Mind Games

by Claude Bouchard

  “Overall, not very complicated. Always a couple in the lobby, not far from the desk. The others will be roaming the hotel, changing floors regularly not to attract attention. Everyone’s plains-clothed, a few dressed as bellhops or room service. Ozzie would like us to be there at four so that we can brief his team to our liking.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” Dave nodded approvingly as he checked his watch. “Doesn’t leave us much time. Give me a few minutes to call Cathy then we can go over what we want to tell these guys.”

  With a grin, he added, “Guess I won’t get to finish this paperwork. Thanks, Frankie.”

  * * * *

  “Well I’ll be damned,” Chris murmured softly from where he lay on a long-chair, his ever-present notepad in his lap.

  “What’s the matter?” asked Sandy, looking up from her magazine.

  “He put me in with the psychos,” Chris announced, staring at the screen. “I am now simply ‘Chris’ and I’m password protected.”

  “You’re kidding?” exclaimed his spouse, rushing over to look at the screen.

  “There,” pointed Chris. “Wednesday night, I was ‘Barry, Christopher’, right under ‘Barnes, Thomas’. Now, I’m just ‘Chris’.”

  “What did you tell him?” Sandy worriedly questioned.

  “Nothing. He started on me about why I was there because I didn’t seem to have any problems. I insinuated that I had done some pretty violent stuff but gave him nothing specific.”

  “You’ve got to see what he wrote into your file, Chris. Can you break in?”

  “Is a bear Catholic?” Chris chuckled. “Of course I’ll break in. I have to know what makes me special.”

  “This isn’t funny, Chris,” scolded Sandy. “Bowman’s got you figured for one of those savage lunatics.”

  “Fear not, sweet Sandy,” her husband soothed. “I’m protected by doctor-patient confidentiality.”

  “Doesn’t anything ever bother you?” Sandy growled in exasperation.

  “Rarely,” Chris grinned. “In fact, that’s what I told Bowman that my problem was. Now, why don’t you go get us something cold to drink while I figure out this password.”

  * * * *

  “That was a wonderful dinner,” the girl expertly purred across the table at Alexandre’s on Peel Street.

  “Glad you enjoyed it,” Michael flashed a smile.

  “Any idea what you want to do now?” the call girl asked suggestively, reaching over and touching his hand ever so lightly.

  “I haven’t established the specifics yet,” replied Michael. “But I do have a general idea.”

  “Do you live close by?” enquired the hooker.

  “Sort of, but I’m not sure if my wife would appreciate our going there,” Michael lied. “How about if we got ourselves a room at the Four Seasons?”

  “Wherever you like, sweetheart,” agreed the girl. “You’re the boss.”

  “Wonderful,” said Michael. “I’ll ask you a favour though. They insist on credit card payment, which brings me back to my wife. Do you mind putting it on your card? I’ll pay you cash.”

  “I told you my rules, gorgeous,” she replied. “If it’s cash up front, we can do whatever you like.”

  “Excellent. Let us go and have a grand time, my dear.”

  Chapter 19 - Saturday, June 14, 1997

  “Goddamn Jesus Christ,” swore McCall as he paced angrily back and forth in his office. “How the hell could this happen? We were there, goddamn it.”

  “It’s a big hotel, Dave,” Frank responded stoically, “With hundreds of rooms and hundreds of people. We were only fifteen to cover that.”

  Dave stopped and stared at Frank with burning eyes as he replied. “And he was only one. Fifteen against one and we missed him.”

  A moment of silence passed before Frank spoke again. “You know you’re being ridiculous, boss.”

  “Yeah, I know,” Dave admitted grudgingly. “I know we did everything we could barring having someone watching every room. I’m just damned frustrated that we were there and the sonovabitch just waltzed in, got a room, committed murder and walked away.”

  “But we hadn’t figured that he’d have the hooker do their check-in,” argued Frank. “Come on, Dave. You said it yourself. We did everything we could. We ran everyone who had reserved or was registered through the system for priors. We had people watching the front desk constantly for anyone who resembled the sketches. And a bunch of us were roaming the floors. It’s not because we screwed up, Dave.”

  “I just hope my boss sees it the same way,” McCall grunted, reaching for his jacket behind the door. “I’m going home to see my wife and get some sleep. I’m supposed to be off this week-end anyway. You should do the same. You’ve been up all night.”

  “I just want to finish up my preliminary report,” replied Frank. “It’s quarter to nine so Tim and Joanne should be in soon. I’ll bring them up to speed and get out of here.”

  “All right,” Dave tiredly replied. “I’m at home if anything else comes up.”

  * * * *

  Michael stretched luxuriously as he laid in the king size bed, reliving the previous evening’s events in his mind.

  Dinner at Alexandre’s had been great and the girl, though a whore, had been quite charming. He couldn’t get over how easily he had convinced her to put the room on her card but she was a professional, experienced in dealing with married men.

  When they had reached the hotel, he had gone into the lounge off the lobby after specifying that she get two keys, one for her and one for her husband. It was while he waited for her to rejoin him that he had spotted that Captain McCall. He’d seen the cop’s face many times on television and in the papers and recognized him immediately.

  At first, seeing McCall had spooked him, almost enough to convince him to run. After a moment of thought however, he had realized that having the cop on the premises while he did his deadly deed simply served to increase his level of excitement. He would succeed where Bobby had failed.

  While he waited for his escort, he had surveyed the lobby and identified at least two others, cops or security, staking out the lobby. Both were near the front desk, doing a lousy job at pretending to be regular people just waiting around. The first looked at his watch every other minute, feigning impatience as he searched the area. The other was leaned up against a wall, calmly reading a newspaper, although he rarely looked at the paper long enough to read anything, nor did he ever turn the page.

  The girl had returned from the front desk and handed him one of the two magnetic cards she held in her hand. He had suggested that they have a drink before going up to the room and she had willingly agreed. Once her glass was empty, Michael had requested that she go on ahead of him and ‘make herself comfortable’, he would follow shortly. Several moments later, a half dozen people from a nearby table had left the bar and he had used the group as cover to walk through open lobby area. His elevator trip to the sixth floor and the subsequent short walk to room 605 nearby had been non-events as both elevator and hallway had been deserted.

  Upon entering the dimly lit room, he had found the whore lying naked on the couch, covered only with a bath towel. She had suggested that he remove his clothes and he had silently complied before approaching her. As he stood before her, she had slid off the couch to her knees, baring her body in the process, and proceeded to caress and kiss his semi-erect penis. Michael had allowed himself to enjoy the sensation for a moment, running his fingers through her silky hair as he guided her, then slid his hands down and, with one quick movement, snapped her lovely neck. He could not afford to let her scream.

  After laying her lifeless form on the carpet, he returned to his small briefcase which he had left on the bed and retrieved the knife to complete his therapy.

  It was on the way home that he had thought of the perfect way to end a wonderful evening. Stopping at a pay phone, he had contacted the hotel and simply stated, “Go clean up room 605. I’m done for the night,” before h
anging up. He had just been sorry that he could not be there to see the faces of McCall and his men when they discovered the body.

  * * * *

  Chris strolled out onto the sunlit terrace, a cold beer in each hand.

  “Here, catch,” he called out to Jonathan.

  “Jesus, Chris,” complained Addley, catching the frosted can. “It’s only ten o’clock.”

  “Yeah, here,” grinned his host, “But in Paris, it’s four.”

  “You’ve got a point,” Jonathan nodded approvingly as he popped open the can. “So, what’s your read on this Bowman thing?”

  “Still too early to tell,” Chris shrugged. “I think that I’ll be able to get him to open up more though, if my last visit was any indication. He seems like the kind of guy that you can get going if you pump him just right.”

  “You think he’s buying your act?”

  “First of all,” smiled Chris, “It’s not completely an act so, I’ve got that going for me. Secondly, I believe he has bought it because he’s now moved my file over into the password, first name only section.”

  “Along with Bobby, Alex and the others?” asked Addley, incredulous.

  “Yessir,” Chris proudly boasted. “I’m now officially crazy.”

  “Way to go,” congratulated Jonathan. “Maybe you can talk Bowman into organizing a group session.”

  “Might not be a bad idea,” Chris grinned, “But I’ll leave you the job of selling to Sandy.”

  “Maybe it isn’t such a good idea just yet,” Jonathan laughed. “Anything else?”

  Without hesitation, Chris responded. “I studied the layout of the place, just in case we’d decide to drop in one night and look around. Building doesn’t seem to be alarm protected, nor does Bowman’s office. Besides the main entrance, there’s a side door that leads to the parking lot. Locks are Medecos; nothing particular to worry about.”

  “You’re getting good at this, old boy,” Jonathan stated approvingly. “Becoming a real pro.”

  “I was a real pro before you ever knew I existed,” Chris easily replied. “That’s why you hired me.”

  * * * *

  Samuel Bowman didn’t usually drink this early in the day unless circumstances warranted it. With a highball glass, half full of scotch, neat, he wandered into his study and slumped heavily into the large leather chair behind his desk.

  He was reaching the point where he no longer knew what to do. An eighth murder had been committed the previous evening, by Michael this time, whom the doctor had thought was the most reasonable of the four. It was obvious based on Michael’s hurtful comments earlier that morning that Bowman had lost complete control of his most challenging patients. This came as a crushing blow as the psychiatrist had been certain that he would eventually bring them around. He knew, even considering what they had done in recent weeks, that they were not truly evil. Problems, childhood traumas, were at the root of their actions. If only they would let themselves be helped, they would no longer pose a danger to society.

  And, as if his murder committing patients weren’t enough, he had now taken on Chris who the doctor believed might prove to be his greatest challenge to date. Here was a highly intelligent, apparently strong-willed individual, and possibly, no, almost certainly capable of brutal acts of violence. This, Bowman would be able to further ascertain only once Chris agreed to speak openly about his crimes. However, the doctor had not been left with the impression that his new patient was lying when the latter had implied having been violent in the past. This, coupled with the psychiatrist’s recent discovery of why CSS sounded so familiar had been enough to earn Chris ‘special patient’ status.

  Not much digging had been required for the doctor to unearth that CSS had been the employer of the infamous ‘Vigilante’ less than a year earlier. Being a case involving a serial killer, Bowman had followed it closely. Of course, it was much too early to assume with any certainty that Chris Barry, rather than the late Carl Denver, had been this vicious killer. However, to have a man with such close ties to a rash of murders come in and vaguely admit brutally making pay those who deserved it was a theory which certainly merited to be entertained.

  Sighing, Bowman stared down at the glass in his hand and suddenly realized that it was empty. Wearily, he climbed out of his chair and headed back downstairs for a refill.

  * * * *

  “Why don’t you two go out by the pool and talk about guy stuff,” suggested Sandy. She knew Chris wanted to chat about the case, and murders were not Cathy’s favourite subject. “I want to show Cathy my decorating plans for the living room.”

  “Don’t you go putting too many ideas into her head,” Dave playfully warned. “We’re living on a cop’s meagre earnings.”

  “Redecorating is not that expensive, hon,” Cathy sweetly replied. “Especially when you have a man at home to do most of the work.”

  “Quick, let’s get out of here,” Dave groaned. “I’ve got a migraine coming on.”

  “Get you a beer or something?” chuckled Chris as their giggling wives sauntered off towards the living room.

  “Yeah, a beer’s fine,” answered McCall. “By the way, thanks for the invite. This case is really getting to me and the change of pace will do me good.”

  “I’ve got to do some nice things for you too,” Chris replied. “If I just did stuff to piss you off, I wouldn’t be much of a friend now, would I?”

  “I know you’re not doing this Bowman thing to piss me off, Chris,” Dave corrected. “I realize you’re trying to help. I’m just worried that something might happen to you. Jesus, you’re not a cop, Barry. You don’t have the training for this kind of work.”

  “Dave, you’re blowing this thing all out of proportion,” Chris argued. “All I’m doing is visiting a psychiatrist on the off chance I might find something that’s useful to you. I don’t see what particular cop training that might require. I’m pretending I’m a little nuts, alluded that I might have had some violent tendencies in the past, and Bowman’s bought it so far. When he starts pushing for more details, I’m an imaginative guy and I’ve read my fair share of murder mysteries. I can convince him that I’ve done some wacky stuff.”

  “I know, Chris. I know,” McCall replied with a touch of frustration. “I’m just worried that something will go wrong.”

  “Like what?” challenged Barry. “He determines I’m not really nuts and sends me home? What do you think he’d do? Send his killer patients after me? Come on, Dave. There is nothing to worry about.”

  “I guess you’re right,” Dave grudgingly admitted. “This case is just driving me up a wall.”

  “And that, my friend, is exactly why you’re here. To relax. Why don’t you go get into your bathing suit so I can kick your butt in a friendly game of water volley ball?”

  “You wish,” Dave grinned as he headed into the house to change.

  Chapter 20 - Sunday, June 15, 1997

  Randi strolled back into the den, fresh drink in hand, and resumed his position on the couch.

  “So, where were we?” he asked to no one in particular.

  “I was saying that maybe we’re being too hard on Sam,” Michael patiently replied. “He is trying to help us.”

  “You know what I think?” Randi responded, not expecting an answer. “Fuck him. That’s what I think. The man’s a goddamn coward and because he doesn’t have the balls to lash back for what he went through as a kid, he expects us to do nothing either. Well, tough shit for poor old Sammy but I don’t go for that crap.”

  “Come on, Randi,” Alex spoke up. “Sure, he never had the guts to do what we did and he probably never will. But still, he’s put a lot of effort in trying to straighten us out. And he is right, you know. Murder is wrong.”

  “Oh, Jesus. You’re a fine one to talk,” Randi snorted. “This whole fucking thing has become a contest between you and Bobby. You aren’t even doing it as therapy. It’s a fucking game for you. ‘Who can kill the most’ is all you two idiots are wor
ried about.”

  “That’s not true, Randi,” Bobby dared to argue. “I feel better since I killed those two fat boys.”

  “And you nearly got caught, schmuck,” Randi shot back.

  “We’re getting off the subject,” Michael stepped in. “I think we should give Bowman a chance, even if we don’t agree with him all the time. He’s helped me and he’s helped all of you.”

  “Well, I’m gonna have to think about it,” muttered Randi angrily.

  “That’s all I’m asking for, Randi.” Michael encouraged. “Think about it.”

  “Yeah, yeah, I will,” Randi growled impatiently. “Let’s change the subject, all right?”

  “Sure, Randi, sure,” Bobby chirped up. He got nervous when Randi was angry. “What do you want to talk about?”

  “Anybody look at Sammy’s notes lately?” questioned Randi, something obviously on his mind.

  “Yeah,” Alex spoke up while Michael nodded. “I did yesterday.”

  “Who’s this Chris guy that just showed up?” demanded Randi.

  “All I know is that Bowman met with him twice so far,” volunteered Michael. “The guy hasn’t really said much yet but, based on the notes, Sam thinks he might be pretty violent.”

  “Yeah. Enough to win a spot in our club,” grunted Randi, referring to their elite ‘first name only’ status in the psychiatrist’s computer files. “Let’s find out more about this Chris. OK?”

  “Sure, Randi,” the others agreed.

  After all, they all tried to please Randi because, however unofficially, he was their leader.

  Chapter 21 - Tuesday, June 17, 1997

  “So, how are we doing this morning?” Bowman asked as Chris settled into one of the overstuffed armchairs in the psychiatrist’s office.

  “Fine, Doc. Thanks,” Chris cheerfully replied. “Yourself?”