Dreams of Murder

 When Rachel’s patient suffers disturbing nightmares of violence and death, Tom helps track down a terrifying killer.

Dreams of Murder, Part One

I’m walking down a street. It’s night. I’m humming a song, but no one can hear. Up ahead there’s a woman walking a dog. 

            Finally a dog. 

It’s a little dog, I don’t know what kind. It’s on a leash. Running back and forth, stopping to pee, running more, jumping under the woman’s feet

            She doesn’t notice me. 

            I catch up to her. She starts to turn to look at me, but I put a hand on her arm. She’s wearing a green T-shirt and her arm is skinny. She tries to pull away. 

The dog barks at me. It runs at me, and I kick it, and the woman shouts something at me. 

            Then her eyes get real wide and her mouth opens and she’s about to scream—

 

I was going through documents for a fraud case I’d been investigating for weeks. It was dry work, boring as an afternoon stakeout, so when my phone buzzed and I saw it was Rachel I was glad for the interruption, “Hello, you have reached Tom Jurgen, Chicago’s detective of love. How may I service your needs today?”

            “By shutting up and doing me a favor.”

            I grinned. “What do you wish, my queen?”

            “Can you find out about any murders committed last night? Specifically any women stabbed while they were out walking their dog?”

            That sort of sank any desire to make more jokes. “Uh, sure. What for?”

            “I’ll tell you later. Text me when you’ve got something.” She hung up.

            I looked at her picture on the phone for a moment. Rachel’s my girlfriend. She has short red hair and hazelnut eyes. Plus, she’s psychic. 

She’s also currently in grad school studying psychology, and for the last month she’d been assisting two days a week at the Jones-Batten Health Care Center in Des Plaines, in their mental health care unit. The assignment kept her busy, on top of her schoolwork, and honestly, I was getting sick of it. Most of the time we work next to each other in the office at home. Now it felt like we were living different lives.

But I was trying to be supportive. Rachel helps me on my cases when I need a psychic, or when I just need a gorgeous partner who knows krav maga. I owed her. And I needed a break from my fraud case anyway.

            I found what she was looking for in a few minutes. I texted her: Yes. Found it, and attached one of the stories. 

            A few minutes later she texted back: OK.

            What’s going on?

            Five minutes passed. Then 10. Finally she came back with: Tonight. Busy.

            I sighed, looked at her picture some more, and went back to work.

 

Rachel got home at 6:35. I had dinner going—bow-tie pasta with alfredo—and started setting the table while she changed. After 10 minutes she was in the kitchen with a beer, waiting impatiently for me to chop some vegetables. “What’s the holdup? I’ve got homework. And we’re having sex. Maybe. We’ll see.”

            She was closing in on her degree, and the pressure was starting to get to her, especially with her new commute on top of her graphic design work. So far the cheap used car we’d bought for her to drive back and forth was holding up, but she had to keep a close eye on the oil light.

            I brought dinner to the table. “How was your day?”

            “Arrgh.” She groaned. “Paperwork. I mean, I do get to work with some of the patients, with supervision, but there’s always forms to fill out. Online, or on paper.” She stabbed some pasta with her fork. “And it’s kind of eerie. I mean, a lot of them are heavily medicated, but you can just feel the intensity of what’s going on inside their heads. Even if you’re not psychic.” She chewed and swallowed. “Not bad. Family recipe?”

            “Somebody’s family.” I sprinkled some cheese over the sauce. “What about that murder you asked me about?”

“Oh. Yeah.” She set her fork down, took a swig of beer, and rubbed her eyes. “There’s this patient, Henry? I’m not really supposed to talk about patients, especially with my boyfriend—” She nudged my leg with her foot. “But anyway, he was telling me about a dream he had last night. He was pretty agitated, telling me about it. And I could feel something when he was going through it. Like it was more than just a dream.”

The article I’d found on a local news website was short and concise: A 24-year-old woman named Rebekah Martinez had been found stabbed to death in the Logan Square neighborhood. She’d been out walking her dog at 11:30 after a late shift at her job at a nearby convenience store. Police were pursuing “many leads.”

“What do you think it was?” I looked at her.

Rachel ate some more. “I’m not sure. Maybe he was seeing the killer? Or maybe—I don’t think he is the killer, but I don’t know.”

“What’s he in for?”

She thought for a moment. “Are you allowed to tell me details from your cases? I mean, when I’m not actively helping you?”

“Well, there is a P.I. code of ethics, for some of the organizations I’m in. I could get kicked out if I violate it. But there’s no law preventing me from talking about my cases to anyone. I mean, I don’t have legal protection like a lawyer, so the cops or the courts can make me talk about everything, unless I want to meet exciting new friends in jail.” 

“I’ve got rules. Pretty strict.”

“And you’re all about following rules.”

She snorted. “Yeah. Okay, I’ll risk it. The official diagnosis is BPD, borderline personality disorder. It’s a family referral. Legally he can leave anytime he wants, but he’s been there for three months and doesn’t show any sign of being able to leave soon. He’s got some incidents of domestic violence in his history, two previous stays at other facilities, drug addiction, childhood trauma, yada yada yada.”

“Is ‘yada, yada, yada’ a clinical term?”

“Shut up. So this morning he was telling me about this dream, and he was pretty upset about it. I could tell—it was more than just a dream. I could feel it.” Like I said, Rachel’s psychic. She can’t read minds, exactly, but she can read people and sense things. Supernatural things.

“Anyway, I thought I should check it out.” She sipped her beer. “So I called you.”

“So is there anything we should do now?”

She didn’t answer right away. We ate in silence for a few minutes until she said, “Can you find out what color shirt she was wearing?”

“I’ll check the media again, but that’s probably not especially newsworthy. I could call Anita.” Anita Sharpe, my liaison with the Chicago police, mostly for vampire cases. She doesn’t like me much, although she’ll sometimes grudgingly admit that I know what I’m talking about when it comes to supernatural doings around Chicago.

Rachel tensed. “No. Telling you is one thing. The police would definitely be a problem.”

“Yeah.” I finished my pasta. “More?”

“I’m good.” She pushed her plate forward. “I’ll clean up.”

“I got it.” I stood up. “You go study or whatever.”

Rachel rolled her eyes. “You just want me to have time for sex later.”

“You really are psychic. Is it working?”

“I’ll let you know.” She stood, gave me a quick kiss, and headed for the living room.

 

There’s a guy on the corner. He’s young, Black, with a T-shirt from some heavy metal band. He’s listening to something on headphones, and the dog is running back and forth on the leash. It’s a little dog, I think a Yorkshire, and it’s yapping and running while the guy just walks and ignores him.

            I’m humming when I get in front of him. I stop. Cool shirt, I say.

            He stops and looks at me, and I point at the shirt. Cool shirt! I say louder.

            Oh. He smiles, tries to move out of the way.

            I say Cute dog, and he nods again, not smiling so much.

            His name’s Roscoe, the guy says. Come on, Roscoe. 

            The dog stops and looks up at me. It starts to growl.

            The guy yanks at the leash. Let’s go, Roscoe. What’s the—

            I’ve got the knife now. The guy doesn’t see it coming at him.

 

Dreams of Murder, Part Two

That was Monday. Two days later she was back in Des Plaines and I was still doing paperwork for my fraud case. In the middle of a Zoom conference with the clients my phone buzzed with a text, but I could only glance at it while the client was talking. 

            Find out about the shirt, the text read. Call Anita if you have to.

After the call was over I had to read it over a few times to figure out what she meant. When it finally came to me, I spent another few minutes deciding what to say. Then I picked up my phone and called Detective Anita Sharpe.

“Jurgen? What’s going on?” Sharpe was always suspicious when I called her. “Vampires? Demons? I’m busy, so this better be apocalyptic.”

“I just need some information,” I said carefully. “It’s for Rachel.”

“For Rachel? Maybe.” Sharpe likes Rachel more than me. Most people do. To be fair, Rachel is cuter. “What is it?”

“The, uh, Rebekah Martinez murder? What color shirt was the victim wearing?”

Long pause. Then: “Why?”

I swallowed. “It’s for Rachel. I can’t tell you.”

“Come on, Jurgen. You can’t ask questions about a murder case and then tell me you’re not going to talk about it.”

“I promised Rachel. At this point I don’t know if this has anything to do with that case. The answer might mean nothing.”

“And if it’s something? This isn’t my case, but I can’t be sitting on information on someone else’s live case, Jurgen. You have to tell me.”

“Look, even if this does turn out to be a lead, none of your cop friends are going to believe where it came from, even if you don’t mention my name. And if you do tell them it’s from me, they’ll laugh you out of headquarters, right?”

“Your name does provoke strong reactions around here. Negative ones. But—”

“Look, If it turns into anything concrete, I’ll—we’ll work something out. But I have to talk to Rachel about that.”

I waited. Finally she groaned. “Hang on.” I heard her fingers tapping computer keys. “Accessing the case file . . . crime scene photos . . . let me see . . .” More clicking. “Okay. Light’s not great, but it’s a T-shirt. Light green, kind of like a St. Patrick’s Day shirt, maybe, but no shamrocks or anything. Does that answer your question?”

“I don’t know.” That was the truth, at least. “Let me call Rachel.”

“Tell her I said—no, don’t tell her I said anything. Just that I want to know what’s going on.” She hung up.

I took a gulp of water and texted Rachel. T-shirt was green.

A few minutes later: OK. Call you later.

I sighed. Curiosity is one of my strengths—or flaws, depending on who you ask. It’s a useful trait when you’re a reporter, like I used to be, and when you’re a private detective like I am now. But it can be frustrating when you can’t get all the answers you want.

So I got myself more coffee and waited for Rachel’s call. 

 

Rachel got home at seven that night. She locked the door, hung up her jacket, and tossed her laptop case on the couch without saying a word to me. Then she went to the cabinet where we keep the liquor.

            She’d texted me to say she couldn’t talk at work, so I’d waited as patiently as I could all day. Right now I was fighting the impulse to ask her what the hell was going on, but I managed to restrain myself as she poured herself a shot of Grey Goose and tossed it down her throat.

            We rarely drink hard liquor. This had to be serious.

            Rachel poured herself another shot and downed half of it. Then she looked at me. “I’m sorry I didn’t call.”

            Rachel rarely apologizes for anything. I nodded. “You okay?”

            “Yeah.” She finished her drink. “Henry had another dream.”

            “Another murder?”

            “Yeah.” She sat down. “It was a man this time, young. Late at night again. Walking a dog again. Last night. It was—he said the guy was Black, in his 20s, with a Yorkie or something. He—Henry, or the guy he was dreaming about—he was walking down the street and stopped to talk to the guy about the dog, and then suddenly he just stabbed him. For no reason.” Rachel shuddered. “Henry could feel it. I could feel it when he told me. Like I was there watching him.” She opened the vodka again.

            “What do you want to do?”

            She poured another shot, but just looked at the glass. “I don’t know. Did you—what did you tell Anita?”

            “That I was doing a favor for you and it was probably nothing. And if it turned out to be something, I’d—talk it over with you. She wasn’t exactly thrilled.”

            “Yeah.” She drank some vodka, then shoved the bottle away. “Put that back. Is there anything for dinner?”

            “I can heat up some lasagna. Or we can order out.”

            “Start nuking. I’m hungry now.” She stood up, stretched, and headed to the bedroom to change.

            Over our microwaved lasagna I asked, “Does anyone at the center know?”

            “I report everything to my supervisor. Dr. Stenholtz.”

            “Does he know . . .”

            “That I’m psychic? No. I told one guy, another student. Ravi. I got a feeling about him, and it turns out he’s kind of psychic too. Mild precognition. It doesn’t do him much good in Vegas, but it saved his mother from getting hit by a car once.”

            “So today, when you found out about the green T-shirt—”

            “I tried to tell him. He said it was a coincidence.” She shrugged. “Which, okay, it could be, except I know Henry’s dream is more than a dream.”

            “You want me to check on that murder? The second dream?”

            Rachel nodded. “After dinner.”

            She cleaned up the table while I headed to the office. I needed only a few minutes to find the story.

            Dennis Simms, 22, had been stabbed to death in Bucktown, a neighborhood close to Logan Square where Rebekah Martinez was killed. The story included a picture of a young Black man smiling.

            “No mention of the dog,” Rachel said.

            “The cops might be trying to keep it out of the papers so they can corroborate false confessions.”

            “Or they don’t want people to think there’s a serial killer targeting dog walkers.” She grimaced. “If people can’t walk their dogs, some apartments are going to get pretty messy.”

            “Tell me about both dreams again.”

            “I’ve got them on tape, but they’re back at the center.” Rachel closed her eyes. “They’re both pretty much the same. He’s walking down the street. He sees the girl, or sees the guy. The girl, he walks up behind her and grabs her shoulder just as she’s turning around, and stabs her in the back.” She shivered. “The guy, he’s walking toward him and he stops humming—he’s humming a song or something—”

            “What song?”

            Rachel shook her head, irritated at the interruption. “I don’t know. He didn’t say, I didn’t ask him. Anyway, he stops humming and says, ‘Nice dog,’ and the guy says, ‘Thanks, his name’s Roscoe.’ And then he stabs the guy in the chest.” Rachel rubbed her eyes. “That’s when Henry wakes up. Right when they get stabbed.”

            “Makes sense. I usually wake up right before the vampire bites me.” I saved the article. “Want me to talk to Sharpe again?”

            She hesitated. “No. Maybe. I don’t know. If Henry does have some kind of psychic connection with the killer, we have to find out from him. Even if the police believed that, they’d traumatize him with their questions. Plus, there’s rules, like I said. And Stenholtz probably already has me on a list.”

            I had to ask. “There’s no chance Henry could be sneaking out and committing these murders himself? Is there?”

            I expected a punch. Rachel just shook her head. “It’s a secure facility, there are guards and key cards and cameras everywhere. Plus, it’s in Des Plaines. Unless someone’s picking him up outside and driving him into the city, he couldn’t possibly make it here and back on his own. And if you knew him—” She sighed. “He’s been violent in the past, yes, but I don’t think he’s capable of something like that. We studied serial killers. He doesn’t fit the profile. At all.”

            I nodded. “Okay. You don’t go back until next week?”

            “Yeah. Ava will be working with him. She’s another student, Ava Winters. We both report to Stenholtz. I’ll talk to her tomorrow to see if Henry has any more dreams.”

            “Sounds good. You at home tomorrow?”

            Rachel yawned. “Yeah. Class on Friday, but I’ve got a ton of work to do for school and for clients, too, so don’t bug me.”

            “Me? Bug you? Never.”

            Now she punched me. But she laughed. “Do we have any ice cream?”

 

The next morning I was lining up interviews for a sexual harassment case I’d just been hired for—a sleazy executive had been hitting on younger female employees for years, allegedly. Rachel was feverishly trying to finish a website redesign for a client of her own when my phone buzzed.

            “Uh-oh.” I turned to her desk. “Sharpe.”

            “Shit.” She swung around in her chair. “Okay. Answer.”

            “Good morning, Detective Sharpe!” I put the phone on speaker. ”What can I do for you today?”

            “I want to know what you know about the Martinez murder. Right now.”

            I looked at Rachel. She rolled her chair over to my desk. “Hi, Anita, it’s Rachel.”

            “Hi, Rachel. What’s going on?”

            “It’s—I had Tom call to ask you about that T-shirt. Because—you know I’m in grad school, right? I’m working out in Des Plaines, at a mental health center—”

“With a boyfriend like Jurgen, you need all the help you can get. What’s the point? This is about a mental patient?”

            I broke in. “What’s going on, Anita? Why are you calling us?”

            She sighed, as if controlling her natural inclination to yell at me. “Because there was another murder last night that looks related to the Martinez case, and if there’s a serial killer wandering around, we need everything we can get.”

            “Dennis Simms?” I asked.

            She took two seconds before answering. “Yes. What do you know?”

            I looked at Rachel. She frowned and took a deep breath. “One of the patients there has dreams. He dreamed about Rebekah Martinez’s murder. And then this second one, Dennis.”

            “Was Simms walking a dog when he was murdered?” I asked.

            “Why?” She was being cautious.

            “Because he was walking a dog in the dream,” Rachel said, glaring at me for interrupting. “Just like the first one. But the story we read didn’t mention a dog—”

            “Yeah, that got held back. Cruz made the connection right away. It’s not my case, but word gets around.”

            “Ron Cruz?” I’d run into Detective Ronaldo Cruz on a previous case, involving a demon possessing two bodies at once. “I know him.”

            “Yeah, and he knows you. If he knew I was talking to you, he’d throw my coffee in my face. But stopping crime is kind of our job, even if it means listening to stories about mental patients dreaming about murders.” She paused. “Who is he?”

            Rachel looked at me, then took a deep breath. “I can’t tell you. Without a court order.”

            We could almost hear Sharpe clench and then unclench her jaw. “Okay. I get that you’ve got HIPAA and all kinds of other regs to follow. But this is about a murder case—”

            “It’s about a dream,” I cut in. “Is the department really going to go get a court order for a mental patient’s dream?”

            “You called me, Jurgen,” Sharpe snapped. “You asked for my help. At some point this goes both ways. This is my job.” She hung up.

            I looked at Rachel. “You okay?” 

            She stared at my phone for a moment, then nodded. “Yeah. God, what am I supposed to do?”

            “Do you want me to—”

            Rachel’s phone buzzed in the back pocket of her jeans. She dug it out, frowned, and answered. “Yeah? Is she okay? Yeah, that’s fine.” She hung up. “They want me to come in tomorrow. Ava’s having a baby and it came early.” She shrugged.

            “Are they paying you for this?”

            “It’s an internship. The pay will cover the car we bought. Maybe.” She punched my shoulder lightly. “But it’s valuable experience! It’ll look great on my résumé! And all that crap.” She sighed. “I can’t wait until I graduate.”

            “Me too. I mean, if you’re happy, I’m happy—”

            “Shut up.” She punched me again, but then gave me a kiss. Then she pushed me away. “Leave me alone. I’ve got work to do.” And she headed back to her desk.

            I watched her sit down, then went back to my case.

 

There’s an old man. He’s walking an old dog, like a bulldog. It’s funny, like they’re brothers, both wandering down the street, neither of them walking straight. 

The music and the laughing from the bars is loud. No one pays attention to the man and the dog. No one pays attention to me. I’m just humming, down the street behind them. They don’t notice me. Nobody notices me.

Old dog. Old man.

A girl leans over, drunk, to pet the dog. The old man watches her, smiling, then pulls the dog down the street. The girl grabs her boyfriend’s arm, about to fall over. She doesn’t even see me as I walk by.

The old man looks around. The dog lifts one foot, but the old man yanks on the leash, and pulls him into an alley.

Good.

I’m in the alley, humming, and the old man doesn’t see me because he’s picking up his dog’s poop. The dog sees me. It growls at me.

The old man turns and says something. I can’t hear him.

I’ve got the knife. But the dog pushes against the old man’s leg, and he falls over, and instead of getting him in the chest I only get his arm. 

There’s blood. The dog starts barking. The old man is on the ground now screaming like a little baby with blood all over him and the dog is barking at my face.

I kick it. I try to again but it almost bites me. Goddamn it. Fucking dog. 

The old man is still screaming. It hurts my ears along with the barking. I have to run away.

Dreams of Murder, Part Three

Rachel had to get up earlier than me to get to Des Plaines. I woke up alone, showered, and ate some cereal. She’d left half a pot of coffee for me, so I took some into the office to get to work.

            I had scheduled some interviews for the sexual harassment case. Some were going to be in-person, but I had a few I could do over the phone or via Zoom. In the middle of asking a young female marketing assistant about her encounter with the senior executive at a corporate retreat two years ago, my phone buzzed. Rachel.

            I had to let it go to voicemail. Fortunately my interview wasn’t very lengthy—the potential witness hadn’t seen any harassment-type behavior, although she mentioned a friend who said she had. I thanked the woman for her help, ended the call, and checked the message.

            Rachel: “It happened again. Can you come out here this afternoon? I want you to talk to him. Call me.”

            I called. “Another dream?”

            “Yeah. Only this time it ended differently. No one got killed. But he’s pretty shaken up. I’m thinking you might be able to take a different approach to asking questions so we can figure out what’s going on.”

            I looked at my calendar. I had two more meetings this afternoon. The law firm I was working for wouldn’t be happy if I rescheduled them, but Rachel had dropped everything for me lots of times when I needed help. “I’ll be there.”

            “Thanks.” She hung up. I started sending emails.

            My phone buzzed again. Sharpe. I couldn’t ignore her. “Tom Jurgen speaking.”

            “Jurgen—what do you know about an assault last night in Old Town?” Her voice was harsh and raspy.

            “Uh, nothing. I mean, Rachel just told me the, uh, subject had another dream, but it didn’t end in murder.” I decided not to tell her I was going out to question him myself.

            “Yeah, but it did end with an old guy named Francis Monks in the hospital with a concussion and broken ribs.” 

            Uh-oh. “Is it related to the others?”

            “He was out walking a dog. Little dog, but a lot of fight. Guy had a knife, like the other two. Dog started barking, and the perp pushed the old man down and ran away.”

            “Okay. I’ll ask Rachel.”

            “You do that. And you get back to me right away. Cruz knows something’s up, and he knows I know you. And he doesn’t like you like I do.”

            “You like me, Anita?”

            “Rachel. I like Rachel.” She hung up.

            I grinned and went back to my emails.

 

The Jones-Batten clinic had a short driveway leading to the front entrance, with a detour to a parking structure. I left the car, took an elevator, and found the front desk, where I checked in, showed the guard my ID and gave her Rachel’s name. She wrote my name on her computer, handed me a name tag labeled “VISITOR” to slap on my chest and pointed to the waiting area.

Family members watched TVs mounted on the walls or leafed through magazines. I found a copy of People from three months ago with Kiernan Shipka on the cover, whoever she was, and turned pages until Rachel showed up.

She was in gray slacks and a blue blouse, with an ID pinned to the pocket of a beige jacket. “You should wear that at home,” I told her, standing up. “We could play hot shrink.”

“Shut up.” She led me through a pair of doors that opened on their own, then tapped a keypad next to another set of doors just beyond.

“Are you allowed to do this?” I asked as I followed her down a hallway. 

“I didn’t ask.” Some doors opened into conference rooms or doctors’ offices. Others were shut. The walls were a cheerful yellow.

            “Sharpe called me. There was another attack. Old guy with a dog. Guy’s in the hospital with a concussion.”

            “That matches.” She stopped in front of a door and knocked. “Here he is.”

            “Come in!” I heard from beyond the door.

            Inside, Rachel pointed me to a chair at a square table. Across from me sat a gaunt man with a thin, salt-and-pepper beard and thick glasses. He wore a gray tunic over his bony shoulders. “Henry, this is my friend, Tom. Tom, this is Henry.”

            Henry nodded, looking up and down at me. “Hi.”

            “Nice to meet you.” I sat down. 

            “I told you about Tom. He’s a detective.” Rachel sat next to me.

            “Yeah. He’s your boyfriend.” Henry folded his hands on the table. His fingers twitched, as if he was trying to keep them under control. He glanced up at me once, maybe trying to see what Rachel saw in me. Lots of people wonder that. Then he looked down again.

            “Yes,” Rachel said. “But he’s not a police officer. He’s a private detective. He’s good at—stuff. Is it okay if he asks you a few questions?”

Henry thought for a moment, his eyes half closed. “Okay.”

Rachel looked at me.

I’m used to questioning people about traumatic events, sometimes right after a tragedy. This was different. I took a deep breath. “You had another dream last night?”

Henry nodded. “Yeah.”

“Can you tell me what happened?”    

He sighed and spread his hands on the table, palms flat. “I was—it was dark, and I’m walking down the street. Humming some song. It’s just like the other ones. There’s bars and restaurants, some of them all lit up, with music going and people talking loud. There are drunk people all around me. Then . . .”

Henry closed his eyes. “I follow an old guy into an alley. It’s him and his dog, and he’s cleaning up his poop, and I try to stab him, but the dog shoves him out of the way and I only get his arm. He’s bleeding, and he’s screaming, and the dog is barking, and I turn and run away, and then . . .” Henry shook his head. “I wake up.”

“You stabbed him in the shoulder?” Sharpe hadn’t mentioned that. Maybe on purpose.

“It wasn’t me!” He sat back, his arms suddenly tense. “It was—I was watching, but it wasn’t me doing anything!”

“It’s okay, Henry.” Rachel’s voice was low and soothing. She shot a look at me. “It wasn’t you.”

“Do you know who it was?” I asked. 

He shook his head. “I don’t know.”

“You said he was humming something. Do you know what?”

Again Henry shook his head. “It was—familiar? But I don’t know.”

“Okay. What is it about dogs? You—the person in your dream seems to only go after people with dogs.”

Henry nodded. “Yeah. I don’t—I don’t know. I had a dog when I was a kid, but he—he died. I don’t know why the dogs are there.” He sighed. 

“What about the areas?” I asked. “Do you recognize them?”

“No.” He shrugged. “It feels like they’re in Chicago, but I guess they could be anywhere.”

Rachel’s phone beeped, and at the same moment someone knocked on the door.

Rachel looked at her phone and frowned. “Come in!” 

A young man in gray overalls peered into the room. “Ms. Dunne? Dr. Stenholtz wants to see you.”

“Yeah, he just texted me.” She rolled her eyes and put her phone away. “Thanks, Henry.”

Without speaking Henry stood up and headed for the door. We followed.

“Should I go?” I asked.

Rachel grimaced. “He wants you too.”

“Oh. Oops. Are you going to be in trouble?”

She sighed. “I did it to myself. Come on.”

She led me down a hallway, made a turn, and stopped in front of a door with TIMOTHY STENHOLTZ, M.D. printed in black letters. “Abandon all hope,” she murmured. She knocked, then opened the door.

Stenholt had receding hair, a narrow face and a sharp nose. His sleeves were rolled up, and his white lab coat lay across the back of his chair. The tidy desk in front of him had some books, a few manila folders, and a laptop off to the side.  

He pushed his chair back and crossed his arms as we entered. “Ms. Dunne. Mr.—Jurgen? Close the door. Sit down.”

We sat. Rachel bit her lip but stared straight at him, waiting. 

“Why is Mr. Jurgen talking to one of our patients, Rachel?” His tone was low, seemingly neutral, but I could sense what he was holding back.

“Tom’s a detective. I thought he could offer some perspective on the dreams Henry’s been having.”

“How do you know him?” Stenholtz looked at me. Again, wondering what I was doing with someone like Rachel.

“He’s my boyfriend. We live together.” Rachel kept her voice casual and calm.

“And you think it’s appropriate to bring your boyfriend in here to talk to our patients?”        

Rachel sighed. “As I’ve told you in my reports, Henry’s dreams appear to correspond to actual murders being committed in Chicago. I thought if we could figure out what’s going on, that would help Henry with his recovery. Tom’s a professional. He’s good at his job. I thought he could help.”

Good at my job, she’d said. I indulged in a moment of feeling proud until Stenholtz shot his eyes toward me. “Do you have anything to say, Mr. Jurgen?”

“Rachel’s usually right about things,” I said. 

“Ms. Dunne is a student.” He looked back at her. “We’re not allowed to bring in outsiders—or your boyfriend—without authorization. From the patient, his family, from me. And not without going through the right channels and completing all the necessary paperwork.”

“I’ll sign an NDA or whatever you have,” I offered. “I’m used to keeping things confidential.”

Stenholtz frowned. “This is about Ms. Dunne, not you, Mr. Jurgen. But yes, I will ask you to sign some confidentiality forms before you leave. They’re not usually retroactive, but I imagine Ms. Dunne can impress on you the need to take them seriously.”

“Of course.” I looked at Rachel. “I always do what she says.”

I saw her stifle a snort, and hoped Stenholtz didn't see it. “Is that all, Dr. Stenholtz?” Rachel asked.

“For now. Don’t let this happen again.” He uncrossed his arms and nodded toward the door behind us.

Back out in the hallway Rachel sighed. “Better than I thought. At least I didn’t get fired.”

“Always a plus. Where do I go to fill out the paperwork?”

“Up front.” She checked the time. “I’ve got a meeting. Just ask at the front desk. I should have done it before anyway. Stenholtz was right about that.”

“I’ll find it. Have a good meeting.”

“Thanks. And thanks for coming. Maybe it’ll help.”

“Maybe. I’ll have to be careful when I talk to Sharpe. Oh, by the way—”

“Yeah?” She’d already turned away to head for her meeting.

“Does Henry know the dreams are real?”

Rachel nodded. “Yeah. I’m not sure he believes it. The dreams are upsetting enough.”

“Okay.” I wanted to kiss her goodbye, but that didn’t seem appropriate at work. “See you at home.”

“Right.” She turned again, and I made my way to the front to sign those forms.

Dreams of Murder, Part Four

Back home, after checking my email, I called Sharpe. “Was the old guy stabbed in the arm?”

            “Yes. Did your friend have another dream?”

            I told her about my session with Henry—leaving his name free of it. 

“Damn it, Jurgen!” Sharpe yells at me all the time, but it always rattles me. “I can’t keep this on the down-low forever. Cruz knows I’m asking questions. Somebody’s going to have to start looking at what this guy says.”

            “I know, I know.” I didn’t know what to tell her, though. “I’ll have to talk to Rachel.”

            “Do that. Soon.” She hung up.

            Now what? I didn’t want to bother Rachel with a text. She was already having a tough day. So I ate lunch, opened a Coke, and went to work scheduling and rescheduling more interviews.

            Rachel got home at seven. She dropped her laptop case on the sofa, tossed her jacket on a chair, and stood in the middle of the living room, breathing slowly.

            I came out of the kitchen. “You okay? Need a hug?”

            She snorted. “Try it and you’ll get a ruptured spleen. Is there anything for dinner?”

            Usually we take turns cooking, but lately I’d been doing the bulk of it. “I can make grilled cheese. With gruyere. Fries.”

            “Sounds good. Let me change.” Then she leaned forward and gave me a kiss. “Maybe a hug later.”

            She came back 15 minutes later in sweats and opened a beer while I checked on the fries in the oven. “Tough day?”

            A shrug. “It went better after you left.”

            “Thanks.”

            She poked my arm. “You know what I mean. The rest of the patients were fine, and I managed to get all the paperwork done. I had to stay late to finish it, but still.”

            “So, what do you think is going on with Henry?”

            A groan. “I don’t know. I think if I could be there when he’s dreaming, I might pick up something more. Right now all I get is that he’s telling the truth, and he’s really scared. He doesn’t want to be seeing himself killing somebody.”

            “So you don’t think he’s—somehow—committing the murders?”

            After a moment Rachel shook her head. “I thought about that. Some kind of astral projection or something. But he doesn’t seem violent. I mean, the domestic violence issues were pretty minor, throwing plates and stuff like that. And he’s responding well to medication and therapy.”

            “Can you get a read on him?”

            “I’ve tried. Violating the no physical contact rule—don’t worry, I just held his hand for a moment. There’s nothing psychic or supernatural in him that I can feel. If I could sit with him while he’s asleep, maybe I’d get something, but that’s not going to happen.”

            “Yeah.” I checked the stove and flipped the sandwiches. “We’re going to have to tell Sharpe something soon.”

            “I know.” Rachel rubbed her eyes. “How do you deal with this? Murder, the supernatural, cops. The questions? Not knowing? Doesn’t it drive you crazy?”

            “I have a very understanding girlfriend.”

            She snorted. “Flattery’s nice, but it won’t get you laid.” She sniffed the air. “But dinner might. Are those fries almost ready?”

 

A phone buzzed around 2:30 a.m. For once, it wasn’t mine. I felt Rachel roll over and sit up. “Yeah? Okay. Right. Okay. Yeah.” She hung up.

            I opened my eyes as she got to her feet. “What is it?”

            “Henry.” She yawned. “He’s not sleeping. Getting manic. Asking for me. Screaming for me, from how Ravi tells it. He’s on night duty.” She staggered toward the bathroom. “I’ve got to go.”

            “I’ll come with you.” I forced myself up.

            “You don’t have to. Go back to sleep.”

            I laughed. “How many times have we had this conversation the other way around?”

            Rachel glared at me, but after a moment she nodded. “Fine. Just stay out of my way. That’s what you usually tell me.”

            “You’re the boss.” I stumbled to the dresser for a shirt and fresh underwear. “Which you never tell me.”

            I drove, and we headed out to Des Plaines with our travel mugs full of coffee. Fortunately traffic was nonexistent, and we reached Des Plaines in 40 minutes. I parked and Rachel led the way in.

            The guard nodded at Rachel’s badge and gave me another VISITOR sticker for my shirt. She led me through the security doors and down a hallway until a man spotted us. “Rachel!”

            “Ravi.” He wore a beige jacket like Rachel’s this morning. Young, with short hair and probing eyes. “This is my boyfriend, Tom. He was—he’s helping me. He met Henry today.”

            “Nice to meet you.” We shook hands quickly. “Rachel, he won’t go to sleep. Says he’s afraid of dreaming. He was asleep, and then he woke up and started yelling for you. He stopped yelling, but he refuses to take a pill or even just lie down.” He shrugged, helpless. “I’m sorry for calling you, but—”

            “That’s okay.” She patted his arm. “Let’s go see him.”

            He led, and we followed. “Ravi’s the one who knows about you, right?” I asked softly.

            Rachel laughed. “Hey, Ravi, did you know I’m psychic?”

            “I knew you were going to ask that.” He chuckled, then stopped at a door. “Here.”

            The door was unlocked. Inside, Henry sat in a small room with books, photos taped to the wall, a music player, and a narrow bed. No padded walls. A small table and a plastic folding chair sat next to a barred window. 

            Henry sat on the bed, barefoot, in a T-shirt and drawstring pants. He was staring at the floor, mumbling under his breath. After a moment he looked up. “Hi, Rachel.” His voice was surprisingly calm.

            “What’s going on, Henry? It’s late.” Rachel crossed her arms. Not too stern, but still exerting a bit of authority.

            “I can’t sleep.” He groaned. “I mean, I don’t want to go to sleep. I don’t want any of those dreams again. Gah!” He suddenly slapped his hand on the mattress. “I don’t want to see them again!”

            I looked at Rachel for permission to ask questions. She nodded.

            “Henry?” I waited for him to look at me. “Do you think that if you don’t go to sleep, the murders won’t happen?”

            His mouth trembled. “I don’t know. M-maybe.”

            I glanced at Rachel again, then went ahead before she could stop me. “Are you killing these people, Henry?”

            He sank down, his hands between his knees. “I don’t—I don’t think so. But I’m seeing it like it’s me.” His voice was almost too low to hear. “It’s like a movie. I can see it happening but I can’t do anything about it. I try, but I can’t. I have to watch. I can’t stop it from happening.”

            I looked at Rachel. “Like you said—maybe if you were here while Henry was asleep, you could pick something up.”

            She rolled her eyes. “No way would that be allowed. I mean, even if Henry agreed to it—”

            “It’s okay,” he said. “Yeah. That’s all right with me.”

            Rachel stared at him. Then she glared at me. “I’d get worse than fired. I could get kicked out of the program.” 

            She’d devoted her life to school for more than a year. I knew how much it meant to her. “Yeah, you’re right. Sorry.”

            “Shut up. I’ll do it.” She ran her fingers through her hair. “Ravi will cover for me. As much as he can. If I find anything—” Rachel frowned. “I’ll figure that out if it happens.” She grimaced. “This is possibly the stupidest thing I’ve ever done.”

            “I bet I can think of—” I shut up as Rachel shot a glare at me. “Nothing.”

            Henry’s eyes were worried. “I don’t want you to get in trouble because of me.”

            “I don’t want to compromise your care. You need sleep, and we need to know what’s going on.” She sighed, her hands on her hips, looking around the room. “I’ll have to sit close to you, Henry. I may have to put a hand on your arm, but that’s the only physical contact I’ll take. Is that all right?”

            He nodded. “Whatever you think is right.”

            Then she turned to me. “Go home.”

            I looked at the door, then back at Rachel. “What?”

            “It’s going to look bad enough if I get caught. If my boyfriend’s here, it’ll just look worse.” Rachel took two steps to me and put a hand on my arm. “I’ll be okay. Just do this.” She kissed me.

            I couldn’t argue. I’ve taken bigger risks than this, and even though Rachel gets mad, she’s always there when I come stumbling back from whatever reckless plan I try. “Okay. Call me. Or text me. Whatever.”

            “Right.” She turned. “Okay, Henry. Time for some sleep.”

            He laid back and closed his eyes. “I’ll try.”