by Graham Parke
Blog entry: He was feeding me a story of course. He had to be, he was the bad guy after all. You didn’t expect the bad guy to just come clean and tell you what he was up to. That’d make no sense. So I paid no attention to his words, even though they sounded convincing, played to my worst fears, and explained away many of my questions about the trial.
I told him, “You’d better get out of here!” Then, when he failed to move, I added, “I called the police just before you came over. They should be here any minute.” I held up my cell as proof of the call I’d been too naïve to make. “Go! Before they throw you in jail!”
Those were the perfect words. Exactly what’d scare him away. It was just the delivery (and only the delivery) that made me sound like a twelve-year-old girl with pee running down her leg.
I felt dirty and stupid.
The stalker shrugged. He stomped on his cigarette some more, turned, and walked away.
I tried not to hear the hand-sized thorns scraping over his jacket, his boots, the serrated skin of his face. Without turning, he said, “This isn’t over.” An ominous silence hung in the air for a second, then he added, “But you interfere with my investigation again, and you will be!”
Not a single part of my brain contemplated pointing out the mixed metaphor.
24.
Blog entry: Long day at the store. Hicks called in sick so I was alone with my thoughts throughout. This was bad, as I kept going over the events of the previous night. The stalker’s words haunted me, even though I’d tried to block them out.
Dr. Hargrove wasn’t a killer, of course, and my life wasn’t in danger.
I told myself this over and over.
I was pretty sure I could believe this, it was just a matter of dedication.
Hicks couldn’t have chosen a worse day to give in to his neuroses.
Blog entry: 11 a.m., closed up and went home. There was nothing to do in my apartment so I started cleaning. Used a cloth and hot water, no chemicals. After doing the windows and the kitchen cabinets, I moved on to the bathroom, which was in dire need of attention. When it was finally done, I did some dusting and hovering.
None of it helped me to stop thinking about the stalker.
Blog entry: 5:30 pm, made my way to the clinic and I sat in the waiting room. I’d forgotten to bring my laptop but I had no time to worry about that. I still had to come up with a way to break the news to Dr. Hargrove. How did I tell her that her stalker was the worst person imaginable? A person so hard and fearless, he didn’t even notice a giant thorn sticking into his face? A person with a scar so deep it almost showed bone? On top of that, I’d have to explain why I didn’t know the first thing about him. Who he was, where he lived, what he wanted. I’d been too shocked to follow him home, had completely neglected to stalk-stalk him. All I could share with Dr. Hargrove was a vague and worrying description.
I had no idea how to put all that into words, and was fairly sure no words existed to put them in that would have her thanking me profusely and generously.
My plan had failed. Completely and utterly.
No Hope for Gomez!
Blog entry: Sat and waited and thought. Took out my cell to call Detective Moran. Decided I could do with some information that’d clear Dr. Hargrove once and for all. It’d take a huge weight off my mind and that would help me think clearly. I scanned the call history for his number but then put my cell away. I shouldn’t allow myself to doubt Dr. Hargrove. I loved her. I didn’t need any external confirmation of her virtue.
Stared at the wall and willed my leg to stop jittering.
Realized I would probably need to call Detective Moran later, on an unrelated matter.
Blog entry: Greeted my predecessor as he emerged from Dr. Hargrove’s office. He looked well. He smiled and appeared relaxed, had even lost that wild, hunted look. He sat down to re-tie his shoe and I asked him how he was doing. He answered cordially. I inquired whether he hadn’t meant to say ‘over my dead body’ instead of ‘over my fat body,’ one of the previous times we met.
(See earlier blog)
A short but pleasant conversation followed. Dr. Hargrove popped her head out of her office and called me in.
Blog entry: “How are you today, Gomez?” She smiled warmly. “Everything going well?”
I shrugged noncommittally.
Dr. Hargrove studied my face. “Something wrong? You usually seem happier.”
I toyed with the idea of making up a story. When I looked into her eyes, though, I realized I couldn’t lie. I told her, “It’s the stalker. I think I’ve found him.”
Dr. Hargrove’s smile broadened. “That’s great news, Gomez! Well done! So there actually was a stalker!”
“There was, yes.”
“I’m so happy.” She put a hand to her chest. “For a while there I thought I was starting to see things.” She shook her head. “I can’t tell you what a relief this is. So tell me, what does he want, why is he stalking me?”
I decided to ignore her questions and start with what little I did know. “He’s about our age,” I said. “My height, likes to wear leather jackets, takes care of his hair, especially his eyebrows, has a somewhat crooked nose, and, well, he has a bit of a blemish on the right side of his face.”
“A blemish?”
“His skin was damaged at some point, I believe.”
Dr. Hargrove frowned. “Are you telling me he has a scar?”
“A little one, yes.” I thought of adding that he might’ve acquired it rescuing baby seals from forest cutters, but decided not to push my luck. “It probably looks worse than it is,” I said. “Many people have scars. Some for very innocent reasons.”
Dr. Hargrove waved it away. “Does it run down his right temple?”
“It does, yes.”
“Great!” She took out her cell and browsed for a number. It took her a while to find it, when she did, she gave me a conspiratorial wink while dialing. The call was picked up almost immediately. “It’s me,” she said. She listened for a moment, then said, “What do you mean, ‘you didn’t think you’d hear from me again’?” She rolled her eyes at something and said, “I have it on good authority that you’ve been stalking me.” She gave me a thumbs up. “Never mind that,” she said. “It was one little date. One cup of tea. Get a grip. No, as a matter of fact, I don’t think we’d be perfect for each other. That’s what it means when a girl doesn’t return your calls; she doesn’t want to see you again. No, I don’t think I’d like you if I got to know you better. Why? You’re asking me why? Well for one thing, you’ve been stalking me! Never mind that. Never mind that, either. No, it has nothing to do with him. He was just doing me a favor. What does it matter whether he’s Swedish or not? Well, if you hadn’t been stalking me, I wouldn’t need that favor, would I?” She listened for a bit, then cut the stalker off. “Listen,” she said, “you’re not stalking me anymore. Do you hear me? Not ever! I so much as see you in the distance and I’m coming to your apartment to shave off your eyebrows while you sleep!”
With that she hung up.
I took a moment to replay Dr. Hargrove’s side of the conversation in my mind. When I had a clear picture of what was going on, I said, “So, you know the guy?”
“That was Harry,” she said, putting her cell away. “He’s harmless. Bit of a bore, really. We went on one little date but he did something weird. Don’t worry, though,” she said, “he won’t be bothering me again.”
Curiosity got the better of me. “That’s good news, but, if you don’t mind me asking, what did he do?”
“I didn’t like the way he stirred his tea.”
“What?”
“He made circles to the left instead of to the right.” She cringed. “Who does that?”
“Not me.”
“Nobody does that. No sane person, anyway.” She shook her head. “Well,” she said, “turned out my intuition was right, the guy’s not to be trusted.”
Blog entry: We did the questionnaire, then Dr. H
argrove gave me my pills. Throughout the remainder of our visit she was in high spirits, but not once did she thank me either profusely or generously. It seemed she’d settled the matter and so it was forgotten.
Blog entry: Late that evening Hicks called to let me know he was still feeling a bit under the weather. He probably wouldn’t be in the next day.
Got Angry. Hung up. Put Hicks up for auction on eBay.
25.
Blog entry: Didn’t go to work the next morning. Decided to take the day off. Was still angry at the world in general and at two people in particular, so I decided to treat myself; I’d find out what my knack was.
But how to go about it?
My knack wasn’t painting, that much was clear. Painting pissed me off so badly it still boggled my mind, but it did give me an idea. Maybe my knack was the exact opposite of painting. And what was the exact opposite of carefree creativity using colors and visual imagination?
Maybe my knack was accountancy.
That’d make perfect sense. It would explain how my knack had managed to hide from me all these years, wrapped up safely in a reputation of tedious stuffiness. But just because I assumed accountancy was life-threateningly boring, that didn’t make it so. Today I’d cheat fate, uncover my knack, and turn my life around!
Went out and bought a slide rule, a ledger, pens, a calculator (with reverse Polish notation), more pens, a shinier slide rule, and the latest edition of Principles of Accounting.
Started balancing some made-up books.
Converted some foreign currencies.
Adjusted overall annual earnings with imposed import taxes.
Allowed for the time value of money to degenerate slow vesting investments.
Carried the one.
Then I realized that accountancy was, as improbable as it might seem, exactly as boring as I’d thought it’d be.
That almost never happens.
Threw the slide rule and the ledger across the room. Broke the calculator (with reverse Polish notation) in two. Mailed the Principles of Accounting to an evil stepmother.
On my way to the post office I mused on how good it was that I almost never sold anything at the store. If I did, I’d have to make it so expensive that I could afford to hire an accountant just to write it up, otherwise I might as well give the stuff away.
Blog entry: My bad mood brought back thoughts of the previous day; why hadn’t I received my profuse and generous thanks? Just because Dr. Hargrove happened to know her stalker, just because she thought he was harmless, did that make my efforts any less dangerous? Any less time consuming? Any less praiseworthy?
Of course it didn’t!
And why did women always assume that large, dangerous-looking men must surely be soft and cuddly on the inside? Had evolution taught them nothing? By attempting to solve her problem with a stern phone call, Dr. Hargrove had effectively ratted me out. If he wasn’t planning on doing so already, Harry must now be entertaining notions of exacting excruciating physical harm upon my body.
Blog entry: Couldn’t think of another way to calm myself down than to read Warren’s manuscript. After a couple of pages my mind struggled to remember who it was, never mind why it had been upset.
Maybe there was something to Warren’s writing after all.
Blog Entry: Phone rang. Picked up. It was Detective Moran. He sounded stressed and exhausted. He barely took the time to say hello. “We’ve found Dietrich,” he said.
I dropped the manuscript. My mind was back in the present instantly. “You found him? Really? Is he alright? Where was he?”
“You’re not going to like this,” Moran said. “In fact, you’re probably gonna hate it. Are you sure you want to know?”
“Of course I want to know,” I said. “Especially now you’ve made it sound so ominous. Is he dead? He’s dead, isn’t he?”
“Worse.”
“Worse than dead?”
A long pause. “It’s the way he died, Gomez. I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy.” A sigh. “I wish I had better news, but this case is really bad.”
“So he was murdered...”
“Preliminary coroner’s report says it could’ve been an accident. Detective Norton might have fallen, hit his head, and never regained consciousness. Essentially he dehydrated. Between you and me, though, Gomez, yes, I think he was murdered. The circumstances are too similar to those of the Miller case to be coincidental.”
I took a moment to let this sink in. I’d really liked Norton. We’d had a good conversation and he treated me like a valuable asset to his investigation. Also, I got the feeling he was a good man, a righteous man. I’d really hoped he’d turn up unharmed.
Joseph and Dietrich dying similar deaths had to mean that Dietrich was killed to keep him from discovering something (or to keep him from sharing something he’d already discovered). The two men didn’t travel in the same circles, didn’t have similar hobbies, hadn’t joined the same clubs, so it was unlikely they’d attracted the killer’s attention the same way. It all had to be connected to Miller, the first victim.
“Norton was found in Miller’s basement,” Detective Moran continued. “He was lying at the bottom of the stairs.”
That caught my attention.
“He must’ve been working the case,” Moran continued, “looking for clues he missed before. No one thought of checking Joseph’s place for signs of Norton until this morning. By then, of course, it was too late.”
“Is it possible he simply lost his footing and fell down the stairs?”
Moran cleared his throat. “That’s the strange thing,” he said. “There were no signs of him trying to protect himself from a fall, no defensive wounds. As if he was out cold when he went down. And there was something else…”
“What’s that?”
“His eyes…”
I could sense a shiver traveling down the line.
“What about his eyes?”
“He had a look, Gomez. I can’t really explain it.” Moran took a deep breath. “When I looked into his eyes, I got the feeling he’d been conscious the whole time. Paralyzed and unable to move even the tiniest muscle. Effectively feeling himself dry out and expire over a period of days.”
I really didn’t want to think about that. “So,” I said, trying to remain calm, “you’ll be testing for drugs, then?”
Detective Moran huffed. “Tox screen will be clear, just like last time, mark my words.”
“Still…”
“Yeah, we’ll do a toxicology report, it’s standard procedure.” Moran was about to hang up, then thought of one last thing. “Just one last thing, Gomez,” he said. “You might find this particularly interesting. I checked Dietrich’s neck before they took him away. Found a strange red mark, like a bruise.”
“Like the one on Miller’s neck?”
“Maybe. Anyway, I’ll keep you posted.”
Part Three
26.
Blog entry: My head buzzed with worry.
Was I next? Had Detective Norton suffered? Had Joseph suffered?
I couldn’t eat and when I tried to watch TV, nothing happened. None of the pictures and sounds reached my brain.
Blog entry: Was about to turn in when the phone rang again. Checked the number, didn’t recognize it. Toyed with the idea of letting it go to voicemail, then remembered the sick messages the phone-sex salesman had been leaving me, and I decided to pick up and give him a piece of my mind, vent some anger.
It turned out to be Dr. Hargrove.
“Hi, Gomez,” she said. She sounded excited. “How are you? Everything okay?”
“I’m fine.” My anger dissipated instantly. “And you? No more stalkers, I trust?” I reminded myself to tread carefully this time. I didn’t want to scare her off again. For one thing, I wasn’t going to make the mistake of asking her why she’d called.
“No,” Dr. Hargrove said, “that’s ancient history, thank goodness.”
“Great. I’m glad to hear that.”
“So?”
“So, don’t you want to know what I’m wearing?”
“I’m sorry, what?”
“I could tell you what I’m wearing,” Dr. Hargrove offered. “You know, in case you were wondering.”
“Aren’t you wearing a lab coat?”
Dr. Hargrove huffed. “Why would you say that?”
“I don’t know. Perhaps because I’ve never seen you without a lab coat. I think of Dr. Hargrove, I think: lab coat.”
“You think I wear my lab coat at home? Really? Why on earth would I do that, Gomez?”
I was getting confused. “I have no idea. Now I think about it, you’re right, it doesn’t make sense. Sorry. So, what are you wearing?”
She snorted. “Frankly, Gomez, I resent the fact that you simply assumed I’d be wearing my lab coat at home. Like I have no life, no imagination. Like I have no actual clothes…”
“I’m really sorry. I hadn’t thought it through. If I’d let my mind run over the question more carefully, I would’ve pictured you wearing something nicer, much nicer. Honest.”
I was getting curious. She must be wearing something really interesting for her to call up a test subject to talk about it. I couldn’t imagine what it might be.
“So,” I said, “what are you wearing?”
A sigh from the other end of the line. “I’m wearing my lab coat.”
