Mind Games (6 page)

Vince’s apartment reflected similar priorities. “Whoa, you think this thing is 120Hz
?
Damn
.
”

Amy ignored Vince’s fascination with the high-tech screen as Cameron started documenting the trashed living room.

Vince entered the kitchen and witnessed two-dozen cockroaches snacking on the remains of a pizza on the floor. A calico cat enjoyed a nap in a large mixing bowl, but when Vince stepped on a potato chip, the cat reanimated and darted out of the room. Vince went further into the kitchen and saw mustard spilled all over the counter – someone, probably Derek Hansen, had written something. The writing wasn’t legible, but Vince called Cameron over to photograph the hidden message. It was almost primal. Derek Hansen must have written something in it with his finger while he was drunk.

Grimy dishes were stacked three feet high, and the sink was full of filthy water. With a proper set of towels, Vince imagined himself having a sleepover in the abandoned mobile home. Hansen’s absence, though unfortunate to the goals of the law, proved amusing to Vince. He began to wonder if Hansen would miss his huge TV.

Who knows
?
Vince thought
.
They might be able to compound it as evidence
.
Then, he opened the fridge.

Every wall of the fridge was smeared with some sort of condiment or mold. The food, if you could call it food, was all expired and dripped an ungodly orange slime that almost pulsated with micro bacteria. Vince opened the bottom fridge drawer only to discover three-dozen petri dishes teaming with live, growing cultures.

Vince plugged his nose. “This guy actually lives like this?”

Cameron snapped photos of the bacteria, documenting the grotesque sights. “This is worse than some of our actual crime scenes.”

“You’re right, Cam,” Amy said. “No corpse – just a middle-aged slob. By the looks of it, Hansen might deal in some sort of biological weapons as well.”

“Guns, germs, and steel,” Vince said. “I know there’s got to be some firearms in this place.”

After a thorough search of Hansen’s mobile home, Amy called the team to the bathroom located in the second bedroom.

This bathroom was larger than most – abnormally large. And, it was spotless.

Vince couldn’t resist. “Just imagine if this guy was your Uncle – how awesome would that be?”

Cameron rolled his eyes. “You’re literally the only person who would even want that.”

A long, sliding mirror split the bathroom in half, and the wide reflection made the space feel twice as large. Amy pulled the mirror back a few inches, revealing a few open sock drawers. She pulled it a little further and Cameron saw eight hand grenades peacefully resting in black, foam-molded shelves. Even though the large bathroom included plenty of room for three people, it was starting to feel claustrophobic.

Amy looked back at Cameron and nervously rubbed her hands together before sliding the mirror all the way open. Cameron lowered his camera in amazement. The sliding mirror revealed gun after gun after gun after gun – all organized by size and type. There must have been close to one hundred guns total. Other weapons such as knives and tasers also hung in the back of the closet.

Vince whistled. “This guy is loaded.” Then, he eyed Cameron. “Now I really wish he was my Uncle
–
what a badas
s
.”

Cameron photographed the closet. “Yeah, I’m sure he’d let you take one of those cockroaches home as a pet.”

“Guys.” Something caught Amy’s eye. “I have a feeling Hansen will be back soon.” She lifted a large plastic baggie from the closet filled with wads of fifties and hundreds. “Just a guess.”

“How do yo
u
kno
w
he’s in New York?” Cameron asked.

“I found this airline receipt on the front step,” Vince said. “He must have dropped it when he left for the airport.”

“Let me see that,” Amy said, grabbing the paper from Vince. “Wait. Vince, you’re even dumber than I thought. This receipt is from three years ago.”

“What? No…”

“Look. Right there. Hansen just left this to distract you.”

“Really? Shit.”

“Hansen’s probably just driving around town or crashing at a friend’s house. I mean, where would you be if you committed murder? You wouldn’t just sit around at home eating chips and watching wrestling on TV…”

“I don’t know, Amy. That’s
a
hug
e
TV.”

“Not the point,” Amy said. “Whatever he’s up to, he’ll probably be back to withdraw a couple bills from his stash. So here’s what we’re going to do. We’ll leave an alarm on the closet door. And when he comes back for his money, we’ll come back and take him for a ride downtown.” Amy took a magnetic, remote-triggered alarm out of her pocket, attached it to the closet door, and slid it shut.

The activated alarm blinked while the lonely guns awaited the return of their master.

In the silence of her home offic
e
, Jen pushed a straight edge across the surface of the bank blueprints. She was working on a new design for the second floor. Holding the white-tipped marker only millimeters from the paper, Jennifer Frost tried to concentrate on the real purpose of her work. She was essentially making the bank into a shield. Pressing the marker along the straight edge, she drew another set of parallel lines. In order to strengthen the layers of this “shield” she would have to think like a thief. This was her chance to make the bank impenetrable.

After another sleepless night, her mind searched for alternative plans, but she was hypnotically pulled toward one brilliant concept.

“Jen, you can’t be serious.”

“Look, I’ve thought this through a hundred times. It’ll work.”

Cameron paced around the coffee table as he imagined the risk involved. His many nights of pacing had worn a trail in the carpet, and his big toe protruded from a hole in his stressed socks.

“Cam, I’ve weighed the other options. I know how this works. I don’t think…”

“No, you don’t know how this works. Have you considered what might happen to Sarah? What if they enter our home?”

“That’s not going to happen. You know the house is protected.”

Cameron’s gut churned with nervous energy. “If they injured the bank guards just think what they might do if they broke into our home.”

Jen sat on the couch and watched her husband blaze another trail in the carpet.

After a moment of silence, she stood and folded her arms.

“I’ve already made my decision about this. Now, you need to trust me. Besides, no one will ever figure this out. The vault will be safe. Security always comes at a price.”

“And what about our own security? This house. Our home. It’s our job to protect Sarah. You act surprised that I’m not excited about this? Come on! Don’t be so selfish! Nothing is more important than our daughter right now.”

“I’m not going to be humiliated again. Do you want me to lose this job?”

“Would you rather lose your job or your daughter? Because that’s what we’re talking about here.”

“Look, Cam, our house has more locks and alarms than most jewelry stores. No one is going to hurt us. No one is going to hurt Sarah.”

“She’s ten years old, Jen. She has her whole life ahead of her. Why do you have to involve her in this?”

“We’re not talking about it anymore. I’ve made up my mind.”

Jen ran upstairs and slammed the bedroom door.

It was now 2:30AM.

Cameron realized he’d have to spend the night on the couch.

He turned off the living room lights and tried to calm his mind, but a rustling penetrated the silence in the kitchen.

What was that
?
He thought
.
Cameron, settle down. It’s nothing. The house. Yes, the house is shifting.

The rustling grew louder.

It’s just your imagination
.
He laydown on the couch
.
Get some sleep.

Then, the kitchen floorboards squeaked. Paranoia tapped him on the shoulder, taunting him.

Cameron. Stop. It’s nothing. Just the…

*
Squeeeeak
*

He quieted his breathing.

Was someone in the house? An intruder?

Cock-eyed faces flashed across Cameron’s mind, projecting an increasing sense of terror. The faces were non-descript criminals – the recent culprits of closed investigations. Along with the faces, he saw flashes of red. Streaks of red. He shut his eyes further, avoiding the sounds altogether.

Was Jen wrong? Did they forget to set the house alarms? One night would be all it took.

He opened his left eye.

The fridge door opened and spilled light into the living room. Cameron thought if he stayed quiet, he might be able to sneak up on the intruder, maybe even tackle him from behind.

No, too risky.

Either way, the gun he kept in the bedroom upstairs was out of the question.

Too far away.

Just then, the fridge slammed shut, drawers jostled open, and glasses clinked in the cupboards. Clearly, there was no time to get the gun. He would have to confront them before they reached Sarah’s room.

They are not taking her. Not tonight.

A glass shattered on the kitchen floor followed by a scream.

Cameron ran into the kitchen, flipped on the lights and found Sarah sitting on the floor crying. Blood trickled from her right leg.

“Dad, I’m sorry.”

“Sarah, you scared me half to death.”

“I was just trying to get some apple juice.”

“Honey, it’s ok. You’ll be fine. Next time, turn the lights on so you can see where you’re going, alright?”

Cameron noticed his daughter’s innocence. He cleaned Sarah’s cut and poured her some juice before sending her to bed.

Laying in dark silenc
e
, Cameron tossed and turned on the couch, fading in and out of short nightmares. Paranoid thoughts tapped him on the shoulder again. Even though he’d already seen Sarah in the kitchen, his mind continued to play tricks on him.

Only thirty paces to the gun upstairs. If the floorboards creaked again, it still might buy me some time. No, if the glasses clinked twice, they’re two intruders. One for each clink.

The thoughts tumbled around and eventually faded. Cameron glanced at the digital clock on the kitchen oven. The small, green screen showed 4:45AM.

Jen’s meeting with the bank manager was only a few hours away. He had to stop her. Cameron lurched forward and stood. Pacing proved a moderate remedy for his anxiety, but he knew it wouldn’t change anything. The blunt pressure in his forehead was turning into a migraine, and Cameron decided he couldn’t let Jen leave. He thought he’d interrupt her before she left. Then, he’d talk her out of it.

With the pounding migraine, the pacing only made him dizzy, so he turned on a light under the microwave and sat at the kitchen table. He tried to read the newspaper, but the text began to blur.

Sunlight streamed throug
h
the kitchen window as Cameron jolted awake at 9:25AM.

Jen had already left for work.

In fact, the meeting with the bank manager was half over. Wiping sleep from his eyes, Cameron went back to the living room to pace. The stress led to another hole in his sock.

He’d have to confront her when she got home.

Still sore from sleeping at the kitchen table, he drove to the Fourth Precinct, already knowing he was late.

Amy stared at the evidence board
,
rocking on the soles of her shoes. Sometimes, this motion helped her to look at the evidence in a three dimensional manor. Instead of focusing on the content of the images, she tried to recreate the visceral feelings she experienced at the scene of the crime.

This way, she was able to clear out cluttered thoughts and narrow her gaze. Amy would often test herself by staring at just one picture at a time, studying the image as if she’d never seen it before. Then, she’d close her eyes and try to see what pieces of the picture stayed, letting the important parts burn beneath her eyelids. Although it sometimes took a few tries, this process forced Amy to digest the images objectively.

There were certain cases she avoided the open-shut method, especially if the entire evidence board was filled with pictures. Amy had to be careful. She knew that these pictures were more powerful than the graphic images shown on the news or in fictional TV. These images were real. They showed real victims and real killers.