by Lane Diamond
Still lost, I waited for more.
"I'll let Art explain it."
Art asked without preamble, "Are you familiar with hypnosis, Tony?"
"Hypnosis? As in, 'keep your eye on the gold watch and count backwards from a hundred,' hypnosis?"
He laughed. "It's more complicated, but yes, something like that."
"You plan to hypnotize me? Seriously? Why?"
Frank responded. "After our conversation yesterday, Art and I had a nice long conversation. We reviewed my notes and he agreed that some interesting kernels jumped out. We'd like to explore those a little further, but you're murky on the details. Your memory isn't quite giving us what we need."
Right, so I wasn't just confused, I was also stupid.
"You see, Tony, you told me about a man who watched Diana at the park that day... um... what did you call it?"
"You mean Senior Ditch Day?"
"Yes, that's right. You didn't know him, and hadn't seen him either before or since, but something about him disturbed you. You brushed aside that thought. You also mentioned a man who glared at you at the bowling alley the night you were there with Diana and your other friends. Once again, something about the man made you uneasy. You thought he was familiar."
He paused, and I tried to think back to those guys. I remembered, but I couldn't see any details.
Frank shook his head. "The truth is that those could have been perfectly innocent occurrences, with neither of those men having anything to do with Alex or Diana. The problem is, and Art agrees with me here, we found no other occurrences in your last few weeks that were, shall we say, out of the ordinary. Art will check on that too, however, while you're under."
"Under?"
"Hypnosis," Art said.
"I see." I did, sort of, though it sounded like a hell of a long shot. It couldn't hurt anything. Besides, what else could I have done at this point? Damn it, I hate feeling this helpless! "Okay, what now?"
Frank nodded to Art, who opened his doctor's bag and pulled out two vials of clear liquid and two hypodermic needles.
"You intend to give me a shot?"
"Two shots."
"Why?"
"To relax you and open your mind to the experience, to the possibilities. It will help us—help you—find truths you didn't even know existed."
"Those must be some crazy drugs." I tried to laugh, but it seemed a tree trunk had lodged in my throat. "Nothing I can get hooked on, I presume?" I hated drugs.
"That's right. These will be small doses, nothing to worry about." Art offered a friendly, reassuring smile. "The first is secobarbitol. Most people think of it as a sedative, but it's also what we call a hypnotic, as is the second, sodium amobarbitol, which you may have seen referred to as truth serum in the movies."
"Are you serious? Sounds like one of those Robert Ludlum spy novels. Why is all that necessary? Can't you just swing a watch in front of me and count back from a hundred, or something like that?"
Art turned to Frank, who answered. "First of all, don't believe everything you see in the movies. Second, as I said earlier, we have some experience with this. You're a strong-willed young man—one might say stubborn. These will help. Please, you need to trust me."
"Fine!"
Art smiled again—started to wear on me—stuck a needle into one of the vials, drew some liquid, and stood over the sink to squirt a small amount from it. He repeated the procedure with the other needle and vial, and gave me the shots.
It took time for them to take effect; couldn't guess how long.
My head grew heavy, and darkness closed in like Godzilla's shadow. Hah! Godzilla... shadow... some shadow... only the shadow knows.
A bright light shone somewhere at the distant end of a tunnel, and everything blurred into mist without form. Why am I here? What are these images? Wait... what's that noise?
A voice called from the other side of the table, a thousand miles out the other side of the tunnel.
No idea what he said, but I answered. I thought. "Am I speaking aloud? Can you hear me?"
Darkness deepened as the mile-wide tunnel shrunk, shrunk, shrunk—small enough to fit on the head of a pin. I tried to lift my hand in front of my face, but it weighed sixteen tons. Hah! Sixteen tons... sixteen tons... what am I gonna get?... ANOTHER DAY OLDER AND DEEPER IN DEBT.
Couldn't know for sure, but it felt a lot like dying. Not so terrible.
***
"Welcome back to reality."
Frank's voice whispered from the shadows, where the darkness receded and light returned to the world. He gradually came into focus seated in his La-Z-Boy.
I lay on the sofa next to him. When I sat up, my head weighed about three hundred pounds, felt as if I'd gone fifteen rounds with George Foreman, me the loser by unanimous decision. I looked around the room as my eyes regained focus, and fifty pounds of fuzz fell off my head.
I barely managed to ask Frank about Art. My voice scratched across gravel, as though I'd been singing for twelve hours straight.
"Art's gone," he said, "had to get back home."
"Why do I get the feeling there's something you're not telling me?"
He laughed. "That, my boy, is because you're very smart."
"And that's it?"
"I'm afraid so... for now."
"What about the hypnosis? How did you know about that? How did you know which questions to ask? Did anything useful come out of it?"
Even before he answered, I had a sense of new memories—hazy, lingering at the edges, waiting me to grab onto them. Strange sensation.
"Why don't we find out?" Frank's voice jerked me out of my thoughts.
I stared at him, waiting, but he just stared back for a few seconds.
Then he finally said, "Diana is a precious jewel."
"Huh? Sure, that's one way of... of putting...." What the hell!
New data flooded into my mind: faces, words spoken, smells, sounds, textures. My brain suffered a kind of information overload as memories poured in from every direction.
Where in hell did they come from?
Frank nodded and picked up his note pad. "I see you've responded to the trigger."
"Trigger?"
"Yes, 'Diana is a precious jewel.' You remembered a number of things under hypnosis, and we wanted to ease you into remembering them consciously as well. We instructed you not to remember them until the moment we provided the trigger. You'd have remembered anyway, in short order, but this made it easier for you upon first waking up."
I didn't know what to say.
"Let's see where that gets us. Are you ready?"
I shrugged my shoulders. "Okay."
"Good. Do you remember Senior Ditch Day at Flora Park, and the man who held a Frisbee and stared at Diana?"
"Yes."
"Do you remember that night at the bowling alley, and the man who glowered at you and your friends?"
I hesitated. "Yes."
He paused again to review his notes.
"On the day of Alex's funeral, you rode your bike home from here. Do you remember the man parked across the street, seated in the van?"
Wait! Is it possible? "Yes."
"On those three occasions, were those three different faces, or one face?"
Everything remained unconnected, without context, yet I saw that face! It was as though I'd known the nameless man my entire life. "One face."
He watched me as I considered the implications.
"My God, it was the same guy on all three occasions: the park, the bowling alley, and... wait a minute. I didn't remember that van across the street. I mean, I do remember it, but I don't.... Man, this is weird!"
"I told you, the subconscious is where the human mind dumps its refuse. There's more in there, so it takes the right person, with the proper knowledge, to dig through that refuse and make sense of it. Otherwise, there could be consequences."
Consequences? What in hell does that mean?
He recognized my concern. "Don't worry. You have
nothing to worry about. We had the right person in Art."
The weight of it hit me. "Frank, it was the same guy each time! That has to mean...."
He nodded. I couldn't say anything more. Rage boiled like a cauldron somewhere inside. Then Frank held up a drawing, a penciled sketch of a face.
"Where did you get that?"
"Art drew it based on your descriptions," he said. "So what's your verdict? Is Art as good an artist as I think he is?"
"I'd say so. The detail is amazing, and that's definitely the face."
He handed it to me, and I raised the sketch within inches of my eyes—quite a professional rendering. There could be no question: it must be the face of a killer, and it must be the face of a kidnapper.
Frank agreed that this man was likely responsible for both Alex and Diana. We didn't believe in extraordinary coincidences.
"What are these three letters on the bottom of the page? It looks like my handwriting."
He pursed his lips and tilted his head in a near shrug. "As a matter of fact, those are the first three letters of the license plate on the killer's van."
Chapter 40 – May 29, 1978: Tony Hooper
"The letters are from his license plate? Are you serious?"
"You wrote them down," Franks said. "Don't you remember?"
"Well... sort of. It's strange, as if I remember things that never happened, except I know they did happen. Hard to explain."
"That's the lingering effect of the hypnosis and the drugs. By tomorrow it will feel quite natural, as your conscious mind accepts them—a few more memories amongst thousands."
I'd never experienced anything like this. I was still groggy, but when Frank said the hypnosis had lasted for an hour, and that I'd slept for four hours afterword, I almost lost it.
"Half the day is gone already!"
"Sorry," Frank said, "but there was little choice. Those drugs were sedatives, and you needed to sleep them off. It's part of the process, and we'd know nothing had we not tried it."
Perhaps, but my frustration remained.
I stood and paced on still-wobbly legs, my mind drifting back to what we knew. "We have the killer's picture—I mean sketch—and a description of his van, and the first three letters of his license plate. With all that, the police should have no trouble finding him."
"We may not be able to proceed in quite that way."
"Huh? How else can we proceed?"
"You have options. While you were out, I was able to get additional information through Art's contact. He hasn't been retired for as long as I have, and he's still in touch with one guy in the game who's willing to help him out occasionally."
"Game? What did you guys retire from? And what information did you get?"
"Never mind the first part. That will have to—"
"Yeah, as if I can't guess."
"Anyway, as to the information, we obtained the rest of his license plate. That led us to his name and address."
My head reeled. "We need to call Chief Radlon right away." I reached for his phone.
"One minute, Tony, we must discuss some things first."
"What things? We have him. We can save Diana!"
"Sit awhile."
"Look, Frank, we have to—"
"I said sit down, Tony." His voice, soft but firm, matched his serious look.
I'd never seen him act this way. I did as he said, confused and anxious, scared and angry, needing to do something.
He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "Look, I know you're anxious to move on this, but we obtained the information through unorthodox means. If pressed by the police, I'll have to say I know nothing about it. Art doesn't exist."
"What? Who is he? Who are you? Are you some kind of spooks or something?"
"I wish I could tell you more. You must trust me. I've never lied to you, and I sure don't want to start, but certain obligations I cannot ignore. Some things must remain unsaid."
"Damn it, I can't believe this! Don't tell me we're back to this crap out of a James Bond movie. If we can't use the information, then why did we go through this in the first place? How are we supposed to save Diana?"
"I didn't say we can't use the information. In fact, I said you have options. We need to discuss those before you act."
"Fine! What are my options?"
***
I'd lost Alex. I could still lose Diana, if she wasn't gone already. How far behind could my sanity be?
Frank's contacts, not to mention their methods, had to remain under the radar. I'd wanted to know the truth, but he wouldn't tell me. Too much clandestine crap! Nonetheless, after our discussion and some rehearsal, I was ready to proceed.
A phone call to Chief Radlon had produced an appointment for five o'clock. More time lost, but I hoped it would get things moving in a positive direction.
I drove past the murdering bastard's house—Mitchell Norton was his name—on the way to meet the chief. That might have been foolish, but I couldn't resist. What would I have done if I'd spotted him? I didn't have any weapons, though I probably wouldn't need one. No matter. I saw no sign of his van, so he must have been out.
I couldn't help but imagine what he might have been doing to my poor Diana. It made my stomach churn. Still, I stuck with the plan Frank and I had agreed on—no mention of Art, or the hypnosis, or the sodium-whatever-the-hell-it-was—the truth serum. The sketch of Norton was also off-limits, because Art was off-limits.
I couldn't claim credit for it because I couldn't draw, something they'd discover if they took a hard look, especially if this ended up in court. I couldn't provide the license plate or Mitchell's full name and address—too suspicious, information I couldn't reasonably explain given that I couldn't mention the hypnosis.
That didn't leave much, but I prayed it would be enough.
The police station sat on the west corner of Algonquin Road and Main Street, right in front of Towne Park, where on weekends I often played basketball in pick-up games. The desk sergeant, a woman whose name badge said J.P. Harker, took me to the hallway and pointed me toward the chief's office.
He waited at his door when I arrived. "Hello, Tony." He shook my hand and guided me to a chair in front of his desk. "How are you holding up these days?"
I got a good feeling from the chief, who seemed like a regular Joe, one of the nice guys. "Well, sir, it's been pretty tough. I don't know if you've heard, but my girlfriend, Diana Gregario, was abducted from her home in Lake-in-the-Hills late Saturday night or early Sunday morning."
"As a matter of fact, Deputy Ricks called me about it. He wanted to talk about Alex's case to see if there might be a connection. He didn't mention abduction, however."
"She wouldn't run off. It had to be abduction, given the hour she disappeared. I think he and Mr. G.—Mr. Gregario—suspect I had something to do with it."
"Yes, that possibility did come up in the conversation."
His straight face displayed little emotion.
I pressed on. "Well, the deputy said something that made me think, something about me being the common link. First Alex, then Diana, and each time I was the last one to see them. He's right about that, but wrong about the rest of it."
"I see, and where does that put us?"
"Well, sir, as I said, it made me think. I lay in bed last night and thought about everything. That's when I remembered."
I paused for effect, as Frank had suggested.
He straightened up. "Remembered what?"
"There was this creepy guy. Diana and I saw him at Flora Park on Senior Ditch Day. He was there with a guy about our age, but he was older—mid-twenties, perhaps. The two of them tossed around a Frisbee... when he wasn't staring at Diana. As I said, he was creepy."
He never took his eyes off me as he waited for me to continue.
"I got a pretty good look at him, but there's more. I remembered the younger one calling him Mitchell. Then I went out with friends the night of Alex's funeral, to try to relax. I know how that sounds, bu
t I needed to get away."
I hung my head and acted as though ashamed of it. Not much of a stretch.
"I'm sure that's a perfectly normal reaction," he said. "Please continue."
"Diana and I met a couple friends at the bowling alley in Carpentersville to shoot pool, bowl, play arcade games, that kind of stuff. We whooped it up pretty good and made a lot of noise. You know how it is. This guy glared at us as if we were a bunch of rowdy kids who needed to shut up. That was at first. Then he stared at Diana a lot, which put me a little on edge. That's when it hit me. It was the same guy, the one from Flora Park. What are the odds of that?"
"Might be something, might be nothing. Was there anything else?"
"Yes sir. When we left, Diana and I were in my car getting ready to leave, laughing at something Tom said—he's one of our other friends—when this guy, this Mitchell character, walked out. He looked around as if he was trying to find someone, and when he spotted us, he stared for a minute. Then he walked to a van—dark blue, I think. We took off after that."
I stopped to let the chief consider everything I'd said.
"Have you seen him anywhere since then?"
"No sir."
"Okay, someone by the name of Mitchell, in a dark blue van.... Do you know what the make of the van was?"
"I'm not sure, but I think it was a Chevy, kind of beat up."
"I see." He made a few notes. "One more thing: Do you think you'd recognize him if you saw him?"
"I've thought about that a lot since last night. I pictured his face and everything. Yes, sir, I'm sure I would."
"It's too bad you didn't get a license plate."
I have it! I also have his full name. I can take you right to him!
"Still," he said, "I think we have plenty to start with. How many guys named Mitchell, driving a beat-up, old, dark blue Chevy van, can there be in the area? We'll track him down."
"That's great! I wasn't sure."
"You must remember, Tony, that just because you ran into this guy twice and he was 'creepy,' as you say, that doesn't mean he had anything to do with Alex or Diana."
