Bad Thoughts

by Dave Zeltserman

  “What do you mean he told you?”

  “I know this sounds crazy but I had a dream where he told me he’s with her. And Joe, I know it’s true.”

  There was a long pause. Then, “Who are you talking about?”

  “I don’t know. In my dreams he’s the guy who murdered my mother. Whoever he is, I know he’s with Susie.”

  “Did you smell anything?” DiGrazia asked, his voice barely audible.

  “Yeah, I smelled something. You’ve dreamed about him, too, haven’t you?”

  There was another long pause before DiGrazia told him he didn’t know what the hell Shannon was talking about.

  “You’re lying, Joe. You know about the smell. You’ve dreamed about him. Damn it, Joe, he’s with Susie right now. She’s going to die if you don’t help me.”

  “I’m not telling you where she is.”

  “Joe, you’ve got to believe me on this—”

  “I’ll tell you what I got to believe. That you’re completely wacko. That you’re playing the same game with me you did when you called me about that old man in East Boston. Susie probably contacted you already. She let you know where she’s staying, didn’t she?”

  “Dammit, Joe—”

  “I’m getting off the phone now. I have to go check on your wife. You better pray she’s okay.”

  “Call me when you see her—”

  The line went dead on him.

  The killer was with her. He knew it. DiGrazia better fucking hurry.

  Shannon couldn’t stand still. There was a frantic energy buzzing through him and neither pacing the apartment nor kicking the walls helped calm it down any. A drink would take some of the edge off but there was nothing in the apartment and all the bars were already closed for the night. He checked the kitchen for cigarettes, didn’t find any, grabbed his coat and headed outside. There was an all-night gas station off Memorial Drive where he could buy a pack.

  As he drove he played back his dream. He had no doubt about it being real. The killer had talked to him. Somehow the killer had invaded his dream, had somehow forced himself into Shannon’s subconscious. It was more than just that. The killer’s presence had been real. That smell . . . the damage he did to Shannon’s fingers . . . as crazy as it sounded, Shannon knew it was true. Absentmindedly he found himself imagining what Elaine would say if he told her about it.

  He was with her . . .

  Shannon pulled the car over. His knuckles bone white as he squeezed the steering wheel. A dull ache pulsated from his injured fingers. His therapist. Elaine Horwitz.

  He was with her. He was going to make mincemeat out of her.

  Shannon knew it was true. But he had made a mistake about who the killer was referring to. Now he knew.

  The road was empty except for a gray Chrysler sedan that had pulled up behind him. Shannon got out and told the two FBI agents in it where he was going.

  Chapter 31

  Elaine Horwitz sat propped up on her office sofa, her hands tied behind her back, her feet tied tightly together. She was naked. Her panties had been stuffed into her mouth. Charlie Winters sat in an easy chair next to her. His complexion had an unhealthy pasty look, making it seem as if his skin had been dipped in wax. Droplets of moisture beaded up along his upper lip. As if he were coming out of a trance his eyes opened.

  “Time to make the doughnuts,” Winters said with a twisted grin.

  He stood up and grabbed the therapist by her hair, pulling her head up until her eyes were directed towards his.

  “I’m going to free your mouth,” he breathed softly. “You know what will happen if you make any noise?”

  Horwitz didn’t respond.

  “Even as much as a whimper,” Winters added. “Especially a whimper.”

  He pulled the panties out of her mouth, letting his fingers linger along the inside of her lips. Even through his gloves, he could feel the coldness of her flesh. It excited him. He let the panties drop to the floor.

  “You know who I am?” Winters asked in his soft, singsong voice.

  “Yes.”

  “You want to guess how many women I’ve killed?”

  Horwitz shook her head. She tried to keep the terror out of her eyes. She knew that was what he needed. She knew that was all he needed.

  “To tell you the truth I couldn’t tell you,” Winters answered anyway. “There’s been so many. Not that they’ve all been women. I’ve had my share of men and boys and little girls. Even babies. I’ve never been too picky. But for some reason I always seem to gravitate towards women. I sometimes wonder if that’s healthy. In a way it seems to be, but you’re the trained psychologist and I’m only a layman. Tell me what you think.”

  “You pick women because you’re trying to deny strong homosexual feelings.”

  Winters made a soft tsking noise as he shook his head. “Oh, please. I was hoping this could be good for both of us, but not if you’re going to give me these fucking textbook answers. There’s far more to it than that. Far more to it, Doctor. What next, that I was an excessive bed wetter? I tortured animals as a child?”

  “You didn’t torture animals?”

  Winters’s eyes dulled. “I wouldn’t call it torturing,” he said. “I’d call it more experimentation. Developing my craft.”

  His eyes closed momentarily. Then, striking with an open palm he caught Horwitz hard along the jaw. The blow knocked her off the sofa.

  “It’s good you didn’t scream just then,” Winters said, his small mouth squeezed tight. “At least you’re perceptive. But you’ve got to take this seriously. This is an opportunity of a lifetime. How many chances do you get to deal with someone like me? Especially with so much riding on it. Or as far as I’m concerned, so little.”

  “You don’t want to be cured.”

  “Don’t we all want to be cured?”

  “No. You enjoy killing too much.”

  Winters squatted until he was right over Horwitz’s body. He grabbed her along the area of the jaw where he had struck her. “Are those tears, Doctor?”

  Horwitz bit hard on her tongue to keep from sobbing. Winters dug his fingers deeper into her jaw.

  “I do believe those are tears.” He ran his thumb under her eye and felt the wetness. “Yes, I do believe you’re crying.”

  “It’s nothing more than a physical reaction to pain.”

  “I think it’s more.”

  “No,” Horwitz said, her eyes expressionless as she met Winters’s gaze. “It’s nothing more than a physical response.”

  Winters shrugged. He moved over to an easy chair and sat down, crossing his legs. “Fine. We’ll wait. Meanwhile, I want to hear your theories on why I turned out the way I did. Why was it, Doctor? Because of an overbearing mother who deep down resented having a boy? Or maybe because of an abusive father who belittled me every chance he had? Or was it the other way around?”

  “I doubt it was because of any environmental causes. Your physical deformities probably played a role in how you turned out, but I’d bet it was as simple as you being born broken.”

  Winters’s small, pale eyes turned cold. “What do you mean physical deformities?”

  “Look in a mirror.”

  “Kind of glib considering your situation, Doctor.”

  “Does it make any difference?”

  “Probably not,” Winters said. “But—” he moved off his chair and got very close to Horwitz, his breath hot, his mouth brushing against her ear. “Billy Boy has probably figured it out. He could be on his way right now to save you. If you were a little better at what you did, maybe you could’ve distracted me. Maybe you’d even be alive when he got here.”

  “Who’s Billy Boy?”

  “Come on, Doctor. The man you dream about every night.”

  “I-I don’t know who you’re talking about.”

  “You’re lying to me, Doc.”

  “How—how do you know he’s coming here?”

  “Because I told him,” Winters smirked. His tongue
flicked in and out of Horwitz’s ear as he talked. “Billy and I go back a long way. Let me show you what I borrowed from his apartment.”

  Winters grabbed a paper bag and took an eight-inch carving knife out of it. He held it out in front of Horwitz.

  “A beauty, isn’t it?” Winters asked as he ran his thumb along its blade. “You know, usually I leave the women fully clothed, but with you I wanted to let Billy Boy see what he’s going to be missing. I hope you won’t be too bashful.”

  Winters got down on a knee and ran a finger along Horwitz’s throat. “If you want to scream go right ahead,” he said. “Just keep that beautiful, big mouth of yours wide open.”

  “Wait—” Horwitz said, keeping her voice low, “you actually can be cured. Would you like to know how?”

  “Not particularly. After all, I was born broken.”

  “You can still be cured,” Horwitz insisted.

  “To tell you the truth,” Winters said, “I think you were right before. About my not really wanting it. Anyway, it’s too late now. They could be here any minute.”

  “But—”

  “Ssh,” Winters said. He placed a hand on top of Horwitz’s throat and started to apply pressure. “By the way,” he whispered softly, “this is the way we did it to Billy Boy’s mom.”

  A raw panic took hold. As much as Elaine Horwitz tried to fight it, it seemed to grow within her, replacing the very breath that was being pushed out. She knew it was showing in her eyes. She wanted to scream.

  A smile broke out over Winters’s face. An almost pleasant smile. “That’s a good girl,” he said warmly. “That’s right, darling, scream. Stretch those red lips of yours wide and scream your head off. Wider please. A bit wider. This knife has to go somewhere.”

  As much as she tried, Elaine Horwitz couldn’t fight it.

  * * * * *

  A Brookline police cruiser was parked in front of Elaine Horwitz’s office building. Its lights were off and the cop sitting in it looked bored. Shannon pulled into the parking lot behind the building and ran back to the cruiser. The two FBI agents pulled up behind it.

  “Why aren’t you in there?” Shannon asked the cop, incredulously.

  “You’re the guy who called?”

  “I asked you why you’re sitting here on your ass—”

  “Hey, look, it’s three-thirty in the morning. The building’s empty. There’s no sign of any forced entry—”

  “Her car’s still in the parking lot!”

  The cop looked stunned. “Maybe somebody gave her a ride home,” he offered defensively.

  One of the FBI agents was getting out of the sedan. “Okay, what’s this about?”

  Shannon ignored him. The entranceway to Horwitz’s building was protected by a glass security door. Shannon tried it, found it locked, and kicked it in. Obscenities were shouted out from behind him. Someone tried to grab him by the arm, but he pulled free and ran to Elaine Horwitz’s office. The door to it was also locked. A familiar rancid smell filtered through it. He kicked the door and felt it splinter. He kicked it again and fell with it as it crashed open.

  “You goddamn psycho,” one of the FBI agents was yelling at him, “you better fucking stop right now.”

  He had a service revolver trained towards the middle of Shannon’s body. Shannon ignored it. From where he was lying he could see Elaine Horwitz’s desk. There was a body lying on top of it.

  “Oh shit,” the FBI agent murmured as he fumbled for the lights, the color dropping out of his face. He lowered his revolver.

  The body on the desk was Elaine’s. She was naked, on her back, her legs limply hanging over the edge, her hands tied behind her. As Shannon got closer he saw the knife angling out of her mouth.

  “Don’t touch anything!” the FBI agent ordered hoarsely. Elaine Horwitz’s normally pale skin had turned an awful gray. Shannon put a hand to her neck. The skin still felt warm. Then her body twitched and a gurgling noise came out of her.

  Shannon yelled out for him to get an ambulance. Then to no one in particular, “She’s still alive, you sonofabitch.”

  Chapter 32

  The Brookline detective taking Shannon’s statement looked uneasy. “Who told you he was going to kill her?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “But you said he told you?”

  “No, I didn’t. I said I dreamed he told me.”

  “And you don’t know who this guy is?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Nobody told you anything ahead of time?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Maybe you heard something? Maybe you had second thoughts what to do about it?”

  Shannon just shook his head.

  “How about a phone call? Sometimes I get calls in the middle of the night and I don’t even realize I’m answering it. Could it have been something like that?”

  “No. There were no phone calls.”

  The detective looked uncomfortable. He drummed his fingers across his desk. He didn’t like this dream stuff. Even though Shannon worked in Cambridge, even though he was suspended, he was still a fellow officer. Otherwise the questioning would have gone differently.

  “So you’d say you had a, uh, premonition about the attack?” the detective asked hopefully.

  Shannon decided to make things easier for his fellow officer. He told him that was what happened. A premonition. When he was first brought to the station he had agreed to a Breathalyzer test and then to giving blood and urine samples, so the detective didn’t bother asking about drug or alcohol usage. The tests would answer that better than Shannon could. After signing his statement, the detective asked Shannon if he could wait around. Someone from the FBI wanted to talk to him. Shannon pointed out that there were two FBI agents there now, but the detective just shrugged and turned to some paperwork.

  * * * * *

  While he waited, he called the hospital Elaine had been taken to but they couldn’t tell him much. Only that the damage to her had been severe and that she’d probably be in surgery most of the morning. If she survived that long.

  * * * * *

  Agent Douglas Swallow arrived after eight o’clock. He seemed uninterested as he read over Shannon’s statement.

  “Do you have anything to add?” he asked.

  Shannon shook his head.

  “Well, then, thank you for your time.” And Agent Swallow turned away from him.

  * * * * *

  The FBI agent’s attitude bothered Shannon. There was something behind it, some card Swallow thought he had. Shannon tried to think it through, but he was too tired. Instead, he drove to Beth Israel Hospital. The front desk couldn’t give him any status about Elaine, only that she was still in surgery.

  Shannon sat and waited. A heavy weariness had soaked into his joints. It tugged at him. It tried to force his eyes closed. He struggled against it. He fought like hell to stay awake. At that moment he didn’t feel up to facing Winters.

  Chapter 33

  Pig Dornich had tried calling Shannon from the Raleigh-Durham airport and again after he landed in Boston. He knew about Charlie Winters, about his release from prison four months before the murders started up again, and wanted to talk to Shannon before going to the police. But, and the magnitude of it left him overwhelmed, this was at least sixty murders over a twenty-year period. He tried his best to get ahold of him, but, well, Shannon would just have to hear it secondhand.

  While he drove from Logan airport to his office in Malden he thought about the two cousins crisscrossing the country and about all the corpses they left behind. Twenty years ago they ended up in Sacramento. He pretty much guessed what happened with Shannon’s mother, that Charlie took a nap while Herbert did the murder. When he had gotten Charlie Winters’s arrest report faxed to him he knew why Winters had a thirteen-year-old boy in his trunk when the police had stopped him. He also knew why the recent murders were being done. In a way it was remarkable that things had worked out the way they had, almost as if the sonofa
bitch knew about Shannon’s blackouts. It was as if he knew when they happened, that he knew Shannon could be convinced he was doing the murders himself.

  As Dornich pulled into the garage he heard over the radio about Elaine Horwitz. He recognized the name and remembered her as Shannon’s therapist. The report had her in critical condition. A grim determination tightened the flesh around his mouth. You’re losing your touch you goddamn psycho, he swore silently.

  The adrenaline that had been pumping through him fizzled out. He felt tired all of a sudden. Weary to the bone. Looking in the rearview mirror he saw the eyes of an old man. If he had been a little smarter, a little quicker, a little more on the ball, that woman wouldn’t have been carved up. Charlie Winters would’ve been locked up already with the key thrown the hell away.

  * * * * *

  Dornich stopped outside his door. He smelled a rotting, rancid odor coming from his office. He wondered whether he had left any food out. As he opened the door the smell assaulted him. He realized rotting food couldn’t have caused that odor. Maybe if a raw sewage pipe had opened up into his office . . .

  Someone tapped him on the shoulder. As he turned he felt something sharp ripping into his gut. His knees buckled and he fell to the floor. His hands felt a sticky wetness as they searched out the knife that had been buried in his stomach. Charlie Winters stood over him, grinning.

  “The goddamn psycho hasn’t completely lost his touch, eh?” Winters asked.

  Dornich didn’t answer him. His fingers lightly traced his wound. The knife had gone in below his belly and had been pushed up almost a foot, just about slicing him open.

  “It’s almost as if I’ve been in your mind listening to your every thought, huh?” Winters asked, waiting patiently for an answer. When he didn’t get one he went on, “I wanted her alive when Billy Boy showed up. But, in any case, I don’t think she’ll be around much longer. Not the way I left her. Which was in a hell of a lot better shape than you’re in.”

  Winters turned away from Dornich and started to collect the papers from his desk. “It’s a bitch, isn’t it?” Winters asked as he dumped the faxes and reports detailing his and Herbie’s murders into a trash can. “You should’ve gone straight to the police, but I guess you wanted to waddle in with your evidence. What was it, you needed to show them how damn smart you are?” He lit the corner of one of the papers and watched as the fire spread and flared out of the trash can. A thick, black smoke poured into the room. After a while Winters flipped the can over.