(Un) Sound Mind

by Richard Amico

  ***

  Franklin arrived early for his appointment with Dr. Klein, just in time to meet Hyrum Green as he was locking his office for the night.

  “You haven’t broken a tooth, have you?” Hyrum asked to cover his surprise at seeing Franklin at this late hour.

  “No, I’m fine,” he said, trying to cover his own surprise and embarrassment at meeting Hyrum while on his way to a psychoanalysis session. “I’m, uh…meeting a friend for drinks later at the pub across the street. I’m early, and since I saw your car still in the parking lot”—Franklin pointed over his shoulder in the direction of the lot—“I thought I would stop in and say hello.” He stammered, red-faced. This excuse is so lame he can’t possibly buy it.

  “Don’t be embarrassed, Franklin. I’m glad to see you found someone to talk to,” Hyrum said with a wink. Franklin now felt extremely distressed, believing he had been caught in a lie. He reached into his back pocket for his handkerchief to mop his brow. “You think you might get a little tonight?” he said with another wink.

  “What?” said Franklin, wondering what Hyrum knew about Ruth Klein’s therapy that he didn’t.

  “Your new friend, the one you’re meeting for drinks; Elaine and I have been hoping you would find someone soon. We miss seeing you, plus a little ‘exercise’ would be good for your nerves.”

  “Oh no, it’s just a first date,” Franklin replied, trying to regain his composure. “I had better get back there before I’m late.” He shook Hyrum’s hand and started toward the door.

  “Good luck,” Hyrum shouted as he continued to lock his door, a wide, adolescent grin on his face.

  Franklin dodged heavy traffic on the busy street to reach the small local pub situated on the other side. He stood inside the pub and bent over to affect a line of sight between the fluorescent Miller Beer sign and the blinking “This Bud’s for You” beacon that gave him a clear view of Hyrum’s car.

  The tavern was almost empty. Franklin scanned the room and noticed a woman sitting in the shadows at a small table in the corner. She was wearing business clothes: a dark skirt and a jacket. Probably navy blue or black, but the color was almost indistinguishable in the subdued light. Her legs were crossed, and his eye traveled from the hint of thigh peeking out from under her skirt past a well-defined and nicely muscled calf to a pair of black leather, extremely high stiletto heels. The shoes were elegant but looked almost impossible to walk in.

  The bartender, noticing Franklin’s stare, leaned toward Franklin, holding his hand next to his mouth and speaking in a low voice. “They’re CFM shoes.”

  Franklin cocked his head and shook it slightly. “CFM?”

  “Yeah, they’re called ‘come fuck me’ shoes.”

  Franklin again shook his head.

  “They wear them when…ahh, never mind. What can I get you to drink?” the bartender asked as he placed a coaster and a napkin on the bar.

  “I’ll be just a minute,” Franklin said. “I just want to make sure that my dentist has left for the night.”

  “Yeah, I feel the same way about my proctologist.” The bartender laughed. “Can I pour you a drink?”

  “OK, I’ll have a draft beer.” Franklin continued looking over his shoulder at the woman at the corner table.

  “She comes in about twice a week,” the bartender said, pouring a draft Michelob. “Don’t waste your time. In about ten minutes, her boyfriend will come in for a drink. Then they’ll both leave.”

  Even in the dim light, Franklin could tell that she was a looker. She never looked up from her magazine, just took a sip of her drink and reached into her purse, a large leather carryall, and plucked out her cell phone. She tapped the screen several times and waited for someone to pick up.

  “Hi, it’s me,” she whispered. “Don’t come to meet me right now. A guy who saw me leaving the building last week just walked in. I think he might be a patient of yours or of Dr. Klein’s. Either way, it probably isn’t a good idea if he sees us together. You go straight to the hotel, and I’ll meet you there in a little while…Yes, he’s tall and he has a cane. Do you know him?” Long pause. “OK, I’ll see you soon.” She tapped the phone, dropped it back into her bag, and turned the page of her magazine.

  “Who’s the guy?” Franklin asked.

  “Hang around; you’ll see.”

  “Why, do you think I’ll know him?”

  “You never know.” The bartender busied himself wiping the bar, grinning from ear to ear. “I go to a dentist across the street too. He usually finishes up about now.” The bartender’s grin got even wider.

  “It looks like I’m in luck; my dentist’s car just pulled out of the lot,” Franklin said.

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” the bartender said, first looking at Dr. Green’s car leaving the lot and then at the woman sitting at the corner table.

  “You wouldn’t happen to know her name, would you? She looks so familiar.”

  “I think it’s Sally, or Sarah—no, Sylvia. That’s it, Sylvia. I looked at her credit card receipt the last time she was here.”

  Franklin noticed that Sylvia was also watching Dr. Green’s car leaving the lot.

  Franklin was generally shy and rarely spoke to anyone he didn’t know, but there was something very familiar about this woman. She had long black hair, was attractive, seemed to have a fine-looking body—just his type. But there was something else about her. He felt some sort of emotional attachment. It was like they shared a bond or an experience of some sort. He picked up his beer and walked to her table.

  “Didn’t I see you coming out of the building across the street last week?” he asked.

  “Is that the best line you’ve got?” she asked with a smile.

  He looked down and noticed that the label on the magazine she had just closed read Hyrum Green, DDS.

  “Have you been seeing Dr. Green?” Franklin asked.

  Sylvia locked eyes with Franklin. “Excuse me?”

  “Is Dr. Hyrum Green your dentist? You were coming from his office last week, weren’t you?”

  “No one can pull the wool over your eyes,” she said, lifting her purse and stuffing the magazine inside. “It was nice talking to you.” She headed toward the door.

  Franklin felt like a bashful schoolboy after talking to his first cheerleader. He watched the rhythmic motion of those glorious hips sway out the door in spite of the height of her shoes.

  Franklin looked at his watch. “Shit!” he exclaimed. He gulped down the beer, dropped a five-dollar bill on the bar, and rushed to the door.

  “He’s going to get you anyway; he uses a collection agency,” said the bartender with a nod and a look of resignation on his face.

  “Thanks for the advice,” Franklin said, his cane clicking on the floor as he ran out the door and across the street.

  Sylvia smiled, waved, and blew a kiss through her open car window as she turned onto the street in the same direction that Hyrum had taken moments ago.

  Franklin again crossed the busy street and started up the steps to the building. A car horn and a screech of brakes caused him to turn back toward the boulevard. A driver was shaking his fist out of his window at a man in a hooded sweatshirt and a yellow plaid jacket as he dashed across the street and toward the pub. Franklin thought about going back to the pub to confront this man. Was this who he thought it could be, and if so, why was he stalking Franklin rather than talking to him? He looked at his watch. There was no time to spare, and the man was no longer in sight.

  ***

  Franklin rushed through the door of Ruth Klein’s office at ten minutes after seven. “Sorry I’m a few minutes late. I had to stop for gas, or I might not have made it here at all.” He avoided her eyes as he walked to the couch.

  Ruth caught a whiff of his breath as he walked past her. He smells like he filled his tank with beer, she thought, but said, “No problem, you’re the last appointment of the day. We can run a little over if we need to. Have you had any more disturbing dreams since ou
r last session?”

  Franklin bit his lip and nodded a few times. “The night before last, I dreamed of a murder. It was frightening and horribly violent. A woman was stabbed with a pair of scissors in her bedroom. Every time I close my eyes, I see the carnage all over again.”

  “Did you recognize any of the characters in the dream?”

  Franklin shifted his weight to his right side and reached into his back pocket for the folded paper. He didn’t find it.

  “I wrote some notes to help remember the details of my dream, but I seem to have lost them on the way over. Either they fell out of my pocket when I pulled out my handkerchief earlier in the hall, or I lost them crossing the street from the—ah, gas station. Hell, maybe I left the paper at home. I’m not sure of anything lately.”

  “Don’t chastise yourself for losing a piece of paper. Just tell me what you remember.”

  “The victim looked slightly familiar. I didn’t see her face clearly, but she had a yellow rose tattooed here.” He touched his right hip with his hand.

  Ruth Klein began to feel increasingly sympathetic toward this man who appeared to be having a breakdown in her office.

  He continued, “It’s like I was right in the room, but there was nothing I could do to stop it from happening. I knew I was dreaming, but I had no control. And the next thing I knew…”

  Franklin stopped as he was about to describe the part of the dream where he followed the murderer out of the house and hid in the silver car.

  “The next thing you knew—what?” asked Dr. Klein.

  “I woke up,” said Franklin. He dared not go any further.

  Ruth summoned her most soothing tone. “Dreams can seem very real, but we have to realize that they’re just dreams. The images they evoke can be frightening, but they are still just an illusion. There may be some fears or memories in your past that manifest themselves as nightmares, but usually bringing those fears or memories to the forefront of your mind will allow you to deal with them and end the nightmares. We can work on this together.”

  “What about not realizing if I’m awake or asleep?” Franklin blew his nose in a tissue.

  “I’ve been thinking about that, and I can see several different sleep disturbances you’re experiencing. None is necessarily serious.” Ruth moved to the edge of her chair and leaned forward as she spoke. “First, let’s talk about false awakenings. In a false awakening dream, the subject believes he is awake but remains asleep, still dreaming, until he truly awakens. We spoke of this in our last session. It’s common and occasionally happens to everyone. You can minimize this problem by establishing a reality check upon waking. When you feel that you have awakened from a dream, test yourself by pressing your thumb into the palm of your other hand.” She demonstrated while speaking. “If you are truly awake, all will be normal. If it’s a false awakening and you’re still dreaming, your thumb will pass right through your palm.” She smiled. “I know it sounds ridiculous but it’s an established test used by dream therapists. They say it works well to discover a false awakening.” Franklin mimicked her actions with his own thumb and palm.

  “As far as seeing people, such as the burglar, as you were falling asleep, it’s called hypnagogia. It’s a Greek word meaning the transitional state between wakefulness and sleep.”

  “Is it curable?” Franklin interjected.

  “It’s not a disease,” she said, smiling. “It’s a perfectly normal state of consciousness everyone experiences as they begin to dream, although not too many people experience both hypnagogia and false awakenings in the same dream.”

  “I always thought I was special,” Franklin said, finally daring to smile.

  Dr. Klein chuckled. “I think we have done as much as we should for one session. Try to ensure that you get enough sleep and call me during the week if you have any concerns or incidents before our next session. I’ll see you on Tuesday at seven.” They shook hands, and Franklin walked out the door.

  Ruth Klein stood with her notebook in her hand, staring at the door for a full minute after Franklin left. She then settled in her chair and began to edit and transcribe her notes from the session.

  11

  Lt. Sam Peirce parked his dark-blue unmarked police car in the driveway of the two-story brick townhouse at the Silicon Springs Golf Links. He ran his fingers through his hair, then flipped down the visor and looked in the mirror. He carefully smoothed his hair to make the slight thinning on top a little less obvious. Sam wasn’t a vain man, but he had some concern about the image he presented. A police officer should look fit and in control of every situation. He took the lit cigarette from the ashtray, placed it between his lips, stepped out of the car, and buttoned his suit jacket. The button pulled at the buttonhole, reminding him of the ten pounds he had promised to lose before the holidays. At just under six feet tall, Sam carried his weight well. But he had slowed a step or two in the last few years.

  Sam Peirce rose from the rank of patrolman to sergeant during the fifteen years he had cruised the streets of Philadelphia. He was offered the position of lieutenant when the Luzerne County Police Department was regionalized in 1999.

  Sam’s record of solving crimes and making arrests was exemplary. He probably could have been promoted much earlier in Philadelphia, but that would have meant working from a desk. Lieutenants didn’t work the streets in Philadelphia. But Sam was a street cop. He took the county promotion to homicide lieutenant only with the agreement that he could work some crimes from the field as well as manage his troops. Although the last few years of eighteen-hour days, solo restaurant meals, and a limited social life had seen his waist grow larger and his time at the gym cut shorter, he still enjoyed the thrill of the hunt and was happy only when he was working a difficult case.

  It was dawn, and in the dim light of early morning, he could see rows of elegant brick-and-stone homes bordering the frost-covered fairways and glazed-over emerald greens of the well-manicured golf course.

  Sam closed his eyes and took a deep breath of the chilly air. It was the first frost of the season, and he could still smell the clusters of roses, now brown, wilted, and bent, on the large rosebushes at each side of the front walk. It was a shame that no one had cut them and taken them in before the frost hit.

  Lieutenant Peirce ran his hand along the two rows of neatly trimmed hedges on either side of the paving-stone walkway that led him to the large wooden front door with stained-glass windows. This was the kind of place he always dreamed about buying when he finally decided to pack it in. He had thought about putting in his papers several times in the last year, but he hadn’t. Maybe it was the excitement he felt when he worked a difficult case that kept him going, or the satisfaction he enjoyed when he put the bad guys away. Either way, he wasn’t quite ready to retire. Of course, the fact that he had less than a thousand dollars in the bank and still had a mortgage on his current home could have been factors in his decision as well.

  “What the hell happened here?” he asked as he crushed out his cigarette on the top step with his left foot and reached into his jacket pocket for a pair of white latex rubber gloves. He held the gloves up to the porch lamp, blew into each glove in turn, and then stretched them onto his large hands in preparation for entering the first floor of the well-appointed home.

  “I don’t know,” answered Sergeant Holloway, standing just inside the foyer and holding a paper cup of coffee. “I just got here a few minutes ago myself.”

  “That was a rhetorical question, Holloway.”

  “What?”

  Lieutenant Peirce paused and looked at Holloway out of the corner of his eye. “Never mind. Who was first on the scene?”

  Sergeant Holloway sipped his coffee and pointed to a uniformed private security guard leaning against the wall.

  “I was,” said the guard. He stepped forward as he tucked a shirttail into his trousers and straightened his tie.

  “And who are you?” asked Lieutenant Peirce.

  “James Chrystal, Silicon Spr
ings Security. I was making my rounds at one a.m. when I saw the broken garage side door.”

  “You called me down here at five a.m. for a burglary?” Lieutenant Peirce asked Holloway.

  “No, wait, he’s got more,” Holloway said, nodding at the rent-a-cop to continue.

  James Chrystal walked to the side door. “I went to take a closer look, and I saw that the doorframe had something on it that kind of looked like it could be blood,” he said, pointing at the red smudge on the frame. “I shouted into the open door—‘Hey, is anybody home?’ When no one answered, I went back to my car and looked up the telephone number for this house on my list of residents. It belongs to one Sylvia Radcliffe. I dialed the number, but when no one answered the phone, I called the police, just like I’m supposed to.”

  Sam bent and inspected the bloodstain. “You did the right thing.” Then Peirce turned toward a sound coming from the next room.

  A voice echoed from the top of the stairs. “My partner and I responded to the break-in call,” said Sergeant Reagan as he came down the stairs. “We identified ourselves as police officers and entered the building. Officer Donavan and I cleared the first floor, and then I went to check the second floor.”

  Lieutenant Peirce walked past the sergeant to the staircase, grabbed the wrought-iron banister with his left hand, and began to pull himself up the stairs. After noticing that all eyes were on him, he released the banister and began to jog up the rest of the way.

  “It’s a mess up there, Lieutenant,” said the sergeant. “Lots of blood everywhere.”

  When Lieutenant Peirce reached the top of the stairs, he could see light coming from an open door at the end of the hall. Looking down, he saw small drops of dried blood that almost blended into the pattern of the tweed carpet. He carefully stepped around the spots and shouted, “No one else comes up here. This is now officially a crime scene. Let’s not contaminate it. Holloway, put a call in to forensics and get everyone else out of the building until they arrive. No one touches anything.”