Mind Switch

by Lorne L. Bentley

  The tall man moved directly toward theater number five, shifting from the brisk pace he had maintained since he entered the multiplex, to a more leisurely and deliberate one as he neared his destination. The room was fully lit and mostly deserted, although it was less than fifteen minutes until show time.

  Documentaries did not usually draw large audiences. A scattering of people sat in the first and second row on the right hand side of the theater. Queued behind the tall man were a small group of theater goers chatting to each other about the pleasant flight they had experienced in their flight from Reagan National Airport in Washington, D.C. One couple was commiserating over the increased cost of their rental unit at Longboat Key, blaming it on global warming and the increased hurricane threat. An older man and his wife were bickering about the desirability to see this particular movie. His wife wanted to see the romantic comedy, playing in room number six next door; but her husband was rigidly opposed and uncompromising. Since both couples’ lives were about to end, neither discussion was really relevant.

  As he entered the twin doors, the tall man took a moment to scan the theater. He moved to the far right of the room and bounded up the stairs to the top row of seats, accidentally bumping a patron seated in the first row as he climbed. The patron yelled something offensive; the tall man seemed oblivious to the comment. Normally the tall man would have responded in kind but this was not a day for altercation; his focus was directed on much more important things, although he was still not entirely sure of what they were.

  Chapter 11

  The bullet hit the marble floor less than a foot from where Fred was standing. Fred had no remaining option. He dropped his weapon ready for the next bullet that would end his life.

  “Turn around with your hands up and do it now!” Fred meekly obeyed, what choice did he have?

  “Now stay right where you are while I call the police.”

  “Wait a minute, who are you?”

  “The bank manager, that’s who I am! Now, don’t you make a move!”

  “But, I’m a police officer! If you allow me I’ll show you my badge.”

  The man nodded, “No tricks now or you’re a dead man.”

  Fred noticed that the bank manager’s hands were shaking badly. That wasn’t a good sign for someone with a weapon pointed right at him.

  Once Fred showed him his badge, the manager put his gun down. The manager explained that he had been in the back of the bank when he heard the shooting. He had taken time to retrieve his weapon so he could confront the robber with some degree of parity. He apologized for holding his gun on Fred; but since he didn’t know who had been doing the firing, he assumed Fred was part of the robbery attempt.

  Amidst the chaos around him, Fred called for police backup and ambulances. While waiting for aid, and trying to comfort the injured, he interrogated the first person he saw. A silver haired man stated that the individual that Fred had just apprehended was in fact the shooter, and that he had acted alone. Fred was relieved that he had done something right.

  The elderly witness said the gunman had entered the bank and had withdrawn his weapon almost immediately from the concealment of his suit coat. He then started shooting, spraying shots randomly throughout the bank. Pausing to regain his composure, the witness continued, “Two men near the front door managed to escape when the shooter concentrated on another part of the lobby.” Fred realized those two men had to be the same two that had crashed into him as they fled the bank. The witness said that, after what seemed to be a barrage of constant firing, the man had thrown down his weapon and started sobbing. It was about that time, the older man stated, that Fred had stepped into the bank.

  In a short time the lobby was filled with medical and police personnel. Under Fred’s orders, the exterior of the bank was careened off. Curious bystanders, taking a break from their leisurely Christmas shopping, gathered outside the bank pondering what was happening. Inside, five men were dead and six people wounded. Fortunately, it appeared that none of the surviving victims had suffered serious wounds.

  Fred decided that no additional insight into the shooting could be gleaned from the crime scene. As he left, he directed that the bank’s videotapes be immediately sent to the station. Fred then limped a short distance to police headquarters to brief his chief and interrogate Howard Slivers.

  *

  Fred’s chief was a burly former marine who had served honorably in the infantry during the height of the Vietnam War. Injured during both the Bing Gia and Dong Xai engagements, he had received two purple hearts. Earlier in life he had been a celebrated first string defensive lineman at Florida State. Age-yellowed newspaper clippings of his football achievements, framed and matted, covered his office walls. After football, when his strenuous exercising regimen had ceased, his eating habits hadn’t; and now he was 100 pounds overweight and still gaining. The chief was munching on a large Hershey bar as Fred entered his office.

  Fred made his briefing quick. Fred knew the chief preferred a crisp synopsis, never a detailed play by play. As Fred spoke, the chief finished consuming the candy, opened his desk drawer and pulled out a plastic-wrapped piece of cake. Fred was not sure if the chief was listening at all but when he finished, the chief ordered him to get a confession out of the suspect as soon as he could. He added “Even if we’re not successful in obtaining a confession, it was obviously an aborted robbery attempt and we already have all the facts we need for a conviction. Let’s not overkill this investigation.”

  Fred recognized the chief’s last statement as a not too subtle criticism of Fred’s tendency to linger on a case until he was overly satisfied that he had obtained all the facts. Trying to buy time, Fred said, “Yes, sir. I’ll get back to you on that.” The chief was busily munching on his cake as Fred exited.

  Fred walked to the back of the station to a guarded confinement cell to speak to Slivers. Fred assumed the guard had been put there because the chief had feared a suicide attempt.

  Slivers had remained in a highly traumatized emotional state. Fred asked “Where did you obtain the assault weapon?”

  “Are you crazy? I don’t own an assault weapon; in fact I hate guns with a passion. I don’t even hunt. When are you going to release me? I have been in this god-forsaken place for what seems like hours.”

  “I don’t anticipate you ever will be released. We’re holding you on multiple first degree murder charges.”

  “If you’re talking about what happened at the bank, I wasn’t involved. I’m deeply sorry for the victims but I have no idea who was responsible.”

  Fred often employed the same technique that he applied in his poker games during his interrogation of suspects. He looked for subtle inconsistencies, delays in responses, and physical reactions inconsistent with verbal statements. Because of Slivers’ emotional state, however, Fred could not learn anything.

  He attempted pure rationality, “Your statement makes no sense, all the witnesses identified you as the shooter, and the weapon you used was at your feet. I’m sure your fingerprints are all over the weapon. Now, how in the name of God could you possibly say that you were not involved? Maybe if you confess, I can ask the DA to make it easier on you. After all there’s no reason for the taxpayers to spend their money on an open and shut case. You must know the death penalty will be the DA’s objective if we go to trial. Perhaps with a plea bargain, we can keep you alive. Now what do you say?”

  Slivers vainly attempted to hold his emotions in check, but he started sobbing again and blurted out, “I couldn’t have done that, I just couldn’t. I am not a murderer! I deeply resent your accusing me of such a thing! On my mother’s grave, I am innocent.”

  Seeing that the interrogation was going nowhere, Fred gave up for the time being. He still had to call on Ernest James’ widow to break the news of her husband’s death, a task that made him sick at heart. The Saturday night poker game would never be the same again.

  Fred’s cell phone rang. It was Maureen.

  “
Whatever happened? I have been trying to call you for the last hour.”

  “I turned my cell phone off, what did Judy tell you?”

  “She told me you were beaten up by two men, but you seemed all right and she left.”

  “No, I wasn’t beaten up. It’s a long story but I’m okay.” His ribs started hurting again as he spoke. He knew he had to have them checked at the hospital. No reason to tell Maureen about this.

  “Well, if you’re okay, Fred, I won’t bother you. By the way, Judy has left for Colorado.”

  “She just got here. Why did she leave?”

  “She said our town is too violent for her, so she packed up and said she would wait at the airport for the next plane going anywhere west. She didn’t even have a ticket when she left our house.”

  Fred couldn’t help but smile. “Okay, there’s nothing I can do about Judy. See you late tonight; I’m working on a major case. Love you.”

  “Love you, too, Fred, and make sure you don’t get hurt.”

  It’s much too late for that, he thought.

  Chapter 12

  John Jackson was about to enjoy a single escape from the harsh reality of his unsettling work week. For the past six months, he always took in the Friday afternoon flick at the downtown theater by himself. It wasn’t easy, but he finally convinced his wife that this was something he needed to do alone, as it was his single outlet from the pressures of an overbearing boss and a host of blood-thirsty subordinates seeking his job. He had really screwed up on his last assignment, and his unrelenting critical boss would not let him forget it. Furthermore, it didn’t take long for the word of his most recent failure to filter throughout the well perfected grapevine of his organization. Now, even his office friends looked the other way when he passed by. There were strong clear signals throughout the office environment that he had become a lame duck.

  As he started to try to relax in the theater’s soft seating, someone passing by nudged his arm; Jackson lost most of his large bag of heavily buttered popcorn. The thin offender offered no apology, rapidly ascending the stairs to the top row of seats. Jackson yelled, “I hope you’re going to pay for my lost popcorn.”

  Receiving no acknowledgement, he screamed, “You idiot!” to firmly reinforce his point. The man again did not respond which upset Johnson even more. He thought about following the man up the steps to confront him directly; but he had noticed that the man was quite tall and most likely physically superior to him.

  As the movie began, Jackson belatedly realized in his rush he had gone into the wrong theater room. This was another damn documentary. Earlier this year, his wife had virtually forced him to see the McNamara movie on Vietnam, the Gore environmental flick, and the movie that asked the question who killed the battery powered cars. He was tired of all the flicks that provided lessons on how the country was going to pieces; and now, due to his own stupidity he was sitting in another one—a chronological history of the Iraqi war. He decided to sit through a few minutes of it; and if it was as bad as he expected it would be, he would get his money back. This is the last documentary I will ever see, he pledged.

  Ten minutes into the film, an Iraqi fire fight was shown between Baghdad insurgents and the US military. With the theater’s realistic stereo-surround sound system, it realistically seemed as if bullets were flying all over the theater. They were; suddenly Jackson slumped over his seat, eyes wide open and unmoving—he had been granted his very last wish.

  Chapter 13

  Fred called Jim Hebert on his intercom. “Jim, is there any information yet on the background of Slivers?”

  “Yes, we have plenty of information but it sure seems inconsistent with the motive of any bank robber that I have ever heard of. Slivers, it turns out, is the head of a local insurance agency located on Fruitville Road. He has owned the agency for almost a decade, and has been married over thirty years. He has four children, all of whom are now grown.”

  Jim added, “So far we can find no history of any arrests in his background; and it appears his marriage is more than solid. His previous home was in Middletown, New York. He had lived there his entire life until he moved here. We’re checking with the local police in that area; but my gut is telling me that his record up there will be clean as well.”

  “What about his financial situation; any money problems?”

  Jim had anticipated the question. “No, I did a quick credit check and he’s quite solvent. His house has been paid off for over five years, and he has virtually no debts except for an occasional revolving credit account which is always paid off within a month. He owns a three bedroom rental unit on Longboat Key, right off the ocean, worth about two million, also paid for. His present wife is the only one he has ever had, so he obviously owes no alimony to anyone. Certainly a money problem is that last thing Slivers has to worry about! And Fred, get this, he is a strong gun control advocate, in fact he has in the past contributed thousands to congressional candidates who supported gun control. He’s the last guy I would expect to own an AK47.”

  Fred took it all in. He had hoped that a motive would have surfaced during the background check which would have made some sense to him. “Ok, Jim, then the motive for the killing spree does not seem, at least on the surface to be a bank robbery, not that I ever believed it was. Let’s see if there was any possible connection between Slivers and those in the bank that were killed or injured. Meanwhile, I want to look at the bank video.” Wondering out loud, he said, “It’s remotely possible that Slivers was not the killer and was incorrectly identified. But that doesn’t make any sense to me whatsoever.”

  At times Fred wished he could be more like Paul, firmly holding steadfast determinations with a minimum amount of facts supporting them. If he even had a trace of Paul’s questionable ethical base, at least the internal agony over not getting the details right, and arresting the wrong man, would not haunt him.

  *

  In less than an hour the bank video arrived at the station. Fred asked Jan, his secretary, to set up the video projection in the interrogation room. He wanted to observe for himself the entire bank setting from the moment Slivers entered the bank. He picked up the intercom to call the chief to ask him to view it with him. Fred’s finger was still on the intercom when the chief burst into Fred’s office.

  The chief blurted out, “Fred, go to the Globe theater immediately! There’s been another shooting and, God help us, this appears to be much worse than the earlier one!”

  Chapter 14

  Fred could not believe the level of burgeoning violence that had suddenly erupted in his city. This was a relatively small and peaceful metropolitan area which hadn’t experienced more than a few murders in the last decade. And the last murder he could recall had been the result of a marriage gone sour; now the entire town seemed to be reverting to the lawlessness of the old wild west.

  The Globe was only a stone’s throw from the station. Fred arrived by foot in a couple of minutes. Two uniformed policemen were guarding the outside entrance. Theater lines had been moved across the street. Moviegoers had no idea what was causing the delay, but were impatiently waiting to see their favorite holiday flick.

  At this time of the day, patrons were usually either retired or vacationers from the north. The unemployed could not afford the nine dollar price of a ticket; and most of the employed were working. Yellow barrier tapes had not yet been placed in front of the theater; so the waiting patrons had no idea what had happened inside. Since the median age in this retirement city by the gulf is much older than that in most comparable sized cities, heart attacks and victims of old age diseases are much more of a daily way of life than that encountered in northern cities. City residents have become conditioned to the constant stream of sirens. Waiting theater patrons thought this was another transitional delay, never envisioning that it could be anything beyond that.

  Fred entered the spacious multi-theater lobby. He was a loyal movie customer, finding a weekly film to be a necessary escape from the stre
ss of his work. He found the image in front of him a unique contrast to what he normally encountered when he entered the theater. The refreshment stand looked strange, being unattended when lines of at least twenty people were what Fred was used to seeing.

  A policeman recognized Fred immediately and directed him to theater number five. A small man dressed in an official theater employee’s uniform stood to the policeman’s left. Fred immediately recognized him as Carl, the afternoon ticket taker.

  Fred entered theater five and waited for his eyes to adjust to the darkened room.

  In the confined theater room, the moans of the wounded seemed deafening. He glanced around the theater; one policeman was in sight. Fred showed him his badge, and asked why the lights were not on.

  The policeman identified himself as Patrolman Steward and apologized that he had not recognized Fred since he was new to the force, having just graduated from the academy. Stewart said, “I guess the lights were not on because when the shooting started the projectionist took off. I suspect turning on the lights was the last thing on his mind.”

  Fred nodded, and as his eyes started to adjust to the dim light, he noted that victims were lying all over the theater. It appeared that many, if not all, were dead. The ambulance from Memorial Hospital had not yet arrived. In fact very little time had elapsed since the bank victims had been rushed to the local hospital. Jim hoped that there were numerous doctors specializing in trauma care on standby at the emergency room, because they were going to need all the expertise they could muster.

  Fred asked if anyone knew what had happened to the assailant.