by C. A. Shives
“I can’t reveal that information,” Lochhead sighed. “Patient confidentiality.”
“I didn’t really need your answer to that question, either,” Herne said.
Lochhead narrowed his eyes. “If you don’t need me to answer your questions, then why are you asking them?”
“I thought I’d give you one more chance to help us out. To be a nice guy.”
“I’m a professional,” Lochhead said. “I don’t give a rat’s ass if you think I’m nice or not.”
No, Herne thought. You probably don’t. You want people to think that you’re smooth and attractive and a man of refined tastes. But it makes no difference to you if they think you’re nice or not.
Despite his dislike for the therapist, Herne could empathize. Like Lochhead, he didn’t give a damn if people thought he was nice, either.
“I need to know who has access to your files,” Herne said.
“I told you. No one. I’m the only one who has a key, and I lock the cabinet when I leave the office.”
Herne glanced at the file cabinet again, a cheap metal version that could be purchased at any office supply store for fifty bucks.
“Anyone with a screwdriver could get into your files,” said Herne.
Lochhead stiffened. “Are you suggesting my files aren’t secure?”
Herne met his gaze. “For someone who’s so damn concerned about patient confidentiality, your system is less secure than the free sample tray at Costco.”
“I resent that remark.”
“I resent you.” Herne felt his temper simmering below the surface, so he simply turned and left the office. He paused by Sarah Coyle’s desk. As usual, the receptionist wore an oversized blouse and sturdy skirt. Designed to hide her skeletal appearance, Herne thought.
“Have you seen anyone unusual hanging around the office? Anyone odd or strange?” Herne asked. He smiled, trying to appear charming, but his grin felt strained and false.
Sarah rolled her eyes upward, then met Herne’s gaze with a tight grin. “This is a clinical psychology practice,” she said. “Everyone is odd.”
Lochhead stared out his window, watching the parking lot below. It was over. His life was over.
He’d been dismissed from the practice in Philadelphia. And now a crazed serial killer was ruining his life.
“I might as well get a job washing dishes,” he said aloud. Soon the media would learn that each of The Healer’s victims had been his patient. Once the news was out, Lochhead knew he’d never see another patient again. Not in this town. Maybe not in any town.
“I’m ruined,” he whispered, hunching over his desk.
He allowed himself a few moments of self-pity. Then he straightened up.
He knew how to keep secrets. He knew how to keep his mouth shut, and he knew how to show the world the face he wanted them to see. If he closed his practice soon and moved to another town, he might still escape unscathed. He might be able to leave it behind him.
The congealed chicken noodle soup plopped out of the can. Herne stirred in some water and turned on the burner. Although his parents’ bistro had given him the taste for gourmet food, he lacked his father’s skill and patience for creating culinary masterpieces. After Maggie’s death, he relied mostly on restaurant meals, take-out pizza, and canned soup. The height of his cooking ability was scrambled eggs.
Herne grabbed a sleeve of saltine crackers from his cabinet and mindlessly munched on a few. A fresh bottle of Jack Daniels sat on his kitchen table but he was forcing himself to wait. Another hour and then he could have a drink. And if he made it through that hour, he might try to wait another. And then another. It was an exercise in willpower that had helped him get sober the first time.
But he had a feeling it wasn’t going to work now.
He gritted his teeth and stared at the bottle, trying to force away his desire to crack the seal and pour the drink into a tumbler. He could feel his will bending to the siren song of the whiskey.
Then the doorbell sounded. He wiped his forehead—he wasn’t surprised that it was coated in perspiration—and walked to the door, grateful for the distraction.
Lori Sims, reporter for TV News 4, stood on his front porch. She wore the traditional uniform of a news anchor: a slim fitting skirt and a professional but feminine white blouse. Her lips had been painted with red lipstick and every blond hair on her head was perfectly coiffed. A cameraman stood behind her, his lens directed at Herne’s face.
She thrust a microphone toward his mouth. “Artemis Herne,” she said with the same expressive vocals owned by every TV reporter in America, “we understand that you’re consulting on The Healer case with the police. Have you made any progress?”
“No comment,” Herne said.
“Do you have any idea why the killer refers to himself as The Healer?”
“No comment.”
“So far he’s claimed three victims. What’s the link between these three people? Why did he choose them as victims?”
Herne stepped forward. “Turn off your camera,” he said.
She waved a manicured hand at the cameraman, who lowered his camera.
“If I give you some information, you have to say it’s from an anonymous source.”
She nodded. “I’d love to get any kind of information at all. The state cops won’t say anything.”
“We think he calls himself The Healer because he’s some type of physician. Maybe a nurse or a veterinarian. But definitely someone in the medical field.”
“Thanks for the tip,” she said.
“You owe me one,” he said.
“You got it,” she responded.
She walked back to the news van, her high heels clicking on the sidewalk.
He’d given her false information, but the lie served a purpose. He’d now established a relationship with Lori Sims. It was the symbiotic, parasitic relationship of media and cops. They might use each other during this case. They might not. But he wanted her on his side.
As he heard the news van drive away, he twisted off the whiskey bottle cap.
Willpower had failed him again.
The photos of the victims flashed across the screen. Amanda Todd. Charles Emmert. Cheryl Brandt.
Lori Sims, TV News 4 reporter, stood outside of the Hurricane Police Station. She spoke to the camera.
“The simple life of Hurricane residents has been rocked by the presence of a serial killer in this sleepy little town. The killer has claimed the lives of two people from Hurricane. He’s also killed one woman in nearby Carlisle.”
The camera zoomed in on Lori’s face until her head almost filled the entire television screen. “The killer refers to himself as The Healer. An anonymous source says The Healer may be a medical professional of some kind, such as a doctor or a nurse. No one knows for certain his motive behind these grisly murders, and no one knows how many people he will kill before the police finally catch him.”
Bethany pressed a button on her remote control and the television went blank. Although the hour had grown late, she slipped out of bed and walked downstairs to her living room. Butch, her German Shepherd, followed at her heels.
She checked the security system. The red light told her it was armed and active. She walked to the front door and checked the locks. The deadbolts were all secure.
She wandered through the house, making a mental note of the weapons she kept stashed in her home. The revolver taped underneath the kitchen table. The knife tucked between the sofa cushions. The baseball bat beneath her bed.
Bethany spent thirty minutes checking and rechecking the locks, the security system, and her weapons. The news report about The Healer had shaken her. There was a killer in their midst. A horrible, cruel killer.
Bethany had no intention of becoming one of his victims.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The scent of gunpowder quelled the sweet aroma of honeysuckle vines that crawled around the fence outside of Herne’s property. He stood in line with the old oa
k tree, fifty feet from the paper target pinned to a bale of straw. Herne emptied his .45 into the target shaped like the silhouette of a man, each pull of the trigger a satisfying squeeze. He dropped the empty magazine to the ground. The ear plugs dulled his hearing, so he felt—rather than heard—Tucker approach from behind.
He slid a loaded magazine into his gun and turned to face his friend.
“Nice shooting,” Tucker commented.
Herne squinted at the target. Seven in center mass, one in the shoulder, two in the head. A good round.
Herne was tired of waiting. It was Tuesday and he was waiting for a note from The Healer. He was waiting for Cheryl Brandt’s autopsy results. He was waiting for Saxon to finish a background check on the cleaning service in Lochhead’s building.
Waiting. Herne was tired of waiting.
He didn’t bother to ask Tucker if there’d been any news. He knew his friend would have already revealed any new information.
Tucker ran his fingers through his brown hair. “I’ve been thinking about this all night, Art,” he said.
“All night?” Herne asked bitterly. “Try all week. All month. Every waking moment.” Herne turned back to his target. “Glad to know you’re not losing too much sleep over this, pal.”
Tucker stood behind him, silent, as Herne shot more bullets into the target. Six center mass. Four in the head. His aim was good today.
Some of the tension released from his shoulders, and he pulled the ear plugs from his ears. “So,” Herne said, resigned. “What have you been thinking about, Rex?”
“Well, if it isn’t Lochhead, it’s gotta be that private investigator. What’s his fucking name?”
“Morales,” Herne said. “And it might be. You’ve got Miller on him?”
Tucker nodded. “He reported in this morning. Says Morales left his house at eight o’clock this morning, filled up his SUV at Gary’s gas station, and then drove to his office. He’s been in there ever since.”
“I might take a drive by his house,” Herne said. He tried to speak casually, but he knew Tucker detected the slight tremor of excitement in his voice. “Maybe just take a look at it.”
“You’re not going to do anything fucking illegal, are you?” Tucker asked.
“Do you honestly think I’d do something like that?”
Tucker didn’t reply. Herne walked toward his house and Tucker followed.
“Fuck, it’s hot in here,” Tucker said as they entered Herne’s kitchen.
Herne scooped up his truck keys from the counter and started out the door again.
“Where the hell are you going, Art?”
“I’m investigating. That’s what you’re paying me to do, right? You wanted me to investigate. So that’s where I’m going.”
“I don’t want you to do anything fucking illegal. I don’t want you to do anything that will get your ass thrown in jail.”
Herne turned and faced his friend squarely. He saw the set of Tucker’s jaw, clenched so tightly that it almost quivered. The jaw of a man who’s a lousy liar. Herne felt his own chest tighten in response.
“That’s not how you really feel, is it?” Herne asked.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Tucker met Herne’s stare, but there was guilt in his voice.
“You asked for my help because you knew I would do whatever it took to finish the job. You knew I would sacrifice anything. Everything.”
Tucker shook his head and started to speak, but Herne just turned on his heel and walked out the door.
Two little girls squatted on the sidewalk next to Morales’ home. They held fat chunks of pastel colored chalk in their small hands, and they scribbled pictures of rainbows and flowers on the hard concrete. One of them, her brown hair in pigtails, watched Herne curiously as he walked toward them.
“Who are you?” she asked.
“I’m nobody,” he said. He forced a smile on his face. The smile he reserved for weddings and small children. The falseness of it made his cheeks tighten.
“I’ve never seen you before,” the little girl said.
“I’ve never seen you, either.” He turned to go. There was no way to enter Morales’ home through the front. It was too open. Too public. He’d have to approach it from behind.
He returned to his truck and drove around the block until he was behind Morales’ house. The neighborhood was quiet. He grabbed a cardboard box from his truck. Dressed in blue jeans and work boots, he could pass for a delivery person.
A young child playing in a sandbox was the only person in sight. Herne examined the simple lock on Morales’ door. He fished in his pocket for his bump key—the tool of professional burglars—and then slipped it into the keyhole. The key was cut to open most standard locks with just a little bit of pressure. Most burglars used a mallet or screwdriver to apply the tension, but Herne used his right hand. The lock clicked open.
The inside of the house was cool and crisp. Morales kept his air-conditioning at low temperatures.
Herne moved quickly through the house, which had only two bedrooms. It was neat. Sterile. Cheap, nondescript furniture filled the small rooms. There were no dirty dishes in the sink, no piles of clothing on the floor, no streaks of toothpaste on the bathroom mirror. The only personal decoration was a photo of a young girl in a gold frame that hung on the living room wall. Her smile displayed straight, white teeth and her long dark hair framed the lines of her youthful face. She looked beautiful and soft, but Herne sensed loneliness in her brown eyes. Too young to be so sad, Herne thought.
There were no file cabinets and no computers. Herne halfheartedly opened the drawers, finding only the basic necessities: toothbrush, some pots and pans, a few forks, a lonely AA battery.
The house said nothing about its owner. It was a shell yet to be filled.
“Gotcha,” Morales said as his camera clicked. He sat in his SUV and watched a man in a hotel. The man hadn’t bothered to close the curtains, and the open window gave Morales full view of the inside of the room.
“Jesus,” Morales said to himself. “This guy is going to OD.”
The man used a rolled up bill to snort line after line of cocaine.
The afternoon sun meant Morales didn’t need to use a flashbulb. But worried the darker interior of the hotel room might affect the final pictures, Morales snapped a few more photographs until he was certain he had enough evidence to get his redheaded client—the one who reminded him of his third grade teacher—a big alimony check.
Then he slipped his camera back into its bag and drove off. He had other business that still needed his attention.
Herne parked his truck outside the Pages of Print bookstore. The information he needed was available on the Internet, but Herne found the tangible solidness of a book satisfying. Before he was old enough to help in his parents’ bistro, Herne spent Sunday evenings in an alcove in the kitchen of the restaurant. Tired after an afternoon of flag football with the neighborhood kids, he’d read one of the books from his father’s collection of mysteries and ghost stories. He continued his habit of reading at night through college, only breaking it after becoming a cop. He hadn’t read a book in years, but he still remembered the satisfying feeling of turning a page.
He glanced in the bookstore’s front window, noting the display of Nero Wolfe novels. A calico cat lay amid the books, its tail curled around a stack of paperbacks.
A tiny windchime tinkled as Herne pushed open the door. The wooden floors creaked beneath his boots, and when he inhaled he smelled musty paper and dust. Behind a counter in the front of the store sat a short woman with her red hair twisted in a twenty year old hairstyle. She held a paperback in her hand, but she looked up and smiled broadly when he walked through the door. Her body size was unidentifiable beneath a giant muumuu, but her jowls and arms showed signs of middle-age weight. Herne thought she looked just like Mrs. Roper from the television show Three’s Company.
“Hello there, sweetie,” she called out. “I’m Frances Gallows, owner
of this bookstore. If you need anything, just ask. And this is Mystery Month. Buy two paperbacks, get one free.”
Pages of Print sold mostly used books, although a few shelves held new releases. Rows and rows of paperbacks lined the walls. Hand printed signs indicated categories like “Romance” and “Non-Fiction,” but otherwise Herne detected no organization. And he didn’t want to waste time browsing through the clutter.
“I’m looking for something specific,” he said.
Her glance passed over his shaved head, blue jeans, and white tee-shirt. “Zen and The Art of Motorcycle Maintenance?” she suggested.
A ghost of a grin touched his face. He’d owned a motorcycle—a 1978 classic Harley lowrider—during his college years, but Maggie had asked him to give it up after they moved to Philly. Being married to a cop is enough worry, she had said. I don’t want to worry every time you get on that bike, too. So he sold the Harley to his neighbor’s son and never rode again.
He was surprised to realize that he missed it.
“Maybe another time,” he said. “Actually, I was wondering if you had any books about psychology.”
She nodded and pointed. “We’ve got a small mental health section around the corner, sweetheart. There are some old college textbooks, too.”
Herne walked to the section marked “Reference.” The thin layer of dust told stories of forgotten tomes. A shelf of college textbooks, most of which looked to be more than a decade old, caught Herne’s eye.
Abnormal Psychology. Herne grabbed the book from the shelf and thumbed to the Table of Contents. Phobias. He found the information he wanted in Chapter 12.
“Aquaphobia,” he read. “An abnormal and persistent fear of water.”
Cheryl Brandt. Her abnormal and persistent fear of water led to death by drowning.
Herne slammed shut the book and carried it to the counter.
Frances glanced at the title. “Five dollars,” she said.
