Messages, a Psychological Thriller

by Chris Dougherty

  The last thing Henry wants to do is go to the police station. Have all those eyes on him. Half the guys in there still remember him from his glory days. But he nods, crossing his arms tighter over his chest. “Sure. I’ll be down.” Should he say something about seeing the gray Impala before? On the morning the Simonellis were killed? Give this cop Lacey’s name? Henry doesn’t trust cops, and he for sure doesn’t want to get Lacey mixed up in anything based on…what? A feeling? A weird coincidence? No, he’s not going to say anything just yet. He wants to check a few things out first.

  “Can you tell your dad to call us?”

  “You mean her husband?” Henry cocks a thumb toward the door of Mary Ellen’s room. Another kindly smile flashes briefly over the detective’s mouth and then is gone. He nods.

  “Yes. Her husband.”

  Henry nods, and the detective reaches out to shake his hand. Henry stares at the hand, and the detective waits patiently for Henry to decide what he is going to do. The small smile is back, still kind, but also commiserating. Henry untangles his arms and reaches out, taking a quick glance at the cop’s face as their hands meet. The cop nods, and his smile gets minimally wider. “See you tomorrow, then. Take good care of your mom.”

  Henry drops his hand and steps back. “I will…and…thanks.”

  The cop pauses, looking at him questioningly.

  Henry clears his throat. “For helping, I mean. Helping us out.”

  The cop nods again and touches two fingers to his forehead in a salute, then turns and hurries down the corridor. Henry watches him go, feeling marginally better about the prospect of showing his face at the station tomorrow. He wonders if he could call Lacey, ask her to go with him. Then wonders why he thought it at all…he’d just met the chick, for Christ’s sake. But he does know why he thought it. It’s because he already likes her very much. Especially when they went to the diner and were talking, he’d felt a bond with her. And that sure didn’t happen with many people, let alone chicks.

  Henry wonders if she wrote her number on any of the paperwork at the garage. He’s pretty sure her address is on the form. He could track her down that way. It makes him feel better, helps to settle his nerves a little, and he turns and goes to sit with Mary Ellen.

  “Just sleep, Ma. You need to sleep,” Henry says, sitting forward in the hard plastic chair. He reaches out and grabs her hand, squeezes it and then sits back.

  “I can’t, Henry, I can’t. Not until they find my baby.” Fresh tears leak into the bandages that swaddle almost her entire face. What Henry can see–one eye, her lips, half her forehead–is bruised yellow green, and he knows the worst of the bruising is under the bandages. Her words are slurry and difficult to understand, but the anxiety in her voice is desperately clear. The sedative seems to be increasing her panic instead of quelling it, like someone using her last bit of strength against an encroaching tomb of quicksand.

  “They’re gonna find him. He’s a big kid, ma, almost a man; he’s not a baby. He’ll probably knock that guy into next week and be home before morning.” He wants to ask her who the guy was. Why he took Arch. Those questions career around his mind like pool balls. But he knows asking her won’t do any good.

  Had Arch gotten himself involved with something dangerous? Drugs or something? Henry found it hard to believe, but not impossible to contemplate. He knew that otherwise good people could get caught up in situations beyond their depth.

  “Mary Ellen!” The yell comes from the corridor, somewhere close by; loud enough to make Henry jump. But of course, he’s been jumping at the sound of that voice for most of his life.

  “Mary Ellen!” Chuck booms through the corridor. Stern cries of, “Sir! Sir!” drift up toward Mary Ellen’s room. The nurses must be in a panic trying to chase down the bull-headed Chuck as he rams his way down the hall, bellowing.

  Jesus, Henry thinks, the asshole forgot the room number between reception and the fourth floor.

  Henry stands and pokes his head out the door. “Chuck!” he yell-whispers. “She’s right the fuck here, man, fucking calm down.”

  Chuck turns toward Henry, looking surprised, a nurse holding him by the bicep. The nurse already looks pissed, but when she hears Henry’s words, she shoots him a look of tight-lipped exasperation and turns Chuck loose with an admonishment, “Please be quiet. We have other…” but Chuck is already halfway down the hall, not listening. She shakes her head and turns back to the desk, rolling her eyes to the other nurse sitting there.

  Chuck pushes past Henry but then stops three feet from the side of Mary Ellen’s bed. He stands open-mouthed, hands bunched into fists at his side. He turns to Henry, shock and horror opening his features, softening them, and making him look like a terrified kid.

  Henry looks down, ashamed of the emotion he sees in Chuck’s face, as though he’d caught him doing something intensely private.

  “Chuck,” Mary Ellen says and puts out a shaking hand, and as Chuck steps to her, Henry turns and exits the room, pulling the door closed behind him. He does this quickly, but not quick enough, and he hears a strangled, gargling sob issuing from Chuck.

  Henry checks the time on his phone: eleven thirty. Maybe he’ll shoot back over to the shop, just to see if he can find Lacey’s address, then just kind of cruise by her place, check things out. A deep, almost frantic, uneasiness is forming in the pit of his stomach–like butterflies, but these butterflies are made of iron and covered in spikes.

  Chapter 29

  “I’m going to talk to her first, then you come in,” James says, glancing at his watch. “Give me half an hour or so and then come to the door, okay?”

  Riddel nods. He is only a shadow in the passenger seat of the darkened car. They are parked next to Lacey’s Mazda. It is late, and the parking lot is empty of life. Even the people taking their dogs on one last nighttime pee stroll have gone, tucked in for the night.

  James nods too and then turns to face the apartment. “I’ll show her the object, then she’ll understand. Maybe she’ll go back with us to talk to Arch…she might be able to help us find out what he knows.”

  Riddel nods again, the movement so slight it could almost be a trick of the light from the parking lot lamps shining through tree limbs shaken lightly by the nighttime breeze.

  “I know it didn’t go how you planned,” James says, “but it is what it is. I think we can still salvage the situation. It’s just a matter of…getting some more people involved…getting things…out in the open.”

  This time Riddel doesn’t nod.

  Chapter 30

  The surface of James’ desk is covered in notebook paper, and a few sheets have fallen, unnoticed, to the floor. Lacey sits back in the chair, staring straight ahead, a page grasped in her hand. She is trying to digest everything she has read, trying to understand.

  The report–if that’s what it is–is about James. A handwritten detail of his infancy and childhood and history that he has never discussed with her. At first, as Lacey had skimmed through the pages, she’d thought again that it must be an elaborate prank, a joke funny to James because of his somewhat twisted view on the world. It is written from the perspective of this Riddel character, but the entire thing is in James’ handwriting.

  Each page has across the top, neatly block printed, FROM THE DESK OF SRGT. RIDDEL • POLICE MAN. The first page begins

  May 13, 2009

  Investigation re: the ‘OBJECT’

  This report is for authorized personnel only. It is a Federal offense to read, copy or disseminate in any fashion the information found herein. Violators will be prosecuted to the highest extent of the law.

  This investigation begins concerning an incident which occurred on May 9, 2009, in which I discovered a motorist idling suspiciously near a recent crime scene. Said motorist was discovered to be in possession of an object of unknown origin. I engaged the motorist in conversation with the intent of discerning the nature of the object which he possessed. The motorist’s driver’s license id
entified him as James. James showed me the object and explained in detail the circumstances that had led him to the discovery of the object.

  After careful mental examination of the details of his account, plus the evidence inherit in the object itself, I decided to go undercover and help James discover the source of the messages that had led him to the object.

  Please refer at this time to my folder referencing William and Antoinella Simonelli and the things I discovered about the nefarious underhanded dealings purported by William Simonelli. I am stating here as FACT and TRUE that although James did kill William Simonelli–and I can’t emphasize this enough–it was an act of SELF-DEFENSE. And also, by James’ word, which I believe one hundred %, Antoinella Simonelli fell and basically died from the fall. Which James did not intend, but which was probably more William Simonelli’s fault anyway for being involved in criminal activities in the first place.

  FROM THE DESK OF SRGT. RIDDEL • POLICE MAN

  I felt it necessary to go undercover in my investigation and to keep James’ involvement in the Simonellis deaths under wraps until such time as I can determine who is involved and who is not involved in the origins of the object. Here are my thoughts SO FAR as to what, exactly, the object is and/or where it came from:

  something from outer space re: ALIEN technology

  something secret from our government

  something secret from a FOREIGN power

  that it is a weapon!

  that it contains knowledge of an alien nature

  James was alerted to the existence of the object through a series of encoded messages which began to appear at his work place and in the general public. Through this series of seemingly unrelated messages, James was able to discover (LED?? to discover?) that the object was being held by William Simonelli for purposes unknown. James was tasked with retrieving the object and did so by entering the garage of the Simonelli home. He tried to do this in as discreet a manner as possible, but was discovered in the course of his actions by William Simonelli.

  Simonelli did attack James without provocation upon finding him in the garage. It is James’ feeling that the attack occurred BECAUSE Simonelli knew that James was searching for the object with the intention of liberating it, and Simonelli was tasked with hiding (in a nefarious fashion) the object from whoever it is that tasked James with finding it. That is when the death of William and the unfortunate death of Antoinella occurred. Although, since she was married to him, she must have had SOME idea of his criminal activity (re: see my folder on the Simonellis.)

  FROM THE DESK OF SRGT. RIDDEL • POLICE MAN

  In the interest of discovering the NATURE of the object, I decided to research James himself (with his permission) to see if it was something in his past which marked him as the ideal candidate to be the finder and champion of the object.

  The following are the results of my investigation:

  Actual true name of subject is (as evidenced on a birth certificate):

  Baby Boy James

  Born: June 6, 1978, Middletown, New Jersey, at Grace Mercy Presbyterian Hospital

  Mother: Margaret James

  Father: n/a

  The first four years of Baby Boy James’ life were unusual in that the baby’s mother (Margaret) seemed to feel the baby was suffering from something ongoing and of a chronic nature, either a disease or a failure of the baby’s immune system. These were (according to her, via various reports) the reasons the child was so often sick.

  IF Baby Boy James was NOT suffering from some long-term debilitating disease or ANY sort of genetic disorder, then it becomes oddly telling that the amount of dr.s visits and e.r. visits would not have been pieced together sooner by someone in authority, that Baby Boy would be allowed to suffer at the hands of his biological mother. It would seem that Baby Boy had been let down by a system that did not seem terribly interested in the suffering of one small baby. OR, it was preparatory TO and necessary FOR his education to become such as he is for the EXPRESS PURPOSE of being a clean conduit to find the object and take possession of it.

  And because it is evidenced that Baby Boy James did indeed grow to adulthood (relatively free from disease or illness otherwise) then I would have to conclude that he WAS failed, and in precisely such a manner, OR it was PREORDAINED.

  FROM THE DESK OF SRGT. RIDDEL • POLICE MAN

  Following are the SUMMATIONS ONLY of the dr.s visits and e.r. visits perpetrated on Baby Boy James by Margaret. For the more detailed sheets, admittance forms, prescriptions written, after care details, etc., see folder re: Medical Breakdown Breakdown (the second ‘breakdown’ referring to the ‘breakdown’ of the system regarding the baby–haha).

  Btwn June 6, 1978, and August 8, 1982, there are a total of:

  9 (NINE) ambulance/911 calls involving subject related to: violent vomiting sometimes accompanied by blood, loss of consciousness, fevers of unknown origin, blood in the stool and/or urine

  16 (SIXTEEN) non-ambulance trips to various emergency rooms involving subject: violent vomiting, fever of unknown origin, rash, blood in the stool or urine, sores of unknown origin, possible allergic reactions

  27 (TWENTY SEVEN) doctor visits (various practitioners) relating to: unexplained rashes, stomach pains/vomiting, fainting or otherwise appearing to have ‘passed out’, unexplained bruising, weight loss/failure to gain weight, sores and/or fevers of unknown origin

  On August 8 of 1982, Baby Boy James was removed from his mother’s home and placed in the foster care system in New Jersey. Margaret James was charged with endangering the welfare of a child, intent to endanger a child, causing serious bodily harm to a child, and remanded to custody at Pine Hollows Psychiatric Hospital. (for more information, see my folder re: MARGARET JAMES)

  FROM THE DESK OF SRGT. RIDDEL • POLICE MAN

  James was then put into various foster care homes, none of which are particularly remarkable especially in light of the unimaginable cruelty of the first four years of James’ life. He was adopted in his sixth year by Ron and Belinda Smith who changed his name through official channels from Baby Boy James to James Smith. The Smiths died in a car accident when James was fourteen (see my folder re: Ron and Belinda Smith). Ron and Belinda had no other family willing to take custody of James. From that time, he was remanded back into the foster care system but was unable to be placed in either a temporary care home or a permanent

  It is there that Lacey stops reading. She shuffles through the remaining pages and finds notes on the first place he’d worked, the second, the third and final place. Notes about the cars he’d owned, the amount he’d paid in monthly rent for various apartments, vacations and where he’d gone, stores he frequented, landlords’ names, bosses’ names, co-workers’ names, neighbors’ names…pages and pages that equaled a rough outline of the life of an average thirty-one-year-old American male.

  She goes back to the beginning to the first few pages and rereads them. She feels as though she can’t get the information on the page to sink into her mind–to jell in some fashion that would make sense with her version–her idea–of James.

  Her mind keeps swerving to the excuse that it is a joke, a story, maybe even something he’d done for fun. But why? What would be fun about confessing to murder? To making up a babyhood of unimaginable torture at the hands of an insane mother?

  Lacey pauses, sitting back. What had James ever said about his family? The truth is, he’d never said very much. Lacey had known he was adopted, but without the knowledge of time frames, she’d always pictured an infant James handed over to a young couple eager to raise a baby of their own. She’d never thought that he’d been what? Five? Six?–she checks the notes again–six. Six when he’d been adopted by the Smiths. And his original name was Baby Boy? As in–his mother had never actually named him?

  Lacey can’t wrap her mind around the idea of a woman having a baby, never naming it, and torturing it for four years. Could this really be James’ history? And why was he writing from the viewpoint of someo
ne named Riddel?

  She goes back to the part about the Simonellis. Her heart sinks into her stomach and burns there. You have to get out of here, girl, she thinks, he’s dangerous. He actually killed those people. She tries to lift her arms, but can’t do it. She is overcome by a depression so heavy it feels like molten lead in her bones. She opens her hand, and the paper she holds drifts out and onto the floor.

  I’ve done it again, she thinks, fooled myself, willingly pulled on the blinders. But it’s so much worse this time. So much worse. This isn’t just some sad break-up, Lacey realizes. Her life is in danger, and she’s sitting in James’ office, and he could be home any…

  “Lacey?”

  It is James’ voice, from the front of the apartment near the door. Lacey freezes, her heart hammering so hard in her chest she can feel it in her eyes. She is facing the office door; it is wide open.

  “Lace? You here?” he says, closer now, in the hall. His voice is almost a whisper, as if being cautious in case she is sleeping. “Lacey?”

  She finally gets her legs under her and pushes herself up off the chair. She takes a deep, gasping breath and wonders briefly how long she’d been holding it. White spots dance at the edges of her sight. She feels lightheaded as she rises, almost hollow with fear.

  She is standing, hands on the desk to steady herself, her mind screaming uselessly–Too late! Too late! You’re gonna die! Too late!–when James appears in the office doorway. He smiles at her, but a split second later, his eyes go to the papers scattered on the desk and the floor.