Authors: J. Fritschi
The Second Coming (26 page)
Kate smiled and said thank you as she started strolling towards the closed doors of the interrogation rooms. Her hips swung from side to side with the grace of a Swiss pendulum. Mike was hypnotized by her ass and stared at it with such force that he thought she would feel his vision burning a hole in her skirt. He had to stop himself from letting his imagination get the best of him.
As they got to the door she paused and allowed Mike to reach around her slender waist and open the door. Mike got close enough as he held the door open for her that he could smell the sweetness of her nectar. She smiled enticingly as she brushed passed him with alluring eyes. Inside the sterile, concrete block room, Mike pulled her chair out for her and then went to the other side of the table.
“I‘ve got to tell you,” she said shaking her head as she leaned back in her chair and placed her hands in her lap. “Dissociative Identity Disorder is very rare and controversial.”
“I understand,” Mike said nodding his head. “But do me a favor and explain it to me in layman’s terms.”
“A person that suffers from Dissociative Identity Disorder is very similar to a serial killer.”
“How so?”
“It’s caused by some type of childhood trauma like physical or sexual abuse,” she said as she set her briefcase on the table. “The memory of that abuse is then split off or dissociated from the persons consciousness and then stuck in the alter’s personality.”
“So basically an abused child represses the memories of abuse and they then take the shape of an alter personality.”
“Yes and there can be more than one alter personality sometimes taking the form of the opposite sex or even animals or aliens,” she said trying not to over simplify the disorder. “The person experiences them as distinct personalities that switch in controlling the persons consciousness and behavior. The host personality, in this case Father John, is usually unaware of the other personalities, but the other personalities are aware of the host personality.”
“So Father John may not know that the Sterling Killer is an alter personality of his, but the Sterling Killer alter personality would be aware of Father John?”
“Hypothetically speaking,” Kate cautioned Mike.
“That would explain why the Sterling Killer waits until Father John goes to sleep before taking control,” Mike concluded. “How do you determine if someone has multiple personalities?”
“That’s part of the controversy. Most people who have the disorder don’t realize they have it and hold down jobs and lead productive lives. They
don’t know they have multiple personalities until they are diagnosed by a professional therapist and there are some psychologists that believe therapists have created this disorder and that the patients play into it.”
“You’re losing me,” Mike said puzzled as he rubbed his hand on his beanie. “How do they play into it?”
“If a patient goes to see a therapist for depression or some other sort of disorder, the therapist may diagnose them as having Dissociative Identity Disorder. The therapist induces the patient by suggesting that their depression is really caused by alter personalities and the patient then creates alter personalities to validate the diagnosis.”
“The power of suggestion,” Mike said thinking out loud. “Let me ask you this, do you believe someone can have multiple personalities?”
Kate paused with a furrow of her brow. “Hypothetically they could, but it has been my experience that the type of multiple personality you are talking about is uncommon, but it is possible.”
“How do we determine if the Father has multiple personalities?”
“I did a little research last night,” Kate said as she opened her briefcase and removed a vanilla folder from it. “There is a questionnaire called the Dissociative Experience Scale that has 28 self report questions that can be completed in about 10 minutes.”
“And this questionnaire will be able to tell us if the Father has multiple personalities?”
“It’s not intended to be a diagnostic instrument, but rather a screening instrument,” Kate explained sliding the test across the table to Mike. “A high score does not prove the person has the disorder, but it can suggest that a clinical assessment may be needed.”
“So how does it work?”
“The person responds to the questions by indicating how often the question applies to them by circling the percentage that applies at 10% intervals between 0 and 100%,” she explained as Mike continued to read the questions. “The higher the score, the more likely they are to have the disorder.”
“Look at this question here,” Mike said intrigued as he sat forward in his chair. “It reads, ‘Some people have the experience of not being sure whether things that they remember happening really did happen or whether they just dreamed them.’ That sounds like the Father to me.”
“If you notice, there are a lot of the questions that could apply to a lot of us, but one question alone is not an indicator of D.I.D one way or the other,” Kate said tempering his enthusiasm.
Mike stared at the test quietly contemplating and hoping that it would lead him to an answer one way or the other. It was the not knowing that was wearing him down.
“Do you know anything about his background?” Kate asked Mike as she pulled out a pad of lined yellow paper.
“He grew up in Piedmont, went to college at Baylor University and then lived in the Himalayans at different monasteries until he recently returned to an abbey in Vina and began having the dreams. He claims that he has saved people from dying in his dreams as well.”
“What?” Kate flopped back in her chair like she had been shoved.
Mike nodded his head with a shit-eating grin.
“So now he either has two alter personalities or he has created two similarly unbelievable stories.”
“Either that or he has supernatural powers,” Mike kidded her.
“Where is he now?”
“Staying with his dying father at his house in Piedmont.”
“Where was he when the murders happened?”
“At the abbey in Vina.”
“Have you done a background check on him?”
“My partner is driving up to the abbey to investigate and check his alibi and I was hoping you could tell me if he’s crazy or if he’s just making this up.”
“Does he seem delusional?”
“He seems completely sane. That’s the thing that is so strange. Wait until you meet him. You are not going to believe it.”
B
IG
P
ETE WAS
driving for almost three hours when he pulled his pickup into the gravel parking lot of the La Grande Abbey. He lurched out and stretched toward the towering Oak and Redwood trees that sheltered him. His meeting with the abbot was scheduled for eleven a.m. and with the few minutes he had to spare he casually acquainted himself with the tranquil surroundings as birds delighted in the breeze. He took a deep breath of the crisp air and got a tingle in his nose.
He swung the driver’s door shut and plodded towards the white stucco building with the clay tile roof and entered through the glass doors into the reception area where he was greeted by a plump monk. The old man looked up at Big Pete’s huge frame with wide eyes of astonishment.
“Can I help you?” he asked quietly like he was in a library.
“I’m here to see Abbot Paul,” Big Pete said lowering his booming voice to church level.
“Of course,” the Father replied as he stood cloaked in a brown robe. “Right this way.” He led Big Pete down a cold, grey hallway to the abbot’s office.
Abbot Paul was an Italian looking gentlemen with smooth olive skin that contrasted glowingly against his white robe as he sat behind his cheap wood desk diligently writing. The portly monk cleared his throat and the abbot looked over the top of his spectacles and smiled warmly.
“Detective Brown is here to see you Father,” the monk said as he slowly receded out the door.
“Detective Brown,” Abbot Paul greeted Big Pete kindly as he stood and took off his glasses, laying them on the papers scattered on his desk.
“Thank you for coming all the way up here to see me.” They shook hands and the abbot offered him a chair in front of his desk.
“Thank you Father,” Big Pete replied as he carefully sat on the aluminum chair.
The abbot strode behind his desk and folded his leathery fingers on top of his work.
“What can I do for you today?” He inquired eagerly.
Big Pete sat hunched over with his hands placed absurdly on his knees. “Are you aware of the Sterling Killer murders?” He asked with an easy demeanor.
The abbot sat back in his chair with a scowl on his round face as he placed his hands in his lap. “Yes, of course,” he replied with a look of distress. “Those poor young ladies.”
Big Pete nodded compassionately. “Was Father John residing here at the time of the murders?”
“Yes, he was.”
“Do you recall what time you last saw him on the nights of the murders?”
The abbot paused with squinting eyes of contemplation. “It would have been after our final communal prayer at around nine o’clock. After the final Liturgy, most of our monks retire to their cells to read before they go to bed. They need to get their sleep as the first prayer is at three thirty the following morning.”
“On any of the nights in question, did Father John miss the final prayer?”
“He has never missed the final prayer since he has been here.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m positive. That’s why it was so strange when he didn’t show up for the morning prayers after his dreams. He had never missed any of the liturgies.”
“What do you mean he didn’t show up to the morning liturgies?” Big Pete asked stunned. “What time did he make an appearance?”
The abbot looked up tapping his finger on his chin. “Not until the first liturgy of the afternoon at twelve fifteen.”
“So from nine pm until twelve fifteen the following days, he is unaccounted for? Don’t you find that kind of suspicious?”
“It was not normal behavior, but he told me he was having terrible nightmares and didn’t feel well.”
“Did he tell you what the nightmares were about?”
“Yes, he did, but it wasn’t until later that we found out his dreams were the work of a serial killer.”
“Don’t you think it’s quite a coincidence that he was absent from morning prayers the day after he had ‘dreams’ about murdering people who were actually murdered?” Big Pete asked indignantly.
Father Paul grinned amused as he slowly leaned forward, resting his forearms on his desk with his hands folded together. “If by coincidence you mean do I think Father John committed the murders, I would say no.”
Big Pete looked at the abbot with perplexed eyes. “How else would you explain how he knows what he knows?”
“You have to understand that Father John has powers that most people are not capable of having or even understanding,” he explained as if talking to a child. “He is a saint who is endowed with the power of divine intervention.”
Big Pete stretched his long legs out and crossed his right foot over his left ankle as he leaned back and folded his arms.
“You’ll have to forgive me Father, but what do you mean when you say he has the power of divine intervention?”
“When Father John’s mind is in a state of dreaming his spirit transcends to another dimension where he saves people from certain death.”
“You mean like a guardian angel.”
“Yes, except he is not an angel at all. He is what the ancients refer to as a Master of Divine Intervention.”
“So you believe that through his dreams, Father John’s spirit travels through time to rescue people from death,” Big Pete asked skeptically.
“I know it is hard for non-believers to understand or accept, but haven’t you ever know someone or heard of someone who has been inexplicably saved from certain death?”
Big Pete nodded his head. “Where I come from we call it luck.”
“I assure you that luck plays no part in divine intervention.”
“If he has the power of dive intervention then why didn’t he use it to save the young ladies from being murdered?”
The abbot leaned forward in his chair and looked at Big Pete with dire concern. “He tried to stop the murders, but his powers were of no use against the malevolent power of the Sterling Killer. It is an evil energy so strong it cannot be comprehended,” he warned him firmly. “Not even Father John can explain where this dark power comes from. He only knows that he must follow his dreams where they take him so that he can stop the Sterling Killer.”
Big Pete carefully raised his thick body. “Do you mind if I have a look around the premises?” he asked unimpressed. “I’d like to see Father John’s room and any vehicles he would’ve had access to.”
“Please, help yourself,” the abbot said as he stood from his chair. “You won’t find anything here. The answer is within Father John.”