A Dark Mind

by T. R. Ragan

  She smiled. “Do you come here often?”

  “I’ve been coming here for years.”

  Silence.

  “You’re the only one I’ve ever brought here with me,” he said.

  “I’m flattered.”

  He laughed.

  “You’re a contradiction,” she told him. “Color coordinated one day and all black and mysterious the next.”

  “I don’t try to be anything I’m not. I just go with the mood. I’m far from mysterious.”

  She tried to find a constellation and finally gave up. “What made you become a karate expert?” she asked.

  “I grew up being bullied—verbally and physically. Those kids you hear about who had their lunch taken from them? That was me. Every single day the bullies came after me.”

  “What about your family?”

  “They’re great—Mom, Dad, two sisters—but they couldn’t help me.”

  “Why not?”

  “For years I didn’t tell anyone. I didn’t want to upset my parents. My sisters figured it out when they saw firsthand what was going on at school. They tried to help when they could, but at my particular school there were more bullies than not. One of my sisters finally told Mom and Dad, but my parents had no idea how bad it had gotten, not until I ended up in the hospital in my junior year of high school.”

  “What happened?”

  “A few broken bones, a cracked rib. My straight aristocratic nose has not been the same since.”

  His attempt at humor didn’t work. “So, you started taking karate lessons?”

  “My dad brought a friend to the house—a karate expert named Kyro. He gave me private lessons, taught me everything I know. After I returned to school, it wasn’t long before I had the chance to show a few kids what I’d learned over the summer. Things improved after that, but I refused to change. I didn’t want to dress differently just to fit in. By then, I didn’t want to fit in, period. I didn’t mind being different. In fact, I always found myself drawn to the kids who danced to their own music.”

  “And that’s what you do, isn’t it? Befriend misfits, people like me?”

  “Is that what you are, a misfit?”

  “I don’t like to put labels on people, especially on myself,” Hayley answered. “I’m sure I have misfit qualities, though. I’m an introvert and I tend to follow my own beliefs. If people don’t like me, that’s their problem. I don’t intentionally go out of my way to hurt people. Although I’m sure you heard that I cut off a man’s penis, I’m not insane. He deserved everything he got.”

  “Did you feel better afterward?”

  “No.”

  “Would you do it again if you had the chance to go back in time?”

  “I wouldn’t want to find out.”

  The stars were incredibly bright, Hayley thought. She was actually living in the moment and she liked it. Her breathing was slow and even as awareness settled over her: the croaking of frogs, the woodsy smell after a good long rain, and the feel of his warm hand settling upon her left hand.

  She wasn’t sure how she felt about his hand being on hers. She didn’t like people touching her, but his fingers felt warm, so she let it be.

  Sacramento

  Wednesday, June 6, 2012

  Early Wednesday morning, Stacey Whitmore marched into Lizzy’s office on J Street in Sacramento. She was dressed in a tweed suit jacked trimmed with fringe and a matching skirt. Her expression was grim, her face pale. “You have to help him,” Stacey said as the door closed behind her. “You can’t abandon Michael now, when he needs you most.”

  Lizzy angled her head. “Are you kidding me?” She stabbed a finger toward Stacey and added, “You’re the one who deserted him. The moment you lied to me, you muddled the facts and lost all credibility. Get out of my office.”

  Stacey didn’t seem to be afraid or intimidated by anyone. A grizzly bear could appear out of thin air and the woman wouldn’t flinch. She stepped closer to Lizzy’s desk, her expression unwavering. “Michael is innocent,” she said. “Nothing else matters.”

  “Are you in love with Michael Dalton?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is he in love with you?”

  “No.”

  “His wife was sleeping with your husband,” Lizzy said. “More than likely, she would still be sleeping with him if she wasn’t dead. But you are determined to help Jennifer’s husband?”

  “Because he’s innocent.”

  “Justice for all. That’s all that matters?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Why would you go to all the bother of getting me involved and yet not arm me with all the information you had?”

  “Because I knew if I told you about the affair, Michael’s innocence would get lost in the middle of all the dirty laundry.”

  Lizzy narrowed her eyes as she thought about Stacey’s answer. “How is your husband handling Jennifer’s death?”

  “I wouldn’t know. I hardly ever see him. I’m sure he’s dealing with it the same way he’s always handled disappointment: drowning his sorrows in his work.”

  “Does he believe Michael’s story?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “So, I take it you and Michael both knew that your significant others were messing around?”

  She nodded.

  Lizzy wasn’t sure what to think about that, so she let it go for now. “Please explain to me why you are so intent on me being the one to help Michael.”

  “Forget about who’s sleeping with whom,” Stacey said. “You know Michael is innocent. And the media is still fascinated by you. If you believe he’s innocent, others will, too. It’s the way the world works. That’s why celebrities can sell ice water in Alaska.”

  Lizzy sighed. “And here I was hoping it had something to do with my reputation as a decent investigator.”

  “That, too, of course.”

  “I need some time to think.”

  Stacey’s smile looked strained, but she nodded and then turned to leave.

  Lizzy wanted to tell her about the beetles found at Michael’s house. She wanted to let her know that the man she was in love with could very well be a serial killer. But she wasn’t about to jeopardize the case. Stacey would find out soon enough.

  As she watched Stacey cross the street to her car, she couldn’t shake the feeling that Stacey was right—Michael was innocent. And the answer was right there under her nose: the pine sawyer beetle.

  The beetles had been left in her office for a reason. If Michael was truly innocent, then whoever had left beetles in Jennifer’s shoe was the same man who had left beetles in Lizzy’s office. And whoever it was, he didn’t like Lizzy getting involved.

  Sacramento

  Friday, June 8, 2012

  As he walked through the Scotts’ house, he decided that being forced to wait an extra week had heightened his enjoyment now that he was here. His nose was still sore, but doing much better. He had big plans for Lizzy Gardner, and he looked forward to strategizing further, even planned to call her later and get the dialogue going. But for now, his plan was to focus solely on Kassie and Drew Scott.

  He thought about how he would tell Kassie exactly what he planned to do with her. That was his favorite part. He would explain in detail how he was going to kill her first, dismember her, and then have sex with her corpse while her husband watched. When he was done with her, he would kill her husband and dismember him, too. And then, purely for shits and giggles, switch arms and legs and sew them back together again.

  A smile curved his lips as he thought about reconstructing her best features with her husband’s. It was something he’d fantasized about doing when his foster parents embalmed more than one person at a time. The Becks, his adoptive parents, had had a wicked sense of humor, but they’d had no clue that their “son” had an even more bizarre side to him—not until investigators showed up at their door to discuss two bodies embalmed by their company. Both corpses, it was discovered, had been stuffed with live pine
sawyer beetles.

  He was only seventeen at the time. His parents hadn’t even questioned him. They knew. To keep the media at bay, though, they quickly pleaded guilty, paid a fine of $1,200, and got a reverse mortgage on their rental across town to pay off the parents of the victims. It was all dealt with in a matter of weeks, then quickly swept under the rug and left there for good.

  The people were already dead. What was the big deal?

  After that incident, it was never the same between him and the Becks. They stopped calling him “son,” and he stopped calling them Mom and Dad.

  Love was fleeting.

  Now you see it, now you don’t.

  As he admired dozens of framed pictures of Kassie and Drew hanging on the wall, the memories of his past quickly faded. He looked closely at the picture of the Scotts hiking the Appalachians, Kassie and Drew on a raft in the river, Kassie and Drew on their wedding day, both smiling and happy.

  He moved onward. His shoes sank into the plush cream-colored carpet. His heart beat faster and excitement built with each step. He’d been watching Kassie and Drew Scott for months now. Stalking his prey was pleasurable, but nothing compared with the gratification he got when it came to torturing them—the fear in their eyes and the diminishing hope. His favorite act was to perform spur-of-the-moment surgeries. No anesthesia needed, just a strip of duct tape over the mouth.

  It was almost 2:00 p.m. on Friday. Every Friday night, Kassie’s husband, Drew, shot hoops with the guys after work. Shooting hoops was sometimes followed by a trip to a local watering hole where they drank a few beers. Drew wouldn’t be home until later; seven would be his earliest time of arrival if he skipped the beers. Kassie, too, often took off from work early on Fridays. She was a highly regarded psychologist who worked with emotionally disturbed children. That was one of the things about her that had put her and her husband at the top of his list.

  Kassie Scott intrigued him. He looked forward to dissecting her brain—literally and figuratively.

  The excitement and power he felt as he strolled through the Scotts’ house made him dizzy with excitement. A curio cabinet with two-way glass sliding doors showed off a display of wedding pictures, crystal flute glasses delicately engraved with messages of love, and handwritten vows. All the memorabilia sent him over the top. He slid open a door, reached inside, and removed the lid from a heart-shaped crystal dish. He then dug into his pant pocket and withdrew two live beetles. The insects appeared dazed by the journey. He used the tip of his finger to play with them, petting each one equally before placing them inside the dish and replacing the lid.

  As he wove a path through a maze of ultramodern furniture, his musings focused on what he was going to do with Kassie when he was alone with her, just the two of them. He hadn’t brought anyone to his special hideout in quite a while. It took a lot of planning to get someone to his hideout unseen, which is why he didn’t do it as often as he’d like.

  One of the reasons he’d waited so long was that the people of Sacramento were beginning to get a little too vocal with talk of forming vigilante groups. Their fear was driving the FBI to work longer and harder on his case. But he knew better than most that the good guys were understaffed. By the time they responded to leads on one homicide, he’d already disposed of his next victims. As long as he mixed things up and dished out unreliable leads like Michael Dalton, he wasn’t worried.

  The show must go on, he thought, then chuckled to himself.

  The dining room table was one of those modern tables with a marble top. It was surrounded by four chairs with black leather upholstery and accented with a crystal bowl of fruit. He reached for the grapes and didn’t realize they were plastic until they were inches from his mouth. Using the tip of his long tongue, he licked one grape and then another.

  The sharp ring of the doorbell caused his heart rate to soar. He could literally feel the rich fluid pumping through his arteries, spreading nutrients and oxygen to his cells. Tossing the grapes back into the bowl with a clink and a clank, he moved quickly to the bedroom in the front of the house so he could peek out the window and see who was at the door.

  False alarm.

  A delivery truck was parked at the curb. The driver, a young man in a brown suit, had left a package at the door and was already in the process of climbing behind the wheel of his truck.

  The unexpected ring of the doorbell had given him a wonderful jolt of pleasure. He liked a good challenge, and couldn’t help but imagine all the ways he could have entertained the driver until Kassie arrived home. That guy would never have known what hit him. And yet, of course, he never would have tried such a stunt. He wasn’t stupid.

  A killer could fantasize, right?

  He inspected the guestroom: green walls, a four-poster iron bed, and a huge picture of a naked woman wrapped in a towel, her back to the artist. Boring. Nothing to write home about. He exited the room and headed upstairs. He stepped inside the master bedroom and smiled. The room was open, spacious, and tastefully decorated. He relished going through other people’s things. The master bedroom often held the most intimate items, even secrets if you searched long enough.

  Every part of him tingled as he looked around, trying to decide where to start. In the dresser drawers? The closet? Under the bed?

  An open book lay facedown on the bedside table on the right side of the bed. The title caught his attention: Love Is Not Enough: The Treatment of Emotionally Disturbed Children by Bruno Bettelheim. He sat down on the bed and then stretched himself out, facing the ceiling. He wiggled his legs and arms to test the firmness of the mattress.

  Not too bad.

  Rolling to his side, he removed a pillow from beneath the top cover, gently stuffed his nose into it, and took a long whiff, breathing in and out until he began to feel dizzy. Then he grabbed the book from the table and began to read where he assumed Kassie, not Drew, had left off.

  Davis

  Friday, June 8, 2012

  After calling Hayley and Jessica to tell them she wanted to regroup and talk about what everyone was working on, Lizzy left the office and returned home.

  At 2:00 p.m., all three of them were sitting in the living room. Files and papers were spread across the floor and the coffee table. Every available space was taken. Nobody could move without disturbing a file or two.

  Lizzy wore her hair in a ponytail and had changed into jeans and a T-shirt. Hayley wore her standard attire: black pants and a black T-shirt with a skull design. Jessica wore jeans and a bright green shirt beneath an off-white cardigan with tiny buttons. She was the fresh-looking one in the group, the only one who looked put together.

  Lizzy took a sip of her coffee and noticed Jessica staring at her. “What is it, Jessica?”

  “Does your face hurt?” Jessica scrunched her face. “It’s turning yellow. It looks like it hurts.”

  “It’s not as bad as it looks,” she said as she held up a piece of paper. “OK, here’s something I need to find out pronto. I need to know who owns the house on 1032 Bunker Street in West Sacramento.”

  She looked at both of them, making sure they were taking notes. Hayley was typing on her keyboard while Jessica scribbled in her notebook.

  “I also need a thorough search done on the man who lives there. His name is John Robinson.”

  “That name sounds familiar,” Jessica said. “Did we used to have a client who went by that name?”

  “Not that I know of,” Lizzy said. “Any more questions before I continue?”

  “Are we working this weekend?” Jessica asked.

  “Absolutely,” Lizzy said. “I’m up to my eyeballs with assholes trying to mess with me, and beginning Monday morning, I’ll have security on my ass twenty-four-seven. Excuse the bad language,” she added. “It’s just that I’ve had enough.”

  “So you think one of the cases we’re working on is somehow related to all of the recent incidents?” Jessica asked.

  “Yes,” Lizzy said. “I do.” She exhaled. “So, what have y
ou two found out about Adele Hampton?”

  “Hayley is working on that one,” Jessica said a little too quickly.

  “Hayley?”

  Hayley stopped typing and looked up. “The guy’s name is Dennis Nilsen. He’s thirty-four years old. He’s a photographer.”

  Jessica was being evasive, and now Hayley was talking in riddles. “What guy?” Lizzy asked.

  “The owner of the house on Bunker Street in West Sacramento. The address you just gave us. Dennis Nilsen is listed as the owner of the house.”

  “Good job,” Lizzy said. “I wonder if Dennis Nilsen lives there with John Robinson. Does it say anything there about whether or not he lives in West Sacramento?”

  “According to the records I found, Dennis Nilsen lives on fifty acres in Lincoln, California. I have an address if you need it, but no phone number is listed.”

  Jessica was staring at Hayley as if she had two heads.

  “What’s your problem?” Hayley asked her.

  “How could you possibly find out who owned that house that quickly?”

  “It wasn’t that quick. It took ten minutes.”

  “Nope,” Jessica said, shaking her head. “More like two minutes. You have outside help, don’t you?”

  Hayley shook her head at Jessica as if she were a lost cause and went back to what she was doing.

  Lizzy stood and gathered her purse.

  Jessica frowned. “Where are you going?”

  “Do you want me to call your cell if I find anything on John Robinson?” Hayley asked.

  “Absolutely,” Lizzy said.

  “You just got here,” Jessica said. “You can’t leave without telling us who John Robinson is.”

  Jessica was right. It wasn’t fair to leave them hanging. Lizzy sat down and explained, “Michael and Jennifer Dalton hired me to look into an employee of theirs who filed a workers’ compensation claim. As you know, Jennifer was murdered and her husband is in custody.”

  “But you’re not convinced he killed her,” Jessica stated.

  “That’s right,” Lizzy said, deciding to leave out the part about Michael being the FBI’s number one suspect—at least for now. “Since I had already signed a contract and I was paid a deposit, I didn’t feel right letting their employee get away with fraud, so I decided to finish what I had started.”