by Dale Mayer
“Now that would be interesting. Does Andy have any family or anybody who could be used to pressure him?”
“He’s recently divorced, with kids,” she said quietly, turning to look at him. “I don’t think any of us really thought of that.”
“Well, it might be a good time to,” Stoop said. “I don’t know what happens if this guy’s threats aren’t carried out.”
“Meaning?”
“Well, the photo of David’s wife had a bullet hole in her head,” he said. “If David hadn’t committed suicide, you’ve got to wonder if this guy would have followed through with the threat.”
“It doesn’t bear thinking about,” she said, pinching the bridge of her nose, hard.
“No, but we have to. Once you head down this pathway, and people put that thread out there, the question now becomes whether or not they will make it real or if they will just stay hidden and make it a joke. Or, over time, will they become more emboldened by this behavior, until they feel like they can make good on the threat?”
“Exactly,” she said.
“All kinds of avenues can happen here,” Stoop said. “It’s just a matter of which one this guy in particular will do.”
“Scary thought,” she said.
“They all are. I’ll get back to this, and I’ll set up some monitoring on these emails. The wife can still have David’s laptop though, as we have all this copied over now.”
“Perfect, thanks,” she said. She hung up and walked over to see Andy still working on the private emails. “That’s the same email?”
He shook his head. “No, we’re back-and-forth. He’s asking me some personal questions.”
“Watch what you tell him.”
He looked up at her, nodded, and said, “Not my first rodeo.”
“I know,” she said, “but obviously this guy is good at finding personal information, and you have kids.”
At that, he looked up at her, swallowed hard, and nodded. But bent his head back to the job.
She winced, as she walked toward where Owen sat.
“Isn’t it sad when doing our jobs threatens our very families?” the very family-oriented Owen said, clearly moved by that consideration.
“We need to catch this guy,” she muttered.
“We’re on it,” Owen said, his tone determined. “Nobody’s getting to our families, to our kids.”
“I know,” she said. “Yet it just feels, … it feels wrong.”
“In what way?”
“I don’t know. It just feels bad. Maybe that’s a better word.”
“Somebody pushing others to commit suicide, whether under pressure or for their own purposes, is bad, but, when you start making threats like this to their family, to do something like this, or else, preying on somebody who is already having a hard time, just makes it truly horrific,” Owen said quietly.
She moved to sit down at her desk by Rodney.
He shook his head. “It’s starting to look like he’s thinking about it again, like he’s got another victim picked out.”
“That could easily be the one Simon connected with earlier today,” Kate said. “I wonder why he connects with anybody though.”
“Well, more to the point,” Rodney muttered, “why does Simon connect with these people? How can we pinpoint who he’s connecting with, why that connection exists, and how can we find these people and save them before they take a jump off a bridge under pressure? Is Simon’s connection with suicidal people or just those depressed souls who were already thinking about it?”
“Maybe it’s Simon’s association with David.”
“Maybe. I don’t know,” Rodney said, “but these are questions we need to get answers for.”
“But this stuff,” she said, “I mean, I still have trouble even believing that he’s connecting with real people.”
“Do you think he’s making it up?” Rodney asked in surprise.
“No. Yes. I don’t know,” she said, raising both hands. “I don’t know what to believe. I figured these fake psychics talked to dead people to bilk the grieving relations. This is just so bizarre.”
“It is,” he said, “but we’re at the point of no return in terms of believing Simon, as far as our cases go. But for you? It’s either believe him or walk away because you’ll never have a chance at a true relationship with somebody you don’t trust.”
“And I don’t know if I can trust him,” she snapped, glaring at Rodney for bringing it up.
“Why?”
“Is this something we have to discuss now?”
He sat back and looked at her in surprise. “No, we don’t,” he said. “But, in your heart, you need to know. You need to know where you stand. So, when push comes to shove, when this all blows up in your face, that you have a leg to stand on. As for motivation, you need to know why you are doing this, who you’re doing this for, and whether you’ll continue to do this.”
“And what the hell is this?” she snapped.
“Dealing with him on cases,” Rodney said quietly. “And, if you can’t trust him, why are you even sleeping with him?” With that, he got up and walked out of the bullpen.
*
Simon’s Sunday Night
Lying in bed that night, alone and wishing to hell he had gotten up and gone to her place, Simon stared up at the ceiling, hating the feeling that he was on the cusp of something major, and yet knowing, if he took the right avenue, it would go better. And, if he took the wrong avenue, it would go worse. Either way it would be tough.
“How the fuck can that be?” he asked, reaching out and scrubbing his face, before rolling over, punching the pillow, and pushing it farther up under his head.
“If I go one direction, it should be good, and the other one should be bad. So how can they both be bad?” It wasn’t even so much that they were both bad, but neither would provide the relief he wanted. He suspected that it was highly connected to these visions, which were out of his control. So, when he had absolutely no control over who he connected with, when to connect, how to connect, or what to connect over, why would anybody want anything to do with this? As he lay here, sleep was a long way off. He felt his body drifting deeper and deeper toward sleep. Right there, at the edge of his consciousness, the words Do it slammed into his head again.
He groaned, rolled onto his back, and said, “Fuck off.” But, of course, it wasn’t so easy as that.
Almost instantly he saw the bridge, with the same sneakers, the same hands gripping the railing, and somebody leaning over the edge, staring at the water. It had never occurred to him, but did these people go to their jump-off point time and time again, as if getting up the courage to make the jump? Because, if that were the case, somebody should be monitoring that location on the bridge and getting out there and stopping her.
Her. It felt like a her, but he didn’t know. He didn’t have any reason to say her or him, but it felt like a her. And that was good enough for him.
He sat up, reached out in his mind, and said, Don’t. Just go home. But he felt no connection. As if his connection to her and this other voice was on Mute. He thought about it for a long moment and then whispered, “Don’t. Just go home.”
Trying to use the same tone, the same mentality, and, in a soft whisper, telling her, “Go home. It’s fine. Go home.” But she wasn’t listening. She leaned farther and farther over the railing. He saw the whitewater churning below. For whatever reason the current was moving off to the left, and waves crashed down on the rocks. It was dark out.
“Go home,” Simon said. “Go home,” he repeated, trying to be more emphatic, more forceful. Trying in some way to have the ability to change the outcome. Because the thing that really drove him crazy was that he had no way to control this. He was nothing but an observer. If he couldn’t do something to change the outcome, how the hell would any of this matter? Why the hell was he going through this to only suffer and watch someone die?
Then he stopped and thought, was it really another person manip
ulating her, or was it her own psyche whispering, Do it? Was he connecting with that part of her, that part that was desperate to end it all? In which case, how was he even supposed to change it? Or was change not an option? That complete helplessness drove him to more questions.
As he lay here, he felt the same water rushing under his feet, the same fear pressing in on him, the sadness welling up from deep inside. He wondered what the hell it was from. He tried to find out, to delve deeper, but there seemed to be a wall. He was only getting to view it, like a movie playing out in front of him, but there was no audio, except that damn voice that said, Do it.
If only there was a way to identify her. He sent a text to Kate. She’s there on the bridge right now.
Expecting a response and not getting one made him angry. Why was he the only one who was worried? It wasn’t so much that it was only him, but Kate didn’t even believe in what he was doing. Hell, neither did he for that matter. How could he blame Kate for not believing him when he didn’t believe it himself? This was just bullshit, all of it. He groaned and got up, heading for a shower, and instead found himself getting dressed. No, no, no. But soon he was dressed, grabbing his keys and wallet, heading outside, and grabbing a cab.
For whatever reason, he didn’t even want to drive himself, helpless to do anything but follow along. As he got near, he had the driver drop him off at the spot he was looking for, telling him to come back in maybe forty minutes. “I promise I’ll make it worth your while.”
The cabbie looked at him in surprise and just said, “I don’t know. I’ll have to loop completely around to pick you up again.”
“Go have a coffee and come back.”
The guy shrugged and headed over to West Vancouver.
Simon walked along the bridge, looking to see what was going on. He saw a woman walking up ahead. He came quickly up behind her, wondering, worrying, but the woman seemed to be fine. She was just walking ahead, getting more and more nervous when he came closer behind her. He called out to her, “Hey, I’m just walking. I’m not a threat.”
She didn’t slow down; instead she broke into run and kept running. He couldn’t blame her honestly. He was a single guy down on the bridge in the dark. He walked back to where he thought the actual sighting was but couldn’t see anything over the water or on the bridge itself. He groaned, smashed his fist on the railing, then turned and headed back to wait for the cabbie.
As he sat on the curb, cursing his impulsiveness that brought him here, his phone rang.
“Where are you?” Kate asked in a peremptory tone.
“I’m down at the bridge.”
“Did you see her?”
He felt the worry in her voice. She did care. “No,” he said, his tone heavy. “And no sign that she jumped either.”
“Well, that’s a godsend.”
He heard the relief in her voice. For all the reasons that Kate might distrust his ability, she still didn’t want that to prevent him from saving a victim. “I’m waiting for the cab to come back around, wondering what the hell I’m even doing,” he said bitterly. “It’s gorgeous here. Yet all I can see is somebody throwing themselves over. Don’t you understand how this haunts me?”
“I do understand, and I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I don’t know how any of this can happen, how it is happening,” she said, “but I know that, for you, it’s real, and, for that, I would do anything to help ease this for you.”
He believed her; that was the thing. There was absolutely no way not to believe the sincerity in her voice. “Meet me at home,” he said, his voice thick.
“I’m already here,” she said gently. “So, come on home, and we’ll spend some time remembering about the living and less about the dead.”
Chapter 13
Kate’s Monday Morning
Kate woke up the next morning and looked over to see Simon in bed beside her. She smiled, got up, had a quick shower, dressed, and snuck out of his penthouse apartment. It was the first time she’d ever stayed overnight until time to go to work. As she checked her watch, it was just 7:00 a.m. She made a quick trip home, changed clothes, and then prepped for work. As she left her apartment, she got a text from Simon, with a sad face. She laughed. Needed fresh clothes for work.
As she walked into the bullpen, a buzz of activity was going on. She looked at everybody in surprise. “What happened? Did something break?”
“Well, something broke,” Owen said. “We found the guy who parked the blue-green truck on the other side of the mall. Parked it illegally, so it was picked up and taken to the impound lot.”
“Because someone had stolen it, right?”
The whole team nodded. Owen continued. “And we found the guy who stole it. Only he came into possession of it that same day. He found it off around the corner from the original shooting scene, with the engine running and the keys in it, so he hopped in and took it for a joyride.”
“Oh, crap,” she said. “The joke’s on him, isn’t it? Since it was used in several drive-by shootings.”
“He’s in Interview One.”
She rubbed her hands together. “Now this is good. Who’s going in to interview him?”
“Well, it was your deal, so …” Owen began.
Colby walked in and said, “You and Rodney take it.”
She grinned. “You guys just made my day.” She raced to the coffee pot, and her luck was holding; there was even coffee. She didn’t know what entity was smiling down on her this morning, but, so far, she had managed to get a couple things accomplished without any of the usual headaches.
As she walked in the interview room, with her file and her coffee, Rodney at her side, she looked at the suspect and frowned. He was just a pimply-faced kid, probably hadn’t even had his driver’s license for much more than a few months. He looked up at her nervously. She dropped the file with more force than necessary, and he jumped.
She snorted. “How long have you had a driver’s license?”
He glared at her.
“Cut the bravado,” she said, with a wave of her hand. “I can check for myself easily enough, but I would take it as a sign of cooperation if you just tell me.”
“Three months,” he snapped.
“And so, in the first three months of your professional driving career, you decide to steal a truck?”
He sank lower in his seat. “You don’t know that I did it,” he said.
“Cameras are all over the city,” she said, “so you’d be surprised.” She didn’t tell him that she had photos of him getting into the vehicle.
“I don’t know why,” he moaned. “Man, I was—I was just having a lark,” he said. “It was just sitting there, and the motor was running. I mean, it was just asking somebody to take it. And it was a pretty damn sweet ride.”
“A sweet ride?”
“Those old trucks are gorgeous,” he enthused.
“And here I thought you’d be into muscle cars,” she said, studying him carefully.
“Nah,” he said, with a lip curl, “muscle cars are for the rich white boys.”
“And what are you?” she said, with a laugh.
“I’m a poor white boy,” he said, with a nod. “Although I don’t think I’m exactly all white.”
“Meaning?”
“My mom is mixed something or other.”
“Something or other. You don’t even know what nationality your mom is?”
“Well, I know what she is. She’s Canadian, but she’s also part Native American and part white. I just don’t know what band or tribe or whatever she’s from.”
“Interesting,” she said. “Most kids have a little more knowledge about the heritage of their family than that.”
“Well, I haven’t seen her in a very long time,” he said. “She went off on a drunken bender, and I never saw her again.”
“And your dad?”
“He’s a mechanic.”
“So, you’ve been driving for a lot longer than your license may suggest.”
He nodded. “And I know how to hot-wire, but the thing is, … I mean, this didn’t even need hot-wiring.”
“That’s because it was a getaway car,” she said quietly.
He looked at her, his eyes growing wider. “What do you mean?”
“That truck was used in several drive-by shootings,” she said. “And guess whose fingerprints are all over it now?”
He stared at her, as the hammer went down in his brain, and he bolted to his feet. “Holy shit,” he said. “I didn’t use any guns. I don’t even have any. I didn’t kill nobody, honest.”
“So you say, but you’re the one who was driving the vehicle. For all I know, you were part of the team, and you were the driver of the getaway car.”
“No,” he said, shaking his head. “No way, no way, no way.”
“Yeah? So prove it,” she said, leaning back, crossing her arms over her chest, completely nonchalant.
The kid looked from her to Rodney and back again. “No, no, no, you see …” He stopped and said, “How am I supposed to prove I didn’t do something?”
“Tell us where you were beforehand, like right before,” she said.
“Well, if this guy did the drive-by shooting, wouldn’t he have just taken off?”
“He took off, came around the corner, parked, and then walked back, so he could see the chaos he caused.”
“Oh, gross, that’s, … that’s just cold. Did he hurt somebody?”
“Killed two men. Young, under twenty-five, healthy, fit, complete strangers.”
His face blanched. “I didn’t have anything to do with it, I swear.”
“So you’re just a stupid punk who steals trucks?”
“I didn’t even mean to do that,” he confessed. He raised both hands. “Honest, I didn’t.”
“Yeah? And so, here we are. You driving a stolen truck, trying to tell me that you had nothing to do with the drive-by shooting just a few minutes earlier.”