Mind Games

by Claude Bouchard

  “What good will seeing Bowman do anyway?” Sandy argued. “Are you gonna ask him who these four killers are?”

  “I don’t know if seeing the man will lead to anything,” Chris admitted. “I’m not even clear on what I expect to accomplish by calling on him. I just know that I have to do something and this is the best I can come up with for now.”

  “Are you going to talk to Dave about this?” his wife challenged.

  “Honey, you know I can’t do that,” he patiently replied. “He’d never go for it.”

  “Well, maybe there’s some logic to his line of thought,” Sandy snapped, turning back to her canvas.

  After a moment of silence, she asked in a pleading, quiet voice. “Can you at least tell Jonathan what you’re doing?”

  “Yeah,” Chris agreed. “I’ll give Jonathan a call. Maybe he can even help.”

  “Good,” Sandy responded, partially satisfied. “I want at least one person to know that you’re a little crazy.”

  * * * *

  “Homicide, McCall.”

  “Well, Good Morning, Captain,” Barbara Jenkins’ voice greeted him over the phone. “How are you this fine day?”

  “Surviving so far,” Dave replied. “So, Doctor, have you cracked this case for me?”

  “Alas, not as of yet, my fine police friend,” sighed Barbara. “I did speak to your buddy, Sam Bowman, though. He suggested I call you to inform you of his opinion. He figured, that way, he wouldn’t have to argue with you or the others.”

  “Let me guess,” suggested McCall. “It was the Hotel de la Montagne killer in the bedroom with the knife.”

  “Very good, Captain,” exclaimed Jenkins, impressed. “You must have you been boning up on your psychology lately.”

  “No, not really but I have been trying to keep a more open mind,” the captain admitted. “To be quite frank with you Barb, this started as a game with Joanne on Saturday when we were heading for the last victim’s apartment. Based on the preliminary information she had received on the phone, she suggested the perp from the Hotel de la Montagne. Then we played the game with Tim yesterday and he quickly came to the same conclusion. Frank, on the other hand, won’t buy it. He’s gung ho that all the murders have been committed by the same individual.”

  “And what does McCall think?” Barbara taunted.

  “McCall is confused,” replied Dave. “And keep in mind, it’s not like Tim and Joanne are convinced that Bowman is right. They’re just trying to use his logic and it worked on a first attempt.”

  “But are you accepting that Bowman’s theory is possible, Dave?” the psychiatrist enquired in amusement.

  “I’m considering it,” McCall acknowledged thoughtfully. “Listen, I’ll let you in on something but this is strictly off the record for now.”

  “Sure,” Barbara agreed, interested. “Go for it.”

  “This is based on gut feeling more than anything else,” Dave started, “But I really believe that Bowman knows who is responsible for the murders.”

  “And how would he know that, Dave?” the psychiatrist questioned, doubt ringing clearly in here tone.

  “The killers are patients of his,” McCall explained. “Naturally, he can’t tell us about this flat out so he’s been trying to fill us in more subtly.”

  “Do you have anything to back this up, Dave?” Barbara insisted, seeking something to support this incredible theory.

  “Hardly enough,” the captain replied. “You remember the guy who’s credit card was used to book the suite at the Four Seasons? The fourth murder, the prostitute? Just imagine if he happened to be a patient of Bowman’s.”

  “Oh my God!” Jenkins gasped. “Is he?”

  “Yup,” Dave proudly stated. “He’s the one who told us.”

  “So he could be one of the killers after all?” suggested Barbara, a bit overwhelmed by the morning’s sudden turn of events.

  “That, I doubt,” McCall disagreed. “His alibi checked out that evening. Plus, Tim had a later conversation with the man to verify his whereabouts on the nights of the other murders. He’s clean. As far as I’m concerned, the only thing this guy is guilty of is not keeping track of his credit card.”

  “OK,” said Barbara slowly, now a little confused. “So, his link to Bowman means what then?”

  “The only place he remembered leaving his jacket, and wallet, unattended,” Dave explained, “Was at the office. Now, he’s realized that he also does so every week when he visits the doctor. In fact, Bowman seems to be the cordial host, more often than not hanging up and then retrieving his patients’ coats or jackets in a waiting room closet. Which means, during an hour long session, anybody, including other patients, would have access to those coats or jackets.”

  “Wow,” Barbara quietly murmured. “Are you planning to speak to Bowman about this?”

  “Maybe later, not now,” responded McCall. “This is just too flimsy right now to make an issue of. That’s why I’m asking you to keep this to yourself. On the other hand, it reassures me to have a great psychiatric mind aware of my theory. It’s an additional angle from which you can consider the past and future developments in this case.”

  “Well, I thank you for your transparent flattery, Captain,” Barbara laughed, “And yes, I will go over the files again with this in mind. I’ll let you know if I come up with anything.”

  “Thanks for your continued support, Doctor,” Dave said solemnly. “As usual, to work with you is nothing but sheer pleasure.”

  “Ah, dear Captain,” Jenkins responded. “I’m certain that you realize that the true pleasure is mine.”

  * * * *

  Bobby stood before the full length mirror, admiring his nude body with pride. Forty was getting closer and closer but his body certainly didn’t show it. And this wasn’t just his opinion. He saw how people looked at him when he went out on the town, both men and women alike. Their glances and stares displayed sometimes hunger, sometimes envy, but always admiration.

  Sighing with reluctance, he made a conscious effort to pull himself away from the mirror and started dressing for the evening. Since his success with Ed the other night, he could feel the confidence constantly flowing through his body. He had screwed up with that fat pig in the Cadillac a couple of weeks ago but now, his amateur days were over.

  The others, even Dr. Bowman, had warned him to be careful about being too sure of himself. Tonight, he would prove to them that they didn’t know what they were talking about, even Dr. Sam.

  * * * *

  With these apparent serial killings in recent weeks in the forefront, a number of other pending cases had been left on the backburner which had eventually attracted the attention of Dave McCall’s superiors. A consequent telephone call had prompted the captain to suggest that some of his people put in a few extra hours, at least enough to keep the paper flow going and keep the bureaucrats off his back.

  It was for this reason that Frank Bakes was still at his desk at 8:30 p.m., furiously typing away at his PC, in a valiant attempt to produce a series of overdue progress reports. The phone rang and he paused just long enough to hit the speaker button before attacking the keyboard once more.

  “Homicide, Bakes,” he barked, sharing his concentration between phone and screen.

  “Detective Bakes?” the whispery voice enquired amidst loud music and chattering in the background.

  “Speaking,” Frank responded mechanically, still intent on his report writing. “Who’s speaking?”

  “Lonny,” the voice replied inaudibly.

  “I’m sorry, I can’t hear you. Speak louder please,” Frank demanded impatiently, leaning close to the phone.

  “Lonny from TJ’s,” the whisper repeated aggressively, barely a decibel louder than before. “I can’t speak louder, OK? Pick up the damn phone.”

  “Lonny?” Frank spoke into the receiver. “What’s up? What can I do for you?”

  “He’s here,” the bartender lisped softly. “The guy who left with Ed is here
.”

  “Jesus Christ,” exclaimed Frank, already out of his chair. “OK, Lonny. Stay calm. We’ll be right over. Can you watch for me and point him out when I get there?”

  “Yeah, Yeah,” the homosexual whispered nervously. “Just move it. I really don’t like this shit.”

  “On my way, Lonny. Thanks,” replied Frank before realizing that the bartender had already hung up.

  “Dave,” he cried excitedly towards McCall’s office as he grabbed for his jacket. “We may have one of our guys cruising again at TJ’s. Let’s go.”

  * * * *

  Bobby glanced up suddenly and caught the bartender staring at him again but as before, the latter averted his eyes. What was with this guy?

  Something was wrong, Bobby could sense it. When he had arrived fifteen minutes earlier, the man behind the bar had looked at him strangely and had seemed to grow uneasy. Since, he had remained at the far end of the bar, occupying most of his time looking nervously back and forth from the entrance to Bobby.

  What was wrong? A queasy sensation started to grow in the pit of Bobby’s stomach as a thought crossed his mind. Minutes after he had arrived, the barkeep had made a phone call. That was when Bobby had first noticed the man was staring at him. Who had he called? Did he remember Bobby from the other night? Had he noticed Bobby leaving with Ed?

  The queasy feeling quickly turned to nausea as fear set in. The others, Doctor Sam, they had been right. He had to get out of there. He hurriedly drained the remainder of his beer, spilling some down his chin in the process. Sliding off the barstool, he rushed towards the exit, cursing himself for his stupidity in coming back to this place. He allowed himself a glance over his shoulder at the bartender on his way out. The man’s expression was one of fear and panic as he watched Bobby flee. Something was definitely up.

  Out onto the sidewalk, Bobby looked wildly up and down the street, fully expecting an army to rush in on him. However, apart from a few passers by who curiously examined him, nobody paid him any particular attention. Breathing deeply to calm his battering heartbeat, he headed for the car which was parked around the corner. As he approached, he could see two patrol cars in the alley behind TJ’s.

  “Shit, man,” he muttered as he climbed into the automobile. “Something’s wrong. Gotta get out of here.”

  “I guess going there wasn’t the best idea you ever had after all, was it Bobby?” he could imagine Dr. Bowman saying as he started the engine.

  “No way,” Bobby fearfully muttered aloud, “I think I really fucked up this time. They’re coming. I know it. They’re gonna catch me.”

  “Calm down,” he continued aloud as he pulled the gearshift into drive and hit the accelerator, leaving a little rubber on the pavement behind him. “Nobody’s going to catch you. You’ve got things under control.”

  He reached the corner and, barely slowing as he turned, raced by TJ’s. A man crossing the street jumped back, narrowly avoiding getting hit by the car.

  “Jesus, Jesus, Jesus,” Bobby whispered, close to tears, not daring to look back as the car sped on.

  He turned at another intersection several blocks further and slowed to a more reasonable speed, breathing deeply, getting a grip on himself.

  “Everything’s all right, Bobby,” he said aloud as he started to relax, “Let’s just get you home and forget about tonight.”

  * * * *

  The car pulled haphazardly into a vacant parking spot just across the street from TJ’s and Dave McCall was climbing out before Frank had even brought the vehicle to a complete stop. He hurried across the pavement towards the club, hoping that the backup he had requested from the local precinct was in place in the alley behind the bar.

  He reached the sidewalk in front of the nightclub and stopped to look back towards Frank. As Bakes started to cross the street, a tan BMW careened around the corner and sped towards him.

  “Jesus Christ,” cursed Frank, jumping back to avoid getting hit. “Goddamn lunatic!”

  “Are you all right?” Dave called out, staring at the rapidly retreating automobile.

  “Yeah, crazy fucking bastard,” muttered Bakes as he joined his superior. “Did you get his plate?”

  “No. I tried to but his plate lights were out,” Dave sourly replied. “You get a look at the guy?”

  “Just a glimpse,” Frank angrily responded as he watched the BMW round a corner out of sight in the distance. “Wasn’t anybody I know,” he added with a grin.

  “Fact is, that schmuck doesn’t deserve all the blame,” McCall commented with a smirk as they moved towards TJ’s. “You were jay-walking.”

  “Well, thank-you, Captain,” Bakes replied as they reached the club’s entrance. “With you as a witness, I sure as hell am glad the guy missed me.”

  “I’d have lied for you, Frankie,” McCall responded reassuringly, pausing to open the door. “You ready?”

  “All set,” Frank quietly answered, unsnapping the holster beneath his jacket.

  “Well then, my friend,” said Dave. “Let’s go in here and grab that wacky sonovabitch of yours.”

  With adrenalin pumping, they went into the noisy nightclub where they were immediately met by a frantic Lonny, accompanied by the massively muscular owner, TJ.

  “Well, you just weren’t quick enough,” Lonny shrieked at Frank in a scolding tone. “He left in a panic a few minutes ago. What did you do? Stop for dinner on the way?”

  “Now, now, Lonny,” soothed TJ in a surprisingly high pitched voice. “I’m sure these fine detectives got here as fast as they could.”

  “Did you see which way he went?” demanded Bakes roughly, angered by the bartender’s demeanour as well as the suspect’s flight.

  “Nope. He just ran,” Lonny haughtily replied. “You should have got here sooner.”

  “Why did he panic and run?” McCall suddenly questioned, gazing evenly at the bartender. “Did you spook him, Lonny?”

  “I-I didn’t have to call Detective Bakes, you know, Mister..?” Lonny stuttered defensively.

  “Captain Dave McCall,” the head of the Special Homicide Task Force introduced himself, “And you’re right, Lonny. You didn’t have to call Frank and we appreciate that you did. And believe me we got here as fast as we could. Now, back to my question. Did you make this guy panic, Lonny? It’s important.”

  “I’m sure that Lonny didn’t do anything to intentionally alert this man,” TJ spoke up again, protectively.

  “And I’m sure you understand that this man is a suspect in at least one viciously brutal murder,” Frank snapped in a dry voice. “And probably more. Now, Lonny, did you tip the guy off in any way? If he thinks you know something, he may come back to see you.”

  “Oh my God!” the bartender gasped, covering his gaping mouth with a hand while TJ placed a comforting arm around his shoulders. “I was nervous. I guess he noticed I was keeping an eye on him. Do you really think he’ll come back?”

  “He might,” admitted McCall as he turned toward TJ. “Anywhere quiet we can sit down and chat with Lonny for a few minutes?”

  “My office,” nodded the bar owner. “This way.”

  They followed him through the club, drawing a barrage of angry and uneasy stares from its patrons in the process.

  “Angry bunch out there, TJ,” Dave commented once into the quiet of the club owner’s office.

  “They generally don’t like your kind, Captain,” the gay lisped politely.

  “Heterosexuals or cops?” quipped McCall with a grin.

  “Both,” TJ smiled. “Seriously, my customers are not troublemakers, they’re homosexuals. Unfortunately, many of your kind, police officers, don’t think highly of gays and have taken to harassing my clientele, not to speak of what they’ve tried to put me through.”

  Dave listened quietly while the man spoke, letting him finish his sob story. It was common knowledge that TJ, Theodore Johannsen as he was legally known, had a rap sheet of impressive length. He had been arrested on countless occasions
over the years for a variety of offences ranging from prostitution to assault with a deadly weapon. He had served serious time twice, once for narcotics trafficking and once for attempted murder. He continued to regularly dabble in illegal activities to this day and it was a well known fact that he had close ties with Montreal’s Moretto crime family.

  “Listen, TJ,” Dave stepped in politely after a moment. “I apologize for the rude and narrow-minded ways of some of my colleagues on the force. But I’m not here to bother you or your customers. I’ve got a disturbed person out there who’s gotten into the habit of cutting up innocent people until they’re dead and I want to stop him. That’s all I’m interested in. Nothing else. I don’t give a rat’s ass what you and your friends out there do, or don’t do.”

  “OK, Captain,” said TJ, nodding in approval to his bartender as he reached for the door. “I’ll let you talk with Lonny here while I go spread the word that you guys are cool.”

  A blast of music filled the room as TJ opened the door and, just as quickly, diminished back to a murmur as he closed it behind him.

  “He’s really not a bad...” Lonny started but stopped as McCall interrupted.

  “We’re homicide, Lonny. Unless your boss is this slasher we’re looking for, I don’t really care about him at all. Now, this guy that was here tonight. Are you sure it’s the same guy that left with Ed the other night?”

  “Absolutely,” the barkeep nodded emphatically, “Like I had told Detective Bakes, he was rather handsome so I had looked at him quite a bit. I’m sure it was him.”

  “Do you think you could describe well enough for one of our artist’s to make a sketch of him?” continued Dave.

  “Well, yes I could,” Lonny responded hesitantly. “I’m just not sure I want to. I’m not real high on dealing with the cops and messing with killers.”

  “If I show you a sketch, Lonny,” Frank stepped in as he searched a pocket of his jacket, “Can you at least tell us if it’s the guy or not?”