Side Effects: An FBI Psychological Thriller (18 page)

“But she kept the number?” I asked.

“But she kept the number,” he said. “Maybe she was planning to call it one day, I don’t know, but she kept it.”

“And?”

“Wilmington PD called it. Turned out to be a number to a support group. He
was
seeking help. He was keeping it a secret for whatever reason, but he
was
seeking help. Are you ready for the punch line?”

I nodded impatiently.

“The support group? It’s run by your buddy, Dr. Cole.”

How could he have been so goddamn stupid? One little setback and he gets wasted and—oh
GOD
, what had he said? What had he told the stripper? Did he tell her who he was? Who he
really
was? “The High Striker,” as the media so ludicrously called him? (Though a part of him would have to confess, he
did
like the nationwide dread the moniker was instilling in people. The power.)

He racked his still-slightly-drunken brain, desperate to snatch at any fuzzy snippet that could prove telling. Nothing solid was forthcoming; his conversation with the stripper—did he even remember her name? Candy? Cat?—was buried deep beneath the stabbing incident. Adrenaline had momentarily sobered him to recall
those
events. He’d stabbed someone. In public. His only saving grace was the dimness of the club, his running for the door. There was a chance no one got a good look except for the stripper and the bouncer. And the stripper saw how many patrons a night? The bouncer too? There was a good chance his face was blurred with a dozen others, wasn’t there?

But then she’d scratched him. Scratched him good, the bitch. They would be looking for a man with a sizable scratch on his face now.

He looked into his bathroom mirror. Yes, it was a good one—a few inches long, right across his left cheek. It would sting when he sobered up.

What now? Oh God, what now? The police had undoubtedly shown after he’d fled. They would be looking for him. They’d always been looking for him, of course, but he’d always been so careful before. He’d screwed up big time.

What to do? Run and hide? For how long though? He’d worked too damn hard just to toss it all aside. He’d come too far. He needed to regroup. He’d screwed up and he needed to regroup. All was not lost. Dammit, all was
not
lost. It couldn’t be. He wouldn’t let it. He had to get it back. Get the feeling back. Reclaim what he’d worked so hard for.

He hurried out of the bathroom and went straight for his safe. He screwed up the combination on the first two tries, his dexterity sloppy with anticipation and alcohol. The third try was a success. He opened the safe and removed the DVD album. Inside that album was his whole world, the brilliant result of all his hard work. Six of them, to be exact. Six disks for six brilliant results.

But which to choose? Each was special in their own unique way; all of them empowering.

Empowering.

That’s what he needed now more than anything. To feel empowered again. To know and believe—
truly believe
—that one little setback was not, was
not
, was
NOT
going to undo all he’d done.

And therefore any of them would do, would they not? He pulled number six. The homeless man he’d found in Trenton. The one he’d taunted with fire. The disk had initially been reserved for the man in upstate Pennsylvania who was afraid of being buried alive. God, he’d prepared so long for that one. How great it would have been if it had come to fruition. But the homeless man from Trenton had proved a decent consolation prize. Such a tough man brought to his knees in a pleading, quivering mess from a little fire. A decent consolation prize indeed, but it was still fresh in his memory. He placed number six aside.

He pulled number five. The student from West Chester University. Afraid of dogs. He’d never heard a man screech like that before. It had an alien quality to it, as if his body had transcended all capable pitches of the human body. When the kid had passed out for the third time, he took a selfie with the sleeping boy and one of the dogs.

But this too was still reasonably fresh—and he could always look at the selfie.

Number four. The black man from Maryland. Afraid of spiders. How many pet stores in how many towns had he visited in preparation? At least two dozen? He’d ended up with nearly fifty of the big hairy buggers, buying only two at a store so as not to raise suspicion, so yes, at least two dozen stores visited sounded about right. The black man was the only one who managed to puke and shit at the same time.
That
was funny. But no, he didn’t want that one either.

Number three. The guy from New York City. Afraid of the dark. He’d bought an infrared camera for this one. He’d kept him in the cellar of an abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of the city for three days, periodically sneaking up on him and poking him with a stick from all angles. This man—though he wasn’t really a man, was he?—also screeched in unearthly tones whenever blindly poked and prodded. The man eventually started calling for his mother. His
mother
.

He’d stopped recording shortly after. He did not want to watch this one either. The mother part still bothered him. In the future he might edit that part out.

Number two. The older man from upstate New York. Afraid of the water. Afraid of drowning. The isolated lake he’d found had been too perfect. Though he’d gagged this one, he hadn’t needed to; they were miles from anywhere. Dunk, hold, release; dunk, hold, release…. How fun it had been, the pleading terror in the man’s eyes, so enormous in compensation for his inability to beg while gagged.

He ultimately decided against number two as well.

He wanted number one. Though it had the lowest quality of all his films—he had to improvise on the spot; he hadn’t planned on filming, hadn’t really planned on any of it—it was perhaps nearest and dearest to his heart. The start of his journey towards change.

He placed number one into his Blu-ray and took a seat. His bladder felt full with anticipation as the Blu-ray whirred to life; about to make everything better, ready to empower him once again.

What he saw disappointed him.

He saw his first victim, cuffed and pleading and crying, asking why? over and over again. They were friends, he’d pleaded, had established trust, divulged horrific truths about their past to one another. Why? Why?
Why…?

He’d left him there in his home, only to return with a dress, insisting he put it on, reminding him what would happen to his wife if he did not. He’d then stood over the crying man in a dress, berating him like the man had claimed his father had, kicking him, punching him, calling him every conceivable emasculating name he could fathom, giggling and grinning and giggling some more as he did so. He’d even urinated on him at one point.

At the time it had all been so wonderful. Established the blueprint for what would soon become his new life.

Now, all it did was remind him of his setback today. Remind him of who he’d once been, not who he was aspiring to be.

He stood and switched off the Blu-ray. Began pacing back and forth in his living room, desperate to reclaim the glory he’d begun to attain. His video mementos had always worked during times of doubt. Their impact now felt negligible.

Did he need another? A new one? Yes. Definitely, yes. But he would be a fool to take one so soon after the debacle that had occurred today. He was too careful for that.

Careful!
That was a laugh. He’d assaulted a stripper. Stabbed a man in public. And the stripper had scratched him good; she probably had his DNA under her fingernails.

But let’s be optimistic here for one minute. He’d never been convicted of a crime before, so he knew he wasn’t in the system, and he knew he’d been so very careful at each crime scene that the odds of him leaving anything behind were minuscule.

And if the police did somehow grab him, they would only have him on assault,
maybe
attempted murder for the bouncer at the club. The things he might have said to the stripper—even if he
had
confessed to all of it—could be argued by any competent lawyer. He was drunk, he was delusional, or how about he was just lying?

He
did
remember showing the stripper his scarred palm. But so what? Tie a man to seven murders because he had a scar on his palm? A D.A. would be reprimanded for bringing such flimsiness to a judge.

The only damning evidence tying him to all seven murders was laid out here in front of him on home movies. He would have to get rid of them. To be safe, he would have to destroy his new life’s work. Oh God, he would.

Start over. Yes, he needed a new one and he would have to start over. He could, right? There was nothing stopping him. Except time, that is—everything was too chaotic to grab someone right away. But that was okay too. With the exception of the homeless man in Trenton, he never just grabbed someone willy-nilly. He was always meticulous with his homework, with his choosing the right one, and sometimes homework proved to be just as titillating, the anticipation for what was to come delightful foreplay.

He sat back down and collected all of his disks, gently stacking them into a neat little pile, his touch filled with both love and sorrow, an owner bidding farewell to a loyal pet before euthanasia.

Start over.

But where?

And then a thought pushed its way forward without conscious effort:
From the beginning. Start from the very beginning.

Go see Dr. Cole.

“He can see us first thing in the morning,” I said.

Morris struggled to swallow quickly, his words impatient. “Tomorrow morning? Why not now?”

“He’s with patients all day, and then running a group tonight.”

“
So what?
Jesus, Mags, call him back and tell him we can’t wait.”

“He knows this is important, Tim, but he’s not about to kick all of his patients aside at the last minute. He’s loyal that way.”

Morris’ appetite vanished again. He pushed the rest of his sandwich away as if it now repulsed him. “This is bullshit.” He pulled out his phone. “Gimme his number.”

“No.”

“No?”

“Show him a little respect, Tim. Dr. Cole has been extremely accommodating thus far. It would be very uncool to bully him.”

“And what if he has information about the first victim that proves vital? We’ll lose an entire day on it.”

“Your net is cast. All conceivable bases are covered for now. We need to respect his wishes.”

“And what if our guy decides to lash out and grab another one-night stand like he did the homeless guy in Trenton?” he said.

“He would have to be a complete fool to do something so reckless.”

“He was drunk. A drunk man is ruled by impulses.”

“If he does something stupid then nothing Dr. Cole has on the first victim is going to prevent that. Please show him some respect. I wouldn’t even be here helping you if it wasn’t for him.”

Morris looked away, my firm stance forbidding him from granting me eye contact. When he finally looked back he said: “Well, then I want to go to Wilmington.”

“Why? Wilmington PD got all there was.”

“You don’t know that. I want to go to Wilmington. I don’t want to just sit with my thumb up my ass until morning.”

“You’re being stubborn. Stick your thumb up your ass and wait.”

Morris looked away again. I was actually surprised he was even considering my words; I was a “consultant” after all. He could have easily said tough shit and insisted we see Dr. Cole now. But maybe my history with Dr. Cole changed things. Morris knew how much I respected the good doctor.

Perhaps some might think I was being foolhardy by not insisting on seeing Dr. Cole today, but I stand by my reasoning, respecting his wishes being only one of them. The second (among others) being that the first victim died just under a year ago. There was a chance that Dr. Cole, when showed a photo of the first victim, wouldn’t even recognize him, let alone remember what he’d said in group.

And not that Morris wasn’t totally justified in his insistence. Quite often the first victim of a serial killer is significant. Whether the victim turns out to be someone they knew, or akin to that first drink for hard-wired alcoholics that all but seals their fate into a life with the bottle, the first victim
can
be significant, and I’m sure this possibility was at the forefront of reasons for Morris’ resolve.

That didn’t stop me from thinking that whatever we did end up finding with Dr. Cole would be anything but instant gratification. There would be no flashing arrows pointing us directly to the killer; there never is. It would give us another trail to follow. Sure,
that
trail might ultimately lead us to the killer, but it’s never a straight line; there’s always a detour we’re forced to take.

And of course, lastly, there was the thought of bullying Dr. Cole into accommodating us after he’d been nothing
but
accommodating. You think he wanted to give me a full daily dose of the drug again? He did everything but beg me to Just Say No, trying to endorse my God-given abilities as an investigator as an alternative rather than rely on a potentially life-threatening drug. But I, in my infinite bitch wisdom, used the poor guy’s wife’s murder as leverage to get the drug. And
still
he accommodated me. He could have dropped me as a patient, told me to go eff myself for having the audacity to use his dead wife as a pawn, or just flat-out refused to give me the drug. But he didn’t…because he knew it was what I wanted. And now I was going to disobey his wishes and bully him into seeing us asap? No way. And even if Morris did ultimately pull rank and insist, I would go kicking and screaming, if I even went at all.

Morris pushed back his chair and stood. “I waited. Now I want to go to Wilmington.”

I chuckled. “We really do keep borrowing each other’s demeanors, don’t we?”