by Edwin Dasso
She glanced slowly around, as though alerted by a sixth sense she was being watched.
“Back into that space there,” whispered Brandt urgently, as he slid lower into the foot well. “She’s walking this way.”
Adams did as instructed, then turned off the engine, lowering his large frame as best as he could on the seat. Brandt was using his cellphone camera to watch Carter over the lower rim of the side window.
“She is waiting at the bus stop. It’s the 616. She can take that to Broadway, then catch a cab to her house.”
Adams was looking out the back window of the F150’s cabin.
“There’s a bus coming now.”
“Okay. If she boards, I call in the troops.”
Two minutes later, Brandt and Adams crossed South Land Park Drive and pulled in behind the panel truck.
“She’s put a disabled sticker in the windshield so the van won’t get towed. Damned nerve!” said Adams.
Brandt was examining the back doors.
“I don’t suppose you have a crowbar in that pickup of yours I could use to jimmy these doors open?”
“I have, but don’t you think we should wait for the Forensic Services techs so we don’t mess up any evidence?”
“What if there’s another victim in there?”
“Unlikely, but a good point. Exigent circumstances. We bust the door and look in. If there are no bodies, warm or cold, we wait outside, okay?”
Brandt nodded, then waited while Adams retrieved the crowbar. They popped the lock and opened both doors.
The panel truck was empty…
…except for a small stack of body bags and half a dozen plastic ties.
30
A full week had raced by; the new hours fleeing before the onslaught of issues that needed attention. Finally, frustrated with the progress they had made, Brandt and Adams agreed on one last Hail Mary. Brandt had been the one who insisted they should try this option. Initially Noah Adams had not been happy with the idea.
“It goes against everything I believe in as a psychiatrist and all the experience I accumulated while working with the FBI.”
“I understand that, Noah, and I sympathize. If this were a normal serial killer case, I’d back you one hundred percent, but it isn’t. Yesterday afternoon I made a ten-minute quiet time for myself. I left my phone on my desk, took a notepad and pen, and went up to the roof. I sat in the sun, leaning against the perimeter wall and closed my eyes. I just let the case wash over me, like some damned big tsunami wave. It was overwhelming. I don’t know how we are ever going to get something this complex before a jury, let alone get a conviction. So then I thought I’d break the tsunami into small rivulets and follow them to their end. As I examined each one, I wrote down how and where it started, and where it went. If the stream had a satisfactory end point, I noted that down too. I did this for every one of them. I covered page after page in the notepad and my ten minutes stretched to over two hours. My ass was frozen from sitting on the ground up there when I’d finished, but I thought I’d made progress.”
Brandt paused. His eyes searching inward, looking through his memories of years past.
“You know, when I joined the Bureau, my mentor once told me that good investigations are not made by finding the right answers, but by knowing what questions to ask and of whom, and be willing to cast a critical eye over any answer you’re given. She also said don’t try to make everything fit. Rarely is a closed case made up of one hundred percent of the questions answered. It was like building a car from a kit, something she had done a few times apparently. You finally get it running and out on the road, and you should be bathing in self-satisfaction and accomplishment, but that tiny screw, or spring, or whatever remained in the box when you thought you had finished, takes away every positive aspect of your achievement. It could be an extra part, some mal-adjusted machine miscounted when assembling the kit. It could be a completely unnecessary part, or it could be something you should have used but didn’t, because it wasn’t that necessary. Or, it could be some vital part of the engine, or brakes, or some other critical system that will come back and bite you in the ass when you least expect it. Losing sleep over it now will kill any joy you deserve to be feeling, any sense of having achieved a goal. Enjoy that today; second guess tomorrow.”
“I don’t see where you’re going…”
“Okay, we have a case. We have a stack of events we can put together with enough evidence, albeit some of it a little flimsy, to make a coherent conclusion. And we have a stack of streams, or parts left, that don’t seem to go anywhere. Today we need to start second-guessing. And one thing I’ve learned, you can’t do a good job at that, if you let your prejudices get in the way.”
Noah sat silently for a couple of minutes.
“You got that notepad with your watery reasoning here?”
Brandt passed it over, and Adams started to read his colleagues notes, stopping frequently to think. Brandt decided they both needed some good coffee, so he slunk up to the Executive offices suites and stole a full carafe. By the time he returned, the notepad was no more.
Adams had torn pages from it to form two piles in front of him on their desk. The smaller pile, sadly, was the rivulets with a known and proven ending. The other mound, almost twice as big, reflected open questions. He had added to that pile with sheets torn off another pad, his own questions punctuated by large exclamation marks at the bottom of every page.
“Okay,” he remarked, taking the proffered mug of hot coffee, “the size of that pile convinced me. I’ll call and make an appointment as soon as I finish this coffee.”
31
The room had changed little since the last time Adams was there. There were no files on the desk, no chess set dumped on the low table between the bolted-down wingback chairs. Other than that, he could not see a single difference.
“We are going to need another chair,” he remarked to his friend Gus.
“You could let him stand, or sit on the floor,” suggested the hospital psychiatrist.
“No, I want him to feel as comfortable as he did last time. I want him sitting in the same chair,” pointing to the armchair with its back to the panoramic window. “I want to be sitting across from him, like last time. And I want Special Agent Brandt to be seated at my side. Do whatever you have to do, Gus, please, but we need another chair now.”
“It won’t be bolted down…”
“Not a problem,” said Brandt. “I weigh enough to keep it on the floor.” He winked.
“Your funeral,” said Gus.
“I certainly hope not,” replied Adams. “Oh, and tell the police officer who’ll be stationed outside, if I catch him leaning on the wall, looking away from the interior of the room, even once, I’ll make sure he loses his job before I leave today.”
Gus left to find the additional chair.
“Bit harsh,” remarked Brandt.
“Jim, the way I look at things, people are paid to do a job, perform a series of functions which have a common objective. In the case of the cop in the hallway, his role is to ensure our safety, something he cannot do if he chooses to look away and chat with whoever passes by. People have died here. I don’t mean just inmates either. Staff have been killed because of lax security. It’s no good changing the procedures afterward when, if people did the jobs they were supposed to, the unpleasantness could be avoided. I have zero tolerance for things like that.”
“Ok. Still you could turn it down a little, Noah.”
The psychiatrist nodded.
“Yes, you’re right, Jim. I’m on edge. I feel I screwed up the last time I was here; missed something that perhaps could have saved the last victim. It’s not going to happen again. Now, remember our game plan, and don’t let him run the show.”
“Sure, I’ll just take a snooze back here. Wake me when it’s time to leave.”
Adams retort was stymied by the return of Gus with a straight-backed chair. Brandt took it and placed it slightly behind Noa
h’s wingback, such that he could rest his arms on the top of the other chair.
“He’s here,” announced Gus. “I’ll leave you to it.”
32
Tobias Carter shuffled into the room as before. This time, his stride was justified by the chains around his ankles. His arms were also limited in their movement by another chain running round his waist that anchored two sets of handcuffs. Tobias looked buoyant, however, smiling at Noah and Jim Brandt.
“Good day, Doctor Adams.” A gentle voice, warm, casual.
“Hello again, Tobias. Please sit.” He indicated the chair the intern had occupied the last time. He had noticed how Tobias’ eyes had scanned the room systematically as he entered. “No chess today, but I’ve brought a friend.”
“Special Agent James L. Brandt of the California Department of Justice, Bureau of Investigation. My sister’s partner… or should I say ex?”
“We’ve never met…” began Brandt, forgetting the game plan he and Noah had worked out.
“…Erin talks about you often. I feel as if I have known you for as long as she has.”
Brandt was about to reply, when Adams stepped in front of him, blocking Tobias’ sightline.
“Sit down, Tobias.”
The chained man did as told, in the same poured molasses fashion he used on the last visit. Adams now recognized it for what it was. Show slow, labored movement and convey less of a threat. He had seen just how fast Tobias could move however, so he was no longer so easily fooled. He took his own seat, as did Brandt behind him.
“Now, Tobias, I’m fairly sure you know what has happened in the last few days…”
“Yes, you arrested Erin and charged her with multiple murders. I was then locked in my cell, not allowed out even for a peek at the sunlight until a few minutes ago. They took away my computer privileges, my chess sets, and my books too. Then they gave me new meds that kept me asleep for most of the day, mixed them with my food. Someone is not playing nice, Doctor Adams.”
“Tell me about your father, Tobias. How did he die?”
“I’m sure you already know the answer to that, Doctor Adams.”
“I suspect that it’s a fabrication. What I think is that, prior to being transferred here, you’ve never killed anyone, let alone your father. So, the truth, please, Tobias.”
There was a slight change to the intern’s expression. The smile lost its curve.
“Ah, you are here to play hardball, I see.”
“No, Tobias. I’m here to trade. You want your chess games back, and your access to a computer; I want the truth. You want to see daylight every day as before; stop lying to me. It’s over, Tobias. We have most of it worked out. We just need you to color in a few of the pieces.”
Tobias shifted in the armchair, leaning forward toward Adams.
“Yes, Doctor Adams, you are right. I did not kill my father, though, if truth be told, we all killed my mother when we were born.”
“Tell me how your father died?”
“He was suffocated with a pillow.”
“By…?”
“Now that’s a leading question, Doctor… may I call you Noah?”
“No. Answer the question.” A hard tone edged Adams response.
“Alright, Noah.” Tobias exhaled slowly, then took a deep breath. “After my mother died, our father tried to raise us on his own. It wasn’t easy. He had a job during the day, so we had someone in watching over us. Then he started drinking. Next thing, they kicked him out of his job. He was home all day, minding us. Minding, whilst emptying a couple of bottles of bourbon every day. Then one night… Erin and I slept in bunk beds in the same room. I had the top one, of course…”
“Tobias!”
“Touchy today, Doctor.” The smile reappeared briefly, though not the open, warm greeting of before, more of a smug assurance he still had the upper hand. “He had been drinking more, that day. I don’t know why. Anyway, I heard him enter our bedroom and pull Erin from her sleep. He half dragged her to his bedroom, and shut the door. I was seven and didn’t understand what was going on. Yet, Toby said I should follow my sister.”
“Toby? The parasite twin?”
“Don’t call him that, Doctor, he doesn’t like that term.”
“So Toby does talk to you too!”
“Toby was, and is, a part of both Erin and I. She carries most of him, but the doctors left enough behind inside me that he can chat, and so can Erin, even when I’m locked up here.”
“So Toby told you to enter your father’s room…”
“Yes. I did. I saw him naked, sitting on the floor, leaning on the bed. Erin had a pillow wrapped around his face and was on the bed, pushing her feet against his back as she pulled on the ends of the pillow.”
“So Erin killed your father and you took the blame.”
“You still don’t understand, Noah… and Jim… Neither of us killed him. It was Toby. Toby is the strong one, the one who controls us both. I have learned to keep him quiet in my head by filling my thoughts with chess games. Erin doesn’t have that skill. She’s easier to manipulate, especially when she is tired or drunk. Then Toby just moves in and uses her like some sort of tool to do his bidding. He’s the one who enjoys killing. He was doing it when Erin was in the military. He is very clever, though, and always ensured Erin came out of it as the hero. When she got the job with you, Jim, he was going to start again. That’s when I realized I had to stop him somehow.”
“The word games.”
“Exactly. I wasn’t hiding the messages from you, Jim, but from him. Erin caught on to what I was doing and tried to help me, but Toby was in her mind every day. He uses her skills to kill, and like the day he used her to kill our father, she has no recollection of it afterward. Psychogenic Amnesia, it’s called, as I’m sure you are aware, Noah. And, talking of diagnostics, are you familiar with ICD-IO-CM Diagnosis Code Q99.9 Chromosomal abnormality, unspecified? That’s what we all have. It’s how we can communicate without words over any distance. It’s how we can see, hear, and feel what the others are doing too. When we last spoke, Noah, I told you Toby was like a switchboard exchange. Well, that was not entirely true. He is the hub through which everything goes, though he’s the strongest of all of us. He’s the one the Code Q99.9 abnormality has most effected. Odd, isn’t it? The one without arms, legs, a self-sustaining body, is the one with the all the power. And he’s not happy about that. Erin was an easy mark for him, but he’s becoming more interested in me now. Those people I killed here, that wasn’t me; that was Toby testing his wings. You saw him the other day too when he set up the chess set. That scared me, Noah. It frightened you too, didn’t it?”
Noah did not reply. His silence was so prolonged, Brandt leaned forward and placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. Adams cleared his throat.
“Who was going to be the eighth victim, Tobias?” asked Brandt.
“Oh, I guess telling you that will allow you to finish the game, Jim. It was Isabel Stanton. She’s Erin’s doctor. She’s been missing for over a week, you’ll find. She probably is on her last supplies now. Stale bread and bottled water. Erin can’t tell you where she is, in fact, Erin hasn’t spoken since her arrest, has she, Jim? Not one word. That’s Toby for you. No, the only person that can tell you where to find Dr. Stanton, if she is still alive, is me. Now, when I get my chess sets and books back, so I can fend off Toby, and my computer access, of course, I will call you with the GPS coordinates. She’s not in Sacramento, so you are going to have to move fast. Faster than Toby, ha, ha, ha. I’ve finally trapped the bastard.”
Tobias stood; a flowing, effortless movement.
“Game over, Doctor Adams.”
He turned and shuffled toward the door.
33
Well, I’m done telling you my tale now. It’s as close to the truth as I can make it, though, obviously, some of the events and dialogue between Doctor Adams and Jim Brandt had to be invented to fit in with what happened.
I rest my case, and leave
you, dear reader, to reach your conclusions.
Who is the guilty party here? Who should be punished, and how?
Is it all of us?
…or just ONE?
About the Author
Multiple award-winning author Eric J. Gates has had a curious life filled with the stuff of thriller novels. Writing Operating Systems for Supercomputers, cracking cryptographic codes under extreme pressure using only paper and pen, and teaching cyber warfare to spies are just a few of the moments he’s willing to recall. He is an ex-International Consultant who has travelled extensively worldwide, speaks several languages, and has had articles and papers published in technical magazines in six different countries, as well as radio and TV spots. His specialty, Information Technology Security, has brought him into contact with the Military and Intelligence communities on numerous occasions.
He is also an expert martial artist, holding 14 black belt degrees in distinct disciplines. He has taught his skills to Police and Military personnel, as well as to the public.
He now writes thriller novels, drawing on his experiences with the confidential and secret worlds that surround us. Member of the International Thriller Writers’ organization.
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Also by Eric J. Gates
Outsourced series:
Pride & Extreme Prejudice (prequel to ‘Outsourced’)
