Side Effects: An FBI Psychological Thriller (13 page)

“
How
you remember Douglas Caley is irrelevant,” Morris said. His gaze and tone were still icy and firm. More so. “Point is you
do
remember him, correct?”

“Yes.”

“Did he usually come in alone?”

“I don’t know. I think so.”

“Did he usually get his latte to go?”

“Yeah—no wait! He stayed in-house once. I remember because his insistence on a burnt latte ended up cracking the porcelain. I left it in the microwave too long.”

“Okay good,” Morris said. “Now, I want you to think very hard and very carefully on this one, Jen: when Douglas Caley decided to take his coffee in the store that day, was he alone?”

“I doubt it,” she said quickly. “I mean, he usually got it to go, why would he choose to sit this time if—”

Morris raised a hand. “You’re jumping to a logical assumption. That’s okay; it’s natural. What I’m asking you to do is stop and think. Really think. Try and recall that day as best you can. The smells, the weather, what you were wearing, what songs might have been playing in the shop that day. No detail is insignificant. Close your eyes if you think it will help.”

Jen Carr closed her eyes.

Most people I’ve met typically scoff at this method of recall. And I would have to agree that on the surface it seems a little futile. Don’t remember? No worries. Try hard and think about the weather. How ’bout now?

But here’s the thing: it usually works. And as usual, the devil is in the details.

It’s kind of like what Morris just said about jumping to assumptions. Too many people try to jump ahead and recall the finish line without first recalling the journey. Our minds are computers, and whether we’re aware of it or not, they usually catch everything. Problem is, our computers are run by morons—us.

The solution? Try to recall all of the little details we have unknowingly recorded along the way to the finish line. If you’re lucky, A might lead to B might lead to C might lead to D and so on until your prize is waiting for you at the end of that finish line, clear as can be.

At least that’s the objective. Some computers are beyond repair. Some are better than others. Since taking a full dose of the drug, my computer felt like I had a cocaine-fueled Stephen Hawking clacking away for me. And that was the point, I guess. Wish I had more control over it though. It would be nice to be at my own finish line right now so I could kick this sick bastard square in the nuts.

Jen Carr suddenly opened her eyes, her expression one of disbelief, not for what she was about to say, but because Morris’ seemingly basic method for recall had actually worked.

“It wasn’t me,” Jen said. “I mean, I made his latte—burnt the way he likes it—but I wasn’t serving him. It was Erin. Erin was serving him.”

“You made Douglas Caley’s latte, but Erin served him?” I asked.

She nodded. “We work in rotation when it’s busy—a couple of us will stay behind the counter for a few hours while the others waitress. Then we switch. It’s easier this way; we aren’t constantly bumping into each other getting our own orders. That day it was my turn behind the counter; Erin was waitressing. She came to me with that guy’s order—”

“Douglas Caley,” Morris said.

“Right. She came to me with his order, saying I would know exactly the way he liked it. That’s when I left the cup in for too long and cracked the porcelain.”

“You said ‘a couple of us’ stay behind the counter while the ‘others’ waitress,” Morris said. “Does that mean Erin wasn’t the only waitress serving that day?”

“Right—that would have been Stacey too.”

“But you’re sure it was Erin who served Douglas Caley?”

“Positive. She’s the one who brought me his order, told me I would know how he liked it. Plus, she’s the one who got the big tip from the other guy.”

Morris and I exchanged looks.

“Other guy?” I said.

“Yeah—” She chuckled with that tiny look of disbelief she showed before. “I’d forgotten all about it until you made me remember just now. There was a guy with Douglas Caley. I never saw him, but apparently he tipped Erin fifty bucks for just coffee.”

Morris whistled. “Fifty bucks just for coffee?”

“I know, right?” Jen said. “But here’s the thing: Erin said the guy got angry with her and took it back.”

“Took back the fifty bucks?” Morris said.

Jen nodded.

“Why?” I asked.

“I don’t remember. I think he was hitting on her or something. She’d be able to tell you better than me. You want me to get her?”

“Please,” Morris said.

Damn good-looking girl.

We interviewed Erin MacDonald on the same spot we’d interviewed Jen Carr. Traffic had started to pick up some by then, both on the sidewalk and on the street, so Morris suggested we duck into the little alley adjacent to the shop where they kept their dumpster and employees ducked out to make phone calls and catch a smoke.

“What can you tell me about the guy?” Morris asked.

“He was kinda plain looking,” Erin said. “I only remember him because of the way he acted.”

“Height? Build? Hair and eye color?” Morris asked.

“Dark hair…dark eyes too, I think…” She looked at the ground as she dug for more. “Average height, I guess—he wasn’t tall but he wasn’t short.”

“You said he had dark hair,” I said. “Was it long? Short?”

“Short,” she said. “He looked like a business kind of guy. Like someone who would work in an office, you know?”

“What was his build like?” Morris asked. “Skinny? Chubby? Fit?”

She winced before answering, as if apologizing for her ambiguous response. “Kinda average…sorry.”

Morris immediately waved a reassuring hand at her. “No, it’s fine; you’re doing fine. Tell me about the way he acted now; about this big tip he left you.”

“Well, he ended up taking the tip back,” she said. “He snatched it right out of my hand.”

“Yeah, Jen said that. Can you tell us what happened?”

“The one guy went outside first—the guy in the photo, the one who was killed. The other guy stayed behind to pay the tab. He insisted on handing me my tip personally.”

“Fifty dollars,” Morris said.

“Yeah. I couldn’t believe it.”

“Why do you think he tipped you so much?” Morris asked. “You think he was making a pass at you?”

“At first I did, but his body language was all wrong.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“Well, usually when a customer hits on you, they never really take their eyes off you, you know? This guy, he kept looking all over the shop as he handed me the fifty, looking at all the customers, like he was trying to impress them more than he was me. He even announced that it was a fifty when he handed it to me. Otherwise I might have tucked it away in my apron and never noticed it until later.”

“So you think he was just as interested in impressing the patrons as he was you,” I said.

“It seemed that way, especially when he started going on and on after he gave me the tip.”

“On and on about what?”

“That he was this daredevil kind of guy. Like an adrenaline junkie, you know?”

“You mean like one of those extreme sports guys?” Morris asked.

“Yeah, I guess. Only—and I
do
remember this—he didn’t look the part. He was too soft looking. Too…average, I guess. You expect those extreme guys to be all ripped and actually
look
like they defied death for a rush. This guy did not look like that.”

“Did you tell him that?” I asked.

“No way—I had his fifty dollar bill in my hand.”

I smiled. So did Morris.

“When did he take the money back?” Morris asked.

“Not long after. I couldn’t stand there and listen to him forever. It was busy. But he was just going on and on, so I guess I kind of interrupted him and told him I had to get back to work. I was really polite about it and tried to seem apologetic but…” She shrugged.

“No dice?” I said.

“No dice. Before I could blink, he snatched the money back out of my hand and left.”

“Did he say anything?” Morris asked.

“He mumbled something, but I didn’t catch it. He did not look happy though.”

Morris gave a sympathetic smile. “Would you be willing to meet with a sketch artist, Erin?”

“If you think it’ll help.”

“It’ll definitely help.”

“Okay then.” A big truck drove by, kicking up spirals of litter in its wake. When it was gone, the street hummed with one of those loud quiets, like the palpable vibration after the music stops. Erin took this opportunity to look at us both one at a time and then ask: “This guy, the tip guy…is he the one who killed that student?”

“We don’t know,” Morris said quickly.

Erin folded her arms across her chest and squeezed, as though trying to comfort herself. “Should I be worried?”

Morris assured her she was safe.

I wondered if our guy—assuming this
was
our guy—hadn’t planned on killing Douglas Caley that day, but after the incident at the coffee shop he’d become so enraged he could no longer wait; he needed to act sooner than later to appease the rage that was coursing through him. If this were true, it would mean all of his premeditative work could be undone if the right buttons were pushed.

This possibility held potential.

Amy Crane from the Baltimore field office was still doing her thing, but could unearth no more cyber traces between who we hoped was our guy and Douglas Caley, just the initial back and forth between “DC” and “K4JJ6” on the private forum that led to the meeting at the Cuppa Fix that likely, sadly, led to the end for Douglas Caley not long after.

Still, Morris had pored over the transcript of the cyber conversation on the private forum, hoping he might spot something useful despite Amy Crane’s insistence there was nothing, and to Morris’ disappointment, Amy had been correct. There was nothing.

“You’ve been quiet,” Morris said as he made a left and began taking us into a more rural area of West Chester. It was an impressive bit of scenery. Beautiful homes, autumn foliage, clean streets.

“Just thinking,” I said.

“Mind sharing?” he asked with not a little sarcasm.

I didn’t bite. My mind was still working things out, and I worried that voicing anything would break the rhythm I had going in my head.

“Not right now,” I said.

My peripheral vision caught Morris’ disapproval. Still, he kept his mouth shut, knowing it was better to let my brain cook a little longer before I served him anything.

“Oh, now we’re talking,” he said with sudden enthusiasm.

A baseball field came into view as we cleared the hill. It was a little league game, the boys maybe ten or eleven, stands packed with screaming parents.

“What?” I said. “What’re you doing?”

“You keep doing your thing; I’m grabbing me a hot dog and a seat and enjoying the game.”

“Good use of government time,” I said.

“Right now all we have is time.” He pulled into the lot and killed the engine. “Come on, I’ll buy you a hot dog.”

“We just ate.”

He groaned. “Come on, Mags, let’s bring back some of those lovely childhood memories of yours. You played baseball to please daddy, didn’t you?”

“
Football
,” I said as I opened the door and got out.

Morris smiled. “Big shot.”

He’d always prided himself on his control; it was what made him impossible to catch. A cool head. No mistakes.

And he was getting better with each one too. Becoming a man. Not a pathetic pussy mama’s boy. A man.

The guys at work, the cool guys, they saw it. They’d asked him to hang out. To get drinks at lunch. Drinks at lunch! Something only bad boys did. They’d thought he was finally cool enough to include in their adventures. He’d finally earned his shot:

Jennings: “Yo, Pierce…”

Pierce!
Pierce
they’d called him! How long had he waited!?

“…
Bennett, Miller, and me are going to hit up McCalley’s for a few necessary libations. You in?”

But then:

Pathetic pussy mama’s boy: “But it’s lunchtime.”

Jennings: “Yeah, so?”

Pathetic pussy mama’s boy: “No, no, I uh…I was just…”

Jennings: “It’s cool, man, forget it.”

Pathetic pussy mama’s boy: “No, no, it’s cool, Jennings…I was, I was, I was just—”

Jennings: “It’s all good, pal, catch you later.”

Joe cried out and slammed the bottom of his fist down onto his dashboard. Exited his car and slogged towards the mall entrance with a gait that looked as if he was headed towards the gallows.

Joe arrived at the mall staircase and glanced left towards the camera shop he frequented. He saw the shopkeeper, the young stoner-talking guy, elbows on the glass counter as he leaned in to a pretty young girl, a confident grin his whole face. When the girl smiled back, Joe lost it.

Also to get a whiff.