by C. C. Harris
She knew she had locked the doors. Her chest heaved with fear. Her thoughts raced as she retraced her steps. She had come home, locked the front door. It was impossible for anyone to get in. Now she wondered whether she had forgotten to lock the back door in her rush to leave the house that morning. The bottle of antiseptic slipped from her grasp as she turned to face him. She wanted to scream.
‘Hello Brandy, you’re late tonight. I’ve been waiting for you. You really should remember to lock your back door. I wasn’t expecting to just walk in. Thank you for making it easy for me.’
Her legs turned to jelly, and she gasped in fright.
‘Why…why are you here?’
‘It’s ok, my darling Brandy. You won’t feel a thing.’
She stared into the eyes of a sadist whose acts of kindness had just been a façade.
‘I…I…don’t understand,’ Brandy stammered. ‘You read Romans…Romans 12:9 and told me to...to let love be genuine. “Abhor what is evil and hold fast to what is good.” My love for you was genuine and I…I…held on to your every word. I thought you cared.’
‘Brandy, Brandy…the clever ones hide behind the words of God to indulge in their true delights. But that is our little secret. The reality of your sad life is that no one cares about you. Look on the bright side. Your life is no longer meaningless. You are special to me. Now you have a purpose.’
He stepped forward and jabbed her in the arm with a needle.
A dose of tranquilizers surged through her body. She rocked from side to side until she fell into his arms. As light as a feather, he thought.
‘You were right, Brandy. You do freeze, my darling. It goes to show you have to be careful what you tell people, especially someone you trust.’
He had planned her abduction meticulously, staying hidden in the dark by her house, watching and waiting for the right moment to strike. His vehicle was nearby, ready for her easy transportation. He knew she would never guess her fate. That was what he enjoyed the most.
Anticipating the hunt and watching the horror and disbelief in his victim’s eyes.
TEN
Enjoying the Moment
Mrs Harper was worried. It was most unusual to see Brandy’s light on and her drapes not drawn, so she didn’t hesitate to go and check on her. Within a minute, she was at Brandy’s front door.
‘Brandy…Brandy…are you there? It’s Mrs Harper…your neighbor.’
Shit, the neighbor, he cursed. He knew he would have to kill her if she saw him. He clenched his fists. Not delivering Brandy would cost him a cool $700,000 and he knew his buyer would be pissed.
The doctor picked up Brandy’s blade, unwrapped her bandage, and sliced her wrists downward, severing a vein. He then placed the blade in her hands. No one will suspect foul play, he thought. She was a self-harmer with the habit of going to hospital.
Fuckin’ nosy neighbor, he thought. He wanted to kill her, but it would make the job too messy. Things had changed. Brandy had seen him, and he wasn’t willing to stare at four walls for the rest of his life or be strapped to an electric chair to fry. The only consolation was he had a backup plan. His plan was a syringe of heroin that he kept taped under his driver’s seat. If necessary, he would eliminate her at the hospital. The police wouldn’t suspect a thing.
Mrs Harper peered through several windows until she spotted Brandy’s legs on the bathroom floor. She immediately called 911 and ran to the back door. She was surprised to see it open. Little did Mrs Harper know that she was inches away from a killer. A killer who was standing hidden behind the back door as she rushed to Brandy’s side.
When the ambulance arrived, he watched patiently from the comfort of his vehicle until the ambulance headed to the Hospital. He followed closely behind and parked at a distance from the hospital, taking the syringe from under his seat. You’re a genius Luke. Keeping this heroin has paid off.
He waited for an hour, hoping it was enough time for her to be transferred to the intensive care unit. Waiting too long heightened the chance of her gaining consciousness.
He didn’t risk ringing the hospital, instead accessing the ward from the stairwell. The doctor knew hospitals were generally understaffed and security was slack, especially around stairwells. He also knew if she wasn’t in the ICU it was going to be a headache finding her.
Once in the ICU, the doctor glanced down the hallway. The nurses’ station was unattended. It was visiting time, so he wouldn’t stand out. Nurses glared at kids running in and out of rooms, and families paced impatiently at the nurses’ desk. Perfect. It was a busy night and there were no police or security in sight.
It wasn’t until he peeped in the third room he noticed a drape drawn. As he stepped forward, he felt an adrenalin rush. He pulled the drape aside to see Brandy attached to a heart monitor. Fuckin’ bitch, she survived, he cursed inwardly.
He was tempted to put the syringe in the drip line but that wouldn’t be quick enough. Once he was by her bed, he took the syringe from his pocket and removed the cap. He gently pulled back the sheet and quickly scanned her arm. Once he’d found a vein, he injected the ultra-pure heroin.
As he stood watching, Brandy’s eyes unexpectedly opened, staring at him terror-stricken. He couldn’t help but return the stare and enjoy the moment. He knew it could be a quick death and couldn’t resist staying until her blood stopped circulating and her heart collapsed.
As he recapped the syringe and placed it in his pocket, he thought how smart he was to choose such an empowering career. The career of a psych. He leaned over her bed and removed his gloves. ‘You were the one who wished to be dead, Brandy,’ he whispered. ‘Remember Brandy, happiness is a state of mind. It’s your journey that counts, not your destination.’
Before he left the room, he smirked with pleasure. ‘You have wonderful insight, Brandy. You were right. You were a bad girl and you deserve to be punished.’
ELEVEN
Missing Persons
Sarah called me dead on 8.00 am.
‘Hi Sarah, you’re an early bird. Ready to catch the psychopath, are you?’
‘Why the hell don’t you answer your cell, Curtis? I’ve been trying to call you!’
‘Saturday means sleeping in…anyway, what’s so urgent that it can’t wait? Don’t tell me…the White House has blown up?’
‘Not funny, Curtis. I’ve got bad news. We have another victim. Her name is Brandy Johnson. She died last night at the hospital.’
‘Jesus, already?’ I responded.
Sarah sounded breathless. Her anxiety was contagious.
‘You said the crystal ring you found in the basement garage belongs to Courtney Williams, the psychologist’s client.’
‘That’s right,’ I said.
‘Her boss called us as she hadn’t turned up for work. Her boss said this was out of character. He said he’d tried to call her several times but there was no answer. We tracked down her parents. They said she’d left home a couple of years ago and they didn’t know where she lived or what she was doing. Anything planned for this morning, Curtis?’
‘By the sound of it I’ll be seeing you,’ I answered.
‘I’ll have someone pick you up.’
‘Sounds good to me,’ I replied.
Once at the precinct, I was greeted by a colleague of Sarah’s.
‘Curtis, I’d like you to meet James Christianson. James is a criminal psychologist I’ve pulled out of retirement,’ Sarah said.
‘Hi Curtis,’ he said with a firm handshake.
‘Nice to meet you,’ I lied. I could see the headlines. Criminal psychologist pulled out of retirement, helps catch serial killer. A hero’s funeral for Curtis Carter, who sadly didn’t survive. I wondered whether Sarah liked me or if I was just a useful tool to solve a case.
‘Thanks for coming, James. How was the trip?’ Sarah asked.
‘When a helicopter arrives at my front door, I know this isn’t any ordinary case. Besides, golf was getting boring; there are only so ma
ny holes you can play.’
Sarah led us to a debrief room that was an ideal place for cabin fever.
‘Right, what have you got for us?’ James asked Sarah.
‘We have a serial killer or serial killers and our suspects are Dr Luke Ellison who is a psychologist and Dr Lee Cameron is a psychiatrist. They have a business called The Manhattan Well-being Clinic. Curtis is currently working for Dr Ellison, as his personal assistant.’
James and Sarah gave me a stare. I felt like the sidekick who knew fuck-all about investigations. Maybe I’d have been better sleeping under a bridge in front of a communal fire pit.
Sarah produced a file on the table. ‘The victims on our books include a prostitute called Sandra. Her street name was Sassy Lee. She was found dead from a heroin overdose, but she wasn’t a drug user and she’d been to The Manhattan Well-being Clinic the week she was murdered. We also have Brandy Johnson who was also having therapy at the Well-being Clinic. She died in hospital last night. That means Sandra and Brandy are dead and Courtney is missing. Doctor Ellison’s and Doctor Cameron’s work numbers came up on their phone records.’
Sarah took a deep breath. ‘The victims lived on their own, they had no friends and no contact with family members. They were all younger than twenty-five and of a similar height and weight – no taller than five feet two. They’d be easily overpowered. One of the victims was the commissioner’s niece, Linda Maloney. Her body was found a half an hour from Vegas. She was attending The Manhattan Psychiatric Centre because of her previous suicide attempts and drug use.’
‘Do you think the doctors know we’re on to them?’ I asked.
‘Not a chance. We’re known as the covert chameleons of New York.’ Sarah grinned. ‘Dr Ellison lives alone in a condo overlooking Central Park. His colleague lives on his own on 85th Street. I don’t have enough evidence yet, so I don’t want to spook them, or they could disappear.’
The meeting reminded me of my school days. I’d break out in a sweat trying to sit still. Luckily, I had a chair that swiveled three hundred and sixty degrees.
Sarah rolled her eyes. ‘Curtis, really. Can’t you keep still?’
‘It’s not easy,’ I replied with a grin.
‘Just wondering James, is there a term for a lack of focus?’ I asked.
‘Yes. Maladaptive daydreaming disorder.’
Sarah looked up from her paperwork. ‘Are we here for therapy, or what?’
‘Sorry,’ I said.
James straightened his posture. ‘The offenders are well organized with their abductions and choose their victims carefully. The victims are high-risk as the community are not going to give a rat’s ass about missing clients who have a history of suicide attempts. The clients would’ve been an easy target, especially if they’d trusted their therapist and felt safe.’
Sarah placed her hand on James’ arm. ‘It’s great you can help us, James.’
It was hard listening to her gratitude with James. I was the one who should’ve been thanked. I was the one going into the fuckin’ lion’s den.
‘Why do you find this case so special?’ James asked.
Sarah smiled. ‘Usually I’m relieved if I don’t have to work on such a serious case, my team are stretched as it is, but I want to get this son of a bitch off the streets and I’m hoping for a good reference from the commissioner. I’d like to work in California.’
‘I thought you enjoyed living in New York and getting the bad guys,’ I said, hoping not to sound too concerned.
‘I’m feeling burnt out and I don’t want to end up a wreck. I’m already struggling to sleep more than four hours a night. I’d like to live on the coast. I can’t think of anything better than beach walks. Anyway, enough about me, I’d better brief my team and get onto the paperwork. I can drop you home before the brief if you like, Curtis?’
‘Thanks, but I’m good.’ Truthfully, I wanted to take her home and have a day between the sheets.
‘Thanks for your help Curtis. I really do appreciate it,’ Sarah stated.
I felt like a school kid with my hands in my pockets waiting for my first kiss. I needed to think with my head and not with my dick. If I needed sex, I could pay for it, with no strings attached. Anyway, I knew women liked me. I could have anyone if I wanted. Love is for fools, I thought.
‘Happy to help if it means putting some psychopath away.’ I was full of shit. I had to get the reward. If I didn’t pay off the mafia, I was as good as dead.
TWELVE
Trust
Janis was enjoying working on her coloring-in book as it provided a world of beautiful colors, shapes, and patterns, replacing the ugliness of her past.
She’d had an unhappy life. Her mom was an alcoholic and a drug user. Living with her had been like walking on eggshells. Tragedy struck when Janis was sixteen. Her father jumped off the Brooklyn Bridge. The day he jumped, she found a leather jacket in her schoolbag with some cash in the pocket. With the gift was a note that read: ‘An early Christmas present, love you always, Dad.’ Although they barely had enough money, she hadn’t thought twice about it until a police officer came knocking at their door.
Christmas and birthdays were the hardest without him. She thought of him every day and couldn’t understand why he had gone and left her. She’d sit by her bedroom window, watching and waiting, hoping he’d walk through the front gate. She hoped the cops had got the wrong ID. At times, she thought she could hear her father’s voice and she’d dash to the front door to greet him. When she shopped, she’d notice anyone who looked slightly like him.
Several months after his suicide, Janis stopped searching for him, accepting he’d gone. Her inner dialogue relentlessly repeated the same questions: Why did you want to kill yourself? Didn’t you want to stay with me? Did I do something wrong? Why didn’t I notice something wasn’t right? You seemed so happy that week.
Janis didn’t feel she deserved love. She wished she could cry. Years of feeling trapped because of her mom’s neglect stopped the tears and she masked her pain with a fake smile. Some days, her feelings were so overwhelming she couldn’t see the difference between killing her pain and killing herself. She just wanted the hurt to stop.
She found it difficult to concentrate at school and regularly saw her school counselor for support. Her pastime was cutting her wrist to deal with her emotional pain. Each time she achieved any academic success, her mom would scream, ‘Ya ain’t goin’ nowhere in life. With all those fuckin’ books ya read. Ya think ya better than anyone else. Well ya not. Ya an attention-seeking bitch. Ya good fa nothin’ loser. Ya can’t even do fuckin’ chores ya lazy bitch. I’m fuckin’ sick of ya, ya whore!’
It had been difficult not to internalize her mom’s words. At home, she lived in her bedroom while her mom continued her drug use. With the help of her school counselor, she stopped cutting and graduated from High School. On that day, she walked away from a life of misery. She kissed a photo of her father and said, ‘I’m sorry, Dad. I’m sorry I couldn’t save you. I hope you’re proud of my graduation.’
She then tucked his photo in the pocket of her jacket and walked out the door. She was a free spirit. Free from the shackles of her mom’s psychotic rages. She looked back at her house for the last time and it was then she wondered if her dad had felt the same relief on the day he’d walked away.
She now lived alone in a tiny apartment opposite the Bronx Zoo and worked as a waitress. She’d heard of bad stuff going on in some of the housing projects and stayed clear of them. She soon realized the transport was great and parts of the Bronx were pretty. Janis loved the Southern Boulevard diners and spent her Sunday afternoons people-watching over a coffee. She wasn’t sure why the Bronx got such a bad rap, with its beautiful gardens and cheap shopping.
Janis was grateful for her sanity and independence. She knew it didn’t matter where someone lived in New York, it didn’t stop them from killing themselves. The Brooklyn Bridge didn’t discriminate on class when someone wanted to jump
.
Although she had a regular job and enjoyed her newfound sense of freedom, the fall-out from her childhood abuse lingered. She noticed an advertisement on her local YMCA noticeboard for free therapy sessions at The Manhattan Well-being Clinic. She decided it was a good idea to see someone about her mental health and before long, she was seeing a psych on Madison Avenue.
She no longer felt pressured to think positively and some days found her living conditions and low mood a reason to change her life for the better. She also had a thirty-year-old stepbrother who had located her and kept in touch. He visited once a week to make sure she had enough food and was safe.
After having therapy at the clinic for some months, her sleeping patterns improved, and she learned strategies to regulate her emotions. Her psych diagnosed her with post-traumatic stress and provided the talking therapy she needed. She considered her psych as her emotional rescuer. He supported her self-esteem and cleared her dark thoughts. Janis knew she could not fix her past but since seeing her psych, she had been able to shift her thoughts from the bad stuff and stop her anxiety and nightmares. He praised her insightful reflections and validated the pain and suffering she had endured as a child.
He told her how proud he was of her emotional resilience and how much she had learned in therapy. Her psych gave her a coloring-in book as part of her relaxation therapy. She’d enjoyed coloring in as a child and now it quietened her bad thoughts and provided a positive distraction.
* * *
But for Janis Lang it was too late. Her killer was already circling her building like a vulture, watching…waiting…ready to swoop.
As Janis sipped her tea, she was alarmed by a knock at the door. She didn’t know anyone who knew her address apart from her stepbrother. Who could it be? she wondered. She looked through the peephole in the door and was surprised to see a familiar face. She hesitated. Why hadn’t he called her instead? Why would he come to my apartment? Maybe I’m being paranoid, she thought.
