3 Can You Picture This? (14 page)

“Invite him over,” I said, interrupting as usual.

George did just that. When he finished the call he said, “He’ll be right over.”

“I wonder how he’ll get here. Will he be well enough to ride his bike?”

“Guess we’ll see,” George said, un-muting the sound of the ball game again.

I went back to my computer, until we heard a knock on the door.

George got the door, and in walked Richie, looking no worse for the wear.

He sat in the living room and I joined the two guys.

“How are you?” I asked as I gently hugged him. “Are you okay? Did you see who did this to you? Have the police asked you to describe him? Did he look like the same guy in the picture?”

“I’m okay. Wow! You’re worse than the police are. I’m pretty sore. But I’m able to ride my bike, and take pictures, and that’s what’s important to me. I feel awful lucky. And yeah, the police interviewed me when I was in the hospital. I don’t really remember the guys face. And I don’t know how I got the hoodie on me. I don’t remember much.”

“Well, you’re lucky that you have that dextrocardia thing.” I wanted to be sympathetic, but thought Richie should know what was going on. “I hate to have to tell you this, but we discovered that the last guy might not have committed suicide, and that it might have been another murder.”

He looked shocked, and sat back in the overstuffed chair. The purple on the chair made him look even more pale than the blood loss had already done. I was used to Richie having a suntan because of all the bike riding he did. This look was different.

George took over. “You need to be in protective custody. By now the killer knows you aren’t dead. He or she might try again. We have to keep you safe.”

Richie shook his head and raised his arms to protest what George was saying.

“No. I won’t go into protective custody,” Richie said. “I don’t want anyone guarding me or watching me. It was bad enough when I was in the hospital. I couldn’t live like that. I’ll keep myself safe, never you mind.”

I couldn’t help but go back to the photo.

“I’m so sorry I lost the picture, Richie. It might have helped us figure out who the murderer is.”

George was smart enough not to correct me on the “us.”

“I know you didn’t do it on purpose, Sam. It’s okay.”

“I really think you should be in protective custody,” George said again. “The murderer is bound to know you aren’t dead. He might try again, and I’d like to make sure you are safe.”

“I appreciate it,” Richie replied. “I really do. But I can’t accept it. I can’t allow it. Just can’t.”

“Well, we’ll be looking out for you from a distance whether you like it or not, Richie. We have to do the best we can to prevent you from being injured again, or worse.”

George’s words sounded ominous, and they would have been enough to have convinced me. But Richie would not change his mind.

“Whatever you have to do, Detective,” Richie said.

I thought his reply was weird. Why did he get so formal all of a sudden? Strange.

“I gotta go,” Richie said and that was that. He was out the door and gone before I could get off the couch.

“He’s one strange dude,” I muttered. Then turned back to what I thought was important.

“Honey,” I said, “I really think you need to check on Jimmy. Remember the first night I was at your house?”

George looked distracted as he mumbled, “Yeah.”

“Well, he couldn’t guard the back like he was supposed to because he was busy somewhere else. He knew Rob would be in the front and the back wouldn’t be guarded. Maybe it was him in the blue hoodie in the backyard. He got scared off, so no damage was done. But maybe that was him.”

“Maybe it was a lot of people, Sam.”

“Yeah, but please check him out.”

“I will, but not in a big way. Because I don’t suspect him. He’s a good cop. But I’ll make a few calls to see where he was assigned that night. Will that be enough?”

“Yeah, and please find out if he was always where he was assigned.”

“Okay. Now I need to run home and get some clothes so I can stay over tonight and guard you.” A brief smile flitted across his face. “You need to come with me.”

Seeing the face I made, he amended it to, “Okay then. Why don’t you stay here and get ready for tonight? Don’t forget that we’re going out for your birthday, murder investigation or not. Dress up a little and I’ll be back in an hour.” He faced me squarely. “Don’t let anyone in. Do you understand me?”

Clancy stood beside him, seeming to echo his sentiments.

“I’ll be fine,” I insisted. “Sarah is upstairs sleeping, Adam is out, so I’ll let him in, but no one else. Well, except Gus and Georgianne. It’s their house after all. And if one of my brothers or sisters comes by I’ll have to let them in.”

“You know what I mean,” he said, raising his voice. So I knew he was serious.

“Okay. I’ll be good. And I’ll just go and get changed for tonight. First I might just sit for a minute. Everything seems to be moving so fast.”

“Sit for a few minutes then get dressed. I want to surprise you again.”

I kissed him, then closed the door after him.

Tonight was indeed going to be a surprise.

TWENTY

C
ollapsing on the couch seemed like a good thing to do. So I did it.

I lay there, trying to relax. I knew George was going to check on Jimmy but I wondered if I should too. It was an awful idea. What if the young man Sarah went out with was indeed the killer?

The thought bothered me so much that I stood up and paced a bit. Jimmy was a viable suspect, but I wondered why I didn’t have any bad vibes around him. When I met him, I simply saw a nice young man. I didn’t want to believe he was guilty, but I needed someone to grill.

I plopped down on the love seat, trying to think of something else besides Jimmy and my concern about Sarah being involved with him. My thoughts went back to the conversation I’d had with Marian.

She’d begun by asking what brought me there. A standard question we therapists employ to start the conversation. So I told her about my impulsivity and gave her several examples of how it had been problematic.

Marian said she had an idea and started going down a list of symptoms that we use with kids and adolescents. At my replies, she nodded. I quickly figured out where she was going and when I did I sat there in disbelief.

“Me? ADHD?”

“It appears that way, Sam. I noticed it the first day you came to work, the day our boss was killed.”

“But I’m not hyper. Not very often anyway.”

“I see that. But I also see that you hit every symptom for the impulsivity section and most in the inattentive section.”

“Yeah. I’m not hyper, but I am so easily distracted, and then there’s the damn impulsiveness.” I sat up straight. “Thank you so much, Marian. Even though I’ve diagnosed kids with this disorder for many years, I’ve not applied the same criteria to myself.” I slowly shook my head. “I shouldn’t be surprised, but I am. Me. ADHD. That explains so much. I always want to be thoughtful before I react. I really do. But it’s like I can’t help it.” My sigh filled the room.

“So what do you want to do?” Marian asked.

“Well, with any other adult in this situation, I’d suggest they see a psychiatrist for medication. I don’t know about me though…‌I just don’t know. Maybe I can ask my family doctor about some medication.”

“Think about it,” she said. “That would be my recommendation to you, by the way. Get some meds. Only because this trait has made your life difficult and you’ve already tried to change on your own. It’s up to you, of course.”

Remembering her recommendation now, I realized that I should really tell George about my meeting with Marian as soon as he returned. What I had learned was important, and I wanted to share it with George…‌talk it out, and get his perspective. He could help me decide what to do.

A knock on the door grabbed my attention. I looked through the glass and saw it was Richie. Impulsively I opened the door. Even as I did, I thought,
Should I really do this? Sure. It’s only Richie.

He walked in quickly and closed the door behind him. He had a stupid grin on his face, his GC T-shirt on, and something in his hand. He didn’t greet me, just stood there with his hand out toward me. I finally realized I was supposed to take what was in his hand.

“Ah, the picture. Where did you find it? Did you have it the whole time?” I glanced at it, then stared at it, then stared at Richie, then back at the picture.

“There’s something about the build of the murderer,” I said. “Something familiar. Do you recognize him?”

Looking back at Richie again, I finally focused on him, and nearly fell to my knees.

“And what in the hell are you doing with a gun in your hand?”

TWENTY-ONE

H
e laughed at my confusion.

Clancy went for him immediately. As she did, he kicked at her blindly, and hit her hard in her ribs. I heard a “whoof” as the breath was knocked out of her, and she fell down near the door.

My beloved Clancy. She was lying on the floor, still, but at least I could tell that she was breathing.

“Sam, I’m sorry. Your dog is okay, as far as dogs go. I’m sure she’ll be all right. And I really like you as a person. Maybe you’re a little pushy, a little bossy, but—”

“Okay, okay. Get to the compliment.”

Oddly, I realized that it was the same thing I’d said to Richie at the beginning of this misadventure. It was hard to speak to him in a normal tone of voice when his gun was pointed at me. That and the fact that I wanted to throttle him for kicking my dog.

But I knew it was critical—more than critical, it was a matter of life or death—that I remained calm and used my therapeutic skills to my utmost ability. Or it would be the last therapy I ever did.

Richie smirked. I hate smirks.

“You seem to forget, Sam. I’m the one with the gun. I’m the one to decide if and when I’ll give a compliment. There you are, showing how pushy and bossy you are.”

“And nosy. Don’t forget nosy.” I turned my attention to Clancy, who was alert, but remained on the floor. I could hear her low growl and knew she was planning another assault on Richie.

“Clancy, don’t. Just stay there. I promise I’ll be okay. Just stay there. Stay.” She looked at me with absolute trust in her eyes. She put her head down, but her ears were on high alert. I knew that if Richie tried to hurt me she would attack.

“Put the dog in the closet,” he ordered, pointing toward the small coat closet near the door.

“Clancy, please. Go in there. I’ll be fine. Just go.”

And with one last growl and bark at Richie, she went into the closet.

“Now, let’s talk,” I said to him.

“Shut up,” Richie yelled suddenly. “Shut up. You sound just like my mother. I hated her. Don’t make me kill you, Sam.”

“Sorry, Richie.” I kept my voice calm and modulated. The more he talked, the more likely I was to live to see George again. And everyone else. My children, my family. I turned off the chatter in my brain before I became too emotional to focus on the crisis before me.

“I won’t make you kill me, Richie. I promise. You’re the boss. But can I ask a question, please?”

He frowned but it looked like he nodded a little. So I took a chance.

“Why did you do it, Richie? What would make a nice guy like you kill people? I don’t get it.”

“That’s because you’re kind of nice. You don’t see the bad stuff in people unless we throw it in your face. You didn’t even make me search my pockets looking for the lost picture. It was inside my shirt pocket all the time.”

“Guess I wasn’t as smart as you.”
Keep complimenting him,
I told myself.

“You’re darn tootin’. I’m a lot smarter than people give me credit for. And I’m a damn good athlete.”

“You are?” which I quickly changed to, “You are.” But back to the subject at hand. I kept my voice even, although I could feel every nerve at attention.

“Why did you do it, Richie?” I asked again.

“The first guy was kind of random. I knew he’d gone to St. Francis High, so I automatically hated him. By the way, I hate you too.”

As he said it I shrugged my shoulders as if to say that it was a natural feeling. “But why kill him?”

“Didn’t you hear me? He went to SF. I hate the school and hate the people who went there.”

“I’m sorry. I don’t understand.”

“I was a good athlete. But every time we played against SF I wasn’t allowed to play. They always beat us, and coach said I wasn’t good enough to play. I
was
good enough.” His voice was rising. This wasn’t a good sign. I had to diffuse the tension. He went on, getting louder. “Mom said I wasn’t good enough too. Wrong. Wrong. I was a great athlete. I hate SF graduates. Hate ’em.”

I nodded, and spoke again, my voice calm. “Okay, what about Creighton Jameson?”

“Beyond the obvious that he went to St. Francis, he was going to die anyway, so what’s the big loss? I made him the decoy. So no one would know it was me. They’d figure he felt bad about it and decided to kill himself. Then the cops—including your boyfriend—would close the case.” I could hear the satisfaction in Richie’s voice. “I mean don’t act like the world is going to miss Jameson. He was toast anyway.”

Omigod, he’s a psychopath!
And I knew I really had to keep him talking, plus I had to keep complimenting him.

“And everyone would believe he was the murderer.”

“Of course,” he nodded as he spoke.

“Tell me more.” I had to keep the conversation—such as it was—going.

“What do you want me to tell? There’s one model of the old-style Polaroid camera that has an automatic timer on it. You can set up a shot and then be in it.” He smiled as he said this. “Not many people know that. So for the first guy, it was easy for me to set up the camera on my bike, throw on my blue hoodie, and presto—one vagrant gone.”

He walked around the living room, but kept the gun pretty much facing my way. “I knew I wouldn’t be a suspect because of the type of camera I used. Then when I made the brilliant move of stabbing myself in the chest—well, that sealed the deal on me being innocent. You stupid, stupid people. Of course, my heart is in the wrong place. Literally.”