by Daniel Cole
“Ritcher,” replied Lennox.
“Oh crap.”
Curtis had had dealings with him before: a notoriously competent and obstructive defense lawyer usually hired to assist the rich and powerful out of the trouble that their money and arrogance tended to attract. Worse, he reminded her of her father. She genuinely doubted that they were going to get anything out of East now.
“Good luck,” said Lennox as they arrived at the interview room. She blocked Baxter’s path with an outstretched arm. “Not you.”
“Come again?” asked Baxter.
Rouche also went to argue when Lennox continued: “Not with Ritcher in there. You’ll earn us a lawsuit per syllable.”
“But—”
“You can watch. End of discussion.”
Rouche hesitated, but Baxter waved him off and stomped into the small annex next door. He entered the interview room and took a seat next to Curtis. On the other side of the table, Ritcher looked every bit as self-important and venomous as his reputation suggested. He was in his late fifties with a long, angular face and a full head of thick, white, wavy hair. In comparison, his client looked starved of both sleep and food, his unimposing frame struggling to fill the threadbare suit he sported. His sunken eyes darted around the room.
“Good morning, Mr. East,” said Curtis pleasantly. “Mr. Ritcher, always a pleasure. Can I offer either of you a drink?”
East shook his head.
“No,” replied Ritcher. “And for your information, you’ve now got four questions left.”
“Have we?” asked Rouche.
“Yes.”
“Really?”
Ritcher turned to Curtis: “It’s probably advisable to tell your colleague not to antagonize me.”
“Is it?” asked Rouche.
Curtis kicked him beneath the table.
In the other room, Baxter shook her head despairingly:
“Should’ve let me in there,” she mumbled.
“I’ve got a question,” said Ritcher. “What gives the FBI the right to drag my client in here like some sort of petty criminal without so much as an explanation, let alone any hint of unlawful activity?”
“We tried phoning,” said Rouche flippantly, “but your client and his family had elected to abandon their lives and go into hiding.” He turned to the doctor. “Hadn’t you, Phillip?”
“We just need to ask Mr. East a few questions relating to our investigation. That’s all,” said Curtis, in a futile attempt to pacify the ill-tempered lawyer.
“Yes, your investigation,” sneered Ritcher. “Your supervisor was good enough to provide me with an insight into the inner workings of the FBI’s finest before relieving us of our personal possessions, of course, lest we feel the need to share your unrivaled ingenuity with the outside world: a psychiatrist turns up dead who provided a service to one of these Puppet freaks and you, quite brilliantly, now suspect all of these people’s caregivers of wrongdoing . . . Inspiring stuff.”
“Your client provided counseling to two of our killers,” said Curtis.
Ritcher sighed: “Correction: he counseled one of them in a somewhat official capacity. To the other, he gave up his own free time in aid of a charitable organization for the homeless. An admirable endeavor, I’m sure you’ll agree.”
East’s wide eyes flicked to Rouche and then back down to the table.
“Have you represented Phillip before?” Rouche asked the obstructive lawyer.
“I don’t see how that’s relevant.”
“I do.”
“Very well,” said Ritcher in exasperation. “This is, in fact, my first time representing . . . Mr. . . . East,” he said pointedly.
“Who’s paying for your services . . . and how?”
“Now, I know that’s not relevant.”
“Because I suspect you don’t come cheap,” continued Rouche. “Chief shit-unsticker to the rich and shitty.”
Ritcher smiled and leaned back in his chair as Rouche went on: “Forgive me for finding it just a little suspicious that a part-time counselor, rest-of-time office administrator, wearing a thrift-store suit, decides to enlist the services of CSU . . .”
Everyone looked puzzled.
“. . . chief shit-unsticker,” Rouche clarified, “just to answer a few questions, which he couldn’t do before because he and his family had gone into hiding.”
“Was there a question concealed somewhere within your name-calling and meandering pontifications?” asked Ritcher.
“Asking questions isn’t getting us anywhere,” said Rouche. “You don’t answer them. No: I’m telling.” He gestured to the file in front of Curtis while East watched him nervously. Curtis looked uneasy but slid it over to him. Rouche started flicking through. “Call me a skeptic, Phillip, but when I heard you were missing, I presumed you were running out of guilt. Having met you, I can now see, quite clearly, that you were running out of fear.”
Rouche stopped on one of the pages. After a moment, he had to look away. He removed the photograph from the file and tossed it into the center of the table.
“Good Lord!” gasped Ritcher.
“Rouche!” shouted Curtis.
East, however, appeared transfixed by the black-and-white image of the entire Bantham family bound, bagged, and slumped over in a neat line, just as Baxter had found them.
“That’s James Bantham, a psychiatrist . . . one of you,” Rouche explained. He noticed East unconsciously pull the fabric of his baggy shirt away from his chest. “That’s his wife lying beside him and their two boys behind her.”
East looked torn. He was unable to take his eyes off the photograph. The sound of his quickening breath filled the small room.
“Bantham never told us anything,” said Rouche with exaggerated regret. “He probably thought he was protecting them.”
Ritcher reached out and turned the haunting photograph face-down on the table.
“Goodbye, Agent Rouche,” he said, getting up.
Irritatingly, the only person in history to actually pronounce Rouche’s name correctly at first go was the one person he would rather forget it.
“W-we’ve still got questions!” stuttered Curtis.
“I’m sure you do,” replied Ritcher.
“Phillip,” said Rouche as the lawyer tried to hurry his client out of the room. “Phillip!”
East looked back at him.
“If we could find you, they will find you.” Rouche knew that he was speaking the truth despite being none the wiser as to who “they” were.
“Ignore him,” Ritcher instructed, ushering him out to collect up their confiscated possessions.
“Shit!” said Curtis as she watched the two men walking away through the busy main office. “We didn’t get anything.”
“We can’t let him go,” said Rouche. He removed his handcuffs from his pocket.
“But Lennox said—”
“Screw Lennox.”
“She’ll have you taken off the case before you even get him back to the interview room.”
“At least there’ll still be a case.”
He shoved past her and rushed after the two men waiting for the lift.
“Phillip!” he called across the office.
The doors slid open and they stepped inside.
“Phillip!” Rouche shouted again, running for the closing doors. “Wait!”
He knocked someone out of the way as he sprinted the final few meters, sticking his hand into the narrowing gap. The sheets of metal juddered and parted once more to reveal Ritcher and East. Sharing the small box with them, almost unrecognizable wrapped up in her coat and hat, was Baxter.
“What floor?” she asked innocently.
Rouche tucked the handcuffs back into his pocket, producing one of his business cards instead, which he handed to the counselor.
“In case you do think of anything . . .” he said, letting the doors slide shut between them.
Curtis caught up with him as the audience he’d attracted star
ted to lose interest.
“You let him go?” she asked in confusion.
“No, I didn’t.”
The last half hour of the day was dragging, and Edmunds was eager to get home to immerse himself in the murder case once more. The latest update from Baxter had occupied his thoughts all afternoon, and as appalling as it was to admit, it had excited him. He adored the challenge of an unsolvable puzzle, and this case had not disappointed. He had been sure that the counseling link would tie it all together, but if anything, it had only complicated matters further.
“Could we borrow you a moment?” asked Mark, directly behind him, making Edmunds jump.
He had been staring blankly at his screen, oblivious to everything else.
“In Gatiss’s office,” Mark added, unable to hide his smile.
Edmunds had expected some sort of comeuppance for the previous afternoon, so he got up and followed Mark across the room. He only hoped that the slap on the wrist would not take too long.
The moment he crossed the threshold, he saw Thomas sitting opposite Gatiss at his desk. Evidently, this was not about the phone call. As Mark closed the door behind them, Edmunds took a seat, glancing nervously at his friend beside him.
Mark pulled up a chair at the end of the desk.
“I’m sorry to have to call you in here like this, Mr. Alcock,” said Gatiss.
Edmunds’s boss was a stocky man, completely bald with angry little eyes.
“That’s quite all right,” replied Thomas pleasantly.
“A situation has been brought to my attention, concerning you, I’m afraid. Therefore I thought it best to ask you in and get to the bottom of it right here and now.”
Edmunds really didn’t like where this was going. He had always been so careful to cover his tracks.
“First things first,” said Gatiss. “Do you two know one another?”
“Yes, we do,” answered Thomas, smiling at Edmunds. “Alex is a close friend and used to work with my . . . girlfriend.”
Both Thomas and Edmunds pulled a face. The term was not particularly fitting when used to describe Baxter. Mark was watching attentively, his greedy eyes drinking in every detail of the avalanche about to wipe Edmunds from his life.
“And, Edmunds. A little awkward, I appreciate, with your ‘friend’ sat right beside you. Do you believe Mr. Alcock guilty of any unlawful activity?”
“Of course not.”
Mark made a little squeak, he was so excited.
“Interesting. Well, Mr. Alcock, it may come as a shock to you to learn that your friend has been illegally utilizing our fraud-detection software to look into your private bank accounts and credit cards,” said Gatiss, turning his furious eyes on Edmunds.
Mark proudly produced the printout and placed it on the desk in front of them.
“Well . . . not really,” said Thomas in confusion, “because I asked him to.”
“You what?!” blurted Mark.
“I’m sorry?” asked Gatiss.
“God, I feel terrible if I’ve landed him in trouble over this,” said Thomas. “I have a bit of a rocky history with gambling. I begged Alex to keep an eye on my financial records and asked him to challenge me if he suspected that I was . . . indulging again. Unfortunately, I know myself: I would never admit it of my own accord. He’s a very good friend.”
“Four months without a single bet,” said Edmunds proudly, unable to help grinning as he patted Thomas on the back.
“It’s still illegal!” Mark snapped over him.
“Mark! Just get out!” ordered Gatiss, finally losing his patience.
Edmunds subtly itched the side of his head with his middle finger, a gesture only Mark could see as he got to his feet and left the room.
“So you had full knowledge of these searches that Edmunds was carrying out?” Gatiss asked Thomas.
“Full knowledge.”
“I see.” He turned back to Edmunds. “But Mark has a point. No matter how well intentioned, abuse of our resources is a criminal offense.”
“Yes, sir,” agreed Edmunds.
Gatiss sighed heavily as he considered his options:
“I’m issuing you with an official warning. Do not make me regret my leniency on this matter.”
“I won’t, sir.”
Edmunds escorted Thomas out of the building. The moment they were clear of the doors, they burst into laughter.
“Gambling problem,” snorted Edmunds. “Quick thinking.”
“Well, I couldn’t very well tell the truth, could I? That my girlfriend has such crippling trust issues that she’ll leave me if I’m not subjected to weekly audits.” It was said lightly, but it was clear that Thomas was hurt that after eight months together, Baxter still did not completely trust him.
As he and Thomas had grown closer, Edmunds had found himself in an impossible situation. He could betray his new friend by continuing the illegal searches, but by doing so, preserve Thomas’s relationship with Baxter. Or he could refuse to carry out Baxter’s request, in which case she would end the relationship instantly rather than risk getting hurt again. In the end, he had decided to come clean to Thomas, who had handled the news admirably. He had only sympathized with Baxter’s debilitating paranoia. Having nothing to hide, he had given Edmunds his blessing to continue supplying her with regular reports, reasoning that he would rather that than be without her.
Thomas was the right man for Baxter. Edmunds was confident of that. In time, she would see it too.
“Follow that car!”
Baxter had never been quite so excited to say anything as she had been to utter those words after climbing into the back of a yellow cab in New York City.
Ritcher and East had gone their separate ways outside Federal Plaza. She had hoped that East would make his way by subway; however, the deteriorating weather had persuaded him to splash out for a taxi. Terrified that she was going to lose their best lead, she had almost got herself run over flagging down her own ride.
It had been like a cup game trying to keep eyes on the correct yellow cab as they stuttered through the Financial District. The traffic thinned once they’d left the island and got onto the freeway. Confident that there was no longer any chance of losing East, Baxter took out her phone. She knew that Rouche and Curtis would be waiting to hear from her, ready to follow behind.
She glanced out the window in search of a road sign and then typed out a quick text:
278 towards Red Hook
Once she’d pressed “send,” she recognized the familiar Louisiana inflection coming through the radio: “It’s about breaking you down piece by piece until there’s nothing left,” explained Pastor Jerry Pilsner Jr.
“And . . . from my very limited knowledge of exorcisms and the such . . . mainly from horror movies,” the host joked, “this happens in stages, doesn’t it?”
“Three stages. That’s right.”
“But . . . that’s all this is, isn’t it? The stuff of scary movies? You aren’t seriously claiming that this is what is happening to these ‘Puppet’ people, are you?”
“I am entirely serious. Three stages, the first being ‘Diabolical Infestation.’ This is where the entity chooses its victim, experiments with their susceptibility . . . makes its presence known.
“The second stage is ‘Oppression,’ in which the entity has a firm hold over the subject’s life, escalating its psychological victimization, making its target doubt their own sanity.”
“And the third?” the host asked.
“‘Possession’—the point at which the victim’s will is finally broken. The point at which they invite the entity in.”
“Invite?”
“Not in the traditional sense,” clarified the pastor. “But there is always a choice. Should you choose to surrender . . . you are choosing to grant it permission.”
Baxter leaned forward to speak to the driver: “Could you turn that off, please?”
Chapter 19
Monday, 14 December 2015
Baxter’s taxi idled outside one of the eastern entrances to Prospect Park as Phillip East paid for his own ride a hundred meters down the street. He remained in the same spot for over a minute, scanning the passing cars and the park opposite anxiously. Apparently satisfied that he had not been followed, he walked a little way back up the road toward her before turning into a grand art deco apartment block.
She climbed out of the cab and paid the driver far too much. She couldn’t help but suspect that he had deliberately fumbled about looking for change, knowing full well that having followed this man across New York, she would elect to lose the $8.50 over losing her quarry. Dodging the traffic, she headed in through the main entrance after East.
For a sickening moment, she thought she had lost him, but then heard a door unlock somewhere along the ground-floor corridor. Following the sound, she saw East pass through a doorway at the end of the hallway. She strode down the corridor, thrown into gloom by a broken bulb overhead, and made a note of the apartment number.
Baxter headed back outside and crossed over the road to claim a bench at the entrance to the park, from where she would be able to watch the building without attracting attention. She braced herself against the cold and took out her phone to update Rouche.
Curtis and Rouche had been twelve minutes away fifteen minutes earlier. Baxter was stamping her feet in the slush, in part to keep warm but mainly because she was growing more impatient by the second.
“Merry Christmas!” smiled an enthusiastic older gentleman as he passed her, who correctly interpreted Baxter’s scowl as an invitation to get the hell away from her.
She had just called Rouche again to find out what was holding them up when an unfamiliar vehicle parked illegally outside the apartment block.
Baxter got to her feet.
“Five minutes tops!” Rouche promised apologetically down the phone. “Baxter?”
She changed position to see better. A hooded man climbed out. He slid the side door open and removed a large rucksack.
“Baxter?”
“We might have a problem,” she told him, already crossing back over the road as the man entered the grand lobby. “A green van’s just pulled up. Driver acting suspiciously.”