by David Archer
Dixon slapped himself in the forehead. “To be honest, I completely forgot about him. I’ve still got the number you gave me, and I’ll call him today, I promise.”
Maggie went back to looking at the photos, but none of the others seemed to mean anything to her. Her face had turned red as she looked at some of them, especially those in which she was dancing suggestively, and a few wherein she was actively kissing someone.
Rockford watched her closely for a moment, then turned to Dixon. “Okay, gentlemen, I’m convinced. This lady has no idea who that is in those pictures, even though we know that it’s physically herself. The trouble is, my believing that isn’t going to be enough to convince the prosecutor to dismiss. You have to come up with something pretty solid, and you better do it pretty soon. If they manage to push her case ahead, I seriously doubt you’re going to be able to convince a jury of this without some pretty solid evidence.” He glanced at Maggie again, then turned back to Dixon and Chance. “And somehow, I don’t think I’ll sleep very good if this lady ends up going to prison.”
SEVENTEEN
Maggie was taken back to her cell, and the four men walked out of the jail together. Rockford shook hands with all of them and went his own way, while Mr. Pinkham stayed to talk with them a moment longer.
“The detective is right,” Pinkham said. “Unless you can produce some kind of hard evidence, it’s highly unlikely I can convince a jury about this brainwashing angle. It might be enough to get a reasonable doubt acquittal on the murder charge, but I’m not sure they wouldn’t convict on manslaughter or something, anyway. Either way, an innocent woman goes to prison for a crime she didn’t really commit.”
“Don’t worry, Mr. Pinkham,” Chance said. “I’ve been working with Pete for a few days now, and he’s pretty good at what he does. Believe me, we’re going to find the evidence these women need to get their lives back.”
Dixon grinned. “The kid has confidence in me,” he said. “Mr. Pinkham, I guarantee you I’m going to do my absolute best to live up to that confidence. You hang in there, and we’ll be in touch as soon as we can.”
The lawyer shook hands with him again and went to his own car while Dixon and Chance got into the rental. Dixon took out his phone and his notepad, found the number for Jim Wilson and dialed it quickly. He put the phone on speaker so Chance could hear and held it out.
It rang three times, and then a man answered. “Hello?”
“Is this Mr. Wilson?” Dixon asked.
“Who’s calling?” the voice asked cautiously.
“My name is Pete Dixon, and I’m a private investigator from Las Vegas, Nevada. I’m working on a case, and I understand you may have some information that could help me.”
“Well, Mr. Dixon, if I was Jim Wilson I might,” the voice said. “Unfortunately for you, I’m Detective Robert Wells, with the Salt Lake City Police Department. I’m a homicide detective, and I happen to be investigating the death of Mr. Wilson. I was just bagging his personal effects when your call rang through. Care to tell me what kind of case you’re working on?”
“Holy crap,” Dixon said. He quickly explained about Maggie Bingham and the likelihood that she was brainwashed into committing a murder, and how Wilson had met her while she was in the Rita Carpenter persona. “You said you were with homicide; I take it Mr. Wilson was murdered?”
“Oh, that he was,” Wells said. “Just this morning, from the look of it. Two shots to the back of the head, execution style.”
“Detective Wells,” Dixon said, “we don’t have any evidence to prove what we believe about the brainwashing at this point, but our number one suspect happens to work for a known organized crime boss in Las Vegas. It’s quite possible that Mr. Wilson’s death could be related. If they got wind of the fact that he had seen Ms. Bingham and recognized her after she returned to Vegas, he might have been considered a loose end that needed to be tied up.”
“I see your point,” Wells said, “and it’s probably a better theory than the one I haven’t managed to come up with yet. Can I get your number?”
“Of course,” Dixon said, and he gave it to the detective. “Let me have yours, also, and I’ll be certain to keep you apprised of anything we learn that might help with your case.” Wells recited his number and Dixon wrote it down on his notepad, just underneath the one he had written down for Wilson. The two of them promised to let each other know if they learned anything, and ended the call.
“You honestly think somebody killed him because he might know too much about Maggie?” Chance asked.
“I admit it seems like a stretch, but it’s also hard to believe the guy could be randomly murdered after running into her. We already know that somebody wants to keep this quiet, so I have to believe there’s a connection.”
Chance shook his head. “And your man Finnigan is probably the one behind it. Maybe I should go take care of him, now, and then worry about proving Cardwell’s connection to everything.”
Dixon chewed on his bottom lip for a moment, then shook his head. “As much as I’d love to see that son of a bitch dead,” he said, “I think it’s too soon. There something going on here, something we haven’t put our fingers on yet, and we need to know what it is before we act.”
Chance opened his mouth to say something, but his phone rang at that moment. He looked at the number and answered the phone on speaker.
“Bill Simmons,” he said.
“Mr. Simmons, this is Melinda Cummings,” said the woman’s voice. “Listen, I talked with Detective Jensen yesterday and he told me that I’m probably the number one suspect in a murder, but that he wasn’t going to arrest me at this point. Well, that got me all shook up, so I went to see my therapist this morning, and I think I might’ve had a breakthrough. I got—well, I guess I’d say some memories seem to be surfacing. I was wondering if you and Mr. Dixon could come by and talk with me about this.”
Chance glanced over at Dixon, who nodded. “We are actually out of town at the moment,” Chance said, “but we should be back sometime this afternoon. Would that be good for you?”
“Oh, yes,” she said. “I’d really appreciate it if you come by. I’m not sure I really understand what’s going on, and maybe you can help me get a grip on it.”
“Alright, then,” Chance said. “We’ll plan on being there this afternoon, sometime in the next few hours.”
Melinda thanked him and hung up, and Chance turned to Dixon. “What do you think? Is it a trap?”
“Well, I have to think it was Melinda who called somebody and let them know we were asking questions about Dr. Cardwell. That’s the only way I can imagine Finnigan getting onto us, and—well, those people you took care of yesterday were definitely some of his. I recognized the guy on the passenger side, that was Jimmy O’Connor. These guys are Irish mob, Chance, and they’re as deadly as anything the Mafia ever thought about. Yeah, I’m pretty sure this is a trap.”
Chance grinned. “Then I’m going to make sure it’s one that springs on them, rather than us. Ms. Cummings lives in a house, but there are a few decently tall buildings only a block or so away.”
Dixon looked at him for a moment, then turned his eyes back toward the road. “I guess we better get back to the airport,” he said. “Sounds like we have a situation to deal with.”
“I agree,” Chance said. He put the car in gear and they were back at the airport less than twenty minutes later.
Rex’s local office was happy to set them up with another flight, and a pilot was actually sitting in the office ready to go. They turned in the rental car and loaded their bags into the airplane, and they were back in the air in less than twenty minutes. When they landed at Vegas, they simply carried their bags back toward the Charger they’d left in long-term parking, and paid the tab as they drove away. They went by Johnny’s used car lot and Chance picked up his rifle from behind the seat of the pickup, then headed on toward Melinda’s place.
“Uh-oh,” Dixon said as they drew near. “Something�
�s not good.”
There were police cars in front of Melinda’s house, and yellow crime scene tape had been stretched across her front porch. Dixon pointed at one of the men they could see in the front yard. “That’s Bobby Jensen,” he said. “I doubt Finnigan is anywhere around here, or any of his people. Let’s pull up and talk to Bobby.”
Chance parked the car across the street, and the two of them got out and walked toward the house. Jensen looked up and saw Dixon, then came walking toward them.
“Your girl is dead,” he said. “Melinda Cummings? Hung herself in her bedroom, probably not more than an hour ago.”
Dixon shook his head. “I’m not so sure about that,” he said. “Seems like some of our witnesses are suddenly meeting with untimely ends. I just found out that a man who saw the Bingham girl while she was missing was executed early this morning. Two shots to the back of the head, gangland style.”
“Seriously? Where did that happen?”
“Salt Lake City,” Dixon said. “Bobby, it’s Finnigan and the Irish behind this. There’s no way in the world this girl hung herself. She called us a couple hours ago and told us she was having a breakthrough, remembering some things. We were on the way down to talk to her about that, and we get here and find out she’s dead? Come on, Bobby, it’s as plain as the nose on your face. Somebody knew she was going to talk to us, and they shut her down.”
Jensen scowled, but he nodded. “I thought it smelled,” he said. “I mean, there was always the possibility the girl just couldn’t cope with knowing she had killed somebody, even if she didn’t remember doing it. I thought maybe she did herself in, but it still didn’t smell right to me. Any idea what she was remembering?”
Dixon shook his head. “Afraid not,” he said. “She wanted to talk in person, didn’t say anything over the phone.”
“Okay. Listen, you really can’t be here right now. How about we catch up later, and I’ll tell you everything I find out here?”
Dixon nodded. “Sounds like a plan,” he said. “You got my number.” He collected Chance by eye, and they returned to the Charger.
As soon as they were in the car, Chance looked over at him. “You didn’t mention that she was seeing a therapist,” he said.
“Nope,” Dixon said. “That’s because we want to talk to the therapist before the cops do.”
“I don’t know how we’re going to do that,” Chance said. “They’ll probably know who the therapist is before we do.”
“Janice Clark,” Dixon said. “You gotta learn to be observant, Bill. She had a calendar laying on the coffee table, and she wrote ‘Therapy, Janice Clark, 9 AM’ on one of the squares.” He took out his phone and quickly googled Dr. Clark’s phone number and address. He held the phone out to show Chance the address, and said, “Let’s go, hotshot.”
The drive to the therapist’s office took only fifteen minutes, and they parked the car half a block down the street. They walked up the sidewalk toward the building, keeping a close eye on their surroundings and watching for anyone who might be watching them, but the coast seemed to be clear. They entered the building and found Dr. Clark’s name on the building directory, then rode the elevator up to the third floor.
Janice Clark was the kind of therapist that kept her own office and managed her own appointments. There was no receptionist in the foyer of the office, and the door to the inner office was open when they walked inside. A gray-haired woman in the inner office looked up and smiled.
“Can I help you?” she asked.
“My name is Pete Dixon,” Dixon said, “and this is my associate, Bill Simmons. I’m a private investigator, and I need to speak to you about one of your clients. Melinda Cummings.”
The woman’s eyes suddenly narrowed. “I’m sorry, but I can’t discuss my clients with you. Anything she tells me is privileged information.”
“Normally, I would agree with you, Dr. Clark,” Dixon said, “but you may not be aware that Melinda Cummings is dead. According to the police, she hung herself in her bedroom just a couple of hours ago. The problem with that is that I don’t believe it was suicide, I think she was murdered. I’m hoping that you can help me nail the person who did it.”
Dr. Clark’s eyes went from narrow to wide. “Oh, my God, are you serious? Melinda is dead?”
“I’m afraid so. We just came from her house, where the police are trying to figure out exactly what happened. Dr. Clark, we believe that Melinda and several other women have been brainwashed, and we are out to nail the person who’s doing it. Melinda called us a few hours ago to say that she’d been here to see you and was having a breakthrough, and I’m hoping it might be something to help us prove the case we’re trying to build.”
The therapist looked at them for a moment, then motioned for them to come into her office and shut the door. They did so and took the chairs in front of her desk, and then she looked at them again.
“Normally, I wouldn’t even consider this,” she said, “but Melinda told me about you gentlemen. At first, I was a little skeptical about the whole brainwashing thing, but she agreed to try hypnosis this morning, so we gave it a shot.” She reached into a desk drawer and took out a digital recorder, then set it on her desk. “I recorded the session, so I’m just going to let you listen to it. Bear in mind, if you ever tell anyone I did this, I will deny it. If it will help to catch the person doing this, however, I’m willing to bend a few rules.”
Dixon started to speak, but she held up a finger to hush him. She pressed a button on the recorder, and then they heard the therapist’s voice.
“Alright, Melinda, now I want you to look around and tell me what you see. Just describe your surroundings to me.”
“I’m—I’m in a room, like a hotel room. There are two beds and one of them is made up neatly, but the other one is a mess. There’s a window with a curtain over it, and there’s a table and a couple of chairs by the window. How did I get here? I don’t know how I got here.”
“It’s all right, just relax. What else do you see in the room? Is there anyone else there with you?”
“Yes—yes, there is a man. I don’t know him, but he’s putting his pants on. Oh, my God, I’m naked! This is—I think we’ve been having sex, and—oh, God, I’m not the kind who does that, not with a stranger!” She sobbed, and they could tell she was crying. “Oh, I feel so dirty! I just feel worthless!”
“Okay, let’s move on,” said the therapist’s voice. “Just relax and move forward, and now tell me what you see.”
There was a moment’s hesitation, and then Melinda started speaking again. “I’m at a bar,” she said. “I’m drinking and laughing—why would I be laughing? There’s a man with me, a different man. I know this man, but I can’t think of who he is. I—I hate him. That’s so unlike me, I never hated anybody. I just—I look at him, and I just get angry. I don’t know why I’m angry, but I am, it’s just—it’s almost overwhelming. He’s talking to me, and I’m smiling at him, I’m laughing at the things he says, I’m pretending to like him… Why would I do that?”
“Melinda, tell me why you are so angry at him. I want you to remember why you are angry at this man.”
“I don’t know,” Melinda said. “I just—I want to hurt him, I want to hit him with something, it’s just like an overwhelming rage inside me, but I keep smiling and laughing and pretending.”
“Alright, relax, everything is okay. You’re not really there, you just remember what happened. Now, what happens next?”
“I—we left the bar, and we went to a hotel room. It’s not the same room as before, all the colors are different. There’s only one bed, a great big one, and—oh, my God, I tied him to the bed with ropes. I’ve never done anything like that, why would I do that?”
“What is the man doing? Is he fighting you? Is he upset or angry?”
“No, he’s smiling at me. He’s holding his hands out to let me tie him to the bars on the bed, and I tie his feet to the other end. Then I—oh my God, oh, no, no!”
“I—I reached into my purse and I got a knife, it’s a great big knife, and I—oh, my God, I stabbed him, I stabbed him over and over—oh, my God, I just kept stabbing him and then I—I was naked, and I went and I took a shower, and—and then I left the room. All the anger was gone, and I felt so much better. Why would I feel better? I went—I went somewhere, I don’t know where, and then I—I woke up at home. That was the morning I woke up at home, and everybody said I’d been gone for so long.”
Melinda suddenly fell into hysterics, and the therapist brought her out of the trance. It took several moments for Melinda to stop crying, and then the recording ended.
“That’s what happened,” Dr. Clark said. “That was what she remembered this morning. I think she knew it was coming, because she’d already talked to a policeman yesterday who told her that they suspected she had killed someone, but that she probably wasn’t responsible for it.”
Chance looked up at her. “Then why would she kill herself? She already knew that she wasn’t really the killer, so why would she take her own life?”
Dr. Clark looked at Dixon. “I’m inclined to agree with Mr. Simmons,” she said. “I don’t think she did. The question is, who would have known that she was remembering this?”
Dixon scowled. “Dr. Clark, I would advise you to get out of the city for a while. Cancel all your appointments, just go. The people we suspect of being behind this are quite capable of bugging your office, and if they knew she was coming to you…”
“Then I’m probably next,” Dr. Clark finished. “It really is true, then, right? Someone is brainwashing everyday people into becoming murderers?”
“That’s the only way I can see it,” Dixon said. “I think you should go, right now. Come on, let us walk you out of the building into your car. And I’d like to take that recorder, because it adds credibility to our theory.”