Spiraled (Callahan & McLane Book 3) (10 page)

13

Dr. Colum Beck’s office was in a small office building that’d seen better days. From the odd architecture, Mason guessed it’d been built in the late seventies. It was all angles and round windows. He and Ray bypassed the elevator and took the wide staircase three stories to the top floor. According to the directory in the small lobby, it housed several doctors’ offices, an architect’s, an accountant’s, and a remodeling agency. The building smelled like old dust. Poor insulation or design allowed the roar of the traffic on the highway out front to echo through the building. Dr. Beck’s name was on a plastic placard on the wall next to a glass door that Ray pulled open. Mason noticed he specialized in “psychiatry for children and young adults.”

The waiting room was empty. A tiny sign next to the inside door asked them to “press button and have a seat.” Ray pressed. Neither of them sat.

There was no television or music piped into the room and it felt ominously closed in to Mason. He wasn’t claustrophobic, but the silence and still air made the hairs on the back of his neck itch.

Ray picked up a magazine. This waiting room didn’t offer the usual magazines of gossip, sports, and home decor. Instead they were a mishmash of unfamiliar journals that appeared to be targeted to children and teens. The inner door opened and Dr. Beck stepped into the waiting room. He introduced himself and shook hands. He looked like an athlete, not a psychiatrist, and reminded Mason of the group of younger guys at his gym who played basketball every day. He was tall and lean with biceps that bulged out from under his short-sleeved shirt. Mason already knew he was thirty-six and had been practicing for eight years. Mason liked him immediately and bet that the doctor’s young patients did, too.

“Please take a seat in here.” Dr. Beck gestured them into his office and Mason felt as if he’d stepped out of a closet into a sunny day. The office was bright and open and had huge windows. The view was of the highway, but now Mason couldn’t hear the cars.

“Nice office,” said Ray. He sounded as stunned as Mason felt.

Dr. Beck grinned. “I know that waiting room is a bit glum. I felt this space made up for it when I was looking for a place to set up shop.”

“You heard about Justin Yoder.” Mason didn’t want to waste any time.

The doctor’s face sobered instantly. “I did. I was crushed. It’s not the first time I’ve had a patient pass, but it’s certainly the most violent.”

“Justin’s parents gave you permission to speak with us?” Ray confirmed.

“Yes, I don’t see any issues. I’ll try to tell you whatever you need.”

“Did this incident surprise you?” Mason asked.

“Absolutely. I’d never have guessed Justin would have shot those people and then himself. But there’s a lot of things about the workings of the human mind that we don’t understand.”

“When did you last meet with him?”

A shadow crossed his face. “Today would have been his standing appointment. So it’s been two weeks.”

“Did anything seem different at that last appointment?”

“I reviewed my session notes. Nothing odd had jumped out at me then.”

“You record all sessions, correct?”

“Yes, I didn’t review the recordings yet, just my notes.”

“Tell us how Justin came to be your patient, Doctor. How long has it been?” Mason knew the parents’ answers to these questions. Now it was time for the doctor’s.

Dr. Beck leaned forward over his desk and propped his chin on one hand. It made him look extremely young. “I’ve been working with Justin since he was sixteen. He originally came to me through a referral from his medical insurance company, I believe. His parents were very concerned with his attitude and physical well-being. According to them, in a matter of months he’d gone from being a three-sport athlete with solid grades to sleeping nonstop and letting school and sports slide away.”

“Teens sleep a lot,” said Mason, thinking of weekends he’d spent with Jake. Sometimes he’d been annoyed that his son had slept away three-quarters of his visitation time.

“They do. And they’re supposed to. But not nonstop and not to the detriment of themselves and the people around them.”

“You diagnosed him with depression?” Ray asked.

“He was a textbook case.”

“What triggered it?”

“Someone doesn’t need an inciting incident to have depression. Sometimes the chemicals in their brains simply aren’t acting the way they should. It’s tricky in kids and teens. Their bodies are growing and constantly changing. Sometimes the chemical balance gets off and it takes time to get it back in sync.”

Jayne danced through Mason’s mind. Ava had once told him that she’d changed significantly around puberty. “Sometimes they don’t ever get back in balance.”

Dr. Beck met his gaze. “That is correct. For some it’s a lifetime of management. For others it’s temporary.”

“What sort of things would Justin tell you?”

“What do you mean?” The doctor looked at him calmly. Mason didn’t get the feeling he was trying to be difficult, but after four years of therapy he imagined they’d talked about everything under the sun.

“What was on his mind? I mean
. . .
did he struggle with girls? His parents? His job? If I asked you what he hated most about his life, what would it be?”

Dr. Beck leaned back in his chair, his expression turning thoughtful. “Priorities change from age sixteen to twenty.”

“No doubt,” said Mason.

“But the only constant struggle I’d say was his relationship with his stepfather.”

“You mean his father. Eric Yoder adopted him, correct?”

“Yes, that’s true,” agreed Dr. Beck. “But Justin always called him his stepfather. He had a lot of questions about his biological father, and I know he tried to find him at one point, but he didn’t get any support from his mother
. . .
or stepfather. They both told him his father wasn’t worth looking up. Even for his medical history.”

“You’d wondered if his biological father had a history of depression?” Ray asked.

“Of course. I was curious. It’d be nice to know if it was something his biological father battled all his life or if it never touched him at all. Of course, everyone will encounter depression at one point or another in their life.”

“Back to Eric Yoder,” Mason stated. “I had the impression from the parents that the relationship was
. . .
normal. If there is such a thing between a father and teenager.”

“I’ve talked with Eric and Sally several times over the years,” said Dr. Beck. “More at the beginning of the therapy. I guess I haven’t actually seen either one of them in at least a year. I’d agree that their relationship seems quite normal, but from Justin’s point of view, Eric has never supported him or showed him affection or bonded with him.”

Mason waited a few beats. Then he asked, “Is that true?”

“I don’t know. When I met with the parents they appeared supportive, but when I talk with Justin, I hear a different story.”

“But shooting up a mall isn’t ‘I don’t get along with my stepfather’ anger,” said Ray.

“Absolutely not,” agreed Dr. Beck.

“It’s ‘I hate the world’–type anger,” said Mason.

Dr. Beck looked at him thoughtfully. “I don’t know if it’s classifiable. I never saw that sort of anger in Justin. He was more of the type of person who closed in on himself, hesitant to leave the house or talk to people. Once we got him on medication, he seemed to become the teen his parents remembered. But it took constant monitoring. What worked well for him one month, six months later was suddenly ineffective.”

“Did you ever see him have a bad episode?” Mason asked.

“A bad episode? You mean like ready to rage against the world? Shoot people?”

Mason could hear the sarcasm. He didn’t know the right terminology, but Dr. Beck knew exactly what he meant. He waited.

“When I was first put in touch with Justin, we—meaning his parents and I—agreed he needed to go away for a bit. He spent two weeks in a facility at the coast that treats teens and adults for depression or addiction. Justin wasn’t battling addiction, I simply felt he needed a change of scenery. He seemed extremely overwhelmed by life, and I wanted to get him into a brand-new environment where I could talk with him and monitor his medication.”

“Is that normal treatment?” Ray asked.

He shrugged. “What’s normal? I have to look at every case with fresh eyes and suggest what I think will work. Justin was unable to function around his parents and house. A different set of stimuli seemed a good idea to try.”

“Sounds expensive,” commented Mason.
A clinic for two weeks? Probably cost more than an NYC hotel. A luxurious one.

“It was. But his mother told me it was one of the best decisions they ever made.”

“Did he ever go back to the clinic?” asked Ray.

“No. He responded very well to medication after that. We had to make adjustments from time to time, but overall it was smooth.”

“Then why has he been seeing you for four years if everything is so good?” asked Mason.

Dr. Beck smiled. “I’m not soaking him for the money. We’ve discussed cutting back his therapy several times, but I’ve left the primary decision up to Justin and his parents. I’ve told Sally several times he doesn’t need to come in so often. But Justin likes it and feels he benefits from it. So it goes on.”

An odd prickle made the hairs rise on the back of Mason’s neck.

Dr. Beck’s eyes lit up and he laughed. “Detective, you should see the look on your face. No, there’s nothing sexual or predatory about our visits. It’s all clean.”

Mason’s face flushed, and Ray shifted in his seat as he said, “Maybe Justin thought differently.”

“Girls were a big topic of ours. Justin was a perfectly normal male when it came to thinking about sex and girls every ten minutes.”

“Dr. Beck.” Mason paused to get his thoughts in order. “I can guarantee no teen talks to their parents in depth every other week for a solid hour. It sounds like no one knew him better than you. What is your answer to why he committed suicide in such a violent way?”

The doctor straightened in his chair and looked right at Mason. “I have no idea.”

14

Mason surveyed the park. Fire trucks and police cars crowded every inch of the street around the grassy area in Troutdale.

“What the fuck is happening?” asked Ray.

“Wish I knew,” answered Mason, slamming the door to his vehicle. The ambulances had left. Five bodies remained behind, screened from the mass of onlookers and TV news cameras.

It’d happened again. Another morning mass shooting. This time in a popular lake park at six
A.M.
Again the shooter was reported to be a young man who’d taken his own life in the public restrooms.

“If I was a parent with small children, I’d never leave the house,” said Mason.

“My kids aren’t small, but I’m sure considering it,” replied Ray. “This is bullshit.”

Mason looked sideways at his partner, and noticed the slight tremor in Ray’s hands as he made a notation on his pad of paper. Sometimes fatherhood sucked. A person became a parent, assuming they could teach their kids how to be good members of society and stay out of trouble. But what did one do when trouble struck out of nowhere in locations that were assumed to be safe? The three shootings this summer had sent a shock down every parent’s backbone. How could they protect their children?

“We don’t live in a third-world country,” Ray muttered. “This isn’t supposed to happen here.”

Mason stared at the line of swings and curving slides. “Damn right.”

The children’s play area was set under big firs at one end of the man-made lake. A sandy beach sloped down to clear water where a small section of the lake was cordoned off for children. Mason recalled bringing Jake here when he was about three. The water in that area wasn’t deeper than twelve inches. Beyond that was a larger area that was marked by buoys for regular swimmers. Far across the lake he could see the place that rented small paddle boats and canoes. Good circulation and regular maintenance kept the lake clean and bacteria-free. It was almost like a giant pool.

“I’ve brought my kids here,” said Ray. “It’s absolutely packed during the summer. We’re lucky it happened so early in the day.”

Or was that a careful decision made by the killer?

“They have to all be related,” mumbled Mason.

Ray shook his head. “All three of the shooters are dead. Unless they had some sort of suicide pact that we haven’t discovered yet, I don’t see it. I think they’ve been copycats.”

“No one had considered that they were tied together until this morning,” said Mason. “The first two were far enough apart in time and distance that we made the stupid mistake of assuming they were separate incidents. We’re going to have to look at everything again.”

Ray pointed at a news van. “That’s our problem right there. These shooters are getting glamorized on television and all across social media. It’s putting the idea in the minds of others whose brains aren’t working quite right. For some reason they want the same attention and that’s what’s driving this. I swear these types of shootings happen in groups.”

Mason knew Ray had a point, but he was still going to push to find a relationship among the three shooters. “We’ll consider everything.”

“Of course.”

They signed in and headed toward the restrooms. Troutdale fell under Multnomah County’s jurisdiction. Each shooting had occurred in a different county, and the Oregon State Police hadn’t become involved until the Rivertown Mall shooting. With the cities, the counties, the state, and the FBI’s interest in the Rivertown shooting, there were a lot of cooks in the kitchen.

“Crowded,” mumbled Ray, and Mason knew he wasn’t referring to the park. Ray’s brain was traveling the same path as Mason’s.

“We’ll make it work. We got everything centralized with the Rivertown incident. We’ll convince Multnomah County that we’ve got a good system going and ask them to join. We’ll dangle the FBI’s hardware and assistance in front of them. That’ll make everyone play nicely together.”

“Depends.”

“Yep.” Mason knew he was referring to egos. They rarely encountered a situation in which a smaller department didn’t appreciate OSP’s or the FBI’s man power, but it was known to happen.

“There’s Rutledge,” said Ray, raising a hand at the medical examiner, who was headed in the same direction.

“Just getting here,” Dr. Seth Rutledge said after a quick greeting. He shook his head. “I don’t know what’s happening to our state.”

They continued toward the restrooms. “Who’s the incident commander?” Ray asked one cop who blocked their path as they drew closer.

The cop looked at their IDs and waved a hand toward the rustic-looking bathrooms. “Chief Deputy Arnold Bishop. He’s inside.”

“Where are you doing your interviews?” asked Mason.

“Local church. It’s a block that way.” The officer pointed again.

The three men stopped outside the bathroom. The rustic look was a facade. Mason saw the restroom was a solidly built structure with clean concrete flooring. They stopped to slip on booties and two cops came out. One had a green tinge to his face as the other slapped him on the shoulder. The second cop looked amused at his friend’s nausea, but Mason saw the pain flash in his eyes and knew the amusement was forced.

The scene in the restroom must be bad.

They stepped inside, the odor of copper touched his nose, and he swallowed hard. They followed a hall for ten feet and then it opened up into a wide room with sinks and urinals. Three people looked their way as they entered; the fourth person stretched out on the floor didn’t move.

Black clothing—again. Full face mask—again. AR-15—again.

And blood and brain matter sprayed all over one wall.

Chief Deputy Bishop introduced himself. The two crime scene techs went back to work after a brief nod at the newcomers. Dr. Rutledge squatted next to the body and gently opened the mouth to shine his flashlight in the dark cavity.

Mason looked away. “What’s the story?”

Bishop hiked up his jeans with a thumb in his belt loop. He looked to be pushing sixty, but his eyes were sharp as he scanned the two OSP detectives up and down. “You two work with Denny Schefte?” he asked, referring to their supervisor.

Mason nodded.

“I’ve known Denny for years. Our wives go way back.” He turned to the body. “Don’t know who he is yet. But the story from the witnesses who were in the area say they saw him walk around the lake from the boating side. Once he got close enough he simply raised his gun and started shooting. One guy said it was like he was calmly shooting at targets.”

“Christ,” breathed Ray.

Bishop nodded. “We’re just glad there weren’t any kids here. That hour of the day had early birds out for walks or exercisers.”

“Are the victims identified yet?”

“We think so. Three of the four had identification on them. The fourth was identified by the women she was walking with. Three men, one woman. Talk about being in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“How many witnesses?” asked Mason.

Bishop grimaced. “Eight have come forward. Three women from the walking group and five others who were at the park when he started shooting. But according to these eight, there were more people here than that. So some took off. I’m hoping they come back.”

“No cameras?” Ray asked.

“None. We’re canvassing the nearby homes to ask about security systems to see if they caught anything.”

“What about on the side with the rentals? Don’t they have cameras to watch their gear?” Mason asked.

“Nope. They padlock everything into sheds at night. We’re searching that side, trying to figure out where he came from.” He looked down at the body. “I took a look under his mask. Looks about the same age as the one who shot up the mall the other day. What the hell is wrong with kids these days?” He shook his head.

“We want to look at the three shootings as a whole,” said Mason delicately. “There could be a history between these three young men. The FBI was looking at the Rivertown case with us, and I think we need to loop them in on this one to try to see the big picture.”

Bishop gave him a sour look. “I’m not an asshole who’s going to turn down federal or state help. Clearly something is messing with these kids’ heads. We’ll take all the help we can get. Something needs to be done to figure out how to stop this from happening. We’ll do whatever you need.”

Dr. Rutledge stood up.

“Whatcha got, Doc?” Ray asked.

“I’ve got nothing new,” Dr. Rutledge said shortly. “He did exactly what the last shooter did. Placed his rifle in his mouth and fired. You already know the time and manner of death. Once he’s on my table I can run the tox screens and see if he had anything chemical in his system and look for something to help get him identified.” His gloves snapped as he yanked them off. “I can tell you I’m sick of this sort of case. If you’ll excuse me, I’ve got four victims to examine and confirm that they were shot to death.” He nodded at the investigators and stalked out of the bathroom.

“I don’t blame him,” said Ray. “Frankly I don’t know how he does that job.”

“He probably says the same thing about us,” Mason added.

Bishop sighed. “If he’s tired of seeing dead people, he’s in the wrong business.”

“I don’t think it’s the dead people. I think it’s the murdered ones,” corrected Mason.

“We could all do with a lot less of that,” agreed Bishop. “But what has kept me going all these years is my thirst to hunt down every bastard who does shit like this.” He eyed the black figure on the floor. “When the perpetrators are handed to you on a silver platter, it loses some satisfaction. There’s no reward in this one. All that’s left is to find his family and ruin their day.”

“And four other families’ day,” added Ray.

Mason stepped closer and bent over, eyeing the label on the shooter’s lightweight jacket. “There might be more to these shootings than there first appears.” He pointed at the small white swoosh. “Our last shooter wore the same jacket. Let’s find out what the guy in the June shooting in Eugene wore.”