Mind Games Page 3

  Although in his late thirties, he worked out regularly and knew he still looked good. This, combined with experience, made up for his fading youth and allowed him to more than adequately compete with the teenage boys in the neighbourhood. In addition, he rarely charged for anything, he didn’t need the money, and this always appealed to the clientele which roamed the park every night.

  Stopping, he leaned his back against a lamp-post and slid his foot up alongside it a little, raising a knee. Gently, he brushed his thigh, caressed it, as he looked towards the Caddy through lowered eyelids, the invitation now blatant. The automobile accelerated for the second required to cover the short distance which separated them and halted directly before him as the powered window on the passenger side silently lowered.

  “Hi there,” the driver called as he leaned across the seat, his swollen stomach straining through his white shirt against the shoulder strap. “You need a ride somewhere?”

  “Which way are you going?” Bobby asked coyly, examining the fifty-something year old gay behind the wheel.

  “That’s up to you,” the pudgy man replied with a yellow-toothed grin. “What’s your name?”

  “Bobby,” the younger man answered, approaching the car slowly to give its occupant ample opportunity to examine the bulge in his tight jeans. “What’s yours?”

  “Arthur,” the driver replied, his eyes fixed on Bobby’s genital area. “Get in, Bobby. I’ll take you wherever you want to go.”

  “Sure, Arthur, thanks,” Bobby said shyly, opening the door and climbing in. “I don’t have anywhere special to go but I don’t mind going for a ride.”

  The car rolled off, Arthur’s attention much more on his catch of the day than on the road.

  “So, what do you want to do?” he asked, glancing down at Bobby’s crotch and licking his lips. “Any ideas?”

  Looking over his shoulder at the spacious rear seat, Bobby replied demurely, “If you can find somewhere quiet to park for a while, I’m sure that we can find something to do, back there.”

  “Leave that up to me,” Arthur replied huskily, reaching over to squeeze Bobby’s upper thigh. “Uncle Arthur will find us a nice place.”

  “Super,” sighed Bobby dreamily, spreading his legs as the man caressed him through his jeans. “That’ll be real nice.”

  He stretched back and relaxed, enjoying Arthur’s massage as he let his thoughts stray to the pleasures ahead. Tonight, he would prove himself. Tonight, he’d show Randi that he too had balls.

  Chapter 5 - Tuesday, May 27, 1997

  At 8:34 a.m., Dave McCall turned onto Garnier off Mont-Royal and hastily parked in the already clogged alley which joined Garnier and de Lanaudiere. Making his way through the crowd which had gathered among the scattered patrol cars, he headed for the central alley which ran parallel to Garnier. After identifying himself to one of the patrolmen standing guard, he ducked under the yellow tape which cordoned off the area and hurried towards the Cadillac parked a hundred feet away, scanning the old three storey apartment buildings which lined the alley as he went. Despite the circumstances which brought him there, he had to chuckle as he saw the dozens of apartment dwellers standing in backyards and on balconies straining to catch a glimpse of what was going on.

  ‘People love scandal,’ he thought. ‘At least, we’ll have a decent chance of finding a witness.’

  As he approached the vehicle, which was surrounded by a number of police and crime scene personnel, Joanne Nelson, one of his detectives, broke away from the group and came to join him.

  “Morning,” she greeted him, her expression grim.

  “And a fine morning it is,” he replied with a touch of sarcastic wit. “So, what have we got?”

  “Victim is one Arthur Gayle, Caucasian, age fifty-three. The Caddy was his. He was found in the back seat of the car, naked, lots of blood from multiple stab wounds. We may have a serial killer on our hands, Dave. His penis and testicles were nearly cut right off. Looks a lot like the one on Saturday.”

  “Great,” her boss muttered in disgust. “Who found him?”

  “Lady who lives on the second floor there,” Nelson pointed out the building, then referred to her notes. “Mrs. Celine Langevin, heard a scream last night. When she looked out, she saw the Cadillac and watched for a few minutes but didn’t see or hear anything else. When she got up this morning, she noticed that the car was still there and that the rear windows looked spattered. Her son comes for breakfast every morning so when he got here, she sent him out to check the car. After throwing up on the hood of the Caddy, he went in and had his mother call the police. I talked to them a bit when I got here to calm them down. Tim is in there with them right now. I was waiting for you to get here before going back.”

  “Alright, thanks Jo,” sighed McCall, not looking forward to the day ahead. “Go. I’ll see you guys later, either here or at the office. Keep me posted if anything comes up.”

  With a nod, Joanne headed back to the Langevin apartment while Dave proceeded with the unpleasant task of examining the scene of the crime.

  * * * *

  Bobby sat in the kitchen, fuming over a cup of coffee. One day, he promised himself, he would kill that bitch, Randi. At least now, he knew he could kill. He had demonstrated that with Arthur the previous evening. Sure, it hadn’t been perfect. The fat coward had managed to get a scream out but he, Bobby, had shut him up quickly enough. And yes, in the future, he’d have to be more careful not to get so much blood on himself. That could attract attention if anybody saw him afterwards. But he had pulled it off and had been proud of himself.

  Upon leaving the Cadillac, he had noticed the blood stains on his clothes and had been careful to stay in the shadows until he had reached his car. Then he had hurried home, anxious to tell Randi about his evening.

  Nobody was there when he had arrived but Randi had shown up just as he was getting out of the shower.

  Excited, Bobby had blurted out the details of his adventure with Arthur, convinced that he would gain some new respect from the transvestite.

  Instead, Randi had started lecturing him in close to a tantrum state, picking at his bloodied clothes, pointing out his errors, highlighting how stupid he was and how he might have gotten caught.

  Crestfallen, Bobby had tried to convince Randi that he deserved some merit for his efforts, that at least he had completed that task. Randi had sneered and replied “You didn’t complete nothing. You didn’t even finish cutting his balls off. Too bad. If you had, at least you’d have some balls now.”

  With that as his closing words, Randi had left as quickly as he had arrived, leaving Bobby curled up in a foetal position on the bathroom floor, sobbing, his ego crushed.

  He had slept well enough and had woken angry rather than depressed. That was good because depression drained his energy while anger stimulated him, gave him courage. And today, he would need some courage when the time came to tell Doctor Sam about what he had done. He knew that the doctor would not be happy but he also knew that the man would forgive him. After all, he was Doctor Sam’s favourite and that was a fact; the doctor himself had told him.

  * * * *

  From his office, Dave McCall saw Detective Frank Bakes come in and head directly towards him. Frank had been busy all morning knocking on doors along Garnier and de Lanaudiere streets, searching for any possible witnesses to the Cadillac murder.

  “So, what’s the scoop?” enquired McCall as his detective hopped onto the small conference table in the corner, his favourite perch for these update sessions.

  “Several people heard the scream,” started Frank as he pulled a small notepad from his shirt pocket. “Three people saw a guy walking down the alley shortly afterwards. Descriptions match. About five, ten, hundred eighty pounds, wearing probably blue jeans, but it was pretty dark, and a muscle shirt or undershirt. None of the three could give me an approximate age although they all guessed that he was older than a teenager. Could be in his twenties, thirties, maybe more. Not an old
man though and he looked pretty fit, not overweight.”

  “When was this?”

  “Around ten,” replied Bakes, referring to his notes.

  “Nobody thought of calling the cops?” asked a frustrated McCall.

  “Nope. None of them saw anything wrong. They just heard a scream, just one, and a few minutes later, saw some guy strolling down an alley. That area is not the nicest neighbourhood in town. It would seem that screams, fights, domestic or otherwise are pretty much a fact of life.”

  “Yeah, I know,” conceded Dave. “It’s just that, just once, it would be nice to get some of these eye-witness accounts while the killer’s still there.”

  “But then, where would the challenge be?” joked Frank to lighten the atmosphere.

  “True,” agreed Dave with a smile. “Do you know if Tim and Joanne got anything else?”

  “Nah. They spent most of their time with that guy who found the body. When I left, they were wrapping things up. Tim asked that the M.E. look real closely at the stab wounds to compare them to that guy at the hotel on Saturday.”

  “Good. It could be the same person,” commented Dave, “Or it might be a copycat. The media did a good job of detailing what had happened at the hotel,” he added dryly.

  “Unfortunately, they’ve got their job to do,” responded Bakes, aware of his boss’ distaste for reporters. “Well, I’m gonna go write this up. I’ll let you know if anything else comes up.”

  He left Dave’s office, leaving the captain alone with his dreary thoughts of a possible serial killer on the loose.

  * * * *

  Doctor Samuel Bowman was troubled. First Randi had committed his atrocious crime and now Bobby had gone ahead and performed an act just as hideous. It wasn’t that the psychiatrist didn’t understand their rage because he did. Society tended to treat people who were different with little or no respect and the result was often an outbreak of violence. Over the years, many of the classic serial or mass murder cases had clearly demonstrated that the population at large was much more to blame than the killers themselves. If only people would accept their peers for what they were. But no, nonconformists, minorities, had to be singled out and ridiculed.

  This was something that Sam Bowman understood all too well. He had always been a quiet, studious type, much more interested in science and the arts than in baseball or football. The price he had paid as a youth was isolation and bullying from most kids his age but worse still, his father had constantly delivered the same treatment. It pained him to know that, even on his deathbed a few years ago, his father had chided him, “My son, the big-shot headshrinker.” the old man had sneered. To his death, he had never respected his only son.

  His mother had not been any better although she hadn’t come down on Sam the way his father had. No, her problem had been alcohol and men, not necessarily in that order, but often combined. On several occasions, he had come home from school to find good old mom ‘doing it’ with a deliveryman, the paperboy or some guy she had met at the supermarket. He was pretty sure his father had known but the old man didn’t really seem to care. After all, ‘Dad’ had his share of affairs as well. Too often, he had run into his father with both male and female ‘friends’ who ‘worked at the plant’.

  Yes, Dr. Bowman clearly understood the intense anger which Randi and Bobby held inside and needed to express. He just wished that they could control their feelings as he did. Unfortunately, they, like most people, did not have his level of will power and understanding of the human mind. Many sessions would still be required with Randi and Bobby before that would be accomplished, if it ever was.

  Sighing, he rose from his desk and closed up his office for the day. As he walked down the corridor towards the elevators his thoughts strayed to Alex and Michael. They were also both quite frustrated. He hoped that they wouldn’t go overboard like Randi and Bobby had.

  Chapter 6 - Friday, May 30, 1997

  With some effort, Dave McCall pushed away from the dinner table and proceeded to loosen his belt a notch, much to the amusement of Cathy and the Barrys.

  “God, I ate too much,” he groaned with a grin. “Sandy, I commend you. That was an incredible meal.”

  “Well, I thank you kindly, sir,” she brightly responded, accepting the compliment, “But, I can’t take all the credit. We have to give Chris a little recognition, seeing as he’s the one who made everything.”

  “A man who can cook,” murmured Cathy in awe. Turning to her husband, she added, “Stick with Chris, Dave. You could learn a lot from this guy.”

  “I can cook,” retorted Dave with a good-humoured pout.

  “Sweetheart, toast and tea is not cooking,” she replied soothingly, drawing laughter from Chris and Sandy.

  “What do you say, we get rid of these dishes?” suggested Dave, addressing his question to Chris, “Before I get completely demolished.”

  “Chris has been dying to hear more about your latest case, Dave. So why don’t you boys go off and play somewhere,” offered Sandy as she rose from her seat. “Cathy and I will take care of this mess.”

  “That’s an offer I can’t pass up,” said Chris, already on his feet. “Come on, Dave. Sometimes, their kind can change their minds pretty quickly. Let’s go while the going’s good.”

  The two men retreated from the dining room, pausing momentarily in the den to pick up a glass of port before heading to the game room downstairs.

  “A little eight ball, sir?” suggested Chris, nodding towards the pool table.

  “Sure, if you can handle getting your ego crushed a little,” Dave grinned in response.

  “Ah, to dream,” Chris sighed as he racked up the balls. “So, how is your case coming along?”

  Dave’s expression turned grim as he selected a cue. “From bad to worse. I guess you’ve heard about the second one on Monday night?”

  “Yeah. Caught it on the news and then I read about it in Wednesday’s paper. Think it was connected to the first one?”

  “We’re not sure right now,” admitted Dave, pausing to break. He watched in disgust as the balls scattered across the table, not one dropping into a pocket, before continuing. “The two look really similar, right down to cutting parts off. Like I had told you, the first one was possibly a female suspect. A few people saw some guy hurrying down the alley after hearing a scream on Monday night. But maybe this guy had nothing to do with the murder. For all we know, he might have been passing by and seen the body in the car. Hell, he might have been the one that screamed.”

  “Did anyone give a decent description?” enquired Chris, pointing to the twelve ball and the corner pocket.

  “Real vague. Jeans, muscle shirt. Anywhere between twenty and forty-five, short hair. Nothing to get a composite sketch with.”

  “Nine in the side pocket,” Chris called. “So, you don’t think you’re gonna solve this by tomorrow?”

  “I’ll be real surprised,” smiled Dave, “But by tomorrow, we should know if it’s probable that the same weapon was used. M.E.’s gonna compare the wounds on the two victims to see if they match. That might give us some idea if we’re looking for one nut or two.”

  They fell silent as Chris efficiently cleared the table of the remaining high balls before sinking the eight, slightly crushing Dave’s ego in the process.

  * * * *

  St-Laurent Boulevard has long been known as the prostitution centre of Montreal, especially the stretch between René-Lévesque and St-Catherine. Lined with nightclubs, strip-joints and porno-flick theatres, its sidewalks are roamed by dozens of street hookers and, naturally, by potential customers as well.

  Being knowledgeable of these facts, Michael had chosen this particular area as his destination for the evening. He wasn’t planning to spend all night there. No, he would stay just long enough to find an escort to accompany him. Then he would go somewhere quiet, somewhere private where he could enjoy himself, no holds barred. That was the nice thing about prostitutes. You paid for their services and they
did what they were told without question. The basic principle applied even to the world’s oldest profession; the customer is always right. The added benefit with hookers was that there was no need to deal with the pressures often related with conventional relationships, no reason to worry about what the other thought or whether she even drew any pleasure from the experience.

  He had been lucky enough to find a spot on St-Catherine to park the BMW and was now cruising St-Laurent on foot. Although the car served well as a hooker magnet, he preferred to walk as he shopped which allowed him to take his time and examine the available merchandise.

  Tonight’s activities would be special and he needed to find just the right partner; not anyone would do. But he had been searching for over twenty minutes and still hadn’t seen anything that even closely resembled what he needed. Growing discouraged, he leaned up against the plywood covered window of an abandoned building and glared at the crowded sidewalks and street. His plan was set, everything mapped out; he had to find somebody.

  As if in response to a prayer, she suddenly appeared, stepping onto the sidewalk from the entrance of a fast-food joint a few doors to his left. He sensed her before actually seeing her and his heart beat accelerated when he gazed upon her. She was perfect. The hair was different, shorter and darker than what he was used to but other than that, she was a picture from his past.

  Quickly he approached her, fearing that someone else might get to her before he did. As he drew closer, he examined her features, his elation growing with every step. The resemblance was so striking that it had to be a miracle. Tonight would be divine.

  As he reached her, she glanced up at him and flashed a smile, the vision sending him reeling back to childhood days.

  “Hi, hon, you looking for some company?” she asked invitingly, looking him over approvingly. Too often, johns were sweaty, overweight excuses of the male race which made simulating ecstasy that much harder. Catching a looker every once in a while made the job a little more bearable.