A Case For Conners

Chapter 16

Part II: Watcher

Chapter 15: s*x, Drugs and Murder

The afternoon was cool, but not unpleasant as Michael Conners checked himself into the physiatrist's office. Of course, normally he wouldn't have come here of his own free will, but it was Lawrence who was asking him to go, and seeing as she had bailed his ass out with Richards, he owed her a favor.

She had insisted the therapy would help him, and he had told her that he agreed. Of course, Conners knew it wouldn't actually help. How could it? An i***t in a room with a clipboard was hardly someone to confide in, or even have a conversation with.

It was his second time in the building, and he maneuvered the halls with expertise and didn't pause once. Conners noted that the floors and walls were made to practically sparkle as if they were afraid of offending someone with the look of the building. It was a classical style. The wood floors and dark molding matched the wallpaper and gold ceilings nicely. It was too neat for Conners' taste though. Instead of feeling comfort, he felt panic, as though he were being corralled into a cage. It was oppressive and annoying. After what seemed to be an age within an age, he came to the room he was supposed to report to.

Conners greeted the receptionist with a small wave. She smiled back and instantly his mind took a snapshot of her before taking down facts:

Her teeth were pearl white, probably done by a dentist to avoid having to apply strips day after day. She wore a dark red shade of lipstick, and her hair was colored light blonde, with brown roots that were beginning to show. Her skin was tan, but not by sunlight; and he could tell she had applied an unhealthy amount of foundation that morning. He checked her hands: no wedding ring…

She was completely vain, yet worked at for a shrink who normally would handle psychos. So, she wasn't attempting to turn the heads of the patients, but her boss.

That was amusing.

He looked at her face as she greeted him. She was smiling, but that wasn't unusual. Receptionists were probably asked to smile at the patients as they walked in. What was unusual was the fact that her smile was completely genuine, reaching up to the eyes. Her boss likely replied to her advances, probably s*x that night. If it was s*x, it hadn't happened yet because her clothes and makeup were still far too neat.

Conners smiled back. He had a card up his sleeve. Last time he was here, Conners had just filled out a never-ending questionnaire about his past.

Of course, this was pointless beyond reason. Conners still couldn't remember anything that had happened before the hospital.

He walked up to the receptionist who would be having s*x with her boss, and asked what room he should go to.

"Room seven. Dr. Therman will be with you in just a minute."

Conners nodded and slowly walked down the hall, then looked inside room seven. The doctor wasn't in yet. So, he took a good look around. It was hardly surprising. There was a couch, a desk and chair; all were made for style and therefore were uncomfortable. He took a good look at doctor's degrees hung on the back wall, boasting his accomplishments. It was all set up to be calming, and light spilled in through the windows. Conners decided he'd take this chance to size up the shrink, and sat behind the desk, putting his feet up. A few minutes later, the man walked in and without pause or even a double take, sat on the couch.

As he sat, Conners let his mind dance over the man's features.

He was older, but not above 65. His hands were fine and manicured, and his face was carefully made free of any run-away hairs. It wasn't that the man was the picture of perfection. There was the missing wedding ring, despite the fact that there were signs of his wife having taken care of him all morning. His shirt was freshly ironed and placed on his body. His belt was perfectly squared and there was a small bit of an egg sandwich on his suit jacket.

Few single men ever ate home-cooked breakfast.

He must've been used to patients behaving oddly or been expecting it, given his lack of reaction. Conners noticed that the doctor probably already considered him to be insane. Therman took out a clipboard and pen and looked right at Conners.

"So, Mr. Conners, why are you here?"

"Here is very vague, don't you think?" said Conners, letting the smartass out. "I'm here in this office because the woman you're having an affair with told me to come here. I'm here in this building because my friend is forcing me to be here. I'm here on this planet because, at some point, two people with my genetic make-up had sex."

Therman smiled, "What makes you think I'm having an affair, or married for that matter? I don't have a wedding ring."

"Of course you're married; you've just removed your ring after leaving the house. The skin on your left ring finger is light, where the rest of your hand is tanned. I know you've agreed to sleep with your secretary because she's scantily dressed and is happier than anyone has reason to be on a Monday afternoon. And of course, you confirmed my suspicions when you picked that one part of my rant to comment on."

"Let's stick to you. So, as I understand it, you have amnesia. If that is…"

"You're not very specific are you?" asked Conners, cutting him off. "If I had anterograde amnesia, then I wouldn't remember how I got here or much of anything for the past few hours. I have retrograde amnesia caused by being beaten over the back of the head."

"You've done a bit of homework on the subject then."

"No, I'm merely observant. I heard two doctors comparing the types in the hospital just as easily as I can tell you're writing about my superiority complex on your sheet of paper."

That stopped Therman cold. After a full four seconds, he continued his questioning.

"So, why do you call yourself Conners? Surely that is not your real name."

"It is as real a name as I have. I awoke in the hospital with nothing in my pockets but an apartment key with the number 18 on it. So, I soon found work as an illegal and adopted the name Michael Conners from mixing up a couple names. After about half a year, I got my papers and worked my way into being a detective."

Conners didn't trust this man for one second, and left it at a half-truth.

"You just decided to adopt the name Conners? You have no other reason for it?"

Conners stopped the man by holding up his hand as he heard sirens out the window. Lawrence hadn't contacted him. So, it was likely the case wasn't very interesting yet, but anything that would get him out of the hellhole that was therapy was worth it.

"Sorry doc," Conners said smiling. "I'm going to cut this short. Catch you later."

Without another word, Conners rose and left, leaving the baffled therapist behind him.

He ran as fast as he could; through alleyways, side streets, and even through a shop or two. He managed to keep pace with the police cars that were confined to the streets, and soon came upon the crime scene. He dashed up and pushed past the gathering crowd until a patrolman stopped him at the edge of the crime scene.

"Sorry Conners, can't let you pass. The lieutenant says you need a break after that Richards case."

He didn't need a break, he needed to move on. Taking another case was a way to do that… How did such stupid people rise to positions of power?

No wonder Bill never wanted to "become someone."

"Of course," said Conners, closing his eyes before calling. "Look there! Who is that man?"

"What in the-" asked the policeman turning to look at the imaginary person.

Conners slipped past him and right up to the detective on the case.

"So what killed our hooker?" he asked.

"Hooker? How do you…"

"Please," said Conners rolling his eyes. "No news crew, so it's something small, but still enough to draw a crowd, so someone's died. The two things most closely found among death are drugs and s*x. Can't be drugs because your dogs aren't around anywhere; that leaves us with sex."

"How do you know she's a hooker?"

"Guessed based on the part of town, but thanks for confirming it. Again, how'd our hooker die?"

"Shot through the chest with a .357."

"You've done a test already?" Conners asked, surprised.

"No need," said the coroner. "The gun was sitting right by the victim. Over there, no prints but registered to a John Satcher."

Conners put on a glove and picked up the gun carefully. Slowly, he slid his fingers along every inch and paused. Lines appeared in his forehead as he opened the gun, and groaned.

"You utter morons!" he shouted. "Does any one of you have half a brain?!"

One of the police officers came walking over to him.

"Conners, what the f**k are you doing here? We were told not to let you in!"

"Of course you were," said Conners, still angry. "Why let me speak? After all, I'm the only one here who isn't too stupid to know when a gun isn't loaded properly."

"When a gun isn't loaded… Conners what the hell do you mean?" asked the detective.

"When you remove your eyes from the utter black hole that is your ass, you'll notice that the spent chamber isn't from this gun, but a .38 revolver."

"But why place it in another gun?"

"Because it's a decoy! It's a red herring, a false lead, pick whatever term you like. Now, I'm off to actually do something important. Let me know when you want to learn what that means."

Conners stood and strode out the place in a hurry, his long coat billowing behind him. He texted Joe to pick him up and drop him off at the station. The experienced driver flew through the streets like a fish through the water, dodging red lights and angry pedestrians. It took only fifteen minutes to get to the police station. Conners ran inside, tossing his cane to the man behind the glass.

One of the many perks of having put Richards behind bars was the lieutenant had essentially given Conners a permanent pass throughout the building. He walked the familiar path to the interrogation rooms and saw three men were in the same room, being questioned by a detective. He let him eyes roam over them as his brain jotted down facts about the group.

The first suspect was a shorter man with brown hair. He wore a cheap button up shirt and slacks, and his hands were smooth and unscarred. He worked a middle class cubical job and probably couldn't lift fifty pounds without help. He had a slightly red spot on his right ear, probably from years of wearing a Bluetooth earpiece. So he wasn't very well off, but liked to try and impress women.

The second suspect was a balding man who looked like bodybuilding was as natural a hobby for him as eating and breathing. He wore plaid shorts and a black wife beater. There was no ring on his finger, unsurprisingly single. This man was obsessed with keeping fit and healthy. He was likely a physical trainer or nutritionist.

The last person was sporting long black hair, white clothes and a black eye. He was a typical goth kid, and couldn't be past his early twenties. He still had slight stubble that dreamed of being a beard. Conners decided he would be stunned if this guy didn't work at hot topic or in a warehouse.

"Short on rooms, Mark?" Conners asked the lieutenant cheerily.

"One of these days you'll learn to actually respect me," he said coolly.

"All the respect you deserve, lieutenant," Conners responded, smirking. "Who do we have?"

"Satcher, the one on the far left, is our gun owner. No need for you today."

"Of course," said Conners, carefully examining the men as two of the three were allowed to leave. "Excuse me."

Conners walked up and held out his hand to shake both of the freed men's hands hello. Both smiled and shook his hand before leaving. Conners began to follow them out of the building.

"Oh, lieutenant," he called over his shoulder, "You may want to stop this man from leaving. The short one with brown hair; he's your killer."

The first man's eyes grew wide and he tried to run only to have two officers tackle him, re-cuff him, and throw him back into the room.

"Conners!" called the lieutenant. "What the hell told you he was the killer? The other man in there, Satcher, owns the gun. He said the b***h got what she had coming! Even got him cursing her on tape. He's our man."

"Hardly," said Conners. "He's just mad because she refused to sleep with him even though he paid up. You see the three long scratches on Mr. Satcher's cheek? They fought. There aren't many reasons to fight a hooker unless you're using and I'm assuming you geniuses already drug tested them."

"So what makes you think Bruce is our man?"

"Bruce? Is that his name? It's not hard lieutenant. I'm sure you took their prints coming in, but you took the prints of their right hands. Mr. Bruce is left-handed. I noticed it when he walked out of the room, and opened the door with his left hand. When I walked up, I shook his hand and noticed he wears his watch on his right hand."

"So what?"

"Quit being stupid for five minutes, would save me so much time," sighed Conners. "If he checks the time left-handed and opens doors left-handed, then is it logical for him to shoot right-handed? Of course not! The hooker was killed by a revolver, but not by Mr. Satcher's. Bruce here has a hard callous on his left thumb just like the one on your right thumb."

"So he shoots a revolver left-handed?"

"Exactly. So, he's a shooter now. I looked carefully at his arm and noticed that he bore sores up and down, if you'll lift his sleeve to show them clearly. Now, please, before he starts biting."

The man in the interrogation room did as Conners asked, and the force saw the sores.

"He's been given aids by our hooker, and so got revenge on her."

"But this, I mean… how?" asked the lieutenant in astonishment.

"Because I am not an i***t, and I know what to look for. Now, if you don't mind I'm going to find a copy of the paper and see if there's anything you haven't messed up today."

A little while later, Conners was heading for the exit. On his way there, Lawrence stopped him.

"Hey sergeant," said Conners, mockingly. "Checking up on me? You know, if you're so interested in me, you could just take me out to dinner."

"Sorry Conners," she said, smiling back. "I'm not as obsessed with your life as you are. I happen to work here."

"Work? Is that what you people pretend to do? I was curious."

"Go on and get out before I have to arrest you."

"Skipping to cuffs and chains are we? I wouldn't pick you out for bondage, but I'm not picky. Catch you later."

Laughing to himself, Conners walked out of the door and into the night.