Sitting in his chair, he removed the rubber band from the file, snapping his finger in the process. He tossed the band across the room near the television set and then pulled everything out of the accordion file. On the top of the stack was a bright pink sticky note addressed to Harry.
Harry,
Hey there bright eyes! This is it. The whole shebang! All of the info that we have on the case, latest scene on top. Just like the rest, this one had fuck all for hard evidence. I honestly don't think that we're going to catch this guy until he feels like getting caught. Keep your chin up though, Harry, you'll get him eventually.
XOXO
Love
Harry felt ashamed of how long he leered at the hugs and kisses that Love had left him. She had called him bright eyes too. Did that mean something? Was she flirting with him? Was she making a Planet of the Apes reference?
Pay attention to the case, Harry.
The small hope that he was harboring for more evidence was dashed. Flipping through the file, he found page after page of profile information that only told him what he already knew. The killer was a white male, in his thirties, traveling on foot, in no discernible pattern. However, something was scribbled in pen in the corner of one of the file's pages that made Harry pay attention. The suspect is searching for something, or someone. This was not information that had been brought up before. It was probably just a quick thought that one of the Blues had, but it was interesting none the less.
Beyond the profile was a stack of photos from the crime scene that documented every detail of the motel room. Harry looked at them for a long time, imagining that he was using Love's eyes to see through the camera. She had a good eye for composition, not that these photos would be making it into a gallery anytime soon.
Actually, Harry thought, with the current craze over Strawberries, a gallery show would probably be a huge success. What the Hell was wrong with people?
The file held a plethora of other information, none of which Harry felt he could use to catch the killer. He began to think about what Love had written. Maybe Strawberries would never be caught unless he wanted it to happen. If Harry knew what the psycho was looking for, he would gladly hand it over to stop the bloodshed.
He closed the file the best he could without the use of the rubber band, and tossed it onto the bed, some of it spilling out onto the sheets. He leaned his head back and closed his eyes. After a few more dead end thoughts on the case, his mind settled. He thought of Love. He had made up his mind to ask her out even though he knew that rejection was the only conclusion. He needed to ask her, not so much to get the date, but to get his confidence up. He had been out of the game for so long that he had the same fear of rejection that he did in high school. He needed to re-show himself that rejection was, with the exception of a small bruise to the ego, painless.
As his consciousness settled in on a pleasant daydream, the motel phone rang. He thought for a moment of how bad it would be just to let it ring. He actually enjoyed hearing the classic sound of a real telephone. He hardly ever heard that anymore. On the fourth ring, he picked up the receiver.
“Bland,” he said.
“Harry, I'm glad I caught you,” said the voice on the other end. Jasper Beckman was Harry's colleague and old friend. They were in the same class at the academy, and their careers had virtually mirrored each other since. He would have even been the best man at his wedding if Harry's mother hadn't pushed him to give the job to his brother. Despite Jasper being a friend, he knew that this probably was not a social call.
Harry decided to play it light. “Jasper, how the hell are ya? How's the family? Sheila doing well?”
“Oh yeah, Harry, she's great. Kids are good. I'm tired, but getting by. How are you holding up? Sheila and I ran into Sara at the store the other day, she said that the two of you haven't talked in months.”
It had actually been five months and eight days since Harry had spoken to his ex-wife. She had called him twice in that time, but he avoided the calls. Early on in the separation, he had tried to keep in touch. He told himself that he didn't hate her for leaving, but he finally admitted that he was lying. He did hate her, and had not taken a call since the revelation.
“Yeah, I've been meaning to give her a call, but this case is taking all my time.”
He wanted to avoid talking about the case, but he wanted to avoid talking about Sara more.
“Well, that's why I called, Harry.”
Here we go.
“The higher ups asked me to give you a call,” Jasper continued, “And I'm not going to beat around the bush. We've been friends for too long for that. They aren't happy, Harry. The media has gone crazy with this Strawberry nonsense. It's everywhere, and the Bureau needs it shut down. Now.”
“I've only had this case less than two weeks Jasper. I'm doing the best I can. We just don't have anything. Nothing at all, let alone a suspect.”
“I know, Harry, you got a raw deal. The case is still yours for now, so don't get too frustrated just yet.”
“For now?” Harry asked.
“Yeah, Harry. Look, there are mutterings that they are going to bring someone else in. I don't know how long that will take, but it probably won't be long. Maybe a week.”
“A week! Fuck Christ, Jasper. Henderson got what, sixteen murders? He was on this case for months, and you're saying I get a few weeks? This will be the end of me, Jasper. Christ.”
“Harry, come on now. Even if you're taken off the case, you'll bounce back. You always do. And hey, you could always look into early retirement and go crash on the beach somewhere.”
That was it. Harry finally got the joke. His friend would never have suggested early retirement to him. His friend would know that that option was as good as suicide to people like them. Jasper the coworker, however, that was different. A coworker might have been told to push retirement on Harry. To make it seem like a good idea. The powers that be didn't want Harry off the case, they wanted him out of the Bureau.
“Who's the unlucky fuck that will take my place? Let's see if they get any further with nothing.”
“That doesn't matter, Harry, you just need to buckle down and find this guy now.”
Oh you motherfucker. Did they just give it to you, or did you push for it?
“It's you, isn't it?”
“Yeah, Harry, it's me. But look, I don't need the hassle right? I'm pulling for you.”
“Sure, Buddy.”
Neither of them spoke for a while. There wasn't much else to say.
“I'll make sure they send a copy of the file over to you soon as they can,” Harry said, putting an end to the silence. “That way you can get a jump on things.”
“Don't worry about that, Harry, I have one here.”
“Ah well. There you go then. Bye, Jasper.”
“Goodbye Har…”
Harry hung up before he heard Jasper's farewell.
* * *
The corpse was off the wall and the bedding stripped, but most of the blood remained. They would not release the room to the cleaners until Harry, or Jasper, gave the go ahead. That was the protocol in case the scene needed revisiting, though he doubted that anyone else would be coming back here.
Harry had no clue what he had hoped to find that he couldn't have gotten from the photos. It was past midnight, and Harry couldn't sleep, so he had decided to go for a drive. When he got into Susie, he wasn't sure where he meant to go, but here he was.
He scanned the room. There was so much blood, but Harry had gone numb to the sight long ago. He reached in his pocket and pulled out a pair of latex gloves. With them on, he bent down to look at the bottom rail of the bed nearest the wall, where the strawberry drawing was.
You already have the pictures Harry, why are you down here?
When he tried to get back to his feet, a loud snap emanated from his knee. Wincing in pain, he managed to get to a chair near the door. He massaged the joint, as if merely touching it would make the agony go away.
> It didn't.
He leaned back, a tear forming in the corner of his right eye.
Waiting for the pain to subside, he looked out over the room. The dried bloodstains on the bed reminded him of a Rorschach test.
Doc, I see a butterfly. No wait, an antelope. No, actually, I see two people fucking.
He eyed the room. As he got older, he had a harder time maintaining focus when he was alone. He was usually fine on the job, surrounded by people, but alone he could never resist the fantasy in his mind. Dreams of Sara and what his life was supposed to be. His fantasy world gripped him now, even with the pain in his knee.
This was not the first time that Harry Bland had fallen asleep at a crime scene, but if someone were to walk in right now, he would understand if they found it a little more inappropriate than the rest.
FOURTEEN
From the roof of the motel, he could see the stars relatively well. He drew lines between them in his mind, making pictures that only he could see. A landscape that he fashioned to give meaning to the world around him. He had been sitting on this spot for more hours than he could remember, letting the energy spill into his lap like the tide.
It had been flowing freely, but now the energy was but a trickle. It had entered him, spreading below the surface of his skin, protecting him from the pain that always threatened.
From this vantage point, he could look down and see the door of the motel room where his last dance had taken place. The energy came from that door, but he could barely see it now. Soon it would be gone completely.
There were no longer any police officers, or anyone else, hanging about the place. They had left many hours ago, dragging his display away with them. They were like ants scurrying about, taking chunks of his work, bit by bit, until it was gone. All the while, the waves washed over their bodies without them knowing it. It affected them. It made them feel what he felt. It was his gift to them. It was always surprising to see how many ants it took to wash away his work, and he marveled at their inability to discover him.
They need only look up.
It was time for him to move on, and continue his search. He needed to continue. A man needed a goal.
Just as he was about to stand, he saw a man in a black suit approach the door below. He recognized this man from before. He was one of the ants, though he had a different presence than the rest. He could feel this man's sadness. He was not here long the last time. Why had he returned?
The black suited man removed the yellow tape that the last of the ants had placed over his door and entered. The light illuminated the window blinds, and part of him–the weak, curious part–wanted to stay and see what the man would do, but he knew this place was finished. He would give the remaining energy to the ant in the black suit, a final parting gift.
He stood atop the roof, stretched his body and prepared for the coming journey. He rubbed his hands together. The night had grown cold. The scars of his fingers raked against each other. He looked down at them, remembering the moment long before when he had cut them. He remembered the rush as he scraped away the final piece of his identity.
He walked to the edge of the roof and looked down at the ground. He took one more step and his body dropped. His feet landed squarely on the grass below, his body bending into a crouch. Standing, he chose a direction. He didn't know where he was going, so it didn't matter where he went. He would find what he needed.
A man just needed to have faith.
FIFTEEN
Shelly had spent the rest of the morning attempting to track down a story in the white halls of Lincoln Hospital. She needed something–anything–that was interesting enough to make a spot for the late night broadcast. Her camera man, Jake, had been filming everything she pointed to that may be of interest, but the actual story had eluded her, in no small part due to her inability to focus.
Her mind was on Robert, and his gift to her, which she had been holding from that moment at the table. She would look down every few minutes at the simple drawing of a strawberry and wonder what it meant. It was most likely just a doodle, done by a man with nothing but time to kill, but it felt more important to Shelly. She knew that her fascination was not really with the drawing but with its creator, though every nurse or doctor who she questioned about Robert had very little to say.
“He is very quiet.”
“Never had any problems.”
“Keeps to himself.”
They never had any details about why he was at Lincoln, or what his mental state was. She had managed to discover that his primary doctor had left the institute nearly a year earlier, and Dr. Lyst had taken over Robert's care since then. Her bridge to Dr. Lyst was already on fire, but she hoped that she could get to him once more before it burned completely.
A kind nurse gave her directions to the second floor office of the doctor, but before she went, she told Jake to stay back. She didn't want to freak the doctor out with the camera, so she told Jake that she would call for him if she managed to get an agreement to a filmed interview. She didn't tell Jake that one reason for not having the camera was so that she could ask a few questions that were slightly off topic.
Lyst was not in his office when she got there. The door was open, so she let herself in and poked around his desk to see if anything jumped out at her. Finding nothing of interest, she bolted from the office before she was caught snooping. Back then, Shelly was not quite as daring as she was now, but it didn't take her long to figure out that it took a big set of balls to be an investigative reporter.
Shelly wandered through the second floor looking for the doctor, finally finding him in a small break room. He sat at a table in the far corner with his back to her, but she would have recognized the age spots on his head in a line-up.
The break room had four other tables, two of which were filled with other staff members. Shelly made a mental note that they were the two furthest from where Dr. Lyst was sitting. Perhaps, Shelly thought, he just didn't think it kosher to eat with his subordinates, or more likely, he just wasn't well liked by them.
In an attempt to catch the doctor off guard, she swung her body around the table and quickly sat in the chair facing him. Mid-bite, he jumped, gagging on his Reuben and coughing bits of sauerkraut onto the table. As he continued to cough, Shelly handed him a napkin and began her questioning.
“Dr. Lyst?” she asked with false enthusiasm. “Shelly Cervantes. We met earlier remember? Now I know you don't want to talk to me anymore than I want to talk to you, so just answer a few simple questions for me and I'll be out of your building before you can say 'call security.' ”
He looked at her and she could see his mouth change shape from angered, to pestered, and then finally to defeat. He set his sandwich down on his plate and used the napkin she had handed him.
“Fine, Miss Cervantes. You have until I finish my lunch, but be advised that I eat quickly.”
“This won't take long, Doc. I promise.” She then asked a series of monotonous questions. Will the facility have enough in the budget to continue to house the remaining patients? Will any of the staff be let go? Was he the soul decider when it came to who would be set free?
He answered each succinctly, and Shelly jotted down his responses. She would have enough to put together a fluff piece, and her boss would probably never watch it anyway.
Now she could ask the questions that she really wanted answers to. “I met a man scheduled to be released today by the name of Robert. I didn't get his last name. He wasn't all that camera friendly, but he was the only one I could find who could string intelligible sentences together. What say you fill me in on him so I can call it a day and get home to my tub?”
The doctor took another bite of his sandwich. He was nearly done, so Shelly had to rush. She couldn't put the soft touch on her questions that she would like.
“As I have told you before miss, I cannot divulge any information about my patients.”
“Oh come on, Doc, you want me out of here as much as I want me
out of here. Just give me a little. Just enough to give my story a human element. That's it. Then I'm gone.”
He didn't need to know that Robert wasn't actually part of the story.
“That particular patient,” began the doctor, “has been with us for some time. He was admitted as a child, and has never shown any signs of violence, or any other symptom that would prevent him from being released. He has been nothing but cordial and cooperative since I came here to Lincoln. There is no story with him, Miss Cervantes. You are wasting your time–and mine. Now, if you don't mind?” He gestured to the last bite of his sandwich.
Shelly left him to his meal, and quickly put some distance between her and the break room. Back on the first floor, she instructed Jake to get the van ready and wait for her just outside. Earlier in the day, while passing through one of the only hallways that was not painted all white, she had seen various offices and one room marked records. If nobody would give her answers, she would just take them.
She passed a couple offices with staff inside, but they paid no attention to her. When she got to the records room, she was thrilled to find it unlocked. She dashed inside and closed the door softly enough that barely a click sounded.
The room was packed with filing cabinets. So much so, there was barely enough room to maneuver between the rows. As she checked the alphabetically marked cabinet drawers, she quickly realized a dilemma. She didn't know Robert's last name. There was no possible way for her to check through all of the cabinets to find what she needed.
Dejected, she made her way to the door when an idea came to her. She checked through the cabinet labels until she came across one that was marked De – Fa. She started with the middle drawer and found what she was looking for instantly. The majority of the drawer was filled with folders marked with the last name Doe. John and Jane made up the bulk, but Shelly's eyes widened when she saw a thick folder labeled Doe, Robert. The first page had a picture of the same man who had enthralled her. He was much younger in the photo, but unmistakable.
Strawberries Page 8
