Cole Perriman's Terminal Games

by Wim Coleman

  “Call me a creature of habit,” Coffey said.

  “Why does Nolan always get to do all the globe-hopping while I have to sit here and stare at my desk?”

  “Because it’s the natural order of things,” Coffey explained gruffly. “It’s welded and hard-wired into the human condition, decreed from the time of the Big Bang itself. Nolan hates Midwestern weather, so I send him to the Midwest. You want to talk to this suspect so much you can taste it, so I’m keeping you the hell away from him. It’s my little way of keeping the two of you from getting all spoiled and complacent. One of these days you’ll thank me for it. Trust me. Now get the fuck out of my office.”

  Nolan and Clayton trudged back toward their desks.

  “Somebody ought to teach that prick some of those newfangled management tactics,” Clayton said. “You know the kind that makes employees feel happy and fulfilled about their work.”

  “Fat chance,” Nolan said. “If there’s one thing Coffey hates, it’s good morale among the troops. Anyway, I’m sorry you don’t get to come, too.”

  “And I’m sorry you’ve got to put up with the weather in Omaha.”

  “Yeah, I guess I’m lucky that way,” Nolan said.

  Nolan collapsed into his chair, mulling over his coming trip.

  Too damn much geography.

  It was an ironic thing, too. After all, wasn’t the information age supposed to abolish geography altogether? Why wasn’t it possible to wire himself to Omaha, just like the computer files? Why did he have to spend hours riding in unreliable mechanical devices to cover the same distance? No, the information age hadn’t done away with time and distance. In fact, all it seemed to do was make the upcoming trip seem more onerous.

  “At least they don’t have a fucking lake there,” he muttered, remembering Chicago.

  *

  Night had fallen. Marianne was sitting at her computer terminal, guiding Elfie through Insomnimania’s desktop maze and checking room after room for any sign of Auggie. So far, the clown was nowhere to be found.

  The phone rang and she picked it up. It was Nolan.

  “Hi, sweetheart,” Nolan said. “I’m at LAX.”

  “LAX? Are you going someplace?”

  “Naw, I just like to watch the planes take off at night.”

  “Very funny. Where are you going?”

  “Omaha.”

  “Did they catch that man’s killer?”

  “Looks like it. A certain Myron Stalnaker.”

  “So what happens next?”

  “I go there, I talk to the guy, I try to learn something. That’s about all.”

  “Do you and Clay have any theories?”

  “We’re starting to think it’s something like an electronic cult or gang.”

  Marianne fell silent for a moment.

  “Are you still there?” Nolan asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “Is something wrong?”

  “I don’t know, Nolan. The conspiracy thing feels wrong to me. I can’t say why. I just get the feeling that when Auggie kills, he acts alone.”

  Nolan laughed. “Like Lee Harvey Oswald, huh?”

  Marianne laughed, too. “Don’t make fun of me, Nolan. It’s just a feeling.”

  “Come on, sweetheart. We know Renee was killed by a woman, and this guy in Omaha was killed by a man. Whoever Auggie is, he’s not doing these killings by himself.”

  “Still, I can’t shake that feeling.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I know him. I’ve spent time with him. He’s fascinating and he’s even compelling, and he does have fans and enthusiasts. But he doesn’t seem to have disciples or followers. If anything, he strikes me as very lonely.”

  It was Nolan’s turn to be silent now.

  “Are you still there?” Marianne asked.

  “Yeah. You haven’t been meeting him again, have you?”

  Marianne laughed again. “You’re not still jealous of that little thing I had with him, are you?”

  “Marianne, this is serious. He could be very dangerous if he ever finds out who you are or where you live. Promise me you haven’t been talking to him.”

  “I promise,” Marianne said, feeling more than a little uncomfortable with her half-truth. No, she hadn’t talked to Auggie since her last meeting with Nolan—but that was only because she hadn’t been able to find Auggie.

  “Promise me you won’t talk to him,” Nolan said.

  Marianne couldn’t answer for a second.

  “Well?” Nolan said.

  “I promise,” Marianne finally said, hoping Nolan wouldn’t hear the guilt and tension in her voice. The lie detector needle would have scribbled mountains.

  “Good.”

  “I can’t wait till this thing is over, Nolan,” Marianne said. “We’ve got so much to talk about, so many plans to make.”

  “I know,” Nolan said. “I miss you.”

  “I miss you, too.”

  “And I love you.”

  “I love you, too.”

  She hung up the phone and looked at the computer screen. Elfie was drifting northward through the maze toward the Casino del Camino, still moving out of the inertia caused by Marianne’s last nudge of her computer mouse. Marianne coaxed Elfie into the casino icon and pulled down the menu to select “who?” The names she read were familiar ones …

  “sudopod, taser, wunderkind, hejhog, jazz …

  No Auggie.

  She began to move Elfie toward the Speakers’ Corner, but she had a gut feeling that she probably wouldn’t find him there, either. Of course, she could call Pritchard and Maisie and ask them if Auggie was logged in at all, but she didn’t want to talk to them about her activities. They’d be just as disapproving as Nolan.

  I’ll just keep looking. I’ll keep looking all night, whether I find him or not.

  And tomorrow she would fast on water and juices and stay awake as much as possible, allowing herself brief catnaps from time to time. She would do physical stretches and meditations and let her mind wander as little as possible. She would keep herself in a state of intuitive vigilance.

  Right now, Marianne’s intuition sensed Auggie’s presence—even if he wasn’t to be found anywhere in the maze, in any of Insomnimania’s multifarious rooms. She felt a strange intimation of another labyrinth, another maze beneath this one—a whole world within Insomnimania that nobody but Auggie knew how to reach—not her, not even Pritchard and Maisie.

  If only I knew my way inside. I could find him. I could find him right now …

  11001

  DEPOSITION

  Lieutenant Michael Kelsey, director of Omaha Homicide, ushered Nolan into the police station. Still shivering slightly, Nolan brushed a cold, whitish substance off his shoulders as he walked along. He wasn’t sure if it was snow or sleet.

  Not as cold as Chicago, anyway. In fact, the temperature probably wasn’t much below freezing.

  “Welcome to Omaha, Lieutenant,” Kelsey said. “How about a nasty cup of our vending machine-brewed coffee?”

  “Please,” Nolan replied.

  They stopped at the machine, and Nolan got himself a cup of black coffee. The hot paper cup sharply scalded his still icy fingers. He had to hold the rim of the cup delicately between his fingers, hoping not to drop it as Kelsey escorted him down a hallway. The linoleum floor was tracked with mud. Nolan guessed that the building was next to impossible to keep clean this time of year.

  Kelsey was a tall, slender, dark-haired man who looked and dressed like a stereotypical cowboy, complete with a drawstring tie, a steer’s-head belt buckle, and leather boots. Nolan had noted Kelsey’s Midwestern drawl during their phone conversations, but he had guessed Kelsey to be quite a bit older—a grizzled relic of the pr
airie, as it were. But the Omaha detective looked young, maybe in his twenties—way too young to direct a homicide department in a city this size, at least in Nolan’s estimation.

  Still, Kelsey had a confident air about him. He walked along at what appeared to be a leisurely rate, but his stride was so long that Nolan—not a short man, by any means—had to trot to keep up with him.

  “I’d like to apologize on behalf of the good state of Nebraska for all this shitty weather, Lieutenant,” Kelsey said in his amiable twang.

  “No apology necessary,” Nolan replied.

  “I wish I could’ve arranged for things to be a little warmer, but I just didn’t get the time. It takes a good couple of weeks to requisition nice weather in these parts—and even then, you’re lucky if the order comes through.”

  “Maybe next time,” Nolan said.

  “You should have been here a few days ago—about the time that jogger guy was killed. Why, we sure had a nice, dry warm spell then. I guess it got to be—oh, forty-five, forty-eight degrees. ’Course, coming from your parts, that must sound downright Arctic.”

  At the end of the hallway, Kelsey opened the doorway to a conference room dominated by an enormous oval table. Three rather grim-looking people were seated inside. The fact that they had situated themselves as far away from each other as possible around the table suggested to Nolan that the gathering hadn’t exactly been cordial so far.

  Kelsey introduced Nolan to each of the people in turn. First came Melissa Finch, a prosecutor with the D.A.’s office. She had a long neck and brooding, beady eyes, and Nolan thought she looked more like a cormorant than a finch. Next came Claude Breckenridge, the suspect’s attorney. Claude was squat, chinless, and bald. And at the moment, he looked as mad as hell.

  The last member of the group immediately piqued Nolan’s interest. This was Dr. Harvey Gusfield, a psychiatrist. Gusfield was affiliated with a local hospital, but did occasional forensics work for the Omaha police. Gusfield was forties-ish, clad in jeans, a sweatshirt, and a heavy corduroy jacket with patched elbows. He had a well-trimmed beard, and his longish, sandy hair was tied into an abbreviated ponytail. His legs were crossed on top of the table, and he was leaning back in his chair tearing a sheet of paper into slender strips, looking utterly bored. He certainly did not fit Nolan’s image of a mental health professional. Nolan wondered what Gusfield was doing here.

  Nolan took a seat.

  “I’m sure we all appreciate Lieutenant Grobowski braving our god-awful Nebraska weather to come here on such short notice,” Kelsey said, projecting his warm Midwestern hospitality.

  Everybody else in the room maintained a sullen silence.

  “Well,” Nolan said, starting to feel a little nervous at the stony welcome, “perhaps somebody could give me a little status report.”

  “My client is innocent,” Mr. Breckenridge said sharply. “He’s been railroaded and intimidated into signing away his Fifth Amendment rights.”

  “Your client is as guilty as hell,” retorted Ms. Finch. “And he’s using every sleazy trick in the book to escape a murder conviction.”

  “Children, children,” Lieutenant Kelsey said, laughing softly. “Maybe I should do some filling in.” He turned toward Nolan. “Lieutenant Grobowski, as you already know, Myron Stalnaker was arrested yesterday for the murder of Howard Cronin. In many ways, Mr. Stalnaker has proven to be a model suspect—‘model’ in the sense of being impeccably behaved. He made no attempt to resist arrest. As a matter of fact, he was downright helpful when my boys showed up with the warrant. He showed them all the apparent paraphernalia of his crime—the priest’s outfit, the ski mask, and even the twenty-two caliber revolver. And when my boys brought him in for interrogation, he seemed awful upset about Howard Cronin’s death—downright remorseful, in fact.

  “Trouble is,” Kelsey continued with a smile, “Mr. Stalnaker doesn’t seem to have any real recollection of actually having killed Howard Cronin. He admits to owning the gun, but he says he’s got no idea where the priest outfit and the ski mask came from. And he can’t account for his whereabouts or actions during the time of the murder. He claims it’s all a kind of haze.”

  “Bullshit,” Ms. Finch murmured.

  “Its not bullshit,” Mr. Breckenridge snapped. “How can he remember something he never did?”

  “Well, if he didn’t commit the crime,” Ms. Finch responded pertly, “why does he feel remorseful?”

  “Now, now, Melissa, Claude,” Kelsey said pleasantly. “You’ll both have plenty of time to bitch and moan at each other during what I’m sure will be a long, drawn out, and expensive murder trial, and I know how much you both love to waste the taxpayers’ money. Right now, we’re just trying to give Lieutenant Grobowski the lay of the land.”

  Ms. Finch grunted. Mr. Breckenridge growled.

  “Mr. Stalnaker spent last night in jail,” Kelsey explained to Nolan. “And this morning he said he wants to he hypnotized.”

  “He wants to be what?” Nolan asked, startled.

  “Hypnotized,” Kelsey repeated. “He wants to make a sort of informal deposition under hypnosis. He keeps saying that if he did kill somebody, he wants to know it himself—and he wants to make a statement to that effect. So that’s why we’ve brought in Dr. Gusfield, here.”

  Nolan’s heart sank. He had expected to be able to take part in Stalnaker’s interrogation in his usual aggressive style.

  “But does this mean that I won’t get a chance to ask him any questions at all?” Nolan sputtered.

  “That remains to be seen,” Kelsey said.

  Nolan could hardly believe his ears.

  “With all due respect, Lieutenant Kelsey,” he said, “why did I make this trip out here if—”

  “Lieutenant Grobowski, I apologize for these circumstances,” Kelsey replied. “But this situation didn’t exist until this morning. And from here on in, Dr. Gusfield calls the shots. If you want to interrogate the suspect, you’ll have to clear it with him.”

  Dr. Gusfield kept tearing his sheet of paper into strips, as if oblivious to the fact that his name had even been mentioned. Nolan realized that he hadn’t yet heard Gusfield speak a single word.

  Breckenridge slapped his hand against the table with noisy indignation. “I want to make sure I’m on the record as being entirely opposed to this idea,” he said. “I want it understood that my client has made this decision against the advice of counsel.”

  “Claude, your objections are already in the record,” Kelsey said dryly. “In triplicate, I believe.”

  “You and your hoodlums have half-hypnotized my client already,” Breckenridge continued. “You’ve already planted the suggestion that he’s committed a crime he had nothing to do with. Anyone can see he’s highly suggestible. Put him through any more hocus-pocus and he’ll admit to just about anything.”

  “Claude, there’s no point in debating this issue,” Kelsey said. “Your client has signed a release, and he can’t unsign it now. He doesn’t even want to unsign it. Besides, it’s not going to be a sworn statement. I doubt if it’ll even be usable in court.”

  Now Ms. Finch chimed in indignantly. “Well, it just so happens that I’m against this whole thing,” she said. “I’m not fooled by Claude’s theatrics. He wants his client to go through this crazy charade. It’s part of a cheap ploy to cop an insanity plea.”

  “You bitch,” Claude snapped.

  Nolan rolled his eyes.

  Jesus, these two are worse than L.A. lawyers. So much for the Midwest being all mellow and civilized.

  Kelsey was grinning broadly now. He looked as if he was used to this sort of thing—and might actually be enjoying it.

  “If there’s one thing that warms my heart,” he said, “it’s when defense and prosecution cozily agree on something. The both of you think hypnosis is a lousy
idea, so what’s your argument? Mr. Stalnaker’s going to get himself hypnotized, whether you like it or not. So let’s go down to the interrogation room and get on with it.”

  Kelsey rose from his chair and strode out of the room. Everybody else followed single file, like a gaggle of baby geese. Nolan was starting to admire Kelsey’s style.

  When they reached the interrogation room, only Dr. Gusfield actually went inside. Nolan, Kelsey, Breckenridge, and Finch all piled into an adjoining booth, behind a one-way mirror. Through the mirror, the four of them could see Dr. Gusfield and the suspect in the interrogation room without being seen themselves. A video camera was aimed through the glass, and a tape machine was running slowly.

  It was rather crowded in the booth. It was hot, too, and poorly ventilated. During his career, Nolan had spent a lot of time in booths like this. Even so, he didn’t much like being cooped up with this pack of quarrelsome people. He was standing between Breckenridge and Finch, half-expecting them to scratch at each other’s eyes any second now.

  Nolan gazed through the glass, studying the suspect. Myron Stalnaker was neither a pleasant- nor an unpleasant-looking man. He was plain, his face on the roundish side, his brown hair thinning slightly. He was wearing a gray vest and a white shirt. His clothes looked expensive, if rather conventional. He was probably in his late thirties. Nolan figured he was the kind of guy one might talk to every day for years and never manage to remember his name.

  Gusfield sat down at the table across from Stalnaker. Gusfield smiled. It was the first sign of life Nolan had seen out of Gusfield since he had met him.

  Nolan and his companions could hear both men’s voices through a small speaker in the booth.

  “Myron Stalnaker, right?’ Dr. Gusfield inquired pleasantly.

  “Yes,” said Stalnaker.

  Gusfield reached across the table and shook Stalnaker’s hand. “My name’s Harvey Gusfield,” he said. “I’m a psychiatrist. I’m pleased to make your acquaintance. Mr. Stalnaker.”

  “The pleasure’s mine,” Stalnaker replied nervously but politely.