Shadow Suspect

by Patrick Logan

  Drake scoffed at this, and Mark smiled.

  “We—psychiatrists—are not bad people, Drake. Quite the contrary. In fact, I look at my profession as synonymous to a gardener. A gardener keeps the lawn nicely cropped, disposes of refuse, keeps the garden watered to ensure plants bear the healthiest and heartiest fruits and vegetables. Every now and again, however, they encounter a weed. Any good gardener knows that you can’t just yank the top off a weed—you have to get down to the root, make sure you remove every last trace of it, else it might return. And if it does, it often grows larger and bears more spines than the previous iteration. If it regrows a third time, it might be impossible to remove. So look at me with no less or more scorn than you would a common gardener.”

  Drake stared curiously at the man, realizing that he might have jumped to conclusions about the man’s straightforward nature one jumbled analogy too soon.

  If he starts talking about healing stones and incense, I’m out of here, no matter what Chase will say.

  As if reading his thoughts, Dr. Kruk chuckled.

  “But no, Drake, to answer your question, I never saw them at the same time. I saw Thomas and Clarissa as a couple first, and then Thomas alone after the joint sessions had already run their course.”

  Drake nodded, his eyes leaving the man’s face and continuing around the office. He was hoping that the man might have been so careless as to leave Thomas’s file open on his desk, perhaps with a paragraph about someone who was stalking him highlighted.

  But Drake had never been very lucky. Amidst the piles of medical/psychiatry journals there was only a small square notepad with the name Marcus Saslinksy written on the front.

  “Your personal experience with psychiatry may not have been pleasant, Drake. And, given the circumstances, I’m not wholly surprised. But have you ever given thought to continuing—”

  Drake’s eyes whipped back.

  “What do you know of my experience?” he demanded harshly. He was starting to think that when Dr. Kruk had told him that he had expected him sooner, he hadn’t just been sitting around idly waiting for him.

  Mark waved a had dismissively.

  “I remember the newspaper articles about the bearded detective, your partner. The exposé in the Times.”

  “His name was Clay,” Drake snapped. “Clay Cuthbert.”

  The smile on Dr. Kruk’s face faded.

  “Yes, of course. I apologize if I offended you in some way, Drake. I only mean to be courteous, but perhaps I’ve come off as sounding self-serving by espousing the benefits of my own profession.” He gestured with his long fingers to the chairs. “Would you like to sit? Not for a session, of course, but to be more comfortable when you ask whatever questions you might have?”

  Drake shook his head.

  “No, I won’t be long. I just have a couple of questions about Thomas.”

  The smile returned to the doctor’s face.

  “Of course, but despite my candor, I must remind you that even in death I bound to confidentiality.”

  Ay, there’s the rub, Drake thought glumly. “I wondered how long it would take for you to say that.”

  “Yes, I’m afraid that with respect to these rules I am fairly predictable, unfortunate as that may be for your cause. That being said, I am quite adept at speaking in abstraction. Perhaps you would be interested in some of the more common themes that I might encounter on a daily basis in my practice?”

  Drake raised an eyebrow and stared at Dr. Mark Kruk.

  He’s trying to help, Drake realized after a moment. He’s trying to give me information without breaking confidentiality.

  Drake doubted that this approach would hold up in court, that circumventing the rules in this manner wouldn’t be blown apart even by one of the fresh out of NYU slobs in the DAs office, but he wasn’t about to question that now.

  After all, it wasn’t his place. Drake was no gardener. He was the lawnmower that the gardener kept in the shed.

  “Okay,” Drake began hesitantly. “What would cause Thomas… err, why would a couple to come see a psychiatrist in the first place?”

  Dr. Kruk answered without hesitation.

  “In my practice, I would estimate that ninety percent of my couple client base has issues revolving around infidelity of some sort. Care to guess what the other ten percent is?”

  Drake smirked.

  “Money?”

  Dr. Kruk nodded.

  “Love and money rule our lives these days. And haunt us, too, I suppose.”

  This last part struck a chord with Drake.

  His memories had been haunting him ever since he followed Clay into Peter Kellington’s house.

  Is he still trying to recruit a new client? Drake wondered. This was quickly followed by, Focus, Drake, focus on Thomas and not your own issues.

  He tried to imagine the scenario that led Clarissa and Thomas to Dr. Kruk’s office in the first place.

  Did Clarissa find some of Veronica’s underwear? There were so many of the damn things draped all over apartment 12-6, that Drake didn’t think if Thomas slipped a pair into his pocket that they would be missed. Or maybe Veronica gave it to him. That wasn’t out of the question either.

  Either way, Clarissa finds out about the affair, but based on what Chase told him, the woman is reluctant to file for a divorce, fearing that everything would be taken from her. Maybe big ol’ Ken Wannabe-Mayor Smith swoops in and encourages them to stay together, makes sure that divorce court proceedings don’t sully the Smith name. After all, it wouldn’t be the first time he has meddled in his son’s affairs.

  So Clarissa and Thomas arrive here and talk it out… and from all accounts get over it after just a few sessions. And yet Thomas isn’t done yet, he’s the one who comes back for more.

  Thomas has more weeds to pull.

  Drake cleared his throat.

  “How often do you think these problems get resolved? In your experience, of course.”

  “Which problems?” Dr. Kruk asked.

  “The infidelity.”

  Dr. Kruk tilted his head to one side and appeared to ponder this for a moment.

  “I think that most people can be cured of their addictions, be them infidelity or other,” he said with a chuckle. “Money problems, not so much. Drake, have you heard of a trigger event?”

  Drake nodded.

  “Sure. Like seeing an object or doing something that reminds you of the past. A heroin addict might remain clean while in a ninety day in-treatment program, but if they happen to pass an alley on the way home, on day ninety-one, and there’s a junkie sitting on the ground, thumb on the plunger, I’d reckon it might roll them right back to before treatment.”

  Dr. Kruk nodded.

  “Couldn’t have said it better myself. Provided that my patients avoid triggers, impossible as that may be over time, then I peg the success rate at a generous, and also very arbitrary, eighty-percent.”

  A photograph on the desk caught Drake’s eye and he picked it up. In it was a smiling man with his arms around a girl who looked to be about eight and a pretty woman with long blond hair.

  Drake’s eyes darted up and he scrutinized the doctor, who was now smiling even more broadly.

  “This isn’t you,” he said, holding the photo out to him.

  Dr. Kruk shook his head.

  “No, it’s not.”

  Drake made a face, and the doctor explained.

  “I’m afraid I’m not married nor do I have any children.”

  “Then what’s with the photograph?” Drake asked as he put it down on the desk again.

  “It makes people feel more comfortable. For whatever reason, humans tend to cling to the notion that you can’t possibly understand something, or god forbid be an expert in something, if you haven’t personally experienced it. That’s ridiculous, of course. Can a pathologist understand malaria if they haven’t contracted it? If this were a requirement, then I suspect that the hospital might suddenly have a few extra job openings.
Silly as the idea is, however, I’ve found that if I come across as a single man in my late thirties without a wife or kids, my client return rate drops by half. And it doesn’t even matter the status of the client. A family man assumes that I can’t possibly understand his plight, while a single man is convinced that I can’t help them get to where they think they want to be. If I put up this photo up, however, nearly everyone comes back.”

  Drake raised an eyebrow, glancing down at the picture again, then back up at Dr. Kruk’s face.

  “Seriously? But it doesn’t even look like you,” he said.

  “That’s the beauty of it. People know it’s there, but they don’t really look at it,” he shrugged, a depressed gesture. “People only see what they want to see. Our minds are wired in this way—an imago. After all, what we ‘see’ is only an interpretation of the world by our brain. Which, as you know, is prone to both error and experience.”

  Drake looked at the man curiously, and he couldn’t help but think that he had a point. But he wasn’t here to discuss reality. He was here to find out about Thomas Smith and if the doctor knew anything that might be able to help.

  “All right, now you’ve just jumped from psychiatry to woo-woo philosophy.”

  Again, Dr. Kruk chuckled.

  “Not a far leap, I might propose.”

  “Perhaps. But, back on topic, Thomas and Clarissa come here to discuss marital problems, infidelity—Thomas seeing a prostitute—and then poof their problems are solved. Only Thomas has something else he’s working out, something that he requires more sessions to… how did you put it? To weed. He doesn’t actually stop seeing the prostitute, so I doubt that was his main issue. That issue was the wife’s issue, which I’m guessing he only came to discuss to appease her. That sound about right?”

  Drake was staring at the doctor the entire time he spoke, and the man’s expression had remained remarkably neutral throughout.

  “This is as specific as one can get,” Mark said evenly, “As I mentioned, I am unable to discuss patient’s personal issues.”

  Drake waved a hand casually, as if to say no big deal.

  “Of course not—I’m just thinking out loud, doc,” he said passively before deciding to change tactics. “Hey, let me ask you something? Did you know Neil?”

  The man’s brow twitched.

  “Neil?”

  “Neil Pritchard.”

  Dr. Kruk pressed his lips together.

  “Ah, one of the other victims. I can only confirm that I am aware of who he is.”

  This response struck Drake as odd.

  “You told me outright that you were treating Thomas, so why can’t you tell me about whether you were also treating Neil?”

  The man on the other side of the desk sighed.

  “You knew Thomas was a patient of mine, elsewise you wouldn’t be here. But with Neil, you’re fishing. Detective Drake, I am all for being helpful, but I have worked very, very hard to build a career. I won’t jeopardize that for a few fishing expeditions, if you follow my meaning. As such, I think that we have come to a natural and fitting end to our discussion, wouldn’t you agree?”

  Out of habit, Drake checked his watch. It was after five now, which meant that Chase’s press conference must either be done, or nearing completion. He looked up and was surprised to see that Dr. Kruk was holding his hand out in front of him again, and the smile was back on his narrow face.

  “I think you’re right, Mark,” Drake said, shaking his hand once more. After two quick pumps, the doctor went to pull his hand away, but Drake held it for a second longer.

  “One last question: are psychiatrists good at poker?”

  “Well, I suspect they would be; very good, in fact,” Dr. Kruk replied, his smile growing to show a set of perfectly white teeth.

  CHAPTER 44

  “Damn it, Adams!” Sergeant Rhodes shouted across the desk. “What’d I say?”

  Chase felt her face grow hot, and she found herself wishing that Drake was here with her.

  “Huh? What did I say?”

  Chase swallowed hard.

  “I have no idea how the press found out about Raul… or Veronica. Absolutely no clue. Maybe it was Veronica herself who told them?”

  Rhodes scoffed, and leaned forward in his chair.

  “You’re joking, right? You just finished telling me your theory about her being paid off, then she goes to the press about afterward? What the hell for?”

  Chase felt her face tingling now and gave up.

  “I have no idea.”

  She had hoped that being vulnerable might make Rhodes go easy on her.

  She was wrong.

  “Yeah, I know. You have no idea, none at all. Just like you have no idea who killed Neil or Thomas or Chris. And, to make things worse, during your press conference you said ‘serial killer’. Literally, you used those exact words.”

  There was a sudden tightness in her forehead, and she knew that her brow hadn’t so much furrowed as it had folded.

  “What do you mean? I said, I don’t want to call him a serial killer.”

  “Right,” Rhodes snapped. “But you said the words—what world do you live in, Adams? No one has time to watch a five-minute press conference. Those words coming from your mouth will be made into a sound-bite and will be played over and over again. Shit, I’m surprised that the Deputy Inspector hasn’t heard it already. Serial killer, serial killer, serial fucking killer.”

  Chase swore under her breath. The man was right, but that wasn’t what bothered her. What bothered her was that she hadn’t even thought of the consequence before opening her mouth. An image of Drake’s brick of a cell phone suddenly came to mind.

  Maybe he is wearing off on me… maybe his plague stench is clinging to my clothes, my brain.

  Sergeant Rhodes sighed and leaned forward even further, his chair creaking like an old woman’s death croon.

  “Do you know why you are heading this case, Chase Adams?” he asked, his lips parting into a lecherous grin. He looked like a skull with spectacles now.

  “No,” she said, steeling herself for what came next.

  “The reason why I put you on this case, is because no one else would team up with Damien Drake. After what happened with his last partner, after what he did, no one wants to even go near him. But you… you were just so damn gung-ho, so eager, that you didn’t even stop to ask who Damien Drake was, just like you didn’t think about using the words ‘serial killer’ in front of the nation!”

  Chase let Rhodes ramble on, not bothering to correct him.

  The fact was, she knew exactly who Damien Drake was before coming to New York.

  Chase had done her research.

  She also knew that by teaming up with Drake she would be made the lead on their cases. Besides, Drake was a good detective. Despite what happened to Clay, Drake could still do good work and was a valuable asset.

  If he kept his drinking under control, that was.

  Rhodes finished his diatribe and waited. Chase knew that the man was baiting her, but seeing as he hadn’t actually posed a question she didn’t feel compelled to say anything.

  Keep your ego out of it, her mind warned. And she took heed.

  Instead of replying, Detective Chase Adams just sat there and waited. She waited until things transcended uncomfortable and teetered into awkward.

  At long last, she said.

  “Can I go?”

  Rhodes scowled. He had been looking for a fight, that much was clear, and the fact that she hadn’t engaged clearly disappointed him.

  “Yes,” he said curtly. “But this is your last chance. No more slip ups, or I’m making Detective Simmons lead on this one.”

  Chase nodded, again just slipping the bait. She stood and exited the man’s office.

  “Close the door behind you!” he hollered, and it took every ounce of her willpower not to slam it.

  Outside the room, she started toward her office, trying to calm her pounding heart, slow the release
of adrenaline into her system.

  Her hand had just grabbed the door handle to her office, when a male voice from behind said, “Detective Adams?”

  She spun, her jaw clenched.

  “What?”

  The young uniformed officer lowered his gaze. Outside the station he had looked intimidating, his thick arms crossed over his chest in a no-nonsense kind of way. In here, however, he looked like a little boy playing cops and robbers.

  “Sorry, I just wanted to let you know that I found out who the reporter was.”

  Chase squinted at him.

  “What?” she repeated, reserving some, but not all, of the venom on her tongue.

  “The reporter? The one asking questions about the housekeeper and call girl?”

  Chase relaxed.

  “Yeah? What’s his name?”

  “Ivan Meitzer of the New York Times.”

  Chase racked her brain, trying to remember where she had heard or seen the name before.

  The man recognized the concentration on her face and continued.

  “He was the one who wrote the article about the Butterfly Killer? Also did a whole series on the Skeleton King about six months ago.”

  Chase remembered her conversation with the detectives when the Butterfly Killer article had first surfaced. About how she would take whoever was responsible for the leak off the case immediately.

  “Thanks,” she said. “That will be all.”

  The man nodded and then left Chase alone with her thoughts.

  CHAPTER 45

  Drake sat in the booth at Patty’s that was starting to feel like his second home.

  Broomhilda was back, surly as ever, and it took him nearly ten minutes to get a cup of coffee. He didn’t even bother with the Key lime pie.

  The place was busier now, which was something that made him uncomfortable. Usually he preferred to meet later at night, preferably in the early morning hours, but that simply wasn’t possible given his impending date with Chase.

  Drake wasn’t happy about being seeing here while the sun was still out, and neither did his contact.

  The bell above the door chimed, and a man strode over to him, this time keeping his dark hood on. He slid into the booth across from Drake and then quickly reached into his jacket.