Mind Games

by Claude Bouchard

  “As it turns out, I am,” Michael replied with a faint smile.

  Turning into the business woman she was, she recited her price list, “Fifty for a hand-job, seventy-five for head. Two hundred will get you whatever you want for an hour.”

  “How much for all night?” he asked.

  “What, you superman?” she responded with a grin.

  “Here’s your chance to find out,” Michael replied confidently, “How much?”

  She paused for a moment, sizing her potential client before proposing a number. He was dressed well, in a rugged sort of way, which could potentially mean money. If that was the case, this might be an opportunity to make some decent bucks for a change. On the other hand, if she priced herself too highly, he might walk away and shop elsewhere. She struggled with her thoughts for a few seconds and settled for reasonable greed.

  “Six hundred?” she suggested, more a question than a statement.

  He grinned before asking, “Are you worth it?”

  “Here’s your chance to find out,” she grinned back.

  “Car’s around the corner,” Michael replied. “Come on.”

  Taking the arm he offered, she followed him to St-Catherine and was pleasantly surprised by the BMW which he guided her to. He did have money. Maybe she’d convince him that a bonus might be in order. A true gentleman, he opened the door and waited for her to be comfortably seated in the soft leather, then closed the door behind her. He hurried around the luxurious car, climbed into the driver’s seat and within a moment they were off into the thickening evening traffic.

  “Where are we going?” she asked to start up the conversation.

  “I’ve got a little suite at the Four Seasons,” he replied. “I hope that’s OK?”

  “Honey, where have you been all my life?” she cried. “Yeah, Four Seasons is fine.”

  “Good,” he smiled. “I’m glad you approve. I don’t want to disappoint you.”

  With that, he fell silent as he concentrated on the variety of obstacles which downtown driving offered on weekend nights. His escort, keen on learning more about her good looking and possibly rich client, spoke up again after several moments.

  “By the way, my name is Jennifer.”

  “Michael,” he responded, keeping his eyes on the street ahead.

  “Why did you pick me over all the other girls out there, Michael?” Jennifer asked. She liked to know what made johns tick and what attracted them to her. When it was to her advantage, she then made efforts to emphasize whatever quality had turned the customer on in the first place. This had earned her repeat business and bonuses in the past. She played this little game whenever she felt a client was a keeper and, so far, Michael definitely qualified.

  “You remind me of my mother,” Michael replied intently, turning to look at her as he spoke.

  “Well, honey,” she purred coyly, “If you want, I can be Mommy all night long.”

  “That,” he grinned, “Is exactly what Mikey wants.”

  Chapter 7 - Saturday, May 31, 1997

  Never a late riser, Dave McCall was up at 6:00 a.m., even though he and Cathy had gotten in quite late from the Barrys the previous evening. Following his usual Saturday morning ritual when he wasn’t working, he had made his compulsory trip to the bathroom, started up the coffeemaker and recuperated the morning paper on the front doorstep. He now sat comfortably in the dining room with the newspaper spread out on the large table before him, contently sipping his second cup of coffee as he browsed through the new day’s headlines. Cathy, who enjoyed her morning sleep, was not up yet.

  The handset of the cordless phone on the table suddenly rang, breaking the stillness and startling Dave. He hurriedly picked it up to avoid having its jangle wake up his spouse and found Frank Bakes on the other end of the line.

  “Greetings, boss,” Bakes said when he heard McCall’s voice. “Hope I didn’t get you out of bed.”

  “It’ll be a fine day when Frank Bakes is up before I am,” chuckled Dave into the phone. “What’s up?”

  “Unfortunately, we’ve got a murder,” Bakes announced sombrely. “I’m at the Four Seasons downtown.”

  “Great,” sighed McCall in disgust. “Go on.”

  “Victim’s a hooker,” Frank started his recital. “Jennifer Fisher. Been busted a few times in the past. Room service guy found her when he came in to deliver breakfast which had been ordered for a seven o’clock delivery. She was tied to the bed and had been stabbed repeatedly. Her killer did a number on her genitals with a knife.

  “Oh Christ,” growled Dave, his frustration difficult to contain. “This sounds just a little too familiar. You think it’s the same guy?”

  “Can’t say for sure, Dave, but if I was a betting man, I’d put some money on it.”

  “Alright,” grunted McCall. “Let me get dressed and I’ll be down in a bit. There goes the weekend.”

  He cut the connection and quietly went upstairs to the bedroom to change. As he finished dressing, Cathy rolled over in the bed and asked, “What time is it?”

  “Just a bit before eight,” Dave gruffly responded. “Go back to sleep, honey. Your buddy here has to go to work this morning.”

  * * * *

  By noon, the suite at the Four Seasons had been thoroughly combed for clues and evidence, sufficient photographs had been taken of the scene and the body had been removed and taken to the morgue for autopsy and testing purposes. At the request of the hotel’s management, all activities related to the murder investigation had been performed with the utmost of discretion in order to avoid any disturbance to the establishment’s well-to-do clientele. A team of the hotel’s finest from janitorial services was now in the process of scrubbing down the blood stained suite for its next occupant who was expected that evening.

  Dave McCall sat at the desk in his office, thoughtfully chewing on a Harvey’s cheeseburger as he mulled over this latest murder, comparing it to the two other recent sex related slayings. This one had been quite similar in terms of the violence of the act, the type of weapon used, the bondage and the cutting out of genitalia. In fact, similar was too soft an adjective. Identical was definitely more fitting a qualifier. The only difference was that this time, the victim was a female. All that could mean was that the killer didn’t have a specific sexual preference. He, or she, was open to mutilating members of either gender of the human race. Bottom line, with what little they had to go on so far, Dave’s feeling was that they were dealing with a killer of the serial kind.

  He finished his burger just as Frank Bakes strolled into his office.

  “So, Chief?” Frank questioned jokingly as he hoisted his rump onto the small corner conference table. “Have you figured out who did it yet?”

  “Not quite,” Dave smiled. “My brain slows down on weekends that I’m supposed to be off. Give me another hour though and I’ll have this thing wrapped up. Any news on the credit card that was used to reserve the room?”

  “Not yet,” Frank replied. “Tim and Joanne are on their way now. But I doubt this James Ford would be stupid enough to rent a room with his card and then murder someone there. It’ll probably end up being a lost or stolen card.”

  “Yeah,” McCall ruefully agreed. “Have we heard anything from the M.E. yet?”

  “That, sir, would be the purpose of this particular visit. I just got off the phone and the lab boys are convinced that the first two murders were committed with the same weapon or, at least with two identical weapons. Stab wounds were the same size and they even detected rust particles that show we’re talking the same kind of steel. Judging from the depth of a number of the wounds on both bodies, they also believe that an equivalent amount of strength was required to inflict them. That could mean that the same person is responsible. They only had time to take a quick glance at the girl from this morning but it would seem that what they saw looks mighty familiar.”

  “So, when I have the words ‘serial killer’ flashing in my head,” Dave surmised, “I could
be on the right track?”

  “That’s where I’d put my money,” Frank nodded in agreement.

  “Shit,” muttered McCall. “See if you can get a hold of Barbara Jenkins, will you? I think it’s time we get a shrink involved to try to put together a profile.”

  Barbara Jenkins was a police psychiatrist with whom they had worked in the past on their more bizarre murder cases. Her expertise in the strange ways the human mind often works had proved quite useful on a number of occasions and McCall held her in high regard. The savagery of these last three killings, not to mention the amputations, made it somewhat obvious that they were dealing with a highly disturbed individual. This, in turn, led Dave to believe that without Jenkins’ help, they might never get a handle on this case.

  “OK,” replied Frank swinging off the table and heading for the door. “You sticking around?”

  “Nope,” his boss responded as he raised himself from his chair. “As I mentioned, I’m supposed to be off this weekend and that’s what I’m about to resume. Anyway, I know that I leave this place in competent hands,” he added with a grin.

  “Yup, and I know that next weekend when I’m off and you’re working,” Bakes smirked, “I’ll be confident that everything’s under control.”

  * * * *

  The unmarked car pulled up in front of the large house in the quiet residential neighbourhood and stopped.

  “This is the place,” Joanne Nelson announced as she peered at the brass numbers by the door.”

  “Nice little abode,” commented Tim Harris as he surveyed the wide expanse of well manicured lawn spread out before the residence. Two automobiles, expensive ones, were parked in the driveway, indicating that somebody must be home. “You think this is gonna be the guy?”

  “You never know,” shrugged Joanne, opening the car door.

  They headed up the walkway which led to the main entrance and climbed the steps onto the wide concrete porch. Joanne pressed the doorbell and the musical ringing of chimes could be heard coming from the inside. After a moment, the intercom on the wall to one side emitted a crackle of static, followed by a woman’s voice.

  “Yes?”

  “Mrs. Ford?” enquired Tim into the intercom.

  “Yes, who is this?” the voice questioned.

  “This is the police, Mrs. Ford,” Joanne answered. “Is your husband home? We would need to speak to him.”

  “Uh, yes. One moment please,” the intercom hesitantly responded, faintly followed by, “Jim, the police are at the door? They say they want to see you?”

  Less than a minute went by before the sliding of a bolt was heard, followed by the opening of the door.

  “Yes?” asked the short, stout man in his late fifties. “How can I help you?”

  He seemed curious but definitely not edgy or uncomfortable.

  “Are you James Ford?” asked Tim as both officers presented their identification.

  “Yes I am,” replied Ford, examining the badges and I.D. cards.

  “I’m Detective Harris and this is my partner, Detective Nelson. May we come in? We’d have a few questions to ask you if you don’t mind.”

  “Sure,” agreed the balding man, standing aside and waving them in with a hand gesture.

  They entered the spacious home and were ushered into the living room where their host invited them to have a seat.

  “Now, what seems to be the problem?” Mr. Ford asked as he settled onto an ottoman before them.

  “Can you tell us where you were last night, Mr. Ford?” asked Joanne, producing a notepad and pen from her purse.

  “Uh, yes I can but may I ask why?” the man enquired, more curious than annoyed.

  “If you could answer the question, sir, and then we’ll fill you in on the details,” insisted Tim, friendly but firm.

  “Sure,” shrugged Ford. “My wife and I were at a barbecue dinner given by one of my managers.”

  “All evening?” Joanne queried.

  “Yup. Got there at about six and left around two this morning. Can I know what’s going on?”

  “In a minute, please bear with us,” Tim replied as he consulted a notebook. “You have a MasterCard, number 6268 1247 8396 2784?”

  “Listen, I’ve got a MasterCard,” responded their host as he reached for his wallet in his back pocket. “I don’t know the number by heart. What is this??”

  As he finished speaking, he opened the wallet and a puzzled, blank expression came over his face.

  “The card isn’t here,” he said slowly, looking up at the two detectives.

  “When did you use it last?” asked Joanne gently. She was already convinced that this was not the man they were looking for.

  “I-I don’t know off hand,” Ford replied. “I’d have to check. I don’t use it very often. I usually use my VISA gold card, for the points. Can you please tell me what’s going on?”

  “Your card was used to rent a suite at the Four Seasons hotel yesterday,” Tim quietly responded. “A body was discovered in the room this morning.”

  “What?” their host exclaimed in genuine shock. “You don’t think I had anything to do with that, do you?”

  “Quite frankly sir, no we don’t,” Joanne answered reassuringly. “We will have to confirm your whereabouts last night and we’d need an example of your signature to compare with the hotel registration card. But no, we don’t think you had any involvement in what happened last night.”

  Pale and shaken, James Ford nodded in agreement. “Absolutely. Whatever you need. I just can’t see where the card would have been stolen. My wallet’s always on me.”

  He hesitated for a few seconds before adding, “Except at the office. When I’m wearing a suit, I tend to keep my wallet in an inside pocket of the jacket. I just don’t tend to wear the jacket. But I can’t imagine anybody at work having stolen the card, much less committing murder.”

  “Calm down, Mr. Ford,” suggested Tim Harris soothingly. “Let us worry about that. Your credit card was not necessarily taken by somebody who works with you. I’m sure you get the occasional outsider at the office and I’m sure you wear suits outside the office.”

  “Of course,” agreed Ford, “But I can’t see where else this could have happened.”

  “Well, think about that,” suggested Joanne as she offered her card to the man. “If you think of anything, give us a call. Now, if you can give us the details on where you were last night and a sample signature, we’ll get out of your hair.”

  * * * *

  After grabbing a beer from the refrigerator, Sam Bowman headed for the study on the second floor of his spacious home. Many would think that the place was much too big for one person to live in but Dr. Bowman liked to have room. No doubt, the tiny, cramped accommodations he had spent his childhood years in had had their effect on him and this was his way of compensating. Anyhow, he could afford the expensive home and really had only himself on which to spend his six figure earnings so, why not be comfortable?

  Initially, the house had been a home for two, not one. But after a few years of married life, it had become obvious that he and Teresa would never be compatible and she had left. Naturally, she had blamed him for their failing union, criticizing his mood swings and his growing lack of attention for her and her needs. This, he had scoffed at and quickly had come to realize that, superficial as she was, she would never understand him. Within a short period of time, he had decided that he too no longer could endure her, had proposed a sizeable cash settlement and sent her on her merry way. Since, he had remained alone and not even attempted the occasional date. He was content with only having to look after and worry about himself and his patients.

  Upon reaching the study, he closed the door and settled into the leather divan in one corner. He reached over to the small cassette recorder on the coffee table and pressed the play button before leaning back and taking a pull from the bottle in his hand. Following a few seconds of faint hissing, the tape, which had been recorded earlier that morning, began
to play. Michael’s voice was clear, strong and confident as usual.

  “You want to here about what I did last night, Doc? You’re not going to like it but, hey, I can’t always make you happy. Anyhow, Randi and Bobby did just as bad and they’re still around. What’s good for them is good for me. And Bobby might still be screwed up but Randi’s a lot more confident since he did it. Randi told me ‘Killing someone is good therapy. It gets the rage out of your system’ and I think the faggot’s right. I feel great! But enough about that. Let’s get back to last night. I’m cruising St-Laurent last night, looking for ‘a therapist’, you know.”

  Michael chuckled at his own joke before continuing.

  “Suddenly, I see her and I’m amazed. Not only is she a whore like my mother was, she looks just like her. She’s perfect for what I have planned. So I talk to her and I’m real smooth and we agree on a price for the night. What the hell, I don’t care. I know that it isn’t going to cost me anything. Anyway, we get to the Four Seasons where I had rented a suite for the evening’s festivities.”

  Bowman frowned at this as the tape went on.

  “We get to the suite and this girl is going nuts with the place, running around from room to room oohing and aahing. Finally she calms down and starts coming on to me, asking ‘what can Mommy do for Mikey?’ That’s when I suggested that she get undressed and lie on the bed. She made some joke about being fine with incest and stripped. I thought that she might have a problem with my tying her up but it seems that six hundred bucks had made her rather open-minded. It’s when I gagged her that she started to protest but she didn’t have time to say much.”

  The doctor stopped the tape and nervously drained the remaining contents of his bottle, spilling a little down his chin onto his shirt in the process. Knowing what was coming up, he breathed deeply for a moment in order to calm himself. This, combined with the beer, his third, had the desired effect to some extent and he resumed the playing of the tape.