“Sure,” agreed McCall. “We’ve been sitting here for an hour talking about this case and I think we’re all on the same wavelength.”
With nods and ‘uh-huhs’, his three detectives confirmed their agreement and Dave went on.
“We believe that this morning’s murder is related to the other four. Initial indications are that the same weapon was used and the wounds support that a similar amount of strength was required to deliver them. There were no signs of forced entry or struggle which leads us to believe that the victim was a willing participant in this get-together. Genital amputation once again took place, which fits the pattern of the four previous murders. As was the case with the first, the genitals disappeared from the scene. In our opinion, Doctors, this crime was committed by the same person as the others.”
“You’ll be happy to learn, Captain, that I partially agree with you,” Bowman spoke. “The person who performed this killing was responsible for one of the previous murders, more specifically, the second one.”
All other parties to the conversation remained wordless for a moment, impressed by the definitive tone used by the psychiatrist.
“Only the second one, Doctor?” enquired Dave, insistent on having Bowman’s position clearly established.
“Absolutely,” Bowman emphatically replied. “Without a doubt.”
“Doctor, this is Frank Bakes,” the detective announced. “If I may ask, sir, how can you believe with such certainty that these identical crimes were committed by different individuals?”
“Ah, Detective Bakes, I can see that the Captain has trained you well,” the psychiatrist responded, his sarcasm barely noticeable. “How many years of psychiatric training and experience do you have, Detective?”
“None, Doctor,” Frank stiffly replied as Dave motioned him to stay calm.
“Well, then, Detective, I unfortunately must inform you that, in this instance, I qualify somewhat more highly as the expert. Can you give me a brief description of this morning’s victim, Detective Bakes?”
“Male, Caucasian, in his fifties, chubby.”
“And an admitted homosexual,” added Bowman. “Now, can you describe the victim of the second murder?”
“About the same,” Frank morosely admitted.
“Next,” continued the doctor, “Can anyone remember the description of the possible suspect in the second murder?”
“White male, aged somewhere between twenty and forty,” volunteered Joanne Nelson. “Wearing tight jeans and a muscle shirt. But that was a vague description of someone who happened to walk through the alley. There was no definite link with the murder.”
“I can’t argue that,” replied Bowman. “Detective Bakes, can you tell us what the gentleman who left the bar with last night’s victim looked like?”
“White male, close to forty, wearing tights jeans and a t-shirt.”
“Sound familiar, ladies and gentlemen?” asked Bowman, his tone now more obviously patronizing. “As I’ve told Captain McCall before, I am giving the opinion which was requested of me. Whether you agree with it or not is entirely up to you. From where I stand, the second and fifth murders were committed by one individual and the other three were committed by three other distinct individuals. Now, unless there are any other questions, I have a patient waiting for a four o’clock consultation.”
“No, that’s it for us, Doctor,” Dave politely called out. “Thanks for your time. Barbara, do you want to add anything before Doctor Bowman goes?”
“I’m all set,” came Jenkins’ smiling voice over the speaker. “Sam and I shared our views before calling you guys. Thank-you, Sam. I’ll be in touch.”
“Very good, Barbara,” Bowman replied, his tone pleasant once again. “Pleasure speaking to you all. Please keep me posted, Captain. This case is fascinating. Good-bye.”
The speaker clicked and Dr. Samuel Bowman was gone. Following several seconds of silence, Barbara’s voice, touched with laughter, filled the room.
“He’s really gone, boys and girls. You can talk now.”
“Jesus, is this guy full of himself, or what?” exclaimed Frank incredulously. “How many years of psychiatric experience do you have, Detective Bakes?” he mimicked in frustration.
“Don’t let him get to you, Frankie,” McCall chuckled soothingly, “And just between us folks, he pisses me off too.”
“He’s really not that bad,” said Jenkins’ voice. “He’s just slightly opinionated, that’s all.”
“Slightly?” fumed Frank. “I’d hate to see somebody who’s highly opinionated then.”
“The way I see it,” stepped in Harris, who had remained quiet up to then, “Is like this. If you put aside his obnoxious attitude, the man is simply giving us another option to think about. Personally, I think he’s wrong. But he’s so convinced, I can’t help but have a nagging doubt that maybe, just maybe, we’re looking for more than one killer. Bottom line, we shouldn’t ignore any possibility because, in the end, we don’t want to nab one killer if there’s actually four.”
“I agree with you, Tim,” admitted Bakes, calming down. “What really bothers me is, like you said, he’s so convinced. I can’t help having a nagging feeling that he knows something about this whole deal.”
“Where have I heard that before, Barbara?” said Dave softly. “By the way, Doctor, in all of this, we have not heard your opinion yet. What do you think?”
“I’m still with you guys,” replied the psychiatrist. “I still say one killer. However, I do like Tim’s attitude and think that you should all keep an open mind, just in case the good doctor is right.”
Murmurs of agreement echoed around the room, after which the detectives bade Barbara their good-byes and returned to their desks, leaving Dave alone in his office with his thoughts. As he mentally reviewed the various elements of the case to date, he realized how one particular issue kept creeping back to the center stage of his mind. Why was Sam Bowman so utterly convinced of multiple perpetrators in this case? Did he know something?
Obviously, Frank had also gotten that impression, to the point of making his comment about it. And the looks on the faces of Nelson and Harris had been ones of agreement, not ridicule. The more Dave thought about it, the more it seemed right, although it made no sense at all. Unless, by chance, Dr. Bowman happened to be treating one, or several of the killers. He was, after all, a highly regarded specialist in the field of violent behaviour. Doctor-patient confidentiality would forbid the psychiatrist from divulging any confessions which might have been made. Perhaps Bowman was trying to point them in the right direction without breaking his oath.
It was ridiculous to the point of being possible, yet also ridiculous enough to warrant keeping it to himself. At least for now, discussing it with the others, or with Barbara, was not a concept Dave was comfortable with. He needed to think about it some more and maybe find some additional elements to support his absurd theory. But he needed a sounding board. This was too farfetched to tackle alone. He had to have someone who would listen to his crazy tale, brainstorm with him, argue with him and tell him if he was nuts if need be.
Reaching for the phone, he hit the appropriate speed-dial button and waited impatiently for a response. Following a couple of rings, someone picked up and he broke into a smile.
“Hey, Chris. How’s it going? Yeah, I’m fine, thanks. Listen, seeing as I haven’t had much of a chance to swing my clubs lately, what say you and me get together and go hit a couple of baskets of balls tonight? Sure, it’s nearly four-thirty now so I can meet you there around five, five-fifteen. Yeah, we can go for a bite afterwards. There’s something I want to bounce off you to see if I’m crazy. No, if you don’t mind, hear me out before expressing your opinion. OK, I’m buying but I’m on a cop’s salary so it’ll be burgers. Great. Thanks, buddy. See you then.”
* * * *
James Ford hurried across the street to his car through the increasing five o’clock traffic. Although this visit with Dr. Bowman had not been
a regularly scheduled one, those were on Mondays, he was pleased the psychiatrist had called to suggest they get together. Bowman had indicated worries that Ford’s recent experience with the police could be traumatizing and the good doctor wanted to ensure that his patient did not lose any ground on the progress made to date. Though Ford was confident that the event no longer troubled him, he had to admit that he did think of it once in a while and he recognized that the subconscious sometimes worked in mysterious ways. Considering that Bowman had offered this consultation gratis, the patient had willingly accepted. After all, who was he to refuse a two hundred dollar gift?
As he climbed into his car and started the engine, he realized that there existed an added benefit to this unforeseen appointment. He would be home at a reasonable hour, which was rarely the case most evenings. One of the downsides of owning and operating a successful business was the time it required.
He blended into the traffic and suddenly realized something else. That nagging feeling of ‘not remembering something’ which had bothered him Monday evening was back. What was it? What was he looking for? After several minutes, he let his thoughts wander to other things but vowed to remember whatever it was.
* * * *
“...so that’s my theory,” finished Dave. “What do you think? Is it even slightly possible or am I nuts?”
Chris chewed thoughtfully on his burger for a moment before replying. “It’s a hell of a stretch but, yeah, I think it’s possible.”
“But, ‘worth pursuing’ possible?” Dave insisted, “Or ‘a nice story’ possible?”
“Let me put it to you this way,” suggested Chris. “Have you ever solved a case based initially on a hunch?”
“Jesus, Chris. All the time,” exclaimed Dave. “Contrary to popular belief, police investigations do not yet qualify as a fine science. Trial and error is the name of the game. You shoot and miss lots of times and then, once in a while, you hit right on the money.”
“Well, I think that right now, your theory falls in the ‘hunch’ category,” Chris stated. “Why not shoot? Worst case scenario, you miss.”
“I guess you’re right,” Dave agreed, slowly nodding. “Now, all I have to figure out is where to start.”
“Do you happen to know if Bowman keeps any records on computer?” Chris asked innocently, a slight grin on his face.
“I can’t just start digging into this guy’s files,” retorted Dave. “Anything I found would be legally useless, plus, we could end up with a serious lawsuit.”
“Who said anything about you digging in his files?” questioned Chris, still smiling.
“Hold on a second,” Dave cautioned. “There’s no way I can ask you to do anything like that.”
“You’re right,” Chris admitted. “It would be ethically and morally wrong for you to do so.”
Gazing at Chris through narrow eyes, Dave shook his head as he chuckled.
“We might want to change the direction of this conversation. I don’t like where it’s going right now.”
“Your call,” replied Chris, grinning once again. “You paid for dinner so you’re the boss. So, how about them Expos?”
* * * *
Doctor Samuel Bowman pulled into the driveway of his luxurious home and waited impatiently as the automated garage door slowly rose. As soon as the opening was wide enough, he stepped on the accelerator, a little too hard, causing the tires to squeal slightly on the stone tile surface.
“Relax,” he muttered to himself. “So what, you had a crappy day. It’s over.”
Taking his own advice, he took a couple of deep breaths, then calmly turned off the engine and closed the garage door behind him.
“There, you feel better already,” he stated aloud, heading for the door which led to the living quarters of his comfortable residence.
He climbed the stairs to his second storey bedroom, looking forward to a quiet evening at home. As he undressed, he reviewed his day, trying to pinpoint exactly what he was frustrated with.
Actually, his day had been rather uneventful. He had spent the morning reviewing patient files until his first consultation at eleven. A second consultation after lunch had preceded his discussions regarding the murders, first with Barbara Jenkins, then with Captain McCall et al. These had been followed by his four o’clock with James Ford, which apparently had been somewhat unnecessary.
The source of his frustrations, Bowman decided as he descended back to the main floor, was obviously his conversation with the detectives. Captain McCall had clearly displayed his ignorance of psychology when they had met the previous afternoon. Then today, that Detective Bakes had demonstrated that his mind was just as closed as that of his superior. Their attitudes, he decided, would have to change lest they wished to solve this by themselves, if they could solve it at all. His time was precious and would not be wasted much longer on people who refused to be helped.
His dilemma settled, he was able to concentrate on other things and realized that he was hungry. He strolled into the kitchen and went for the fridge, pulling out a beer while he thought of what to eat. Scanning the shelves of the refrigerator, he found nothing that appealed to him. He pulled open the door of the freezer to investigate what leftovers it might have to offer. Immediately inside was an unfamiliar aluminium foil package which apparently had leaked, leaving a frozen, brownish red stain on the freezer’s bottom surface.
Curious as to what the package’s contents were, he pulled it out and went to the counter where he proceeded to unwrap it.
“No doubt the remains of something I ate six months ago,” he chuckled to himself, ripping at the layers of foil.
He had a tendency of accumulating things in the refrigerator and cleaning them out on a regular basis was not one of his greatest strengths.
He finished removing the first of several foil layers and was puzzled to find another foil packet bound with tape.
“What the hell is this?” he slowly muttered, struggling with the resistant tape with little success. “Ahh, Jesus!”
Growing impatient, he opened a drawer, withdrew a pair of kitchen scissors and proceeded to slash through the remaining foil and tape before ripping open the package with his hands.
He stared at its contents for several seconds in horror as he felt a rush of nausea emanate from the pit of his stomach. Feeling suddenly dizzy and light headed, he dropped the disgusting packet to the floor and bolted for the sink nearby, barely making it before violently vomiting the remains of his lunch.
Trembling and weak, he fell to his knees, breathing deeply to regain some measure of control. After several minutes, he regained sufficient strength to stand and dared to look again. He retched slightly but managed to keep what little was left in his stomach down. He got a plastic bag from a nearby closet and a wooden spoon from the utensil drawer, taking a last deep breath, scooped the foil wrap and its contents into the bag.
Hurrying into the living room, he turned on the gas fireplace and tossed both bag and spoon into the flames. Trembling once again, he returned to the kitchen, retrieved his beer and dropped wearily into a chair. If he let the fire burn for a while, he reasoned, all that would remain would be the foil. This he would discard afterwards. However, he would definitely need to have a serious talk with Randi and Bobby. This was his home, not his office and he was damned if he’d let them mix his professional relationships with his personal life.
A sudden thought crossed his mind, forcing him to smile meekly as he shook his head. At least now he knew where the missing genitals had gone.
Chapter 12 - Friday, June 6, 1997
Following a morning of errands, an eleven o’clock tennis date and lunch with an old friend, Sandy returned home to spend a leisurely afternoon with Chris. With the weather as gorgeous as it was, she hoped he hadn’t spent the morning cooped up in the study with his computer, which was where he had been when she had left at 8:30 that morning. He had promised he wouldn’t but that had simply drawn a laugh and a ‘Yeah, right,’ from S
andy.
She had come to learn over the years that, although Chris was a man of his word, such promises rarely held true when he was busy at something which impassioned him. And whatever he was currently working on, which she knew was Dave’s murder case although Chris remained conveniently vague about it, definitely passed the ‘passion’ test.
She often wondered why he had retired at such an early age as he was not one to sit idle; he had to be doing something worthwhile, solving problems at all times. She somewhat sadly accepted however that the types of problems he attacked today, through his ‘consultant’ work with Jonathan and these little side projects, like Dave’s case, he involved himself with, gave him a much higher degree of satisfaction than running a business ever had. In the end, she loved him for who he was and would remain by his side and support him any way she could, no matter what, for Chris Barry was a good man, the best she had ever met.
She roamed through the first floor of their expansive home, calling him but receiving no response in return. Moving on to the den, she headed through the patio doors which led to the terrace and pool beyond where she found her husband comfortably sprawled on a long-chair, notepad across his thighs, a little Dave Matthews Band playing in the background.
“Hey there,” he greeted her, grinning sheepishly as he lay the notepad on a small table beside him.
“Hey there yourself,” she smiled leaning over to peck him on the cheek. “Why you can’t just relax and do nothing, I’ll never understand.”
“I’m just not as lazy as you are,” he teasingly responded, accepting the evil glare she threw his way. “Anyhow, how more relaxed do you want me to be? Here I am, roasting in the hot, hot sun with a cold alcoholic beverage and some funky background music. If that ain’t relaxed, lady, I don’t know what is.”
“So, what evil doings have you been up to while I was away?” she asked, pulling up a chair close beside him.
Mind Games Page 9