“So he’s still seeing the guy after two years?”
“And I’ll bet you it’s not just for insomnia or night terrors.”
Hughes smiled. “Not bad, partner. I’m impressed.”
“You should be. So how about some lunch?”
“I thought good cops eat with their eyes?”
“Who said we’re good cops?”
Kevin laughed. “Good. I’m starving.” The young cop launched himself from the passenger seat. He came around Moldofsky’s side and stood there waiting before asking, “You coming?”
“Kevin,” he said, eyebrows raised, “I have to watch out for Sparke.”
“I guess I’m buying then.”
Leonard laughed. “They ought to promote you to detective.”
Delaney
Dr Marcus Delaney’s office sat in the middle of downtown Fairview, a quaint village that started out in the 1930’s as five stores lining Main Street, ultimately becoming a thriving college-like setting with over fifty businesses, including restaurants, bars, and a selective array of retail outlets.
The practice was located in a three-story office building on Main Street , sandwiched between an educational toy store and a delicatessen that nourished many of the lunchtime employees from the area’s shops. For Richard it had been easily accessible, the downtown bus stopping at three points along the half mile stretch of establishments. The slate-front motif of the newer building seemed out of place amidst the old-fashioned shops connected to it. Lately, with Fairview growing and more and more businesses settling in, the town had become a melting pot of enterprises run by a new generation of residents looking to upgrade the community they grew up in.
The building housed only professional offices, two medical doctors, an ophthalmologist, an obstetrician, and Delaney himself. Richard had a compulsive habit of reading the gold-colored engravings of all the specialist’s names etched into the brown plaque secured to the wall at the right of the entrance, just to make sure that Delaney hadn’t decided to move his practice without alerting him. He imagined himself as being one of his more troublesome patients; he hadn’t missed an appointment in two years, regardless of Delaney’s suggestion that a simple dose of medication would more than likely cure his ailments. It seemed irrational to think Delaney would move on without him, but then again, Richard’s mind didn’t drum up the most viable explanations to his fantastic problems.
Inside, he took the elevator to the second floor and approached the main reception area where the clerksmiled, then nodded and pointed down the hall, giving Richard the thumbs up: Delaney had finished with his client and was now waiting for him. He paced to the first door on the right and entered the doctor’s office. Delaney was sitting at his desk, scribbling some notes in a legal pad.
“Hiya, Doctor. Sorry I’m late.”
“Richard, how are you feeling today?” He pinched his brow, eyes pointed to Richard’s wounds.
Richard licked his swollen lip. “I’ve had better days.”
“Looks it. Come.”
As usual, Delaney’s office was spotless, the workings of an anal mind: the desk, not a piece of paper escaping the confines of the blotter, a computer monitor the only object resting upon the fine mahogany surface. Two walls bragged floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, hundreds of colorful texts validating the doctor’s educational credentials framed and displayed on the opposing wall.
Delaney’s fixation with neatness carried over into his appearance. Short yet trim, perhaps fifty, facial features squared, hazel eyes clear and piercing. Although balding, what remained on his head was neat and trim, not a hair out of place. Pale, thin arms jutted from the crisply pressed sleeves of the plaid woven shirt he wore. Tightly honed creases ran the length of his brown pants with tailored accuracy, shiny from their last visit to the dry-cleaners.
With the mini-blinds drawn on the room’s two windows, a small lamp on the coffee table centering the room provided the only illumination, a soft halo spread smoothly upon the leather couch that Richard had lain upon so many times in the past.
“Is it something you want to talk about?”
The throbbing in Richard’s jaw coerced his reply. “I suppose I should.”
Like a cat nuzzling its owner’s leg, Richard nestled himself onto the couch. He located the small grease stain on the ceiling, a focal safe-point so many times serving as a security blanket in the otherwise sterile environment. Marcus Delaney took a seat in the small chair opposite the couch. He clipped a small reading light to a composition notepad, then pressed the ‘record’ button on the micro-cassette recorder sitting on the table between them.
“Before we start Richard, can I offer you something to drink?” He stood up and walked to the cooler against the wall by his desk, pulled a paper cup and filled it.
“No, no thank you.”
Delaney gulped the water and sat back down. “There’s lots to discuss today, Richard. I hope you have the time. I’ve reserved two hours for us.”
Thoughts of Officer Moldofsky crossed his mind, his conscience reminding him of what he’d said: You remember, don’t you? Let me refresh your memory. I’d appreciate if you could make yourself available for most of the day, in case we need to speak with you again.
I’ll be home tonight, he answered in thought. If they need me then they can speak to me later. I’m not on any kind of curfew.
“Richard? Is two hours okay?”
Richard shook away the internal dialogue. “No problem, I’ve got all the time you need.”
Delaney smiled. “Very well then. Let’s get started.”
Therapy
“I must admit that last week’s session was quite a success. Did you find some time to ponder our discussion?”
Richard nodded. “Of course. Debra’s death...it hurts real bad just thinking about it. I mean, I’m still devastated. But I’m also starting to realize that I have much more life ahead of me. With or without her, I still exist, and I can’t let one mournful experience ruin my life, however painful it may be.”
“That’s very smart thinking, Richard. And positive thinking is what recovery is all about. Enjoying life despite tragedy. I’m glad you’re starting to see through your adversity.”
“The anxiety is still flourishing. It’s getting worse.”
“What makes you say that?”
Richard hesitated, then said, “The dreams...” He knew exactly the thoughts that would go through Delaney’s mind upon mentioning the dreams, and his suspicions proved correct judging by the gamesome smirk appearing on the doctor’s face. The issue sailed past the normal course of therapy for Delaney, Richard knew, the level of effort necessary increasing tenfold. Deep exploration needed to be performed in order to appease Richard’s frequent fears and obsessions, much less find answers to them, and Richard was thankful for the good doctor’s enthusiasm.
“You must understand that the recurring dreams, along with the sleepwalking, have resulted from the anxiety associated with your daughter’s death. And the separation from Samantha. Perhaps your mother’s death plays a part in this as well. The adrenaline in your body has chosen to alert the fear-response center in your brain in such a way, albeit a very unique way, that affects your sleep mechanizations to a point where sensitization is so intense, hallucinations appear. In many cases, extreme anxiety sufferers exhibit commonplace symptoms equally as distressing, such as vertigo, the inability to swallow, or chronic hyperventilation. But remember, as we’ve discussed in the past, regardless of the symptoms, they’re all effected through different levels of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.”
Richard continued to stare at the grease stain in the ceiling. He sighed. He didn’t doubt the doctor’s theory--perhaps it held some truth. But he believed and worked damn hard to make the doctor realize that his physical ills were generated by something above and beyond a simple influx of adrenaline and sensitized nerves. In recent weeks, however, the doctor began recording their sessions, and was asking more and more about the dre
ams, the sleepwalking, the blue light, the man in black, plus the flow of other visitors haunting Richard’s dreams. Perhaps Delaney had been genuinely interested, maybe he was starting to believe. Regardless, Richard liked the fact that Delaney might be seeking other forms of therapy. All Richard had to do was say the magic words, and they could move on.
“Haven’t we been through this before?”
Hey Richard, you ever think that maybe the good doctor might be humoring you?
No, he’s genuine. I trust him.
“Yes, we have, Richard.”
“So isn’t there anything new you’d like to discuss?”
“Perhaps there is...but first I’d like to run through some other specifics. Is that okay with you?”
Richard nodded. “Sorry.”
Delaney took a sip of water. “Your injuries, they look fresh.”
“They are. From this morning in fact.”
“How did you obtain them?”
“I’m not too sure, actually. You know my relationship with Pamela hasn’t been so good of late.”
“Why?”
Richard shuddered at the doctor’s meaningless query, the simplicity of the probe perplexing, frustrating. Was Delaney playing games? Surely he knew the answer to ‘why’ without having to ask again. “I’ve told you this before. Because I won’t let her sleep in bed with me.”
“Because you think you might go on another sleepwalk, and hurt her. Is that correct?”
“Yes.” Richard pulled his sights away from the grease stain and pinned Delaney. His eyes were starting to tear, and he had to blink a few times to clear them. “We fought last night. For hours.”
“Fought?”
“Yeah, we fought.”
Richard, tell him everything you remember.
Delaney nodded for him to continue.
“She came over at seven, we had dinner. We argued for hours. It got heated. Again she insisted as to why I won’t let her sleep over. I refused to admit my reasons. The usual fare.”
“So…why didn’t you just tell her?”
“Are you kidding? Tell her that I nearly killed my ex-wife in my sleep? She’ll never speak to me again! Besides, outside of you, I’ve never told anyone the God’s-honest truth about what happened with Samantha.”
“Two things you must realize,” Delaney said. “One, and I’ve told you this before, but…it might be better if you simply tell Pamela the truth. It sounds to me, based on the effort she’s putting in to make your relationship work, that she really does love you. With that in mind, I can understand her frustration with you for not being truthful with her. Secondly, and I’m sure you’ll understand me here, but by not telling her the truth of the matter, you end up with exactly what you fear as far as your relationship is concerned: rejection. She’s not speaking to you now, Richard. Perhaps if you had told her, she might’ve understood your reasons for not wanting her to sleep over, and would have offered compassion instead of a struggle. My guess is that she would have been understanding.”
“Doc, there’s something else.”
Delaney nodded, eyes pointing to Richard’s swelled lip. “Go ahead.”
Richard felt his heartrate increase, a nerve-induced precursor to confession. “Pamela…she attacked me. But you have to believe me when I tell you that I really don’t remember all the details. It’s all very much a blur.” He didn’t wish to talk about Pam coming at him with the knife.
Delaney’s eyes narrowed--an indication of intense interest. He remained silent, allowing Richard to continue.
“All I can recall is waking up from another sleepwalking dream. I was in bed. I heard her calling my name. At first I wasn’t sure if I was still dreaming. When I opened my eyes, Pam was in the room with me, standing by the bathroom door. I answered her, and we began to talk.”
“About what?”
“I really don’t remember. Mostly about the night before, I guess.” He held up his hand, palm facing Delaney. “Wait a sec...I remember...we discussed how she got inside the condo.”
“Okay...go on.”
“I thought it strange that Pam would come unannounced. She said she tried to call but that my phone was off the hook. She then came over and let herself in with my key.”
“Was it unlike her to arrive unexpectedly?”
“Yeah, she never did that. She said she tried to call first, and I could have very well taken the phone off the hook while sleepwalking. I’ve done that before. But I really don’t remember ever giving her a key to my place. As far as I know, I only have one key.”
“Do you suppose she lied about the key?”
Richard shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know. Either that, or she made a copy without me knowing.”
Delaney checked the tape, then stopped it, turned it over, and re-pressed record. “What else? What happened after your conversation with her?”
“Well...she kinda changed. That I remember. All of a sudden, she really didn’t look like Pam.”
“How so?”
“It was really weird. As far as I could tell she’d only been in my room for a few minutes. We were having as normal a conversation as possible, given the circumstances. She still seemed upset about our break up. And then her eyes, they got all funny. The blue of her eyes turned black. She started to cry a little and turned away from me. When I got out of bed and tried to comfort her, she just went ballistic. Turned around and punched me. Upped and socked me a good one right in the mouth.”
“She punched you?”
“Yeah.”
Delaney scribbled furiously in his notebook. “Was anything said that would cause her to behave this irrationally?”
“No, nothing.”
“Did you hit her back?”
“No! I mean...I don’t know…I can’t remember much after that,” he lied. He thought of the butcher block, cleaning it in the sink, the blood on its wooden surface…
Delaney took a few moments to jot more notes, and Richard took this time to find a bit of comfort in the grease stain. “Richard, do you mind if I stray from the subject for a moment?”
“No, of course not.”
“I’d like to ask you a few questions. All I need you to do is answer them as truthfully as possible. Will you do that for me?”
Richard nodded.
Delaney again checked the tape recorder, then set it back down. “Okay Richard...what is your full name?”
Richard looked at the doctor, grinning incredulously.
“Just answer the question. I’ll explain later.”
“Okay...Richard Sparke.”
“Where do you live?”
“46C Crowley Road, Fairview Commons.”
“What do you do for a living?”
“Uh--I’m on disability. I used to be a school teacher at Michael P. Slater Elementary School.”
“So you derive your income solely from disability?”
Richard paused, searching his mind for an answer. His conscience was silent, uncooperative. “Uh--I guess so.”
Delaney scribbled as he asked the questions. “When were you born?”
Richard hesitated, his mind a blank. Finally he answered, “I don’t know.”
“You don’t know your own birthday?”
“No. I...I can’t seem to remember.”
“Where is your mother, Julia Sparke?”
“She’s dead.”
“When did she die?”
After a few silent moments, he replied, “I don’t know.”
Delaney nodded. “Who is Samantha?”
That was twice today her name came up in conversation. It unnerved him.
“Please, Richard,” Delaney added after a pause, “this is important.”
“Samantha is my ex-wife.”
“And Debra?”
“Debra is the daughter I had with Samantha. She’s dead.”
“Can you recall how she died?”
“Sudden infant death syndrome.”
“Where is she buried?”
A pause. “I-I don’t know.”
“How long were you married to Samantha?”
“A year. We dated a bit before that--I remember that quite clearly.”
Delaney placed the pen in the crook of the notebook, then closed it. “Would you like some water, Richard?” Richard nodded. Delaney rose and refilled his cup, then filled a new cup for Richard. He handed it to Richard then sat back down. “You mentioned you had another dream last night?”
“Yeah, an intense one too.”
“Do you remember much about it?”
“Everything.”
“I’m curious Richard, why is it that you have no difficulty recalling your dreams, yet you can’t seem to remember the simpler details of your waking life? For most of us it’s the other way around.”
Richard looked at Delaney. The doctor’s eyes drilled him, freezing his tangled thoughts. Richard called for his conscience, but it had effectively hidden itself away--damn it for not stepping up to the plate when it was most needed! “Doctor, I have no answer. I really don’t know.”
Lunch
“How’s yours?”
Leonard Moldofsky took another bite of his turkey hero. A bit of mayo jutted from the side and smeared on his fingers. “Not bad. Cookie’s makes a hell of a sandwich. You know, that stuff’ll give you a heart-attack,” he added, referring to Hughes’ Italian special--salami, prosciutto, pepperoni, and provolone.
“My heart’s young. I can handle it.”
The afternoon sun’s rays shifted around the village buildings, sending yellow light across the windshield of the sedan as the two cops ate. Slow-moving traffic provided all the scenery on the right, vehicles waiting in line at the Main Street/Park Avenue traffic light. To the left people marched to and from their lunchtime locales, their minds seemingly preoccupied with workday events. Leonard washed down the last bite of his hero with a sip of coffee, then put on a pair of sunglasses and watched the building. “What time you got?”
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