by Ann Black
“It was the second session today. But I think you know that already,” I add.
He ignores the opportunity to fill me in. “And what’s your take on him?” he asks instead.
“Technically, he meets the criteria for high end Psychopathy. Charming, glib, callous, unempathic, shallowness of emotions, manipulative—and based on the file there’s no regard for the value of human life. He’s a very dangerous man,” I finish.
“No need to tell me that. The last murder was my investigation. Dana Edwards, 18 years old. When we got close to nailing him, bastard put a hit out on me. Thankfully, undercover Op’s,” he glances across at his friend at the bar, “were all over it. Couldn’t get the evidence together to have him charged. We got him for the rape, but not the murder,” he finishes.
“Can’t prove anything, but he’s following me. Why?”
Bob doesn’t seem surprised, “At a guess he knows you lodge progress reports with me...he hates me. Not as much as I hate him though. Probably wants to show me he’s in control.” Bob takes another chug at his beer and continues, “We gave him a bit of a shake up the other day. Just to let him know we’re keeping an eye on him,” he explains.
Oh fuck. “Bit of unfinished business...revenge for the hit?” I ask, keeping my tone even.
Bob chuckles, but his eyes go flat, “Yep, I’m pissed off about the hit. But he killed that girl. The M.O. links him to other deaths too—no evidence and the brass wouldn’t let me recommend opening the cold case files. So fuck knows how many people he’s really done in. The prick ended up spending a grand total of three years behind bars.” He downs the rest of his beer before continuing, his voice hard, “Get this. While he was in there the taxpayer funded him to get a fuckin’ double degree in I.T. and Law.” He looked at me then, expecting me to share his outrage.
I nod, “All part of being rehabilitated back into society Bob,” I say, recognising my part in the well-worn bitch we’ve shared over the years. “We still don’t know what to do with the untreatable’s like Kyle. So we throw money and resources at it hand over fist. He shouldn’t be out.” I finish.
“Yeah I know that. But there’s only so long you can keep a rapist behind bars. But he’ll fuck up, I know his type. Can’t help himself.” Bob looked at me hard. “Put him under pressure, Doc. See what he does. He just needs to look like he’s breached parole conditions and he goes back. He’s not as smart as he thinks he is. He fucked up last time and now we’re onto him, we’ll get him.”
“Do you think he’s dumb enough to reoffend with half the Victorian Homicide Squad up his ass?” I ask.
Bob shrugged, “Stranger things have happened. The thing is Doc, this prick wants to show off. He’s pissed he spent the last three years behind bars. Getting caught last time made him look bad. In his head he’s got a score to settle with me. He wants to have the last word. We’ve got undercover Op’s and he’s being monitored 24/7. He makes his move on me and he goes down.”
Not for the first time, I admire Bob’s intuitive reading of the criminal mind—he works more like a clairvoyant than a copper. He’s often right, but he cares too much. To Bob it’s personal. Dana’s death and the collapse of justice is his to make right, and he plays hardball. Sometimes that meant other people became collateral damage—this time it could be him.
“What do you want from me Bob?” I ask, draining my whiskey.
“Just do your job. That’s all. No need to get too clever about it. If Kyle happens to say or do anything that may indicate he’s a risk to the public, you’ll need to let me know anyway. But I will ask you to let me know if you think I’m getting to him. If he mentions me. That sort of thing. We’ve still got evidence that could send him back, if he said something incriminating about his past, I might be able to get some of the old cases re-opened.”
Sounds simple enough.
The average short-term treatment program is six weeks. If I play this right, I can have him back behind bars by week six...before he gets Bob.
I purchase some good cocaine from Bob’s friend and phone Chloe from my car phone. Chloe’s blonde, average I.Q. and enjoys dressing up.
Just what the Doctor ordered.
Week Two
Monday August 1st, 5:35am
I lay awake in bed staring at the dark pre-dawn ceiling. Monica stirs and runs a gentle hand across my body. I capture it as it travels lower and gently kiss her fingers.
“I need to get up,” I say, hoping she’ll realise I want her to leave.
She makes a muffled sound of disappointment and turns fully to face me. She’s naked and smells like sex. Her breasts are full and the curve of her body is magnetic. There’s neediness in her beautiful brown eyes; the unspoken question about when we’ll meet again hangs as she searches my face.
I feel something between pressure and panic. I realise the inevitable moment has come. The fun we’ve enjoyed occasionally and ‘without strings’ has ended. A bond has started to form and her hope that we might be something more sits between us.
It’s time to say goodbye.
6:15am
I run hard. My lungs burn; I reach the five-kilometer mark and turn back. Images of Monica’s tears flash into my head, the guilt cloys at my insides. I run harder trying to block what I’ve done—again.
By the time I finish my run, shower and organise my brief case, the worst of the guilt’s over. I recognise my pattern and know that within a day or two I’ll have recovered.
8:05am
It’s late winter and the morning air feels clean and crisp. I watch the joggers, children and commuters bustling along the footpath as I drive into the city listening to the News Radio. Parking, I turn off the motor and sit in silence gazing at the turn-of-the-century cottage I restored when I opened the practice five years earlier. The paint’s still in good shape, but the newly installed security screens change its look and I don’t like it.
The gleam of something shining into my rearview mirror catches my attention and I notice a late model white Holden sedan parked across the road. Police surveillance. Another adjustment.
My head tightens as I think about Kyle Stevens. That fucked-up weed has encroached further than I thought he would. It still astounds me that it’s only been a week since I met up with Bob.
Getting out of my car I give the officer across the road a wave. He smiles and waves back. “Well might they smile,”I mutter to myself.
Phyllis is not supposed to get here before me. A necessary precaution since a 17-year-old jogger was raped late last week in a park only a few kilometers from Kyle’s new residence. My instincts tell me it’s Kyle’s work and Bob said the M.O. is very similar, but there was no evidence left behind. No witnesses. No clues. Typical Kyle.
Kyle is scheduled for his weekly session this afternoon. In the wake of his new crime the appointment’s been on my mind all week. He tried rescheduling to the end of the day but fortunately Phyllis got round him and I’ll see him after lunch.
9:00am
Mitch Evans sits across from me, he is dressed in his workman’s shorts and safety shirt—presumably he will go to work after our session. His knees are spread widely, affording me an uncomfortable view of his thick crotch and beer gut. I suspect he suffers chronic lower back pain.
He’s freshly shaved, 52 years old and recently separated. He tried to hang himself with an industrial extension cord in his shed almost six weeks ago.
“It’s good to see you’re ready for work Mitch.” There was a time I was worried he wouldn’t make it.
“I’m better than I was. A bit embarrassed by it all,” he confesses.
I like him. He’s honest and hardworking. Emotionally inept, which is probably what caused the separation. Sadly by the time he believed his wife’s threats to leave, it was too late.
“Last time we talked you were arranging to see the kids.” I hope it went well. The more connected he feels to his family, the less likely he is to kill himself.
“Yeah. It was good,”
he replies simply. No elaboration...he has no words to help him express complex feelings. I have to do all the work for him, I think sympathising with his ex-wife.
“Tell me more Mitch, what was good about it?” I try again.
“Well, you know it was...good. Good to see them. We had a barbecue at Mum’s. Mattie brought his girlfriend. Chelsea was alright. Bit quiet. She gets moody,” he explains.
In Mitch’s simple world his daughter’s ‘moodiness’ is a mystery, “It sounds like a good day. It will take a while for everyone to get used to things.” I elaborate helpfully, trying to lead him to talk more about his grief.
“Yeah. We’ll be right though,” he’s trying to close the subject. It’s typical for him. Now we’ve started talking about pain, he wants to leave.
I decide to let him off the hook. As the discussion reverts to football I note that he’s increased his engagement in enjoyable activities and his motivation’s also improving.
I give him a new script for the same anti-depressant and arrange to see him in a fortnight.
9:30 am
“Hello Khia,” I say calmly.
She sits opposite. She’s changed the colour of her hair from jet black to fluorescent pink. Her eyes are a little glassy and she’s unusually quiet.
“Hello,” she answers.
She’s clearly stoned; I suspect she’s managed to get in touch with a new Valium supplier. “Are you stoned Khia?”
She snorts, “What the fuck do you care? You’ll pocket the $250 bucks for this shit, whether I’m stoned or not.”
“Yes I get paid for these sessions. If you want to talk to a volunteer, you’ll get what you pay for.” I enjoy giving her shit back to her and she does have a point, I get paid well whether she’s stoned or not. But she’s wrong about me not caring.
She smiles despite herself, “yeah, right.”
We talk about rehab again, but she’s uninterested and disengaged. By the time we finish the session I’m awash with frustration.
9:50am
Anxiety about Kyle’s appointment starts to make itself felt. I take half a Valium and wash my face before slogging through another ten appointments.
12:15pm
I stare into the antique mirror in my ensuite. I wash my face again. The half Valium can’t hold my anxiety; there’s sweat on my upper lip. “Fucking pull yourself together,” I whisper to my reflection.
I know Kyle’s sitting in the waiting room. I practice ‘the face,’ until I think I’m in the ballpark of nonchalant professionalism, but my safety glass eludes me. That hasn’t happened before. Finally I walk out anyway.
Kyle’s sitting quietly reading a magazine. He looks up when I open the door and takes his time to neatly return the magazine to the stack before preceding me into the consulting room. I know it’s an indirect attempt to take control. He’s letting me know the session will proceed at his leisure not mine.
Once we’re seated I draw on my reserves to open my body posture, “Hello Kyle. How are you this week?”
He sits back comfortably and looks directly into my eyes, “I’m well, John. It’s been a big week,” he replies.
Smarmy little bastard, I think. But at least he’s pissing me off enough to drown out the anxiety. “How so?” I ask.
“I’m glad you asked that question John. It seems your good friend and mine, Detective Robert James, has been busy baby-sitting me,” he crosses his legs and continues, “I wouldn’t normally mind but it’s a little tedious.”
He’s being glib but the coldness in his eyes chills me, “I expect he’s concerned about a rape not far from your new home Kyle. Know anything about that?” I ask.
He smiles and I know he did it. A surge of anger pounds in my temples. Kyle looks at his fingernails, “Nothing to do with me. Heard she was only young too. What...a teenager?” he sighs, “I’ve already told you, I’ve changed.” He seems to be getting more frustrated, he doesn’t like that I’m not playing along with his ‘changed man’ routine.
“I hear your words Kyle but they don’t match the way your coming across,” I say.
“Again, as I’ve already told you, previous Psychological Assessments have shown my significant interpersonal difficulty.” He meets my eyes and we both know he’s challenging me. “That does not make me guilty John. You should know that,” he adds condescendingly.
He’s right. He plays the system like a master musician plays a favourite instrument. If I’m to succeed in sending him back to prison I need to follow a procedure. Signaling my ‘concerns’ along the way will add to my pool of evidence and strengthen my case against him.
I ignore his attempts to manipulate me, “I’m making note of your nonchalant attitude Kyle. I have reason to believe you’re not fully rehabilitated. I want you to attend sessions with the Sex Offender’s Community Program again,” sweat trickles down my back. The Sex Offender’s Program is the first step toward building my case. Kyle knows that. Effectively, I’ve just declared war.
Kyle rubs a hand quickly across his face signaling intense anger, but when he speaks his voice is quiet. “I’ll participate in the program John, but I’m letting you know I intend to see my lawyer about this. I feel uncomfortable in these sessions, I have the impression you’ve taken a set against me. I think your friendship with Bob James puts you in a position of conflict and I plan to change to another Psychiatrist,” he finishes calmly.
“I think you’ll find Corrections will be less than accommodating Kyle. In my opinion you’re simply annoyed because you can’t manipulate me. Your record speaks for itself and I will write a compelling report arguing for your return to prison.”
We lock eyes, eventually he smiles. “Have it your way John,” he says ominously.
“It’s time to end the session, see Phyllis for your next appointment on your way out.” I stand, walk to the door and hold it open for him to leave.
“I’ll be talking to my lawyer John,” he says.
I say nothing. When he’s gone I close the door behind him and collapse in the chair at my desk. After a while my heartbeat stabilises.
Earlier in the week, I contacted Dr. Ivan Stanley, my Therapist and Mentor and scheduled an appointment for tonight, knowing I would need more than my usual stress relief after seeing Kyle. I’m glad I thought ahead this time.
I walk out to reception interrupting Phyllis as she rifles through her desk, “Phyllis, remember we’re leaving early tonight. Be ready to go by 4.30, okay?”
She looks up with concern in her eyes, “Sure, John. Your next appointment isn’t scheduled until two, did you want me to phone the deli and have your lunch sent up?”
“That would be good.”
“Oh, and do you have any extra prescription pads in you room?”
“No, just the spare I always keep in the desk. Why?”
She seems a little confused. “Nothing, just early Alzheimer’s, I thought I’d ordered plenty for the next couple of months, but we’re short again.”
I shrug, “Wouldn’t be the first time I’ve had to prescribe more than usual.”
The rest of the afternoon seems to float past. I’m comfortable behind my glass again.
5:15pm
I pull into Ivan’s wide drive and park under one of the large trees in his front garden. Now mostly retired, Ivan only sees a handful of patients. I am a former student but he continues to see me because he decided I should maintain my bond to him—given my attachment issues.
He is what I consider to be a real therapist. I know I’ll never match his skills, or his compassion and I’m grateful he continues to make time for me.
I ring the doorbell and soon he answers. It seems like he’s been wearing variations of pressed slacks, shirts and hand knitted cardigans for years and I realise I’m comforted rather than bored by the familiarity—rare for me. He smiles warmly and takes my hand giving it a shake, “John. Come in. It’s good to see you again.”
He leads me into his study, there’s a fire started and we sit o
pposite each other in deep old armchairs. I can feel myself unfurl in the warmth. After some brief chatter he settles back and waits.
I talk.
At the end of our hour together I’m emotionally lighter, but bone tired. The fatigue pulls at my concentration on the way home and I know I need an early night. The phone rings as I pull into my drive. It’s Bob but having decided I’ve had enough shit for one day, I let it go to message.
7:45pm
Having heated up some left over Thai, I wash up and set about changing my sheets. I dump the sheets with some other washing in the machine and start back upstairs, when there’s a loud knock at the door. Checking my security monitor I see Bob standing outside.
I let him inside, anxiety curling in my gut. “What’s going on Bob?”
“Monica Riordan, friend of yours I believe?” he asks.
There’s a seriousness in his eyes that actually scares me. The fact that he’s sober at this time of night scares me even more. I walk inside and sit heavily on a dining room chair motioning for him to join me. “Yeah, we’ve had a friendship.”
Bob sits and looks at me earnestly, no fucking around now. This is the side of Bob I like. “Monica was found dead in her unit this afternoon.”
“How did she die?” I ask numbly.
“Looks like an overdose. Did you know she was taking Valium?” he asks.
“No. I met her two months ago, we only caught up a handful of times. I didn’t know her very well,” I explain.
Bob nods , “Listen Doc, I have to ask, when did you last see her?”
“Only this morning,” I feel sick.
“It looks like a suicide. We followed Kyle downtown this afternoon and CCTV footage shows him talking to Monica after his appointment with you. They spent a couple of hours at a café and left separately. There was no other contact after that, we’re sure of it,” he finishes.