevney and Chadwick Sixelid were missing things, too."
"You think the killer took those things as trophies," Amanda said.
"I'm convinced of it," Mark said. "If we backtrack through the files, using the pharmaceutical company link as our guide, I'm afraid we'll find more victims. But we'll also find the murderer."
There was silence as everyone mulled over what Mark had told them. Steve studied his father's face. Mark's brow was furrowed and he was frowning.
"Is there something else?" Steve asked.
"I'm not sure what it means, but it must be significant," Mark said, glancing at Susan. "In my dream, you were pregnant."
Susan blushed. "I can assure you that I'm not."
"There was more to it than that," Mark said. "You were hit by a drunk driver and left brain-dead. We were going to keep you alive until you could give birth."
"How awful," Susan said softly.
Jesse put his arm around his wife's shoulders. "It was only a dream."
"More like a nightmare," Susan said.
"Emily had to perform in utero surgery to save your unborn child's life," Mark said. "Your accident and your pregnancy mean something."
"I'm afraid I didn't study dream analysis in any of my college psych courses," Amanda said.
"This is more like English lit," Susan said, "Analyzing a writer's symbols and metaphors for the deeper, thematic meaning."
"Care to make so
me guesses?" Mark asked.
Susan bit her lower lip and thought about it. "Well, me and my unborn child could represent your patients and the almost parental way you protect and care for them. If you don't find this killer soon, another one of your patients, your surrogate children, could die."
"Maybe Emily Noble is the killer," Jesse said. "We ought to run a check on her name."
"Or maybe she represents the fact that the murderer is a mirror image of you, your evil twin of sorts. A medical professional who doesn't save lives but takes them," Amanda said. "Perhaps her name refers to our ‘noble' profession, which the murderer has warped."
"But Emily didn't kill anyone in my dream," Mark said.
"Since when do dreams have to make sense?" Jesse said. "Why did Cap'n Crunch show up in the hot tub with the Hawaiian Tropic models?"
Everyone stared at Jesse, who shrugged.
"Hypothetically speaking, of course," he said.
"I wouldn't worry too much about what it all means, Dad. You did good work in your coma, but—" Steve stopped himself. "Now there's a sentence I never imagined myself saying."
"Go on," Mark said.
"But the thing is, you went in the wrong direction," Steve said. "We know who the killers are. We've already solved the case."
"You have?" Mark said. "Who have you arrested?"
"Nobody yet," Steve said. "There's this little technicality we have to deal with first."
"All we have to do is prove they're guilty to the satisfaction of the district attorney," Amanda said.
"And that's going to be tricky," Steve said. "But I think I've got a way to do it."
"Tell me everything," Mark said. "Start at the beginning."
Before Steve could say anything, Jesse stood up and spoke. "I hate to behave like the responsible doctor around here, but this is enough for one night. Mark needs his rest."
"I've been resting for three days," Mark protested.
"You've been unconscious and you have a hole in your read," Jesse said. "You could have died."
"Now you tell me," Steve said pointedly to Jesse.
"It's time for everyone to go home and for Mark to get some sleep," Jesse said, ignoring Steve's comment. "We can pick this up tomorrow."