Recall (2 page)

He shut the door behind him, making sure it didn't slam. What was missing? Harmon was evasive for certain, but displayed no signs of it. Carter, if anyone, could read signs. He knew people, personalities, and when the two didn't fit. Could tell when he was looking at the wrong pieces, or when some were missing. Oftentimes, like tonight, he couldn't put it together right away. It all had to bounce around in his mind until the parts formed a meaningful whole. The other detectives in Chicago had called it
women's intuition
. All the time jealous of his clearance rate.

He walked down the hall, head down, thoughts bouncing. Turned the corner and bumped into Sheriff Jenson's belly.

“Oof,” said the portly man. “What you find out?”

Jenson's long, skinny legs led up to an ample middle, capped by skinny arms and neck. If he didn't know where something was on his gun belt, he'd have to feel his way. Country boy, North Carolina type. Once Carter had settled in, this hillbilly first impression faded. The sheriff was slow spoken, but highly intelligent. Nothing got past him without notice.

“You mean other than don't get on his bad side? Nothing. Just like he said on the ride here, he doesn't remember anything after he pulled his wallet, till his wife started yelling. Can't figure out why I don't believe a word of it. You pull his record?”

“Yep. Nothing in it. Didn't 'spect to find nuthin', nohow. Hell, known his father for years. 'Nam vet, his daddy was. Tony played football with my boys. Get one hand on a pass and he'd bring her in. Not a single fumble, no matter how hard he got crunched. Back then he was small, but you had to add thirty pounds for meanness. Nasty as a boar hog on the field. One time some poor linebacker got between him and the end zone. Bastard woke up four minutes later, five yards back, and six points down.”

Carter shifted his feet. “Sheriff. Uh, I've got to—”

“Sorry. Other than a speeding ticket, clean. Talked to his wife.
Damn
, she's a hot number, isn't she? Real upset. Still shaky, so I didn't ask too much. Said he works as a building manager at Varneck's.”

“What does she do?”

“Some exec at a think tank, whatever that means. ‘Process improvement, ' she says. Sounds like bullshit to me.”

Carter leaned an arm on the gray-painted cement block wall. “No reason to keep him. Mind if I let Red go home?”

“Who's ‘Red'?”

“The killer. You know—Mr. Harmon. Said everyone but his wife calls him Red.”

“Huh. Wouldn't have thought he went by that. Once got in a fight with my youngest for calling him ‘Carrottop.' Get him. I'll let his wife know they can go.”

Carter slipped back into the debrief room. Harmon was still sitting, arms on the fillet table, eyes focused nowhere. “Okay, been a long night. Thanks for sticking it out. Stay in town till we contact you. Go home, get some sleep. Try to put it behind you. Remember, we've got counselors on retainer who can help you guys talk through things. Especially the kids.”

“Thanks. I'm sad they saw it, but glad no one got hurt—well, you know what I mean. We'll keep an eye on the kids. They're at my parents' now. Always sleep good there. At least tomorrow's Saturday. We can all sleep in.”

The chair screeched as pencil-neck stood. “I'll let you know when a suit's been filed.”

Harmon stared at him, blank-faced.

“We're not charging you,” pencil-neck added, scratching a blotchy red cheek. “But this is America, so you'll be sued by someone. Probably the house framer, for emotional distress. I advise getting a lawyer.”

Carter rolled his eyes. “Mind signing the incident report?” He pushed the form toward Harmon. The killer signed quick as a doctor, pen clicking over the knife-marks, and pushed the papers back.

“You ambidextrous?” Carter asked.

“Not that I know of. Think I do pretty much everything right-handed.”

T
he hard black vinyl chairs of the waiting room squeaked as Red fidgeted, loud in the otherwise silent space. His legs kept falling asleep. He stood and stretched tense calves. The blue polyester drapes with scalloped edges that covered the single window smelled of cigarette smoke. Probably from a patient who couldn't stand the delay, Red mused.

“I should've been a doctor,” he muttered. “Make you wait past the appointment, ask nosy questions, ignore your answers, then demand payment before you leave.”

Lori smiled and kept turning pages in
Cosmopolitan
, looking comfortable in the short chair though she was several inches taller than he. She always looked graceful, even on a Monday morning and with no coffee.

“The county's paying. Relax.” She flipped another page and glanced up, raising eyebrows. “We've all known for years you're half crazy. Good excuse to get you free help.”

Red's lip turned up in an edgy half-smile. Her cheerful cynicism put him at ease, disarming the issue. A button on her blouse had come undone, revealing the black lace bra he'd bought last Valentine's Day. That had been a night to remember.

Following his gaze, she pursed her lips, looked down, and buttoned up. “You must've slept good last night.”

A cloud passed and the sun shone through the window, warming his face. Two weeks and he still hadn't remembered anything new. They'd talked about the Walmart incident often. Detective Carter called daily. Not a bad guy, outside the interrogation room. They'd almost become friends, despite the rough start. Carter seemed to believe his lack of recall. Last week Red had been resigned to everything blowing over, but not Lori. He'd made the appointment with the shrink at her urging.

Voices approached from behind the reception desk. “Next week,” said a female in a jumpy, Eastern European accent he couldn't place.

A brown-haired woman tugged a young boy sucking a red Blow Pop behind her. Her face hung tired; her hair half tangled. “Next week,” she replied, trailing the kid in her wake like a tugboat.

A short woman with a round face and fair skin stepped into the waiting room. Her eyes were lively, set close together behind thick-rimmed glasses. She was trim, maybe even prim, sporting a pressed black pantsuit, like a miniature pallbearer, and the owner of the accent. “Good morning. You must be Mr. Harmon. I'm Dr. Christian Sato.”

Red shook her hand. Her fingers were too short to wrap around his. And cold. “Yes, ma'am.”

She closed her eyes and bobbed in a slight bow. “I see you brought your wife.” Head inclined toward Lori.

“Actually, she brought me.”

Her cheeks rounded even more as she smiled. “Please, follow me.”

So she was Japanese. He was never good with accents, not like Lori. But how'd she get a first name like Christian? Chinese maybe, or—Dr. Sato looked back and stopped. “I'm sorry, Mrs. Harmon. Please wait for us out here. Today will be with your husband alone.”

Red frowned and gripped Lori's elbow. “Doctor, I'd prefer her with me. She saw the whole—”

Sato's cheeks tightened. All the unassuming humbleness drained away. Eyebrows rose to pointed triangles, as if the doctor were possessed by an evil twin. Red didn't know whether to laugh or turn and run. “As did
you
,” she said, looking past him to the empty waiting room. Her smile returned. The demon must have decided to move to another host. Another bob and she continued down the hall.

Lori rolled her eyes, then smacked Red on the ass. “Go on, then.” She went back to her chair.

Sato opened a black walnut veneer door, its deep purple iridescence caught by sunlight beaming through a window. She almost needed to reach up to grasp the handle. Red stopped on the threshold. His shoulders drooped when she pointed to a short black chair like the one he'd just escaped. She pulled out a high-backed wooden stool from behind a '60s-vintage metal desk, drab green, picked up a pen, and flipped open a pad. “So. Tell me why you're here.”

“I'm doing very well, thank you.”

Sato's pen tapped the paper.

Red squirmed, glancing at the door, making sure it wasn't locked. She reminded him of Aunt Susan's rat terrier, the one that used to snarl and bite at his calves when they visited every Christmas. He'd kick the mutt away, but it just kept coming back, growling and nipping like a rabid chipmunk.

She smiled again. “Tell me about yourself.”

Maybe if he played along, with short answers, he'd get out faster.

No such luck. Sato kept firing questions back. About family. His parents. Then his brothers. Did they fight? What the hell kind of question was that? “Of course we fought. If either son of a bitch was here now, you'd probably see a fight.”

More questions. As if she liked to hear him talk. After half an hour, she took off her glasses and rubbed two red dots on the bridge of her nose. “You'd make a lousy dance partner, Mr. Harmon. I can't help if you don't cooperate.”

“I don't see how all this talk is gonna do anything.”

“Hmm. Denial.”

The narrow armrests dug into his elbows as he pushed himself upright. “What?”

She set the glasses back on her nose, peering over the rims. “That's what we call it. Denial. You recently killed two men. Almost three. Out of character, wouldn't you say? Yet, you're not concerned with figuring it out. Why?”

Red clenched his jaw. He detected a faint whiff of cigarette smoke again. “Yeah, I wanna do that. But what if you write down on that pad that I'm crazy? Maybe a danger to my family?”

Her tone was gentler now. “I'm here to help, Mr. Harmon, not disrupt your life. I realize you may be worried.”

“You think?” he exclaimed.

“If I am to help, we must trust each other. The only way that'll happen is if you open up.” She slipped off her stool with a hop. Didn't stand much taller than when she was sitting. She walked around the desk with folded arms, hands clasping elbows, heels clicking the floor, pen snapping in and out. Her shoes had three-inch spike heels. Red smiled, though he tried not to.

“If I give you a clearer picture of where I'm going with the questions, would that help you open up?”

He tilted his head. “Uh—sure.”

She walked behind him. “At first, when you called, I thought maybe
brain tumor
. Or head trauma. Your file says medically discharged from the Air Force. Almost crushed to death when a bank of shelves fell down on you. So, could be, I thought. Then I received the Walmart video from Detective Carter.”

Red sat up. She'd already studied his case. “What about the video?”

“Let's do some deduction. About the way you killed those men. I would say you've been trained.”

His nails dug into the armrest. “I told you, I've never been trained for anything like that. Maybe it was some sort of adrenaline overload. A reaction to—”

“No.” She stuck out her lip. “Adrenaline can't teach you how to do a task you don't know. What you did was skillful—violent.” She stood next to his chair now, leaning forward, flaring her fingers before his face. “Even . . . beautiful.”

He snorted. “You're nuts. You oughta be the one in this chair.”

Sato's cackle startled him. She strutted back to her stool. “Ah, yes. Three ex-husbands would agree.”

Maybe she wasn't such a bitch after all. Least she could take a joke. Red got up and went to the window, stretching his legs to get the blood flowing again. Felt like needles in his skin.

“Back to deduction,” she said. “I see a lot of military in my practice. In a situation like yours at Walmart, a civilian does what he's told. But if you've been trained, well—that's where it comes out.” She thrust her palms toward him. “So, you didn't do what you were told.”

“Maybe I panicked.”

“The video doesn't support that theory. Only other option is trained.”

He scratched the cowlicks on the crown of his skull. “Whatever.”

Sato leaned over the desk, fingers flat on the top, the tips white. “So. We've accepted that you were trained. Now, don't you want to know why you can't remember that? Are there other things you aren't remembering?
That's
why the questions.
That's
why you need to open up.”

The chair squeaked like nails on slate as Red slid himself back into it. He pushed his legs straight out in front and clasped his fingers behind his neck. “Okay. I'll quit being a jerk.”

“How do you feel now, about the killing?”

His eyes studied the ceiling. “Don't know. Try not to think about it, I guess.”

“But now you can.”

“When I do, it seems surreal. Like watching a movie. I really don't think it's hit me yet.”

“I see.” Sato scribbled a note. “Sleeping okay?”

“Like a baby.”

“What about dreams? Any strange ones? Nightmares?”

“None I remember. But . . .”

“Yes?”

He closed his eyes, trying to think back. “Okay. Had one. In it I was tied to a chair with piano wire. The punk, the one I didn't kill, he was beating on me. Hurt like a bitch. I was in a hospital, bandaged up, just like after all those shelves came down on me in the warehouse. Then I woke up. That's all.”

She underlined something. “Feelings of guilt? For doing what you did?”

He yawned. Why should he feel badly? “No. They were trying to kill me.”

She hopped up. “Let's dance, Mr. Harmon. I want you to act something out.” She grasped his wrist, grip firm now, and pulled him to his feet. She pushed his chair toward the door, then sat on her desk with a jump. “You saw the video. Pretend it's happening again. Tell me what you feel. Ready? Okay—one guy lunges at you with a knife.”

This lady was nuts. But why not go along? He slipped his hands from his pockets, wedding ring snagging on the seam. He closed his eyes and swung an arm. “Yeah. The video showed—”

“We know what it shows. Quit thinking about it. Put
yourself
back there, two weeks ago. Just pretend. What do you
feel
?”

His eyes burned as he shut them tight. Okay. If he was crazy, he needed to know. This shrink might testify if the lawsuit filed by the dead guys' families ever went to court. What can it hurt?

He envisioned the gangster holding the knife again, sharp edge gleaming. The last thing he remembered before the forgotten time. “I feel . . . relieved.”

“Explain.” Her voice was calm, almost seductive.

Keeping his eyes closed, he pointed to the side, where Lori would've been sitting in the truck. “Lori has the keys. The doors are locked. She's already calling 911. Even if they kill me, my family's safe. So, I'm relieved.” He tilted his head. Another thought appeared in his mind, as if a spotlight had just shone upon it. “But those other two. If they've got a gun, they could still hurt them.”

“How does that make you feel?”

His heart beat heavy, but slower. The cadence you'd use to work a sledgehammer on a wedge to split an unyielding piece of firewood. “I'm angry.”

“Not scared?”

He huffed, surprised. “Uh—no. So the first guy lunges at me and I—” The sledgehammer swung faster now, harder. A presence, a ghost, distantly familiar, was knocking to be let in at his mind's door. He licked salty perspiration from his lip. “
Now
I'm scared.”

Sato's voice was deadpan. “Now, as at Walmart? Or now, as in this room?”

He strained to pull his thoughts back to the present, to this office. What had that been? Maybe he
was
crazy. He opened his eyes. “Nothing. Just scared then . . . at the idea of being robbed. I guess.”

She dropped her head, as if disappointed. Then hopped off the desk and climbed back onto her stool.

“Mr. Harmon, you're a terrible liar. I realize you're scared, so we'll take it as slow as you want. Before you go, here's something to think about: You say you have memory problems. Yet clearly you knew what you were doing when you killed those men. Handling yourself with adept violence.” She pointed her fingers to the ceiling. “You pulled out a man's throat! I never even knew that could be done bare-handed. The fact that only two are dead is not by chance. Three seconds later, you're interrogating a prisoner.” She leaned forward, staring with too-close eyes. “You don't
remember
training. You don't
remember
a fight in a parking lot. The two may be connected. It may not be the first time this has happened. You see? Let's find out together, shall we?”

She slapped the pad with her pen and leaned back. “Or, you could possibly have past brain trauma. I'm going to ask your doctor to order an MRI. Either way, next visit I
do
want your wife in here with you.”

She smiled again, the devil back in her eyes. “By their wives, ye shall know them.”