Mind Games

by Claude Bouchard

  He lingered nearby for a moment, gazing at a particular painting but concentrating much more on the sounds than on the art. The discussion continued for a few minutes, then ceased abruptly, silence ensuing.

  Noting that it was now just a couple of minutes before four o’clock, Chris sauntered casually away to the far side of the waiting room, continuing to admire the decor as he went. Selecting the chair from which he would have the best view of the psychiatrist’s office door, he sat and casually began thumbing through an issue of Time which lay on the coffee table next to him.

  He heard the door open and looked up to find a handsome man in his late thirties approaching him.

  “Chris, how are you?” the man asked pleasantly, extending a hand. “I’m Sam Bowman.”

  “Pleasure to meet you, Doctor,” Chris replied, just as pleasantly. “I’m fine, thanks.”

  “Come on in to my office,” urged Bowman, the perfect host. “Let’s get started.”

  Chris obediently followed the psychiatrist into the comfortable office, expecting to see the other party to the verbal altercation but was surprised to find the room empty.

  “Have a seat,” Bowman invited, turning towards Chris. “Is anything wrong? You seem puzzled.”

  “I’m sorry, Doctor,” responded Chris, blushing slightly. “While I was waiting outside, I thought I heard voices coming from your office so I was expecting someone else to be in here.”

  “Oh, that,” laughed the doctor. “Don’t worry, Chris. You weren’t hearing voices. I was with someone who left through there.”

  He pointed to another door at the opposite end of the room as he continued. “That leads to a side door in the parking lot. You can use it on the way out if you like. Now, let’s get started. Why don’t you tell me a little about yourself and what’s troubling you.”

  * * * *

  Sandy lay by the pool, soaking in some late afternoon sun and worrying about Chris and his visit with Doctor Bowman. She wasn’t quite certain what he hoped to accomplish. In fact, neither was he. However, having lost her own father through modern society violence, she understood her husband’s drive to rid the world of the garbage that walked its surface and vowed to support him any way she could.

  The phone rang, startling her and she hoped it was Chris but it couldn’t be as it was only 4:30.

  “Hello.”

  “Hey, Sandy,” said Dave McCall’s familiar voice. “How’s my second favourite lady?”

  “Second? Who’s the first?” teased Sandy. “I’m fine, Dave. How are you?”

  “Doing all right, all things considered,” replied Dave. “I’ll be better when we get a hold of this sicko, though.”

  “I know, Dave,” sympathized Sandy. “Isn’t it terrible?”

  “That it is, my dear,” agreed McCall. “Speaking of crazy people, is your husband around?”

  “Uh, no. He’s not,” Sandy laughed, a little nervously. “Can I have him give you a call?”

  “Sure thing, Sandy,” Dave responded. “I just haven’t heard from the boy in a few days and want to make sure he’s keeping out of trouble.”

  “Well, thanks for your support,” replied Sandy, making an effort to sound casual. “I can use a little help to keep him in line.”

  “OK, Sandy. Talk to you later.”

  “I’ll make sure Chris calls you. Bye.”

  She pressed the ‘end’ button, laid down the phone and realized that she was trembling. She could understand how Chris felt when he talked about being a hypocrite with Dave. She just hoped that their dear friend had not noticed her frazzled nerves over the phone.

  Dave slowly put down the receiver and, for a long, hard moment, stared at the phone. Something was wrong. Sandy had done her best to hide her edginess but acting was clearly not her vocation. Was Chris in any danger? If so, what?

  Dave was reasonably sure that Chris would have done some digging in Bowman’s computer files by now. Had he decided to take further steps in the investigation on his own?

  “That’s ridiculous,” the captain muttered to himself. “Chris is an intelligent, reasonable man. He and Sandy probably just had a fight. That’s all.”

  With that thought in mind, he returned his attention to the pile of overdue progress reports waiting for his approval. He could not completely erase however, the nagging feeling that there was more to it than that.

  * * * *

  From where Chris was parked, he could see both the main door and side door to the building where Dr. Samuel Bowman kept his office. He hoped that the psychiatrist was not planning to work too late, not because he minded sticking around but rather, because gentlemen sitting idle in parked cars for long periods of time eventually tended to attract attention.

  As he waited, his thoughts strayed to his conversation with Sandy which had finished moments earlier. He had reassured her that her chat with Dave posed no problem, even if their friend had detected any nervousness on her part. Knowing Dave, Chris fully expected the cop to eventually enquire if Chris had done any computer digging on Bowman. Being aware of such digging, it was reasonable for Sandy to become uncomfortable upon speaking to Dave.

  He returned his attention to the matter at hand as he saw Dr. Bowman exit the building from the side door and climb into a tan BMW parked close by. The car pulled onto the street and headed off, its driver unaware of the Pathfinder casually following him a few cars behind.

  Although the day-end downtown traffic was rapidly thickening, Chris was able to keep up with Bowman with relative ease for several blocks. As they reached an intersection, the vehicle immediately preceding Chris suddenly stopped, having noticed an available parking spot.

  “Ah, Jesus,” Chris muttered angrily, hitting the brakes to avoid rear ending the automobile.

  Unable to drive around it, due to passing cars, Chris waited impatiently as the other automobile attempted, unsuccessfully, to back into the vacant space. He watched in dismay as the traffic light turned red and the tan BMW disappeared in the distance.

  Disappointed, he accepted this mishap, he had no choice, and headed for home. Confident by nature, he knew there would be other occasions to tail the psychiatrist. After all, he and the doctor had already scheduled their next visit.

  * * * *

  As he strutted down St-Laurent Boulevard, Randi was barely aware of the approving glances he was drawing from both homosexuals and heterosexuals alike. He was still steamed from his discussion with Bowman several hours earlier. The nerve of that man, trying to play hardball with him and attempting to throw all the blame his way.

  Their meeting had started civilly enough, with the psychiatrist spelling out his disappointment and worries related to the killing spree. Randi had tried, once again, to explain the therapeutic benefits of his actions but Bowman would not have it. Then, the doctor had gone wild on him, accusing him of setting off the others, turning them into uncontrollable killing machines. That was when their session turned into a full blown dog fight.

  Randi tore into Bowman, calling him gutless, unable to do what he preached. He accused the psychiatrist of being weaker than the four of them combined. It was no wonder that the others were leaning more and more towards Randi for support. Their respect for Bowman had completely vanished.

  As for the others, Randi hadn’t twisted any arms. He had simply informed them of the beneficial effects his killing had had on him. Unfortunately, Alex and Bobby were too simple-minded to make a distinction between treatment and competition. Bottom line, however, they were not Randi’s responsibility so the good doctor could go screw himself. That had ended their meeting.

  Getting a grip on his emotions, Randi relaxed a little and started concentrating on his plans for the evening, flashing an occasional smile to those who gazed longingly at him as they walked by. There was nothing like therapy to get rid of the anger and it was time for a dose.

  Chapter 17 - Thursday, June 12, 1997

  “Greetings, boss,” called Harris, unable to hold back a smile, albe
it the circumstances. “Kinda like déjà vu, ain’t it?”

  “Yeah, kinda,” growled Dave, glaring around in disdain at the lobby of the Chancellor Hotel. “I’m real happy to be back here. So, what have we got?”

  “Pretty much a carbon copy of the others,” Tim replied with a shrug of his shoulders.

  “Did our friend Wilson have anything to tell us?” Dave asked dryly, referring to the fat hotel owner they’d had the pleasure to meet three weeks earlier.

  “Not much,” responded Harris, grinning again, “But you’re in luck, Dave. Here he comes now so you can ask him yourself.”

  “Wonderful,” groaned Dave, glancing up as the prime example of obesity approached.

  “Hey, Detective McCoy,” Wilson bellowed angrily through his stogie. “When the hell are you and your boys gonna catch this fucker? Once he’s put me outta goddamn business?”

  “Captain McCall,” Dave corrected, his tone stiff and slow. “I am Captain McCall. Who was the room rented to this time, Mr. Wilson?”

  “Don’t have a name, just the cash,” the fat man easily replied.

  “Still not keeping records?” stated McCall, shaking his head.

  “Nope. You guys still not catching up with psycho killers?” Wilson shot back smugly.

  Glancing around to make sure there were no witnesses within earshot, there weren’t, Dave stepped in closer to the man and replied in a quiet, almost friendly voice.

  “Listen you fat, mother piece of shit. I’ve got seven goddamn murders like this in less than three weeks and the last thing I need is back seat coaching from a stupid greasy pig like you. Now, shut the fuck up unless you have something useful to say or I will make sure this goddamn rat hole of yours gets closed up before the week’s out. Is that clear, Mr. Wilson?”

  Speechless, the hotel owner nodded in response as he stared down at the grimy floor.

  “Good, Mr. Wilson,” Dave smiled. “I’m happy we reached an understanding. Now, back to this murder. Do you remember who rented the room in question? Might it be the same person as last time?”

  Shaking his head, Wilson replied, “It was a guy this time, well dressed, suit and tie, like a businessman. Stopped in last night around six, I guess, and rented a room for the night.”

  “I take it that the body we have up there is not the man?” Dave surmised.

  “You guessed right, uh, Captain,” the fat man nodded. “The guy who rented the room was older, around forty; and bigger too; mebbe five, nine or so, one-seventy, one eighty.”

  “So you got a pretty good look at him, Mr. Wilson?” suggested Harris.

  “Yeah, good enough, I guess. Just for a minute or two, but good enough.”

  “We’d like you to sit down with one of our artists,” announced Dave. It was not a suggestion. “To put a sketch together. When can you free yourself, today?”

  “Do I have a choice?” Wilson asked morosely.

  “Well, yeah,” grinned McCall, “But it would be really good for your business if you helped us out.”

  “Let me get a hold of my brother-in-law,” Wilson accepted defeat, “So he can keep an eye on this place. I’ll be over this afternoon.”

  “Thanks for your cooperation, Mr. Wilson,” replied Dave. “We’ll expect you at one. Here, the address is on my card. Pleasure doing business with you.”

  “Pleasure’s all mine, Captain McCall,” grunted the cigar sarcastically. “Have a nice day.”

  * * * *

  Randi awoke, pleased to find that the feeling of power had not diminished with his night’s sleep. He was invincible.

  The previous evening had been tremendous. To avoid any recognition by that smelly tub of lard at the Chancellor Hotel, he had asked Michael to look after the room rental. Then, a different wig and make-up had got him into the place with his escort without so much as a glance from the cigar chomping pig behind the counter. After that, it had been downhill all the way.

  To Randi’s surprise, and delight, Billy, or Willy, whatever his damn name was, had been into bondage. The moment Randi had suggested tying him up, the poor sap had sprung into erection. By the time the gag was in place, he had already ejaculated all over himself. Then, at least from Randi’s perspective, the fun had begun. It had been over and done with after no more than five or ten minutes but the rush had been incredible.

  Yes, Randi was invincible. And if he had been participating in the others’ silly little contest, which of course he wasn’t, he figured that he’d be ahead by now. Bobby and Alex each also had two kills but he had two at the same place.

  * * * *

  “There’s been another one,” Sandy somberly announced as she joined Chris on the terrace.

  “Yeah, I know,” he replied, staring at the screen of his notepad. “Saw it on the news a little earlier. Look what I just found.”

  “What?” Sandy asked, gazing at the screen from over his shoulder.

  “Here,” pointed Chris. “This is Bowman’s appointment schedule. Look who was there at three, right before me.”

  “Randi!” his wife breathed, covering her mouth in horror.

  “Yup, Randi,” Chris continued. “That wasn’t there yesterday when I checked. Randi is who Bowman was arguing with when I got there.”

  “Chris, I really don’t like this. You have to speak to Jonathan or Dave.”

  “That’s exactly what I plan to do,” her husband agreed, “In that order. I just want to dig into Bowman’s notes first, to see if there’s an entry for yesterday’s visit with Randi. Damn! I was that close to one of the killers. Don’t worry, hon. We’re gonna get these guys.”

  “Just don’t get yourself killed in the process,” Sandy worriedly warned. “Understand, Barry?”

  “Your wish is my command,” he grinned as he returned his attention to his research.

  * * * *

  Samuel Bowman completed his entry in the computer file and glanced at his watch. 10:45; fifteen minutes to contemplate before his next appointment. Only fifteen minutes, he sighed. So much to think about, so little time.

  His thoughts turned to his four patients turned killers, but only for a moment. That problem was far too complex to delve into with the few spare minutes available. He needed something less demanding. Chris Barry came to mind which the doctor accepted as a suitable subject.

  Something was not right about Mr. Barry, that is to say, there was nothing apparently wrong with the man. He had approached the psychiatrist claiming to be troubled; troubled enough to pay two hundred dollars per hour. Yet, in the short time they had spent together so far, Barry came across as the most solid individual Bowman had ever met. Not without emotion, the man was intelligent and rational, able to speak freely of his successes and failures, strengths and weaknesses. In the doctor’s expert opinion, Chris Barry did not need therapy. That being the case, what was the man looking for?

  The preliminary research that Bowman had done had revealed that Chris Barry was a wealthy ex-executive who had opted for a very early retirement. The doctor remembered having read about Barry and the sale of CSS, Barry’s ex-employer, at the start of the year. For some other reason however, the company name sounded familiar to Bowman but he could not pin down why. He’d think about it and, eventually, it would come back to him.

  Bowman looked at the time again and sighed. 10:57. The subject of Chris Barry would need to be revisited later. He had a patient waiting.

  * * * *

  “Well, look who’s here,” chanted Dave from the booth as Chris walked up. “God, what’s it been, Chris? A year? Two?”

  “A week, sweetheart,” Barry chuckled as he slid in opposite from the cop. “I didn’t know that a week without me would have such an effect on you.”

  “Generally not,” responded McCall, “But when I consider the conversation we had the last time we got together and then I don’t hear from you for a week, I start to worry.”

  “I’m not sure I follow you,” Chris grinned. “What conversation?”

  Lowering
his tone as he glanced around, Dave replied, “Bowman, computers, that conversation.”

  “I get ya,” nodded Chris with a wink.

  “Stop screwing around, Chris,” the cop burst into laughter. “Did you find anything?”

  “Let me see,” Chris thought aloud, scratching his chin. “What was that speech about ethics and morals?”

  “Wait a minute, Barry,” cautioned a smiling McCall. “Those were your words, not mine.”

  “That’s right,” agreed Chris. “Your speech was more in the lines of serious lawsuits or something.”

  “Anybody ever tell you that you’re a pain in the ass, Barry?” Dave enquired, his grin wide.

  “It’s happened,” Chris admitted. “Sandy tells me all the time.”

  “Sandy is an intelligent woman,” replied Dave solemnly.

  “She is that, and so much more,” Chris nodded in accord. “OK. Enough about me. Here’s what I got...”

  He proceeded to recount, to the finest detail, what his research activities had uncovered over the last week. As he went on, Dave’s expression went from one of awe, to shock and disbelief and finally, anger.

  “How can this sonovabitch hold out on us like this?” he exclaimed in rage. “Goddamned hypocrite.”

  “Doctor-patient privileges, Dave,” Chris soothingly replied. “You know that.”

  “Yeah, right. I know that,” McCall fumed. “Why didn’t he just refuse to help us out? It would have been damn less frustrating than this garbage. We could have had some other shrink really helping us instead.”

  “Judging from what you’ve told me so far,” Chris reasoned, “Bowman hasn’t sent you off in any wrong direction. I’m not so sure another shrink would have had you looking for four killers.”

  “As usual, you’re right, Mr. Barry,” responded McCall, allowing a short smile. “It just pisses me off to learn that Bowman actually knows these wackos. He knows them! And I can’t even use this knowledge. What are we supposed to do? Go sit in his goddamn waiting room until this Bobby or Alex show up? Jesus.”