[Sign Behind the Crime 01.0] Gemini

by Ronnie Allen

  “Hi, Dad,” he said cheerfully, trying to change the mood. “I called to wish Mom a happy birthday last night but you were out.”

  “We were at the country club for dinner with friends to celebrate her birthday.”

  “That’s great. I’m glad. At least you’re going out more that you did up here.”

  “How was your day?” His dad always cut to the chase, never beating around the bush. His father was the only one who had ever been able to intimidate him, and he still did. John reminisced about “the look.” The first time he was the recipient of it he’d been two-years old. He’d practiced for years until he got it right. Till he reached fifteen.

  “Fine, the usual.” Sensing his father already knew, and the silence on the other end was a signal, John plunged forward. “You spoke to Uncle Jerry.” More silence on the other end. “Dad, you there?”

  “Yes I’m here, and no I didn’t speak with Jerry. What happened at the hospital?”

  That’s strange. Thought he might have been told. I must be losing my intuition. Don’t worry about it, John. It must be the stress.

  “John, what happened, aside from Vicki moving back to Florida?”

  “Dad, I can’t discuss it, you know that.” He could, but why cause him more distress?

  “All right, doctor-patient privilege, but you can tell me what happened with Vicki.”

  John twirled his wedding band around his finger. “Dad she was miserable here, couldn’t adjust to life in the city.”

  “And you’re not taking any responsibility for this?”

  “Dad, I don’t tell you and Mom everything, anymore. Vicki and I are private people. Sometimes, when you love someone so much, you have to love them enough to let them go.”

  “Then why are you so angry?”

  “I’m not angry!”

  “Oh no? Listen to yourself.”

  “Dad, it’s something I have to work through. Where’s Mom?”

  “She’s out playing Mahjongg with the girls from the Temple.”

  “Girl’s?” John found that humorous at their early-seventies age. “Okay, tell her I called,” he said, getting ready to hang up.

  “There’s something she wants me to ask you.”

  “Dad, can it wait? I have to get to the precinct by six.”

  “Then you have plenty of time. It can’t wait. She needs to reserve the date.”

  “What date?” John grew suspicious and felt sorry he asked.

  “Everyone’s adult children do it.”

  “Do what Dad? Dad, please just tell me. I have to get out of here.”

  “You’re always in a rush to get off the phone when we talk.”

  I wonder why.

  But he wouldn’t dare say that, never in a million years.

  “Mom wants you to come down here the weekend of your birthday to celebrate the thirty-third anniversary of your bar Mitzvah.”

  “Excuse me? The thirty-third anniversary of my bar Mitzvah? And what does that mean?” Knowing his father, it would be something complicated to give him more work.

  All through his education, they worked with him, even proofreading papers in medical school. As confident as he was, he never wanted to go away for college so it was Columbia University in New York for him, all the way from undergraduate through his psychiatric residency and New York University for his PhD in clinical psych. If there were any imperfections in anything he did, Mom and Dad insisted he edit the complete work. That was how John maintained a 4.0 GPA.

  “You’d be redoing your bar Mitzvah. And then we make a large Kiddush for the congregation.”

  “No, thank you!”

  “Why not?”

  “Dad, I can’t believe you’re asking me to do that, with everything I have on my plate now. I don’t need anything else to worry about. I don’t even have the time to write my book. No, it’s not going to happen.”

  “By the way, what’s happening with that, the book?”

  John was relieved his father had gone onto another subject. “I’m good with a title, Holistic Forensic Psychiatry: Making the Mind Body Connection.”

  “That’s it? Just the title?”

  “No. I have an outline for the six sections done, and I’m developing the one on spiritual frameworks for psychiatry.”

  “And what is that section going to include?”

  “Well, the theories and practice of vibrational medicine, the human energy field, the seven layers of the aura, color, sound therapy, chakras, and stressors, and how they manifest as mental illness.”

  “So how are you planning to integrate the aura into the practice of psychiatry? That’s what the book is about, the actual practice, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, of course, Dad. The aura changes with mood. When someone is lying, in denial, aggressive, manic-depressive, masochistic, or sadistic, easy going, and even substance abuse comes through the energy field. Psychiatrists can learn a lot about their patients when they study their auras, and it makes it easier to get to the truth.”

  “Yes, but you see them, day or night, light or dark, you can see them. So let me ask you this. How are you going to get your readers, presumably doctors, to understand the value of this and, taking it further, to utilizing the process?”

  “Dad, I think you just gave me a hook.”

  Silence.

  His eye caught his dad’s book, Preventing Heart Disease with Nutrition, on the shelf behind his desk. For the last ten years, that text had been his main source on the treatment of heart disease he relied upon for his patients, in addition to the latest research.

  “All right, I think I got this. Hear me through, Dad. I need to teach the readers how to develop their own psychic awareness and how they can learn to see the auras of their patients, step by step. I can’t start from the premise that they already know how to do this. Although most psychiatrists are somewhat intuitive, most are not clairvoyant.”

  “That’s right. You’ve been clairvoyant since you were a toddler. You can’t assume anything about your readers.”

  “That’s part of being an only child, too. We tend to see things on the physical plane or in the spiritual realm, more than most.”

  “No. That’s not it. But something else to support that. Remember a couple of years ago you were doing rounds with interns at Sheepshead Medical Hospital?”

  “Yes. Of course.”

  “You told me you got very aggravated because you assumed the interns knew what you thought they should, and they didn’t.”

  “That’s right. For an intern, I expected a certain level of proficiency, and professional benchmarks need to be attained.”

  “But remember you were also judging them on what you know with ten or more years of experience. You can’t do that with your readers. The only thing you can assume is that they know nothing about this topic.”

  “Got it. Thanks, Dad. This really helped.”

  “Okay. Good. Now where are you fitting in your Orgone Therapy?”

  “That’s in the emotions frameworks chapter. The seven armors of Wilhelm Reich, psychosomatic therapy, bio-energetic analysis of Alexander Lowen. All of it.”

  “So the book is coming along and then you just need better time management to write more often. It won’t be that hard. It’s a three hour service, but you’ll be up on the dais less than an hour.”

  “Oh God, Dad,” John snorted. “An hour in Hebrew, wonderful. No, I can’t know for sure I’ll be able to come down then.”

  “June ninth is months away. Schedule the days now.”

  “Dad, I’m on call twenty-four-seven. And I don’t remember any Hebrew. Plus, I don’t have the time to memorize all that again. There’s so much I have scheduled, Dad. I have fifty hours of profiling I’m contracted for, all due before June.”

  “Remember when you were in eighth grade and you brought home a B-minus on an American History exam?”

  “What’s that got to do with anything?” John thought his father was losing it, bringing up such an old memory
. He began to worry. “Are you okay? What’s going on, Dad?”

  His father ignored the question. “I told you to ask the teacher what you could do to make it up.”

  “I remember, Dad, and he gave me a college level paper that took me a month to do and I was only twelve. So? Are you or Mom sick? What are you not telling me?”

  “Nothing. We’re fine. Well, you did it. You just had to give up a few things. So re-learning Hebrew is like the same thing.”

  “Wait a minute, Dad. I’m sure you also remember it was this teacher who turned me onto psychiatry. He was a diagnosed schizophrenic and was gone by the time the paper was due. At twelve, school was my job. And by the way, you knew he was out, but you made me do the paper, anyway.”

  “That’s beside the point.”

  “Beside the point? What is the point of all this, Dad?”

  “I’ll tell you now, what I told you then. You’re a Gemini, you can multi task. Besides, the Rabbi will send you the books and tell you verbatim what you need to do.”

  “I’m sure he will.” John laughed, getting a kick out of that one. “Gemini? That worked when I was a kid, Dad. But you’re discounting and making light of all of my obligations here, now.”

  “We’re doing no such thing. We know you do a lot. You’re a workaholic. We also know you can accomplish anything you want, and everything you take on, you do to perfection.”

  Here it comes--the compliment, then the zinger. How can I say no to them after all they do for me? I have no medical school loans or a mortgage. They paid for everything, and they still transfer money into my account. Even with the consulting fees I charge, it’s still a pittance to them. But I’ll beat him to it. What the hell? It won’t be so bad. That Jewish guilt, but I am so glad I still have them in my life.

  “Dad, I’m sorry. I am. Tell the Rabbi he can send me what I need.”

  “Good. Your mother will be very happy. Now you can go to work. Speak with you soon.” His father hung up the phone.

  John starred at the handset.

  Damn! He did it to me again. I can never win with him. Bullshit, I did it to myself.

  He threw the pen he was fiddling with onto the desk. His parents always had the knack of getting him to do what they wanted, except in his choice of forensics. Oh well, he’d make it a week, get some sun.

  Changed from his suit to jeans and a fleece, he briefly checked out the kitchen to see what he needed to bring home. This ultra-modern space had everything that made an iron chef jealous. Vicki was a top chef, making very good use of every appliance in it. Opening the fridge, he saw seven, oven-to-table, two-quart hand-painted stoneware pans and trays in black and white floral designs matching the color scheme of the rest of the condo that were filled to capacity. Each pan was labeled with a blue post it for what day of the week he should eat it. The freezer held about ten more. Vicki must have cooked for over a week before she left, continuing to pamper him as she’d done since they’d gotten married. There had never been a night in those two years that dinner hadn’t been on the table waiting for him when he got home. And there hadn’t been a night in two years that they didn’t have their dessert in the bedroom. He stood there just for a moment, contemplating what he had lost, then he grabbed his bubble jacket from the closet, and left looking like a model in Men’s Style magazine.

  CHAPTER 11

  John entered the precinct conference room, looking at all of the work ahead of him. Carlson, Mandella, and Valantino fidgeted around the long table that was piled high with files. John shook his head, disgusted by the disarray. A couple of the florescent bulbs on the rectangular fixture on the ceiling blew out. It had been a month since he noticed it. He observed flecks of dust flutter in the air around the functioning bulbs, which initiated an involuntary cough. Ugh.

  Carlson looked up, weary. “It’s about time.”

  John glanced at his watch. “I’m early. What have you got for me?” He plopped down on a chair, grabbing a folder from the top of the stack, confident he’d get the job done and his mind would be off his problems.

  “How are you doing?”

  “I’m okay, Paul, knock it off. Not in the mood for an interrogation.”

  “No, you’re not. No one would be okay after what you went through today. You could have gotten killed at the hospital, and your wife walked out on you all in the same day. I’ve known you too long, John, so stop the fucking bullshit.”

  If he only knew about the conversation with my father.

  “Getting to work will keep my mind off it, so let’s go. Time is money and I’m on the clock here.”

  Paul snatched the folder from his hands. “The clock can wait a minute.” Paul slid a card to him on the desk. “I want you to see him.”

  “Who?”

  “The department shrink. You’re going to be debriefing your staff, you need it, too.”

  “I’m fine. Don’t pull this on me now.”

  “John, it’s policy and that’s an order. But this one you can’t fuck.”

  “Excuse me?” He hated orders, and he hated it when Carlson knew things about him that were personal which John hadn’t intended to share. He was thrown off kilter since this had been swept under the rug years ago and got rekindled as if it happened yesterday. He eyed Tony and Sal who turned away, concentrating on a file.

  “Like the last one, Joanne.” John blinked, shocked Carlson would harp on this. “For Christ sake, John, ya did it in her office in the first session no less!”

  John struggled to figure out what to say and fast. “It was off the record and after hours and the only session.”

  “That’s why ya both still have ya fucking jobs. There were a lot of people working here even after midnight. And yes, everyone still remembers, even though it was four years ago. Before you met Vicki. This one is on the record and during hours. And the mandatory three sessions. And you better not fuck with me on this.”

  Joanne was hot. Ravishing and hot, and every cop in the precinct would have loved to get what he had, even if it was a brief, one-shot deal. It was sleazy, exciting, and rough, but he had to admit, it wasn’t very satisfying--the way he’d take one on the fly, not at all like the patient, gentle, and tender lovemaking with Vicki.

  As soon as he’d walked into her office at one a.m. and looked her up and down through the dimmed florescent lighting, seeing her long red hair and green eyes, he admitted she was exquisite. She wore a pleated mini skirt that did her shapely legs justice. It was obvious she was on the make. Her signals of desire were clear. He’d seen enough of them and sent enough of them himself to know. Aside from noticing her cleared desk, he’d received a distinct message with her wanton eyes and flaunting seductive body language, as she shifted toward him, showing him she was hungry and ready to be taken. Magnetic currents emanated from her aura to his. It didn’t take him long to get hard.

  Paul had sent him in to speak with her because he’d missed a bullet by a millimeter at a drug raid that one of his released patients orchestrated. He’d insisted on being there, even though it went against protocol. But his patients always came first and Paul had allowed it, just this once. Turned out, it became a blood bath with three dealers being blown to bits as the coke lab they were in exploded. It was their own gunfire at the cops that had caused their demise. This was the first crime scene where he’d seen bullets fly. He’d been quite shaken up since he never carried guns, as he despised them. Paul had thought that John needed to talk to someone--so he sent him to Joanne--but an exchange of dialog never occurred.

  Joanne must have been walking around horny and desperate for a long time. John had come in with his charm, ruggedly handsome good looks, chiseled features, and player reputation. He knew how women saw him. She’d prepared herself for him. She knew what she craved. So did John.

  As soon as she’d seen him in person for the first time, a real man’s man, burning desire within her became stronger and uncontrollable. John saw through her and history repeated itself.

  Sh
e yanked him toward her with his tie, started to unbuckle his belt, and unzipped his pants faster than he would have liked. The thrill of dangerous excitement ran through him, and being himself, he was always ready, willing, and able to go with the flow and accommodate a woman in need.

  Taking advantage, knowing he didn’t have a moment to savor, he popped open the buttons on her blouse and then ran his fingers across her smaller than he liked breasts through her skimpy bra.

  He intensified his pinching on her nipples, causing her to let out short throaty gasps, and she shuddered with his touch. Just like every other woman.

  He laughed because he didn’t even have to work for it. That was fine with him. He wasn’t thrilled with the stale remnants of her perfume, so he was pleased that it must have dissipated throughout the day. It was too citrus scented for him. He much preferred the musky sandalwood vanilla scents or the lighter florals. Getting her scent on him was the last thing he wanted.

  Going under her skirt with his hands, groping every smooth, tight muscle on each thigh up to her firm bottom, causing her to moan, he realized she was sans panties. He put his hands around her small waist and lifted her up onto her desk, knocking aside a few remaining pens. They both knew there was no time for romantic emotions here and they couldn’t afford to get caught.

  Propping herself on the edge of the desk, she, panting, spread her legs wide without being prompted. And after putting on a condom, he penetrated her with fast and deep thrusts. They had to hide any erotic sounds, though it had been very difficult. He was standing, his hands supporting him on either side of her on her desk, not even touching her. He pounded inside of her. His body heat had made his shirt transparent and glued it to his torso.

  She gasped for air, leaning back, but still gripping his rear with her fingernails digging in to keep him in deeper. It was over in a few minutes with him exploding into her with fleeting satisfaction, as the feeling of her nails diminished much of what he could enjoy. Nevertheless, he remained plugged into her until she trembled in release a few minutes after him. He sneered as he zipped up, deposited a haphazard peck on her cheek, and sauntered out of the room, leaving her with her mouth agape.