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.”

Dreams of Murder, Part Five

I went home, but I couldn’t get back to sleep. I drank some coffee and sat in front of the TV with my phone beside me, watching an old science fiction movie about giant killer insects. I dozed.

            I jumped when my phone buzzed. It was Rachel. The time was 7:15. “Hi.”

            “Hi.” Her voice was low and subdued. “You’re home?”

            “Yeah. I thought about sleeping there in the car, but these days I’m not sure my back could stand it. What happened?”

            “Give me a second.” I heard her take a swallow of something. Probably coffee. “I told them I stayed in the on-call room in case Henry needed me again. So far I think everyone’s buying it.”

            “Good. What about Henry?”

            Another slurp of coffee. “I don’t think there were any murders. But it felt like there was something—someone—inside his head. Poking around.”

            “Demon?”

            “No. It felt human. And it felt like it knew I was there. Mostly it felt like it wanted Henry to know it was there, like it was trying to scare him.”

            “What does Henry say? Any dreams? Even non-murdery dreams?”

            “He says . . .” She paused. “Sorry. I’m in the break room, and there’s people coming in and out. It’s okay to take personal calls, but this is risky.” More coffee. “Anyway, he sort of remembers walking around outside, but nothing clear enough to describe.”

            “Did he hear the song? The humming?”

            “Yeah. He still doesn’t know what it was, but it’s something he sort of remembers. He just can’t get it. Why is it important?”

            “Maybe it’s not. But songs can trigger memories. If he’s trying to get through to Henry, tell him something, it could be in the song.”

            “Yeah.” Rachel sighed. “God, I’m tired.”

            “Do you want me to come get you?”

            “Yeah. No rush, I can finish up some paperwork. Just stay outside and call me. So Stenholtz doesn’t see you.”

            “Let me grab a shower. I’ll be there in an hour or so.”

            “Take your time.” She hung up.

            I took a shower, ate a quick bowl of cereal, and headed for the car.

            I drove as quickly as I could, thinking about Henry. Actually, after five minutes, I was only thinking about Rachel. Hoping she was okay. Usually she’s the one helping me, and I’m busy trying to solve some supernatural problem while she worries about me getting eaten by a giant carnivorous plant or a homicidal cyborg. 

I was beginning to see how aggravating it was to wait around and feel helpless. Some days I wonder why she puts up with me.

She was under a lot of pressure. My job right now was to take some of it off her any way I could. Like any good boyfriend, right? I could be a good, supportive boyfriend if I worked at it, couldn’t I?  Maybe I could find a podcast about it.

I pulled up in front of the center and texted her. She called back within 20 seconds: “Come in,” she told me. 

“What about Stenholtz?” I asked.

“He’s out delivering a lecture somewhere. The guy at security won’t write down your name. He owes me a favor.”

I wanted to ask what the favor was, but immediately decided I was better off not knowing. “I’ll be right there.”

I drove into the parking garage, made my way to the front desk, and got a new VISITOR sticker. The security guard gave Rachel a wink when she came out to get me.

“What’s going on?” I asked as she tapped the keypad next to the inner door.

“Henry remembered something.” Her eyes were red from missed sleep. She was walking fast, and I had to hurry to keep up with her.

“Remembered what?”

“Just now. I wanted you to hear it yourself. Ask questions, you know, what you do. Come on.”

She led me to the door to Henry’s room, knocked, and opened it right away. “Henry? I’ve got Tom. Can we come in?”

Henry was sitting at the small table, wearing the same T-shirt and drawstring pants as last night. “Hi, Tom.”

“Hi, Henry. What’s going on?”

Rachel closed the door. There was no place for us to sit except the unmade bed, so we stood next to each other. 

He rubbed his eyes. “I, uh, I was sleeping. Rachel was here.” His eyes darted at me nervously. “She was right here, in the chair, not next to me or anything, okay?”

“It’s fine, Henry.” I hid a smile. “Nothing to worry about.”

 “And I was pretty tired, so I went to sleep right away. Right?” He looked at Rachel. She nodded. “And I didn’t have any dreams. I mean—I sort of felt Rachel, but it wasn’t—it wasn’t anything.” He looked at the floor. “There was something else. Like something calling me, but I couldn’t hear it. Like it was too far away.”

“Okay.”

“Then just now—I was eating breakfast in the cafeteria, and I was humming a song, and—” He looked up, smiling. “It was the song! From my dream. And I remembered everything.” Henry sighed, 

Rachel and I exchanged a glance. She looked happy. For the first time in days.

“What song?” I asked.

He sang: “‘There was a farmer had a dog, and Bingo was his name-oh.’ You know that?”

A dog. “Uh-huh. It’s an old song.”

“Yeah. The thing is, I had a dog named Bingo when I was a kid. He was just a mutt, but he was a good dog. He was my dog.  I guess I named him after the song.” Henry laughed, but then his face grew dark. “That’s when I remembered—well, the rest of it.”

I waited. Sometimes silence is the best way to get someone to open up.

“My best friend when I was a kid was Mitch. Mitch Haining. He was older than me, and he was kind of mean, but I didn’t have a lot of friends. People thought I was strange. That was before—anyway, Mitch hated dogs. He hated Bingo. Bingo didn’t like Mitch, he’d hide when he came over, or barked and growled at him all the time. And then—” Henry closed his eyes. “One day Mitch just killed Bingo.”

Henry’s voice started to tremble. “Bingo was barking at him, and Mitch kicked him, and he kept kicking him, over and over and—I couldn’t stop him. No one was home, my mom was at work, and Mitch just kept kicking him and then stomping him until—until he was dead. And Mitch just laughed.”

“That’s horrible,” I said.

“Yeah.” Henry looked up and wiped his eyes, reaching for a tissue. “I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t say anything. I buried Bingo in the backyard, and I just—I didn’t say anything to anyone. I told my mom Bingo ran away.” 

“There’s more,” Rachel told me.

Henry threw the tissue away. “Mitch got arrested. He, uh, beat up his girlfriend. Stabbed her, but she didn’t die. He showed up at my house, to hide, and there was blood all over his clothes. The cops caught him in my house, and I told them about Bingo. He started screaming at me, and the police took him away, and—I don’t know what happened to him after that.” He stared at the floor again, breathing hard, as if reliving the memory had exhausted him. 

“What town were you in?”

He looked confused for a moment. “P-Park Ridge. Why?”

I looked at Rachel. She said, “Henry, Tom’s going to have to tell the police about Mitch. He has a friend—”

“No.” Henry’s face jerked up. “You can’t. Mitch will—he’ll—I can’t—”

“You’re safe here,” Rachel said, her voice protective and reassuring. “No one can get inside without—” She glanced at me. “Nothing will happen.”

“The police will just want to check out where Mitch is,” I said. “To see if there’s any connection. Chances are they won’t want to get you involved at all. I mean, even if you could identify Mitch from your dreams—”

“It’s him.” Henry was nodding. “He was humming that when he—when he killed Bingo. And those other people. I’m sure it’s him.”

“You can’t testify to that in court,” I told him. “Trust me, the police will want to leave you completely out of this. But with a name they can look for evidence, and you won’t have to get involved.”

Henry bit his lip until I was afraid he’d draw blood. Finally he sighed. “All right. I’ll—I’ll help if I can. I just can’t take any more dreams.”

“I know.” Rachel nodded. “Get some rest now, and—”

The door opened. It was Dr. Stenholtz. “Rachel? Mr. Jurgen? What are you doing here?” His face was definitely not pleased.

Dreams of Murder, Part Six

Twenty minutes later we were driving home. 

            “Breakfast talk?” Rachel pounded the dashboard. “What the hell is he doing giving a breakfast talk? I thought it was a big lecture. At a university. Or a conference. Not a Waffle House.”

            “At least he didn’t fire you,” I said, my eyes on the road.

            Stenholtz had actually listened to the whole story. He’d heard about the murders—one of them, anyway. He didn’t quite believe the dreams could have anything to do with the real world, but he was intrigued. “Cruelty to animals and a history of violence fits a few markers,” he agreed. “Assuming he’s not still in prison. Or dead.”

            “That’s what we need to check out next,” I said. 

            He looked between the two of us. “All right. Go home, both of you, and check this out. But Ms. Dunne, when you come back on Monday, I expect a full report on top of all your paperwork being finished. And I expect a new attitude about following procedures and protocols for bringing outsiders into this facility.”

            “Yes, sir.” I’d never seen Rachel so subservient. It was uncomfortable.

            “Yeah, he listened to you. A man.” She punched my shoulder. “But, yeah, at least I still have my job. And a ton of paperwork to do.” She put her sunglasses on. “I’m just going to rest my eyes for a bit. Try not to crash into anything.”

            “Got it.”

            At home Rachel headed to the bedroom for a shower. I started looking up whatever I could find on Mitch Haining.

            I found a few brief newspaper stories about Haining going to prison for assault, along with a few other glimpses of his earlier life—a brief mention of him scoring the winning touchdown in a high school football game, an obituary for his mother, a minor arrest for marijuana, and then the girlfriend stabbing. Fortunately the girl had lived. Was he still locked up? I couldn’t find out. No social media presence. And there was nothing about the dog.

I showed it all to Rachel when she came in. “I guess you have to call Anita,” she said when she was done skimming.

“Yeah.” I saved everything to my hard drive, “I just hope it does some good.”

She patted my shoulder, then turned to her desk. I watched her walk, and then I called Sharpe. 

“Okay,” she grunted when I told her what we’d learned. “Send me what you got. I’ll see if it checks out.” Then she hung up. 

After that I talked to some clients, lined up more appointments for the sexual harassment case, and did one interview via Zoom in the afternoon. Rachel sat with noise canceling headphones at her desk, ignoring me as well as she could.

            At 5:30 I checked the refrigerator. Then I went into the office. “I’m going down to the grocery store for dinner stuff. Is rice curry okay with you?”

            Rachel groaned. “You’ve made dinner every night this week. I’ll do it.” She stood up and stretched. “I need the walk. What are you gawking at?”

            “I like watching you stretch.” I grinned. “I’ll come with you. I could use a walk with you too.”

            She rolled her eyes. “Don’t get any ideas.”

            “Me? You jest.”

            The late afternoon was warm, the sky a little overcast, the sidewalks busy as people got on and off buses or came down from the el on their way home, or maybe on their way to work. I saw people walking their dogs and kept an eye out for anyone who seemed to be stalking them.

            “I want to go to the park.” Rachel took my hand. “Just for a few minutes?”

            “Fine.” I followed. “You okay?”

            “I just need some fresh air, and nobody calling me.” She squeezed my hand. “All right?”

            The park was only a few blocks away. We made our way down a path and found an empty bench under a tree. Rachel sank down and closed her eyes with a sigh.

            I sat with her, not saying anything, just watching her and listening to the birds and the breeze.

            “I’m so close,” she murmured. “Just a few more months. I can do this.”

            “You’re doing great,” I told her. “I always knew you could.”

            “It’s just . . . some days.” She sighed. “I hope Henry’s getting some sleep. He said he was going to—”

            “Rachel? Tom?”

            I turned. It was Sara Metz, a neighbor from our building. She’s middle-aged and friendly, a real estate agent with two grown kids in New York. She waved, pulling on a leash. “Yes, Neelix, behave. They’re friends.”

            Neelix was her pug, a small dog named after a Star Trek character. Our landlord technically didn’t allow pets, but somehow Neelix was an exception. “Hi, Sara,” I said, and Rachel nodded.

            “Nice day, isn’t it?” She took a swallow from a water bottle clipped to her belt as Neelix sniffed Rachel’s feet.

            “Yes, hi, Neelix.” Rachel scratched his ears, then stood up. “Come on, Tom, we’ve got groceries to buy and beer to drink somewhere.”

            “Yes, milady.” I stood. “Have a nice walk, Sara. Neelix—”

            The small pug barked once. Then he stiffened with a growl and barked again. Not friendly this time.

            I started to turn. What the—

 

I’m in a park.

            She’s there, with her boyfriend. And there’s a woman with a dog. A dog.

            No one can see me. But I don’t care. I’m going to do it. Right now. I’m going to—

            Tom is standing up. He shouts a name. Rachel is staring at me. Not scared. Why isn’t she scared?

            The dog is barking. Some woman is holding its leash, yelling at it. 

            I have the knife. Rachel is right there. Tom is running at me.

            I can’t move.

            The knife is in my hand, but I can’t move my arm. 

            Rachel grabs Tom’s arm before he can hit me. I can’t hear what she’s saying. The dog is barking. I can’t hear it barking. The woman holding it looks scared. She’s got her phone out.

            I can’t move.

            Rachel’s in front of me, keeping away, and Tom is pulling on my hand, trying to get the knife away. I can’t move. Rachel is staring at me. She’s trying to talk to me. Her lips are moving. I can’t hear her. I stare back at her. What is she saying? What’s she trying to say? I can’t move.

            Finally I hear her—

            “Henry? Henry!”

            Then I wake up.

 

We were in Dr. Stenholtz’s office on Monday. Henry was there.

            “I just fell asleep in the rec center.” He seemed more relaxed than I’d seen him before. “I wasn’t going to take a nap, I just dozed off. And then—I was there. I saw you.” He blinked, his eyes darting over to me. “B-both of you. And I had to—I couldn’t let him do it. I just couldn’t. So I—I stopped.”

            The cops had shown up in minutes after Sara’s 911 call. Mitch Haining just stood there, seemingly paralyzed, and when he could move again he just fell over, gasping and cursing. I’d taken the knife. Neelix kept his distance.

            Dr. Stenholtz was still skeptical, but right now he seemed able to keep an open mind. “How are you feeling today, Henry?”

            “Fine.” He smiled. “Better than in a long time. I can sleep good again.”

            Rachel cleared her throat. “It seems like Haining became aware of me through Henry’s dreams, when I spent the night here.” She’d come clean about that, but Henry had insisted that he’d given his full consent. “And he decided, since we had a connection, to come after me. And Tom,” she added quickly.

            “Mostly you,” I said. “I get it.”

            “And the dog?” Stenholtz asked.

            “He hates dogs,” Rachel said. “Having Neelix there just drove his rage, but he didn’t need it that time. He wanted to punish Henry for turning him in when they were kids. He couldn’t get at him in here directly, but somehow he had the ability to get inside people’s dreams. So he decided to torture Henry by making him watch the killings.”

            I’d called Sharpe right after two cops arrived at the park to take Haining into custody. Detectives confirmed his identity, and the old man, Francis Monks, identified him in a lineup. Sharpe had told me this morning that Haining had made a rambling statement about hating dogs and loving nightmares. “I’m betting his lawyers go for an insanity defense,” she told me.

            Stenholtz looked at us across the table, his arms folded. “And you have some experience in things like, I don’t know, invading people’s dreams? Psychic phenomena? The supernatural?”

            Rachel swallowed and nodded. “Yes. That’s correct.”

            “A lot of that is my fault,” I said. “I seem to attract the crazies.”

            Rachel kicked me in the ankle.

            Stenholtz scowled. “Thank you, Henry. You may go.”

            Henry stood up, nervously looking at Rachel and me, and then left.

            Stenholtz tapped a key on his laptop. “I’m going to have to add a note to your file about observing Henry during sleep without prior authorization. And also about bringing your boyfriend in on different occasions for inappropriate purposes. Not—” He raised a hand before Rachel could object. “Not those kind of inappropriate purposes. Just outside the realm of your prescribed duties.”

            He tapped some more keys, then looked up. “However, Henry does seem to have improved under your care. And you have shown a commitment to your patient’s well-being that’s commendable. But this all sounds like an X-Files episode, and I don’t like the X-Files. So for the next few weeks, try to limit yourself to standard protocols and approved guidelines of care.” He sighed. “That’s all. Go back to work.”

            We left his office before he could change his mind. Out in the hallway, Rachel sighed with relief. “He didn’t fire me.”

            “Of course not.” I looked around, but there were too many people watching for me to give her a kiss. “See you at home?”

            She smiled. “Yeah. Thanks.”

            “No problem. It’s what boyfriends do.”

            Rachel punched me. Lightly. “Don’t forget it.”

            I rubbed my arm. “Never.”

 

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