Phobia KDP

by Shives, C. A.

  He turned away from Elizabeth’s downturned mouth, the shame shredding his heart. If she knew the truth—if she knew that other people’s terror was the only thing that kept his own fear from overwhelming him—she wouldn’t look at him with sadness anymore. Instead, her expression would be one of horror and disgust. She wouldn’t understand.

  So Herne turned to Tucker instead. “Who is the latest victim?”

  “Tom King,” Tucker said.

  Elzabeth’s fork clattered to her plate. She gasped. “Oh no.”

  “Who’s Tom King?” Herne asked.

  “Susan King’s husband. He works in the sales department of Bowdin Tools. I went to school with Susan. They live in Carlisle.”

  “What was his fear?” Herne asked.

  Tucker’s mouth tightened into a grim line. “If the crime scene is any indicator, it looks like Tom King was afraid of the dentist.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  The state cops barely noticed Tucker and Herne as they slipped past the yellow police line. The Kings lived in a large, two-story home in a new Carlisle neighborhood. The housing development was filled with large houses and tiny lawns. These new developments had been appearing on the outskirts of Hurricane, too, and to Herne’s eye the houses lacked character. All seemed to be cut from the same mold. He imagined a factory line of giants, working to create these cookie-cutter structures as if they were dollhouses. Every yard was small, green, and neatly trimmed. Those lawns are barely large enough for a charcoal grill, Herne thought, shaking his head. Not that any of the homes had a charcoal grill in sight. The new developments made sure that the residents followed a strict set of rules. Toys, bicycles, gardening tools, and even grills were not permitted outdoors for longer than a twenty-four hour period.

  But all the rules and regulations had not prevented tragedy in the neighborhood. They had not kept The Healer from gaining entry.

  Nor had Herne’s warning—crafted carefully for Channel 4 News—stopped The Healer.

  It’s useless, Herne thought as he glanced at the scene outside of Tom King’s home.

  Residents lined the street to watch the parade of cops and crime scene techs. The onlookers clustered together in groups. They murmured to each other, their voices a small hum in the air. Some of them held hands. Moms grasped their children tightly to their bodies, as if giving them even an inch of freedom would allow evil to invade their suburban lives. Subconsciously seeking comfort, Herne thought.

  Chief Greiner stood outside with a group of his own men. Tucker and Herne stopped to speak with him.

  “Frey won’t share a shred of information,” Greiner complained. “He’s holding onto evidence. The bastard almost wouldn’t let me in to see the crime scene. And he’s refusing to let anyone else take photographs.”

  “He’s not going to fucking shut me out,” Tucker said, stomping toward the house. Herne followed.

  They entered through the kitchen, which was decorated in a country style favored by many small town housewives. Painted wood objects and soft plaids seemed to dominate the room. Scented candles sat on almost every surface, filling the air with conflicting aromas of sweet and spicy odors. Herne noticed Saxon and Lee standing beside the refrigerator.

  “Does Frey know you’re here?”

  Saxon nodded. “He tried to make us leave, but I reminded him this was supposed to be a cooperative effort. The sanctimonious prick gave us five minutes to examine the scene.”

  “Where’s the wife?” Herne asked.

  “The state cops took her away,” Saxon replied. “She found her husband’s body when she came home from shopping. She was hysterical.”

  Herne turned to the Lee. “Did you get a chance to examine King’s corpse?”

  Lee nodded. “Just a quick glance. By the time Rex called me, this place was already swarming with cops.”

  “Do you know the cause of death?” Herne asked.

  Lee paused. “Let’s talk after you see the body,” he said. “It’s in the living room.”

  Herne and Tucker pushed their way through the kitchen. Frey stopped them at the living room door.

  “We’ve got this under control, Chief.”

  “We’re part of this investigation, too, Frey,” Tucker said. “Get the fuck out of my way.”

  Frey met Tucker’s gaze, his nostrils flaring slightly. “I promise we’ll share our information with you,” Frey said.

  “I’ve heard that shit before,” Tucker replied. “But so far you haven’t shared a goddamn thing. And as long as you’re going to keep evidence from us, we’re going to run our own investigation. And that means examining the crime scene. So unless you plan on dragging us out of here in front of that gaggle of reporters, you better just step the fuck aside.”

  “Does Mayor Harvey know about your belligerent attitude?” Frey asked.

  Tucker snorted. “Mayor Harvey can kiss my fucking ass.”

  He pushed past Frey and entered the living room. The industrial odor of fingerprint dust and plastic evidence bags did nothing to hide the scent of sweat and blood that lingered in the room.

  The scent of fear.

  King’s body was in his brown leather La-Z-Boy recliner chair. Duct tape had been wound around his body and the chair, holding him in place with his arms pressed against his chest. So much tape had been used that King almost looked as if he’d been wrapped like a mummy.

  King had been a barrel-chested man with a beer gut, part muscle and part fat, like a former bodybuilder or linebacker who’d gone soft. Herne saw a faint shadow of his future self in King’s physique. Someday I’ll slow down, Herne thought. My muscles will weaken and I’ll fatten up, and then I’ll be vulnerable.

  Someday. But not today.

  “He wouldn’t have been able to move a fucking muscle,” Tucker murmured. “The Healer must have used an entire roll of tape on him.”

  “It had to be that way,” Herne said. “Tom King was a large man. The Healer wasn’t taking any chances. King had to be immobilized.”

  The chair had been put into the reclining position with the footrest up. King’s body laid in it, in the same position a man might choose if he were ready to take a nap. But King wasn’t napping. His eyes stared, unseeing, at the ceiling.

  At first, Herne thought King’s head had been smashed with a sledgehammer. Blood covered the victim’s face, making some of his features almost unrecognizable, like a rubber Halloween mask. But as he stepped closer, Herne saw that King’s mouth was open wide and missing all its teeth. On the wooden table beside the reclining chair—a table that also held the TV remote control and a can of soda—was a little glass ashtray. Inside the ashtray appeared to be small white pebbles. White pebbles covered in blood. King’s teeth.

  Herne stood over King’s head, peering down into his mouth the way The Healer had. His body trembled and his stomach clenched as he imagined King taped to the chair, The Healer’s palm pressed against his forehead to hold him still. King would have struggled. Would have used the muscles in his beefy neck to twist his head away from the pliers that threatened to invade his mouth. But, eventually, fatigue would have weakened him, and The Healer’s hand would have remained strong enough to prevent further resistance. And then, King would have felt the cold steel of the tool forcing its way between his lips. Lips dry and cracked with horror. The Healer would have begun with the molars in the back. The ones hardest to reach. Digging into his victim’s soft flesh with the tip of the pliers, sending spurts of metallic tasting blood into King’s mouth. King probably gagged and chocked on his own saliva and blood as it caught in his throat. Herne imagined The Healer grasping a white tooth in the metal grip of the pliers. Yanking it out with force. Then moving on to another one. And another. Enjoying the crunching sound of breaking bone and the yielding softness of tender gums.

  “Art,” Tucker hissed, snapping him out of his reverie. “What the fuck are you doing? You’re grinding your teeth so hard the entire room can hear you.”

  “Hours,” He
rne murmured. “Something like this would have taken hours.”

  “Just to yank some fucking teeth?” Tucker asked.

  “He didn’t just yank teeth,” Herne said. “First he had to overpower King. Make him compliant in some way. Probably with a gun. Then he taped him to the chair. After that, The Healer pulled out every one of King’s teeth. And, finally, he killed him.”

  Herne bent closer to King’s head, peering into his mouth. A few small holes—no bigger than the diameter of a pencil—had been drilled into the roof of the victim’s mouth. Herne thought he could see a bit of brain, spongy and gray, through the holes. He forced himself to back away from the body. He had seen all he needed to see.

  “It took time,” Herne said. “Probably more time than he took with the other victims. He’s getting braver. And closer. This was a very intimate killing.”

  “So what does that fucking mean?” Tucker asked as they walked back into the kitchen.

  “It’s going to get worse. Going to get uglier. Going to get more personal.”

  “More personal than this?” Lee asked. “I’d say this homicide is pretty much as up close and personal as you can get. Can I ask you gentlemen a question? Was the victim odontophobic?”

  “What the fuck does that mean?” Tucker asked.

  “It’s a phobia,” Herne replied. “A fear of the dentist.”

  Tucker stared at Herne. “How the fuck do you know that?” he asked.

  Herne shrugged. “I’ve been reading a psychology textbook.”

  “Right,” Lee said. “So did the victim suffer from odontophobia?”

  “We don’t know yet,” Herne replied. “But I’d say it’s a safe bet. Do you have any idea when the time of death might have been?”

  “I would have liked to examine the body a little more closely, though I guess I won’t get a chance. Based on a few physical indicators I can see, like his fingertips and the blood, I’d say today. Late morning. Early afternoon.”

  “And the cause of death is the holes in his head? The ones the The Healer drilled?” Herne said.

  “It certainly looks that way at this point,” Lee replied.

  “So The Healer drilled holes just like a dentist,” Tucker said. “Except he drilled through King’s fucking head.”

  “And he didn’t use a dentist drill to do it,” Lee said. “Dentist drills are tiny little things. The holes in the victim’s head were much bigger. If I had to guess, the killer used a 3/8 drill bit with a standard carpentry drill. Not unlike the Craftsman cordless drill I keep in my garage for home repairs.”

  “Jesus,” Tucker said.

  “No, my friend,” Lee said. “I think Jesus has left the building.”

  Herne shifted on his feet. They’d been talking to Gertrude Parley, Susan King’s mother, for five minutes, and she hadn’t budged from her spot in the doorway. He felt a twitch in his hand—the urge to push the woman aside and barge into the house—so he pressed his fingers against his thigh to still them.

  “I don’t give a damn how distraught Mrs. King might be,” Tucker snarled. “I want to speak with her.”

  Gertrude’s ample figure blocked the entrance to her split level home. Her gray hair, floral blouse, and orthopedic shoes belied her flinty expression and the determined purse of her lips.

  “I’m sorry, Chief,” she said. But her tone and eyes spoke otherwise. Herne knew that Gertrude was not sorry at all. “Susan’s just not in any condition to speak with you. She already told the state police everything she knows, which is pretty much nothing. She’s taken a sleeping pill and is getting the first rest she’s had since… since the incident. I’m not going to let you disturb her. Talk to the other policemen if you want information.”

  Herne knew the state cops wouldn’t share any information with them. They think they’re getting close to the killer, Herne thought, and they want to keep him for themselves.

  His foot moved on its own accord, and Herne stepped forward. He tried to keep his voice even. “I understand that you want to protect your daughter, Mrs. Parley,” he said. “But we only need to ask Susan one question. One simple question.”

  Gertrude crossed her arms over her chest and shook her head. “No way, boys.”

  “You do realize, Mrs. Parley, that Susan may have vital information that could help us catch The Healer. Not only will she help bring the man who killed her husband to justice, but she’ll also help prevent him from killing again. Don’t you think that’s something Susan would want?”

  “She’s told the state police everything she knows. You two haven’t been able to catch The Healer. Why should she tell you anything?”

  Herne moved forward again, intending to use the presence of his body to push Gertrude back into the house. But then Susan’s voice filtered down from an upstairs window. “Let them in, Ma. I’ll talk to them.”

  Gertrude stepped aside and pointed to the floor of the foyer where it met the bottom of a staircase. “Stand right here and don’t move,” she said to them.

  Susan King appeared at the top of the stairs. The widow wore a white flannel nightgown and white furry slippers. The winter clothing looked out of place for the sweltering season. But Herne noticed that she shivered often, as if chilled by the muggy evening air.

  Shock, he thought. She’s in shock.

  She seemed to float down the stairs like a ghost. Her every movement was graceful and fluttering. Even her thick brown hair, tousled and unkempt, seemed to lack substance. Herne imagined that her tiny body—no more than 100 pounds—was probably dwarfed by that of her husband, who must have appeared gigantic when standing next to his wife.

  When she reached the ground level she spoke. “Thank you for coming to see me,” she said. She reached out and grasped their hands. Her slender fingers were cold, as if she’d just washed them in ice water.

  “We only have a few questions for you, Mrs. King,” Tucker said. His voice, unusually gentle, hung in the air for a moment.

  “Yes,” Susan said.

  “Did your husband have any unusual or intense fears?” Herne asked.

  Susan wrinkled her forehead, as if trying to mentally calculate a difficult math problem. Then the wrinkles cleared and she smiled. “Yes. Tom was afraid of the dentist. Such a silly fear for a man so strong and capable.” She paused, staring off to the side, and her forehead wrinkled again. “It was so odd, his death. So strange.”

  “Was he getting any help for his fear? Was he seeing a therapist?”

  Susan nodded. “Dr. Lochhead. A wonderful man. He promised to help Tom. The dentist made Tom see Dr. Lochhead. The dentist said Tom needed help. I told Tom to make an appointment with a therapist, so Tom did. He did all kinds of research to find the best one. Tom always researched everything. He loved to learn new things.” Her soft ramblings echoed in the large house. Herne recognized her disjointed thoughts as another sign of shock.

  “How long had Tom been a patient of Dr. Lochhead?”

  “A month. Maybe a little more. He’d only been to two sessions.” She nibbled at the tip of her fingernail. “I had hoped that he’d change his appointment time. Tom’s sessions were at three o’clock in the afternoon. I wanted him to see the doctor in the morning so he wouldn’t miss an hour of work, but Dr. Lochhead didn’t have anything available. He promised, though, that Tom would be the first one to get an early slot if one opened up.” Her blue eyes filled with tears. “I shouldn’t have been so worried about Tom’s job. Who cares if he lost an hour of work? If I had known how little time we had left, I would have told him to quit his job. We never got to travel. We never got to see the world. We never got to have babies.” Susan King buried her head in her hands, her sobs coming in gasps and moans. Gertrude wrapped her arm around Susan and held her close, glaring at the two men.

  “Get out,” Gertrude hissed.

  Herne and Tucker obeyed. They closed the front door quietly behind them.

  Outside on the front porch, Herne said, “So Tom King had only recently begun seein
g Lochhead.”

  “That means the killer’s had recent access to Lochhead’s records. This isn’t someone who stole the files a long time ago. This is someone who’s managed to get their fingers on patient information within the last fucking month.”

  “That’s right,” Herne agreed.

  “So does that make this harder? Or easier?”

  “That’s going to depend on Lochhead,” Herne replied.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  “No. Absolutely not.” Lochhead leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. It was a position Herne was tired of seeing. He started to step forward, but Tucker placed a hand on his arm.

  “Why not?” Tucker asked.

  “A hidden camera in my office? That’s a breach of confidence. My patients wouldn’t stand for it.”

  “You have patients? It would take a brave person to keep an appointment with you,” Herne said.

  “Fuck you,” Lochhead snarled. “You bastards have made sure I’m out of business in this town. When I arrived at work this morning, my phone was full of messages. Every single patient called this weekend to cancel their appointments with me.” Lochhead pushed his chair away from his desk and stood. Amid the nautical décor, the therapist looked like a captain who was ready to flee his sinking ship. “I’m closing my practice and moving.”

  “Where?” Tucker asked.

  “Am I still under investigation?”

  “You’ve been cleared of suspicion,” Tucker said.

  “Then I don’t have to tell you anything.”

  “Whether you like it or not, you’re tied to this case. The Healer is targeting your patients. We’d appreciate it if you’d stay around town. Just for a little while. When are you planning to move?”

  Lochhead sighed. “It’ll take me a week or two to clean up some loose ends. After that I’m packing up everything and heading out.”

  “Make sure you leave us a forwarding address,” Tucker said. “Just in case something comes up.”