Side Effects: An FBI Psychological Thriller (8 page)

“Right.” He started crunching on some ice. “But once the victim gets our guy going in the right direction, he’ll want out, right? Why would he want to venture an hour north from his ‘home,’ so to speak?”

“Our guy knew the victim was afraid of fire. Maybe he threatened to burn him if he didn’t stay put.”

Morris frowned. “How the hell do you burn a guy while driving? Without putting yourself in danger, no less?”

“Well, he wouldn’t actually burn him in the car, of course; but he could still make the threat.”

“And if our victim was as scared shitless of fire as Reggie said, what would stop him from jumping out of a moving car after such a threat was made?”

“Locked doors.”

“And what would stop him from putting up a fight? Grabbing the wheel and running them off the road, anything to avoid being burned?”

I sipped my wine and said nothing. Morris was right; even in a movie the idea of the bad guy threatening to burn the victim in the car while he was driving would have caused eye-rolling and groans.

“So, can we rule out a threat then?” Morris asked. “Keeping the victim’s butt in the car for an hour-long drive from Trenton to Newark, can we rule out a threat?”

“I think so,” I said. “The victim doesn’t seem the type to respond to threats, and the one possible exception of fire just doesn’t work.”

“So he went willingly.”

I thought about that. It was the only other alternative, wasn’t it? I sipped the last of my second glass of wine and sat back in my chair with a long sigh, savoring the calming effect the wine was beginning to have on my mind and body.

I thought about when Mike and I used to stay in on a Saturday night before Christopher was born. We would get takeout and drink lots of wine and giggle and fool around, even role-play; the wine always lowered our inhibitions and made us naughty.

Before Christopher had been diagnosed, we really did have it good, Mike and me. Once Christopher had been diagnosed, and especially after he’d left us, I found it impossible to move on, and Mike had grown increasingly frustrated at my inability to do so. I often wondered if Mike hadn’t died,
would
we have eventually moved on? Could we have toughed it out, or more precisely, could
I
have toughed it out?

Mike is dead.

I never needed a reminder about my son, but I often—for reasons I truly didn’t know—forgot that my husband was gone. Maybe it was because things had gotten so bad between us, right up until the very end?

My husband is dead. Like Christopher. Both of them dead.

I stood from the table. “I’m going to get another glass of wine. You want anything?”

I expected him to object to my third glass of wine, but then I’d never told him about my two-drink limit because of the effect too much alcohol with the drug had on me—the intense flu-like symptoms, the horrific dreams. He was my partner, and we were close, but he wasn’t Dr. Cole. Besides, I’d felt it was all ultimately irrelevant anyway as I had no such intentions of imbibing on the drug ever again—

(except now, right?)

(I’m sad
;
I need it)

(
so Enabling Yourself Appreciation Day has arrived in full swing, has it?)

—and so instead of objecting, Morris merely pointed to his scotch glass and said: “Same again, please.”

I went to the bar and ordered our drinks.

“Hey, Red…haven’t seen you around here before.”

I turned and faced a guy who looked like he paid rent on the barstool to which his fat butt was plopped. And “Red?”
Really?

“That’s because I’m not from around here,” I said.

“Damn shame. Can I interest you in a tour guide?” A lecherous smirk followed his offer.

“No you cannot.”

“Come on, Red, I won’t bite…maybe.” A bump of the eyebrows above the lecherous smirk now.

I was more fascinated by the guy than I was repulsed. Well, I was repulsed, but still, I didn’t think guys like this existed. He was a real life cliché that seemed to have wandered out of a film. I wondered if he ever picked up a woman looking and acting the way he did, and if so, what the hell were
they
like? Still, fascinated or not, he needed some place-putting, and I was happy to do it.

“If you did bite, it would be considered assault. And being a federal agent, I would then be justified in shooting you in the dick.”

Cliché spun his fat back to me and said no more. That cheered me up a bit.

I returned to our table and handed Morris his scotch.

“Thanks,” he said after taking a healthy sip. “I think I’m done after this one. Anymore and I’ll be snoozing right here—” He tapped his index finger on our table.

I took my own healthy sip of my chardonnay and considered Morris’ words…

Which made me think about Mike and I becoming uninhibited after too much wine…

Which made me sad and want to take another sip…

Which made me think about Reggie mourning the victim and going for the whiskey in his pocket to ease the pain…

Which brought me back to Morris saying anymore scotch and he’d be snoozing right here at the table…

Which made me suddenly lean into the table, eager for Morris’ ear.

“He drugged him,” I said. “Our guy
drugged
the victim.”

Now Morris leaned in. We looked like we were planning a heist of some kind. “Drugged him how?”

“It’s going to sound like a cliché—homeless guy helpless to alcohol—but I think our guy offered the victim booze. The booze was drugged.”

“Why?”

“Reggie smelled like whiskey. And when we let him go, he immediately tucked into a pint of booze. Reggie and the victim were best friends. The victim was too afraid of fire to smoke—and who can blame him—but who’s to say he stayed away from booze?”

“So the victim gets in the car and our guy offers him a drink?” Morris said.

“Why not? It’s like an icebreaker of sorts.”

“Would a cagey man like the victim accept booze from a stranger?”

“Perhaps. What if the victim was a drinker? I mean a big drinker. It’s his vice. We know Reggie had a bottle at the ready…”

“All right, I’ll buy this,” Morris said. “So our guy offers the victim a drink or two during the drive and the victim accepts, not knowing that our guy slipped him a big mickey.”

I nodded. “The victim passes out in the passenger seat, and now our guy is free to take him anywhere he wants without bother.”

“So he takes him to the abandoned mill in Newark and shackles him by the ankle.”

“Right.”

“Then what?”

I frowned. “Then what?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, if we knew that we wouldn’t be—”

“No, I don’t mean that ‘then what?’ I mean…then what?”

I splayed a hand. “You lost me, Tim.”

“I mean did he burn him then whack him? Whack him then burn him? Both? What about trophies? You still thinking he took photos or maybe filmed it? What about the right palm?”

My splayed hand became a stop hand. “Whoa, slow it down a little, please.”

He cocked his head and eyed me curiously. “Having trouble keeping up?”

“When you become Alex Trebek on Red Bull I do. Give me one at a time.”

Morris crunched some ice. “Still think he’s doing trophies in the way of photos or videos?”

“Probably,” I said.

“Think he burned him to scare him, or to get rid of evidence?”

“Probably both,” I said.

“Think he did something to the right palm, even though we couldn’t find it because of the extensive burning?”

“Probably.”

He frowned. “What are you, a skipped record?”

“Well, you’re asking me silly yes or no questions. If you want me to hypothesize, fine-tune your queries, please.”

He crunched a big hunk of ice this time, probably wishing it was my head. “Okay…the victim wakes up in the concrete room we found him in. He’s shackled and disoriented. Did anyone see our guy taking the victim inside the mill? Inside the concrete room? If the victim was unconscious, our guy had to be carrying or dragging him.”

“Homeless squatting in the mill smelled the burning body; it’s what got them curious,” I said.

Morris made an unpleasant face. “Right—
barbecue
.”

“Point is they only checked it out
after
smelling barbecue,” I said. “If they’d seen something shady prior to that, they probably would have fled. Their whole existence relies on self-preservation, looking the other way.”

“They did try and save the victim, putting out the fire,” he said.

“They did, yes.”

“So, maybe they didn’t look the other way this time.”

“Except Newark PD questioned them and got nothing,” I said.

“Right…” Morris took a big sip and began sucking on a piece of ice this time, no crunch.

We were stuck. Everything up until now had strong retail value, but from here on out we were struggling to sell anything.

“Shackled in the concrete room,” I said.

“Yeah.”

“He’s unconscious from the drugged booze,” I said.

“Assuming that’s what he did.”

“Why not cuff him then? Why wait until he’s awake to get the cuffs on him? Fingerprints all over two of the four walls told us our guy didn’t cuff the victim until he was conscious.”

“Maybe he woke up.”

I sipped my wine. It
was
the simplest explanation. Or…

“Maybe it’s not part of the fantasy,” I said.

“Cuffing is part of the fantasy? Explain that.”

“I can’t—not yet.”

“What
can
we explain about his methodology? What drives him?”

I sipped more wine as my mind churned. “Exploiting the victim’s fear of fire can’t be a coincidence; there has to be a connection there.”

Morris spat the piece of ice he’d been sucking back into his glass. “If you’d told me our guy had been following the victim months—even weeks—out, then maybe I’d buy it. But this victim was a one-night stand, remember? There’s simply no way he could have known about the victim’s fear of fire beforehand, much less planned on utilizing it somehow.”

“If the victim was indeed drugged, he might have mentioned his fear of fire to our guy without even realizing,” I said.

“Okay, fine—I’ll buy that. But my point still stands. No way our guy could have been depending on such a thing. It was a fluke. A—forgive me for saying—pleasant bonus for our guy to have such an exploitable fear divulged to him.”

“Unless our guy simply asked him?” I said.

Morris drained his scotch. “Asked him if he was afraid of fire?”

“No—that would be too specific. How about just asked him what he was afraid of?”

“Reggie said the victim’s fear of fire was so intense he was even afraid to smoke. Why would he offer up such a phobia to a complete stranger?”

“Because he was drugged,” I said with some satisfaction. Though I’m not sure why. To dust off an old chestnut, it felt like we really had only just scratched the surface.

“All right,” Morris said. “Our guy simply asked, and the victim, in his drugged state, told him. There’s our guy’s leverage to do whatever the hell he does with them before bashing their heads in. No life-leverage like the other victims, so there’s our guy’s leverage on
this
victim: find out what scares the hell out of him and threaten to make it happen.”

“Right,” I said. “And gasoline and a basic igniter aren’t exactly difficult items to come by at the last minute—our guy could have picked them up while the victim was shackled and unconscious in the mill.”

“Right,” Morris said. “Good thing for our guy the victim wasn’t afraid of sharks.”

“Funny.”

We sat quiet for a moment, digesting it all.

“Okay then,” he eventually said.

“Okay then,” I said.

Another moment of silence. We then exchanged a look as though neither of us had studied for the test, yet were offering to copy off one another.

Morris eventually let out a long sigh and ran both hands down his face. “There’s so much more.”

“Yeah—” I finished the last of my wine. “Maybe we should call it a night.”

Morris gave a tired nod and stood. “I’ll go settle the tab.”

And so now, showered and wrapped in towels and lying on the motel bed, still mellow from wine, having gone over everything Morris and I covered at the bar, I recalled Dr. Cole’s words about my not needing the drug to sharpen my investigative skills. I recalled telling him I needed the drug to expedite, not sharpen. I still believe that. And even though the smell of Morris’ peppermint TUMS had been the catalyst to me blurting out to Reggie about how the victim had been burned, the rest (linking my sorrow in remembering good times with Mike to Reggie’s sorrow…to Reggie drinking away that sorrow…to Morris’ comment about falling asleep after too much scotch…and then finally to the possibility that the victim had been drugged by booze, thus allowing easier transportation for our guy, possibly even mind control) had been my good old noggin doing its thing, not the drug.

Now if I could only get my good old noggin to take it to the next step and offer me a peek into this whacko’s mind, I just might be able to start tapering my dose of the drug back to that therapeutic and less harmful range again.

Assuming I still cared about living.

The young male employee behind the counter greeted him with a chummy smile. “Hey, man, how can I help you?”

“I was in here a few months back. I bought an infrared camera.”

“Oh right! I remember now. How’d it work out for you?”

“Pretty good. Only got to use it once though. Next trip was kinda…cancelled last minute.”

“Ah geez, that sucks. What can I help you with today?”

“I’m interested in a headcam.”

“Oh yeah? For anything in particular?”

“Spelunking,” Joe lied. “I’d use it for caves.”

“No shit?” The young man slapped a hand over his mouth and looked around the store. No one was there. He giggled and said, “Pardon my French. Spelunking, huh? You got bigger balls than I do, bro.”