gbbaileyauthor.com
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Prologue
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There are no secrets that time does not reveal.
-Jean Racine
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Monday, October 13, 2008
12:47 pm
Even though the baby’s head had not yet started to emerge, the doctor could tell that something just wasn’t quite right.
“Keep pushing, Lori, it won’t be much longer now,” he said as he signaled to his nurse to be alert.
Lori’s pain was intense and it was everywhere. Nothing had prepared her for this and she reached to her husband for support. She found his hand and squeezed it. It felt cold and she realized that she must be burning up. Lori stared up at the bright light on the ceiling shining down on her then shook her head. She just wanted this to be over. Her eyes flitted around the freshly painted walls and polished cherry cabinets of the delivery room then arrived at the eyes of her husband.
“You’re doing great, honey,” Ted told her. “Now keep it up, you’re almost there.” He wiped the sweat from her brow. The hair was matted to her forehead and barely budged. “I love you, honey.”
Lori took several breaths and gave a tremendous push.
“That’s it Lori. Just a few more pushes…” The doctor’s voice stopped suddenly.
“What’s wrong?” Lori asked. She sensed something in the doctor’s voice. She tried to pull herself up on her elbows so that she could see what was wrong but only her head and neck seemed to move. She looked to her husband.
“Is everything okay?” Ted asked. He had noticed it too. He studied the doctor. Something was wrong.
The doctor exchanged a glance with the nurse beside him. Then he paused for a moment before speaking. “Everything’s fine. You’re almost there, Lori. Just a few more big pushes ought to do it.”
Lori heard the doctor’s words, but something kept her from believing them. A feeling of panic swelled in her body. When the pain crashed over her body and she pushed, it was almost a relief from the fear in her mind.
When the baby was delivered, the doctor quickly whisked it away. Ted held his wife’s head against his chest and stroked her hair. A moment later, the doctor was carrying the baby back towards them.
“It’s a girl.” The doctor spoke with a certain hesitance, a sense of trepidation and uncertainty as he approached the white couple holding the baby awkwardly in his arms.
Ted looked at the baby. The baby’s dark chocolate skin stood out against the white skin of the doctor’s arms.
“How could you do this?” he said to his wife, still lying on the hospital bed, trying to see what was wrong. “You cheated on me.” His voice rose. “How could you do this to me?”
Lori stared at the baby in disbelief. “I didn’t,” she managed to say. She continued to stare at the baby, searching for some type of answer. “I didn’t,” she repeated, “I never cheated. I swear. I never cheated.”
“You liar.”
“I swear, I’ve never cheated.”
“Oh yeah, well then how do you explain that?” he said, pointing to the baby that had been laid in her arms. “How could you do this to me?” he said before turning to leave the delivery room.
“But I have never cheated on you, it’s the truth.” The words fell flat on the glossy laminate floor of the delivery room. Her husband was gone. Tears ran down her face. Lori turned to the doctor.
“I have never cheated,” she said trying to convince him that she was innocent. She examined the baby she held in her arms, the black infant. “How could this have happened?” she asked the doctor.
The doctor stared back at her, unable to say a word. The newborn began to wail.
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Five days later, Lori arrived alone at the hospital for the results of the DNA test. As she entered the conference room, she saw Ted sitting across the table with his attorney. She had not seen him since he had stormed out of the delivery room. Now, he wouldn’t even make eye contact with her. She sat by herself at the far end of the long table.
A man in a white lab coat sat at the head of the table next to an empty chair. Another man, older and dressed in a dark, three-piece suit, entered the room in a rush. He moved toward the front of the room and as he approached, the man in the lab coat slid over to make room for him at the table’s head.
The man in the lab coat leaned in as if he wanted to whisper something to the older man in the suit but he was brushed off.
“Well, since everyone is here, let’s get started,” said the man in the suit as he grabbed a manila folder that was sitting on the table in front of his colleague and opened it up. “I will remind you that our results are over 99.9% accurate. Our lab uses the most accurate technology that exists.” He examined the papers in his hand and started to say something but stopped. He glanced at the man in the lab coat who shrugged his shoulders and flashed an uncomfortable grin.
The man in the suit leafed through the papers, cleared his throat, and said, “Mr. Anderson’s DNA was a match. Ted Anderson is the father of the child.” He stopped and looked at the faces around the table.
Even though she knew that she hadn’t cheated, Lori still felt a rush of relief and she glanced across the table at her husband. Ted wore a puzzled expression. Then the thought occurred to her. There has to be more to it. She turned back to the man in the suit who was about to continue.
“That’s not all,” the man in the suit said before taking a long pause. He looked to the ceiling, searching for the right words to say what he was not sure he completely understood. “The DNA, however, did not match for Mrs. Anderson. So, according to our results, Lori Anderson is not the biological mother of this child.”
Lori felt a stabbing pain in the pit of her stomach as she tried to make sense of what the man just said. She was even more confused and she again turned to see her husband. Ted’s face took on a sick look and he rose up from his chair and rushed out of the room. Lori sat silently and saw him slam through the glass doors as questions echoed in her mind.
“But doctor, that’s impossible…to say that I am not the mother, it doesn’t make any sense…we didn’t use in vitro…how can that possibly be?” Lori finally managed to say.
The man in the suit stammered for a few seconds before he said, “I don’t really know.”
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Part One
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All things one has forgotten scream for help in dreams.
-Eilas Canetti
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Chapter 1
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Monday, November 10, 2008
1:13 pm
Am I dreaming? Jonah Cole thought as he looked at the digital clock on his dashboard. The question had come automatically and he was quite certain that he was awake. Then his eyes returned to the red light in front of him.
He had been surprised to get the call. His situation with the Chicago Police Department was tenuous and he was usually only called in by a select few, so when he received the call from Detective Davis, he knew it meant only one thing: they were desperate.
As he turned down the block, he saw an assortment of police vehicles lining the street in front of a single family home, radiating out from the curb at a range of different angles. Jonah parked alongside the mass.
He approached the house and saw the forensic technicians walking out, packed up and ready to leave, and he realized that they must have been here for hours searching the area, collecting evidence, and taking video and photos.
A few neighbors stood outside the yellow caution tape. A woman in tight spandex with a dog on a leash stood out among them. She was probably out for a run and had stopped to check out the commotion. With his sunglasses on, Jonah was able to get a private glance at her. He noticed that she too was checking him out. Because of his looks, he was used to a woman’s attention. Jonah wasn’t exactly tall—he was average in height—but his handsome features more than made up for it. It was possible that she recognized him. Because of his high-profile cases and his books, he was a local celebrity, but most people only recognized the name and couldn’t pick him out of a line-up. It didn’t seem to matter if women knew him or not, they were always attracted to him.
His eyes shifted away from her face. She had an athletic figure to be sure, but then he caught himself and returned his focus to straight ahead. No distractions. He didn’t do that anymore.
Once inside, he spotted the detective who had called him, Davis, and approached him.
Davis was tall and heavy and stood over Jonah.
“Calling me in kind of late, wouldn’t you say?”
“Best we could do, Doc, with the crowd we had here earlier.”
Jonah knew this meant Deputy Superintendent Benjamin Richards had been there so he nodded.
Even though Jonah was now only a special consultant with the police and no longer carried any official rank, he still took the lead when he was called in on an investigation. Those who called him in usually just bowed out of the way and let him do his thing. Even if they didn’t like him, they brought him in when they wanted the best. Or, like Davis, they were just plain desperate and had nowhere else to turn.
Davis waved over another detective, Thompson, and they began to fill him in. An 18-year-old college student had been found dead in the basement of the house. He had been killed days ago and the parents found him this morning. They had let their son live down in the modest apartment beneath their home for his first year of college. The unit had its own entrance which the kid used and his parents had been so busy with their own jobs and social lives that they hadn’t talked to him or even seen him in over a week. It looked like he was strangled from behind with a necktie taken from his closet. The body was still there, they were holding it for Jonah to get his eyes on it before zipping it up and carrying it out.
Jonah put on a pair of latex gloves and descended the stairs and entered into a large divided room. One side appeared to be a family room with a couch against one wall facing a television. On the far opposite side, there was a small kitchenette. Jonah moved toward a small hallway with doorways on both sides. One was a bathroom, the other a bedroom.
Am I dreaming?
He saw the body as soon as he entered the bedroom. The body was naked and propped up on the bed on all fours. There was a bag over the head and his underwear was pulled down around his ankles.
After he had studied the body for some time, he went over to an iPod nested in its docking station atop a dresser. He picked it up, turned it on, and scanned through its play list. A lot of ballads, nothing too fast-paced or too hard. He finally put it back down and let it play as he walked through the apartment. His eyes scanned the room as the music played. The place seemed remarkably clean for a kid in college, even the carpet.
The kid had been entertaining a guest and he was eager to impress.
Jonah went from room to room for several minutes until he found himself in the bathroom. He gently opened the medicine cabinet with his gloved thumb barely touching the edge of the mirrored door. His eyes quickly zeroed in on a bottle of expensive cologne. He leaned in towards it to get a closer look and saw that it seemed filled to the brim, like it had never been touched. He glanced down at the small waste paper basket on the bathroom floor and picked it up. He removed a Kleenex from the top and found a small, crinkled, plastic wrapper, perfectly molded to the top and neck of the bottle of cologne.
The kid was new at this.
Jonah left the bathroom and did another round of the apartment, this time ending in the kitchen. The small counter was not only empty but was sparklingly clean. He noticed the dishwasher underneath. The red light indicated its contents were now clean. He pulled it open with a gloved hand. Inside it was practically empty. Two glasses sat in the top with a couple of plates and a few pieces of silverware in the bottom.
The kid’s killer had been thorough.
Jonah opened the cabinet doors under the sink and found the kitchen garbage can.
Jonah came back upstairs to Davis.
“You all done down there?” Davis asked.
Jonah nodded.
“What do you got for me?”
Jonah pulled out a plastic bag with a used condom in it. “I found this buried in the bottom of the kitchen garbage downstairs. Have it tested.”
Davis took the bag and nodded. “So you think we’ll find the UNSUB’s DNA on this?”
Jonah shook his head. “I don’t think you’ll find anybody’s DNA on it but the victim’s.”
Davis furrowed his brow. Only the victim’s DNA? That didn’t make any sense.
Jonah read his thoughts and shrugged. “Okay, prove me wrong.”
Davis shook off the confusion. He knew better than to question Jonah Cole. Even if you didn’t like the guy—and only a few on the job did—he knew his stuff.
“What have they found on the kid’s computer?” It was standard procedure for any sex crime to confiscate and search any computerized devices.
“Nothing yet. They just started. I’ll let you know the results as soon as I have them.”
Jonah nodded then started toward the door. He stopped.
“One more thing: find out what day they pick up the garbage around here.”
“Anything else, Doc?” Davis asked.
“Not right now. I need to let it sink in. I’ll call you later with something.”
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Chapter 2
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From the Midwest On-line Dream Dictionary (www.midwest-dreams.com):
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Lucid dream [lū'sid drēm] n. A dream in which the dreamer is aware that he is dreaming. The term was coined by Dutch psychiatrist and writer Frederick van Eeden, (1) who lived from 1860 to 1932. In a lucid dream, the dreamer can make choices and take actions in the dream environment.
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1 Frederick van Eeden, “A Study of Dreams,” Proceedings of the Society for Psychological Research, 26 (1913): 431-461.
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Chapter 3
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Jonah glanced down at his watch before beginning the conclusion to his lecture.
Am I dreaming?
He paused a moment and studied the university’s crowded auditorium before delivering the conclusion to his hour-long talk. Although he was not a tall man, something about standing in front of them and seeing them hang on his every word made him feel like a giant.
“So as the case examples presented have illustrated, the mind of the serial killer continues to evolve. Some historians claim that the earliest serial killer lived around 50 years after the birth of Christ. In the last hundred years, their methods have become increasingly complex and difficult to detect. We have made tremendous advances in science and technology, yet data from the FBI shows that while the murder rates in the US have generally declined over the last few decades, the clearance rates have also declined. So while fewer people are being murdered, more people are getting away with it.
“In the last hundred years, serial killers have become even more prevalent. The FBI estimates that there are currently 45 active serial killers in the United States alone. Extremists believe that the number is closer to 500. Regardless of the number, it is clear that the phenomenon of the serial killer is not an illness for which we are likely to ever find the cure. Rather, it is a virus that we will continue to combat for generations to come. Thank you.”
The audience applauded as Jonah reached for the glass of water on the table beside him. Police officer Fernando Diaz came to him at the podium and shook his hand.
“There’s some time left, Dr. Cole, would you mind taking some questions?” Diaz asked.
“Sure, that would be fine.” Jonah looked down at his watch and again the thought returned.
Am I dreaming?
Diaz took the microphone and announced to the audience that there would be time for some questions. Scattered hands rose across the small auditorium. Diaz moved toward the right of the crowd, a third of the way back.
Jonah ran his hand through his dark hair. He was starting to get some speckles of gray as he transitioned from his early- to his mid-thirties but it suited him. He watched as the microphone arrived at a gentleman ready with a question. The man seemed vaguely familiar. Where had he seen the man’s face before? He could not place it. The man leaned over the microphone and asked his question.
“Has there been any research on what makes serial killers strike when they do? What sets them off?”
“Invariably, serial killers have suffered a significant loss. Could be the loss of a girlfriend or wife. Could even be the loss of a job. So, classically, a loss has been the common denominator among them. In extrapolating to the newer generation of serial killers that I have observed emerge over the last decade or so, this notion of loss extends into the realm of psychological losses. So, I believe the loss of a fantasy or the loss of a dream can trigger a serial killer to act out.”
The man leaned in again for a follow-up question. “What motivates the serial killer?”
Jonah paused for a second, considering how in depth he wanted to answer this question. “The forefather of profiling, John Douglas, believed that domination, manipulation, and control are the most common motivating forces for serial criminals. Inadequacy is the hallmark of their lives and they perform these heinous crimes to meet the needs of control, domination, and manipulation.” He paused and drank from his glass of water before continuing. “In fact, one of the major findings of Douglas’s early research interviewing serial killers was that many of these individuals have attempted to become police officers and failed. The job of the police officer signifies power and respect, something these killers lack in their lives. Many also take jobs that are similar to the police, like security jobs, or they drive vehicles that are like police cars. Douglas also found that many of these killers would hang out with police officers in bars or restaurants and try to have some type of relationship with them.
“In my theory of the new generation of serial killers, I believe these things have changed. A new type of serial killer has emerged who relies on these same needs of control and domination but the changes in our culture and society have combined to create a killer who has developed them in very different ways. While in the past those who committed these horrific acts had histories characterized by severe trauma and maltreatment, that no longer seems necessary. Now, a strong sense of entitlement and selfishness combined with desensitization to the effects of sex and violence has made the potential for completing these acts to be almost commonplace.”
As Jonah had been answering the question, Diaz was moving on to another question, repositioning himself toward the center of the auditorium next to another curious member of the audience.
“Dr. Cole, it’s a pleasure to hear you speak today. I’ve read all of your books. Do you have plans to write any more books? And what else are you doing these days? Are you still working with the Chicago police?”
The question made Jonah smile to himself. My status with the police, he thought, talk about a loaded question. “I continue to work as a consultant with the Chicago P.D. As far as books go, I have written several books for a general audience and now I am working on something more technical, like today’s lecture.”
Diaz was closer to the podium now, having only taken a few steps to the next questioner.
“I just want to thank you for taking the time out of your busy schedule to speak with us today,” the woman began, “We know you must get a lot of requests to speak and we certainly appreciate you honoring ours. I was wondering how you got involved in profiling.”
Jonah paused for a moment, wondering where to start. He glanced down at his watch.
Am I dreaming?
“Well, in my first book, Dusting for Psychological Finger Prints, and I should mention that book was one written for mass appeal, I give a detailed answer to this question. So in the interest of selling more books, I’ll have to give you guys the condensed version.” He paused momentarily while the crowd laughed. “I actually started out in clinical psychology right here in Chicago… at a rival university.” He paused again while the crowd expressed amusement.
“Most of you know I am talking about Loyola. While there, I developed an interest in police work and I really enjoyed it. I found that forensics was really a better fit for me. I enjoyed the clinical training and found that it has been essential to my work in criminal psychology, but the area of forensics has been more suitable for my personality.”
After he answered the last question from the audience and the talk concluded, a small group from the audience surrounded Jonah, continuing with questions. He did his best to answer them quickly and the group slowly began to dwindle. He began to notice an attractive young lady standing at the periphery of the group. As he listened to the gentleman in front of him introducing himself, she drew his attention. He continued to glance at her as he endured the necessary greetings and small talk. When he had first started giving these talks, he was surprised to have groupies. By now he had ample experience working a crowd such as this and he was able to quickly parry most of his admirers, carefully working his way through the crowd so that the striking young woman would be his last.
She finally approached him, extending her hand as she introduced herself.
“It was a real pleasure to finally hear you speak, Dr. Cole. My name is Julia. Julia Starr.” She was probably about average in height, but with heels on, she stood over him.
“Please, call me Jonah,” he answered, shaking her hand. Her hand was wiry, thin but strong. Her touch felt warm against his cold hands. “It’s nice to meet you.”
“You too, I’m a big fan of yours. I’ve read all of your books and I’ve seen you on television several times. You have been a huge influence.”
“That’s kind of you. Are you in law enforcement?”
“I’m hoping to get into it. I’m studying chemistry and I hope to get involved in forensic work. I’m a student at U of C. I was originally pre-med, but my heart just wasn’t into it. I actually took some time off from school, I wasn’t sure what I wanted to do. Then I started reading your books. The work you do is just so fascinating.”
She stared down at the floor.
Jonah ran a hand through his hair as he held back a smile. He was used to women coming on to him because of his appearance and it brought him pleasure. Especially when they were younger, it was so adorable. He looked away from her, out to the empty auditorium.
The two of them were alone now.
“Your words are very kind, Julia.” Before she looked up, he stole a glance to examine her body. His eyes raced over her, returning to her face as she raised her glance. She was wearing a tight shirt with a scoop neck, which allowed him to see her attractive figure. Her short sleeves barely covered her shoulders, showing tanned arms with clear grooves outlining each of the distinct muscles.
“I’m glad that my work has had an impact on you. We need as many good people doing this work as we can find.” As he spoke, he reached out and touched her arm. Her skin felt soft and smooth over the hard muscle beneath.
What are you doing? he asked himself. He held his hand on her firm arm. Don’t do this. He let go and took his hand back.
Julia smiled and her hand darted through her blond hair, tucking it neatly behind her ear.
Jonah mirrored her gesture by passing his fingers through his own thick head of hair. As he did, he tried to maintain eye contact with Julia, but his eyes betrayed him. They slid down her body, taking in as much as they could. He examined what he could see of her chest. A silver necklace lay upon it. Freckles lay scattered across the skin. He quickly shifted back to her eyes. She must have noticed him staring.
As he studied her face, he estimated that she must be in her mid-20s, 24 if he had to guess.
Am I dreaming?
“Are you parked in the garage, Julia?” Jonah asked and she said that she was. “Me too. I’ll walk you to your car. It will give us a chance to continue our conversation.”
Julia smiled and looked into his eyes.
“After you,” Jonah said showing the way with one hand while he put the other low on Julia’s back as she started toward the exit. Through her thin, sleek shirt, he could feel her toned body.
The place had really cleared out since the end of his talk. They didn’t see anyone else in the halls and the garage. They made small talk while walking to Julia’s car.
She clicked the remote on her keychain to unlock the doors as they approached the car and Jonah opened the door for her.
“Well, Julia, I’m glad you enjoyed my talk today. Stick with your studies. It’s a lot of hard work, but if you really want to do it, you can.” He touched her arm again on impulse then quickly withdrew it as soon as he recognized what he had done.
“You know, I was wondering,” Julia began hesitantly as her eyes fell to her feet, “would you want to get to get a cup of coffee sometime? I would really love the chance to talk more with you about forensics and what I can do to learn more about it.” She slowly looked up for his reaction as her hand flitted through her hair.
Now you’ve done it, he scolded himself, you’ve drawn her in. Control yourself. Cut her loose. Don’t hurt this poor girl like you have all the others. He paused for a moment, trying to come up with just the right words. He pressed his fingers against the glass of the car door.
“That’s very kind of you to ask, but I’m afraid I’ve given you the wrong impression. I apologize.” He was stammering and began to sweat. He couldn’t look at her as he spoke. “It was very nice to meet you, I really should be going.” Just before he managed to rush away from her, he managed to sneak a peek at her. She was crushed.
Jonah hurried away from her to his car in the parking lot. He closed the door and took a deep breath. His heart was racing. He wiped the sweat from his forehead and pulled the visor down so that he could see himself in the mirror beneath it. He shook his head at himself.
You know better than to do something like that, he reprimanded himself. Why would you even start with her? You know you can’t do anything about it. Why even string her along? Or were you considering throwing away the last two years of your life? She was just a kid…somebody’s daughter. And you were considering using her just like you did all the others. Just one taste might send you spiraling all the way down.
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Chapter 4
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From the Midwest On-line Dream Dictionary (www.midwest-dreams.com):
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Basic Recommendations for Lucid Dreaming
According to Dr. Paul Tholey, the most effective way to learn to accomplish lucidity, or to accomplish awareness in a dream, is to develop “a critical reflective attitude” toward your state of consciousness by remembering to ask yourself whether or not you are dreaming while you are awake at least five to ten times per day.1,2
Stephen LaBerge, Ph.D. of Stanford University is one of the foremost authorities on lucid dreams. In addition to several dream induction techniques that he has developed (see Advanced Lucid Dream Techniques for more detailed information), LaBerge also offers some basic tips to help increase dream recall, which is an essential requirement for having a lucid dream.3 First, he recommends getting plenty of rest, keeping a journal near bedside, and logging all dreams in order to develop your ability to recall dreams. Further, LaBerge writes, “For optimal dream recall, do not move from the position in which you awaken. Hold completely still and focus your attention only on what was going through your mind.” 4
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1 Stephen LaBerge, Lucid Dreaming: A Concise Guide to Awakening in Your Dreams and in Your Life (Boulder: Sounds True Inc., 2009), 21.
2 Paul Devereux and Charla Devereux, The Lucid Dream Book: How to Awaken Within, Control, and Use Your Dreams (Boston: Journey Editions, 1998),77.
3 Stephen LaBerge, Lucid Dreaming: A Concise Guide to Awakening in Your Dreams and in Your Life (Boulder: Sounds True Inc., 2009), 21.
4 Ibid., 19.
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Chapter 5
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Jonah stared at his eyes in his rear view mirror and jumped when he felt the tingling sensation on his thigh and heard the short buzz. He reached for his vibrating phone as he drew in a deep breath to slow his racing heartbeat. He did not recognize the number displayed. He took another deep breath before answering the call.
“Hello.”
“Jonah? This is Courtney Campbell…”
Courtney Campbell, the therapist working with Chris.
“Yes, Courtney. Is everything okay?”
“Yes, I’m not calling because of any kind of emergency or anything like that. I was just hoping to speak with you … about Chris.”
He paused for a moment. “Yes, I know about his evaluation tomorrow and the court date, Courtney. I’m actually on my way to Wilmette now to pick him up at his boarding school. He’ll be spending the night at my place in the city so that I can get him to the assessment downtown first thing tomorrow morning.”
“Jonah, that’s not exactly why I was calling.”
“What is it, Courtney?”
“Well, as part of this whole guardianship process that Chris is going through, because I am his therapist, I am going to be asked to testify. I was really hoping to talk with you at some point. You see, Chris has a lot of questions about his father…”
“I’m not Chris’s father.”
“I realize that, Jonah, but what I was going to say, if you had let me finish, was that he has a lot of questions about his father and I know you were a close family friend of both of his parents before they died and I would find it really helpful to talk more with you about his family history.”
Jonah was silent for a moment. He understood where Courtney was coming from, it made perfect sense for Chris’s therapist to want to speak with him, to get more background information about his family. But this was a conversation he wanted to avoid.
“With the court date in the next few days, Courtney, I’m not sure when we are going to be able to set something like that up, things are just really busy for me right now.”
Now Courtney was quiet for a moment. “Jonah, this isn’t about you. It’s about Chris,” she said. “This is his life we’re talking about. He is only 10-years-old and in a few days, a judge is going to be making a decision about where he is going to live and who is going to raise him and that judge will be asking me about my recommendation. I understand that you’re busy but you’re going to have to make some time.”
Jonah pictured Chris in his mind. Chris, who had not only been orphaned at the age of eight after his father’s sudden death and his mother’s subsequent suicide, but who had been devastated by these horrific events as any child would. Chris, who he had held and fed as an infant. Chris, the kind child with the big eyes and the easy smile. Courtney was right.
“What time are you free tomorrow, Courtney?”
Although he had told Courtney he was on his way, the truth was that Jonah had forgotten all about picking Chris up tonight. He changed course and found some music on the radio. His thoughts drifted back to the crime scene he had visited earlier in the afternoon as he drove, but he tried to put them elsewhere: on the music, the other cars, or the scenery. His subconscious mind worked best when his conscious mind was distracted.
As he reached the exit for Wilmette, he was rewarded with an insight. He called Detective Davis.
“Cole? We don’t have anything back on that condom test yet…”
“That’s not why I’m calling. I wanted to know if you got anything back on that kid’s computer.”
“They’re still looking.”
“Well let me know as soon as they find something. This kid was into porn and I need to know exactly what.”
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Chapter 6
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From the Midwest On-line Dream Dictionary (www.midwest-dreams.com):
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Mnemonic Induction Lucid Dreaming [nÅ« mon'ik in duk'shun lÅ«'sid drÄ“m'ing] n, a technique for inducing lucid dreams developed by Stephen LaBerge which involves the dreamer remembering to be aware of his intention to recognize his/her dreams.1 This usually involves the repetition of a statement, such as, “The next time that I am dreaming, I want to remember that I’m dreaming.”
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1 Stephen LaBerge, Lucid Dreaming: A Concise Guide to Awakening in Your Dreams and in Your Life (Boulder: Sounds True Inc., 2009).
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Chapter 7
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Chris Tilton had been going to boarding school in Wilmette for a year and a half. Jonah usually came up about once a month or so and took him out for pizza or burgers but things had been so busy that they had not seen each other since summer. The boy was sitting outside in front of his dorm with a backpack and a suitcase when he saw Jonah’s car pull up in the horseshoe driveway. He had his headphones on and was reading one of his books. He was going to miss at least one day and possibly two this week because of this stupid evaluation and having to go to court and his teachers made it clear that they did not want him to fall behind. He glanced at his watch to see what time it was. He had been sitting here on the porch waiting for over an hour. He threw his book in his backpack, grabbed his suitcase, and got in the car.
Jonah apologized for being late and asked him some questions about how he was doing and how classes were going. Chris’s answers were barely audible, one-word responses so Jonah dropped it. They drove in silence for a while. Chris sat staring out the passenger side window.
“Do you have any questions about tomorrow?” Jonah asked, breaking several minutes of silence.
“No, Courtney talked to me about it.”
“Good, I’m sure it will be a long day for you, but you’ll do just fine.”
The conversation was cold and stilted and Jonah stopped trying to force it. The drive continued in silence.
After several miles, Chris asked, “Jonah, can you tell me some stories about my parents?”
“Of course,” Jonah began searching his memory. “Anything specific you want to hear about?”
“No, not really. I just want to hear more about what they were like from someone who actually knew them.”
“Sure, no problem.” Jonah paused for a moment, uncertain of where to start. How much did he want to get into this with Chris? He was just a kid. After another few seconds of thought, he decided to start at the beginning. “Well, I met your mom before I met your dad. I was in graduate school at Loyola and I was in the psychology department where we ran experiments and she was in one of mine. She was one of a few people who signed up for that group but it was a two-part trial and she had to come back a day or two later to finish.”
In his mind, Jonah went back to that time and he could picture Brooke in one of the small rooms they used on the top floor of Damen Hall. The weather was just turning warm and she sat in the plastic orange chair in her light shorts and sleeveless shirt. She had long, dark hair that curled and wrapped around itself deliciously, dropping to her shoulders in thick, layered rolls. He remembered how she greeted him with a warm smile that lit up the tiny room with the bland light green paint and worn-out carpet.
“Your mom was so beautiful,” Jonah said, “and so kind.” Jonah remembered how for the follow-up session, Brooke was the last one to finish in her group.
“After she finished the experiment, we sat in that dingy room for an hour and just talked. She was a history student, she didn’t know much about psychology really, but she was intrigued by what we were doing in the experiment. She asked all kinds of questions and she was really into it.”
Jonah looked over at Chris and he thought he saw a subtle smile in the window’s reflection but he couldn’t be sure. They drove on in silence for another mile or two.
“Jonah, you’re a psychologist, right?”
“Yes.”
“Why do you think my mom killed herself?”
Jonah hesitated. How do I possibly answer a question like that? What do I tell a 10-year old about something like this? “Have you talked with Courtney about this?”
“Yeah, I have asked her but she usually just asks me what I think,” Chris said. “I’m not sure Courtney would know anyway. She never knew my mom. But you did.”
Jonah was quiet. I should be honest with him, he deserves that much. “Chris, I don’t know exactly why your mother killed herself. People who commit suicide are usually depressed.” He looked over at Chris who continued to stare out the window at the lights scattered in the darkness with an intense expression on his face. Studying the reflection in the window, Jonah thought he might have seen a tear but again he could not be sure.
He’s handling this pretty well. A brave kid to be asking about this. He decided to continue. “Your mother killed herself shortly after your father died so it was probably a reaction to that. She probably thought the sadness of losing your father was just too much for her to handle.” He glanced over again. This time there was no mistaking it, there were tears.
“It wasn’t your fault, Chris, it wasn’t your fault. Your mother was depressed, she wasn’t thinking straight after your father died and she didn’t think she had any other options. It wasn’t your fault. Your mother loved you very much. The day you were born was the happiest day of her life. She never looked as happy as she did when she talked about you, Chris.”
Chris still stared out the window. They were off the back roads now and there were more lights outside. Jonah could no longer make out the boy’s reflection in the glass. As they neared the city, the traffic was getting thicker and the car came to a standstill. An image of Chris’s mother smiling lingered in Jonah’s mind.
“Can you tell me another story about my mom?”
“Sure, Chris.” He searched his memory for something special, something that would help him see what an extraordinary person his mother was. Jonah knew hearing a simple story about his mother wasn’t more than throwing a handful of dirt into the Grand Canyon of being an orphan, but a part of him hoped that finding a really good story, a story that would make Chris proud of his mother all the same, might make some difference in his life.
“Like I said, I never saw your mother happier or more proud than when she talked about you. Anything you did—every accomplishment, every first, every discovery—she would chronicle in detail with such delight, with such pride and enthusiasm that you could tell that you were the center of her world, Chris.”
For the rest of the ride, Jonah shared some of the examples he remembered hearing from Chris’s mother. Some were just a brief sentence or two, a snapshot in time, like the time Chris told his mother that he hoped Santa Claus did not leave a lump of cole slaw in his Christmas stocking. Others were more drawn out, almost like a postcard from a traveling friend, like the morning Chris went to out to eat with his parents and after they explained to him what brunch was, he asked them if the next meal would be “linner.” Or how he learned to wink as a toddler and when strangers would wink at him and he returned the gesture, they did a double-take.
As he spoke, Jonah would occasionally sneak a glimpse of Chris’s reflection as he continued to stare out the window. He wanted to see what effect his stories were having on the boy. It was hard to tell, but he thought the boy’s face seemed softer and lighter.
Some of the other stories Jonah told needed a build-up, a context to set the scene, a backdrop to make the punch line stand out, and these longer anecdotes were like picture books and Jonah told them as if he were reading Chris a bedtime story. There was the night his mother took Chris out on his first date. They dressed up and went to his favorite Mexican restaurant and then out for ice cream afterward. After a wonderful evening, on the drive home, Chris had asked his mother if they would always go on dates. His mother told him that when he was older, he might want to go on dates with girls his own age. Chris was quiet for several minutes then parroted the question back, asking his mother if she thought that he would want to go on dates with other girls when he was older. She said he probably would. Chris was silent again for a few seconds before asking her if she would come along too.
As he finished the story and told Chris what a sweet kid he was, Jonah peered over at the boy’s reflection in the mirror. He couldn’t read the expression and he wondered if telling this young boy stories of a mother he would never see again was warming his heart or breaking it all over again.
It was close to 10:30 pm when Jonah parked his car on Alta Vista Terrace, a short and narrow block of historic homes on the North Side of Chicago. Alta Vista Terrace was just north of the bleachers of Wrigley Field and it had a similarly rich history. It was developed by a Chicago designer named Samuel Gross and was designated a Chicago historical landmark in 1971 because of its unique architectural features. After a trip to London, Gross was struck by the flats in Mayfair and he sought to replicate those neighborhoods. Alta Vista Terrace, known by some as “the street of 40 doors,” was developed between 1900 and 1904 and is only a block long. It houses about twenty narrow townhomes on each side. Each home has a twin on the opposite side of the street, although they usually have some subtle variations in architecture. Rather than being directly opposite of each other, the matching townhomes were placed at diagonally opposite ends. Like the neighborhoods that intrigued Gross in London, Alta Vista Terrace was unusually narrow.
When Jonah had originally discovered the street after a night game at Wrigley, he had read the plaque that described its history and architectural features and then he slowly walked up and down it, marveling at the unique character and charm. It seemed to cast a spell on him. He was not sure if it was the way the delicate townhomes themselves seemed cramped together into the short and narrow block, the allure of finding each unit’s twin and then discovering their slight disparities, or the way the light seemed to fall from the street lamps, diffusing in small dots of light like a Monet painting, but it captivated him. Walking down the block was like walking through a portal that took him away from the complexities of his modern life to a simpler, more innocent time. Although he was only a poor graduate student at the time, Jonah dreamed of owning one of the 40 doors and being able to live on this street, which fascinated him so. Years later, after his first book became a best seller and movie and television producers came calling to capitalize on his popularity, he had the money to make his dream a reality.
In addition to its architecture, one of the eccentric elements of Alta Vista was that only one of the two sides of the street had parking spots. Unfortunately, Jonah lived on the side without parking. Having to rely on street parking was a constant frustration for him, especially given the amount of money he spent on the home, but the truth was he may not have been able to afford a home on the other side of the street.
Jonah helped Chris with his suitcase and they walked down to his townhome.
Once inside, Jonah walked with Chris up to the guest room and gave him a few minutes to get settled. Then he came by the room to say good night. Jonah told Chris that he had a big day tomorrow and he should probably get to sleep, but Chris didn’t really look all that tired.
Jonah went back to his room and got himself ready for bed. Then he walked quietly down the hall and stood in the dark hallway outside Chris’s room. From under the crack of the door, he could see there was a small light on.
Chris sat there in his bed, staring up at the ceiling. A lamp on his nightstand was dimly lit, casting a cone of light down from the shade. The house was quiet and he could see a shadow in the hallway under the door. He could sense that Jonah was standing outside his door but he did not knock, he did not enter. He just stood out there. Chris continued to lay there, a blanket of loneliness covering him in his bed. After several moments, he turned off the light and closed his eyes.
Jonah stood in the hall and listened at the door wishing he could do more for Chris. A few stories aren’t going to help this kid. Telling him anecdotes is not going to make any difference. He needs more than that. He stood there in silence outside the boy’s room for several minutes before slinking back to his bed.
Lying in his own bed, Jonah thought again of Chris in his room, alone. He imagined tears running down Chris’s face as he fell asleep. Chris needed him. How could he ignore that? How could he just do nothing?
He tried to think of something else, anything to stop this line of thinking. But he was an expert at this kind of mental self-flagellation and his mind merely shifted its attack as he remembered what happened with the girl, Julia, after his talk. Don’t ever pull that shit with the girl again. Real sex isn’t an option for you. You’ve hurt too many people that way. You know what you have to do.
His method wasn’t 100%, but he hoped tonight he would get lucky. He thought about Julia again and he closed his eyes. He tried to picture her in his mind, remembering as many details of her appearance as he could. Her lean, defined arms. Her sleek figure. The necklace that fell on the skin of her freckled chest. As he imagined her, Jonah repeated aloud to himself, “The next time I’m dreaming, I want to remember that I’m dreaming. The next time I’m dreaming, I want to remember that I’m dreaming…” He slowly drifted into a deep sleep.
​
Chapter 8
​
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
6:30 am
When he awoke the next morning, it was still dark outside. Jonah lay there motionless for a moment.
Am I dreaming?
He had trained himself to try to remember his dreams before doing anything. He dared not even look at his alarm clock. He simply lay there, staring at the ceiling, trying to recall the dream.
At first, nothing came. He could not remember even having a dream. He took a deep breath to relax and closed his eyes. Just as he did, he heard some noises outside: a car door closing, voices talking, an engine starting. He tried to clear his thoughts, to empty his mind to allow mental space for the dream to enter his consciousness. He kept his thoughts centered on his breathing, on the up and down motion of his stomach as the air came in and out.
Jonah was not sure how long he lay there before an image from the dream came. Was it 10 minutes? Or 30 minutes? It couldn’t have been an hour, could it? It was hard to say, he was so relaxed and so at ease. Then the image appeared in his thoughts. It was a snow globe. In his mind, it seemed bigger than he thought a snow globe could be. It must have been huge because he could see so easily inside it. It seemed delicately painted with tiny brush strokes, its colors vibrant, almost dancing inside the sphere of glass. The background contained a sky with clouds. A river ran through its center with trees standing behind it and bushes in front. A building and some houses stood behind the trees. That was all that came to his mind and nothing more—no context, no setting, no story—just the simple image of the snow globe. He hoped that one image would be enough to draw out the rest. He could sense it was happening, just like having a name on the tip of his tongue, so close to being there, on the verge of remembering it all.
An unexpected noise jarred him from his trance and the memories that had taken so long to approach his still mind scattered like pigeons in the street from an oncoming car. He cringed at his inability to capture the elusive memory and shook his head in disgust. The noise sounded again, taking him out of his trance completely as he recognized that it was his phone. A phone call this early could only mean one thing: an emergency. He sprang up and lunged across the bed to his phone.
“This is Jonah.”
“Jonah, it’s Schmitty. I hate to call you this early, but we got ourselves a body in Bucktown and we need you here.”
Jonah’s dream faded further from his memory. He sat on the edge of the bed, his thoughts now concerned with how the deputy superintendent would feel about his involvement in a case.
“Does Richards know you’re calling me? Is he okay with me coming down there?” Richards hated him and Jonah knew it. But, he supposed there was good reason.
“He knows who I’m calling. To be honest, I don’t think he’s real excited about seeing you down here, but I think he also realizes we need you. That’s as close to his blessing as you’re gonna get.”
“All right, I’ll be there as soon as I can. What’s the address?” He scribbled down the information and began dressing. As he did, he glanced at the alarm clock. It was 8:00.
Am I dreaming?
The question seemed to come to mind on its own, as a well-rehearsed reflex rather than a willful thought. Regardless, it brought his mind back to where it was before the phone call. He had been trying to remember if he had a dream last night. He quit dressing and lay back down on the bed. He tried to empty his mind of the phone call and to focus on remembering the elusive dream. He lay there for several minutes without success. The phone call had interrupted him and he worried that, now disrupted, he would never be able to recall the dream. He slowly got back out of the bed and continued dressing.
Jonah went down the hall and knocked on Chris’s door. The two got ready, had some breakfast, and Jonah took Chris to his appointment downtown.
When he got back into his car after dropping the boy off, Jonah’s phone rang. He stared at it and saw Davis’s number.
“What day is the garbage pick-up, Davis?”
Davis paused, not expecting Cole to answer with such an abrupt question.
“Tuesdays.”
“What else you got for me?”
“Well, I don’t know how, but you were right, Cole. The condom only had the kid on it, no one else. And we found the porn sites on his computer…”
“What kind of porn? Soft-core? Hard-core? Any weird fetishes?”
“Pretty tame stuff…some Playboy and bikini sites…but it looks like he was mostly into this shower site…like some kind of bathroom cam where you can watch young women wash up…it’s called Soap and Suds or something like that…doesn’t actually show intercourse, just a live feed of barely legal females in the shower.”
Jonah was quiet. The website certainly seemed to fit with what he was thinking.
“Cole? You still there?”
“Yeah, I’m here. You want to look for a female, very intelligent and in the top 10 of her class or so. They are probably in a class together, maybe even partners. She was at his house last week, probably Tuesday or Wednesday night. Her parents separated or divorced at least five years ago and she is living with the mother. The father is barely in the picture if at all.”
Davis was writing frantically, trying not to miss anything Cole said, yet part of him was in awe. How in the hell did this guy come up with all of that?
“Got it all?” Cole asked.
“I think so.”
“Call me if you get anything else.”
“You got it, Doc.”
​
Chapter 9
​
As he drove under the freeway bridge on Fullerton, Jonah spotted some flowers scattered on the sidewalk and remembered that this must have been the spot where the water stain that some said looked like the Virgin Mary had been discovered a few years ago. He couldn’t remember how long ago that was. He shook his head in disbelief as he stared more closely and noticed blue spray paint on the wall. While some still celebrated the mark, others desecrated it.
He took the next left onto a street called Oakley. As he soon as he turned, Jonah could see the police cars down the block. They were on the periphery of Bucktown, an artsy, trendy neighborhood northwest of downtown. Because they were on the outskirts of the neighborhood, this particular area had not yet been fully hit by one of the waves of development sweeping across the North Side. It was still early in the transition of change and this street illustrated the dichotomy. Several fresh new condo buildings were sprinkled among the older, frail structures clutching to hold on for a bit longer.
As he parked the car behind a row of police vehicles, Jonah took a deep breath and hoped he might somehow avoid seeing Richards altogether. But, since Richards was in charge, it wasn’t likely to happen that way. He saw a crowd in front of a small building, one of the older structures on the block.
As he walked towards the building, he saw Schmidt outside with his partner, Mary Anne.
Schmidt came towards him and met him just inside the front gate.
“Hi, Schmidt. Hi, Mary Anne.” They each shook hands. Bobby Schmidt and Mary Anne Lee were detectives and two of Jonah’s closest allies on the force. Jonah had spent countless hours training each of them in the psychological nuances of criminal investigation. He thought of them as his students, two minds eager to learn from him what they could.
Schmidt was in his forties, a gritty, uneducated cop with a chip on his shoulder. What he lacked in style, he made up for in determination. He was a second generation Chicago cop from a blue collar, South Side family. His father worked his entire career as a beat cop and for Schmitty that meant he had something to prove.
Mary Anne was almost the polar opposite. She was a second generation Korean American with educated parents and had been schooled at some of the finest institutions on the east coast. Jonah had trained Mary Anne more recently and she was closer to him in age—she must have been in her mid-thirties. She was a smart, savvy officer with a mind like a steel trap. Mary Anne did not miss much and no one ever had to tell her something twice.
The two detectives were wearing paper-thin police overalls over their street clothes, mandatory issue to anyone who wanted to step foot onto a crime scene before the forensic technicians were done. Schmidt looked like a Chicago cop making a half-assed attempt to dress up like a doctor for a children’s Halloween party, while Mary Anne, with a few of the right accessories, could have passed for a surgeon. Schmidt handed Cole a pair of overalls as they spoke.
“Is Richards here?” Jonah asked as he took off his jacket.
“Yeah, he stepped inside when we saw your car pull up.”
“Great.” It seemed like there wouldn’t be any way to avoid him. Jonah started to feel a little ill. He put a hand on Schmitty’s shoulder as he stepped into the overalls and pulled them over his clothing. They walked up the stairs and pulled paper slippers over their shoes before entering the building.
“So, what do we have?” Jonah asked as he walked through the foyer.
“Well,” Schmidt began, “we got a call at 7:00 this morning from a 21-year-old male. He came to this apartment to pick up the victim. Claims they go to school together and he was her ride. Says it was unusual that she wasn’t at the door waiting. After a few minutes, he went up to knock on the door. Kept knocking and no one came. He tried her cell phone a few times and got voicemail. At this point, he started to worry, said it was really out of character for her. So he rings the buzzer for the upstairs neighbor. A young couple lives up there, friends with the victim and they’ve exchanged keys. So, they get the key, open the door, start calling her name, but there’s no answer. They keep walking through and find her like that.” Schmidt gestured into the back bedroom where the three of them had arrived.
Jonah stepped into the room and saw the body on the floor. A photographer was leaning over the body so that he could only see her legs and feet. He carefully stepped to the side and moved around the photographer so that he could get a look at the victim’s face. He recognized it immediately. It was Julia Starr.
Jonah’s heart suddenly skipped a beat as the memory of his lucid dream flooded back to his mind. The dream in which he had sex with the young woman who was now lying dead on the floor in front of him.
“It’s not just a homicide,” Schmidt continued, “Looks like she was also raped.”
​
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