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.
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