“Boys from the lab,” Nelson continued, “Estimate the death occurred early on Saturday morning, somewhere between one and three. This ties in well with the fact that she left the Crescent Club with some guy she met a little before one. A girlfriend she was with on Friday confirmed that; same girl who found the victim late Saturday afternoon.”
“Think she might have anything to do with it?” quizzed Frank.
“I doubt it,” responded Joanne. “Dave?”
“Same here,” agreed McCall. “We spoke to her for quite a while and her shock seemed genuine. Plus, we checked her alibis, two other girls they were bar-hopping with. The three of them left the club around two and went to eat at Dundee’s. Apparently, they’re regulars and a couple of waiters vouched for them also.”
“This guy our lady left with?” queried Tim, “Somebody she knew?”
“I was just getting to that,” Nelson replied, “And the answer is no. She met him at the club on Friday.”
“And left with him, just like that?” Harris questioned incredulously.
“Oh, come on, Tim,” Joanne retorted. “Fast forward three or four decades, please. These girls are in their forties and don’t have a steady guy. They go out to clubs and yeah, sometimes they leave with someone, just like that.”
“Hey, don’t get me wrong,” Tim responded, almost apologetically. “This isn’t a ‘woman’ thing. It’s just amazing that in this world of crazy people, AIDS, etcetera, that some people, boys and girls alike, are still willing to go off with a stranger without a second thought.”
“OK, Harris. Apology accepted,” joked Nelson. “Now, about this guy. The girlfriend was able to describe him pretty well. He spent a couple of hours chatting with them before leaving with the victim. Late thirties, maybe early forties, about five-ten and a hundred eighty pounds. Light brown wavy hair, longish but styled, brown eyes. Excellent dresser, ‘casual chic’ as it was described to us. Apparently intelligent based on his vocabulary and his general knowledge of a variety of subjects they talked about. When one of them asked what he did for a living he smiled and answered something like, ‘not much, family money’.”
“Do we have a name?” queried Frank.
“A first name only, for what it’s worth,” Joanne responded. “Alex.”
“Can the girlfriend describe him well enough to get a composite sketch done?” Harris asked.
“She thinks so,” answered Dave. “We’ve got her scheduled with an artist at one today.”
“Any neighbours hear anything?” Frank pursued their quizzing.
“Nope,” replied Joanne. “She lived on the second floor of one of those small four unit apartment blocks on Milton below de Maisonneuve. The tenants from the apartments next to and below hers were gone for the weekend. The third, who lives downstairs on the other side, is a sweet old lady who’s somewhat deaf. She was in bed by nine and heard or saw nothing.”
“Was this guy a regular at the Crescent Club?” asked Harris.
“Not according to the girlfriend,” Dave answered. “They apparently spend quite a bit of time there and had never seen him before. Once we’ve got the sketch, we’ll go back and chat with the club staff.”
“And that,” announced Joanne as she referred to her notes, “Is about all we’ve got for now.”
“Did we get an opinion from Dr. Bowman yet?” Frank enquired, his tone noticeably bitter.
“Not yet, Frankie,” Dave chuckled. “I spoke to Barbara early this morning and we’ll be faxing her Joanne’s report as soon as it’s finished. Tony promised me an autopsy report before noon. Barb will speak to Bowman afterwards.”
“My guess would be the same guy as the Hotel de la Montagne murder,” volunteered Harris, drawing smiles from Nelson and McCall.
“How do you figure that?” sneered Frank, still not buying the multiple killer theory, “And why are you two smiling?”
“Victim was female, in her mid-forties,” Tim explained. “She was apparently rather liberal in her sexual practices and was picked up in a classy place. That seems to bode well with the description of the de la Montagne murder victim.”
“To answer your second question,” Dave stepped in, “On Saturday, I asked Joanne who she thought had done it. She came up with the same answer.”
Taking this turn in the conversation as a sign that the meeting was over, Frank hopped down off the small conference table and headed for the door, muttering as he went. “Goddamn shrink’s got everybody brainwashed. That’s what the problem is.”
“We’re placing bets on this, Frank,” Harris called out with a smirk. “Nobody’s chosen the Caddy killer yet. Can I put you down for two bucks?”
“I’ll be at my desk if anyone needs me,” said Frank, shaking his head as he left the office.
“I’ll let you know when Bowman calls, Frankie,” offered Dave, grinning. Turning to the other two, he stated, “Who says you can’t have fun in this business.”
* * * *
“You see the paper this morning?” Sandy asked as she joined Chris on the terrace where he sat, busy at his notepad.
“Yeah,” he nodded, glancing up at her briefly. “Dave and his gang have another one on their hands.”
“These killings are so brutal, Chris,” Sandy commented with a shudder. “When are they going to catch these people?”
“Hopefully, I’m gonna find something in here that accelerates the timetable a little,” her husband responded, fingers flying on the keyboard.
“No luck so far?” she asked, pulling up a chair next to his.
“Not yet,” he replied, his eyes remaining glued to the screen, “But it’s only a matter of time.”
“Isn’t there any danger of Bowman finding out that someone’s in his system?” Sandy enquired, staring at the dozens of lines of code in curious fascination.
“Only if he tried to access a file that I was working on,” her husband responded, “But that won’t happen.”
“And how can you be so sure of that, Mister Genius,” Sandy playfully challenged.
“Because I copied all his files,” Chris replied smugly. “Therefore, I ain’t playing in his system.”
He paused for a moment while the program he had built generated and tested another series of random access codes. His expression brightened as the screen flickered suddenly and filled with lines of text.
“Ladies and Gentlemen,” he murmured softly, beaming. “We have a winner.”
“You’re in?” exclaimed Sandy, making no attempt to hide her excitement.
“We have just entered the world of Alex,” Chris proudly announced, rising hurriedly from his seat. “Let me get this baby hooked up to the printer. Then, we’re gonna have some reading to do.”
* * * *
James Ford darted through the five o’clock traffic to his car parked across the street from Dr. Bowman’s office. That feeling was back again. It puzzled him as he suddenly realized that it always returned following his visits with the psychiatrist. He also realized that he had not spoken to the doctor about it. Was it because the strange feeling only came about after their sessions? Or was he subconsciously withholding this information from Bowman?
He settled into his car, aware that this bothersome sensation of unknown was stronger than the two other times. Closing his eyes, he breathed deeply, forcing himself to relax and focus. For a moment, there was nothing but he continued his exercise, encouraging himself to concentrate. Then, the unknown became clear and he knew what he had been searching for.
Reaching into his jacket pocket, he pulled out his wallet and quickly found what he was looking for. He started up the engine and as he pulled away from the curb, he reached for his cellular phone. He had a call to make.
* * * *
As he had done on many occasions over the last two hours, Dave McCall stared at the artist’s rendition of Alex, a possible suspect in Friday night’s murder. He couldn’t help thinking that the face portrayed seemed vaguely familiar but, for the life of him
, could not pin down why. The others had not had the same impression although all had agreed with Tim’s comment that ‘it was a common face, looked like any number of people out there’. Yet, to Dave it seemed to be more than that. He had seen this man before. He just didn’t know where. Maybe at one of the murder scenes. Lord knows, there had been mobs of onlookers at each one. Copies of the sketch had been made and he and his detectives would be revisiting the crime scenes to see if it rang any bells.
“Where, where, where?” he muttered to himself, thumping his forehead with the heel of his hand as he stared down at the drawing.
“Forgive me for interrupting your head bashing ritual,” kidded Joanne Nelson from the doorway to his office, “But I just got a call I thought you might be interested in.”
“That’s all right. I was just about done,” replied McCall. “Who called you?”
“You remember James Ford?” asked Joanne as she dropped into a chair.
“Ford? He was the guy whose credit card was used at the Four Seasons?” suggested Dave.
“One and the same,” Joanne responded. “I had asked him to call me if he remembered anything that might be helpful and he just did.”
“The suspense is killing me, Miss Nelson. What?”
“He could not figure out where his credit card had been lifted,” Joanne continued. “The only place he left his jacket, and wallet, unattended was at the office. Or so he remembered. He just called to let me know that he also leaves them unattended somewhere else. At the doctor’s where he has a weekly appointment on Mondays.”
“Ah! A possible light at the end of the tunnel,” Dave nodded approvingly. “I presume you’re going to dig into this further?”
“Yep, I think we should,” Joanne stated matter-of-factly, “Cuz the doctor is none other than Samuel Bowman.”
“No shit,” breathed Dave. “Listen. I hadn’t talked about this to date because it seemed a little too wild a theory. What’s really driven home so far, the few times I spoke to Bowman, is the extent to which he’s convinced by his multiple killer concept. He’s left me with a distinct feeling that he knows more than we do.”
“Which means...?” Nelson urged, confused.
“This is gut feeling, Joanne,” Dave cautioned, “But I’m really starting to believe that Bowman knows the killers. I think that he may be treating these people.”
“Yeah, it’s nuts,” agreed Nelson, “But this call from Ford certainly doesn’t do your theory any harm.”
“Listen,” decided Dave. “We really don’t have enough to go on right now so let’s keep this quiet for the time being. We’ll bring Frank and Tim up to speed in the morning and we’ll keep our eyes open afterwards. I’d just like to quietly dig up a bit more meat before we start officially investigating one of the top psychiatric authorities on violent criminal behaviour.”
“Sure thing,” Joanne replied. “Speaking of Bowman, did you hear anything from him or Barbara today?”
“Nah. I had a quick chat with Barb around two. She had received the reports and was faxing them to Bowman. They both had busy schedules though so Barbara didn’t expect to get back to me before tomorrow.”
“I’m just curious to see if we predicted Bowman’s read on this correctly,” said Joanne as she glanced at her watch. “Anyhow, unless you have something else, I’m gonna call it a day.”
“Nope. That’s it,” McCall responded. “I’m packing it in too. See you in the morning.”
“I’ll be here. Goodnight,” said Nelson, waving a hand behind her as she left his office.
Once alone, Dave gazed down at the sketch one last time, again failing to identify why the face looked familiar.
“Harris is probably right,” he muttered in frustration. “It’s just a common looking face.”
With that thought in mind, he retrieved his jacket, turned off the lights and headed home for the night.
* * * *
Sandy finished reading the last page and placed it neatly on top of the overturned pile of paper which her husband had been busy producing all afternoon.
“So, what do you think?” asked Chris, handing her a frosted mug full of beer before dropping on the comfortable couch beside her.
“They’re case notes written by a doctor about his patients,” stated Sandy, thinking as she spoke. “Carefully written. We know that these four individuals committed ‘violent acts’, to quote Bowman. Comparing these notes to those of a few other patients you had printed, it’s obvious that he made a concerted effort to stay clear of any descriptions of these violent acts. These four patients clearly have had major problems in their past with sexual abuse. There are so many references to that effect that it’s almost unbelievable.”
“So,” Chris questioned more directly, “Do you think Dave’s theory has merit?”
“The recent dates of these notes coincide really well with the murders so far,” replied Sandy. “Yeah, I think Dave is on to something for sure. What’s your next step? You go to Dave with this?”
“Well, that is a step,” responded her husband, his tone hesitant. “I’m not sure if it’s my next one.”
Her eyes narrowed as she gazed at him. “Chris, what are you planning to do?”
“I haven’t figured it out quite yet,” he grinned at her, “But I promise to obtain your approval before I proceed.”
“You better, Mister,” she warned, unable to hold back a smile. “Would now be a good time to change the subject?”
“An excellent time,” Chris thankfully replied. “What’s for dinner?”
“I don’t know,” Sandy shrugged. “I figure that with what you put me through, the least you could do is buy me dinner.”
“Your wish is my command,” he responded solemnly as he reached for the phone. “I’m sure that Monsieur Felix can find me a table. Especially once I tell him who will be accompanying me.”
Chapter 15 - Tuesday, June 10, 1997
Still half asleep, Michael stepped into the shower and turned the cold water knob, subconsciously bracing himself for the icy spray about to pelt his naked body. He did not rise early well and, though quite unpleasant, this method of rapid waking had always proved to be quite effective.
Teeth chattering, he let the freezing water stream over him for well over a minute until he was certain that he was quite awake then adjusted the temperature to a more comfortable level. Relaxing under the warm water, he let his thoughts turn to the murder/therapy issue which had become the focal point for him and the others over the past few weeks.
Contrary to anyone else involved, he found the whole thing to be quite amusing even though it was becoming borderline ridiculous. He understood Randi’s ‘therapy’ point of view and continued to feel the same way. The purpose of the killings was in fact vengeance and the calming effect it had had on him was incredible. However, Randi had definite immature tendencies which, coupled with his stubborn and patronizing attitude, reduced his credibility. As for Alex and Bobby, the whole thing had become a game, a competition, and they had completely lost track of why they did it in the first place. This could be dangerous, Michael had warned them, could lead them to carelessness, mistakes and eventual capture. They had told him not to worry but had left him the distinct impression of caring little for his advice.
As far as good old Sam was concerned, the poor shrink was starting to lose it. Michael sort of felt sorry for the doctor but, on the other hand, it was the psychiatrist who had encouraged them, all of them, to stop bottling up their rage. ‘Let it out,’ he had suggested, ordered in fact, on countless occasions. That was what they were doing. They were simply following his advice.
It was unfortunate, thought Michael, to see them all in their various states of chaos. As for himself, he remained cool and confident, preferring to stay clear of their arguments and discussions and do his own thing. He would kill again but it would not be for petty competitive purposes. When he killed again, it would be for purely therapeutic reasons.
He chuckled as
a thought suddenly crossed his mind. When he had done that prostitute at the Four Seasons the other week, she had actually represented two people from his past. The first was his mother who had forced him to have sex with her on so many occasions. The second was that condescending bitch, the hooker his father had dragged him to so many years earlier.
“So, in essence,” laughed Michael as he turned off the shower, “Each time I kill, it’s two birds with one stone. Therefore, once I do it again, theoretically, I’ll have four under my belt, which will put me ahead of Alex and Bobby in their little contest.”
* * * *
Several years earlier, Sandy had taken up oil painting and fallen in love with the activity. She had since regularly attempted to coax her husband to give the arts a try and had been unsuccessful until a couple of months ago. Back in April, he had agreed to try his hand with the brush, warning Sandy that they would hang his works no matter how disastrous. As it had turned out, there was little reason to worry. Chris had quickly discovered that, in addition to enjoying painting, he had a natural talent for the art form.
In recent weeks, they had fallen into the habit of working their respective canvasses for an hour or two after breakfast and this day was no exception. As any artist knows, while creating a work, one escapes the real world and thinks of nothing else. Well, most of the time.
“About Bowman,” Chris spoke as he dabbed a few strokes on his fourth masterpiece. “I’ll bring it up before you do.”
“I’m listening,” Sandy replied, putting down her brush and turning towards him.
“I’d like to visit the guy. You know, as a patient.”
“Chris, I don’t know,” she wailed in dismay. “We’re talking about a half dozen people dead so far. This could be dangerous.”
“Sweetheart, I know that,” he quietly replied. “I need to do this to help stop the killing. You have to remember two things. One, Bowman’s not dangerous, some of his patients are. Two, I’ve dealt with hazardous situations in the past.”
Mind Games Page 11