Murder Mystery McKenzie (Frank McKenzie complete collection so far)

by Luis Samways

“Goddamn it,” I said as I reached into my pocket and pulled out my pill dispenser. I took a few and swallowed. I put the pills back into my jacket pocket and got to walking. It took me half a minute to stride toward the neon lights. They weren’t that far away, but I was pussyfooting around. I knew I didn’t want to do what I was about to do, but I had too much riding on this. For far too long my health had affected the way I did my work. I just wanted to be free once again. I just wanted to be normal.

  I reached the door and went for the big slick metal handle. I pulled on it, but it was locked shut. I caught myself looking around to see if I had come to the right place. Then I looked at my watch to make sure I hadn’t shown up past my appointment. I was only five minutes late. I then spotted the intercom system next to the door. It had one button on its interface. There was a crude white label strapped on the button. It read “Dr. Martins’.” I pressed it and the buzzer made a sound. Seconds after a voice came through it.

  “Dr. Martins’ Shrink House, may I help you?” the female voice said from the buzzer.

  I cleared my throat. “Yes, hi…this is Frank McKenzie, I’m here to see the shrink…I mean, Dr. Martins,” I said, sounding a little nervous as my vocal chords played tag with my tonsils.

  “Okay, Mr. McKenzie, please make your way through the door. I’ll buzz you in,” she said.

  I heard something unlatch, and the door came loose. I pulled on the chrome handle and made my way inside. There was a large staircase, so I walked up it. I could hear my footsteps bearing down heavily on the carpets beneath me. They made a slight squelching sound I wasn’t comfortable with. I felt rather hot and noticed that my hands were sweating underneath my gloves. The makeshift bandage I had put on my busted knuckles was feeling wet with perspiration under my big black gloves. What a day to go and do something as stupid as punching the locker door.

  I reached the top of the stairs and caught my breath a little as I slowed down. There was another door down a narrow hallway. It had another buzzer on it. I clicked on the buzzer, and the door opened immediately. I walked through that door and was greeted by a smiling receptionist. Above my head, I could feel some air conditioning getting to work. I was ever so glad for that. I smiled back at the lady behind the table. I made my way to her.

  “Hey,” she said, still grinning from ear to ear.

  “Hello, my name’s Frank. I’m here to see Dr. Martins,” I said, fully aware that I sounded like a broken record. I repeat myself a lot when I’m nervous.

  “Okay, Frank. Just sit down over there, and Dr. Martins will be with you soon. Feel free to make yourself a cup of tea or coffee, compliments of Dr. Martins’ Shrink House,” she said.

  I nodded and gave her a slight wave. I didn’t know why, but I was acting like a guy on a blind date with a supermodel. I was showing my cards like a bad poker player. I only got deuce hearts, I thought to myself.

  I went to the seating area located a mere few feet from the desk. Near the seating area was a propped-up cart with cheap coffee sachets and a few tea bags. I made myself a coffee and sat down. Before I could sip it, I saw a door to the far right of the room open up and a well-dressed middle-aged man stepped out with a smile on his face. He walked toward me and sat down next to me. He extended his hand for a handshake.

  “Dr. Martins,” he said, in the tone you’d expect a wino from the fifties to add “it’s a pleasure” on the end.

  I shook it.

  “Frank Mcken…” was all I could get out before he interrupted me.

  “McKenzie, Frank McKenzie,” he said.

  Not quite “it’s a pleasure,” but obtuse enough.

  “I’m so glad you could make it. I’ve heard many things about you, Mr. McKenzie. A lot of people speak highly of you.”

  I smiled.

  “You should meet the ones who don’t,” I said.

  “I have,” Martins replied, to my surprise.

  I sat there staring at this strange man for a while. He continued to chime on with some uninteresting small talk, and then he got up and ushered me to his office with his hands wide open as if he was expecting me to hug him. “Right this way, Frank,” he exhaled in one breath.

  I placed the coffee down on the table next to me.

  “Don’t worry about that — you can drink in my office. I don’t mind. That’s why we have cleaners,” he said in a reassuring voice.

  I got up and grabbed my coffee from the table. I turned around to see Dr. Martins already standing in the doorway to his office. I sighed under my breath and made my way toward him. I guess I was really doing it. I guess I was ready to bare my soul. If only the coffee tasted better, then maybe my tale of woe wouldn’t taste so bad leaving my mouth.

  ***

  “I want you to just sit there and relax. This doesn’t have to be hard, Mr. McKenzie — it’s all in the mind. There is nothing to be afraid of,” Dr. Martins droned on as I had my eyes shut.

  He had told me to keep them shut while I prepared myself to open up to him. I don’t know why he insisted on doing it that way, but he was coming off as one of those hypnotists. I expected to either open my eyes to me being on top of a mountain in complete self-awareness or open them up to see him with his penis out, ready to molest me.

  I guess I wasn’t what you would call at all optimistic about this current situation I found myself in.

  “You need to let go of all of your troubles, Frank. I need you to cleanse your mind before you open your soul. It is the only way you see. It is the only way that this will work,” Dr. Martins continued to say in the background.

  I continued to see nothing but darkness as my eyes rested in the blackness of my vision. I could feel my eyelids twitching. I suppose I wanted to open them but was paying Dr. Martins a courtesy. It wasn’t like me to allow someone to order me about like this, but I wanted to make sure I benefited completely from the experience, and I figured that I wouldn’t gain much by not allowing Dr. Martins to do his job.

  Flashes of green and white came to me as my eyes remained shut. I could see those patterns forming that you get when you close your eyes before you go to sleep. Smudges of white and orange danced around in my skull. I remember when I was younger, maybe six years old, I could have sworn to seeing those patterns with my eyes open. I could even swear to seeing those patterns dance around me like a mural of magic. I always had put down that experience to being an imaginative kid. But I could still see the magic when I closed my eyes. The question was, what type of magic was it? The good type or the bad? I guessed Dr. Martins would tell me, but I didn’t want to divulge to him my belief of seeing magic patterns when I closed my eyes. Maybe he’d rush me off to the asylum upon finding out I was a maniac.

  “Keep them closed, that’s it,” I heard him say.

  Suddenly there was a loud bang. It sounded like a cymbal from a drum kit had gone off. I opened my eyes in shock and saw Dr. Martins standing over me, holding a cymbal. He had a smile on his face as he put his hand on the cymbal to stop its vibrating.

  “Got you!” he said, trying not to laugh himself into hysterics.

  “Fucking hell, what is this?” I asked as I shot up to a seated position.

  He held his hands up in defense.

  “Breaking the ice a little. I do it to all my newcomers. Now that you’ve heard the crashing cymbal, maybe you’ll be more relaxed in my office. Don’t worry — the cymbal is only used as an ice breaker. I won’t play the trombone in your ear or anything like that,” he said to me, placing the cymbal down on the carpet, next to his chair. He sat down and stretched his arms out wide, yawning a little as he popped his joints into place.

  “I don’t get it. Why scare the shit out of me like that?” I asked, still feeling a little frustrated, but half of me was playing along with the Dr. — heck, most of me found the crashing cymbal with closed eyes trick quite funny. It was like something out of a Mr. Bean movie. And then it hit me. Am I being evaluated mentally by Boston’s Mr. Bean?

  “Relax, Frank, it was a jok
e. Anyway, you fell for it. You were lying down on my sofa with your eyes shut, letting me take control over you. You see, Frank, that’s the problem. You let your inner voice control you as well. I’m not talking about that voice that tells you when you need to take a piss or something. I’m talking about that voice that tells you when to take a hit on the bong or whatever other drug-related business you so obviously take part in,” he said to me.

  Great, I thought to myself. We have a genius in the building. What was it with this guy? First he plays a dirty practical joke on me to “break the ice,” and now he is saying that it’s my fault he brought a percussion instrument out and nearly blew my eardrums with it. Some nerve, I tell you.

  “Whatever, man. Ease up a little on the whole ‘the reason you’re a fuck-up is because of this,’ spiel until later, buddy. You haven’t even lubed me up before mind-fucking me yet,” I replied.

  Dr. Martins gave me a coy nod of the head and started jotting down whatever he fancied on the black notepad he had sitting on his lap. The guy was wearing flares. I had just noticed that. What the actual hell was happening to me? I was being counseled by a shrink who wore flares and possessed a drum kit in his office. I had obviously murdered someone in my past life. That’s why I was stuck solving them in this one. Either that, or I was Hitler. But I figured that I would remember being him. It would be constant déjà vu watching the History Channel.

  “Look, Frank, I’m not here to ‘mind fuck’ you. If anything, I’m here to ‘mind heal’ you with my mouth,” he said.

  I could feel the chuckle rising through my torso as I held in my laughter.

  “Still sounds a little rape-ish to me, Doc,” I replied.

  I guess Martins agreed, and gave me a wink. “I’m pulling your leg, Frank. Let’s get down to business, then. After all, the state is paying me by the hour, and we have already wasted a good half hour goofing around. But don’t you feel better? Isn’t life just that little bit less fucked up?” he asked.

  Truth was, the guy was making sense. I truly did feel better, if only because I felt as if Martins was a complete quack. I thought it was borderline hilarious that the department was paying this guy a lot of money to sort me out when in reality Dr. Martins needed a lot more than therapy. I think the guy needed a damn miracle. He was just too much. Too much of a comedian for me to take him seriously from the start. But as they say, don’t judge a book by its cover. I had Martins figured out way too early. He had an ace up his sleeve, and my deuce hearts wasn’t expecting a flush.

  “So, let’s start off from the beginning. How did you come about being a detective? What drove you into the field of police work?” Martins asked me.

  I sat there for a while, pondering the question he had given me. The truth was, I didn’t know how to respond. Most people know why they choose certain career paths. I, on the other hand — I think I chose it because I fell into it. Looking back, I can’t remember wanting to be anything other than happy. My life goal hasn’t come true, hence why I was sitting down in a shrink’s office, but I guess I had found happiness once. Maybe twice.

  “I couldn’t really answer that question without sounding like I know why I am here. Truth is, Dr. Martins, I don’t know why I do what I do — I just do it,” I replied. It was all that I could manage, giving the circumstances in which I found myself. I didn’t feel ready to put bullet points on my life. I didn’t feel ready to summarize my life in sentences. All I felt ready to do was leave, but I was trying to stick it out. I didn’t know if I was sticking it out for myself, or for my career. I didn’t even fucking know what I was doing anymore.

  “Okay, Frank, don’t feel like you have to rush anything now. You are in a safe place. I just want to get down to the beginning of your problems. It says here that you suffer from a mild case of schizophrenia?”

  I found myself nodding my head in shame. I didn’t know why I felt ashamed of my condition, but my usual reaction to anyone besides the voices in my head talking to me was shame. Always been that way. Shame was what I lived with day in, day out.

  “That’s right. The doctors say I have a milder version of the disease. I personally think they are talking out of their trap door. I know what I have isn’t mild,” I said.

  Dr. Martins nodded his head in understanding, writing some more stuff down on his notepad. I found myself drifting away and looking at the pictures on his office wall. Most of them were certificates, but one really caught my eye. It was a picture of a bloodshot eye on a poster that read, Drugs aren’t the only thing that can get you stoned. Self-pity is as powerful a drug as the next.

  “Why is it that you don’t find your doctor’s diagnosis of mild schizophrenia to ring true to your feelings?”

  I shrugged my shoulders.

  “I don’t think I look like a mild case of anything,” I said.

  The shrink nodded again and started jotting down more notes.

  “If you aren’t mild as you say, then what are you?”

  I took a few minutes to answer. Martins didn’t interrupt my train of thought. He knew I was opening up, or at least trying to.

  “I’m nothing short of coping. Now, if that means I have mild schizophrenia, then so be it. If it means I am far from mild-mannered, then shoot me,” I said.

  “You do a lot of self-diagnosis on yourself, don’t you?” Dr. Martins interjected.

  “Someone has to, don’t they?” I replied.

  Dr. Martins put down his pen and took a sip of his own coffee. The steam bellowed up in his face as he cracked a warm smile through the misty aroma escaping his mug.

  “Well, now you’re in my care, you don’t need to find the answers, McKenzie. I’m being paid to find them for you,” he told me, putting his coffee back down.

  Four

  The first session lasted two hours. I didn’t want to open up anymore, so I was free to go home and sleep on my newly found mindset. I drove home in the dark. My headlights were flickering in the mist as I pulled into my apartment block. It was a quarter past eight when I got out of the car, and I could hear my bottle of Jack calling me from the refrigerator. I slammed my Ford Capri door shut and sighed as the echo of my footsteps supported the feelings rumbling in the pit of my stomach. I locked the car door and got to walking to my apartment door. The outside cold was chipping away at my facial hair, and I could feel the air biting down on my lips. I rubbed my gloved hands together for warmth as I approached the exterior door to my building. The cold wasn’t only affecting my hands; I saw slick ice forming in the entranceway to my building. I could just about see my shadow dancing in the reflection of the sheen on the ground. It was like my shadow had gone ice skating and left my body behind to deal with what was on my mind.

  I stepped over the icy sheet and pushed open the weathered door. It creaked in protest at my opening it, sounding rather loud in my ears as I walked through it and got into the hallway. The door gently swung shut and left me in the dark as I slowly walked up the stairs. The smell of damp hit my face as I got to my floor. The carpet that the landlord had laid out last winter now resembled a wet mat in a bathroom, soaked beyond belief, laced with dirt and hair. I casually walked up to my door and got my keys out. I fumbled for the right key and slotted it into my battered wooden door. The frame surrounding the door looked like it was warping from the cold weather. I pushed on my door, and it opened. I took a look to my right and saw the window to the outside far down the corridor. It showed the gale-force winds battering the trees outside. A bit of me felt glad to be home and not on a case.

  I stepped into my apartment and let the door swing shut behind me. I bent down and switched on the portable heater that sat in the open-plan living area. It ticked and buzzed for a couple of seconds and then kicked into gear. The heat hit my feet and warmed them up. I flung my shoes off and flexed my toes as the heat hugged my feet into circulation.

  “Ah, that’s the good stuff,” I said as I cracked my neck and stood there for a few more seconds.

  My relaxation didn
’t last long. I heard my cell go off inside my jacket.

  “Goddamn it,” I said, reaching into my jacket and pulling the vibrating phone out. It buzzed in my hand as I flipped the screen and put it to my ear.

  “Frank,” I muttered, still enjoying the toasty feet that I now possessed.

  “Hey, Frank, it’s Shaw. You got to come down to the station. We need to talk,” I heard him say on the other end of the cell.

  “Do I have to? I’ve had a long day. I just came back from the psychiatrist. Can’t you go and annoy somebody else?” There was a pause on the other end. “Anybody there?” I said in frustration.

  “Just come down, Frank, you’re needed. Don’t make me go down there and drag you out myself,” Shaw said, soon hanging up.

  “Great,” I sneered, flipping the screen on my phone back shut and shoving it in my inside jacket pocket. I wasn’t in the mood to do any overtime, but I knew that whatever Shaw needed from me, it must have been important. He sounded agitated on the phone, so I decided I would oblige and make my way down there. Not before having a shot or two of whiskey. That was for sure.

  ***

  Twenty-five minutes later I was getting out of my car and being greeted by more brutal wind in my face. To say I was unhappy would be an injustice as to how angry I was. I would had been just fine drinking some whiskey and watching a movie on TV, but no, I had to come back to the department because Shaw wanted to talk. I didn’t know what he wanted to talk about, but I wasn’t paid to come in for chats — I was paid to solve crimes. And judging by the lack of information as to why he wanted to see me, I took a guess that it wasn’t work-related. Not a murder case, anyway. So I immediately felt as if my time was being wasted. It didn’t stop me from showing up, though; I was always a constant professional. You had to be if you wanted to stay employed. No use bitching and moaning about it. I was free to do so in thought, but I wasn’t going to outright tell anybody they were wasting my time. I knew Shaw wouldn’t appreciate that sort of honesty.

  I strolled down the parking lot and made my way into the precinct. The lights inside dazed me a little. It took me a while to make sense of my surroundings, but soon enough my vision was back to normal. I walked down the hallway and into the main offices. There were a few late-shift workers typing away on their computers, but I wasn’t there to look at other people work. I walked up the stairwell that led to the Chief’s office and knocked on the door two times. I was on a mission, or at least it felt that way. I had a purpose – a goal on my mind. I wanted to know who was dragging me out of my home on one of the coldest nights I had ever witnessed and asking me to show up at the precinct without an explanation. I wanted to know what purpose this served other than to make me angry.