Phobia

by C. A. Shives

  “A bargain,” Herne replied. He pulled out his money clip—the sterling silver clip from Tiffanys had been his wife’s first anniversary gift to him—and counted out five dollars. As Frances handed him a handwritten receipt, Herne’s phone rang.

  “We found some dirt on one of the employees in Lochhead’s building,” Saxon said. “The chief wants you down there right away.”

  Herne strode out of the store. It felt good to have a purpose. A goal. He drove quickly to his destination.

  Saxon met him in the small lobby of the building. Pools of sweat stained the armpits of her uniform shirt. Herne could hear the hum of the old air-conditioner unit, working hard to cool the space that simmered from the summer heat. The scent of dust and mildew seemed thicker in the humidity. “The Healer’s note and photo came today,” she said.

  “Let’s see the picture,” he said.

  She passed it to him. A copy, since the state cops had taken the original. A woman’s face, obscured by the water in which she was submerged, filled the photograph.

  “Why does he take these pictures?” Saxon asked. “Why is he showing us something we’ve already seen?”

  “He’s bragging,” Herne said. “Perhaps showing us the best from his collection of photos. Most serial killers keep a memento of some kind. Maybe our boy is an amateur photographer. Or maybe he just likes to look at pictures.”

  Saxon remained silent, looking at the photograph of Cheryl Brandt’s watery grave.

  “So what did his note read?” Herne asked.

  “Terror acts powerfully upon the body, through the medium of the mind, and should be employed in the cure of madness.”

  “Do you know who the quotation is attributed to this time?”

  “Benjamin Rush, also known as the Father of American Psychiatry.”

  Herne considered this. “Out of curiosity, do you research these quotations online?”

  “I bought a copy of Bartlett’s Familiar Quotations,” she said. “I remembered the book from my high school English class.”

  Tucker entered the building and glanced around. He shook his head when he spotted them. “Maybe we should move the department here,” he said. “We’re spending more fucking time here than we do in the office.”

  Herne shrugged. “You requested that I meet you here. I would have been just as happy to meet at the station.”

  “Don’t give me that shit, Art. You’re here because you can’t wait to pounce on someone. You’re hoping we found a black mark in someone’s past so you can rub their nose in it.”

  “Well, did you find a black mark in someone’s past?”

  Tucker shook his head. “Not really.”

  “It’s unlikely The Healer has a record,” Herne said. “He wouldn’t be so careless.”

  “We did find something,” Tucker said. “Saxon, fill him in.”

  “I checked everyone who might have had a key to Lochhead’s office,” Saxon said. “Maintenance. The cleaning staff. His secretaries both past and present. There wasn’t a lot of dirt. One of the cleaning women did ninety days because of three DUIs. The air-conditioner repairman was recently in court because he’s behind on child support payments. Almost everyone was pretty clean.”

  “Almost everyone?” Herne asked.

  “The building handy man has a prior record for assault. His name is Travis Ginch. Four years ago he was convicted for beating a homeless man in Baltimore.”

  “Did he serve time?”

  “Ninety days. The reports say Ginch was drunk at the time of the arrest. He claimed the homeless man tried to rob him. He did ninety days, attended AA, and left the city.”

  “So where do we find this guy?” Herne asked.

  “He has a small office in the basement. This is supposed to be a part-time job, but the building’s owner said Ginch is here pretty much every day.”

  The handyman’s office was an oversized broom closet just a few feet away from the building’s furnace. Cotton stuffing peeked out from the holes in his chair, and his desk was nothing more than an old file cabinet. One of its drawers was open, displaying a carton of cigarettes and a Bible. An old portable radio sat on the floor, softly playing country western music. The room reeked of smoke and mildew and fatigue.

  Herne estimated that Ginch had passed retirement age, but he still appeared strong and muscular for his years. The short sleeves on his blue shirt exposed a homemade tattoo of the words “Semper Fi” in gray-blue ink. His dark hair was peppered with gray and stood in wild, unruly tufts.

  He eyed them suspiciously before lighting a cigarette. Herne felt his eyebrow twitch when the fresh smoke reached his nose.

  “We just want to ask you a few questions,” Tucker said.

  Ginch remained silent.

  “Have you ever been in Peter Lochhead’s office?”

  Ginch nodded.

  “How many times?”

  Ginch held up one finger.

  “Can you speak?” Tucker asked.

  Ginch nodded.

  “Then why aren’t you talking?” Tucker asked.

  “Because I don’t like talking to pigs,” Ginch spat.

  “Look,” Tucker said, his voice thin with impatience. “You’ve heard about the people who have been murdered in our town, right? We’re trying to find the killer. We’re trying to keep people safe. So help us out.”

  “I heard about the murders,” Ginch admitted. “But I didn’t have nothing to do with them.”

  “We’re not saying you did,” Tucker said. “But it’s possible you saw something or heard something that could help us.”

  Ginch crossed his arms and stared at Tucker. The grim set of his jaw, thick and unshaven, was unyielding.

  Tucker sighed. “So why were you in Peter Lochhead’s office?”

  “He was having trouble with the lock on his office door,” Ginch said.

  “When was this?” Herne asked.

  Ginch shrugged. “About a year ago. I don’t remember exactly. It was cool but not cold, so maybe last October.”

  “What kind of trouble was he having?” Tucker asked.

  “It was sticking. I had to unstick it.”

  “We need to know if anyone had access to Lochhead’s office at any time. Was the lock broken? Could someone have easily entered the office?”

  “It wasn’t broken,” Ginch said. “It was just sticking a bit. It still worked.”

  “Do you have a key to Lochhead’s office?” Herne asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Who has access to your keys?”

  “Just me.”

  “No one else? You don’t leave them in your drawer or office when you go to lunch?”

  Ginch guffawed. “Go to lunch? Do I look like the kind of person that ‘goes to lunch?’ My lunch comes in a brown bag from home, and I eat it in this room right here.” He touched the ring of keys that were clipped to his belt. “These are the keys to the building. From the time I get dressed in the morning to when I get home at night, these keys never leave my belt. Does that satisfy you?”

  It did. As Ginch closed his office door behind them, Herne caught one last look at the janitor’s eyes: defiant and angry.

  Pigs, thought Ginch as he watched the elevator doors close. Always trying to pin something on the good guys.

  Years ago, on a snowy night, the cops had put him in jail for defending himself against a homeless man. A homeless man who had been trying to rob him. Trying to steal the boots from his feet, just like the gooks in Vietnam used to steal clothes from the bodies of injured Marines.

  Ginch remembered the dark night when his battalion lay, cornered, in the thick of the jungle. The flies almost driving them insane with their low, incessant buzz. The Vietcong came in fast—so fast that Ginch’s battalion didn’t have time to react. It seemed like only a matter of moments before they were all either dead or injured.

  The Vietcong moved slowly through the bodies, stabbing at them to ensure everyone was dead. If someone moved or breathed, they’d th
rust a blade through the Marine’s eye and into his skull.

  A bayonet had pierced Ginch’s side, and he laid on his back—his hands thrown over his eyes—still and quiet. He tried not to gag as the stench of blood and death assaulted his nostrils. When a gook stabbed his leg, he didn’t move.

  Then the gook stopped. Ginch could feel him hovering above his body. He tried to keep his muscles relaxed. Tried not to scream, though every nerve in his body sang with taut fear.

  The man knelt by Ginch’s body. Ginch held his breath, waiting to feel the thrust of the blade through his eye.

  Then he felt a tug on his foot. The gook was stealing his shoes.

  It seemed like an eternity, though it was only a few minutes, before the shoes were off his feet and the Vietcong had moved on.

  Ginch still didn’t move. He just laid among the other Marines, silent and still as the dead.

  Hours later, when he thought it safe, he crawled to his feet.

  He couldn’t make it through the Vietnam jungle in his bare feet, so he was forced to steal the boots from the dead body of his battalion leader, Sergeant Andrew MacDonald. He wept as he untied his sergeant’s shoelaces.

  And, four years ago, when the homeless man had touched Ginch’s boots, Ginch had seen the face of the Vietcong.

  But the cops hadn’t understood. They hadn’t listened to his story. And he was convicted of assault.

  Four years ago, the cops hadn’t respected him. And the cops today hadn’t been much different.

  Maybe if they’d been nicer—had treated him like a person instead of a basement rat—he would have told them about the closet.

  But they didn’t. So he kept quiet.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Chief of Police Rex Tucker hated the heat. But for some reason, his wife chose to eat outside on the patio that evening. Elizabeth served a cold meal, at least. Tucker didn’t know if he could’ve handled hot food in ninety-degree weather.

  He stood in the air-conditioned kitchen and watched his wife and Herne through the glass patio doors. He’d invited Herne to join them for dinner even though it wasn’t Saturday. Though Tucker hated to admit it, he was worried about his friend’s bloodshot eyes. He feared that Herne’s darkness—the depression that almost destroyed him after Maggie’s death—was on the verge of consuming him again.

  Tucker felt a twinge of guilt. It was the stab of his gut that reminded him of his own personal responsibility for Herne’s condition. He had invited Herne into The Healer case. Had coerced him with the memory of a long ago favor. But Tucker hadn’t stopped to consider the consequences. He hadn’t bothered to think about the darkness that enveloped his friend. And now it was too late. Like the suicide jumper that leaps from a tall building, Tucker had changed his mind halfway down. But the damage was done. Tucker knew that there was nothing he could do now to stop his friend. Herne would continue to the end.

  He knew that Elizabeth, too, sensed the pain that threatened to swallow Herne. Tucker watched as she reached out and touched Herne’s hand. His wife’s tenderness gave him another pang of guilt.

  Elizabeth and Tucker had met in high school. She had socialized with Herne a few times when Tucker and he were in college together, but she hadn’t known him well enough to see the change in him. She hadn’t understood the darkness that started to eat at him once he joined the Philadelphia PD and violence invaded his life. But these days, when death and fear seemed to seep from Herne’s pores, it was impossible to avoid seeing the horror in his eyes.

  Tucker swallowed hard as he watched Elizabeth reach for Herne’s hand again. It had been a long time since she’d reached for him like that. Before the miscarriages. Before they discovered that they could never be parents.

  Neither one of them had wanted to adopt. And now, three years later, Tucker wondered if they made the right choice. Perhaps adopting a child would have brought them closer. Perhaps, with a baby to love, Elizabeth would have opened herself up to him again.

  He saw Elizabeth’s glance through the doors, signaling that dinner was ready. He walked out to the brick patio to join his wife and his friend, where they sat enveloped by the scent of the lilacs that grew beside Tucker’s fence. The outdoor furniture was crafted from redwood and covered with soft, beige cushions that soaked up the sweat on their skin.

  Elizabeth served cold chicken sandwiches with potato salad and fresh fruit. She offered Herne a drink—Jack and Coke, his signature beverage—and he accepted. When she passed him the glass their fingers brushed. Tucker noticed, but didn’t comment. Neither Herne nor Elizabeth reacted to the touch.

  Herne held three pieces of paper in his hand. The Healer’s notes. The taunting missives he sent every Tuesday after a kill.

  “Would you mind listening to them, Elizabeth?” he asked.

  She pressed her lips together in a thin line, then nodded her head in assent. Tucker felt a stab of jealousy. Elizabeth rarely acquiesced to his requests so easily.

  “I don’t know, Art,” she said, after he finished reading the notes. “I work with kids. Not adults. It’s been a long time since I’ve worked with criminals or studied their minds.”

  “Please, Elizabeth,” Herne said, leaning forward until his face almost met hers. “The state cops have their own set of psychiatric experts. We can get their statements, but that’s all it would be. Just statements. I want someone who will share their emotions. Their feelings. Their intuition.”

  Slowly, Elizabeth began to speak. “Well, he’s got a big ego. He certainly thinks of himself as a physician of some kind. Maybe even a god.”

  “Is he a doctor?” Herne asked. “Perhaps a psychiatrist that had his license revoked?”

  “It’s possible, but I doubt it. His work is missing the clinical feel. I can’t explain it exactly. Just a gut reaction.”

  “That’s what I want. A gut reaction. Can you tell me anything else?” Herne asked.

  “He’s dangerous, with an inflated sense of self-importance. He’s probably wrestling with his own fear, although he may think he’s already conquered it. In fact, it’s very likely he suffered from some sort of debilitating phobia as a child that still pervades his life in some manner. Maybe he’s helping others in a way that he was never helped. Or maybe he thinks he’s qualified to heal because he’s managed to overcome his fears. I don’t know.”

  “I guess he’s white. In his thirties.”

  “Yes, going by the typical serial killer profile. First, that’s the age and race of the vast majority of serial killers. Plus, all the victims have been white. Serial killers are the most racist of all criminals. They rarely murder outside of their ethnic group. But that’s just a generalization. There are always exceptions.”

  “He won’t stop,” Herne said. “He’ll keep killing.”

  Elizabeth nodded. “He thinks he has a calling,” she said.

  The ice in Herne’s glass clinked as he finished his last swallow, and Elizabeth offered him a refill. Tucker saw the disappointment in her eyes when Herne accepted.

  As she mixed the drink, she said to Herne, “Have you been drinking a lot these days?”

  It was the tone of voice Elizabeth used when she switched to “therapist” mode. Tucker recognized it instantly. He also knew that if anyone else had asked that question, Herne would have told them to fuck off. But instead, he cast his eyes downward.

  “Some,” he answered. “But not as much as I did after Maggie’s death.”

  “I still miss her, too,” Elizabeth said.

  Elizabeth and Maggie had been friends. Maybe not best friends, but sometimes, when Herne and Maggie had been visiting, the two women would sit up late, drinking wine and swapping stories. They’d even shopped together a few times. Tucker knew that shopping was the ultimate bonding experience for women. Something about spending money made them feel close. He didn’t understand it. But, then again, he’d never met a woman who understood the male-bonding power of a football game and a case of beer.

  Elizabeth talked abo
ut Maggie, reminiscing about her sweet laughter and kind heart. But her words weren’t tainted with the sugary sweetness of a memorial. One of the best things about Elizabeth, one of the things Tucker loved so much, was that she spoke the truth about people, alive or dead. It was her truth. It wasn’t candy-coated.

  Tucker leaned back in his chair as Herne told the story—a story they’d all heard many times—of Maggie rescuing an abandoned baby bunny from a nest in their yard. Elizabeth focused on him as if she’d never heard the story before. She smiled in the right places and chuckled at the end. Then the conversation moved to Maggie’s siblings and Herne’s limited contact with them.

  “They blame me, I think, for her death,” Herne said.

  “It wasn’t your fault,” Elizabeth said.

  Herne looked at her, his eyes dark. He said nothing.

  Elizabeth switched the talk to Maggie’s sense of fashion. Her classic clothing always bore an accent of the latest style without looking too young or too trendy. Maggie’s uncanny eye for fashion always meant that, no matter what the occasion, she was the best dressed in the room.

  “It’s not easy being outshined by a woman every time you’re in a room with her,” Elizabeth laughed. “But Maggie made it impossible to hate her for it. She never seemed to realize how gorgeous she looked.”

  Herne nodded. “She always thought you were the most beautiful woman in the room,” he said.

  Elizabeth smiled. “That’s why Maggie was so lovable. She spent more time thinking of others, and she so rarely thought of herself.”

  Tucker saw the flicker of pain that crossed Herne’s face. He almost stepped in. Almost stopped the conversation. But then Elizabeth started reminiscing about the Las Vegas vacation the two couples had taken together, and Tucker saw Herne relax again.

  As the evening wore on, Tucker decided to slip into the house. He wanted to check the score of the baseball game, make a quick phone call, and slip into bed. The Healer case had exhausted him more than he cared to admit. As he pulled off his socks and reached for his cell phone, he glanced out the window. Herne and Elizabeth sat on the patio, drinks in their hands, laughing softly together. Tucker was certain that neither of them had noticed his absence.