In exchange for helping her unlock the emotions of a disturbed young woman, psychiatrist Dr. Krista Marsh promises to cure Jeff Resnick's recurring headaches via hypnotism. Things start out rocky and quickly get worse when both the young girl and the doctor begin to manipulate Jeff. Soon he's experiencing the young woman's emotions and can't tell where hers leave off and his begin, and Krista has other reasons for ingratiating herself into Jeff's life. Meanwhile, Jeff’s brother Richard is vying for a chairman seat on the hospital’s fundraising board. Two seemingly unrelated events that suddenly converge with deadly results.
BOUND BY SUGGESTION
A Jeff Resnick Mystery
By L.L. Bartlett
Copyright © 2011 by L.L. Bartlett. All rights reserved.
This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination, or, if real, used fictitiously.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by an electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the express written permission of the author.
Chapter 1 of Bound of Suggested originally published as the short story, Cold Case. Copyright © 2002 by L.L. Bartlett and appeared in the anthology Mystery In Mind: A Collections of Stories of the Paranormal.
The Jeff Resnick Mysteries
Murder On The Mind
Dead In Red
Room At The inn
Cheated By Death
Bound By Suggestion
A Leap of Faith
Short Stories
When The Spirit Moves You
Bah! Humbug
Cold Case (the inspiration for Bound By Suggestion)
Abused: A Daughter’s Story
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Bound by Suggestion started off as a short story, COLD CASE, and was originally published in the Mystery In Mind anthology. The story stayed with me for a long time and I knew I would one day tell the tale of Jeff Resnick and his encounter with Dr. Krista Marsh.
My thanks to Kat Henry Dorin for sharing her medical expertise and other giving wonderful feedback. Kathy Grimes also gave me feedback, and Carolyn Thomas gave me golf pointers, with additional input from Jennifer Stanley and Dru-Ann Love. My thanks must also go to (author) Patricia Ryan of Pat Ryan Graphics for her marvelous cover.
Thank you, too, to Frank Solomon for his proofreading and formatting skills for the Trade Paperback edition of this book.
For more information on the Jeff Resnick Mysteries, please check out my website:
http://www.LLBartlett.com
Chapter 1
“You’re not the first psychic to come through Paula’s apartment, Mr. Resnick.”
Hands on hips, Dr. Krista Marsh stood before me. Her heels gave her an inch or more on me. Blonde and lithe, and clad in a turquoise dress with jet beads resting on her ample breasts, she was the best looking thing in that lower middle-class apartment.
“I don’t use that term. Con-artists, liars and frauds take advantage of people with problems. I’m just someone who sometimes knows more than I’m comfortable knowing.”
Truth was, I hadn’t wanted to be there at all, giving my impressions on the fate of four-year-old Eric Devlin. He’d gone missing on an early-autumn evening some eight months before. One minute he’d been there—riding his blue-and-red trike in front of the apartment building—the next he was gone. Like every other good citizen, I’d read all the stories in the newspapers and seen the kid’s picture on posters and on TV. The only place I hadn’t seen it was on the back of a milk carton.
I was there as a favor to my brother—actually, my older half brother—Dr. Richard Alpert, who’d joined me on that cold gray evening in early May. Richard was Paula Devlin’s internist at the university’s low-income clinic. He liked Paula and hated how not knowing her son’s fate was tearing her apart. He hoped I could shed some light on the kid’s disappearance.
I’m not sure why Dr. Marsh was there. Maybe as Paula’s therapist she thought she could protect her patient from someone like me.
So there I stood in the middle of Paula’s modestly furnished living room, trying to soak up vibes that might tell me the little boy’s fate.
Paula waited in the doorway, looking fearful as I examined the heart of her home, which she’d transformed into a cottage industry distributing posters, pins and flyers in the search for the boy—all to no avail. Vacuum cleaner tracks on the carpet showed her hasty clean-up prior to our arrival. Too thin, and looking older than her thirty-two years, Paula’s spirit and her determination to find her missing son had sustained her over the long months she’d been alone. The paper had never mentioned a Mr. Devlin.
“I don’t know if I can help you,” I told Paula.
She flashed an anxious look at Richard, then back to me. “Where would you like to start, Mr. Resnick?”
“Call me Jeff. How about Eric’s room?”
A sixty-watt bulb illuminated the gloom as the four of us trudged down a narrow hallway. Paula opened the door to a small bedroom, flipped a light switch, and ushered us in. “It’s just the way he left it.”
I doubted that, since the bed was made and all the toys and games were neatly stacked on shelves under the room’s only window—not a speck of dust marred any surface. A racecar bedspread and matching drapes gave a clue to the boy’s chief interest—so did the scores of dented, paint-scraped cars and trucks. I picked up a purple-and-black dune buggy, sensing a trace of the boy’s aura. He’d been a rambunctious kid, with the beginnings of a smart mouth.
“He was a very lively child.”
“He’s all boy, that’s for sure,” his mother said proudly.
She hadn’t noticed I’d used the past tense. Either that or she was in deep denial. I’d known little Eric was dead the moment I entered the apartment.
I gave her a half-hearted smile and replaced the toy on the shelf. There wasn’t much else to see. I shouldered my way past the others and wandered back to the living room. They tried not to bump into each other as they followed.
A four-foot poster of Eric’s smiling face dominated the west wall. He’d been small for his age, cute, with sandy hair and a sprinkle of freckles across the bridge of his nose.
An image flashed through my mind: a child’s hand reaching for a glass.
I hitched in a breath, grateful my back was to Dr. Marsh. A mix of powerful emotions erupted—as though my presence had ignited an emotional powder keg. Like repelling magnets, guilt and relief waged a war, practically raining from the walls and ceiling.
Composing myself, I turned, a disquieting depression settling over me.
“Ms. Devlin—”
She stepped forward. “Call me Paula.”
“Paula, did Dr. Alpert tell you how this works?”
“He said you absorb emotions, interpret them, and that sometimes you get knowledge.”
“That’s right.” More or less. “There’s a lot of background emotion here. May I hold your hand for a moment? I need to see if it’s
coming from you or if it’s resident in the building.”
Without hesitation, she held out her hand, her expression full of hope. And that’s what I got from her: Hope, desperation, and deep despair. She loved that little boy heart and soul. And there was suspicion, too, but not of me.
I released her hand and let out the breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding.
“Paula, have you ever heard the expression about a person taking up all the air in the room?” Her brows puckered in confusion. “You’re broadcasting so many emotions I can’t sort them out. I know you want to stay, but I can’t do what I have to if you’re here.”
“But he’s my son,” she protested.
Dr. Marsh stepped closer, placed a comforting hand on Paula’s shoulder. “If you want Mr. Resnick to give you a true reading, you’d better do as he says.”
I turned on the psychiatrist. “I’m not a fortune teller, Dr. Marsh.”
“I didn’t mean to offend,” she said without sincerity.
“I’ll go if you say so, Krista.” Paula grabbed her windbreaker from the closet and headed for the door. Once she was gone, my anxiety eased and I no longer needed to play diplomat.
“What’re you getting?” Richard asked.
“The kid’s dead—he’s been dead since day one. He wasn’t frightened either, not until the very last minute.”
“You’re talking murder,” Richard said. “Not Paula.”
“No. I’m sure of that.”
Dr. Marsh eyed me critically, her brows arched, and when she spoke her voice was coolly professional. “Are you well acquainted with sensing death, Mr. Resnick?”
“More than I’d like.” I glanced Richard. “What’s this about a pervert in the neighborhood?”
His eyes narrowed. “It hasn’t been reported in the media, but Paula told me about the cops’ prime suspect. A convicted pedophile lived three units down at the time the boy disappeared. They’ve had him in for questioning five or six times but haven’t been able to wring a confession out of him. How’d you know?”
“From Paula—just now. She’s afraid he took her kid.”
Dr. Marsh frowned. She probably figured I was just some shyster running a con. I can’t say I was sorry to disappoint her.
“You got something else,” Richard said. He knew me well.
“I saw something, but it doesn’t make sense.” I told them about the vision.
“Close your eyes. Focus on it,” he directed.
I shot a look at Dr. Marsh and saw the contempt in her gaze. Skepticism came with the territory.
My eyes slid shut and I allowed myself to relax, trying to relive that fleeting moment.
“What do you see?” Richard said.
“A kid’s hand reach for a glass.”
“Is it Eric?”
“I don’t know.”
“Describe the glass.”
I squeezed my eyes tighter, trying to replay the image. “A clear tumbler.”
“What’s inside?”
“Liquid. Brown. Chocolate milk?”
“Look up the child’s arm,” Richard directed. “Can you see his clothes?”
The cuff of a sleeve came into focus. “Yeah.”
“The color?”
I exhaled a breath. Like a camera pulling back, the vision expanded to include the child’s chest. “Blue . . . a decal of—” The image winked out. “Damn!”
“Give it a couple of minutes and try again,” Richard advised.
Uncomfortable under Dr. Marsh’s stare, I wandered into the kitchen again. I couldn’t shake the feeling of . . . dread? Whatever it was surrounded me, squeezing my chest so I couldn’t take a decent breath.
Hands clenched at his side, Richard studied me in silence. We’d been through this before, and his eyes mirrored the concern he wouldn’t express for fear of embarrassing me. He knew just what these little empathic forays cost me.
Turning away from his scrutiny, I went back into the boy’s gloomy bedroom. Though banished from the apartment, Paula’s anguish was still palpable. How many times had she stood in that doorway and cried for her child?
I ran my hands along all the surfaces a kid Eric’s age could’ve touched. After eight months there was so little left of him. His clothes in the dresser drawers, neatly folded and stacked, bore no trace of his aura. I pulled back the bedspread, picked up the pillow, closed my eyes and pressed it against my face. Tendrils of fear curled through me.
Airless.
Darkness.
Nothingness.
Death.
A rustling noise at the open doorway broke the spell. Dr. Marsh studied me as she must’ve once looked at rats in a lab. Her appraising gaze was sharp, her irritation almost palpable. Even so, she looked like she just walked off the set of some TV drama instead of the University’s Medical Center campus. I’d bet her brown eyes flashed when she smiled. Not that she had.
“I understand you’ve done this before,” she said.
“Define ‘this,’” I said.
“Helping the police in murder investigations.”
“Once or twice.”
“Are you always successful?”
“So far,” I answered honestly and replaced the pillow, smoothing the spread back into place.
“And what do you get out of it?”
Her scornful tone annoyed me.
“Usually a miserable headache. What is this, an interrogation?”
“I’m merely curious,” she said. “My, we are defensive, aren’t we?”
“I can’t answer for we, but I’m certainly not here to fence with you, doctor. If you’ll excuse me.”
Brushing past her, I headed back to the kitchen. The smooth walls and ceiling were practically vibrating. Eric’s childish laughter had once echoed in this room, though nothing of him remained there. I frowned. I still didn’t have the whole picture, and Dr. Marsh had rattled me.
I opened all the cupboards. The remnants of Eric’s babyhood—plastic formula bottles and SpongeBob sippy cups—had been stowed on the higher shelves.
No Nestle’s Quik.
“Any conclusions?” Richard asked.
“Whatever I’m getting seems strongest in the kitchen.” I leaned against the counter, stared at the refrigerator covered with torn-out coloring book pages attached with Scotch tape. Something about it bothered me. I opened the door.
Paula wasn’t taking care of herself. A quart of outdated skim milk, half a loaf of sliced white bread, a sagging pizza box, and three two-liter bottles of diet cola looked lonely in the full-sized fridge. No chocolate milk. An opened box of tater tots, a sprinkling of damp crumbs, and a couple of ice trays were the only things in the freezer. Everything looked completely innocent, yet something was terribly wrong.
“Do you think all the apartments are set up the same?” I asked Richard.
He shrugged.
Pushing away from the counter, I walked through the rooms one last time—just to make certain—then paused in the kitchen before heading into the building’s entryway. There was no trace of Eric, but something else lurked there.
Hands thrust into her jacket pockets, Paula waited by the security door, looking pale and frightened. I couldn’t even muster a comforting smile for her.
“Chocolate milk,” I said.
She blinked.
“Did Eric drink it?” I pressed.
“He loved it, but was allergic to chocolate. I never had it in the house.”
I glanced up the shadowy staircase. A wounded animal will always climb. Eric hadn’t been wounded, but something had lured him up those stairs. I took three steps and staggered against the banister when a knife-thrust of pain pierced the back of my head—fierce, but unlike the skull-pounding headaches these intuitive flashes usually brought.
“You okay?” Richard asked, concerned. Was he feeling guilty for roping me into this?
I leaned against the wall, closed my eyes, and tried to catch my breath. “Who lives upstairs?” I asked Paula th
rough gritted teeth.
“Mark and Cheryl Spencer in apartment D. A retired widow, Mrs. Anna Jarowski, lives on the other side.”
“Did they see Eric the day he disappeared?”
Paula shook her head. “No.”
I took another step. The heaviness clamped tighter around my chest. I’d felt something when I first entered the building, but I’d assumed it belonged to Paula.
I’d been wrong.
“I want to talk to them.”
“They’ve been cleared,” Paula insisted.
I didn’t budge.
She bristled with impatience. “You came here to find answers about my son, not waste time questioning my neighbors. They’ve been cleared by the police and badgered by the press.”
“Paula,” Richard said gently, “it can’t hurt.”
Finally she tore her gaze from mine and stormed back for her apartment, letting the door bang shut.
Richard took the lead, leaving Dr. Marsh and me to follow. He went to knock on the first apartment door, but I shook my head. He gave me a quizzical look and I nodded toward the opposite door.
Richard crossed the ten or so feet to the adjacent door and knocked. We waited. Were Richard and Dr. Marsh struck by the unnatural quiet in that building?
The door opened on a chain. Steel gray no-nonsense eyes peered at us. “Yes?”
“Mrs. Jarowski, I’m Doctor Alpert and this is Dr. Marsh,” Richard said with authority. “We’re from the University. May we speak with you?”
Mrs. Jarowski blinked in surprise. “Did Dr. Adams send you?”
Dr. Marsh gave Richard an inquisitive look, but he said nothing.
Mrs. Jarowski looked at us with suspicion. “Can I see some identification?”
“Of course,” Richard said, and reached into his coat pocket.
“I left mine in my purse,” Dr. Marsh said.
Mrs. Jarowski scrutinized Richard’s hospital security badge. “Please come in,” she said at last.
I didn’t want to. I wanted to go home. I wanted to be anywhere but this place that smelled of mothballs and sour cabbage.
She ushered us inside, stepping into her kitchen. Anna Jarowski was a compact woman in her mid-sixties. Her short silver hair was caught back from her forehead with a barrette, like something out of the 1950s. Dressed in a faded housecoat, no make-up brightened her wan features, leaving her looking colorless and ill.
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