Mind Games

by William Deverell

  Grundy hadn’t prepared well: this alibi failed to account for the parking ticket, but I held that in reserve. I don’t think he expected this session to be so inquisitorial, and he was becoming rattled.

  “You want proof, we’ll go down there and locate those girls, we know where they live.”

  I amended the phrase. “I know where you live.”

  It took him a moment to react. “You think I made a Freudian slip or something? I already told you, I didn’t write that note.” He tried to work up a smile, quickly lost it. His hands were in his jacket pockets, balled-up fists.

  “Where were you and Lyall the night the other two men were killed?”

  “I was at home. Lyall will tell you that, Mom too, everybody.” Sweat beaded on his lips, and he sounded frantic. “You think I’m some kind of freak? I don’t do those things, I got to live with myself. Is this all we’re going to do? I sit here and you bait me, is that it? I had some other plans.” He began to rise. “I’ve got a headache.”

  “Sit down!”

  He subsided, tight-lipped. “It’s hot in here. I think I’m getting one of my tensions.”

  At room temperature, he was sweating. “I’ll open a window.”

  When I did so, I saw Churko strolling from the Granville Island Hotel. I had an inkling of the muddle to come from his casual manner.

  “Let’s talk about these tensions. The medication doesn’t always do the trick, does it?”

  “Helps a bit.”

  “Did you find another way to beat them?”

  “Sorry, Doc, I’m not following.”

  “It builds up, doesn’t it?”

  “What does?”

  “The drive, the need. Is it a kind of sexual urge, Bob? Like the guy in this book? Sometimes do you feel like you just can’t control it?”

  This produced a galvanic response, he was sweating profusely. He went deep into his chair, fighting the impulse to fly at me, knowing I was daring him to do it. I decided to tone things down. I wasn’t prepared to risk goading him into violence, wasn’t sure if the SWAT team had returned from lunch.

  “Okay, Bob, try to relax. Obviously, we’re going to have to get you some help. Maybe we should be looking at more efficient drugs, a stronger regime of therapy. There are some excellent clinics that offer intensive care. Frankly, these recurring tensions bother me.”

  “I’m dealing with them, okay?”

  “I’ve never properly understood them. I want you to help me with that. It’s not as if you can stop yourself when the tensions come, is it? They’re out of your control. Maybe we don’t have free choice in some things, Bob.”

  “It’s … you mean like an irresistible impulse? That’s a defence in court, right?”

  He was reaching for a lifeline. I played it out. “That’s why you killed Dr. Barbara Wiseman, isn’t it? You had one of your tensions.”

  “Yeah, it was out of my control.”

  “She found out something you didn’t want her to know, didn’t she? That’s why the tension came on. What did she tell you, Bob?”

  “I’m not feeling very good. I’ve got to go to the bathroom.”

  “Try to hold it a little longer. Let’s grapple with this.” The moment seemed right. Regardless of consequences, I decided to let fly: “That’s when you get the urge to kill, isn’t it, Bob – when the tensions come. That’s why you had to murder those men.”

  He rose slightly, a cat taking position to spring. I could see the venom in his eyes …

  It was at this vastly inopportune moment that Jack Churko chose to stride into the consulting room. He failed to notice Grundy and said, “Got any more bright ideas, Doc?”

  I later found out that while tucking into his hamburger platter, Churko had checked again with his surveillance team at The Tides: still no sign of Grundy. Instead of consulting with his remaining crew upstairs, he barged past James to tell me my plot had flopped.

  When he saw Grundy, he at least managed not to show shock or dismay. “Oh, sorry, I didn’t realize you had a patient.”

  “Still can’t sleep, Mr. Wilson?” I said.

  “Ah, yeah, that’s the problem.”

  I grabbed a pad, scribbled on it, called to James, who was standing in the doorway, wringing his hands. “Will you send Mr. Wilson to the pharmacy? I’m doubling the dosage.”

  Grundy stayed fixed on Churko until I gave James the fake prescription, showed the patient out, and closed the door. But I had little faith our play-acting was fooling Grundy. Churko had got his face in front of a camera outside José Pierrera’s basement suite, and Grundy must have seen the coverage.

  I was still by the door when Grundy sprang. For a fleeting second I thought he was leaping at me, in an orgasm of rage, but he ran instead to the balcony door, threw it open, knocking over a potted geranium as he vaulted onto the railing.

  He went airborne with a lunge, diving into the cold salt water just aft of the Altered Ego.

  I raced to the balcony, watched Lyall frantically slipping the moorings free, starting the engine, Grundy swimming hard, grabbing a float, clinging to it, being pulled along as the boat began accelerating to the opposite shore.

  Cops were streaming from the quarters above, guns out, bulling their way through a knot of sightseers. Churko was yelling into his phone, calling all cars. Dotty bolted for her runabout, a couple of SWAT members on her heels.

  Lyall briefly let the launch take its own course as he hauled Grundy aboard, then hastened back to the controls as Dotty’s slower boat began its pursuit. I saw Grundy stripping, rummaging through a packsack for dry clothes. A glint of steel that might be a firearm. Within a minute Lyall found the nearest beachhead, a rocky shore, the launch hitting with a thud. They leaped ashore, hit the ground running as startled onlookers backed away.

  My last view of them was as they scrambled to the street and up an alley, between the towers of Vancouver’s West End, toward its bustling downtown.

  This much we have learned since: they raced to the main branch of the Toronto-Dominion Bank, arriving just before closing time. Grundy, a valued customer, told the assistant manager he was anxious to close a cash deal on a two-year-old Ferrari. He withdrew sixty thousand dollars.

  That was yesterday. Last night, Churko had to handle some awkward questions at a press conference. Today, airports are being watched and border officials have been put on alert, as well as ferries, bus, train, and taxi companies. Photos of the two men are on the front pages of the dailies under screaming headlines. But they have vanished within the anonymous sprawl of the city.

  1 As time has passed, and as I see increasing signs of health, I sense myself becoming less a therapist than an audience being entertained. I must remind myself not to become lax.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Date of Interview: Wednesday, October 29, 2003.

  These remarks are being dictated into my microcassette as I return to Vancouver along the Coquihalla Highway. I have just deposited Tim in Vernon, the starting point of his race. My decision to free up my day was prompted, as I explained by telephone last night, by his earlier kindness in taking me sailing.

  When I picked him up with his bicycle and gear, he seemed exhausted: he’d been “squeezing a week’s work into two days,” with every spare moment allotted to help the police in their unavailing search for the two suspects.

  He told me he was enduring a “spasm” of self-doubt regarding the rally and was no longer confident of his chances. “I’ll be lucky to get close to that orthopaedist. If I end up halfway through the pack, I’ll be in mortal shame.” I tried to persuade him that he shouldn’t let the significance of the race overwhelm him, nor should he see losing as a calamity.

  Despite his tiredness, he was emotionally stable, though he’s still worried about the outcome of his mother’s trial and remains unresolved about Sally.1 In that regard, he continues to seesaw. This is a wound that will not heal.

  Tim dozed off a few times en route. At one point, I heard him mumb
ling, “Don’t call the police.” He was reclining almost to the horizontal – eyes closed, mouth working, and waving his right arm, as if in warning.

  As we approached Vernon, he roused himself, and I asked if he remembered a dream in which he used those words. He went silent, as if reassembling it, but changed the subject, and I had the impression he didn’t want to speak of it.

  I helped him carry his bicycle to his hotel room, wished him luck, and departed.

  … I’ll be in mortal shame.

  Of course you won’t. Actually, I’m pleased you’re finally doubting your sterling qualities as a racer. Much healthier than constantly pumping yourself up.

  Is that was I was doing?

  You’ve been at least marginally obsessive about this race. You don’t have to win, and you don’t have to doubt yourself. You have to have fun. It reduces the impact of possible letdown. Given your tendency to go to spectacular extremes emotionally, I think I’d be some time cleaning up the mess.

  He turned to inspect his bicycle and equipment

  Hand pump, spare chain links, spare tires. Remembered my helmet, there is a God. I brought a pair of wider tires, just in case it snows. I’m going to try to draft off the leaders for the first few klicks. Don’t want the orthopaedist to get distance on me though. Jib Faile, he was a college champion. He’ll tire on the inclines, I think, he’s more of a straightaway racer. What kind of car is this?

  Volvo station wagon. Safe vehicle, safe driver.

  This seat go all the way down?

  Yes.

  A few moments passed.

  Don’t get me wrong, Tim, I do hope you’ll win … Tim?

  Silence.

  Sleep tight.

  In this dream of winter, Vesuvio II and I are puffing along a mountain road. The ground is carpeted with snow, and the going is slippery. I’m confused – where are the others? Why am I alone in this race? Can it be I am running ahead of the pack?

  I sense a familiarity with the area, as if I’ve been here many times, it’s somewhere near Jackson Cove. I shouldn’t be here, though, I’ve screwed up, taken a wrong turn.

  Smoke rises from the many skinny chimneys of the village. In place of the wall is a yellow banner proclaiming FINISH LINE, DO NOT CROSS. I become aware of gaiety in the town square, the hillbilly band playing, the townspeople in costume, dancing around a barbecue fire. I wonder why so many of them are dressed as doctors.

  Then I see the bicycles. There are hundreds of them, the race is over. I am last, I don’t even want to finish.

  Dejected and exhausted, I stumble into a roadside inn. Other losers are here, sitting in the bar with tankards of German beer. Over there is Clinton Huff, on a stool. Here is Jossie Markevich, here Jack Churko. She’s telling him, “That’s the way they like it.”

  “Where’s Grundy?” I ask Jossie.

  “You don’t understand. He loves you.”

  “I know where he is,” Lolita L’Amour whispers. “He’s waiting for you.”

  I wonder if she means not Grundy but Peter, my father. I sense he is again in trouble with the law. “Don’t call the police,” I urge her.

  She points to a cabin at the top of a hill. I hope it is Peter who’s waiting. Then I see a two-headed monster up there, Grundy on one neck, DeWitt on the other.

  The rest of the dream is lost in the gloom; I can’t bring it back. Since dreams often turn words around as children do, we have to be aware of reversals. The recurring refrains – He loves you, he’s waiting for you – may mean, He hates me, he wants to see me dead. What is the mystery of these scraps of speech? I may soon find out. Dreams are but echoes of reality …

  But tonight no dreams come. At the witching hour, my sheets are tangled from my contortions. I worry that unless I get enough sleep, I’ll be slow and groggy on the road. I know: I’m taking this race too seriously. (Though I felt affronted when you warned me of the perils of letdown. It was as if you felt I had little hope of placing.)

  Your abrupt leave-taking is the cause of this, my sleeplessness. I’m unsure whether I should feel ashamed or merely confused by how you vanished into the night, but the awkwardness remains.

  Was it on the spur of the moment that you offered to drive me here? I suspect so. Thank you for saving me from a bus full of chattering M.D.s and their backup teams of spouses, partners, and assorted helpers. Thank you for escorting me past the cocktail lounge to the sober safety of my room.

  In the close confines of that room, you gave off a slight, delicious scent of anxiety. I felt nervous too. That queen-sized bed was staring at us, and neither dared return its gaze.

  “We could order up something to eat,” I said. “Some wine.”

  “You’re very tired, and I have a long drive.”

  “You could get an early start tomorrow.”

  You took a moment to consider, then said, “That’s very tempting … I’m not sure.”

  Your voice trailed off. The moment seemed charged with unpredictable risk and promise. I don’t know who first broke from the starting blocks, maybe we jointly came together. I’d teased my mind many times with thoughts about how your lips would feel opened to mine, of our bodies pressed close, but hadn’t prepared myself to be so overwhelmed.

  I shouldn’t have allowed the flame that has been flickering between us (and let’s stop pretending) to ignite into passion. But ethics, morality, prudence – all those useless imperatives – vanished. My hands went to your body, and yours to mine, fumbling for clasps and buttons, and … well, then I blew it.

  How flustered you were as you tugged at your bra strap and tucked in your blouse. My attempts to make light of the moment clanged like a stale joke.

  “Godspeed, Tim.” And you left without a look back.

  I’m utterly mortified at having made the one-time, totally mindless, softly whispered Freudian slip of calling you Sally. How humiliating for you.

  All I can say in defence is maybe it was for the best. Had we gone tumbling into that bed, how would we have dealt with it afterwards? Therapy misfires when passion intrudes, and risks a tragic end when colleagues are involved. You and I know that what happened – and what almost happened – can’t be ignored away. We must talk.

  I can expand little on what I told you about the murder investigation, but these are the essentials: Grundy and Lyall are now equipped for the wilderness – shortly after leaving the bank they stocked up with hiking and camping gear and PowerBars. A salesperson in a sporting goods store came forward after recognizing their photographs in the weekend papers.

  I’ve been trying to figure out where they might be holed up. They may have pitched a tent in the mountains – Vancouver is surrounded by wilderness, and the two men are fit. But they can’t hibernate all winter like bears. These are men who like their comforts, and they may not stray far from civilization. The Lower Mainland abounds with summer homes, on lakes, by rivers, in the forest, and it’s my hunch that Grundy and Lyall are hiding out in one.

  Teams were all weekend at The Tides, combing through their rooms. As expected, Lyall’s Internet visits had included several racist sites. The men hadn’t kept any incriminating papers or photos, but the copy of When Comes the Darkness was still on Lyall’s shelf. A small quantity of cocaine powder was found in a desk drawer. Why am I not surprised that is their drug of choice?

  We have delved more deeply into Lyall’s past; investigators who talked to his parents found few signs of the kind of upbringing that turns boys incorrigible, though his father was a believer in strict discipline. Lyall had been conditioned toward authoritarian attitudes, and his ambition to be a police officer had been encouraged. He was close to his mother and fond of his three sisters, and, as the oldest sibling, was protective – he’d delivered a beating to a young man who’d made improper overtures to one of them.

  His parents maintained they were ignorant of his racist proclivities, but one of the interviewers, a Sikh, picked up their discomfort, their manner of deferring to his white partner. Th
eir daughters told them Lyall had “hung” with a skinhead crowd in his teens, enjoyed acting out versions of effeminate gays, camping it up.

  Lyall was not likely an instigator of murder but was probably the pit bull his pal kept on a leash, so what kind of power did Grundy exercise over him? Was it a kind of psychopathic folie à deux, the sharing of the delusion of the master race, each inflating the other’s bigotry?

  That they’re armed seems certain. A .38 revolver has disappeared from a safe at The Tides, according to Grundy’s father. Bob had pried the lock of a desk drawer, found the combination written in a directory.

  Robert Grundison Sr. is remaining out of view of the cameras waiting by the gate. The family spokesperson, Reverend Ephriam Wright, says everyone is praying for “a just resolution of this sad, shocking affair.”

  Jossie Markevich hadn’t anything much useful to say to detectives, who sensed she was holding back and turned her over to me. She claimed she had indulged in only the one threesome – fuelled by cocaine, which Grundy supplied in liberal amounts.

  “He bought you a car too, right? Expensive drugs, expensive jewellery.” I pointed to the gold watch on her wrist.

  She pulled her sleeve over it. “Okay, sure, and he paid my rent.”

  I asked her if Grundy had ever assaulted her. Just once, when he struck her in the eye. “We made up.”

  I verified, to my satisfaction, that she had no inkling that Grundy and Lyall had been on a homophobic rampage. “I’m disgusted, they just snuffed that poor kid, and they come onto me like racehorses.”

  I asked her to amplify, but she was guarded.

  “It was your average orgy. I don’t want to even think about it. It’s too fucking weird that they got hot by killing someone.” She shuddered.

  Police also interviewed the Edmonton hairdresser whom Grundy plucked from the Skeena River. Despite Grundy’s claim they’d made love through the night, she insisted he was so drunk he could barely hold an erection, and passed out after half an hour of trying. When asked if he was rough with her, she said, “He hardly touched me.”