Mind Games

by Claude Bouchard

  “Very well, thank you,” Bowman politely responded. “Well, let’s get started, shall we?”

  “Sure thing, Doc,” agreed Chris. “Where do you want to start?”

  “Let’s see,” said the doctor, scanning through his notes, “Where did we leave off last time?”

  “We were talking about my having to open up more if I wanted your help,” Chris volunteered.

  “Yes, that’s correct,” nodded Bowman, “And you agreed to do so.”

  “I guess. In theory,” his patient hesitantly admitted. “It just isn’t easy to talk about these things. Like I told you, I did some pretty nasty stuff.”

  Bowman laid down his pad and pen and looked directly at Chris as he spoke. “You suggested that what bothered you was your lack of remorse. Am I right?”

  Chris nodded as the doctor continued.

  “The simple fact that you are so uneasy to speak of these acts you have committed leads me to believe that you do feel something.”

  “Not necessarily, Doc,” Chris easily countered. “I may simply not be keen on describing crimes which I have committed in detail. What kind of guarantee do I have that this information wouldn’t be used against me in the future?”

  “To that extent, Chris,” Bowman replied somewhat indignantly, “I have taken an oath. I am a professional. Nothing said during our sessions is repeated elsewhere. Nothing. And, from a legal standpoint, you are protected, we are protected by doctor-patient privileges.”

  “Don’t get me wrong, Doc. I’m not suggesting that you’d turn against me. It’s just difficult to share information about myself that to date is not known by anyone but me.”

  “I see,” frowned the psychiatrist, thinking. “If you’re not ready to recount some of the things you’ve done, are you at least willing to answer some questions? I want to get an idea of the extent of your violence.”

  “I guess,” Chris slowly replied. “We can try.”

  “Good,” sighed Bowman. “Have you committed any violent acts recently? I wish to establish if your violence is past or current.”

  “No,” Chris half-lied. “I’m in control now.”

  “How would you rate the extent of violence of the acts you’ve committed?”

  “Extreme,” was the blunt response.

  “Did you ever take a life, Chris?”

  “Yes.”

  “More than once?”

  “Many more, Doc.”

  “I see,” Bowman commented, instinctively thinking of the Vigilante murders. “Can you describe how you took some of these lives, Chris?”

  “Stabbing, beating, shooting.”

  “Why did you commit these acts, Chris?” the psychiatrist enquired softly.

  “It’s like I told you last time, Doc” Chris warily replied. “The bastards deserved it.”

  “Because of something they had done to you?”

  “Because of something they had done.”

  Both men fell silent, staring at each other for a moment before Bowman spoke again.

  “In order to help you, Chris, I need to establish why you committed these acts. What triggered them? To do so, we have to at least look at a few specific situations. Only you can describe those.”

  “I’m still not comfortable enough to talk specifics, Doc,” Chris softly replied.

  “Until you are,” the doctor informed him, “We won’t be able to accomplish much.”

  Remaining quiet for a moment, Chris’ expression suddenly brightened. “Doc, you have other patients who’ve done this kind of thing. Maybe a therapy group would help me talk about this more openly.”

  His look one of utter amazement, Bowman stared at Chris for a full thirty seconds before replying. “You aren’t able to talk to me about the things you’ve done but would be willing to talk to a bunch of strangers? Forgive me, Chris, but I fail to understand the logic of your suggestion.”

  “Well, maybe not a face to face meeting,” Chris conceded. “Maybe a conference call or, better yet, a computer chat-line. I can give you my Eazy-Com address.”

  “I don’t know, Chris,” Bowman replied doubtfully. “This is highly irregular. We aren’t talking about weight loss problems or drug abuse. We’re talking about people with severe violent tendencies.”

  “I know that, Doc,” Chris impatiently stated. “And I’m one of them. You want me to talk and I’m suggesting something that would help me open up. You’re the doctor so it’s your decision but, I’m sure this could help me.”

  Bowman leaned back and stared at the ceiling as he considered this unusual request. He had worked successfully with therapy groups in the past. His patients at the time, however, had all been guests of the Ontario penal system. Could he do the same in the free world? Via the computer, as Barry suggested, would protect the anonymity of those involved. And the doctor’s recent rate of failure with his major patients more than indicated that he was getting nowhere with his conventional approaches. Chris was an intelligent man and apparently in remission from violence. Perhaps he could help in turning some of the others around.

  “I’ll have to give it some thought, Chris,” he announced after a moment. “And, naturally, I’ll have to speak to some other patients to determine their willingness to participate.”

  “That’s all I’m asking for,” Chris answered with relief. “If I can see that others are in the same boat as I am, I’m sure I’ll loosen up. Who knows, Doc.? This chat-line could be beneficial to more than just me.”

  * * * *

  “Well, good morning, Marie,” greeted Dave as he strolled into the reception area. “How’s my favourite psychiatrists’ secretary?”

  “I bet you say that to all the psychiatrists’ secretaries,” she replied with a knowing smile. “I’m fine, Captain. You?”

  “Still fighting the battle,” McCall responded, “And, yes, I do say it to the others but not sincerely.”

  “Barb’s waiting for you,” Marie laughed. “Go on in.”

  He moved on into the doctor’s office to find her on the telephone.

  “Oh, Doctor Bowman,” she spoke into the receiver as she waved a grimacing McCall to a chair. “Captain McCall has just arrived so, if you don’t mind, I’ll put you on the speaker. Good, hang on a sec.... OK, are you there?”

  “Yes, Barbara,” replied the speaker. “Good morning, Captain.”

  “Good morning, Doctor,” Dave courteously responded. “How are you, sir?”

  “Very well, thank you. I was just about to give Dr. Jenkins my impressions of this latest murder. I’m glad you’re there.”

  “I’m glad to be here,” McCall politely replied, wondering if Bowman felt as much the hypocrite as he did. “Perhaps, Doctor, you’d allow me to take a stab at this before you state your opinion?”

  “Absolutely, Captain. Be my guest.”

  “Based on what we’ve seen so far, our opinion, the police’s opinion, is that Friday’s murder at the Four Seasons was committed by the same individual who had killed the prostitute at the same hotel two weeks earlier.”

  “Interesting,” Bowman commented approvingly. “And how, may I ask, did you reach this conclusion, Captain?”

  “It started with a hunch,” admitted Dave. “We were trying to identify a pattern of sorts and, since of the seven prior murders, the other three perps had committed two apiece, we thought it logical that the next one would be committed by the fourth individual.”

  “Even up the tally, so to speak,” said Bowman, a smile in his voice.

  “If you will, Doctor. Now, after the fact, considering that this took place at the Four Seasons once again, it furthers our belief that the fourth perp was responsible.”

  “Well, Captain, I’m happy to see that you and your team have started to adopt my way of thinking. I couldn’t agree with you more. I hadn’t specifically identified a pattern as you did, although I find your approach quite interesting. However, based on the location of the murder and the victim, another young prostitute, my opinion would be the sa
me as yours. And I repeat, Captain, your pattern theory merits further consideration.”

  “Thank you, Doctor,” Dave proudly replied, “Although the theory is Detective Bakes’, not mine. Not only was he right, presumably, about the perp, he was also correct in determining that murder would take place at the Four Seasons. We were there on Friday night, staking the place out.”

  “Yes, I noticed something about that in the reports which were sent to me,” Bowman responded. “It’s a shame this person slipped through your fingers.”

  “That, it is, Doctor,” said McCall. Was it his imagination or had he detected a taunting quality to Bowman’s last comment?

  “Well, Captain, Doctor Jenkins,” Bowman announced after a brief pause, “Unless you have other questions or comments, I’m going to have to let you go. I’ve got a busy schedule ahead of me.”

  “I’m all set,” replied Jenkins. “Dave?”

  “Nope. I’ve got nothing to add. Thanks for your help Doctor Bowman. We’ll keep in touch.”

  “Very well. Have a nice day,” the speaker said before a click was heard, ending the communication.

  “I still don’t like him,” Dave stated, staring at the telephone.

  “Do you still think he’s involved somehow?” questioned Barbara. “Has your friend Chris come up with anything?”

  “Oh yeah, I’m sure he’s treating the killers,” McCall responded carefully. He hadn’t told Jenkins about Chris’ somewhat illegal computer hacking, “Don’t ask me why. I just know it.”

  “Alright, Captain,” the psychiatrist’s eyes narrowed, “I won’t ask you why. What about Chris?”

  “I don’t think he has anything so far,” Dave shrugged. “If he does, he’s conveniently kept it from me.”

  “Why would he do that?”

  “Chris is the kind of guy who wants to be sure before he delivers. He never does anything half way. It’s all or nothing. That’s why he’s got me worried. If he finds some clues, he won’t turn around and let me know so that I can investigate. Instead, he’ll do some further digging and try to solve the case himself.”

  “Come on, Dave,” Jenkins exclaimed. “Give him more credit than that. You were boasting about how incredibly wise this man was not too long ago. Don’t you think you’re overreacting?”

  “You sound just like Chris,” McCall chuckled. “Everybody’s against me. Anyhow, let’s go, Jenkins. I promised you lunch so let’s get it over with.”

  * * * *

  Randi took one last toke on the joint and dropped the tiny roach in the ashtray on the floor beside him. He held it in for several seconds before blowing a bluish cloud into the already smoke hazed room.

  “Did Bowman talk to you about this Chris today?” he asked quietly, enjoying the effect of the hashish as it expanded through his body.

  “Yeah, some,” Michael replied lazily, just as relaxed.

  “He ask you about this computer chat-line?” Randi pushed on.

  “Uh huh,” nodded Michael.

  “So, what do you think?”

  “I don’t care,” Michael was growing annoyed. “Sure, why not.”

  “I figure it’s a good way to find out more about this guy,” Randi thought aloud. “I told Bowman that I was game.”

  “So you’re talking to Sammy again, are you?” Michael taunted, now thoroughly stoned.

  “Yeah, I’m giving the bastard a chance,” admitted Randi, “But only because you asked me to.”

  “Good.... And I’ll tell him that I’m in on this computer chat thing.”

  “Do you know if he spoke to the others?”

  “I’m not sure. I don’t think so,” Michael replied. “You want me to help convince them to go for it?”

  “Well, like I said, I’d like to know more about this guy. Bowman wasn’t sure if it was a good idea but if we all agree to it, he won’t say no.”

  “All right,” said Michael, closing his eyes to enjoy the buzz. “I’ll talk to Alex and Bobby to make sure they say yes.”

  Chapter 22 - Wednesday, June 18, 1997

  He had spoken to Randi first about the computer therapy group which Chris had proposed. Knowing that Randi was the strongest of the four, Bowman had recognized that the transvestite’s decision would end up being the group’s consensus.

  Expecting Randi to be dead set against the idea, he had been most surprised by his patient’s immediate agreement to participate in such a project. Randi was not one to trust strangers, or to open up to new ideas. His willingness to allow this chat-line to take place had left the psychiatrist somewhat mystified. When Bowman had questioned Randi’s positive reaction to the project, the latter’s old self had resurfaced with a typical ‘Randi’ response. “What the fuck’s your problem, Doc? For once, you suggest something intelligent so I agreed with it. If you don’t want my opinion, then why the fuck ask?”

  The doctor had then approached Michael, the next in line, with the subject who had said he wanted to think about it. Earlier this morning, he had informed Bowman that he liked the idea, no doubt following a conversation with Randi.

  Alex and Bobby’s opinions had then been requested as a formality. Both had agreed and it was obvious that they had already been aware of the proposed chat-line.

  Following careful consideration, Bowman could find no reason why they shouldn’t go ahead with Chris’ proposal. The computer would protect the identity of the participants. Not even voice identification would be an issue. This guarantee of anonymity would most likely greatly encourage Chris to speak more openly about his violent past.

  After referring to the appropriate file, he reached for the phone and dialled a number.

  “Good morning, Chris? This is Doctor Bowman. I’ve spoken to some of my other patients and they are agreeable to your suggestion. Are you available at eight o’clock tonight? Good. Do you have a pen handy? I’ll give you the Eazy-Com address...”

  * * * *

  “... Great. I’ll be there. I’m sure this will be beneficial, Doctor. Thanks a lot.”

  “I take it your chat-line has been approved,” Sandy commented as her husband laid down the phone.

  “Yup,” Chris beamed. “Now we might start getting somewhere.”

  “And you’re sure that this won’t turn dangerous?” Sandy asked lightly but failing to hide her concern.

  “How can it?” Chris cajoled. “You’ll be right there to protect me.”

  “When do you start?” asked his wife, ignoring his humour.

  “Eight o’clock, tonight. And don’t worry hon. This is perfectly safe.”

  * * * *

  “Are you sure this schmuck is gonna show up?” Randi impatiently growled as he stared at the computer screen.

  “Yes,” replied Bowman, making no effort to hide his annoyance. “It’s not even eight yet.”

  “It’s pretty damn close,” retorted Randi. “And he won’t be able to trace this?”

  “He can trace it to me,” the doctor explained once again. “It’s my address. He can’t trace it to you.”

  “He better not,” Randi warned. “I don’t want just anybody knowing what I’ve done.”

  “You agreed to this, Randi,” Bowman reminded him angrily. “In fact, you pushed everybody to agree to this. Now, calm down and shut up.”

  “Easy, Sammy,” Randi grinned. “Don’t get your shorts in a knot. I’m just making conversation.”

  Before Bowman could reply, the computer emitted a doorbell chime and the image of a door appeared on the screen.

  “We have company,” Randi murmured softly, clicking the doorknob with the mouse and watching in amusement as the door swung open before fading away.

  ‘WHO IS IT?’ Randi typed.

  ‘CHRIS’ appeared on the screen. ‘WHO ARE YOU?’

  ‘RANDI. WHAT DO YOU WANT?’

  Several seconds passed before a response came through.

  ‘IS THIS DR. BOWMAN’S CHAT-LINE?’

  ‘YES IT IS’ Randi typed. ‘WHAT DO YOU WANT?’
/>
  More seconds went by.

  ‘I WANT TO KNOW WHAT YOU DID. TELL ME ABOUT YOUR CRIMES.’

  “Well, this fucker gets right to the point,” muttered Randi, staring at the screen. “Are you sure I’m safe here?”

  “You have nothing to worry about, Randi,” reassured Bowman. “He doesn’t know who you are. You are just words on the computer to him. For all he knows, I could be typing this end of the conversation.”

  ‘ARE YOU STILL THERE, RANDI?’ The words appeared on the screen.

  “Yeah, yeah. Don’t rush me,” Randi growled as he put his fingers to the keyboard.

  ‘YEAH. I’M HERE. HERE’S THE DEAL. I TELL YOU ONE. YOU TELL ME ONE. OK?’

  ‘OK.’

  “Here we go,” Randi whispered softly as he typed.

  ‘I KILLED SOMEONE. YOU?’

  ‘YES.’

  ‘MORE THAN ONCE?’ asked Randi.

  ‘YOU FIRST. THAT’S THE DEAL.’

  “Fucker,” muttered Randi as he replied. ‘TWICE. YOU?’

  ‘MANY TIMES. HOW DID YOU DO IT?’

  ‘WITH A BIG KNIFE. YOU?’

  ‘KNIVES, GUNS, ETC, ETC.’

  “Wow,” Randi whistled. “Makes us look tame, huh, Doc?”

  “Keep on typing,” ordered Bowman, staring at the screen as more words appeared.

  ‘DESCRIBE ONE KILLING, RANDI.’

  “What do I do, Sammy?” asked Randi, a touch of fear in his voice.

  “Respond,” the psychiatrist hoarsely commanded. “Tell him. It might help you.”

  ‘I TIED UP A MAN, NAKED, ON A BED.......THEN I STABBED HIM UNTIL HE WAS DEAD.’

  Several seconds passed before a response appeared.

  ‘FUNNY. I ONCE DID THE SAME MYSELF.’

  ‘WHY?’

  ‘YOU FIRST, RANDI. WHY?’

  ‘I CALL IT THERAPY. YOU?’

  ‘THE BASTARD DESERVED IT.’

  “Jesus Christ,” swore Bowman. “He’s not telling me anything specific.”

  “Shut up, Doc,” Randi hissed. “He’s not talking to you. He’s talking to me.”