Phobia

by C. A. Shives

  “Look, Miss Coyle,” Saxon said with a sigh. “This is official police business. We only need a few minutes of Dr. Lochhead’s time.”

  “I’m sorry, Lieutenant,” Sarah said, her voice cool and firm. “His time is valuable. We schedule patients very tightly. If you need to speak with him, you’ll have to make an appointment.”

  “He eats lunch, doesn’t he? It’s almost lunchtime. Perhaps you can persuade him to give us just a few minutes of his time while he’s eating.”

  The receptionist’s steely glare darted between Saxon and Herne.

  “He does eat lunch,” Sarah admitted. “But he guards that time very closely. I’m not sure he’d want to spend it with two police officers.”

  The phone rang and she cut off Saxon’s next words with a wave of her hand, picking up the receiver. Herne turned and spoke softly in Saxon’s ear, “If she doesn’t acquiesce soon, we’ll move on to threats.”

  Saxon whispered, “Why are we bothering with her? Let’s just barge in.”

  Herne shook his head and Saxon crossed her arms, eyeing him balefully. “What a waste of time,” she sneered.

  Herne turned his back to her, tired of playing the foil for her tough cop attitude. He glanced around the office, decorated in shades of pink and beige. Herne guessed the color scheme was designed to soothe and calm irritable patients. It was a psychological trick that had been tested in prisons. Wardens had painted walls pink, ordered Pepto-Bismol colored jumpsuits, and even tried dyeing food the color of bubble gum. But the pink prisons had actually irritated the convicts, leading to more riots and greater violence.

  Herne thought it likely that Lochhead’s décor produced similar results.

  Sarah spoke into the telephone, her jagged fingernails nervously tapping on her desk. “I don’t have time right now. I know you want me to do it. I’m sorry. I am. It’s just there’s someone here, and it’s almost lunch. I have to go and get…”

  She glanced at Herne and Saxon. Covering the receiver with her hand, she nodded to Herne. “If you can run to The Sandwich Station and pick up Peter’s lunch, I’ll make sure he gives you fifteen minutes.”

  “We’ll do it,” Herne said.

  “Just get him the sandwich of the day,” Sarah instructed. “And a bottle of iced tea.”

  Herne and Saxon left the therapist’s office and walked the single flight down to the first floor. Their footsteps echoed in the stairway, sounding both heavy and hollow. Herne thought the details of the old building outweighed the inconveniences of its old-fashioned design. The decorative archways and scrolled chair rails reminded him of history, a time when craftsmen found pride in their work and pleasure in their trade. The air smelled musty, and the walls and trim were covered in a thin layer of dust that no cleaning service had been able to remove. Like the other professional buildings in Hurricane, this one was nothing more than an old house that had been converted to office spaces. The only tenants were Lochhead, a dentist, an accountant, a private investigator, and The Sandwich Station.

  Modern stainless steel racks and clear glass cases held the wares of the lunch shop. Long before Woo opened his Chinese restaurant and Sal opened his pizzeria, a savvy city dweller visited the town on business and became frustrated at the long wait for a midday meal at Hurricane’s diners. The foresighted entrepreneur opened The Sandwich Station, hired a manager, and now enjoyed a healthy income from the business.

  As they opened the door of the small store, Herne noticed the pungent odor of bleu cheese. The clerk grinned at them as they entered. His blue eyes sparkled behind round glasses, and Herne saw him assess Saxon’s figure. He was surprised to find himself possessive of the lieutenant’s body in a non-sexual way. Then he shook his head and grinned to himself. I want to protect my female partner from harm, he thought to himself, just like every other chauvinistic cop.

  “What’s the sandwich of the day?” she asked.

  “Thin sliced roast beef with marinated mushrooms, fresh avocado, arugula, and baby Swiss cheese between two slices of garlic and herb foccocia.”

  It was an unusual menu item for a town where most of the residents believed iceberg lettuce and some carrot shavings were the makings of a good salad. Herne raised an eyebrow at the clerk. “Sounds like quite a sandwich.”

  The clerk shrugged his lean shoulders. “Take a look around. There’s not a lot for me to do here except make food.”

  “We’ll take one of those sandwiches,” Herne said, as he turned to fetch a bottle of iced tea from the cooler.

  “Really?” A pleased smile crossed the clerk’s face, displaying even, white teeth. “Wonderful! I don’t get many orders for it.”

  The clerk assembled the sandwich with professional speed. Herne paid for the food with cash, not bothering to ask for a receipt.

  As they climbed the stairs to return to Lochhead’s office, Herne and Saxon passed a mousy brunette dressed in a pale pink blouse. He noticed her—since investigating this case his senses had almost automatically sharpened, and now he was noticing everyone—and she reminded him of the shy girl in class, the one who always sat in the back of the room and never raised her hand. She looked at him closely before glancing at Saxon, and in a moment they had passed each other and she was gone from his mind.

  Back upstairs, Sarah was still on the phone. When Herne and Saxon entered the waiting room, she simply waved them toward Lochhead’s door. The therapist looked up in surprise when they entered.

  “You don’t look like typical sandwich delivery people,” he said.

  Unlike the waiting room, Lochhead’s inner office reminded Herne of a yacht club. The desk was a rich mahogany and the chairs were reminiscent of the captain’s seat on a boat. Oil paintings of seascapes decorated the walls, and a mirror shaped like a ship’s porthole hung behind Lochhead’s desk. The room was designed to convey masculinity. To Herne it felt false, like a mask worn by a disfigured man. It was the décor of a psychologist who cared more about his own image than the comfort of his patients.

  Lochhead leaned back in his chair and squinted at the badge on Saxon’s chest, his eyes lingering on her breasts for a moment longer than necessary. Again, Herne felt the urge to protect Saxon, but he swallowed down the emotion.

  Lochhead ran his fingers through his thick black hair and reached for the sandwich she held. “We’d like to ask you a few questions,” Saxon said as she handed him his lunch.

  “Really?” Lochhead smiled, flashing straight white teeth. His self-assurance reminded Herne of smarmy Ivy League graduates, the type that spend their college summer sailing on “The Cape.” Lochhead unwrapped the wax paper and bit into his sandwich while Herne and Saxon stood in silence. After swallowing his bite and gulping some iced tea, he glanced at them.

  “So are you going to introduce yourselves?” he asked.

  “I’m Lieutenant Saxon with the Hurricane Police Department and this is Artemis Herne, a police consultant,” Saxon said.

  “I hope this isn’t about my unpaid parking tickets,” Lochhead said. Herne’s palm itched as he resisted the urge to slap the smirk off Lochhead’s face.

  “It’s about a patient of yours. Amanda Todd.” Saxon’s eyes were narrow slits of impatience. Herne sensed that she, too, was annoyed by Lochhead’s slick persona.

  Lochhead reached for his sandwich again. “Amanda Todd,” he murmured.

  “She was found murdered in her home Saturday morning,” Herne said.

  “Yes, I heard it on the news.” Lochhead raised an eyebrow. “How terrible.”

  “She was a patient of yours, wasn’t she, Mr. Lochhead?” Saxon asked.

  “Dr. Lochhead,” he corrected. “I have a Ph.D. And I can’t share that information with you.”

  Saxon exhaled noisily. She started to speak, but Herne interrupted.

  “You don’t seem very surprised by her death,” Herne said.

  Lochhead shrugged. “I’m a psychologist, Mr. Herne. I hear every intimacy of my patients’ lives. People tell me about their
childhood bedwetting, about their fears and their dreams. They even tell me the most private details of their sexual activity. It takes a great deal to surprise me.”

  “What type of patients do you treat?” Herne asked.

  “I’m the only therapist in Hurricane,” Lochhead said, “so I see all kinds of things. These days, anxiety and depression are favorites among the women. Addictions are common among men.” He met Herne’s gaze. Herne had the uncomfortable feeling that the psychologist was trying to access his inner mind. He kept his face neutral, but he felt a small twitch in his upper lip. Betrayed by my own body, Herne thought.

  “Yes, addiction is common among men,” Lochhead repeated.

  “Hurricane is a small town. I’m surprised you find many patients here,” Herne said. He felt Saxon shift her feet impatiently. She’s young and inexperienced, he thought. She hasn’t yet learned that getting information in a homicide requires more than a simple question and answer session.

  “Well, although I do see an assortment of problems, I specialize in one particular area,” Lochhead said.

  Herne remained silent.

  “I’m one of the few therapists in the tri-state area who has extensive experience treating phobias and pervasive fears,” Lochhead said. “As a result, I sometimes get clients from as far away as Harrisburg.”

  Saxon pounced, as if he’d finally given her the response she craved. “Exactly what type of treatment do you use for phobia patients?” Saxon asked.

  Herne met Saxon’s eyes. Slow down, he tried to signal. Take your time.

  “Depends on the fear and the patient,” Lochhead said. “Psychology is not an exact science. It’s an art. Different phobias require different treatment regimes. In many cases, particularly with social phobias, I refer the patient to a physician for anti-anxiety medication that will help alleviate the problem. I follow up with therapy, of course.”

  “And how would you treat someone with a phobia of snakes?” she asked.

  Lochhead’s smug grin stretched across his tanned face. “I hope, Lieutenant, you aren’t trying to get me to talk about a specific patient.”

  Saxon’s face flushed. “We know Amanda Todd was a patient of yours, and we know you treated her for a phobia.”

  “Whatever you know about Amanda Todd, you didn’t learn it from me,” Lochhead said. “I’m bound by my ethical code to keep information about patients confidential, unless they’re a threat to themselves or someone else. If you want me to talk about a patient and her treatment, you better have a court order in hand that compels me to do so.” He looked down at his sandwich, poking the garlic and herb bread with a finger. “You two have made me lose my appetite, and I do love these sandwiches. Unless you have more questions, I’d like to eat my lunch in peace.”

  As Saxon opened her mouth, Herne placed a hand on her arm. She shook it off and stalked out of the office two paces ahead of him. Herne felt as if he’d just spent an hour mucking stalls at the local dairy farm. Lochhead’s presence left him feeling dirty.

  He heard Saxon’s stomach rumble as they walked down the building’s stairs. His own stomach growled in response.

  “Lunch?” he asked.

  She nodded.

  They stopped at The Sandwich Station when they reached the ground floor. At the counter stood the same mousy woman they had passed on their way to deliver Lochhead’s lunch. Herne had thought her less than memorable, but as he watched her more closely, he realized that something about the way she stood drew his attention. Her muscles tensed and her eyes darted back and forth, as if she were constantly on alert. He suspected a loud noise, like a book dropping or a car backfiring, would send her running out of the shop.

  She left The Sandwich Station carrying a paper bag. The clerk looked at Herne. “Would you like something else?” he asked.

  “I’ll try that sandwich,” Herne said.

  “Wonderful.” The clerk beamed as he prepared it, chatting happily. “Making sandwiches is an art. A culinary art. It’s just a shame most folks don’t appreciate it. Lunchtime isn’t about dining anymore. People just want something quick they can scarf down at their desks without really tasting. They don’t take the time to savor their food. It’s bad for the digestion.”

  “Your sandwich looks pretty good,” Herne admitted.

  The clerk beamed. “I’m so glad you tried it. I get tired of making the same old turkey and Swiss on white bread.” He looked at Saxon.

  “I’ll have turkey and Swiss on white bread,” Saxon said.

  Herne’s lips twitched, but he remained silent.

  They carried their sandwiches into the building lobby. She started to walk ahead of him, but he grabbed her arm.

  “Get your hand off of me,” she hissed.

  “Look, Lieutenant,” Herne said. “You and I are going to be working together pretty closely on this case. Rex asked me to be a consultant. I was invited to join this investigation.” Invited and coerced, Herne thought. “I’m going to avoid stepping on your toes, and I want the same courtesy from you.”

  “You undermined my authority in there,” she said. “You’re not in charge of me.”

  “He wasn’t going to open up to us,” Herne said. “It was time to move on.”

  “I had more questions,” Saxon said.

  “Sometimes asking questions reveals more than you want a suspect to know,” Herne said.

  She said nothing for a moment. Then she nodded. He tried to change the subject.

  “Did you order the turkey sandwich for the sole purpose of annoying the store clerk?”

  She grinned, and Herne saw the amusement that glittered in her eyes. For a brief moment they had a small truce.

  Fear caused bile to rise in his throat when he first saw the cops walk toward his door. He had to choke down the vomit.

  His private investigator business was just a one man show, so Robert Morales didn’t have the luxury of a secretary. He was in his waiting room, anticipating a new client, when he saw the police through the glass window of his office door. They paused and glanced in his direction, and that was the moment Morales almost puked.

  They kept moving down the hallway, and Morales ran to his office door and watched them walk away.

  His business had been in operation for five years, so he was acquainted with Saxon on a professional basis. Morales knew she was a competent cop. But the lieutenant was, after all, just a woman. Not a threat.

  But the man who had accompanied her was different. Large and looming, he stood like a cop even though he didn’t wear a uniform. Morales was a big man himself. Smart private investigators kept their muscles toned and strong, since sometimes a situation could get physical. More than once he’d been sucker punched by a cheating husband who wasn’t happy about being tailed. So it wasn’t the cop’s size that frightened him. He wasn’t intimidated by the man’s thick neck or broad shoulders. He wasn’t afraid of the jagged scar that almost touched the man’s right eyebrow nor the crook of his nose, although both told tales of fights and violence. No, Morales wasn’t scared of the man’s appearance.

  He was scared of the man’s movement.

  The man with Saxon had walked slowly and deliberately, like a tiger stalking a gazelle. Though he appeared relaxed, Morales sensed the man’s muscles were tightly coiled springs.

  Ready to pounce.

  Ready to tear apart his prey with the type of savagery known only to animals.

  When the man disappeared around the corner, Morales had breathed a sigh of relief. He hadn’t vomited. And they hadn’t come for him. Not yet.

  But part of him knew that one day soon, the day would come.

  Morales would be the prey. And the man who walked like a tiger would be the predator.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The ragged kitchen chairs were thrift store purchases, and Herne watched Saxon shift in her seat. He almost suggested they move to the living room—his faded tweed sofa, purchased from a yard sale, was a little more comfortable—but decided his sug
gestion might be misinterpreted. Instead, he poured another glass of club soda. When he first gave up drinking, he had switched from whiskey to the clear, salty liquid. But it was a poor substitute.

  He noticed beads of sweat on Saxon’s nose, and glanced at the perspiration stains on the armpits of his own white tee-shirt. Although he had a window air-conditioning unit in the living room, the air it produced was barely cool. The unforgiving heat of the summer blanketed them inside his sweltering house.

  His meager savings was not enough to allow him anything other than small luxuries, like take-out pizza and the Sunday newspaper delivered on his doorstep. He had no extra funds for home improvement projects, such as installing a central air-conditioning system.

  The feel of the heat was made worse by the slight odor of cat urine, detectable on the muggiest summer days. Every once in a while, when the scent wafted across the room, Herne clenched his teeth. He’d grown to think of the former feline resident as nothing but a smelly nuisance, and he wondered if the previous homeowners had simply allowed their pet to use the entire living room as a litter box.

  After I’ve caught the killer and this case is closed, I’m going to rip up all the carpet and redo the hardwood floors, Herne thought.

  The finality of that statement—knowing that one day the case would be over—filled Herne with a combination of relief and dread. He tilted back his head and gulped his drink, swallowing hard to remove the knot in his throat. The doorbell rang just as Herne placed his empty glass on the kitchen table.

  Tucker stood at the door, a frown creasing his angled face. “This fucking case is going to kill me,” he said as he walked into Herne’s kitchen. “No shit, it’s going to fucking kill me. The media’s having a field day. That bitch from TV News 4, Lori Sims, keeps fucking up the information. So far she’s reported that Amanda Todd’s death was a suicide, an accident, and a gang hit. The fact that Amanda is dead is the only thing that bitch has right so far.”

  “Drink?” Herne offered. He kept a bottle of Jack Daniels in his cabinet. It was Herne’s daily temptation, akin to a bag of heroin in a methadone clinic waiting room. It makes you stronger, he said to himself as he pulled the bottle from the shelf. You get stronger every time you resist temptation. But for the first time in months, he found himself doubting the truth of the statement.