Don't Look In (Gus Young Thrillers Book 1)

by Tom Saric

  "Doc, this ain't paranoia. This is real. I'm close and I'll blow the lid off this."

  He kept his voice quiet and spoke with a steady, almost measured cadence. Usually when Ned's paranoia was ramping up he became more disorganized, ranting and raving. This was different.

  "What you did there, with those pigs, not tellin' them nothin' about what you know about that whore."

  "Ned, please have some respect-"

  "-that she's fucking Barrington. Also a patient of yours."

  "Ned."

  "That she's pimped by Getson. You could've told 'em. But you didn't. You told all of 'em to go fuck themselves. That you ain't saying shit. So yeah, I know you're one I can trust."

  "Joe and Buddy and-"

  "It's not them, Doc. She was fucking someone else."

  "Tell me then, who?"

  He shook his head. "I'm here ’cause if they get me, my investigation doesn't die. Don't trust those pigs to solve this. In the old school bus on my property there's a safe. I'm gonna tell you the combo."

  "Can you write it down?"

  "No." Ned looked at me sharply. "No paper trail. Don't you go writing it down."

  "Ned, I think you're overreacting. A lot happened, you found her dead. That's shocking and-"

  "Zero-six-"

  "Ned."

  "Zero-two."

  "Come on."

  "Repeat it, Doc, so I know you've got it."

  I repeated the numbers.

  "Wait, isn't that the year that Newton-"

  "When the smartest man in history says world's ending on that date, I can't disagree."

  I didn't have it in me to tell Ned that Newton didn’t predict the world would end in 2060. Rather he said the world wouldn't end before 2060.

  "I ain't afraid to go down. No one comes to my town and starts killing people. Even whores."

  Ned put his sunglasses and hat back on. He flipped up his hood.

  "Wish me luck. Don't forget those numbers."

  Ned opened the door a crack, poked his head out, and looked up and down the hall before slipping out. I reached for the pad of paper to write the numbers down, but Sheila walked in.

  "Ned's weirder than usual."

  "He discovered Wanda," I said. "It's stressed him."

  Sheila sat down across from me. "It's stressed you, sweetheart. You're not letting yourself grieve. I miss Wanda too."

  I ignored Sheila's comment. "Wanda was going to meet Randy last night. Police say he has an alibi, but-" I ran my hand down my beard. "Confidential?"

  Sheila nodded. She was part of my office staff, so she could be privy to some information discussed in session, on a need-to-know basis. And Sheila was a vault; she knew my patients, so she was a perfect sounding board.

  "I mean, Randy had a motive. She put him away with her testimony. Who else would have as strong a reason to kill her?"

  "Well, a lot of men. Wives too. And aren't the sheriffs tracing the casing?"

  I swallowed. It bothered me that my gun was missing. I thought of what Doug said. Randy could have broken in when my cabin was empty after the fire and taken it. But Randy didn't have a car, so he would’ve had to come to my place with someone else or borrowed a vehicle.

  "They can't trace it. Most guns aren't registered. Think about it, Sheila. He's killed before. He's an addict. He has a motive. The only thing that doesn't fit is that he has an alibi."

  "The boy couldn't have done it, Gus."

  "Why not?"

  "Not that boy. Not his sister."

  "What are you talking about?"

  Sheila sighed, and spoke reluctantly. "I babysat the boy. Randy. And Wanda too. Before-"

  "You knew Wanda?" Sheila the vault revealing yet another secret.

  "That girl was a terror. Hormonal doesn't describe what that girl went through. Temper tantrums that'd make Jesus Christ himself wonder if Satan finally won."

  That made me smile. Wanda had a fighting spirit. I saw it in her until the day she died.

  "And those parents, boy oh boy. Not equipped to handle her. Mind you, they probably made her how she was."

  Until the end, Wanda skirted around details of her relationship with her parents. She couldn't go there. Why would she? She'd already lived it once.

  "But that boy was an angel."

  I remembered Wanda talking about “little Randy.” My mind grasped at a moment she described. A red tricycle. The image brought back the memory. Randy was on her old tricycle, tassels ripped off one of the handles. Wanda had taught him how to pedal. And Randy was racing out to the end of the driveway toward the highway just as a truck was approaching. Wanda noticed, sprinted over, and pushed him off the tricycle and into the drainage ditch. He knocked his head against the culvert, splitting it open. He probably needed stitches, but nobody bothered to take him to a doctor.

  Her mom then proceeded to beat the shit out of her. First because she thought it was Wanda who hurt Randy. Then, once she found out that Wanda had saved Randy's life, she beat her again for not watching him closely enough.

  And after, as Wanda was licking her wounds, little Randy came over, his head taped up. He brought her a Popsicle. Pink.

  "He had these eyes that glowed. They were so alive. And he adored Wanda, Gus. She was the embodiment of life to him. She was momma to him. He even called her mommy."

  I remembered Wanda telling me that as well. And the whipping her mother laid on her when she heard him say that.

  "Those two were given no chance. Good-for-nothing mother." Sheila's nostrils flared. There was an anger in her that I hadn't sensed before. "But kill Wanda?" She shook her head. "I'd sooner believe you killed her than Randy."

  I was fairly sure Sheila was joking, but her words hung in the air. Her eyes darted between me and her hands in her lap. I reminded myself that Sheila was the only person on earth I fully trusted.

  Sheila was seeing the boy on the red tricycle. She hadn't seen him grow into the petty criminal who graduated to the drug dealer, and then the addict. She hadn't seen him develop into the hit man who killed fellow gang members. Sheila was kind. She saw the good in people.

  But I had to see for myself.

  "Can you take me to him?"

  "Who? Randy?"

  "Yes. I want to talk to him."

  Sheila shook her head. "Leave it to the police, Gus."

  "Sheila, they asked me to help profile the killer. They want me to do this. Consider it police business."

  "Like I'm supposed to believe that."

  "He'll remember you. Maybe he can help us figure out who killed Wanda."

  13

  I sat in the passenger seat of Sheila's Chevy Malibu as we drove through downtown during Bridgetown's rush hour. I hadn't been through downtown in weeks. Along the bank of the wide Habe River, a few of the long-abandoned buildings had signs advertising that they were being renovated. The old Moffatt's Pharmacy was ditching the neon orange “Drugs” sign and converting to a cafe and wine bar. The red brick Moses Tea Factory's transformation into a craft brewery was well underway. A row of silver fermentation tanks stood in the front window. I wondered what the rent was and if I should move my practice into one of these character buildings. The view would be great.

  We passed the old bowling alley that was being torn down to make way for a supermarket. I saw my patient Wesley Tate just inside the fence, wearing his preferred flannel shirt and trucker hat, rummaging through scrap wood and metal. Wes spent his days walking miles up and down the county's dirt roads, looking for junk piles to search through while chain-smoking cigarillos. It was never clear to me what Wes was looking for. I was never able to understand what psychological function the garbage-picking served. But it kept him active and focused for sixteen hours a day.

  As we crossed the bridge over the river, I thought of something that Wanda once said to me: “It must have been nice having a mom who loved you.”

  Her words stung a part of me so deep that I ended the session only a few minutes later. I felt lighthead
ed, almost dizzy, and I remember little of the rest of the day. Since that day, my memory seemed to come and go in flashes.

  It took me to the pink-and-white, floral-patterned, hard-stuffed chaise in my mother's office. Every day after school, starting in grade two, I lay there staring up at the drop ceiling while my mother, Dr. Margaret Fischer, sat behind me demanding I free associate. She said it was necessary that I clear out any psychological cobwebs before I entered puberty, because my hormones would amplify any hang-ups I still had.

  I can tell you that there were one thousand three hundred and twenty-six pin holes on the panel directly above the chaise. There were at least one thousand one hundred and forty-two on the panel next to it. I was never able to complete my count before Margaret would snap at me to focus.

  When I was sixteen my mother asked me if my feelings for Carmen Rafuse—my first major crush—were simply a manifestation of the unresolved sexual feelings toward her. My mother thought that I was trapped in my oedipal longings for her. At that point I flat-out refused to be analyzed by my own mother. She responded with her common refrain: it was my dad's fault for abandoning me.

  If I was sad, she'd ask if I felt rage toward my dad.

  If I was mad, she'd ask if I was angry at her for denying me milk in infancy. But even that was my father's fault for not being around.

  She wouldn't tell me what happened to my dad, except that he'd left and “abandoned” me.

  She didn't know that I'd made a picture of him in my mind, a fantasy I intentionally excluded from my forced therapy sessions. He was my secret. Tall, strong, a trimmed beard and strong jaw, wavy hair swept back. He wore a dark jean jacket, plaid shirt, big belt buckle, and faded Levi's. He rode a motorcycle without a helmet. I assumed he rode that motorcycle to get as far away from my crazy mother as possible.

  I resented this fantasy father at first, but as I got older I understood him and why he would leave my mother. Eventually, I grew envious of him and his freedom.

  Alistair had entered my life when I was about eight. Even at the time, he was the most prominent analyst at the institute. Mother said he came to be a father figure to me. Alistair was married but had no kids. He wasn't anything like my imaginary rock 'n' roll dad. He was stiff, wore tweed sport coats around the house on Saturday mornings, had a fading British accent, dissected Greek tragedies, and actually enjoyed classical music.

  But he sat with me, and taught me things with a patience I have not come across since. I became fluent in Latin with his tutelage, and together we would analyze the works of Julius Caesar and Cicero. We then focused on learning German, working our way through Freud's and Adler's early works. I even learned to hammer out Paganini's Concerto No.1 on the violin thanks to his even-tempered guidance.

  One memory stuck out like a cancerous tumor in my mind. My dad was gone at least eight years at this time. I was about ten, and I came directly home from school for my analysis session. It was a warm early summer day. I was hot and thirsty. I knew I was not allowed into the main house at that time, only into my mother's office, which had a separate entrance. I opened her office door but she wasn't there.

  I assumed she must have been running late, so I decided to go to the kitchen and quietly pour myself a big glass of water from the faucet. I made sure to only turn the tap halfway so that it didn't make too much noise. My mother wouldn't tolerate it. I gulped it down.

  Down the hallway, there was a repetitive thumping followed by a snap. I could faintly hear a man yelping, followed by my mother's voice. She sounded like she was in distress.

  I slipped off my shoes to reduce the chance of making noise and tiptoed down the hallway toward the sounds. I put my ear to my mother's bedroom door. The sounds continued. Thumping. Slapping. Yelping.

  I turned the knob and let the door fall open a crack. My mother had her back to me. Dressed in leather undergarments and holding a whip, she was straddling Alistair, who was chained to the bed. She raised the whip and smacked it across his chest.

  I turned to run, but in my panic my knee bumped into the door, opening it all the way and slamming it against the wall.

  Alistair sat up. When he saw me, utter shame descended over his face.

  My mother, on the other hand, calmly lifted herself off him and walked over to me, fully exposed. She calmly said, “You're not to come into the house after school. Now leave.”

  Then she turned and walked back to the bed. I let myself out.

  Alistair never came back to the house. Years later, when I began training at the institute, he never addressed it. He must have hoped it was a childhood memory that faded away. I sure wish it had. My mother spoke about it once, saying, “Because you cannot follow directions, Alistair will not be coming back again.”

  We pulled up to Valhalla Suites, one of the only apartment blocks in Bridgetown. It was a six-unit, two-story, faded brick cube of a building. Two of the street numbers over the entrance had fallen off, but the outline was still visible. A garbage can stood out front, the ashtray on top full of cigarette butts.

  I followed Sheila into the building. The smudged glass door slammed behind us. To our left, six tenants were listed on handwritten pieces of paper under the plastic sheet on the directory. Sheila ran her hand down the list until she found R. Flynn living in Unit 2. I pressed the button and listened to the ringing.

  "Hello?" a voice crackled over the speaker. I motioned for Sheila to take the lead.

  "It's Sheila. Sheila-"

  "Sheila? Gustafson?"

  "Yes. I'm here with Gus Young. We wanted to talk to you. About your sister."

  Buzz. We entered the hallway. Despite the dim lighting, brown water stains were still visible on the walls and ceiling. It smelled like wet dog and dirty diapers. We passed the door for unit one, behind which a dog growled and scratched. We made our way to the far unit, and before we could knock, I heard the latch slide off.

  The door opened. A man of about forty, with a wide, pockmarked face and long hair tucked behind his ears opened the door and smiled at us. He wore aviator-style glasses with thick lenses. A cross hung from his thin neck.

  At the sight of Sheila he raised his hands, palms up, and looked to the heavens. He whispered a prayer of some sort and then threw his arms around her.

  Randy pressed his face against Sheila's shoulder and wailed. Sheila put a hand on his back and glanced over at me, bemused, as though Randy's tears certified him innocent of Wanda's murder.

  Randy pulled back, wiped his cheeks, and cleared his nose.

  "The Lord works in mysterious ways." He pointed to the sky. "But he's got a plan for us. He's brought you to me."

  "Randy, this is Gus Young, he's-"

  Randy put a firm hand on the back of my neck and pulled me toward him until our foreheads touched.

  "You were The Light, Doctor. You brought Light to her. I saw it in her like never before. You are an angel."

  I took a step back and straightened to release myself from Randy's hold.

  "I'm sorry for your loss, Randy."

  "He wanted her back." Randy bit his lip and nodded slowly. "Come in."

  The place was a bachelor unit, and only had two windows the size of a cereal box. The linoleum floors were curling at the seams and several of the kitchen cabinets were missing doors. There were almost no decorations except for a religious calendar hanging on the wall next to a simple cross.

  He led us to a wood veneer dining table with two chairs. An armchair rested against the window beside a coffee table with the King James Bible. Randy dragged the armchair over, insisting that Sheila take it. The place was devoid of any other furniture.

  Randy offered us water because he had nothing else. I said yes, because these reborn Christian criminals made me nauseous and I thought a drink would help calm my stomach. I'd seen this type of persona over and over again when I worked forensic cases. Jesus forgave, so these criminals figured all they had to do was take him in and all of their badness would be erased. They never bothered to a
ccept that a monster lurked inside them. This was a form of primitive denial that I found almost impossible to break through. But if the reality that evil lived in them ever entered their conscious awareness, their whole facade would crumble. That internal beast would become stronger than ever and maybe even swallow them up.

  The water came to me in a dirty glass but I still sipped it to be polite. I needed information and I didn't want to insult him.

  "Sheila, you have no idea what it means for me to see your spirit on a day like today."

  "I remember, dear, how much Wanda meant to you. Since you were like this." She held her hand three feet off the ground.

  Randy broke down, taking off his glasses and placing them on the table.

  "All those years, while I was doing my time, I worried that Wanda was torturing herself for my incarceration. She did the right thing. So I prayed every day that He would give me the gift of seeing my sister once again. And He did."

  "You saw Wanda yesterday?" I said.

  "And she was beautiful. Even more than before. And I think you did that, Dr. Young. You let her feel safe enough to let the Light out."

  "Thanks," I said abruptly. I wanted to get Randy on track. "So you met her yesterday?"

  "Yes."

  "When, approximately?"

  "Six o'clock. I went to her house."

  "How long were you there?"

  Randy smiled, looked at Sheila and then me. "Doctor, I've already talked to the police. I understand that I'd be a suspect. But with the Lord as my witness, I would never, ever, hurt my sister. Or anyone for that matter."

  "Well, you've killed, Randy. Let's not forget that."

  Randy’s jaw went a bit slack. I'd knocked him down a couple of spiritual pegs.

  "And your sister was afraid of visiting you."

  "I know. She didn't know what to expect. What my reaction would be. But we got through that quickly."

  "You forgave her."

  He curled his lips as though I'd said something offensive. "There was nothing to forgive. Wanda did the right thing. I killed Jimmy Getson. I took a man's life. I needed to repent."