[Sign Behind the Crime 01.0] Gemini

by Ronnie Allen

  Now the bile rose in his throat and shivers permeated his body at the memory. His stomach cramped and his dinner regurgitated. John bolted out of Carlson’s office into the men’s room next door.

  ***

  John vomited, retching until every morsel of food he had eaten that day floated in the toilet bowl. The stench irritated him and he couldn’t catch his breath. He gagged. He heaved. He lost control and sobbed, softly, trying to prevent the team in the other room from hearing him. He sobbed over everything. The stress of the hostage situation. How he could have been killed. The torment of Vicki leaving. She wouldn’t be there to take care of him tonight. His overbearing father. He sat on a chair opposite the bowl and bent over to regain his composure, holding his hand over his mouth.

  Oh my God. What kind of a creep was I? To treat a woman like that. Oh my God. Years and years and years I behaved that way. And I should have known better. I’m a doctor for Christ’s sake. I should have known better.

  He splashed water on his face at the rust stained sink. Gazing into the mirror above it, he barely recognized himself. His breathing was labored. His own image disgusted him. His usually neat, straight hair was unkempt and had fallen over his expressionless eyes. His complexion whitened under the appearance of his five o’clock shadow. He should have shaved before going to Brooklyn. Never before had he been so ashamed of himself. He held onto the sink and looked away to avoid his reflection as it hit him. Vicki changed him. He wasn’t that despicable man any longer after he met her. He had to get his Vicki back, at all costs.

  He washed his face with hand soap on the ledge of the sink, combed his hair off his forehead, and popped four mints into his mouth. At least his fleece hadn’t become soiled. He composed himself to go back into Carlson’s office by standing still and regulating his breathing for a couple of minutes.

  ***

  Paul tapped the card on the table. “John, you’re not okay.”

  John fingered the card and slipped it into his pocket.

  Yeah, I’ll call him--in my next life.

  His phone rang. He answered, knowing it would get him off the hook with Carlson for a minute. It was Vicki. He sat up straighter and put on his normal tone. He didn’t want to let on to her how upset he really was. “Hi, babe.”

  “Hi.”

  “How was your flight?”

  “Fine. Why did you do that?”

  “Do what?” He knew very well what he had done.

  “Why did you put five grand into my account? I told you I didn’t want any money.”

  “You need it. How are you planning to pay the mortgage? I stopped the automatic payments, so this is just to tide you over.”

  “You did?”

  “Yes, what did you expect? It’s your house that you’re living in, so pay the mortgage this month from your account. And thanks for the dinners. They’re great.”

  “You’re welcome. Heat them at 350 in the oven. I’m going to my school tomorrow to see if I can get my job back.”

  “Vicki, what happened to three weeks?”

  “John, I don’t know what I want right now.”

  “Vicki, it’s the middle of the school year and you’ve been out of there for over two years, so what teacher is going to give up their class, in kindergarten no less, for you? That’s not how it works.”

  “You’ll see, John, it’ll turn out fine for me. Gotta go. Thanks for the money.”

  “All right, call me tomorrow and let me know what happens. Bye, babe.” He hung up thinking about his wife’s unrealistic expectations, and more importantly, that she might want to stay there, permanently.

  “Let me get this straight. Your wife left you. You’re still giving her money and she’s still cooking for you?”

  “That’s about it, Tony. She thinks she can get her job back.”

  “You’re the one who’s lacking reality, pal. She left you and you’re still supporting her. Is she your wife or your kid? ’Cause that’s what you’re treating her like. And did you forget who her pop is?”

  “No, he wouldn’t do anything like that. He always made his kids work for what they got.”

  “Just like you, right? Still, can’t figure out how you can command five hundred bucks an hour and get it,” Sal said.

  He didn’t want to toot his own horn but he knew he was worth every penny for his consulting with the NYPD. He was their expert for the profiling of repeat offenders, serial killers when they appeared, evaluating crime scene documentation, deciding if defendants were competent to stand trial, as well as court appearances as an expert witness. On occasion when Carlson begged, John would go to a crime scene. “I work very hard to get what I have, Sal. So let’s get back to it, please. The clock starts now, seven-thirty.”

  Tony handed him a jacket a few inches thick. “You wanted us to look into this Martin kid. There’s nothing more to look into. It’s all here and the investigation three years ago was thorough. We have all the evidence we needed and all the files from juvie are in here. No additional human homicides are evident. The kills at fourteen? Animals. Lots of them. Cats. Gory, too. With knives.”

  “All right. That’s what he meant. It starts with animals. What else?”

  “There are crime scene photos, forensic pathology and autopsy reports, the history the kid had with you as a teenager, and interviews with his parents in the years before he slaughtered them. A lot of it you already have. There are pages and pages of interviews with his teachers, neighbors, employers, and adults he had contact with. And his pedigree. You have everything in detail here about him since his birth, actually since his conception. So knock yourself out. If you find something, we’re on it. Unless something is hiding under a rock, we have it all. So what are you looking for?”

  “Not a hundred percent sure, but there might be a connection between this kid my uncle sent me for community service and Hal. So check out his family.”

  “What family? He killed everyone in it!”

  “Tony, that’s what Bobby said so how did he know that detail? So now’s who’s acting like a kid?”

  “Hang around perps long enough, ya know there’s a fine line. When are you seeing the kid?” Tony asked.

  “Tomorrow. But I’m not bringing this up yet. Have training to do first and he needs to learn the ground rules.”

  “He’s in for a rude awakening,” Sal said.

  “Let’s hope so. What else have you got for me?”

  Paul handed him a few more cases. “These go to the top of the pile. Directives, and what we need from you, are on the first page. When are you making the fucking call?”

  John stood, took the stack of files, and shot Paul his signature look.

  “John, you need to take care of that problem. I mean it, pal.”

  He knew very well what Paul meant and, with Vicki now out of his life, he might very well have to.

  CHAPTER 12

  Without warning, the heavy gray steel door to John’s office at Manhattan Psych blasted open with a bang--a sound it hadn’t made in years. John scowled at the entrance and shot Bobby his signature look times ten. Bobby had barged in wearing a badly soiled T-shirt and torn jeans--not the in-style tears, but the ones that came from repeated wear and lack of laundering--with the waistband of his pants below his butt.

  Bobby hadn’t gotten the message. “Yeah, what do you want?”

  “Nothing like that. Start again. Go out and come in the way you’re supposed to.”

  “What?”

  “You heard me and I never repeat myself.” John delivered a long stare in silence.

  After a minute Bobby took a deep breath, went out, closed the door, and re-entered opening the door slower.

  “No. What do you do before you open the door?”

  “I dunno, knock?”

  “Good guess. Yes, again,” he said, stressing, “Please.”

  Noticing the word, “please,” Bobbly clenched his fist, which didn’t go unnoticed either. He exited the office with his clenched fists tap
ping his thighs.

  “Come in.”

  “You’re pissed at me right?”

  “Why should I be pissed?” Venting at a patient topped his no-no list.

  “From yesterday.”

  “Nah. I’m not pissed. Before you sit down, pull your pants up. You’re an adult.”

  Bobby looked around as if he misunderstood what the issue was and, after an open-eyed stare from John, he followed the order and sat timidly in the luxury leather chair.

  John leaned back in his chair, assessing Bobby’s body language. He slouched in the chair, his thin arms rested meekly on the armrests, and his eyes had a very worried look, a look that appeared on a disturbed child’s face, who was awaiting a stiff physical punishment. John was used to seeing those. Bobby saw John looking directly at him, and he lowered his eyes. After a moment, he raised his head and John saw his built-up pain. John wasn’t going to let him stew, anymore. This kid had been through enough in his life. That was apparent, even without reading his file or analyzing his aura, which John saw as shattered and irregular with circular voids surrounding his body.

  “Know why you’re here?” John said, remaining calm, which in turn calmed Bobby.

  “Yeah.”

  “First, no more ‘yeah.’” That intimidated Bobby, but John’s agenda was to teach Bobby how to treat him. “It’s yes, Dr. Trenton. Got it?”

  Bobby swallowed hard. “Yes, Dr. Trenton.”

  John realized that Bobby would rebel against giving up his personal power. And John wouldn’t want him to, either. “All right,” John reassured him. “All right. Why are you here?”

  “That judge.”

  “Judge Marks?”

  “Yeah,” Bobby said, then catching himself, he corrected, “Yes, him.”

  “What happened?”

  “I got busted three times.”

  “It says here--” John started.

  Bobby stiffened his body and clenched his fists as he moved his arms to either side of his thighs. His eyes narrowed.

  This was too much for him and John would have to slow it down. “This is your file. Have you ever seen it?”

  Bobby shook his head. ‘”No.”

  “It says here, auto stripping in the third degree 165.09, a misdemeanor; criminal sale of a controlled substance near school grounds 220.44, a B, non-violent, felony; and forgery in the third degree, 170.05, a misdemeanor.”

  Hearing it read, Bobby squirmed in his chair. “What are those numbers?”

  “They’re very serious offenses, so New York City assigned them reference numbers. So tell me, why did Judge Marks send you here?”

  “He said this is where I can wind up if I don’t turn it around.”

  “Turn what around?”

  Bobby grimaced. He didn’t seem to comprehend John’s questioning. “Like the stuff ya just said.”

  “Well, from yesterday’s behavior, it’s apparent that you don’t understand what Judge Marks meant.”

  “What behavior?”

  “You thought I was pissed at you, so you have to know.” John pulled up the video from yesterday. “Watch this.” He turned the computer screen on his desk so Bobby could view it.

  The dialog was clear. “No he’s not, what about us you prick? Who the fuck is this guy? Yeah, yeah.”

  “I get it.”

  “And that behavior is going to stop, right?”

  “I dunno.”

  “You don’t know?”

  “No, you ain’t my father, you can’t make me.” Bobby snickered and looked away.

  “That’s getting so old. Do you realize how many times I’ve been told that?”

  “Then maybe you should take a hint.”

  No way is this going to happen. This kid’s becoming way too comfortable, too soon. “Well, what hint are you going to get from this, and pay attention?”

  Bobby focused on him and made direct eye contact for a longer time. John nodded in approval.

  “You now have one thousand hours here not five hundred.”

  Bobby bolted up out of the chair. “You can’t do that!” He flung the chair he was sitting in onto its side. Tears welled up in his eyes. “No. That can’t happen. You can’t do that to me. Fuck you. I hate you!” He stomped around in circles in the room with clenched fists. “Fuck that judge. I’ll get him for sending me here. Just let him wait. I’ll get them after him.”

  His jaws tightened, he hyperventilated, and his eyes stared at John with blankness and no feeling of humanity in them.

  Bobby grabbed the arm of the fallen chair with both hands. He emitted growls of intense and childlike anger as he shook the chair, vehemently back and forth. John cringed at the sight of his furniture tolerating abuse, but he didn’t intervene. It was better that Bobby attacked the furniture than him. Good thing there was no glass.

  Bobby breathed a little easier after his explosion, but he still stewed with anger, showing only a little more control. His trembling hands slowly became still.

  “Are you finished with this tantrum?”

  Bobby nodded.

  Bobby had only just begun to get his negative feelings off his chest. John had a long way to go with him. “We’re not done yet. Sit down.”

  Bobby picked up the chair, slamming it into place, tossed his body into it. His brows furrowed. He leaned forward with his hands clenched around the armrests.

  “Actually, I can,” John told him. “I spoke with Judge Marks yesterday and Charlie, your PO. It’s a done deal. By the way, just so you know, crocodile tears don’t have any effect on me. So your hours here are eleven to two?”

  “Yes.”

  “But you come late every day.”

  “So what?”

  “Well, here’s the way it’s going to work. Listening?”

  Bobby nodded.

  “If you come later than eleven, the day isn’t going to count in the thousand. Do anything that is not acceptable to anyone that works here, profanity, attitude, the day doesn’t count, either. I keep very accurate records and so does Stan.”

  Bobby sat up at attention in the chair.

  Good. The light bulb went on.

  “And for every day you come in on time and do what Stan asks of you without back talk, you’ll get one hour taken off the hours you owe. Any questions?”

  “You can’t do that!”

  “Yes I can. Trenton’s Law.”

  “What the hell is that?”

  “What I say goes, no choices given. Not yet, anyway. And you just used a profanity.”

  “What?”

  “Hell.”

  “You’re not that old! You never said a curse? No, I can’t do that. You’re crazy, man!”

  “And no back talk,” John said, without reacting.

  “So I have to watch everything I say and do here?”

  “Excellent, Bobby, that’s excellent. That’s spot on what you have to do.”

  “That sucks!”

  “Well, today isn’t counting so you want to keep going?”

  “You didn’t give me any warnings.”

  “You’re twenty-two, not four. It’s your responsibility to remember the first time.”

  “You’re asking a lot.”

  “What does that mean to you?”

  “No one ever told me to do nothin’ like that before so I don’t know if I can do it.”

  “So you don’t know if you can talk to people without cursing or being disrespectful?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay, so what do you think you need to do to get into the right habit?”

  “I dunno.”

  “I appreciate the honesty so I’ll help you out.”

  “Okay.”

  “The first thing is to think before you speak or do something. Think you can do that?”

  “I never did that before.”

  “Do you think that had anything to do with you getting arrested three times?”

  “Probably.”

  “I think so. Judge Marks said your next arrest w
ill get you prison time.”

  “You’re shitt--Really?”

  “Really. But I can help you avoid that.”

  “How?”

  “By turning that behavior around while you’re here. That’s actually why you need the thousand hours. So we can do the work. That wasn’t a punishment for yesterday’s behavior. So, are you up for it?”

  “You’re too strict.”

  “No, I’m not strict at all. I’m just teaching you what you need to do to get along here and follow the rules. This is a maximum-security facility with heavy-hitter criminals. There are rules for everyone.”

  Bobby smirked. “Whatever you say, Dr. Trenton. Am I talkin’ to you every day?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Don’t count on it.”

  John curled his lips down. “I have to see other patients now so you can go back to work.”

  Bobby got up, moping, gave John a mellow look, and slowly left the room.

  As he closed the door, John smiled, content with where he’d gotten for the first session.

  This kid’s going to be a piece of cake. He had a few minutes, so he picked up the newspaper and became engrossed in the first page. The picture showed a woman helping to get a child into an ambulance. He read the caption under the photo.

  Brooklyn School Psychologist, Dr. Barbara Montgomery, acted heroically today, helping to rescue a child from the rooftop of a nearby building.

  “Nice.”

  CHAPTER 13

  Clancy lay in bed in a drunken stupor in his sparse apartment. He awoke, agitated, tossing and turning, remembering he had to be somewhere. Then he noticed the clock, reading twelve p.m.

  “Damn! Not again. Not again. Not again. I can’t do nothin’ right.”

  He had missed too many appointments lately. He’d missed all of them. He became more aggravated as he struggled to get out of the bed. Fighting with the blanket, he got his legs entangled in the bed sheets and landed on the floor, scraping his back on the bed frame.