Mind Games

by Claude Bouchard

  “Then I showed her the knife and I could see the terror in her eyes. I didn’t think that someone could scream with a gag but it turns out that you can. At least, she could so I had to belt her a good one to shut her up. At that point, I figured there was no sense in dragging this out any further so I started stabbing her all over. Doc, let me tell you, Randi was right. It is a great rush.”

  Once again, Bowman hit the stop button, this time with a violently trembling hand. He resumed his deep breathing exercise for several moments but found it difficult to compose himself. Feeling faint and nauseous, he rushed to his desk and pulled an open bottle of scotch from the bottom drawer and allowed himself a healthy dose. The alcohol burned into his churning stomach and offered temporary relief, at least enough to finish the tape.

  Returning to the coffee table, he leaned over and, with a still shaking hand, pressed ‘play’.

  “The only problem is,” said Michael’s voice, “The rush wears off after a few hours; which means, you have to do it again.”

  Chapter 8 - Sunday, June 1, 1997

  As was often the case on Sunday mornings, when Sandy woke up, her husband was already up and nowhere to be seen. She rolled over and smiled as she noticed the coffee tray waiting for her on the night stand, complete with the morning paper. Sitting up, she poured herself a cup of the steaming gourmet blend and started to browse through the pages of yesterday’s events. A short article on the third page with the headline SEX SLAYER STRIKES AGAIN caught her attention and she quickly read through it.

  Written by Ron Henderson, Montreal’s notorious crime reporter, the article recounted the details of a murder which had occurred in a well known downtown hotel on Friday night. The journalist went on to relate how this slaying of an alleged prostitute closely resembled two other killings which had taken place over the previous week. Although the police investigation was still in its initial stages and that very little evidence existed to date, the similarity of the crimes led one to believe that perhaps the city had a serial killer on its hands. At this time, the authorities had no comment on the subject.

  “Chris,” Sandy called out as she climbed out of bed.

  “In here,” he responded from their study down the hall.

  With paper in hand, she scurried from the bedroom and entered ‘the office’ to find her husband working away at the computer.

  “Morning,” he greeted her brightly. “What’s up?”

  “Did you read about this third murder?” she asked, pointing to the article.

  “Yeah,” Chris nodded grimly. “Poor Dave’s really got his hands full.”

  As he spoke, Sandy noticed a photocopy of the same article lying on the desk next to him as well as copies of articles relating to the other two murders.

  “What are you up to?” she asked suspiciously, although she already had a good idea of what his answer would be.

  “Nothing special,” he grinned sheepishly, amused that she had caught him.

  “Did Dave ask you for help?” Sandy continued her interrogation.

  “Well, not yet,” Chris admitted, still grinning, “But if he does, I don’t want to have to waste any time researching the case. This way, by building up my file as events occur, I’ll be ready to hit the floor running.”

  “Doesn’t Jonathan keep you busy enough with your ‘consultant’ work?” she asked, her tone one of mock exasperation.

  “That’s just the problem, my dear. He doesn’t.”

  He chuckled as she padded out the door and down the stairs, muttering, “When my husband grows up, he wants to be a policeman.”

  * * * *

  Randi lazed comfortably on the big leather recliner in the den, slowly sipping a Tequila Sunrise, his favourite drink. The joint he had smoked a little earlier had done its work and he was now smoothly stoned and relaxed as he contemplated what had taken place over the last week. He smiled as he thought of the doctor and what he and the others were putting the shrink through. The poor man was currently a wreck but he would come around. After all, he had to know that what they had done was the right thing. He himself was the one who constantly preached that one shouldn’t keep the anger or frustration bottled up inside. Maybe the good doctor would even learn something from them and find the guts to release some of his own pressure.

  The television was on and a Sunday afternoon baseball game started playing. Although far from a sports buff, Randi did not bother changing the channel but rather absently watched the images as he wandered through his thoughts. His father came to mind; he had been a sports fanatic, always watching whatever athletic event was on the tube and swearing at his son for his continued disinterest in the subject. In fact, Randi remembered, his father had been watching a baseball game the first time he had molested him. Closing his eyes, he could relive the experience, the sounds of the television only serving to add reality to the blatantly clear memory.

  Thirteen at the time, he had been at the public library. Though it was summer and school was out, Randi had a thirst for knowledge and spent most of his free time reading and learning. He had returned home in the late afternoon to find his father sprawled in his ratty old chair, drinking beer and watching the game. He had ignored the old man as he usually did and had hoped that good old dad would do likewise. However, his father had called out to him suggesting that he act like a man for once and watch the game. Randi had responded by saying nothing and heading to his tiny room, which had proved to be a mistake.

  His father had stormed into the room, bellowing that if his son didn’t want to be a man, then maybe he should try being a girl. Within minutes, the whole thing had been over and Randi had experienced the first of what was to be many occasions of forced fellatio. Eventually, such occasions had included having to dress in a variety of his mother’s clothing while he gave the old man head.

  In a way, Randi snickered, he should be grateful to his now deceased father. Thanks to him, Randi had learned the pleasures of experiencing his feminine side which was something he now thoroughly enjoyed. Over the years, through accumulated shame and frustration, his father had also given him something else; the courage to lash out and get even. Randi knew that he now had this courage. He had demonstrated that clearly enough the previous Friday by taking someone’s life.

  This action, in turn, had proved to be beneficial to the others as well. Both Bobby and Michael had since tried their hand at this new found therapy. Sure, Bobby had been sloppy and shown that planning was not his forte but he had tried, succeeded and would no doubt get better with time. As for Michael, he was flying high since his adventure with the whore the other night.

  It was only a matter of time before Alex hopped on the band wagon and took a shot at this electrifying experience. The question was, when? Randi, with Michael’s help, would encourage their friend to try it soon.

  * * * *

  Alex sat in a small booth towards the rear of the dimly lit hotel bar. He’d been here, and to other places like it, countless times before but tonight’s outcome would be different and that was making him somewhat nervous. He wasn’t sure yet if he could go through with it, although he had promised Randi and Michael that he would. They had made it sound so easy and to hear their incessant bantering, it also seemed like quite a thrill.

  Taking a deep breath to compose himself, he decided to play it by ear. He’d go ahead as usual and if he felt that the time was right somewhere along the way, he’d do it. If he ended up chickening out, he’d just tell those two that he hadn’t found anybody tonight. It was Sunday after all and things were usually slower on Sunday. Maybe he really wouldn’t find someone tonight. With this thought in mind, he relaxed almost immediately and was soon enjoying himself as he sipped his drink, listened to the music and watched the beautiful people wander into the bar from the luxurious hotel’s lobby.

  For reasons unknown, this particular hotel had become the hot spot in recent years for the young, rich, jet-set types who flew in for business from around the world. Their meetings wer
e always scheduled for late in the week and Monday mornings, forcing them to spend the weekend in Montreal, usually without a spouse. Since the hotel was located right in the core of the downtown night-life district, these poor souls had no trouble finding entertaining activities to fill the lonely hours away from their loved ones.

  With the growing population of women in business, gentlemen such as Alex, willing to satisfy a lonely female’s desires for a price, became more in demand, which suited Alex fine. He had started whoring young, with friends of his mother as clients and had eventually accepted that it was a decent way to make a few bucks. In fact, he had paid for his university, including food and lodgings, by selling his body.

  Lost in his thoughts, he didn’t notice her approach and was startled when she spoke.

  “Are you waiting for somebody?” she asked, her voice husky.

  “Not somebody in particular,” he replied, flashing a warm smile. “Just hoping for some company.”

  She slid into the booth beside him, close, brushing his upper thigh with her hand in the process. She wasn’t bad looking, a little heavy perhaps, somewhere in her mid-forties. He could smell the alcohol on her breath and her eyes showed that the glass she carried wasn’t her first cocktail of the evening.

  “I hope you don’t find me too bold,” she said as she looked him over, “But I’m not one to mince words.”

  “Great,” Alex replied. “I’m forewarned.”

  “Are you a hooker?” she asked bluntly.

  “Yep.”

  “What do you charge?”

  “Three hundred,” Alex confidently responded. The people here had money.

  “That’s pretty steep,” she commented dryly.

  “I’m very good,” he shot back.

  She reached for his crotch and felt his semi-aroused penis through the fabric of his trousers.

  “Well, you’re big enough,” she stated. “How about two hundred?”

  “Three. If you don’t take it, somebody else will.”

  “Alright, three hundred,” she grudgingly agreed, “But you better be damn good. Otherwise, you won’t get squat. For that price, you’ll do what I want, when I want. You’re going to give me every cents worth. Understand?”

  “No problem,” Alex replied with a smile as he slid his hand between her thighs. “You’re in for a night you’ll never forget.”

  His decision was made. He’d keep his word to Randi and Michael.

  Chapter 9 - Monday, June 2, 1997

  With a cup of steaming coffee in each hand, Dave McCall push his office door closed with his foot and turned towards his guest seated at the small conference table.

  “I’ve reviewed the case files that Frank sent me as well as the autopsy reports,” said Dr. Barbara Jenkins as McCall handed her a cup and settled into the chair across from her.

  “Thanks,” she added, taking a sip of the hot brew before pursuing. “The medical reports clearly support that your perpetrator could be the same person. The descriptions of the crime scenes and crimes themselves in your police reports also support that possibility. However, a few things in particular point in another direction.

  “First of all, the descriptions of the possible suspects, however vague they may be, indicate three different people. The first was a female or, perhaps a transvestite. The second sounds more like a street hood. As for the gentleman who rented the suite at the Four Seasons, he was described as polished, classy, definitely a professional type.

  “Secondly, the places where the murders took place vary from the back seat of a car to a seedy hotel to a posh one. The victims also vary. Your first was married, the father of two and apparently a closet homosexual. Then, the guy in the Caddy was a rich club owner, unmarried and known by his peers to pick up the occasional male hooker. Now, your girl on Friday was a hooker. If these murders were committed by the same person, he, or she, is not concentrating on a specific type of victim, barring that all three seemed to have sexual practices which differed from the generally accepted heterosexual, monogamous relationship.”

  “So you’re telling me,” McCall stepped in, “That these are not the work of a serial killer?”

  “That’s not what I said, Dave,” responded Jenkins. “We have very little to go on right now so I wouldn’t be able to guess with anything close to certainty. All I’m saying is that you shouldn’t be concentrating all your efforts on the premise that you are looking for one person. If you do, you might end up only solving one murder. These killings may be related, based on the similarities, the genital amputations, the stabbing, the bondage, etcetera. They may have been performed by the same individual or by several somehow related individuals. On the other hand, they may be three totally unrelated murders, the last two might be copycats of the first; the list goes on and on.”

  “Well, you’re a big help this morning,” Dave snorted, his frustration not aimed at the psychiatrist but rather at the situation.

  “You’re the one who call me, sweetheart,” Barbara quipped, smiling sweetly. She knew Dave well and did not take his anger personally.

  “Yeah, yeah,” muttered McCall. “Anything at all you can give me that might help us?”

  “Whether you’re dealing with one, or many,” replied the doctor, “Your killer, or killers obviously have some pent up sexual rage to let out. We are likely to expect someone who was abused or raped in the past. I also noted in the autopsy reports of the first and third victims a mention of precision in the removal of the genitals. This might, and I do say might, indicate someone with some knowledge of how the human body is made. Last of all, the reports indicate a certain level of strength required to deliver some of the stab wounds on all three victims. This might indicate a male rather than a female.”

  “So, basically,” responded Dave with a smirk, “Right now, I should be looking for an abused male surgeon?”

  “Exactly, David,” Jenkins responded in exasperation as she rolled her eyes. “Sometimes, I wonder why I even bother returning your calls.”

  “Because I’m such a sweetheart,” grinned McCall. “Seriously, if you had to guess right now, would you say this is the work of one, or several people?”

  Pondering for a moment, Barbara replied, “This is only a guess but, I would think that you’re looking for one person. The proximity in time and the similarities of the murders point to that.”

  A knock on the door interrupted their exchange and Joanne Nelson poked her head through the doorway.

  “Sorry to bother you guys,” she apologized, her tone serious, “But we just got a call from the Hotel de la Montagne. They found the body of one of their guests and apparently, it’s not very nice. Tim and Frank are on their way.”

  “Are we looking at number four?” McCall growled.

  “We’ll know more when the guys get there,” Joanne grimly replied, “But from the sounds of it, I think so.”

  “Jesus,” Dave swore under his breath. Looking up at Barbara Jenkins, he pleaded, “You going to be able to help us on this?”

  “Yes, Dave,” she promised as she rose from her seat, “And we’ll figure it out. Let me think about it some more and call me as soon as you have more details. In the meantime, I’ll start digging for some other shrinks who specialize in abuse victims or violent sexual behaviour. Don’t worry, McCall. We’ll solve this.”

  * * * *

  “How are you feeling, James?” enquired Dr. Bowman as he observed his patient who lay on the couch in the psychiatrist’s office. “You seem tense.”

  “I am tense,” James Ford replied, his voice distant and monotone.

  Hypnosis had this effect on some people.

  “Why are you tense, James?” asked Bowman in a soothing voice. “You have everything going for you. Your business is flourishing, you have a successful marriage with a wonderful wife; financially, you are at ease. Many people only dream of having what you do.”

  “The police came to my place,” the monotone replied. “A hotel room was rented with my cred
it card and a murder was committed. I don’t want them to think I did it.”

  “Did you do it, James?” the psychiatrist challenged. “Is that why you’re tense? Are you afraid of getting caught?”

  The droning tone disappeared as emotion came into play. “I didn’t do anything wrong. I could never hurt anyone. I was at a party. I am not a violent man.”

  “Now, now, James,” Bowman cooed, “Don’t get excited. Relax. I was simply asking a question. I know that you are generally not a violent person. But you still have anger inside you. That’s why we visit every week. To get rid of that anger. But sometimes, such anger just boils over at the wrong moment and we do something we regret. Is that what happened at the hotel?”

  “Why don’t you believe me?” the hypnotized man shouted as he sat up. “I had nothing to do with it! Why are you trying to ruin my life?”

  “Shh, shh, shh, James, please calm down,” Bowman urged, accepting that his patient had had enough. “I believe you. And I’m certain the police did as well. You are a victim in this, not the accused. Forget about it. Everything is all right.”

  He smiled as he saw Ford visibly relax.

  “That’s right, James,” he continued soothingly. “Hostility gets us nowhere. We must confront our conflicts with logic and common sense. We can’t let our emotions get the better of us. It simply serves no purpose. Now, we only have a few minutes left for today so I want you to breathe deeply and think of all the good things that surround you. In a few minutes, you will wake up and will forget about these minor mishaps that were bothering you. OK?”

  “OK Doc,” Ford mumbled, a peaceful smile already on his lips.