Mind Games

by Claude Bouchard

  “That’s good, James,” Dr. Bowman encouraged as his thoughts strayed to Michael. “You just relax because we both know that you did nothing wrong; nothing at all.”

  * * * *

  When employed in the field of law enforcement, especially in homicide, pleasant days were hard to come by and unpleasant ones were frequent. For Dave McCall, this day had definitely qualified for the unpleasant category.

  Following Joanne Nelson’s announcement of the Hotel de la Montagne murder, he had rushed to the scene where he had been met by chaos and pandemonium. After pushing through the crowd outside, he had found Harris in the lobby, desperately trying to calm an extremely frantic hotel manager amidst growing line-ups of patrons checking out prematurely. He had assisted his detective for a few moments before heading to the elevators where he had waited for several minutes before accepting that the ascent would be completed more quickly on foot.

  Upon reaching the seventh floor, another wrestle through a crowd had been required to reach the victim’s room where a couple of uniformed officers were valiantly attempting, with limited success, to hold back the mass of curious onlookers.

  He had expected the crime scene to be ugly but had underestimated what was waiting to greet him. Blood was spattered everywhere, from floor to ceiling and the room was in wild disarray. The bed, on which the victim could be found, was soaked in crimson, the mattress, punctured and slashed in a variety of places. The body, a female, was in a state such that even the more seasoned personnel from the medical examiner’s office required sustained effort to fight their violent nausea. Two had in fact lost the battle since their arrival a half hour earlier. Multiple stab wounds and lacerations were visible on the torso, arms and legs. Where such wounds were absent, a variety of bruises filled in instead. The battered face was swollen into a gut wrenching grimace of terror and death. Finally, the genital area and one breast had been carefully carved out and laid on a pillow next to the victim’s head.

  After an hour of discussion with his detectives and the M.E. personnel, he had returned downstairs to spend another twenty minutes aiding Tim in consoling and reassuring the still hysteric hotel manager. This had been followed by forty-five minutes of fielding a barrage of questions from a mob of blood-thirsty reporters.

  His afternoon had consisted of a potpourri of frustrations generated by the lack of leads in this increasing rash of murders, the absence of any witnesses as well a numerous calls from the media, his superiors and the mayor’s office. Everyone wanted answers where there were none to give.

  He now sat in his office, weary, and thankful that the day was over. It was 5:42 p.m. and time to go home. As he slipped into his jacket, the telephone rang, drawing an angry moan from the tired captain.

  “Homicide, McCall,” he snapped into the receiver, intent on showing whoever was calling that he had had enough crap for one day.

  “Well, well, well,” commented Chris Barry on the other end of the line. “Sounds like someone had a wonderful day.”

  “Yeah, right,” snorted Dave. “You’re gonna have to show me how to become filthy rich so that I can retire. I don’t know how much longer I can handle this job.”

  “Come on, bud,” Chris encouraged. “You love that job. You’d go nuts just bumming around like I do.”

  “With days like today, I’d be willing to take my chances and try it out for a while,” Dave ruefully replied. “Tell me that you’re calling with some good news. I need the break.”

  “Well, I hope it’s good news,” Barry laughed. “I was calling to offer to buy you dinner and maybe go for a beer somewhere to catch a ball game or something.”

  “I appreciate the offer, my friend,” Dave responded, “But I think that tonight, I just want to go spend a quiet one at home with Cathy.”

  “Best of luck, McCall,” Chris grinned over the phone. “Your wife is hosting that ‘shop at home’ clothing party thing tonight.”

  “Ah, Jesus, I forgot about that,” groaned McCall.

  “That’s why I called,” continued his chuckling friend. “Sandy’s heading over there so I’m free. Out of the goodness of my heart, I decided to save you from a bunch of chattering women. But, if you’d rather not...”

  “Too late, Barry,” Dave retorted. “You offered, I’m taking.”

  “Meet you at Moe’s on Sherbrooke in about half an hour?” suggested Chris. “You can maintain your happy state by telling me about your case.”

  “If that’s your plan for the evening,” growled Dave, “You’re gonna have to do better than Moe’s.”

  “Gibby’s in Old Montreal then,” decided Chris. “I’ll be there in forty-five minutes. Why don’t you head over there in the meantime and have yourself a couple of drinks. Otherwise, I fear you won’t be pleasant company.”

  “I am leaving immediately,” Dave replied, “And shall follow your advice. After all, you’re paying.”

  He cut the connection and realized that he was already feeling better. Chris Barry had that effect on people, a real motivator.

  He left his office and was heading for the front exit when one of his night shift detectives called out to him.

  “Dave, Barbara Jenkins is on the line. You want to take it or are you gone?”

  “I’ll take it,” McCall replied, reaching for the phone on a desk close by. “Hi Barb. This is a pleasant ending to a lousy day.”

  “Flattery will get you everywhere, my dear,” the psychiatrist laughed. “I won’t keep you for long, Dave. I just wanted to see if you were free on Wednesday afternoon, say around two?”

  “I don’t think I have anything planned,” answered Dave, pulling a small agenda from his breast pocket. “Why?”

  “I’d like you to meet a doctor who specializes in abuse cases, especially sex abuse. He’ll be much more qualified to help us establish some kind of profile for your killer, or killers.”

  “Sure,” agreed McCall, scribbling a note in the agenda. “It’s a date. Where do you want to meet and what’s this guy’s name?”

  “I’m not sure where yet so I’ll call you back tomorrow,” replied Jenkins. “I just wanted to see if you were available. And his name is Bowman. Dr. Samuel Bowman.”

  * * * *

  Samuel Bowman watched from the window of his third floor office as James Ford hurried across the busy street to his car. Although the man posed some danger, the psychiatrist believed that the risk was minimal at best. Ford had been in therapy for several months now and had clearly developed strong feelings of trust and respect for the doctor. That the man might establish a link between the theft of his credit card and the doctor’s office was rather improbable. Ford was comfortable, secure when he was here; definitely not worried about getting robbed.

  Yet, such occurrences must not happen again, the psychiatrist was adamant. Such actions were unacceptable and would not be tolerated. He would speak with Michael about this matter and make it clear that in no way would he accept any involvement, however indirect, in any criminal activity. Doctor-patient privileges legally allowed him access to knowledge of wrong doings that his patients might be involved in and such activities outside his office he had no control over. However, he would not permit any of his patients to do anything illegal on his premises.

  Yes, he would have a serious talk with Michael later. Now, it was time for a session with Alex.

  * * * *

  As he had hoped and expected, Dave’s evening with Chris had a therapeutic effect and most of the day’s frustrations had washed away within a few hours. No doubt, the two bottles of Heineken and the Brouilly which had accompanied their steak and scampi had helped. But chatting with Chris, even about the murder case, or cases, also did a world of good. The man had a knack for understanding things, rationalizing information in a logical manner and putting details into perspective. He encouraged when required and argued when needed, but always supplied clear explanations of why he thought what he did. He was the kind of man that, even when you didn’t agree with him, you had
to accept his point of view. It always made sense.

  The waitress arrived at their table and placed a much too large piece of strawberry cheesecake before each of the two men. Neither was hungry, having already eaten enough for a week, but what was a fine meal without a fine dessert? They eyed their plates with a mixture of desire and disdain and both decided to let disdain take the lead, just for a few moments, while they attempted to digest.

  “So that’s pretty much where we’re at with this murder spree,” said Dave, picking up the conversation where they had left off upon the waitress’ arrival. “Four brutally massacred victims in just over a week and not a shred of a lead. At least, the first three, we had something that resembled witnesses, somebody had seen somebody who might be responsible. But this one this morning; nothing. We spoke to hotel staff, waiters, busboys, barmen and a few customers who hadn’t checked out yet. Nobody saw or heard anything.”

  “Your psychiatrist friend, Jenkins,” enquired Chris. “Do you think she’ll come up with anything?”

  “I hope so,” replied McCall. “Barbara is very good and has helped us tremendously in the past. The problem is, usually you have to have a number of crimes for the shrink to establish a clear pattern and profile. I don’t want dozens of murders before we solve this thing.”

  “Maybe this other guy will give you more to work with?” suggested Chris encouragingly.

  “Bowman?” responded Dave. “Maybe. I don’t know him but Barb says he’s a leading authority with violent abuse victims. He’s done some profile work for the cops in Toronto in the past. That’s where he’s from. He’s worked quite a bit with convicts in Ontario and has apparently helped a number of traumatized sickos straighten out their heads. I’ll know more about him and what he can do on Wednesday.”

  “Is he familiar with your case?” asked Chris.

  “I okayed Barbara to send him a copy of her files to save some time,” Dave answered. With a wink, he added, “Who knows? Maybe when I meet with him on Wednesday, he’ll give me the killer’s address.”

  * * * *

  James Ford entered the room where his wife already laid in bed,

  reading. As he undressed, she observed him rather intently, as she had done several times during the evening.

  “Honey, is everything all right?” she asked. “You seem preoccupied with something.”

  “I’m fine,” he replied as he slipped under the covers next to her. “Actually, since I went to my session with Bowman this afternoon, that whole credit card thing really isn’t bothering me anymore. But there’s something... I don’t know.”

  “What? Something?” she prodded, a little confused.

  “That’s just it,” responded Ford. “You know when you’re searching for something you forgot. Like when you’re about to say something and you lose it and it nags you. Well, that’s the feeling I’ve got. It’s like there’s something, I don’t know what, that I’ve realized but I just can’t put my finger on it. I’ve been trying to figure it out all evening but it just won’t come. It’s really strange.”

  “Well, just relax and go to sleep, dear,” she suggested soothingly as she turned off the light on the night stand. “If it’s important, it’ll come back to you.”

  “I guess,” he agreed as he leaned over to kiss her. “Goodnight.”

  “Goodnight, sweetheart,” she breathed drowsily, already dozing off.

  He rolled over and within minutes started drifting off himself. Yet, the nagging feeling persisted. He knew something. He just didn’t know what.

  Chapter 10 - Wednesday, June 4, 1997

  “Dr. Jenkins and Captain McCall, I presume,” greeted Sam Bowman as he approached his visitors in the waiting room. “Sorry to keep you waiting. Come in to my office.”

  They followed the psychiatrist across the waiting area into a large comfortable room in one corner of the building. The doctor’s office was tastefully decorated and barring the desk set off to one side, resembled more a study or den than a place of business. The room definitely encouraged any visitor to relax which, McCall presumed, was precisely what it was intended to do.

  “Have a seat, please,” urged Bowman, gesturing towards the overstuffed couches which dominated the place. “Can I offer you something to drink, coffee, tea, maybe a glass of juice?”

  “Coffee would be fine, thanks,” McCall accepted with a smile while Barbara nodded in agreement.

  “I’ll just be a minute,” their host replied, heading back to the door. “Make yourselves at home.”

  While they waited for his return, Dave strolled around the room, admiring the various knickknacks and paintings which had been casually, yet carefully scattered around. He stopped before a huge wall to wall bookcase and began examining the titles of the multitude of volumes which adorned it.

  “You think this guy read all of these?” he asked sceptically after a moment.

  “From what I heard, I wouldn’t be surprised,” replied Barbara. “I understand that he’s a very intelligent, very knowledgeable man.”

  “If he read these,” joked McCall, referring to the dozens of theoretical psychology tomes, “I must believe that he is, at the very least, a very determined man.”

  “That, I am,” responded Bowman with a smile as he returned with coffee tray in hand, “And believe me, one has to be to read those dreadfully boring works.”

  “Uh, sorry Doctor,” mumbled Dave sheepishly as he returned to his seat.

  “Not at all, not at all,” reassured Bowman as he poured the coffee. “Those who enter this room are expected to say what’s on their minds. If they don’t, then how am I supposed to do my job? It serves no purpose if…”

  As the psychiatrist rattled on about the need for frankness in his profession, Dave, always the cop, examined the man. Bowman was not at all the stuffy, old bespectacled, professor type which he had expected. Rather, the casually attired doctor was a good looking man, apparently physically fit and no more than forty, if that. As he gave Dave and Barbara a brief verbal resume of himself, it became quite obvious that the reputation which preceded him had not been exaggerated. Samuel Bowman was definitely a well educated, logical and highly intelligent individual.

  An only child from a somewhat dysfunctional blue collar family, he had decided at a rather early age that his mission in life would be to help those with troubled and traumatic pasts. His efforts in high school and college had earned him admittance to the University of Toronto with a scholarship which he had subsidized working odd jobs throughout his studies. Well ahead of his class from the start, he had been requested to participate in a number of research projects, even as a freshman.

  Following graduation and internship, he had started up his private practice all while accepting a position with the Ontario Department of Corrections. Other professional activities had included teaching on occasion at his alma mater as well as countless hours of volunteer counselling at a variety of abuse shelters. Following his marriage, which had culminated in divorce a couple of years earlier, he had moved to Montreal, his home ever since.

  “Well, enough about me,” said Bowman, concluding his brief synopsis. “I’m certain that you both have better things to do than listen to some shrink pour out his life. Now, Dave; may I call you Dave?” he asked, pursuing as McCall nodded. “I’ve reviewed the files that Dr. Jenkins sent me and, quite frankly, I must admit that I found these crimes quite shocking. I’ve dealt with patients who had committed acts of violence in the past, but never have I seen such a display of rage and especially, revenge.”

  “Are you saying you think that the person who did this wanted to get even with the victims?” enquired McCall incredulously. “You think the killer knew these people?”

  “No, no,” replied Bowman. “The revenge, although aimed at particular individuals, was not directed at the victims. They were simply symbols, objects used to help release the anger and vengeance.”

  Detecting puzzlement in McCall’s expression, the psychiatrist expanded his exp
lanation. “I’ll give you an example, a parallel if you will. Did you ever become angry at a situation and slam your fist down on a table or desk?”

  “Yeah, sure,” admitted the captain. “Who hasn’t?”

  “On such an occasion, were you angry at the table?”

  “Of course not,” Dave laughed. “I was mad at the situation.”

  “Well,” continued Bowman, “This is the same thing on a grander scale. One is angry at someone to the extent of being willing to kill. However, that someone is not available as a victim so a substitute is chosen.”

  “Sure, I’ll buy that,” McCall nodded. “Where do you get the revenge angle from?”

  “The murders themselves demonstrate the anger and, to a certain extent, revenge,” the psychiatrist explained. “However, once the victim is dead, why proceed with further mutilation? Why amputate the genitals? Because killing is not enough. A mark must be made. Although dead, the victim must be left in shame. The victim, which is really a representative object, must pay. In my opinion, these four deaths are the result of abuse, no doubt repeated and obviously sexual abuse. These were revenge, Dave.”

  “Wow,” murmured Dave, never having been one to stop and think to such an extent about how the mind works.

  “Yes, Dave, Wow,” Bowman softly replied. “There are some troubled people out there. Now, you made a reference to the killer a little earlier and I would like to elaborate on that. I think you must recognize the fact that you are dealing with killers. Not just one. Several.”

  “What?” Dave exclaimed. “With all due respect, Doctor, with what little information we have, how can you be so sure? I think you’re jumping to conclusions.”

  “Quite the contrary,” the psychiatrist adamantly responded. “With all due respect as well, to believe that these murders were committed by one and only one person is somewhat narrow-minded.”

  “Excuse me?” McCall interrupted, an aggressive note to his voice.