Under A Rest
Part V
Another Month Later
On a dull, dreary Monday morning perfectly identical to the thousands of other dull, dreary Monday mornings preceding it, Detective Berman sat at his desk, typing up a storm on the antiquated computer his department insisted they had no money to upgrade.
Having finished a particular section, he leaned back against his office chair and took the time to read it back. It was boring, rote work for him at this point—some report for a straightforward case that’d popped up a few days prior—but he prided himself on his thoroughness. After several corrections and that final, satisfactory evaluation, the detective eagerly turned his attention to his desk’s newest addition: a small, elegant onyx block that spun effortlessly posed atop a single vertex. It was a model sculpture of the famed Astor Place Cube in New York, a sculpture of which he was fond and, incidentally, a recent gift from his madam.
In his fifteen years of tenure, the detective had tried to make his office into something more than its vomitous asbestos floor tile, exposed ductwork, and beige cinder block wall. Filing cabinets and shelves of books and binders lined the free space of his office, with papers and folders that sorely needed organizing lying about. A large city map and whiteboard hung behind him.
Despite its mustiness and clutter, Detective Berman liked to think he’d succeeded in enriching his space. There laid a dark rug on the floor, well-worn but sturdy. He disliked the overhead fluorescents and thus opted for a banker’s lamp on his desk and a standing lamp in the corner. He’d given wooden Venetian blinds to his singular, sterile portal to the outside world, which on that morning were pulled open to welcome in the day’s cold, cloudy light. Various tchotchkes laid about on his desk and shelves. Several works of art hung on his walls, done by friends of his.
And now, that little cube stood front and center on his desk, small but proud. He leaned forward and gave it a flick, watching it whirl idly as he again leaned back and settled into his chair, arms crossed, a tiny grin making its way to his lips.
His weekend had been utter bliss. They’d finally, to his heart’s delight, begun venturing outside her house at more normal hours, enjoying the quiet dinners and outdoor excursions of a normal couple. As much as he enjoyed her trances—from deep, collared blackouts to gentle but rapt attention—he found himself acutely in their throes less often as of late. In fact, the past Saturday afternoon had been so sunny and mild that the two spent it merely sitting together on a park bench, like any other normal-looking couple. Holding steaming Solo Jazz cups of corner store coffee, bird-watching, people-watching, spinning yarn after yarn of conversational tangents as they sat upon the massive web left in their wake, sky streaking pink, sun burning red, stars sparkling to life, evening breeze briskly displacing the heat of day. His fingers weaving gently through her tawny tresses, the dim, gold light of waning sun setting her sly green eyes aflame. The surprise black cube in her unfurling fingers, just a little something for him, that was all, it even rotates, and oh! he’d said, eyes wide, what a chip off the old block it was, and she’d rolled her eyes before laughing that laugh of hers, and what a laugh it was. The gentle knocking sound when—
Detective Berman opened his eyes.
One of his reports, Sergeant Joshua, knocked on the open door. The cube had slown, lazily ceasing its rotation with its last ounce of inertia. He let out a sigh.
“Come in, Sergeant,” he called without looking up, taking an idle, obligatory sip of his tepid coffee. The young sergeant’s unique knocking cadence always gave him away. A particularly tall, lanky young man of a certain awkwardness, he strode in and placed a thick folder on his desk.
“Morning, boss. Got a few revised reports for you to review.”
“Cool, can’t wait,” he said dryly, eyeing them with mild contempt as they plopped onto his desk. The focal point of his career—bloated reports. Speaking of which, he ought to finish the one on his screen. He returned to typing. “Anything else for me? Anything that won’t make me want to go the hell home by noon?”
“Well,” the young detective started, a sparkle in his eye as he placed a dusty folder on the desk. “I believe we have a new lead on the Walter case.”
“Yeah?” Detective Berman replied, ears perked but fingers still typing, eyes still screen-affixed. “That’s something, alright. But don’t get excited or anything, we’re holding off on it for now.”
“He’s, uh…actually waiting outside,” he said, voice lowered, glancing outside the door behind him. Detective Berman stopped typing and followed his gaze, leaning to the side. “He says he was a higher-up at Chyron, a VP or something.”
Chyron. A single, muted string plucked in his head.
“Uh…” the younger detective continued, leaning in, his smooth, thin face painted with concern. “He looks to be, like…on the verge of tears. I dunno. I really think you should see him.”
“Well…I guess I have a few minutes,” Detective Berman grumbled, checking his watch. “He’s already here, might as well hear him out. Send him in.”
“Will do,” Sergeant Joshua said, stepping out to retrieve him.
A short, wiry man with abnormally straight posture walked in, gait radiating confidence. In his mid-fifties, his hair was jet black and slicked back, temples streaked generously with gray. His suit was a washed-out navy, very sharp and closely tailored, his feet shod in spotless brown oxfords. His body language emanated apprehension, while his face—angular, gaunt, with prominent cheekbones—betrayed turbulent emotion.
“Good morning, Detective. Marcus Chiang,” he said tersely, his words slightly accented. He extended his hand.
“Morning, Mr. Chiang, sir. Nice to meet you. Have a seat,” the detective said, leaning across his desk and returning the handshake. He turned his attention once again to his screen. “What can I do for you?”
“I’m going to save you some time and get to the point,” Marcus replied, taking a seat on the agéd chair opposite the detective.
“Fantastic. I like you already.”
“I am certain that in the course of your investigation you’ve encountered a Doctor Maria Angelos.”
Detective Berman nodded, still staring at his report on the monitor. His eyes flicked anxiously to the clock on his system’s toolbar. Already, this felt like a waste of time.
Marcus continued.
“Well, you could say I’m one of her patients. Or was, rather. Her practice, might I say, is a bit…unorthodox.”
“Tch. Tell me about it,” the detective fired off, only half paying attention.
“What do you mean?”
He stopped and looked up, realizing what he’d just said.
“Just that we’ve already looked into her styles of treatment, so to speak.”
The two met eyes for a spell.
“So you know,” Marcus said, voice lowered.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Detective Berman replied evenly, the words leaving his mouth automatically.
“It seems to me like you do.”
“It’s really not much to go off of. We consider it a dead end.”
“But you do know about her…method, let’s say.”
“Whatever was in Mr. uh…Walter’s medical file,” he said, now needing to glance at the folder for help recalling the victim’s name. His memory wasn’t normally so dodgy, especially not regarding cases so recent. But for some reason, that one seemed like it’d swallowed into a void, a black sinkhole in his mind. No matter. “That’s all. It’s on our radar, nothing more.”
“I see.”
The detective’s stomach turned. He rested his chin on his hand in thought, elbow propped on the armrest of his chair. Marcus narrowed his eyes at him before leaning forward and dropping his voice to a whisper.
“My word is ‘dream’.”
They met eyes again, a silence befalling the room.
What did this schmuck think he was trying to accomplish? So she’d gotten around. Mere playthings they were, that was all, from long before they’d met—however it was and however long ago it was that they met; the exact details were both unclear and unimportant. She’d released each and every one. That was what she’d told him, and it satisfied his curiosity. He felt privileged that she’d been so honest and divulged such information to him. Privileged that she’d even looked at him, wanted to see him so often, wanted to shower him with affection and ease his stresses with gentle caresses. He had no reason to doubt her.
“What’s that, some kind of sleeper agent thing?” he said flippantly, giving the cube on his desk another casual whirl. Marcus glanced at it and raised his eyebrows.
“I think you know exactly what it was. It’s what’s known as a trigger word. I would hear her say it and…totally lose myself.”
The detective leaned back in his chair, nodding with a smirk. He certainly knew the feeling.
“Yeah, well, that’s a common effect. Of that sort of thing. So I’ve heard,” he said, gesticulating vaguely. But, though he tried to resist, gaze tempted by that spinning cube, he was beginning to feel his mind salivate, melting a little just thinking about it, remembering it, as though he were hearing about a fantastic feast he knew all too well would be otherworldly and yet remained unavailable to him.
Marcus, for some reason, looked somewhat encouraged.
“I mean, it took me so long to even come forward, and that was after I heard Mr. Walter had died, by which of course I was very saddened. I’d worked with him, after all, it shouldn’t have taken his death to get me to say something. But he was the one who referred me to her, and I just can’t help but think…well. I’m not quite sure what to think about the whole thing.“
“Neither are we,” Detective Berman mumbled. Granted, though he highly doubted his lovely madam could be implicated in something so unsavory, his working mind won out and his interest was piqued. Strangely, though, the more he heard and thought about this case, the harder it was to remain focused. He’d never felt anything quite like it, but it all just seemed so boring, so…trivial. They might as well have been discussing basic arithmetic.
“I’m not exactly sure, sir, what it is you’re implying,” he continued.
Marcus sighed as though he’d been expecting this. “Well, I’m not exactly sure myself, is the thing. There were some…unusual things going on at the company. Doctor Angelos had a few of them as patients, and they fell into some…similar patterns of behavior, I suppose you could say.
“At first I thought it nothing more than my own paranoia,” he continued, “but then those same people began exhibiting the same behaviors, over and over, you see, and, well, I couldn’t really explain it. I had people in HR telling me these people’s supervisors noticed them spacing out at their desks at various times of day. It didn’t even affect their work, all of them were solid performers, but like clockwork—”
“Like clockwork, the people chained to their desks down at Chyron for eight hours a day would get bored and space out? That is pretty crazy, yeah,” Detective Berman interrupted flatly.
Marcus pursed his lips and tilted his head downward. “Not like that, Detective. I mean, the odds of these same guys spacing out in the exact same ways, every single day, without a drop in work performance…I was just wondering how on Earth they’d all managed it. Hell, it sounded good to me. And the weird part—it was even with the same exact facial expression each and every time. Same blushing cheeks, same distant little smile. And the common denominator in all of them was th—”
“Doctor Angelos.”
“...Right.”
“Well,” the detective replied, idly scrolling through the document on his computer as he processed this information. He had to admit that this was news to him, though he took it with a grain of salt. “That’s quite a claim you’re making there, Mr. Chiang. You wouldn’t happen to have any sort of evidence supporting it, would you?”
Marcus paused for a moment before responding. “Well…no,” he admitted reluctantly, regret in his voice. “I don’t actually have any hard evidence to present to you, no.”
The detective shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He took a deep breath and leaned forward, shoulders hunched, arms folded and resting on the table in front of him as he studied Marcus intently.
“I understand your concern,” he said calmly, “But if I’m picking up what you’re putting down, that’s a very serious allegation you’re making. The kind that needs to be mounted on more than just idle speculation.”
“I understand that. But I even visited her myself, just to see what she was about, just to see what kind of person she was. See if there was anything really shady going on.”
“And?”
“Well, I Googled her first, of course, got nothing but glowing reviews, case studies, papers in esteemed medical journals, even a few high-profile interviews. I was shocked to find that she wasn’t just some lady with a social work cert from McDonald’s University, she’s somebody. Very well-respected in her field, in fact, as I’m sure you found.”
“Yes, I gathered that,” Detective Berman replied with a nod. He remembered the same mild surprise when he first looked her up months ago. Though what exactly prompted that, he couldn’t quite recall.
“So I went in, and all seemed very normal. She kept our appointment to the minute, which is more than I can say for my actual doctors. Took me in, was very charming, talked up a storm but listened to every word I said. I was completely shocked at how well we got along. I mean, I walked in very suspicious of her and the next thing I knew she had me laughing and smiling and nodding, nodding, nodding along…and it was all very relaxing, you see, so relaxing that it would’ve taken me by surprise had it all not been so relaxing. And she was still talking, just kept talking nonstop, and I was still just sitting there, nodding and nodding, nodding along still, of course except now my head was staying nodded, and my arms were heavy, and my legs were heavy, and my whole body was dropping into my chair, tingling, and my eyes were closing, and the next thing I knew I—are you alright, Detective?”
“Hm?” he said, prying open his eyes with effort and clearing his throat. “Yeah. Monday, you know. Just a bit distracted, sorry.”
“Oh. I see,” Marcus said. He tilted his head and stared at him, paused for long enough that the detective grew a bit confused at the silence.
“She’s got you, too, hasn’t she?” he added nonchalantly.
This startled the detective awake, his eyes widening.
“I’m sorry?”
“No, I am. I know that look. Oh, do I ever know that lo—that’s why you’re even entertaining me, isn’t it? You would’ve been dialing Bellevue by now, otherwise.“
Detective Berman swiveled silently in his chair and stared out the window, mindlessly drumming his fingers atop his desk.
“Please let me help you,” Marcus continued. “You know exactly what she’s capable of. I know you do.”
“Sorry, sir. Still got no idea what you’re talking about,” he insisted.
“She thought she’d wiped me clean, thought she could just cast me aside and pretend nothing ever happened,” Marcus urged, an intensity now disturbing the evenness in his voice. “But I got out.”
“Out of what?” Detective Berman scoffed.
“From under her thumb, Detective. We never really forget anything to begin with, do we?“
Her voice, suddenly springing forth from somewhere unknown, rang through the detective’s mind.
Sometimes we never really forget anything to begin with, Detective.
Her voice was also ringing through his ears now, in reality. Instantly, he froze, at complete, helpless attention at the mere sound of her voice, even in its cruddy fidelity as it came through the phone now held in Marcus’ hand.
“Don’t be worried, Detective.”
“Why would I be?”
“It’s just a normal induction, one of her plain old therapeutic recordings. A progressive relaxation. It’s even available for free online if you search her name.”
“Not sure why you’re showing it to me, then. I thought she was putting people under her…evil spell,” he said, posing his hands and affecting a voice.
Marcus said nothing. He only smiled pleasantly.
10…feel my voice coursing through you, your body feeling heavier…9…feeling so good…so relaxed…
They stared hard into each other’s eyes.
8…feeling so calm, all the tension leaving your muscles…7…body feeling even heavier, aware of all the surfaces touching your skin…as you relax deeper…and they fade away…
Detective Berman sat still, blinking heavily. Static filled his mind.
6…more and more deeply relaxed, feeling so safe, so warm, your thoughts coming and going idly but quieting…as they, too, fade away…5…each inhale bringing you more relaxation, each exhale bringing you down deeper and deeper, more loose and heavy…
His breathing quickened, shallowed, then eased slowly, each breath moving him according to her words. His hands and feet tingled, the sensation climbing up his limbs and into his body, fizzling out into heavy relaxation. His vision dimmed, mind quieting as her words faded.
Suddenly, silence cued his eyes open. He closed his mouth and gulped, Marcus raising his eyebrows and tilting his head up as if to goad him into saying something. Detective Berman cleared his throat again and shuffled a few papers on his desk, not meeting his eyes. An even longer silence passed between them.
“It was a single session.”
“I know.”
His head hurt. His heart hurt. She was fantastic, his life awakened by someone who sparked butterflies in his gut every time he so much as thought of her. It couldn’t be. It was nothing. She hadn’t done anything. She couldn’t have done anything.
“I know,” Marcus said again, nodding as though reading his mind.
“I know what happened,” the detective muttered, a sudden edge to his voice rising. He seldom lost his cool, but this man’s attitude was beginning to grate.
“I know you think that, Detective,” he repeated.
Detective Berman’s eyes narrowed, brow furrowed into a frustrated knot. Marcus fiddled around on his phone and hit play again.
8, feeling so good, feeling your consciousness rising…remembering everything, remembering…remembering everything…9, your mind waking, coming to life, remembering…
Remembering.
10. Remembering everything. Fully awake and refreshed.
He did as he was told. He always did.
This time, it hurt.
She’d done a number on him. But the block in his mind was perceptible now, no longer invisible. It was still there, very difficult to move, taunting him with its presence, but he could at least sense it again. Thinking about that case was so much work, like being stuck on a question while taking a difficult test, and of course, one usually finds it so much easier to skip it, and perhaps come back to it later…or at the end…
Or never. Sometimes one has no other choice but to submit.
He could hardly even remember the first visit he paid to her office, and until that moment had well and truly undone the mental associations he’d made between that visit, the subsequent visits, the investigation, and herself. In fact, his entire timeline of the case had been utterly undone. He wasn’t sure what was what, except for a few small impressions that had begun trickling back.
Alas, with each painful drip of memory came heartache and massive, unfair amounts of effort. The first memory that came to him was a mere sensation—the strange, dreamlike feeling of calm that had descended upon him sitting in her office. His chair’s almost unnecessary levels of comfort. Her words, nimble and potent, lulling him. Her expressions of guarded courtesy, then curiosity, then delight.
As he focused on that visit, his memories began to coalesce around it. Something in that voice of hers had melted away his defenses. He remembered his notepad, the sharp, pointed observations jotted down, the last lines of which grew looser and shorter as she began working on him even before hypnotizing him proper. He’d forgotten almost everything on that page of notes, and it felt so good to close his eyes and forget about those sordid details that he’d made a real habit of it…
“Please, try to stay with me, Detective,” Marcus continued, shutting off the recording. The detective snapped to attention, somewhat embarrassed. He hadn’t even realized he’d drifted again, nor that the recording had still been playing. “Don’t feel badly. I can tell she worked tirelessly on you. She is a consummate professional, you must keep that in mind. Even her office is designed to ensnare, every bit of it. Maybe you remember. Down to that air freshener, which probably has God-knows-what in it.”
“Ugh,” Detective Berman groaned, rubbing his eyes and recalling in newfound clarity that eerily calming pine scent. “God, I don’t know. I know I sat down in that chair…she got to talking about her little meditation technique or whatever, and…”
“Lights out.”
“An understatement,” he said, more details slowly seeping back. “I knew it, I really did, I think. But for some reason I think I just decided nothing real could come of it. So I went into it normally…and next thing I know, like you said, she’s shaking me awake, and I was…I don’t think quite the same. Everything went a little funny after that.”
“That’s how she gets you.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t say she got me. It doesn’t prove anything other than she managed to hypnotize me exactly once,” he lied.
“Then why is the case shelved?”
“Happens all the time, unfortunately. It was a pretty clean scene, very little evidence of interest. Victim had no other female contacts we know of, no clear homosexual inclinations that I can remember. No family.”
“That may be so, Detective. But I’ll ask you something.”
Mildly irritated, he shrugged.
“Shoot.”
“How long have you been a homicide detective?”
“Fifteen years, now.”
“Then tell me something. Why do people kill?”
He blinked and looked at the wall. He shrugged again and pursed his lips.
“What are the seven deadly sins?”
Marcus blinked, hesitating.
“That wasn’t rhetorical, I’m asking. I’m sure you know them,” the detective coaxed.
“Uh…greed, envy…pride…lust…wrath…which am I forgetting?”
“Gluttony and sloth. Though those tend to not be as motivational as the others. Unless you’re trying to eat someone or, I don’t know, shoot them ’cause they won’t move from in front of the TV.”
“Right.”
“But yeah, there are your reasons. Any reason for murder can be boiled down to one of those. Money, sex, prestige, vengeance, you name it. What was your point again?”
“Fair enough. My point, Detective, is that I believe one or more of those applied in this case. I may not know what her motive was, but I am convinced she had one, something lusty in particular, or maybe greedy. I am here, on that man’s behalf, in front of you now, asking you to give that woman just one more fair look. The only woman I ever saw James Walter get involved with was her. And knowing her, I just know there’s something more to it. Please.”
The detective sighed.
“Look…I still think you’re barking up the wrong tree, sir,” he said, shaking his head. “But how about this. I’ll look into it one more time, take some notes on it, alright? No guarantee of anything.”
“Oh, I would greatly appreciate it,” Marcus said, a glint in his shining black eyes.
“You’re welcome.”
He paused.
“...Then she gave you a recording, didn’t she?”
Detective Berman hummed in thought.
“Well…actually, I think I might’ve…huh,” he said, chuckling. “God, I gave myself one, how about that. I sometimes record investigatory interviews, that’s standard op, and it was some attempt at insurance, I guess, should she try something fishy. Tsk. Look how well that turned out.”
Marcus snickered. The detective continued, working to recollect the crumbs of memory left in his mind.
“Then, I think…God, I can hardly remember now. I don’t even know what I don’t remember. But I think she suggested that I listen to it as much as I could. Which, I mean, I did, of course, and gladly, too, since I thought I’d be able to listen back on that little activity objectively and tease apart her MO. In reality, just listening to a recording of her had me nodding along, as you say. And, uh. Just saw.”
“Indeed. Do you still have that recording?”
Detective Berman paused thoughtfully, then opened his phone to check.
“Nope. All gone.”
“Was afraid of that,” Marcus murmured.
“You know, the funny thing is…everything, all those words of hers…are in here,” he said, leaning forward and tapping an index finger to his temple. “I know it. But I couldn’t tell you a single one now. Not if you put a gun to my head.”
Marcus shook his head gravely, mouth set in a deep, sympathetic frown.
“She really did a number on you. Surely this constitutes something illegal, doesn’t it? Exerting such a profound influence on a law enforcement officer. Obstructing justice. You look like you’ve been put in the microwave just thinking about it.”
“Unfortunately…” the detective said, splaying his hand over his lips in thought. His own behavior in this mess could cost him his job. These were uncharted waters. He wasn’t sure if he could even trust his own memory, nor this man in front of him.
But now, neither was he certain he could trust his newfound companion, scintillating as she was.
Detective Berman took a deep breath, attempting to steel himself against the chaos now coursing through his veins. More than anything else right now, he was sure of her innocence, but could in no way think himself around the hardcoded confines of his mind’s methodical nature. To give into his emotions in his work was nothing short of treason. As strongly as he felt that she had nothing to do with such a ridiculous case, his instincts forced him to at least look into it one more time.
Nevertheless, his affections for her were so undeniable that he was still left conflicted about the prospect of arresting her. Their numerous trysts, their late-night conversations lying side-by-side in her bed, talking about everything from life’s big questions about love to whether the Showa Japan category that night on Jeopardy! had been too easy. She had also been so eager to help him with his investigation at first, despite knowing full well that she could be incriminated by any findings she made.
He thought back to those moments with a sad fondness, for if she did indeed commit the crime in question, then perhaps all he’d been enjoying, falling for, chasing the entire time was naught but—
“...Unfortunately?” Marcus said, urging him to continue his cliffhanging opening.
An illusion.
“Look…even if we could take this to a district attorney, even if we could somehow convince a jury that hypnosis, in theory, let alone practicum, is powerful enough to move people like this, to move a senior detective away from a trail, let alone a person to suicide. Then convince them that her command is just that strong—still, all we have is a whole lot of circumstance. We need irrefutable hard evidence, and as it stands now, if I go up there and testify in front of her…I’m telling you, the only thing hard in that courtroom is gonna be me.”
Marcus let out a rare, brief chuckle.
“Well, is that not in itself your hard evidence, Detective?” he said, tongue in cheek. The detective snorted and shook his head.
“No, really, uh…I’ll see what I can do about it. I’m just now getting back up to speed, recalling some of this stuff. Feels like I’m at the scene for the first time,” he continued, leafing through the case file on his desk. He spied a photo of her already inside. His heart skipped a beat. “For all I know, I could just have a head injury. And there’s no guarantee I can remember what I need to. Even if I do, I can hardly think straight about it now.”
“That doesn’t surprise me. Unfortunately I know well what you mean. But just…do what you can. I’d appreciate every bit of it,” Marcus said, rising and glancing at his watch. “I’m afraid I have an appointment, so I’ve got to run. But I’m very glad we had this meeting. Here’s my card. Oh, and Detective…”
“Yeah?”
“I advise you stay away from her. At least for the time being.”
Without thinking, the detective pouted slightly. He didn’t want to stay away from her. But the tiny, suspicious inkling inside of him assented.
“...Looks like that’s how it’s got to be, doesn’t it.”
Marcus nodded curtly.
“Keep in touch.”
He left. The detective rubbed his eyes and slumped in his chair. His eyes stung. His everything stung. The weight on his shoulders from which he’d enjoyed a vacation had made its return. He ran his hand through his hair. He wished it was hers.
“Hey, Sergeant,” Detective Berman called out, voice cracking slightly. He cleared his throat. “Joshua. In here, please.”
“Yes, sir?” he replied, poking his head into his office.
“Open up the Walter book. I want you to call, uh…God, what’s his name,” he said, leafing through the book. “Paul Kuklinski. His number’s in there somewhere I think, ask him what he can recall about the guests at his last birthday party. But don’t be too direct, we don’t want to alarm him. And, uh, I want a warrant for the house.”
“It was cleaned months ago, sir. Think the bank is looking to make a sale.”
“Oh. Hm. Well, I want one anyway. The thing about ‘clean’ is it’s never as clean as you’d think. Have we got any of his devices, computer, phone, anything like that?”
“Laptop, cell phone, and tablet in the locker.”
“Superb. I want a look.”
“Gotcha. Anything else?”
“See if you can scare up any other patients of a Doctor Maria Angelos.”
Early Friday Evening
The empty house was indeed still in appalling shape, even by Detective Berman’s lackadaisical standards. Fading beams of sunlight streamed through dirty windows in which motes of dust shimmered visibly. Somewhat unsettling wind chimes rang from the back patio. Cobwebs lay strewn in corners. Clumps of hair and dust peppered the carpets. Cracks lined the drywall. A musty smell permeated the space. Unfathomable amounts of clutter still crowded the tables. Moths batted about.
When Sergeant Joshua said it’d been cleaned, Detective Berman figured he either hadn’t seen it at all or had frightful notions of cleanliness.
Detective Berman shook books. Looked under desks. Sifted through laundry piles, papers, mildewy stacks of Popular Mechanics. His brain felt hot. Surely, and perish the thought, should his madam have truly been responsible in some way…she must have at least had a sensible motive. The thought of her doing something so cruel so senselessly sickened him.
Really, the entire investigation had begun to sicken him. He should’ve been at her house by now, spending every moment, both waking and sleeping, with her. But though his legs ached to bolt out of this house and run to hers, he couldn’t, and for some reason, she hadn’t even reached out. No calls, no texts on the only Friday evening in recent memory that he could recall not spending with her. He couldn’t help but feel stung, further spurring his zeal to investigate.
The detective rolled up his shirtsleeves, readjusted his gloves, and powered on the laptop with a sigh. He could’ve just accessed it at the station, but he’d brought it with him; something about accessing the device in the victim’s space always made things click for him more easily. He couldn’t really explain it. It was just one of those things.
The laptop—a crusty thing, making him thankful for his gloves—took what felt like ages to boot. He inserted a thumb drive, executing a program to index and analyze the entire filesystem. Sifting through the information, he saw scores of files and folders, probably confidential: Chyron blueprints, CAD files, 3D renders. Elsewhere, he found programs James had written, as well as various texts both fiction and nonfiction. Large amounts of personal research. Some books. Some photography. Some memes. Entirely too much hentai.
All mentions of Maria Angelos had been wholly scrubbed. Anything regarding her name, and to that extent, hypnosis, had been completely nuked. He bit his lip and then pressed them together, unable to believe that such a thing could be. Feeling oddly lost, he began aimlessly scrolling through the victim’s internet search history. It was an unlikely venture, but there could be something there, some clue, some hint, something right underneath his nose, taunting him, taunting him like she did, like her terrible, jade gaze taunted and haunted—
sechuan
sechuan near me
Did you mean: szechuan?
Detective Berman’s eyes widened, his mind sparked into roaring, inspired pyre, zeroing in on the innocuous typo amongst James Walter’s search queries. Immediately, his fingers flew along the keys.
Angelo. Angelis. Marie. Mmariw. Angelous. Anglos.
Anglos. One result found, a recycled text file. He recovered it, thankful that the data was only partially corrupted. There it was, in plain English, detailing the workings of her plans, her abuse of hypnosis violating and manipulating at least several known patients. Her methodical erosions of powerful minds to the ends of providing herself with benefits, cash, and several powerful positions. Names, ones even he recognized. A call to have her medical license revoked.
Detective Berman’s blood ran hot and cold. Hot, because that was always what he felt when finally finessing the edge of his blade into an impossibly-tied knot, cold because it confirmed his worst suspicions—the ones that had nagged at him, the ones that had been shoved into the deep, dark recesses of his mind time and again, fastidiously covered in increasing layers of warm, blank, silly little bubbles.
He leaned back in his chair and sighed, saving the relevant documentation and continuing his search, yielding no other leads. He continued searching different permutations of typos, stumbling upon a single audio file.
“Hpynotic induction,” Detective Berman murmured aloud, examining the misspelled file title. “18:47 long…28 megabytes…wav file.” Curious, he hit play.
Hello, I—
Startled, the man slammed the space bar, pausing the recording. He caught his breath and gulped, hearing his heart pounding in his ears.
“The hell’d you expect, dumbass,” he breathed to himself.
He looked around. The sun was setting, the house growing dark. The wind chimes outside had stopped. All was eerily quiet and still. Hesitantly, against all better judgement, he plugged a pair of earphones into the laptop’s headphone jack and pressed play once again.
Hello. I’m Doctor Maria Angelos, a licensed psychiatrist and therapist. Today, I’ll be guiding you into what’s called a hypnotic state…
Since Marcus Chiang’s visit, Detective Berman had reluctantly attempted some self-hypnotic work of his own. Research, exploration, deprogramming files, all attempts to carefully comb through his mind and poke at her insidious influences. Visiting another hypnotist in his scenario was out of the question, but he liked to think he’d started doing a rather decent job himself all things considered. Her influence had at least felt less real, less powerful, less intimidating. His thoughts had begun to clear. His memories had begun to return.
But hearing her again made it all pale in comparison. Nothing worked on him like she did. His mind went silent at the mere sound of her voice, his response to her words nearly instantaneous and entirely involuntary. Shivers went down his spine contemplating the depths to which she controlled his mind. He hated it.
He hated that part of him didn’t hate it.
He couldn’t help but feel an unshakeable stone in his stomach. She’d betrayed him, sure. But worse, he’d betrayed himself. Vignettes of his own body betraying him over and over bled back—in her office, on her doorstep, in her living room, in her bedroom. His cursor moved sluggishly towards the window’s X button.
And there it stayed, unclicking. Her voice poured interminably into his ears and for the life of him he could not bring his helplessly frozen index finger to move the slightest millimeter. Any second now she’d begin her induction and he’d be even worse off, so the time to close it was now. His brain sprung into action, sending electrical impulses to his finger.
They resulted in no more than helpless, imperceptible little twitches, none firm enough to depress the button fully.
His eyelids fluttered closed, his breath growing shallow, limbs leaden, his aching heartbeat quickening, then slowing, longing for her. Like trained little soldiers, his thoughts fell in line, slowing to a gentle halt awaiting her instructions. Mechanically, he doffed his right glove.
A strong, pleasurable notion of agreement washed over him. His hand dropped heavily into his lap, slowly making its way towards his fly and lazily undoing his pants.
His clumsy, slumbering hand massaged his stiff cock, becoming harder and harder as his fingers brushed up and down, up and down, feeling nearly as though someone else was tending to his swollen head. Her voice filled his ears, and with a satisfying sigh once again sent him into the clouds.
Taken off guard at the unwitting usage of his trigger, he dropped deeper, harder, his body collapsing and sinking further into the chair with an uninhibited sigh as he continued stroking, caressing himself, feeling wonderful pulses of ecstatic pleasure course through him, allowing her voice to once again soothe his tired, aching mind.
The tiny voice in his head begging him to stop only quieted as the waves of pleasure took hold, rendering him overwhelmed as sweat began to bead on his forehead and moans began to escape his mouth. He felt himself slipping further and further away, his body becoming lusciously limp as he surrendered, every stroke sending a flurry of delightful sensations throughout his body. His breathing grew heavy, loud, and labored.
The more he listened, the more he obeyed, the more intense those waves of blissful pleasure rose within him. There was no laptop, there was no chair, there was no house, there was no case. Only her. Only her honeyed words mainlined straight into his veins.
He bit his lip as he finally rounded the corner. His head fell back onto the chair, and with a satisfied, guttural moan, he finally allowed stars to erupt before his eyes, releasing himself into her embrace.
As the acute ecstasy slowly began to fade away into peaceful quiet, Detective Berman realized he heard a dull thud sounding through his mind, though he thought nothing of it.
Feeling wonderful waves of pleasure wash over you.
It thudded several times more.
“Boss? You in there?”
Detective Berman froze. He swallowed hard. Panic slowly rose in his stomach as he listened more closely and indeed confirmed that the sounds were real. With every ounce of his might, he broke his trance, prying his heavy eyelids open only to see globs of his cum on the desk. He hastily wiped the mess with crumpled, used tissues from his pocket, shoving his softening cock back into his pants and flinging off his earbuds.
“Y-yeah,” he called back weakly, mouth feeling full of cotton. He cleared his throat. “Come in.”
Sergeant Joshua opened the door and turned on the living room light, causing Detective Berman to squint.
“Hey, just thought I’d drop by and see how things were going. I texted you that I was coming, but you didn’t respond.”
Ripped out of the depths of his trance, the poor detective said nothing, just closed his eyes and focused on lowering his rapid heartbeat, sitting there lumplike. He was too muzzy-minded to be mad.
“That’s alright, I got caught up lookin’ at uh…at, uh…this here laptop…here. Found some stuff. Gotta read through it, make sure it’s all…here.”
The thought occurred to him to show the young detective the letter. Obviously, it was evidence. Obviously, in any other case, he would’ve shown him without hesitation. But that would just be so embarrassing. He’d explain it all later. When he was good. When he was ready.
“What’d you find?” Sergeant Joshua asked, peering curiously. Odd. Aside from the laptop, his boss was looking particularly tired and out of sorts. Probably just working overtime again. If he knew what was good for him, he’d stop pushing himself so hard.
“I’ll show you when I’m more sure of it. Alright?”
“Um...if you say so. And, uh, boss?”
“Yah?”
“Your fly’s open.”
He glanced down. The blue tartan of his boxers was indeed peeking through the zip of his gray slacks.
“Well, shit. Thanks.”
Joshua snickered.
“Anytime, boss.”
Sunday Morning
4:08 AM
He stared blearily into the red numerals of his bedside alarm clock, and at him they stared back, burning into his retinas. The dark, quiet stillness of his bedroom that usually felt safe and protective now felt stifling. Oppressive. His left eyelid pulsed. His mind raced, all the sediment that she had helped settle peacefully to the bottom now once again stirred into a familiar, turbid storm.
He had nowhere to be tomorrow. It didn’t matter. Sleep came no more easily. He rolled onto his back and took a deep breath, an unnerving blend of depression and dread spreading in his gut. Her voice, her laugh, her touch, her smile—the spell she’d cast, embracing him, coaxing him to worlds blank and peaceful. Someone so kind. Someone so good.
A murderer.
He pulled the blanket to his chin and sighed. He felt hollow. He hadn’t realized how much of him she’d occupied until this past week. He hadn’t realized how much he’d thought of her, was still thinking of her, like a schoolboy. Did he have such precedence in her mind?
He felt a vague sense of unease. All things considered, the spell was broken. He was still unsure of his memories surrounding her and the case, but there was no way around it—he now clearly saw missing contexts abound and uncertainties galore. Perhaps it was all an elaborate, farcical misunderstanding. Either way, from where he sat, things were looking rather bleak for her. It wouldn’t take much longer until he’d have something tenable for the district attorney.
Yet that spell wasn’t entirely broken.
In his office earlier that evening, he’d tortured himself with the proper routine of anger and guilt—of how he’d let such a thing fly under his radar for so long, what he could’ve done differently. He chastised himself, heavily, for not paying closer attention, not exerting stronger willpower. Falling for such a simple, underhanded tactic. Spending so long honing and protecting various entries to his mind that he’d left his heart completely unguarded.
“You weak son of a bitch,” he groaned quietly.
Sure, those were the normal thoughts. But now, alone, in his bed, shrouded in black, his mind dredged up his deepest, most basal feelings to lay bare, leaving him unable to escape. He stared into nothingness, wishing for her reassurance, thinking of what the victim might have done to deserve such an end. Surely it was something commensurate with murder.
Most torturously, making him feel even more pathetic, he lay there wishing more than anything else not that she hadn’t killed James Walter, but that she’d done a better job covering her tracks. He let air escape through his teeth at the mere thought. If she was going to puppeteer him to such an extent, she could’ve at least taken the care to keep the strings from snapping, sending his body crumpling to the ground, lifeless and alone. The least she could’ve done was allow him to remain blissfully unaware.
But this was his reality now. There was nothing to be done about it.
Suddenly, in vivid detail he recalled the sensation of her arms around him. The way her mere presence heightened every moment. Her scent. Her skin. Her smile. Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes.
She seemed so unbothered that he hadn’t shown up last night. After every weekend for the past five months…she hadn’t bothered to call him? Text him? Didn’t she worry? Didn’t she care?
Didn’t she have anything to say for herself?
Monday Morning, Two Weeks Later
“Take me to Detective Berman’s office. No, I have n—I don’t care, I demand to see him this inst—what? Well, he’ll tell you why!”
Detective Berman tensed in his chair. The good doctor herself, clad in oversized sunglasses and a fashionable black fur coat he’d never seen on her before, stormed into his office, handcuffed and flanked by two patrolmen plus Sergeant Joshua.
“Detective! I believe I deserve an answer for this.”
He rose from his desk, thankful she was wearing sunglasses to enshroud those eyes of hers. She looked directly at him. He kept his eyes on the desk.
“I believe not.”
Mouth agape, she glared at him, incredulous. A brief silence fell before he shook his head and continued.
“He was going to expose you, wasn’t he?”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
The detective picked up the folder on his desk and opened it, showing her.
“Thought you wiped all the copies, didn’t you?” She took a full second’s look at its contents and turned her head. A silence befell the room.
“...I demand a lawyer. This is libel,” she said, her bottom lip trembling slightly.
“You didn’t do a good enough job.”
“I—”
“I would close my mouth if I were in your position, madam,” he said, by sheer conditioning still unable to shake the honorific, which, thankfully, now only masqueraded to the others as politeness. He could discern the outline of her eyes through her glasses now, wide, and for the first time he’d ever seen them, genuinely frightened. “For someone who knows enough to ask for a lawyer, especially. I’m sure you’ve already been read your rights.”
“I have,” she said, her breath so faint it felt barely there. “Well. Seems as though I’m under arrest.”
The detective swallowed thickly, giving her naught but a mere silent, heavy nod. He put his hands on his desk and leaned forward, stabilizing, attempting to stave off the waves of relieved exhaustion rippling through him, his knees buckling despite himself.
“Yes, Madam. Afraid so.” With a motion of his hand, the officers escorted her out of his office.
After a moment, Detective Berman allowed himself to slump down in his chair. It’d been so long since he’d heard that word straight from her lips. For how much bitterness had built up inside him towards her, to finally hear that word again quelled so much of it that he shuddered. He’d missed it. He’d craved it.
He feared it.
“You okay sir?” Sergeant Joshua asked after witnessing the spectacle. “What was up with that? Kinda weird, right? Pretty obvious she was under arrest.”
Forearm draped on his head, the senior detective sighed and allowed his eyes to close.
“All good, Joshua. Just feels like I am, too.”