by C. C. Harris
Only seconds later, she realized she was in a moving van.
* * *
How easy it had been to obtain her trust. He praised himself. All the fools in the world working shit jobs with shit pay while I’ll be rich.
The abduction excited him. He wished she’d been his for the killing, but he was getting big money for her safe delivery. He smiled at his handiwork and picked up his book. What a clever time waster, he thought. The book had served its purpose well. He felt the rush of adrenalin as he recalled her bewildered expression. Having the power to control his victim’s destiny was euphoric. Another exhilarating image surfaced from his memory, that of his stepbrother’s distorted face as he fell to his death. He no longer felt impotent.
He felt like a God again.
EIGHT
Past Liaisons
My apartment stank of mold, and the water pipes creaked. The room had a depressing chill. Life in the diner was preferable. If it was open twenty-four seven, I’d still be there. I watched Charlie nibble on his treat and then I drifted off into a deep sleep that brought no nightmares.
The next morning, I bought a coffee on my way to work and ducked into the work basement garage for a puff. The basement reminded me of my apartment, cold and dreary. I hadn’t even got to the cigarette when I heard a voice close behind me.
‘Hi Curtis, how are you this morning?’
I jumped with fright. ‘Good…thanks.’
‘What brings you down to the basement, Curtis?’
I pulled out the cigarette from my pocket and held it up. ‘Just having a quick cigarette…you know…a quick puff before the day starts.’
I wasn’t sure where my boss had come from. He’d been so quiet. I felt like a loser, a nicotine desperado.
‘There is one thing, Curtis. I’d rather you didn’t talk to the clients. I overheard the conversation between you and Courtney Williams. You see, my clients can experience delusional thoughts and exhibit disturbed and problematic behaviors. It’s important that the less said the better, for the sake of their well-being and yours. Do you understand me, Curtis?’
I felt like a scolded child. I really wanted to tell him to fuck off, but I needed the job. I paused, maybe long enough for him to notice I was holding back my true thoughts.
‘Certainly Doctor, it won’t happen again,’ I responded with feigned sincerity.
I hated feeling powerless. Already this guy was giving me the creeps. I wondered how much of the conversation with Courtney he had heard and why he cared about my well-being.
The doctor’s eyes were cold, and his authoritarian demeanor was unsettling. As I watched him walk away, something caught my eye. It was a ring. Courtney’s ring. What the hell. How did it end up here? As I bent down to take a closer look, the doctor suddenly turned.
‘Is everything ok, Curtis?’
Jesus. Did the guy have eyes in the back of his fuckin’ head? ‘Yes. All good.’ I pretended to fasten my shoelace as I carefully edged my shoe on top of the ring. As he turned back to walk on, I scooped it up. Why was Courtney’s ring in the basement?
When the day was done, and I was heading down Lewis again, twirling the ring in my hand and looking forward to a bourbon, I heard the rev of a car. I glanced discreetly to my left. A vehicle was following me. I quickened my pace and then bolted, instinctively.
‘Police! Freeze!’
This was crazy. What did they want from me? What the fuck was I doing? Was my brain telling me I was a dead man if I stopped? It took me seconds to hurdle a bus bench. I flew around the nearest corner and straight into the arms of a cop. My head thumped against the gutter and a knee ground into my back.
‘What do we have here? You usually walk around with a revolver strapped to your leg?’
‘I haven’t hurt anyone. What the fuck’s going on? You can’t arrest me!’
I tasted blood trickling from the corner of my mouth. I felt woozy and standing up wasn’t easy. He handcuffed me and forcefully pushed my head down, shoving me into the back of a patrol car.
‘Hi Curtis, it’s been a long time.’
Jesus, it was an old colleague, Sarah Wilkins, sitting in the back seat! We had worked together as realtors more than eight years before. When the property market hit a slump, the buyers had dried up along with our commissions. Tired of waiting for weekend buyers, I’d got a job at the brokerage firm on Wall Street and clawed my way up the ladder to become a financier. The last thing I remembered about Sarah was a call from her telling me she was working in New York as a security officer. How the hell did she go from being a fuckin’ security officer to a top cop of Brooklyn? Her petite figure and black hair drawn back into a neat bun didn’t fit a tough cop image.
‘Was this your idea of kicks, Sarah? Why do you need to arrest me like some hardened criminal?’
‘You’re behind the times, Curtis. Where have you been hiding? Didn’t you hear? I’m a detective lieutenant working for the NYPD. When there’s trouble I take it personally. I’m committed to public safety.’
‘Don’t give me that bullshit speech about bloody safety! Fuckin’ hell. We did the same job not so long ago. Remember? And I don’t need to hide out, Miss Personality of the NYPD. I was just walking home when your guys decided to jump me. I thought you had more class than to wind up being a cop. You really surprise me, Sarah, working for a corrupt force like this. I’ve heard about the NYPD. Money passing around in brown paper bags. Good cops turning into bad cops but still thinking they’re the good guys. Don’t give me this “I’m better than you” crap, Miss Goodie Two Shoes.’
‘Have you finished your little rant, Curtis? You know that’s bullshit. We’ve always got Internal Affairs breathing down our necks like bloody sniffer dogs. My team work around the clock. Like any job, there’s the risk of a bad apple and besides, statistics show that the crime rate has dropped but you won’t hear that. Why is it always assumed there’s money floating around in bags?’ Sarah gave a sardonic chuckle. ‘That sounds so clichéd, Curtis. I think you’ve been watching too many movies or you believe the media myths,’ she said, taking a knowing swipe at my self-esteem.
‘It’s lovely to hear your sharing and caring Sarah. I really enjoy being lectured by a woman, it really makes my fuckin’ day.’
‘I do my job and look after my boys, so I don’t give a shit what you think about the force or me, Curtis. What I do care about is that you’ve been working on Wall Street, but there’s a few missing pages in your life.’
‘What’s it your business and why am I getting the sense that you’re accusing me of something whilst enjoying your moment of power, Miss Good Cop?’
‘We have a killer on the loose.’
‘Well, it’s not me…anyway, what’s so unusual about that? I’m sure there are plenty of killers in New York keeping you busy.’
‘We’ve been keeping an eye on a couple of prime suspects, and that’s where I recognized a familiar name. That familiar name being you. You’re working at The Manhattan Well-being Clinic for a psychologist, Doctor Ellison, right?’
‘Well I’m not working for Jack the Ripper,’ I quipped sarcastically.
Sarah paused and raised her eyebrows.
‘I’m telling you now there’s no way the doctor is a killer. It’s just…well…it’s just not possible.’
‘Give me a good reason why not,’ Sarah said.
‘Because he’s not only a psychologist, he’s a doctor and doctors help people and because…I don’t want him to be. I’m just getting my feet on the ground and I need the cash. If I lose this job, I’m stuffed. The last thing I want is to be involved in some half-assed cold-case investigation. I was feeling good until you lot showed up. Jesus, talk about buzzkill.’
‘Who said it was cold?’ Sarah responded.
‘Well he’s not killing now…is he?’
‘We don’t have any evidence yet but some of his clients are ending up dead, or they’re listed on our missing persons database. And what astounds me is that a p
rostitute called Sassy Lee was found dead in a dumpster not far from your apartment. Is her name familiar?’
‘This is fuckin’ ridiculous. What would I know about a murdered prostitute?’
‘Her parents said she’d been working the streets and her real name was Sandra. And you wouldn’t guess where she was going for counseling. The Manhattan Well-being Clinic.’
‘Look, I’ve just started working there. Anyway, he has a colleague, Dr Lee Cameron on the fifth floor. How do you know it’s not him?’
‘Don’t worry, we’re checking him out too. They could be working together. And what’s this ring we found in your pocket? Are you ready to propose, or is there something more sinister going on?’
‘Haha, very funny. I found it in my work basement this morning. It belongs to Courtney Williams, a client of the doctor’s. She must have dropped it after her counseling session. Honest to God…I’m no killer for Christ’s sake…you should know me well enough to know that.’ I knew I could be in trouble. She was talking about a killer and I had a client’s ring.
‘Now I want you to listen very carefully, Curtis. The commissioner has put up a $500,000 reward to catch this guy.’
‘Why is the commissioner so interested in this case?’ I asked.
‘Confidentially, his niece Linda Maloney was found dead a year ago, at Lake Mead in Boulder City, mutilated from head to toe. It was nasty. She’d been tortured. The only evidence we have is a pair of eyeglasses found next to the body. They could belong to the killer because the commissioner’s niece didn’t wear glasses and they’re male designer glasses. We’ve been tight-lipped about the murder. The public don’t know the victim was the commissioner’s niece and we have no idea how she ended up at Lake Mead, thirty minutes from Vegas. If the media get hold of this, all hell will break loose. The case is in the deep freeze until we have enough evidence for an arrest.’
‘Why so secretive?’
‘His niece was troubled. Long story short, she was a runaway. She was cooking up crystal meth and dealing on the streets. The commissioner doesn’t want his family’s dirty laundry aired, especially anything involving drug dealing. The elections are coming up and he wants to look squeaky clean. He’s a crusader against drugs.’
‘And let me guess, the commissioner’s niece was seeing my boss, Doctor Ellison, would that be right?’
‘Very perceptive, Curtis. That’s right.’
I wasn’t sure whether she was having another swipe at my self-esteem.
‘Where do I come into this so-called plan of yours?’ I asked.
Sarah’s voice softened. ‘We need your help.’
I couldn’t believe how quickly her tone changed from accusatory to sucking up.
‘After you’ve just roughed me up like some hardened criminal? You’ve got to be kidding!’
‘Sorry about that.’ She sounded sincere, but I wasn’t convinced. ‘Well you see, Curtis, you’re what we call our lucky break.’
‘What do you mean by lucky break?’ I asked.
‘What I mean is, we need you to…um…maybe go undercover?’
‘What the fuck? I help you and then I end up…what…dead! Screw that.’
‘We need your help, Curtis.’
I knew that an informer was usually the first to get a bullet to the head.
‘So now I’m supposed to feel safe after hearing this?’
‘We would never put you at risk, Curtis. You’d be under twenty-four-hour surveillance. Your every move would be monitored. Of course, it’s up to you but I assure you that if we get this guy, the police commissioner will cough up the reward.’
Her offer sounded enticing. She was dangling the sweetest carrot. ‘How much of the reward do I get?’ I asked.
‘If we nail this guy, you get a cool $500,000 guaranteed and signed off by the commissioner himself. By the way, sorry for roughing you up. My boys didn’t know why you were being arrested. I’m trying to keep the lid on this case until I get my team together.’
‘If I say yes, will you give me my gun back?’
‘Ok, it’s a deal.’ Sarah signaled to a rookie who was out of earshot. He looked more like a 1960’s street punk than a cop. ‘Give him the gun.’
It was a relief to have it back.
‘Well then, when do I start?’ I asked.
NINE
Rejection Sensitively
Brandy locked her front door and threw her bag down on the entrance table. She lived alone in a house that was cheap to rent and close to transport. Living by herself had its advantages as she hated people watching her twenty-four seven and calling 911 when she cut herself. She liked to think she didn’t need anyone’s help, but there was a part of her that wondered why she was so lonely.
Throughout her school years, Brandy had been bullied relentlessly on social media and called a slut. Kids laughed at her and told her the world would be a better place if she killed herself.
Her feelings of abandonment supported her world view that no one loved her, and she might as well be dead. She wondered how many people would care if she killed herself. In retaliation, she externalized her depression by lashing out and blaming others. Brandy began binge drinking every other weekend and habitually relaxed by smoking weed.
She’d left home at eighteen, as her mom couldn’t cope with her mood swings and angry outbursts. She felt her mom minimized her emotional pain when she called her a drama queen.
She lived with various friends, but they soon grew tired of her unpredictable and erratic behavior, which included several attempts to end her life. They eventually told her to leave. She knew that her mental health was a drain on others and was relieved to be on her own. Despite this, she couldn’t help but feel isolated and angry. The more she demanded love and attention, the more her friends disengaged from her. Boyfriends didn’t last more than a month. They too grew tired of her demands and temper tantrums.
Mrs Harper was a neighbor who lived across the street. She was retired and often visited Brandy for a chat or delivered her a home-cooked meal. Mrs Harper’s husband had died several years earlier, and she was the one person who didn’t judge her and especially didn’t ask about the scars on her arm. From her bedroom window, Brandy noticed Mrs Harper’s light was on. She was sure she would soon be visiting with a meal.
Her thoughts drifted to her psych. She had been seeing him for six months and was looking forward to her appointment tomorrow. She travelled an hour to New York once a week for her therapy.
He was the first person who’d truly understood her. She could talk about her provocative behavior, angry outbursts, and attention seeking without him judging her. Her therapist was the father figure she had always wanted, and this attachment kept her alive. There was no one else who listened and validated her like he did. He was different, she thought. He wasn’t like the rest. She could trust him. He was dependable and faultless. She knew she would be safe if he was there to support her. She no longer felt empty inside.
One day, Brandy hoped to write a book about well-being. A book that showed the world her life struggles and how she had survived her past traumas. She wanted people to understand how much pain she had suffered and how unique her life had been.
As Brandy turned on the TV, she noticed a text message from her psych saying their appointment the next day was canceled. She felt a surge of anger. Surely if he really cared he would make me his priority. She couldn’t understand why he would abandon her when he knew she was suicidal.
‘Nobody’s issues could be more important than mine,’ she protested aloud as her self-harming impulses took over.
Her self-deprecating thoughts escalated to verbal ranting: ‘No one gives a shit. They all leave me. I can’t depend on anyone to help. My family, friends, the nurses, and now my therapist! They expect me to take my antidepressants like I’m some fuckin’ psycho. They’re all useless. No one cares that I feel like crap.’
She clenched her fist, wanting to punch the wall, but instead took a razor from her
bathroom cabinet and rolled back her sleeve. She made a small incision across her wrist. Her overwhelming feelings of anger dissipated as she watched the color red trickle into her palm.
She knew not to cut too deeply. She didn’t want to end up in hospital. She hated hospitals; they made her feel like shit. The medical staff always dismissed her and treated her meanly. She could hear their singsong voices: ‘Here we go again, another attention-seeking borderline wasting our time and resources.’ Her psych, on the other hand, soothed her anger and told her she was not attention seeking but seeking the attention she had a right to receive. Now she wondered why he wasn’t going to be there for her tomorrow.
She dabbed antiseptic on her cut to prevent infection and placed enough pressure on her wound to stop the bleeding. Her breathing slowed as her body relaxed. She grabbed a bandage and wrapped it around her wrist. She threw on a long-sleeved top to cover the wound, so Mrs Harper wouldn’t notice.
As Brandy finished wiping the blood from the basin edge, she felt uneasy, not from her wound but from a gut feeling that something was wrong. She could smell cologne. She recognized the familiar fragrance but dismissed her senses as delusional. Instead, she reminded herself of her psych’s advice to challenge her irrational thoughts. ‘It’s ok, I’m overthinking…I am imagining it…I am safe…’ she said aloud.
As she looked in the mirror, she remembered a time when she had thought that mirrors were windows. Now she realized how crazy that thought was. Brandy studied her tired eyes, noticing the greyness of her skin and the dullness of her long black hair. Although she was only twenty-three, she felt twice her age. The years of emotional pain had taken their toll and now, her therapist had canceled her appointment. She wondered whether she was the only one in the world who felt like this.
Then, she was no longer focused on her reflection. She looked beyond her face. She wasn’t sure… What had she seen? She held her breath. Her body froze. Her peripheral vision detected a movement. What was behind her? Was the reflection an illusion?