by C. C. Harris
‘Yes, I’m Doctor Ellison.’
‘I’m Lieutenant Wilkins and this is my colleague James Christianson. We’re from the New York Police Department and we’d like to ask you a few questions. Is there somewhere private we can talk?’
Sarah knew she could be interviewing a serial killer. She maintained a composed demeanor.
‘Certainly. We can use my office if you like. I have a client arriving soon, so I can’t be too long.’
‘That’s fine,’ Sarah said.
James followed Sarah, holding a pen and notebook. His eyes discreetly surveyed the office and the doctor. He noticed there were no family photos. Nothing that connected him to the outside world. A set of coloring-in books with a miniature Buddha sat on the doctor’s shelf.
An imitation Shiraz rug lay under the coffee table. This reinforced the fact the doctor seemed to come from a working-class family. If he’d been deprived financially in his formative years, the effect of money could be intoxicating, James thought.
Sarah said, ‘Doctor Ellison, I will get to the point. Sandra Lee was found dead in a Brooklyn alleyway and Brandy Johnson is in the city morgue. Both are clients of yours. We also have Courtney Williams and Janis Lang on our database as missing. Is it normal for your clients to end up dead or missing, Doctor?’
‘I take on clients that other therapists won’t touch due to their unstable patterns of behavior,’ he replied smoothly, as he stroked his hair away from his forehead. ‘Some of my clients have a history of sexual and physical abuse. It’s not unusual for these clients to adopt maladaptive coping strategies which includes drug and alcohol usage. These precipitating and perpetuating factors can place them as high-lethality suicide attempters. Does that answer your question, Lieutenant?’
James carefully studied his body language. He was sitting up straight with his hands clasped in his lap. There was nothing to indicate he was lying. James wondered whether this control was learned or innate. The one thing he did notice was his hand-tailored suit. It would be worth more than anything in the room. His suit provided an insight into his financial situation.
‘Do ya remember a former client of yours, a Nancy Fisher?’ questioned James.
‘Yes, I do. She made a complaint, which of course is not unusual for mentally disturbed clients.’
‘She said ya called her a day before the court case. Is that correct?’
The doctor was quick to respond. ‘The only call I made to Nancy was to check that she was safe. I was concerned that she was at risk of killing herself. She had no contact with family and friends so protective factors were limited. I’m sure you are aware of the duty of care responsibilities of a psychologist.’
‘Why do ya think she made an official complaint about ya,’ James asked.
‘Clients like Nancy can be unsafe but also experience displaced feelings of frustration which they can project onto their therapists. Depressed clients can also experience short-term memory deficits which means their encoding and recall of information can be severely impaired. Nancy was depressed and has a factitious disorder, so I’m not surprised by her accusations. You see officer, she was extremely unwell and because of her vulnerability, she needed my support.’
James wondered how long he had rehearsed his academic speech. He knew the doctor’s role-playing of authenticity and empathy would enable him to manipulate a client and gain their trust. He also knew that a depressed client taking the witness stand could be fatal to the case if the victim presented confused.
‘I do apologize, but my client will be here soon. I need to prepare for my session. If I think of anything of importance I will let you know.’
‘There’s one other thing,’ James said. ‘Just thought you’d be interested to know...we’ve got our forensic team down in the basement garage.’
‘Can I ask why you’re interested in the basement?’ Instead of responding to James, the doctor looked at Sarah.
She felt as if he was dissecting her. However, she reminded herself that he couldn’t read minds.
‘We are following procedures, Doctor,’ Sarah replied. ‘When there is a suicide, or we have a missing person, it is standard procedure to bring in our forensic team to the place of interest. I’m sure, being a Doctor, you understand we cannot make any assumptions. We need to assess all the relevant facts and evidence.’
Sarah didn’t have to be a psychologist to know about internalized anger. She wanted to grab him by the collar and force him to tell her where Curtis was. She stepped towards the door before her emotions took over.
‘Thanks for your time, Doctor. We will be in touch if there are any further questions.’ As they moved out of earshot, she swore under her breath, ‘We’ll get you, you twisted bastard.’
James and Sarah were careful not to make eye contact until they were in the elevator and the doors were closed.
‘What do you think?’ James asked.
‘I’m not sure what accent you were trying out there James, but you didn’t sound too intelligent. It was perfect. Let him think we are dumb-ass cops. If he thinks he’s smarter than us then he might get sloppy and stay put until we have enough evidence.’
James said, ‘He sounded cold and creepy. My gut feeling is telling me he’s bad. A Doctor Jekyll and Mr Hyde. Helper one day, killer the next.’
‘Is there anything else you noticed?’ Sarah asked.
‘His office gives a snapshot of his past as well as his present. He has an imitation Persian rug and the paintings on the wall are amateurish, yet he wears a hand-tailored suit. I’m betting he comes from a working-class background and now he has a taste for the finer things in life. I wonder how he can afford an office on Madison.’
‘Maybe he’s an amazing psychologist and he’s fully booked,’ Sarah replied.
‘Maybe you’re right but operating in a prime location in New York, a sizeable chunk of your earnings goes on leasing. I also noticed he wasn’t wearing glasses and I couldn’t see any in his office. The glasses found next to the commissioner’s niece could have been left by an accomplice.’
‘What about lying? Did you notice anything?’ Sarah asked.
‘Nothing. If he’s a psychopath, he won’t exhibit a physical guilt response when he lies because he has no guilt. I had a sense that he was enjoying the moment. Laughing at us under his breath whilst he selectively suppressed and exposed information. There was one thing I noticed. He had a therapy coloring-in book on his shelf like the coloring-in book we found on Janis’s coffee table. Unfortunately, even if her book has his fingerprints, it doesn’t prove he has anything to do with her disappearance. It’s not a crime to give clients therapy tools. Therapy tools or grooming tools, that is the question.’
‘Christ. He’s getting creepier by the minute,’ Sarah stated. ‘His colleague, Dr Cameron has been away for the last two weeks at a conference and he’ll be back tomorrow. He has a tight alibi, but it doesn’t mean we can cross him off the list. It will be interesting to hear what he’s got to say. Let’s see how the team is going in the basement.’
As they entered the basement garage, they noticed a police control vehicle blocking the entrance.
‘You have a great team, Sarah. They’ve already cordoned off the area.’ James meant what he said. He had witnessed enough crime scenes to know a professional one from a sloppy one. Sloppy work meant evidence being thrown out of court. It was a cop’s worst nightmare if forensic photos or other evidence was inadmissible and months of an investigation went down the drain, especially if journalists had gained entry to a crime scene and contaminated crucial evidence.
‘Found anything yet?’ Sarah asked one of her team.
‘We have some blood samples.’
‘Great, call me if anything else comes up.’
Sarah knew blood samples could solve the case. It could lead to the killer. It was good news but it still didn’t stop her worrying about Curtis.
EIGHTEEN
Picnic in the Park
I woke up feeling dizzy as hell in
the back of a van. My head was throbbing where I’d been pistol-whipped. I wasn’t sure whether it was sweat or blood running down my face. From what I could hear, there was one man driving and a passenger. My wrists and ankles were bound by zip ties and my head was covered with a hood.
I felt the pressure of my knife strapped to my leg. By pure luck, they had missed it. I clenched my teeth and desperately reached for the handle. It was then that the van came to a sudden halt. I was devastated. It was too late.
The back doors swung open. The best I could do was play dead. Hands gripped my ankles as they pulled me from the van. I wanted to scream with pain as I landed heavily on rough stones.
The sound of a dog barking broke the silence.
‘Will you shut that fuckin’ dog up!’ a gruff voice yelled.
‘It’s only a duh…duh…dog. Ca…ca…can I…?’
‘Do as you’re fuckin’ told or I’ll put a bullet down your throat, you retard!’
I heard footsteps walking away then a gunshot followed by a high-pitched yelp.
The voice returned. ‘He’s fi…fi…finished. I du…du…dumped him in the barn.’
There was a stutterer and a dictator. The dictator took off my hood. ‘We can toss this piece of shit in the barn. Let’s eat before we do the dig and then we can bury him with that fuckin’ dog. We’ll kill two birds with one stone.’ The dictator laughed.
His voice was chilling. They’ve brought a packed lunch as if they’re on a fuckin’ murder picnic, I thought. This was just another job for them. I wondered how many other bodies were buried in their killing field. What the fuck am I going to do? I was screwed.
‘Fuckin’ help me here. This guy’s a dead weight.’
As they dragged my body to the barn, my head bounced up and down like a ball across a playing field. I kept my eyes closed and faked a gurgle, as if in my dying throes. I heard the unlocking of doors and felt the excruciating pain of being dragged again.
The sole of a boot pressed against my chest as if the killer was taking a rest. ‘Great, he’s choking on his own blood. Shit happens, my friend. Don’t worry about giving a speech, someone can do that at your funeral,’ he sneered.
‘Where’s the fuckin’ dog? You said you dumped him in the barn.’
‘He’s under th…th…that tarp. I don’t want rats eating him before we bury him. It will m…m…make m…m…me puke my lunch.’
I heard a set of doors slam shut but the sound of their voices was close by. Blood oozed from my mouth as broken teeth rolled around on my tongue. I remained still until the sound of their footsteps faded.
I spat out the teeth and opened my eyes. The wooden barn looked about a hundred years old and creaked with age. I noticed a dog peeping out from under a canvas tarp. The stutterer had lied. He hadn’t killed the dog.
It was a black and tan German Shepherd and it belly-crawled towards me. He was emaciated and looked like a bag of bones. I noticed blood coming from his hind leg and a rope was tightened around his neck.
‘Jesus, buddy. How long have you had this rope around your neck?’ What is it about fuckin’ dogs? I thought. Now in the middle of nowhere I had a dog with sunken eyes and a tail that looked like a stick wanting my help.
I could feel the warmth of his injured body resting against mine as he licked my hand.
‘We’re in deep shit, buddy.’
I was drifting in and out of consciousness and badly wanted to close my eyes and escape the pain. I was sweating profusely. I felt like an animal ready for the slaughter. I realized I wasn’t alone. I could see the shape of a man, then I heard footsteps leave the barn.
Is this when I get my just desserts? Am I paying the price for being a shithead?
‘Get up, Carter! Get your ass up or this will be the death of you!’ yelled a familiar voice.
I opened my eyes to see my old drill sergeant. I hadn’t seen her since my army days. I’d trained at Fort Jackson, South Carolina, when I was twenty, thinking that joining the military would give me enough money to get through college. The problem was, my drill sergeant kicked me out for disobedience during basic combat training. I’d fucked that opportunity up bad. Now I was in a barn hallucinating.
‘Remember the code of conduct!’ the sergeant yelled. She bent down in her army greens and yelled again. ‘Repeat after me: “If I am captured, I will continue to resist by all means possible. I will make every effort to escape and to aid others to escape!” Say it Carter, say the fuckin’ code!’
I could barely make a sound and she wanted me to repeat a fuckin’ military code. A female bellowing at me before I died. This was truly a nightmare.
‘Obey your drill sergeant, say the code!’
‘You’re not going to tell me what to say and I’m taking no orders from a woman who doesn’t belong on the front line, so piss off!’ This can’t be real. I’m supposed to see a light and go to a better place. Instead, I’ve got a female screaming in my face and a dog that wants to be rescued.
‘Say it! Say it now!’
‘If I say it, will you piss off and leave me alone?’
‘I want to hear the code!’
‘If I am captured, I will…I will continue to resist by…all means possible…’
‘Finish it off Carter! You’re not dead, fuckin’ finish the code!’
‘I will make every effort…to escape…and aid others…to escape.’
Buddy wasn’t moving, and blood was trickling from his wounds. The sergeant must be a final kick up the ass before I died.
‘Now get your ass off the floor. Remember the drill – survival, evasion, resistance, and escape. Move your ass! Resist, resist, resist! Escape, escape, escape! Never leave your comrade! You know the drill!’
I couldn’t believe it. I was almost dead, and my comrade was a dog. I hated dogs and I hated my sergeant.
‘Move your ass off that floor. Get your fuckin’ hands on that knife.’
With both hands bound, I reached for the knife. The barn was humid, and flies were circling. I gripped the knife’s handle and with one yank, freed it from the strap on my leg. It took several painful maneuvers until I could cut the zip ties from my ankles and wrists.
Despite the dog’s pain, he raised his head. The rope was embedded in the flesh around his neck. He didn’t make a sound. His spirit was broken but his eyes were trusting. I saw the exposed raw flesh. Flies were buzzing around his malodorous wound and maggots weaved in and out. I scraped my knife gently across his skin to clear some of the maggots, wondering how long he had to live.
The sergeant continued to scream. ‘Move, move, move! There’s a crate. Get it now and move it to that window.’ She pointed to a small crate that looked as if it would collapse in a second. I could see a timber window at the far end of the barn.
‘The crate will give you the height to get through the window. Don’t just fuckin’ lie there. Move Carter! Move and get the crate!’
NINETEEN
Comrade
I crawled across the barn floor and peered through a gap in the timber wall. The dictator and the stutterer were leaning against a forest pine shoveling down lunch. They seemed no more than thirty feet away.
These guys are hungry. I might have enough time to get out of this hellhole.
The sergeant continued bellowing orders. ‘Escape, survive, escape! Move, move, move!’
I pulled the crate over to the back window of the barn.
‘Climbing position, climbing position. You know the drill. Move your fuckin’ ass! Move your ass. Move, move, move!’
Was this what they called post-traumatic stress? Was the army training so grueling that I was experiencing flashbacks or survivor’s guilt?
I stepped onto the crate. I reached up to the window and pushed on the glass with both hands. As it swung open, parts of the frame crumbled. I knew that getting through the narrow opening was going to hurt.
I wondered whether Buddy could see the drill sergeant too. I had nothing to lose. It was time to esca
pe.
I hoisted Buddy up so his torso was resting on my shoulder and his head was facing forward. I gently stepped back onto the crate. It wobbled precariously. I leaned towards the opening of the window, hoping Buddy would use my shoulder as leverage to push off so he could make it through with his injured leg.
‘Encourage and praise him. Do not yell at your comrade.’
‘Come on boy, you have to jump. Come on now.’
Within seconds, he let out a whimper and pushed forward.
I was waiting to hear him fall. Will they hear us? Will they come running to check? Are we too late?
‘Keep breathing. Keep breathing. Survive, evade, resist, and escape! Move your ass, Carter! It’s your turn, move, move! You know the climbing drill. Use your strongest leg to push off and pull yourself up.’
I gripped the knife between my teeth and pulled myself up halfway through the window. My skin shredded along the frame as if I was rubbing against a cheese grater.
‘Get into your falling position, Carter! Think of the forward roll. Focus, focus. Fall and roll, fall and roll! Protect your head and your back!’
I did the fall and the roll was punishing. It was more like a heavy drop. Buddy was waiting. He had survived.
The sergeant leaned forward. ‘In the crawling position! In the crawling position! Head down and to one side! Move, move your lazy ass, move! The dog will follow you. Move, move!’
I remembered the military crawl as if it was yesterday. This was going to be a muscle-busting maneuver.
The sergeant screamed again. ‘Push your body forward! Keep your head to one side, you know the drill. Crawl, crawl, keep down!’
I wondered how I was going to escape with my body on fire. Every movement was a killer.
I pushed myself forward until I was in the undergrowth.
‘You’re out of sight now! Stand up, stand up! Get ready to help your comrade!’
I gripped onto a tree trunk for balance and turned sideways to see Buddy crawling with his head down. It was then I realized Buddy was a military dog. I wondered how he had ended up in this hellhole.
