"Yes."
"How long have you been seeing Dr. Randall?"
Doctor Burt Larson, Harvard-trained psychologist, sat up straight in his chair.
"Dr. Randall has been seeing me for almost one year."
"You started some time after the passing of his wife and son?"
"Yes. I still haven't heard what I consider a complete explanation of why he was arrested. Can you supply one for me?"
"He's a suspect in a murder investigation."
"I've heard that already."
"I can't elaborate, Dr. Larson. It's an ongoing investigation."
"Of course. I'll just listen to public radio on my way home. I'm sure they'll have more information."
Kennedy sniffed, printed the word "hostile" in his notebook, then flipped to an empty page.
"Dr. Larson, any reason you can think of why Dr. Randall might want to kill someone?"
"No."
"None at all."
"No."
"What about the deaths of his wife and kid?"
"What about them?"
"Don't you think that could be enough to make him want to kill someone?"
"Detective…"
"Kennedy."
"Detective Kennedy, I couldn't provide you the insight as to why Dr. Randall might want to kill someone. That would be speculation on my part, and it would also break doctor-patient confidentiality."
"But, a young woman was murdered."
"And if Dr. Randall had told me at our last session, or any session for that matter, that he planned to go out and kill a young woman, I would certainly say so. That's my duty, both personally and professionally. But he hasn't. Not once. Murder or killing or young women have never been brought up, and quite frankly, I can't imagine Dr. Randall ever doing such a thing."
Kennedy took more notes and struggled to think of another question. He was tasked with pulling whatever he could into the psyche of John Randall, but Dr. Larson didn't seem eager to elaborate on Dr. Randall's state of mind.
"I understand Dr. Randall was suicidal when he first came to see you."
"It was one of the reasons he was brought to me, yes."
"Who brought him to you?"
"His medical insurance through the hospital he worked for. He was somewhat incapable of continuing his work due to depression. So his carrier recommended he see me if he was to have any chance of working in medicine again."
"You don't have any notion as to why he might have tried to kill himself tonight?"
"Not until I speak with him, no. May I speak with him?"
Kennedy raised his right hand and scratched the back of his scalp with the tip of his pen. "I don't think that's possible right now. Maybe later."
"How much later?"
"Hard to say. He's being booked for attempted suicide at the moment."
Larson nodded.
"Well, Doc, I think we're done. Thank you for coming down. We may need to contact you again, so please, if for any reason you have to leave town, let us know where and when you'll be going."
"Am I a suspect, too?"
Kennedy thought briefly about how much fun it would've been to slap a pair of cuffs on the asshole and shove him into a holding cell.
"No, sir. Not right now."
Dr. Larson raised his eyebrows, then Kennedy turned away and left, a big grin on his face.
CHAPTER 14
"Oh hell," Megan said, as she rounded the corner. A cluster of news vans were in front of the station. Of course. We've got the Bedroom Killer inside. She whipped the steering wheel to the left and made a U-turn, driving back the way she came, and swung down a side street around the rear of the building. She needed to get to the underground parking without them noticing her, but that was next to impossible. There were just as many of them behind the station. As soon as they spotted her car approaching, and by now they all knew what she drove, the reporters grabbed their microphones and dashed toward her car.
"Detective! Do you have the Bedroom Killer?" they shouted, shoving their microphones at her window. Did they really expect her to roll her window down and answer their questions? But still, they tried.
"Has he made a confession?"
"Will he plead not guilty?"
Megan weaved through the crowd and passed through the gated entrance, where the guard stood his ground and held the reporters back. Once inside, she gassed her car into the parking lot and spun the tires as she reached the lower level, then found her space near the station door. The sound of her car door closing bounced off the cold, hard concrete infrastructure, echoing her arrival. Megan punched the elevator button and turned back to scan the full parking lot. The quiet was broken when the elevator arrived with a ding, and the doors spread open. Megan rode the elevator up to the fourth floor.
The office buzzed with commotion. In her years on the force, she had never seen or heard so much activity at once. Sure, things got busy and people did their jobs, but this was at a level she'd never experienced before. Phones rang off the hook. Every spare man and woman was either on the phone, answering a call, or hanging up and answering the next call.
Across the room, Detectives Kennedy and Anderson actually stood side by side, talking into each other's ear. That was how loud the room had become. She pushed her way through the crowd of detectives and assistants. Their heads turned as she passed. She was somewhat of a local star in this case—she and Detective Bell. They were the lead team. Everyone else followed.
On the rare occasions that Detective Bell had to leave town for training or vacation, it was she who took the reins. Megan could feel the eyes on her as she wound her way through the room. It was a feeling that enveloped her like a silk scarf stuffed into her mouth as it closed around her head and face. More and more, she felt claustrophobic inside this office. It had become harder and harder to stay for any length of time, but she knew that would change now. It would be hours before she could walk outside and breathe in the fresh, rain-soaked air again. She was already sweating, but that could've been the pills.
When she arrived at her desk, she'd found that someone had set a stack of files on it, probably to make room on another desk. She pushed the files to one side, knocking over another stack of papers already sitting on that corner.
"Damn," she said, bending down to pick up the pile. When she rose with the papers in one hand, she found Detective Bell standing there.
"Shit. You scared me."
"So sorry to bother you. Did you take the scenic route on the way over?"
Megan ignored his sarcasm.
"We have someone we want you to speak with. Nurse Carrie Atwood. She worked with Dr. Randall. He's our Bedroom Killer."
"Give me a minute. I just got here."
"She's been in interrogation for over an hour, Detective Ash. Your minute was up fifty-nine minutes ago."
Bell walked away to join Andy and called out across the room to another detective, who promptly rushed over with a sheet of paper in his hand. Megan watched the display of authority that Bell put on for all to see. She grabbed her purse and moved across the room to the ladies' bathroom.
Once inside, she inspected the stalls to make sure she was alone. She stared into the mirror, and a woman with puffy eyes and pallid skin looked back at her. She suddenly felt her stomach jump and dashed for the closest stall, where she puked up her lunch—or maybe it was breakfast.
She completed the process with two more dry heaves, wiped her mouth with tissue, and walked to the sink counter. Megan pulled out the little bottle of pills she'd just bought at the CVS and poured two pink pills into her hand. She tossed them into the back of her throat, grabbed her hair with one hand, and bent down to drink from the faucet. Just as she stood, the bathroom door opened and in walked Officer Storey from booking.
"What a nightmare, huh? I've never seen it so crazy."
Megan swallowed and let go of her hair. "I know what you mean."
Officer Storey entered a stall and locked the door behind her. Megan took one
more look in the mirror, hating everything she saw.
***
"I'm sorry you've had to wait so long," a female cop said, as she entered the interrogation room and sat across from Carrie. "I'm Detective Megan Ash."
Detective Ash extended her hand across the table. Carrie pumped it once and pulled her arm back, noting the clammy hand.
The detective set her notebook down and turned to a page that was already half filled with notes. Carrie watched from the other side of the table as Detective Ash read through the page, flipping her auburn hair back when it fell into her eyes. She kept her fingernails short. It was a habit of Carrie's to glance at a woman's fingernails when she first met them. Short nails, something they had in common. You can't get rubber gloves over a sharply manicured nail and expect the gloves not to get sliced open at some point. She assumed that the same hygiene policy applied to shooting a gun.
But something else caught her eye.
The detective's fingers quivered. Carrie imagined it might've been the pressure she had on her wrist as she rested it against the table while she read.
But maybe not.
Detective Ash raised her gaze to Carrie, leaned back into her chair, exhaled as if that little movement took an enormous amount of effort, then asked, "Ms. Atwood, how well do you know Dr. Randall?"
Carrie looked off and shrugged. "As well as anyone knows a person they've worked with for many years."
"How many years would that be?"
"Well, it's been four years, I guess. We worked together for four years." Carrie didn't want to mention Paulette and Trevor. No need to bring them up.
"But you're not working together anymore?"
"No."
"And why is that?"
"John, umm…Dr. Randall had to take a leave of absence."
"Had to?"
"Well, chose to."
"Did he choose to, or was he told to?"
Carrie fidgeted in her chair, not wanting to have to tell the story. It was such a sad story, and she hadn't thought about it for a long time—until John showed up, and it all came rushing back. Just six hours ago, when she rushed in to find John sitting on the edge of the table, hunched over, drunk and bloody. In a flash, she relived that terrible night one year ago. But she had work to do, and she was able to block it out while she concentrated on cleaning John up and getting the stitches started.
"Ms. Atwood?"
"I'm sorry."
"Did he choose to go?"
"Yes. He chose to leave."
"And why was that?"
"He…his…he lost his wife and son in a car accident."
Detective Ash nodded and wrote in her book. Carrie felt compelled to say more, as if that explanation just wasn't enough.
"He loved them very much. He was a great husband and father. He's very kind and loving. One of the best men I've ever worked with."
The detective set her pen down. She watched and listened as Carrie went on and on about John, only interrupting occasionally to get clarification. She took very few notes.
Finally, she asked, "What did he tell you about what happened to him early this morning?"
The question caught Carrie off guard, and she had to bring herself back to the fact that this was the reason she was here in the first place. "He said he thought he might have hurt someone."
"Did he say who?"
"No. Just that he thought he might have run her over."
"Run her over? Like with his car?"
"I guess so."
"Did he say who the woman was?"
"No."
"Did he say where this happened?"
"No."
"How did he get to your emergency room?"
"He drove, I guess. They found his car in the bushes."
"What bushes?"
"The planter outside the emergency room entrance."
"Did you see the car?"
"Not until after I finished his stitches."
"What exactly were his injuries?"
"He had a laceration on his right cheek and a glass sliver in his left eye."
"How did the glass get into his eye?"
"I don't know for sure, but his driver's-side window was broken."
"Did he say how it was broken?"
"No."
The detective jotted notes as she peppered Carrie with more questions, at times, flipping back over earlier notes. Then she set her pen down and stared across the table, fixing her eyes on Carrie's.
"Ms. Atwood, do you think Mr. Randall is capable of killing anyone?"
Without hesitating Carrie said, "No. Never."
Detective Ash nodded and read through her notes, her fingers trembled again. But this time, the detective's wrist rested comfortably on the table. There was no strain on her arm. Carrie thought this could be the beginning of Parkinson's or MS. But she seemed too young for Parkinson's. But that actor, the Back to the Future guy, he'd gotten Parkinson's at a very young age. Or maybe she was on something? Carrie ran through the kind of pills that might make a hand shake, but just then, the detective looked up, and shut her notebook.
"Thank you for coming in. I'm sure this wasn't easy. Please keep in mind that we may need to speak with you again."
Carrie smiled and nodded. Detective Ash stood, and Carrie joined her.
"I'll walk you back out to the waiting room. You have a ride?"
"Yes. If Dr. Turner is still here."
When the detective turned and opened the door, the sudden din of the working office slammed Carrie’s body and attacked her senses like a stiff wind gusting up and over a cliff edge.
They walked through the door and into the open hallway that led into the large office, where the investigators were still working the phones and staring at computer screens. Detective Ash took Carrie by the arm and pointed down a hallway. "If you just go through there, you'll see a waiting room on your left."
"Thank you." Carrie shook the detective's hand.. "John is a good man. He wouldn't hurt anyone. I know that. Whatever happened last night… He was trying to help."
CHAPTER 15
Footsteps and voices came from outside the door. John figured if he looked around, he might find a camera in the corner of the ceiling pointed down on him. He glanced to his right and spotted it.
They're watching?
Probably.
What did they think he was doing as he stared at the floor? Reliving his crime? Would they laugh if they knew he'd examined his cuffs and thought about the history of metal fabrication?
Probably not.
They seemed to think he killed girls. That he was the Bedroom Killer. He wasn't. They had no evidence on him, and he would probably have alibis for the other killings. Or would he? He spent most of his days alone. Who could vouch for him?
The door to Interrogation Room Number 1 swung open, and Bell stepped in, followed immediately by a female cop, causing John to jump in his seat as the air rushed into the small room. The quick turn of his head caused the nerve in his right cheek to send an electrical shot of pain to his brain for a brief second, which in turn, caused John to wince and blink his eyes.
The woman carried a chair, and Bell held a file folder and a paper sack.
She put the chair down next to the table, then sat in another chair. Bell set the paper sack on the floor next to the empty chair and pulled out a stuffed, brown teddy bear. He placed it squarely in the middle of the chair, turning it to face John. He looked at the bear, then at the officers as they went about opening their file folders, snapping their pens, and preparing for the interrogation. Bell scanned the pages in front of him as if they held vital information.
"Doctor Randall, as you know, I'm Detective Gerald Bell. This is my partner, Detective Megan Ash."
"Why am I here?"
"You're here concerning the incident you were involved in last night. You do remember that don't you, John?"
"I remember." John said.
"I understand you'd been doing some drinking, so I wasn't sure if you'd rec
all it or not.”
"I remember." His eyes tightened, shifting from Detective Bell to Detective Ash..
"Where do you work, Dr. Randall?" Ash asked.
"I'm on disability. I worked at Greenwood Hospital. Emergency room."
"That's where we picked you up, isn't it, Dr. Randall?" Bell asked.
Bell had a smug look on his face. Must be the bad cop.
"Is it? I don't recall." His tone was serious.
"What? You remember the incident, but you don't recall being arrested at the hospital?"
John said nothing.
"We've taken statements from Nurse Atwood and Drs. Turner and Larson," Ash said.
"They have nothing to do with this."
"I know—" Ash started to say before Bell cut her off.
"To do with what, John?"
John said nothing. Bell leaned forward.
"What happened to your face, John?" Bell asked.
"Don't you know?"
"I'd rather you told me."
"I…"
John moved his head away as he thought about the gunshot and, as he did so, his eyes landed on the teddy bear.
What the hell was with the bear?
And then, without notice, his thoughts turned to Trevor and his dinosaur collection. Stuffed toys, plastic dinosaur models, dinosaur posters. He was a dinosaur freak.
"John?"
He snapped out of his daydream and turned to face Ash as she read from her file. "Were you parked at 1736 Date Avenue earlier this morning, about one thirty a.m.?"
John said nothing.
"You used to live there?" Bell asked.
John took a moment before answering. "Yes."
"With your wife, Paulette, and son, Trevor?" Ash asked.
John shook at the cold mention of their names, as if this lady were reading items from a grocery list. John was growing tired of this, and they were just getting started. He was innocent. He was no killer. He peered across the table at the female detective's hand. Her pencil shook. He looked closer and could tell it wasn't the pencil shaking, but her fingers. They trembled.
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