The Killing Code

by Craig Hurren

  “Thanks boss. See you in a couple of days.”

  Alan returned to his desk, shut down his computer terminal and grabbed a couple of things from his drawer. As he rounded the corner that led to the stairs, he saw Richard Collier ascending from the car park with a look of malicious intent. Beach didn’t know what to expect but was in no mood for any of Collier’s childish nonsense so he decided to preempt him with some nonsense of his own. “Walker is looking for you and he doesn’t seem happy.” he lied.

  Collier creased his eyes in disbelief but was compelled to pick up his pace. He walked briskly past without a word and Alan started quickly down the stairs. Beach knew what he’d done was stupid and would come back to bite him later but it had the desired effect. He had made it to the car park unmolested and Collier’s footsteps tailed off in the distance. He jumped into his car to drive home and pack an overnight bag.

  Once home, Alan had a shower and changed his clothes. He sat on the end of the bed with a towel wrapped around his waist and took a moment to reflect on the investigation so far. As he collected his thoughts and put everything into logical order, his sad, slate grey eyes were drawn to the wall in front of him. Hanging there was a beautiful black and white photograph from his wedding to Kelly. The ornate, silver framed picture was tastefully composed and despite the formal circumstance, the couple looked relaxed, in love, and full of hope for the future. That was over ten years ago and they had two wonderful years of marriage before he lost the only woman he had ever loved to a car crash. Alan clearly recalled the unbearable pain of the event and how his initial disbelief and anger had eventually faded to emptiness and hopelessness. His loss was so profound it had very nearly consumed him. He couldn’t see a path forward and didn’t know how to go on without her. In the end, the only thing that kept him going was his work, into which he threw himself entirely, to drown out the pain.

  Over time, his constant and total immersion in cases began to numb the pain to some extent and he was left in a kind of emotional no man’s land. Over the years, friends and family had tried several times to set him up with other women but the wall he’d built around his heart prevented any chance of intimacy and he remained alone. The one positive outcome of this event in his life was that through his focus and dedication, he had developed into the most successful homicide detective in the city of Boston. His talent and potential as an investigator were obvious - so much so that he had been promoted to the rank of detective much younger than the norm. The tragic irony was that he would probably never have realized his full potential as a detective if Kelly hadn’t died that terrible day, all those years ago.

  Looking at that photograph always brought the memories and pain flooding back but doing so held a morbid attachment for him. Despite knowing the act was self destructive and part of the reason he couldn’t move on, he just couldn’t stop. Over the years, his mind had twisted events to apportion blame on himself for his wife’s death and this ritual had become a form of self-flagellation. Even though Kelly was driving alone when the accident happened, Alan’s mind had invented emotional tendrils to link him inextricably to the event. He would obsess over such unrealistic possibilities as: if he had been with her, he could have prevented it, or if he had bought her a safer car, she would have been better protected from the impact.

  While Alan was at his lowest after Kelly’s death, his boss had demanded he see a police psychologist. Alan resisted as long as he could until it became obvious the lieutenant wouldn’t take, ‘no’ for an answer. Seeing a shrink was the last thing he wanted to do but in the end he gave in and visited Dr. Sarah Kellerman Psy.D., in the Police Administration Building. Their initial meeting was not overly productive because of Alan’s unwillingness to open up but the doctor had anticipated his resistance and gradually, over the ensuing weeks they started to make some headway. She had educated him in the five stages of grief and the effect each stage had in the recovery process. They talked about his unhealthy thoughts of self blame and inability to let go and move forward with life.

  “You know Alan, as strange as this may seem, the act of blaming yourself for something which you could not possibly have foreseen or influenced in any way, is actually your subconscious mind’s way of coping with your conscious need for control.” she explained carefully.

  “Goodness! There’s some well versed psycho-babble.” Alan smiled.

  “That psycho-babble as you call it, simply means that your conscious mind can’t cope with the reality of your loss, and the fact that you had no control over the event. This caused you to feel that you have no real control over anything in life, so you developed this coping mechanism to deal with it. Your subconscious found unreasonable ways to blame yourself and rationalizes these illogical thoughts to your conscious mind. It’s very similar to the phenomenon wherein children from broken homes blame themselves for their parents’ divorce so they can make sense of it in their own minds. It is a common coping mechanism which you must eventually overcome to move forward. For now though, it remains in place to keep you sane.”

  “You psychologists have the most eloquently complex means of putting things in such a way as to be incomprehensible, hence the term psycho-babble.”

  She stared blankly at Beach and said nothing.

  “I’m teasing now doctor – I understand what you mean and I will take it on board.”

  Their sessions had continued for a few months until Alan decided that his subconscious was not ready to let go and likely would not be ready for some time to come. At their final session, he thanked Dr. Kellerman for her kindness and they agreed that he should reach out to her in times of need.

  He had learned from his visits with Sarah but the lessons faded into the distance when he gazed at that happy moment frozen in time on his wall. How he missed Kelly. How he longed for the happiness and love they’d shared. How could he have let this happen, he would torture himself time and time again. He consciously realized now, why he’d been so gentle questioning Jim Benson. He saw the pain in Jim’s eyes; the same sickening, unrelenting blend of soul destroying emotions that he had felt when he lost Kelly. His intense empathy for Jim wouldn’t allow him to cause further pain so he maintained his consoling demeanor despite the fact that the odds always favor the husband as a suspect when a wife dies in suspicious circumstances.

  Having had his fill of self-blame, Alan stood himself up and pulled an old leather overnight bag from his closet. He stuffed the required clothing and toiletries into it and got dressed for the trip. With preparations complete, he went to the freezer to grab a frozen dinner and tossed it into the microwave. Waiting for the machine’s timer to bleep, he thought about how he should eat better and exercise more often but could never seem to spare the time. As the oven played its musical notification, he retrieved his dinner and plopped it on the kitchen counter to eat. His mind wandered in an idle daydream to the frozen food factory as he imagined thousands of plates with little divided compartments rolling along the conveyer belt, machines dropping their premeasured portions of prepared stuff into their targeted spots then moving along to be packaged and sent off to the supermarket. He thought how this used to be quality time he would have spent talking to Kelly but now just needed to fill the void. Shaking himself out of it, he finished eating and dropped the plate into the trash can.

  “Time to hit the road.” he said to himself, scooping up his overnight bag.

  Alan estimated the drive would take just under three hours. He figured there was bound to be a motel in town or near the high security psychiatric institution so he hadn’t bothered to book ahead. The drive was uneventful and as fortune would have it, the facility was just off the main road he was traveling on the way into town. A few miles further to the edge of town, he spotted a cheap but comfortable looking motel, parked his car and went to check in. Alan rang the bell and the night clerk emerged from his lodgings behind the registration counter. He was a thin fellow in his late fifties, with unkempt hair and grey stubbly whiskers. Smiling
to greet Alan, he revealed a number of missing teeth.

  “Are ya traveling alone Mr… uh… Beach?” the clerk asked as he peered at Alan’s driver’s license.

  “Yes, it’s just me, and just one night please.”

  “Travelin’ salesman, are ya?”

  “No, just visiting someone.”

  “Well, we don’t tolerate no funny business round here so I’ll be keepin’ an eye out.”

  “You do that sir.”

  Alan leant to pick up his bag and the man suddenly froze in a macabre, toothless grimace of shocked fear and Alan very nearly laughed at the bizarre image until he realized that his jacket had opened, exposing his Glock 9mm in its holster.

  “Don’t worry friend.” Alan calmed him, pulling his badge from his belt to provide the startled man some relief. “I’m here on official police business. In fact, I’d appreciate your fax number so my lieutenant can send me some paperwork, if you wouldn’t mind.”

  The man’s face relaxed into a slightly less maniacally comical look as he leaned forward to examine Alan’s badge. “Oh, OK then officer detective, sir.” He fumbled, relieved but gently rubbing his chest over his heart.

  The man gave Alan the hotel’s fax number, his room key, and breakfast order form, still wide eyed and rubbing his chest. “Goodnight officer detective, sir.”

  “Just plain ‘detective’ is fine.” Alan said smiling.

  Alan went to his room and found a pizza delivery menu on the bedside table, picked up the phone to order and watched television to fill in some time. After eating he pulled his notebook out and fingered through the pages. His meeting was at ten o’clock but he decided to arrive a little early to give himself the chance to survey the building and security. Alan pondered what it would be like to have a conversation with this brutal murderer in the flesh and thought about the questions he would ask. Eventually, sleep came.

  Chapter 4

  Alan woke fresh and had breakfast. Having a bit of time to kill, he decided to take advantage and take a walk. He kept a brisk pace for half an hour, trying to fulfill his promise to himself to exercise more regularly. When the time came, he checked out of the motel, got in his car and drove away from town to his appointment.

  Approaching the building, he pulled the car over on the side of the road and examined the institution’s security measures through binoculars. There was an elaborate system of three different chain link fences standing over twelve feet high. All three had rolls of razor wire at their bottom and top, with the middle fence also bearing signs to warn of electrification and there were manned guard towers surrounding the expansive, four storied structure, sufficient to observe and prevent any attempt to escape. The wire mesh windows looked as though they had been recently updated with the latest locking mechanisms and were encased in steel bars. It seemed quite obvious to Alan from what he saw, that no one was getting out of this place without permission – and his evaluation didn’t take into account any internal security measures they may have utilized.

  Satisfied that Bryan Adler would not have been able to escape and return unnoticed without inside help or a very clever plan, Alan proceeded to the visitors’ car park and on to the outer security check point. He pulled his badge from his belt to show the guard and surrendered his weapon then moved on to the secondary check point. The guard there checked for his name on the appointment roster and asked for any metal objects to be placed in a lockable tray. Alan held up his badge.

  “This is metal but you can’t have it.”

  “Understood Detective Beach but I will need to see it again when you leave to ensure you still have it with you.” he said as he extended his hand toward Alan. “In the meantime, I’ll need to have a closer look please.”

  “Wow, you guys really take this seriously!”

  “This facility has successfully contained the country’s most devious, depraved, and violent criminally insane inmates for over thirty years detective. No one wants that to change on their watch.”

  “I understand officer, thank you.” Alan said, retrieving his detective’s shield then he passed through the heavy rotating bars of the checkpoint.

  His eyes moved searchingly over the front of the building as he walked the distance to the main doors finding nothing but the highest possible security standards. At the front door, there were four guards armed with automatic rifles. Two were positioned outside the doors and two inside. The exterior guards didn’t ask for ID or even acknowledge Alan. Their purpose was purely to scan the grounds between the front door and the security check points. As Alan approached the doors, an interior guard swiped a card across a sensor and the heavy bullet-proof glass glided apart allowing entry. The guard motioned toward the step-through metal detection unit and Alan complied. The machine made a loud beep and one of the guards held a detection wand up. Alan pulled his shield out and handed it to the man but he continued his sweep anyway. Satisfied, the guard returned Alan’s badge and instructed him to proceed to the waiting room outside the administration office. A couple of minutes later, a voice came from the door.

  “Detective Beach, I’m David Tinsley, Head of Psychiatry at Sherbourne Institute for the Criminally Insane. Please follow me to my office.”

  The man was in his fifties, tall and sturdy with a goatee and glasses. He extended his hand to shake Alan’s and with the formalities complete, they proceeded to Tinsley’s office. The room reminded Alan of a dean’s office in an old Ivy League school. It felt old and formal but richly historical with its timber walls and book cases, buttoned leather chairs with matching sofa and huge oak desk and chairs. The Chief Consultant Psychiatrist motioned to the sofa in the sitting area and sat himself down in one of the leather chairs. As Alan sat, he noticed a large file on the coffee table in front of the doctor.

  “Would you like coffee or tea detective?”

  “I’m fine thank you but please call me Alan.”

  “Alan it is then – indeed, let’s dispense with formalities. You may call me David. I have Mr. Adler’s complete file here but perhaps you would prefer to discuss the patient rather than wade through all these medical notes and terminology?”

  “You read my mind David. I’m afraid they didn’t teach, ‘Medical’ where I went to school.”

  “And where might that have been Alan? Your accent is faintly New England but I can’t be sure.”

  “Well picked. I’m from Boston but I’ve managed to avoid the typical accent of the area.”

  “Ah yes, the wonderful city of Boston. I attended Harvard and have fond memories of my time there. But you’ve come from Columbus I believe?”

  “That’s right. I moved there a few years ago. It’s a long story and not worth telling.”

  “Oh but all stories are worth telling Alan.” Tinsley spoke with long held wisdom. “Still, for the sake of time, let’s get to Mr. Adler shall we? How does he relate to your case?”

  “I can’t really discuss details of the case but there has been a suspicious death and Adler’s name came up in the investigation. The victim was in your profession; Dr. Helen Benson.”

  David Tinsley’s face sank. “Helen Benson the Neuro-Psychiatrist?”

  “That’s right, did you know her?”

  “Everyone in this profession knows of Helen Benson. An extremely gifted woman and considered the leader in her field by many, including myself. This is a great and terrible loss! How did she die?” Tinsley’s brow was tensed in a deep furrow and his eyes welled slightly.

  “That’s what I’m trying to find out. It appears as a suicide but there are suspicious circumstances which I can’t go into at this point.”

  “Suicide - that’s impossible detective!” he railed. “Dr. Benson would never have done such a thing to herself. Besides, she had two young daughters, a happy marriage and an incredibly bright future. How could anyone think such a thing?”

  “I understand Doctor but she was found by her husband in their home with a massive, apparently self-inflicted wound to her forearm wh
ich caused exsanguination.”

  “My God… I can’t believe this! I’ve had dinner in that very home with Helen, Jim and other friends and colleagues. When did this happen?”

  “Last night - about eight fifteen.”

  “I don’t understand. She was keynote speaker at the National Psychiatric Medicines Convention in Washington. She should have been there until today. I would be there myself but I sent some of our junior faculty for the experience.”

  “Her husband said she had already performed her formal duties in the first two days of the conference and missed her family so she asked a colleague to cover her remaining minor responsibilities and returned home last night.”

  “That poor man, he must be completely distraught!”

  Alan winced slightly; recalling Jim’s pain and how closely it mimicked his own.

  “I apologize for my incredulity. This is very difficult to accept. Did you say she cut her own forearm?”

  Alan composed himself, “That’s right - does that mean something to you?”

  “Yes - and it will certainly mean something to Bryan Adler!”

  Tinsley went on to describe Adler’s predilections and details of his long and brutal life as a serial killer. He explained how Helen had done a period of consultation and pharmacological research at Sherbourne, during which she had regular ongoing sessions with Adler for many months. He then used Helen’s exhaustive notes and transcripts to detail the psychopath’s history and pathology for Alan.

  Bryan was born in the latter months of 1972 outside a rural Arkansas community to Curtis and Ruth Adler. It was a home birth and since his mother never ventured into town, no one outside the Adlers had ever known she was pregnant so there was no record of his birth. He was one of those statistics that just fell through the cracks of bureaucracy due to the sheer social and geographical isolation his parents had created. The Adlers had a small farm miles from the nearest town and his parents would allow no outside interaction so his upbringing had been extremely solitary, with only his parents and a few farm animals for company. He was never allowed to attend school; in fact, Bryan didn’t even know what school was until later when he entered into foster care.