REG’S FINGERS pinched the ignition key in his four year old Lincoln. He looked up at Reuben, standing beside the car with his hands in his pockets.
“Are you sure you don’t want to come with?"
Reuben shook his head. "I’m doing lunch with Gloria and the kids at the mall."
"Cool. I’ll call if anything comes up."
"Oh, Reg?"
"Yeah?"
"Saturday night—"
“Eight O’clock, date with death, I know. Thank the gin and rum gods it’s only Thursday.”
The Town Car choked, sputtered, and fired up.
"You need to get that looked at,” Reuben yelled over the engine noise.
"Maybe Abigail knows someone. I’ll ask her Saturday night. Later Gator.”
Reg lurched out of his department parking space and returned to his working theory. It was 2:00PM. If his theory led anywhere now, he would have to hump late into the evening. I’m gonna remember that, Benny, he thought.
He fished his note pad from his jacket and saw that Dr. Hilliard’s address resided on the border between Frankenmuth and Bay City. Since his shotgun was having family time, Reg sucked his teeth and dusted off the GPS from the glove compartment. The small electronic device always got him to his destination with a fair amount of accuracy, but using it made him feel like a child with a coloring book. He had to stay within the electronic-road lines.
Driving should be a free, uninhibited experience. One should allow for clear fall days and brisk wind-fairies, to infuse primal roaming instincts with a yearning for the wild blue yonder. Much like ancestors of old, Reg thought, in the days when they stomped the African plains. They ruled the Serengeti mounted atop regal grey beasts embellished with majestic tusks of ivory.
A horn blared behind the Town Car.
"Dude, some of us have places to go!”
Reg returned to his own century. He stuck the coloring book to its Velcro perch on the dashboard, and hit the gas.
***
The nurse seated behind the reception desk wore a bee-hive hairdo beneath a tiny, white nurse’s cap. Reg kept a smirk in check at the unusual sight.
"I’m here to see Dr. Curtis Hilliard."
"One moment,” the nurse said. She answered the phone ringing to life in front of her. “Dori Grey Behavioral Center, may I help you?"
His subdued smirk widened, at the miniature white ship riding a wave of hair. She ended her phone call. He tightened his lips.
"You were saying, sir?"
"I was hoping to speak with Dr. Hilliard?"
"Do you have an appointment?"
"No, but—"
"Dr. Hilliard sees patients by appointment only."
"I’m a detective with the Bay City Police Department.”
"I see,” she said, and eyed him as if he were the one with the outdated clump of hair on his head. “He is with a patient. If you’re willing to wait, I’ll inform him you are here."
Reg settled into a soft-backed chair in the waiting area. The Dori Grey Behavioral Center afforded you what a private institution was supposed to. Privacy, immaculate white walls, and aromatic fresheners that concealed the odors of patient care. Dori Grey lacked the trademarks of its inner-city public cousins. A string of tired buildings rife with medicinal stench, and partly robed patients, wandering the halls.
Another feature that no self-respecting, public institution would be caught dead harboring, was silk screen reproductions of famous artists. Draping the pristine Dori Grey walls were Gauguin's Nafea Faa Ipoipo, Van Gogh’s Starry Night, and Whistler's Mother. Whistler hung behind the nurse’s station, partially obstructed by an ocean of beehive waves.
Reg didn’t recognize the other mimeographs hung in the poshest crazy-house he’d ever been in. To keep his enthusiast spirits up, he clung to those he did.
An office door adjacent to Whistler’s Mother swung open. A blond, blue eyed man, wearing LEVI’s and a Members Only jacket, exited. Reg’s immediate thought was ‘male runway model.’
Blond hair! Blue eyes! Model! Didn't Dr. Whitfield go on about how handsome Johnathan Fare was? It was why he was picked so often, she’d said. Could this be him, or rather, Him?
The handsome stranger fit the part, in both age and appearance. But so had two others on the drive there, including the guy who beeped Reg away from the African Plains.
What are the odds of running into the Animal in some obscure doctor’s office? About as likely as hitting the lottery in every state, on the same day, he thought. Besides, he still didn’t know if Johnathan Fare was his man, or if his reach of a suspect even resided among the living.
A shorter, plump man, with horn-rimmed specs and a three piece suit wrapped around his belly bulge, emerged from behind the runway model. He spoke to the receptionist.
"Akira, hold my calls a while longer. I have some files to look over and don’t wish to be disturbed.”
"Certainly, Doctor Hilliard, but there is someone here to see you."
"Oh? I’ve no appointments scheduled."
Akira pointed at Reg. "This gentleman here."
"Dr. Hilliard,” Reg stood to greet him, “Detective Reginald Williams of the Bay City Police Department. Might I have a word?"
Reg extended his hand for a shake. He towered over Hilliard by at least three inches. The doctor’s fingers were stubby, his palm clammy, and his expression puzzled. Reg swiped his hand on the back of his trouser leg after letting go.
"Is this about those building permits on my South Side properties?"
"No, Dr. Hilliard, this has nothing to do with building permits. Can we talk in your office?"
Hilliard gave him a dubious once over, and then extended an arm toward his office. So far, Reg’s working theory was taking the day off. The doctor wasn’t nervous or fidgety, just confused, as anyone would be if the police showed up at their door, unannounced.
Reg accepted the invitation and strolled into a picturesque cliché. The aroma of books emanated from the shelves of a pine bookcase, lining the right wall. It reminded him of his high school library. A place he would have frequented more often, if the girls he chased back then were smarter, or if he were. The large panel window, behind a modest Oak desk, bathed the doctor’s spacious office in late afternoon sunlight. As he neared the illustrious L-shaped couch, rooted in the middle of the room, the scent of fine leather replaced that of book bindings. An atmospheric fern was nestled in a corner by the window.
Flush against the wall to his left, stood the only unusual feature in the room. A life-sized replica of Newton's Balls. Reg’s distorted reflection in the shiny, silver orbs, made its way to the brown leather wingback chair, facing Hilliard’s desk. The doctor sat when he did, and spoke first.
"If this is not about building permits, then what?"
"Dr. Sandra Whitfield," he said quickly, hoping to get a reaction.
"Afraid I am not familiar with that name."
"Sorry, Doc, thought you might be. She is a children's specialist out of Frankenmuth."
"I assume by that you mean therapist?"
"Her distinction is treating traumatized children."
"Sorry, still never heard of her,” Hilliard said with a straight face.
"Perhaps it was another Dr. Hilliard, at another Dori Grey Behavioral Center, who she said called her about some files." Reg saw a tick of surprise in the doctor’s eyes, or maybe an awkward blink, he couldn’t be sure. "Got it written down somewhere, Doc?"
“I’ll check."
Hilliard vacated his Eames chair for a large filing cabinet beside the fern. He fingered through a thick row of manila folders, pulled one out, and returned to his desk.
"Let's see, Sandra Whitfield. Ah, yes, here we are. Forgive me, detective, it was so long ago."
"You remember Mrs. Whitfield, and the patient you called about?"
"Looking at it now, yes. I was conducting a study on schizophrenia and multiple personality disorders. I heard about a patient she once had under her care, so I phoned to see if she would share her files."
"How is that, Doc?"
"What?"
"That you came to hear about this patient of hers?"
Hilliard glanced up at Reg over his horn-rimmed glasses. He pulled at his starched collar, as if the fit were suddenly too tight.
"Doc?"
"Let me see here," he said, shuffling papers on his desk.
He’s fidgeting. The theory might come to work after all. It didn’t mean Johnathan was alive, but the main reason he’d come to see Hilliard, was for the answer to the question he’d just asked. How did Dr. Curtis Hilliard find out about Johnathan Fare, when he wasn't in the loop to begin with?
Reg smiled at the tiny bubbles of sweat breaking out on Hilliard’s forehead. The doctor looked as nervous as a man about to be audited for the first time.
"Doc?"
"Funny thing," Hilliard said, still shuffling papers, "I don't seem to have recorded how I heard about her patient."
Reg got up and strolled over to the life-sized replica of Newton’s balls. "Whitfield’s patient was a very unique case. Seems to me you would remember how you heard about him, even if you didn’t write it down." Reg smoothed a hand across one of the enormous silver orbs.
"Well, detective, we are talking about some time ago. There are days I can't remember my own birthday. Heh-heh, you know what I mean." Hilliard fingered his collar again.
"Maybe you overlooked it.” Reg stepped toward him and reached for the file. “Let me try. Two heads are better than one, right?"
"I can’t.” Hilliard rose and clamped the file to his chest. “Doctor patient confidentiality."
He had a day and a half to get a break in the case. No way was some stuffed shirt, horn-rimmed, psycho-babbler, about to spit the hook and wriggle free. This case reeked. Everyone involved stunk of the odor. The Artemisians got away with abusing and murdering children, and the rest aided in the cover-up. He was getting that name out of Hilliard the Malcolm X way if he had to—By Any Means Necessary.
"Oh, you’re going to tell me a name, Doc. If not …" Reg removed the glock from his shoulder holster. He clunked it, and his badge, down on Hilliard’s Oak desk. "… you and I are going to have a very serious conversation. Get my drift?"
Hilliard’s eyes popped wide. He swallowed hard. “I … I see.”
Once Reg saw that the file was fake, filled with hospital invoices, he knew his working theory had punched the clock. He planted his fists on the sitting doctor’s desk.
"Where is he, Doc?"
Hilliard sighed. "Take a seat and I will tell you what I know."
"I'm done taking seats on this one. Tell me what you know, before I really lose my temper.”
"No.” Hilliard’s eyes met his. "I will tell it my way. You can beat me to a bloody pulp, but that won’t get you the information.”
Reg wanted to backslap the smug out of him. He wanted to pick up his glock, cock it, and place a bullet through the bridge of Hilliard's nose. He grit his teeth under the thought, as the glock settled back into its holster. He latched his badge to his belt and grudgingly took a seat.
"Make it good and quick, Doc, or we are going to start talking about bloody pulps again."
"There is no need to continue to threaten me. I said I would cooperate. Crikey, a lot of good silicone mannequins and fake funerals accomplished.”
“What’s that?” Reg said.
Hilliard’s chest and gaze fell. He slumped in his chair. “Johnathan Fare is supposed to be dead to everyone but me. They faked his death and buried a silicone mannequin. It was all very convincing, they said.”
Reg nodded slowly. He marked another victory for a theory, like the Donna Summer song, that was working hard for its money.
“You have to understand, I had no idea who Johnathan was when he was referred to me."
"Referred to you by whom? KIWI?"
Hilliard looked up. "If you are familiar with other aspects of the Fare case, it will make this a lot easier. Are you?"
Reg stared at him grimly, not saying a word. He wondered if the receptionist got a good enough look to pick him out of a lineup.
The doctor attended to his self-tightening collar. "Okay then, let’s assume we’re on the same page. I got a call from a KIWI representative, using the former Mayor as a reference. The caller asked if I would be willing to take on a client."
"Why use the Mayor as a reference?”
"During his first run for office, I discreetly treated Mayor Swartz's sixteen year old son. Substance abuse and depression, the norm for well-to-do teenage rebels. If any of his son’s troubles leaked, it would have hurt his chances in the election. They didn’t. For that, KIWI felt I was right for the Fare case."
"Go on."
"When Johnathan first came to me it was difficult. He was used to Dr. Whitfield’s mothering approach. So, in the same way KIWI led Whitfield, and others, to believe Johnathan had died in an accident, I told him she was dead. Over time he accepted it, but I needed more insight, and phoned the good doctor for her files."
"Why? You just said he accepted Whitfield’s death."
"He came to accept it in a way, yes, but began cutting and shutting down in session. After reading how his self-mutilation stemmed from watching the cult slaughter their victims, I suggested we find him a life-sized doll. A temporary measure, until we could get him to stop cutting altogether."
Reg entered the State of Disbelief, a place he frequented so often lately, he wondered if the capitol was Stunning.
"You allowed a mentally ill, potentially homicidal, patient to get a human-sized representative, and cut and slice on it as he pleased?"
"I wouldn’t put it in those words."
Reg sprung from his wingback chair and turned away, to keep from re-arranging Hilliard’s dental work. He paced the room with his right hand cupped over his forehead, his left on his hip.
"It didn’t occur to you, Doctor, that maybe, just maybe, he would tire of the doll and want a live subject?”
"There were risks, but the benefits far outweighed—"
"Your risks may have gotten four women killed, and God knows how many others. Have you been reading the papers, Doc?”
Hilliard stood in heated defiance of his own. "If you are suggesting I am somehow indirectly responsible for these Animal slayings, I will have you know—”
“No,” Reg shot a stern finger of blame at him, "if Johnathan Fare is the killer, you are directly responsible.”
"Crikey, no way—”
"Come on, man.” Reg waved a backhand of disgust. He wished it could have been across the doctor’s temple, instead of from across the room. "You read about those women being murdered, and how they were sliced and hog tied, and you never once connected it to your nutcase of a client?”
"There were minor similarities, but nothing that would warrant—"
"Want to know why you didn’t connect the dots? Because, if you did, those fat checks from KIWI would stop coming. Then your client would be in jail, and you and your KIWI representative on the run.”
"I have a daughter of my own, you know, and besides, there was no evidence released, no clues to the identity of this Animal, no description, no nothing.”
Reg froze mid-pace. Hilliard had him there. The lack of evidence in the case was a consistent source of aggravation. But he refused to believe Hilliard had no idea his client may have been a serial killer.
"Alright, Doc, let's say you’ve been gallivanting around with blinders on these past couple of months. Did anything about your treatment change, say, four months ago?"
"Don't know off hand. I would have to check the file."
Hilliard penguined his portly frame over to the same cabinet that produced the fake file, extracted a genuine one, and returned to his chair.
Not wanting to miss a word, Reg hulked over the doctor’s desk.
"Four months ago? Hmm, here we are, five months ago I changed his medication."
Reg picked up Hilliard's copy of the DSM-IV off his desk, and whacked him across the left side of his head with it.
Hilliard yelped from his chair and thudded to the floor. He landed sprawled on his back. Reg straddled him, the DSM-IV still clutched in his hands.
"Bullshit, Doc. You should have suspected something. One more question. Right answer, I leave you alone. Wrong one, I hit you again."
"What are you—?"
"Shut up.” Reg gripped the heavy tome on both ends. He raised it overhead. "What color was Fare's doll?"
"I had him spray paint it red. Happy now?”
"Yep, but you won’t be, because that was the wrong answer."
Reg slammed the book on Hilliard's face. The doctor’s head double-dribbled the floor, knocking him cold. Reg scooped up the Fare file, and hurried past Whistler and the Beehive, out of the facility.
He heard Akira’s scream from the Dori Grey parking lot, and assumed she had found her boss stretched out on his office floor. When Hilliard regains his senses, his KIWI contact will be his first call. Reg’s day and a half just got squeezed to—get to Fare before they do.