Side Effects: An FBI Psychological Thriller (12 page)

“Victim four?”

“The black guy from Maryland?”

“We can have Baltimore start the ball rolling until we get there. We can give them the particulars when we call Amy Crane,” I said.

“They’re not gonna go for it, Mags. It’s a theory; an agent on bereavement’s theory.”

“So we tell them what we just found.”

“We definitely found something, but it’s still early days, Mags.”

Now I sighed. “So then you tell me; what should we do in the meantime? Hang around campus? Hit up a frat party?”

“Oh, they’d like you. Spirited little redhead who knows about boxing and beer?”

“I’m serious, Tim; we can’t just stay in West Chester.”

“Actually, we can,” he said, his face and tone becoming professional again. “If we get any hits from local PD about support groups in the—”

I interrupted him. “They’re not going to be getting anything anytime soon—”

He held up a hand, telling me to let him finish. “If we get any hits from local PD about support groups in the area, great. If not, Amy Crane might very well have something for us before the day’s out. I don’t feel like driving all the way to Maryland and back in twenty-four hours, do you?”

“That’s the job,” I said.

“Maximum efficiency is the job.”

He was right. Journeying all the way from Pennsylvania to Maryland only to get a hit about something here and then turning right around and journeying back would not be the most efficient use of time. With one exception: what the hell were we supposed to do here while waiting for Amy Crane to do her thing, or local PD to rally their troops,
if
they even did it today?

“Okay, fine; we stay here,” I said. “And do what?”

“I could use a bite. We’ll bring victim four’s file with us and pore over it during lunch.”

“I read victim four’s file,” I said. “I didn’t find anything.”

“And that’s why we’re going to read it again.”

I pursed my lips. “Fine. You’re buying lunch.”

“I fly, you buy; you know the rules.”

“I’m not
allowed
to fly. I’m a flight risk. I might have one of my Spidey-sense moments and run us off the road. Sorry, exception to the rule this time—you’re flying
and
buying.”

“Yo, Pierce.”

Startled back to life, Joe looked up and found Paul Jennings leaning over the edge of one of his cubicle walls. Paul Jennings was popular among the men and women in his office. He’d spoken to Joe a few times, but never by name. Always “man” or “buddy” or “pal” or “slick.”

Today it was “Pierce.” Cool guys always called each other by their last names.
Pierce
he’d called him.

“What’s up, Jennings?” Joe said. He did not smile. It would be pussy to smile.

Jennings leaned further over the cubicle wall, spoke just above a whisper.

“Bennett, Miller, and me are going to hit up McCalley’s for a few necessary libations. You in?”

It was out of Joe’s mouth before he even considered it. “But it’s lunchtime,” he said.

“Yeah, so?”

Joe began to stammer. He bit his inner cheek to fight it, but the stammer had the insistence of hiccups. “No, no, I uh…I was just…”

Jennings leaned away from the cubicle and raised his hands. “It’s cool, man, forget it.”

He was back to “man” again.

Joe quickly shifted in his chair, leaned in with an eager whisper, hoping Jennings would lean back in as he once had, begin whispering again too: two cool guys planning something bad.

“No, no, it’s cool, Jennings. I was, I was, I was just—”
Stop stammering!!!
“I was just…”

Jennings raised his hands again. “It’s all good, pal, catch you later.”

Pal…

Jennings turned and walked a few feet to where Bennett and Miller were waiting. They formed a small huddle as Jennings whispered something to them. Bennett shook his head and made a face. Miller said something and they all chuckled softly.

Joe didn’t have to hear them to know what they’d said.

Pussy.

Faggot.

You know his real name is Jody, don’t you?

That’s a girl’s name!

Perfect fit!

And then the laughter.

All three of them left the office. Joe sat in his chair feeling sick. He wasn’t aware that his right fist was clenched so tightly his fingernails were biting into his palm.

A female co-worker who’d witnessed the incident wheeled her chair from her cubicle to Joe’s. He did not notice her arrival until she placed her hand on his clenched fist and said: “I’ll have lunch with you, Joe.”

Joe looked at his co-worker as if he meant to kill her then and there. Through clenched teeth he quietly hissed: “
I do NOT need your help.
” He ripped his fist out of her grasp and spun away from her.

Sitting at his desk, his rage pulsing, Joe Pierce eventually opened his fist and studied it. His fingernails had cut into his palm, slicing open the scar tissue that had been there for decades.

“I think they went to China for our food,” I said. We’d stopped at a little Chinese restaurant on the outskirts of West Chester, hoping for any or all of the following three to occur while we ate:

1. Amy Crane, the tech analyst from the Baltimore field office, to call with something useful about West Chester University student Douglas Caley’s use of the internet when it came to treating his extreme phobia of dogs. Chat rooms, private forums, that kind of thing.

2. Local PD getting a hit after canvassing surrounding phobia support groups in the area with Douglas Caley’s photo to see if he might have attended any, perhaps under a pseudonym.

3. Our guy walking into the Chinese restaurant and confessing to every damn thing while we waited (forever) for our food to arrive.

“I heard it’s different over there,” Morris said.

“What is?” I asked.

“The Chinese food in China—I heard it’s different. This is like
American
Chinese food. Apparently they don’t use as many sauces over there as they do over here. It’s an American thing—sauce on everything.”

I sipped my tea. “I wish I had the last twenty seconds of my life back.”

Morris smiled. “Anything popping out at you from the file?”

“No.”

“You think it’s strange he hunted outside of his own ethnicity?”

“Assuming he’s a white male?” I said.

“They’re all white males.”

“Not true. You want me to start rattling off names?”

“I’m speaking in percentages, and you know it. Come on.”

“Fine. Assuming our guy is a white male, then no, I don’t think it’s strange he’s hunting outside of his own ethnicity. If our guy’s primary fantasy really is all about exploiting phobias in men, then race or size or age is irrelevant. The phobia is all that matters.”

“Why no women with phobias?” he asked.

“My guess? It’s a macho kind of thing. Our guy gets a high off seeing men squirm. In his eyes, it’s okay for women to be afraid of things. But men? Men should be fearless.”

“You’ve been giving this some thought,” he said.

“Dr. Cole helps me organize my mental file.”

“I see,” Morris sipped his tea. “Does Dr. Cole have any decent theories?”

“Bullied as a child,” I said. “Seeking revenge on his tormenters years later. I told him you’d originally considered it but dug and came up with nothing.”

“So what else?” he asked.

I shook my head. “That was his only theory.”

“No, I mean you. Any more insight? You seem pretty sold on the machismo angle.”

“It’s too early yet.”

“I’m not asking you to sign anything; just spitballing here until our food arrives.”

“
If
it arrives.” I glared in the direction of the kitchen.

“Just spitballing,” he said again.

“I’ve only got a lump of clay right now, Tim. Was our guy bullied growing up? Is he a milquetoast husband who feels emasculated by his domineering wife for ‘not being a man’? Is he a ridiculously strung out alpha male who loathes weakness? All of these possibilities carry a similar theme, but they’re still just a lump of clay. Better than a mountain of clay, I suppose.”

“I was sitting on that mountain before you agreed to help,” he said.

“You flatter me.”

“Maybe soon you’ll be telling me your lump of clay has taken shape.”

I shrugged. “Maybe.”

Our food arrived. I said nothing about the wait.

When the waiter left, Morris said: “You were polite, given all the fuss you made.”

“I might want dessert,” I said. “I don’t want them to spit in it.”

“Amy, hi,” Morris said, setting his teacup aside and wiping his mouth with his sleeve. “What do you got?”

I watched Morris intently as he spoke, seeing if his expressions held more impact than his words.

“Uh huh,” he said. “Uh huh…yeah…okay…” Both eyebrows suddenly jumped. “
Really
? Are you sure?” He then started nodding apologetically, as if she could see him. “No, no, I know—I’m sorry…” He started fumbling in his breast pocket for his pen and notebook. “Can I have it?”

Morris scribbled something down. I tried to read it, but from my inverted vantage point coupled with Morris’ chicken scratch I’d have to wait.

He eventually hung up. “Touchy, touchy,” he said.

“You second-guessed her.”

“I wasn’t—it was just an excited expression is all.”

I waved an impatient hand at him. “What’d she give you?”

“Two online support groups for extreme phobias from the same IP address…
Douglas Caley’s
former IP address. Seems he didn’t try too hard for anonymity—‘DC’ was the screen name he used for both online forums. Both forums had a private message option, and Amy was able to gain access. One forum was a bust, but the other showed an exchange of messages between a DC and a K4JJ6. The two struck up an online friendship.”

“Trace on the IP address for K4JJ6?” I said.

“Multiple unfortunately—from as far as Boston, to the university library here.”

“
Here
?”

Morris nodded. “Unfortunately, security cameras in the library were down during the time period of the email exchange. No luck there.”

“So that means he’d already located Douglas, yet still continued to message him from what was basically Douglas’ backyard,” I said.

Morris nodded again. “Still gaining his trust I’d guess. If Douglas Caley ultimately balked at the idea of meeting up, our guy could have gotten him the hard way and ambushed him.”

“But he didn’t have to, did he?” I said. “That’s what Amy gave you.”

He touched the tip of his nose. “Correct. DC and K4JJ6
did
agree to meet up for coffee in town.”

“How far?”

“I could literally throw a stone.”

“So we’re heading there now,” I said.

“We are.”

I opened the file, found a recent photo of Douglas Caley, and placed it on top. “Amy give you anything else?” I asked.

“She’s emailing the extent of their exchange online. She said it’s pretty bland, nothing good. I’d like to be the judge of that, but I don’t dare tell her.”

“Good idea.”

Morris pushed back his seat and stood. “You ready to go see if anyone at that coffeehouse remembers K4JJ6?”

They’d initially furrowed their eyebrows at Douglas’ photo, yet when told his name, eyebrows came undone and eyes went wide with recognition.
He’s the guy who was murdered, right?
they’d all but unanimously said.

A college town was not likely to forget anything like that soon. Ghost stories about Douglas Caley were probably already part of the town’s lore. Sad part is, when we catch this son of a bitch everyone will remember
his
name and forget Douglas’. Nobody remembers the victims—only the monsters.

One employee in particular remembered Douglas Caley, not for the obvious, but for his unusual order.

“It was a regular latte,” Jen Carr, a twenty-something waitress, told us, “but he always wanted it burnt. The milk, I mean. I was the only one who could do it the way he liked it, so he always sought me out to make it for him.” She shrugged. “I just stuck it in the microwave for a while.”

“How often are you here?” Morris asked her.

The three of us were stood on the sidewalk, a few doors down from the Cuppa Fix. Jen Carr took the opportunity to spit her gum on the street and pull a pack of cigarettes from her apron and light one. “Every day,” she said, exhaling smoke with her words. “Envy me.”

“Would you consider Douglas Caley a regular?” Morris asked.

She smirked. “Not anymore.”

Morris did not look amused. He stared at her hard and unblinking for several beats before calmly yet authoritatively asking: “If Douglas Caley were to bump into you on the street, would you recognize him?”

I expected her to give some wisecrack about zombies or something, but Morris’ icy gaze had snuffed her gum-cracking bravado. I’d seen him do it countless times. The know-it-all hotshot—girl or boy—angry at the world and seemingly intimidated by no one, until Morris all but climbed inside their psyche and let it be known they were mere minnows in his world of sharks.

“Maybe,” she said more politely now. Her cigarette was finished. She stubbed it out on the ground but did not flick the dead butt away as she had her gum. She held it until we were done. “But I gotta be honest; if it wasn’t for his insistence on my making his lattes for him, I probably wouldn’t remember him. We get pretty slammed in the morning.”