Dave Zeltserman - Bad Thoughts

“Tom, let me ask you something. Do you remember seeing me here a week ago?”

“I don’t get you, buddy.”

Shannon showed an embarrassed grin. “About a week ago I got really shit-faced and am trying to piece some stuff together. I know I was drinking here around six-thirty. I’m trying to figure out what I did afterwards.”

The bartender’s broad face darkened. “Yeah,” he said, nodding, “I remember you.”

“Was I with anyone?”

The bartender removed the shot glass from in front of Shannon. “I think you better leave.”

“Why’s that?”

“Come on, buddy, get out of here, okay?” The bartender started to reach for something under the bar. Shannon took his badge out and laid it out in front of him. As the bartender looked at it he moved away from what he’d been reaching for.

“You’re a cop?” he asked, his voice sounding queer.

“That’s right. What’s going on?”

The bartender didn’t say anything.

“I asked you what’s going on?”

“Yesterday a couple of FBI agents were in here showing your picture around,” he said, a pained expression creasing his face. “That’s how come I remember you.”

“That’s it?”

There was a hesitation while he looked as if he had a bad attack of gas, and then he told Shannon they wanted to know if he had left with anyone. “They were also showing another picture around.”

Shannon stared at him until he let it out that it was a picture of the woman who had been stabbed to death on Beacon Hill the previous week.

“They wanted to know if you met her here,” he added.

“Did I?”

The bartender gave Shannon an odd look. “I don’t even remember you here,” he said. “They came back later and asked around to some of our regulars. Betty was the only one who remembered you. She said you were drinking alone.”

The bartender put the shot glass back in front of Shannon. “On the house,” he said before walking away.

Shannon looked long and hard at it. His mouth all of a sudden felt dry. He found himself wanting the drink, wanting it badly. His hand shook as he picked it up. He held the glass for a moment, his arm stiff, the joints in his fingers throbbing. Some of the alcohol spilled on his sleeve. With some pain, he forced the glass back onto the bar.

He got up and left, the bourbon softly whispering to him.. .

Of course, Elaine had been right earlier, he had gone someplace pretty awful. He had gone right where the hypnotherapist had led him. Right back to Herbert Winters.

As he left the Black Rose, Shannon found himself wondering about the dreams he’d been having, about why he felt so helpless in them. Why he felt so weak and ineffectual in them. Earlier, when he was under hypnosis and thought he was lashing out at Herbert Winters-when he thought he was squeezing the life out of him-it felt better than anything he could remember. When he realized it wasn’t Winters but the hypnotherapist, for a brief moment anyway, he didn’t want to let go. He didn’t want to give up that feeling. He would’ve given anything to have been able to hold on to it.

But there was nothing to hold on to.

Shannon drove aimlessly as he tried to sort the events out in his mind. He had almost killed that man because of where he’d been brought to. What he didn’t know was if he had ever been brought there before-if that was where he went during his blackouts-because if he did, God knows what he would be capable of.

He tried to swallow. His mouth felt as if he had gargled with a handful of sand. As he drove past a liquor store, he involuntarily slowed down. The world seemed to slow down with him. A bottle of bourbon would make everything so much easier. Especially after a few shots. Especially then.

He didn’t stop for the booze. As much as he wanted to, he didn’t stop. Instead, he headed towards the Central Square precinct. He wasn’t even sure why until he got there.

As Shannon made his way through the precinct, he passed DiGrazia at his desk and gave him a nod. The look DiGrazia returned stopped him dead in his tracks. He walked over to his partner and asked what was eating him.

DiGrazia had turned back to his paperwork. He ignored Shannon.

“It sure looks like something’s eating you. Come on, what’s your problem?”

“Whatever it is, it’s not as big as the one you’ve got,” DiGrazia murmured without looking up.

“What are you talking about?”

DiGrazia just smirked. His eyes, though, remained dead.

Shannon pulled up a chair. “Look,” he said, “if you’re pissed at me for not helping interrogate Roberson or Hartwell’s ex’s, I’m sorry, I couldn’t. I’ve been put on desk duty. Brady wants me to keep away from the investigation for the time being.”

“Why would I want you to help me interrogate them?”

“What you were telling me before-”

“Forget that,” DiGrazia said. “I wasn’t thinking straight. Probably suffering from sleep deprivation. The FBI’s right. These ain’t no paid hits. What we got is a true psychopath. But where the FBI is fucked is the way they’re going at it. You know why?”

Shannon shook his head.

“I’ll tell you, pal. I don’t think Roberson and the other two were killed by the same guy.”

“Why’s that?”

DiGrazia showed a thin smile, his teeth barely breaking through it. He stared at Shannon for a long moment before asking if something was wrong. “You sound kind of sick,” he added.

“Nothing’s wrong. Why weren’t they killed by the same guy?”

“Are you sure nothing’s wrong?” DiGrazia asked, ignoring Shannon’s question. “Your voice doesn’t sound quite right. Like maybe you need a drink of water or something.”

“Cut the crap, okay? You got something to say, spit it out.”

DiGrazia shook his head, making a tsking-type noise. “Getting kind of touchy, are we? Now what was I talking about-oh yeah, why Roberson wasn’t killed by the same guy as the other two. It’s really pretty simple. She was stabbed in the throat. The other two were stabbed in the mouth. We got different individuals doing these murders. The FBI shouldn’t’ve made the assumption they did. They should be doing what I’m doing right now. Want to guess what that is?”

Shannon found himself shaking his head.

“I’m doing a computer search for other murders where women have been stabbed in the mouth. I figure twenty years is enough to go back-”

DiGrazia stopped himself and gave Shannon a long, thoughtful look. “You don’t look so good all of a sudden,” he said. “What’s wrong, sick or something? Jesus, you look like you’re falling apart right in front of me.” There was no warmth or empathy in his eyes, nothing but a cold detachment.

“Man, you’re white as a sheet,” DiGrazia continued after a long moment, his bare-fanged smile tightening. “You look like you’ve just seen a ghost. Is that what’s troubling you, pal, ghosts around?”

Shannon didn’t say anything. He just turned and walked away.

DiGrazia watched as his partner made his way down the hallway. Shannon’s reaction was interesting. More than interesting. Even if he hadn’t had that dream he’d think so. And maybe even if he hadn’t gotten those twenty-year-old newspaper clippings sent to him-maybe even then…

That morning he had found an eight-and-a-half-by-eleven-inch envelope against his apartment door. Stuffed inside were photostatic copies of newspaper clippings. The articles were twenty years old and detailed the murder of Shannon’s mother. He had read them halfway through before putting gloves on. Now the envelope and its contents were inside a plastic evidence bag locked away in his bottom desk drawer.