Dawson's Web

by William Hutchison

  His counselor got a front row seat on the schizophrenia stage play that was occurring but failed to recognize it for what it was.

  The shift Jeff made from snake to logical brain had occurred too quickly.

  He later wrote his patient had had a breakthrough that day and even considered writing a scientific paper describing how his use of hypnotherapy had saved this nameless young man.

  He never did write the paper, and after two years of counseling, during which Jeff never allowed his reptilian brain to control the conversation again, he released Jeff.

  He wrote the court that Jeff was “cured.” He described the groping incident as a one-off situation brought about because Jeff “was simply going through a phase of adolescent rage driven by hormones.”

  The court agreed.

  Jeff didn’t need counseling anymore.

  Case closed.

  Jeff’s reptilian brain went into hibernation after that and only emerged sixteen years later when he found himself in a loveless, cold, and otherwise failed relationship with his flight attendant wife.

  Frequently, after an incident with one of his victims, his logical brain took over and he could analyze the situation in fine detail as if he was watching himself in a slow motion video. He could discern what attracted him to the victim in the first place.

  That was scene one.

  He would play that scene over and over again in his mind. He always liked that part, when he first noticed his victim, imprinted on her and imagined what it would be like when the games occurred.

  He knew all the while in his logical brain that it was his hatred for his stepmother that drove his insanity.

  He knew this to his core. He would hold on to that feeling of control as long as he could so he could replay it later until his reptilian urges became too intense. The snake in him has no conscious.

  As he watched the scenes play out in his mind, he convinced himself to be repulsed by what he had done. He told himself it was another person committing those acts. And it worked sometimes. The logical brain became stronger afterward saving him from himself.

  During the times in between the killings, he could control his urges.

  But with the exact right combination of beauty, intelligence, and innocence, his reptilian brain took over, which was what was happening now.

  There were two local surfers deep in conversation at the bar as he sat down, but other than those two souls, he was the only customer.

  Charlene approached him. “Hello, I’m Charlene. What can I get you to drink? You look like you could use one.”

  Apparently, Jeff, in his haste to get there, had left on his blonde wig and was still wearing his lifts.

  He looked out of place.

  Charlene noticed he was staring at her and it felt creepy to her.

  “I’ll have a rum and coke on the rocks,” Jeff said, his eyes penetrating her soul.

  Jeff removed the wig, muttered something about being in an impromptu costume party and sat on it.

  “I really do need a drink. The party I was at was outrageous.”

  Charlene didn’t know what he was talking about, but in the week she had worked there, she had seen many strange things. She passed his comment off, never giving it a second thought.

  Jeff couldn’t believe his luck.

  He had just finished with Roxy and here was a veritable clone of her standing in front of him. She was a rose, in full bloom waiting to be plucked. He was starting to get excited again.

  Maybe he should go down to the store and buy a lottery ticket. He was definitely feeling lucky tonight.

  The lottery numbers were running in his favor.

  Charlene brought him his drink and he sat there silently, half-listening to the surfer dudes who were talking about the gnarly waves that were coming in because of a tropical storm that had pushed the waves towards the south-facing beaches.

  He wasn’t interested.

  He sipped his drink and continued studying Charlene. He ordered another one, and when he finished it, he left. His Snake Brain didn’t like alcohol, allowing his logical brain to kick in.

  He was too tired and too drunk to drive home, but he did anyway.

  As he was leaving, his reptilian brain began a significant debate with his logical mind trying to convince him to go back and repeat with Charlene what had occurred with Roxy earlier that night. He wasn’t sure who was going to win, but it gave him something to think about while he drove the hour to his home in Malibu. It would also keep him sober enough to not get a DUI.

  He was happy his wife was in New Jersey.

  He didn’t need any of her hassles tonight.

  The debate raged on throughout the drive.

  In the end, logic won.

  He pulled his car into the garage, went in and went to bed.

  Chapter 24

  Fred McCallister pulled his car into the Manhattan Beach Mall shopping center, four miles south of Los Angeles International Airport. Typical of a Saturday when all the upscale Gen-Exers do their shopping, there weren’t any spaces near the North entrance where the cutlery shop was that Detective Reddick said sold the knife, the blade of which was found in the bathroom on the beach next to the murder victim. He had to park three hundred yards away near a bank, which would add to the pain in is his arches. This was the last shop on the list. The other two, one in Burbank, and one in Santa Monica didn’t keep good enough records, so they were no help at all. And he couldn’t find parking spaces in front of them either. He was dog-tired.

  Fred walked into the mall and found the cutlery shop near the entrance. The whole place couldn’t have been more than 150 square feet. The glass case in front had a fine display of knives, sharpening stones, Zippo Lighters, knock off Rolex watches, and watchbands. It reminded Fred of the shops that lined St. Thomas along the waterfront when he and his wife took a cruise there before she fell ill. That memory came forth and hit Fred like a blow to his stomach.

  He still couldn’t believe she was gone.

  Fred regained his composure and approached the counter.

  A short, rotund Middle Eastern man was sitting in a chair watching a small TV with the US Open playing.

  The Arab-American, who owned the shop, saw Fred approaching and got up.

  Jordan Spieth rolled in another long snake and the crowd erupted.

  “Is there anything I can help you with?” he asked.

  Fred reached into his pocket and pulled out an Internet picture of the Russian knife Reddick had given him earlier that day.

  “Do you sell these knives?” he asked as he handed him the picture. He also reached for his badge and showed that too.

  The shopkeeper studied the picture. “We don’t sell very many of them, but I have sold a few in the past year. It’s a unique knife. It’s made well and remains razor-sharp for months. Masterknife in China uses high-grade titanium to make it. It’s mostly used by hikers and people who spend time camping.”

  Fred was impressed by the shopkeeper’s knowledge but wasn’t that interested in how they were made. He wanted to know who bought it. “I know all about the knife,” Fred looked at the shopkeeper’s nametag, “Hakim.” (Which sounded like Fred was saying Hah Keem.)

  “Did I say that right?”

  “You did.”

  Fred pressed further. “Do you have records of who bought the knives? Say over the last couple of years?”

  “I keep excellent records. I had my son, who graduated from ITT Technical Institute create an inventory program for me when I opened the shop three years ago. If you’ll wait a minute, I’ll go back into the storeroom and get the names.” Hakim wanted to ask why he was interested in who purchased the knives but he didn’t ask.

  Even so, his eyes told a different story.

  Fred realized he was in luck. It wouldn’t hurt to tell Hakim why he needed the names. Hakim was being cooperative. “I’m doing a murder investigation. A piece of a knife like this was found next to someone who was killed a few weeks ago.”
Fred explained.

  Hakim raised his eyebrows but remained silent. He had immigrated to the US from Syria eight years earlier. There, if someone of authority asked you a question, you didn’t ask any back.

  Fred continued. “I’m getting ready to retire and am trying to help out the boys in forensics and keep myself busy until then. Any records you have would be useful.”

  Hakim still said nothing, nodded and went back to his storeroom. He came back in five minutes with a computer printout. It had only one name on it.

  “Here you go, officer. The person who bought this was a flight attendant. I remember it because it wasn’t that long ago. She was very attractive. She used her Master Card and I have an address. She lives in Malibu.”

  Finally, he had a substantial lead.

  “Did she say why she bought it?”

  It was a stretch, but Fred had to ask.

  Hakim remembered. “I never forget a beautiful face. She said she was buying it for her husband as a birthday gift.”

  “Can you make me a copy of the receipt?”

  “Already did. It’s on the bottom, along with the address.”

  Fred couldn’t believe his luck. He reached over and shook Hakim’s hand. On his way to his cruiser, he contacted dispatch and told them he was driving to Malibu.

  It was 1 PM when Fred left Manhattan Beach. Usually the trip to Malibu on Saturday would take only 40 minutes. However, an 18 Wheeler with a full load of chickens had overturned on the 405 between Marina Del Rey and the 10 Freeway creating a traffic jam.

  Even though he was in his cruiser and had put on his lights, he couldn’t wedge his way onto the shoulder. He flashed his badge at a couple of people, but that did no good either.

  No one could move until the CHP cleared the road.

  He sat on the freeway for 30 minutes until finally, the Smart Car driver on his left summoned three other drivers who got out of their cars and helped physically lift the tiny vehicle and turn it sideways giving Fred an opening so he could get to the shoulder of the road. He had to take surface streets the rest of the way there and arrived at Jeff Dawson’s house at 3 PM. A typical 40-minute drive had turned into a two-hour ordeal. (God you have to love LA traffic!)

  This was the day after Jeff had murdered Roxy.

  Jeff was home but in the back when Fred arrived.

  Fred approached the door, rang the doorbell and waited for a couple of minutes, but no one came.

  Jeff was dozing on a chaise lounge on his porch, which overlooked the Pacific. The view was idyllic and contrasted with his evilness as he rested.

  Fred waited another five minutes, knocked louder and punched the doorbell repeatedly. When no one appeared, he noticed that a gate on the side of the house was open and walked toward the back.

  He saw Jeff, iPhone earbuds in, bourbon on the rocks next to him, asleep.

  He got in front of Jeff and blocked the sun.

  The shadow trick worked.

  Jeff sat up in his chair.

  When his eyes focused, he was staring at Fred’s badge six inches from his nose.

  His heart began to race.

  How could they have found him so quickly? He had been so careful last night. Little did he know that it was his previous murder where he had been sloppy that brought the law to him.

  What had he done wrong?

  He started to sweat, but because it was a hot day, Fred didn’t notice.

  Jeff pulled his earbuds out, looked at the badge and composed himself. “Can I help you?” Jeff stammered using all of his strength to remain calm. His heart was racing like a locomotive going up as strong grade carrying a load of coal.

  Fred put his badge back into his pocket. “I’m here to ask a few questions if you don’t mind.”

  “Be careful, Jeff. Don’t tip your hand,” logical brain cautioned.

  Fred continued. “I’m on a murder investigation, which I’m not at liberty to discuss, but a piece of a knife was found at the crime scene a few weeks ago near Marina Del Rey.”

  Now Jeff’s heart was going into overdrive but when he heard it wasn’t about his most recent game, he started to calm himself. He turned away, grabbed his drink, which was a half-full glass that looked like it had old iced tea in it, and took a swig. His mouth was dry as dirt. He couldn’t speak.

  He elicited his slither brain to come forward.

  It coiled and rose to the occasion.

  “Don’t worry Jeff. I’ll handle this. I’m crafty. I’m here. You let me take care of this. Sit back and I’ll work my magic,” Snake Brain said.

  Instantly, Jeff’s logical brain took a backseat as Slither brain took over. Jeff’s pulse rate dropped, his sweating stopped, as his cold-blooded nature drove. He smiled.

  “Sorry about that officer. You woke me out of a dead sleep. I’ve been working a lot of hours trying to close a big real estate deal and I had an afternoon off. I had a couple of Quaaludes and couple of shots of Bourbon and I was vegging out. What can I help you with?”

  Slither brain was a smooth-tongued devil and was very believable.

  Similar to the counselor who was unable to see Fred’s transformation to Snake Brain when he was fourteen, Fred didn’t see it either.

  What Fred did see was that this person in front of him seemed to be a struggling to focus, which was understandable if what he told Fred was correct about taking a couple of Quaaludes and chasing them with Bourbon.

  Fred reached into his pocket and took out the picture of the knife. There is nothing like the direct approach to see if he could get any reaction from the suspect—even if the suspect was loopy.

  “Do you own one of these knives?” Fred handed the picture to Jeff and watched for any telltale signs of guilt.

  Slither brain saw the picture of the knife but showed no reaction. He told the officer what he needed.

  “Yes, I have one. My wife gave it to me as a birthday present last year.”

  “Are you a camper?” Fred asked.

  “No, not really. But I like knives. My dad was an outdoorsman and gave me a tortoiseshell pocketknife when I was six years old. I’ve had an affinity for knives since then. I loved my father. I still have that knife. My dad passed away years ago. I don’t know why I kept the knife, I’m not that sentimental. I guess it reminds me of my Dad.”

  Slither brain had adapted perfectly. Where did he come up with that! Slither brain had done his job admirably.

  Slither brain then offered to show Fred the knife, went out to his garage, got it from the gym bag, came back and handed it to him.

  Seeing the blade intact and after a few more questions, Fred scratched Jeff Dawson off his list…for now.

  Having been a cop for over three decades, Fred had learned how to read people. He was reading Jeff now and something didn’t ring true with Mr. Dawson. Something was eating at Fred’s craw, like a bad scallop eaten a day before. It rumbled in his tummy but was not ready to come up yet.

  The heartburn lingered.

  Fred crossed Jeff off his list, almost!

  Chapter 25

  John Stephanie and Todd got to HBYC at 7:30 PM right after their sailing lesson.

  Randy and Charlene were both behind the bar when they walked in.

  The place was vacant except for the same two surfers seated at their regular place at the end of the bar and now discussing the lack of waves due to the big high-pressure system sitting off Arizona. That system flattened out the surf and neither of them had had a ride in three days. Both of them were tan, muscular, drunk and pissed about the weather. They didn’t pay any attention to the trio that walked in, sat down and grabbed a table.

  Randy gave Charlene a high five. Maybe now they would make some money. The lack of waves made business during the past three afternoons as slow as molasses in the winter. Each of them had only made eight dollars in tips all day, but due to JR’s generosity allowing them to stay rent free, they weren’t bleeding out cash like they were a few weeks ago.

  Charlene was wearing
a white camisole and a short plaid dress. It was the ultimate schoolgirl-look. She called it her lucky outfit because when she wore it, she maxed out on tips. However, her outfit hadn’t worked its magic today due to the lack of clientele, but maybe that was about to change.

  She walked over to where John and Stephanie Polluck and Todd were seated and asked them what they wanted to drink.

  John Pollock spoke up. “How about three Bud Lights?”

  Charlene recognized Todd instantly because he was in the bar almost every other night. “Okay, that’ll be two buds and one vodka soda tall with a twist, right Todd?”

  John was perplexed.

  Todd spoke up. “I’m a regular here. She knows what I need. You all get your beers. I’m getting my “Todd water,” his name for the VS with a twist.

  The conversation circled around to their earlier experience with the power boater and they all had a laugh knowing the jerk was going to have to spend thousands to fix his boat because of his recklessness. That conversation lasted about 15 minutes and two rounds.

  After the second round, Jeff Dawson entered the bar.

  He had been coming in sporadically over the past couple of weeks after he first met Charlene. He was obsessed with her and his reptilian brain needed a Charlene fix. His wife was out of town again and he was unable to keep his urges in check. Earlier in the week, he went to three banks in the South Bay trying to find a Roxy lookalike with no luck. He had struck out on every occasion, so he opted for visiting Charlene.

  She was, after all, the perfect blend of cuteness, innocence, and brains.

  Thank God, she was there!

  Charlene was taking the third round to the sailors and immediately saw Jeff. The sight of him made a chill go up her spine. She sensed something evil about him. It permeated the air and gave her the same feeling one gets when you walk into a very dark cave and your flashlight batteries die. It was the way he always stared at her that creeped her out. She could sense his wickedness. But at the same time, she was attracted to his outward appearance. His slate gray eyes, handsome smile, the way he dressed and carried himself dulled her sense of dread that was her initial reaction.