Mad Page 6

  He sat. The plastic cover on the sofa made a crunching noise. He was uncomfortably aware of the cats staring down at him from the painting.

  “So.” Rochelle entered the room. She set a tray of coffee mugs, a carafe, milk and sugar on the low coffee table in front of the sofa. “You’re a homicide detective?”

  He smiled. “Yes.”

  Rochelle sat in the chair opposite the sofa. It was not covered in plastic. She poured coffee into a mug, dropped a sugar cube into the black liquid, and then lifted it to her mouth. He bit his lip as she closed her eyes for a moment, as though savoring the bitter shit, and then set the mug down again.

  “Would you like some?”

  “I don’t drink coffee.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “More for me then. I suppose we should just get to it.”

  “We should.”

  “I spoke at length with your captain. She’s quite concerned about you.”

  “Annoyed,” he said.

  “Pardon?”

  “She’s annoyed with me. There’s no concern at all.”

  “I disagree, but I suppose you know her better than I do.”

  “Yep.” He folded his hands in his lap. It would be a long day.

  “Well, I can see you’re not comfortable. This isn’t an easy thing to do.”

  He frowned. “What isn’t easy?”

  “Admitting you have a problem.”

  “I don’t.” Maybe she was Captain Cunt’s evil twin. She certainly sounded like her.

  “Maybe you don’t.” Rochelle reached beside her, and then lifted a folder from somewhere on the floor. “According to your boss, you have an obsessive need for cleanliness.”

  “Obsessive?” He snorted. “It’s a healthy desire to not want to get sick from the dirty fuckers around me.”

  “Have you ever been intimate?”

  “I’m not sure what you mean or how that relates to anything.”

  “I’m talking about sex.”

  “Still not following.”

  “Have you ever had a sexual relationship with another person?”

  “Is that a perquisite for your program?”

  “No,” she said. “But you say your cleanliness isn’t a problem. I’m curious to know how far the urge extends.”

  “I’ve had sex many times. I’m not some forty-year-old virgin living in my mother’s basement.”

  “How did it go?”

  He was entirely uncomfortable with this conversation. “Which time?”

  “You’ve had multiple partners?”

  “I’m not a weirdo. Of course I’ve slept with more than one person. Why are we talking about my sex life?”

  “Your boss said you had a relationship with a paramedic once. It was a long-term thing?”

  For a doctor, her listening skills were atrocious.

  “Well?” she prompted.

  “Well what?”

  “The paramedic.”

  “Mary? Yeah. I guess it was long-term.”

  “Did you and Mary have sex?”

  He didn’t like how interested she was in his personal life. His sexual partners, or the lack of them, had no bearing on his mental health. “This is crossing a line. Why do you need to know about my sex life?”

  “The rumor, according to your boss, is that she broke it off, because you wouldn’t touch her.”

  He’d give her credit for persistence. Doctor Middleton didn’t let go of shit easily. He sighed. “You really want to know?”

  “I do.”

  “Fine. I’ve had sex. Lots of it. However, I like cleanliness, and the idea of touching a dirty person isn’t a pleasant one for me.”

  “So you lied about the number of partners you’ve had?”

  “No.”

  “But if you don’t like touching—”

  “When I’m horny, and I do get horny quite frequently, the itch is more powerful than my aversion to touching.”

  “Which means what exactly?”

  “It means I get over it, because I care about fucking more than I care about touching. I always use a condom and afterward, I shower. It’s a long shower. Very hot water. Lots of soap. Happy?”

  “What about relationships?”

  “I’ve had one night stands, and I’ve been in relationships. Is the messiness of sex a problem? Sometimes. I’m a clean person and I need a clean partner. I enjoy sex, and it usually turns out satisfactory for both parties. The problem with Mary was she was a dirty pig. I dated her for a long time before I realized that, though, and I didn’t want to hurt her feelings, so I let things play out until she got tired of me.”

  “So you’re saying your captain was correct?”

  “I never slept with her, because she was gross. You can’t say I’m nuts for that. Lots of people are turned off by poor hygiene.”

  “I’ve had many patients with an aversion to germs. Some of them are so obsessed, they isolate themselves from others, and avoid all physical contact. I’m curious about how you deal with the messiness of intercourse. How far do you go? Are there limitations on the acts you’re able to perform?”

  He blinked. “Am I auditioning for porn?”

  Rochelle was still not deterred. “Do you engage in oral sex? Some of my patients find that too difficult. It’s actually perfectly normal to find the act of putting your mouth on a person’s genitals distasteful.”

  “Your point?”

  “I want to know how intimate the sex you’re having is. Do you kiss? You said you use condoms, which is responsible and smart. Even with this protection, do you force your partners to shower first?”

  “None of your fucking business. I’m done with this line of questioning. My sex life is fine and so am I.” He knew he had some issues. For one, he counted thrusts until orgasm, and would do everything in his power to ensure whatever the number, it totaled a multiple of three. And maybe he took a while in the shower afterward, and brushed his teeth, and changed the sheets… and he didn’t allow overnighters. So what? He wasn’t as freaky as she seemed to hope he’d be.

  Rochelle nodded. “Okay. I’m satisfied if you’re satisfied. Your compulsions have not prevented you from adult relationships. Now, what about your keen interest in the number three?”

  “There’s no keen interest. And I don’t think anyone uses that word anymore. I mean, what decade are you from? Keen…” He found the word “keen” strangely infuriating. He shook his head, and tried to focus on her question. “Studies have proven that multiples of three are…” He paused. The numbers were a problem. He couldn’t deny that. “I just prefer threes. I guess you’re right. I’m batshit. Whatever.”

  “You’re very defensive. I’m not here to attack you.”

  “This is stupid. There’s nothing wrong with me that prevents me from doing my job. In fact, all the things my captain bitches about help me do it better than everyone else. I don’t see how that’s a problem.”

  Rochelle read the file for a moment. “Tell me about the notebooks.”

  “What about them?”

  “Your boss says that a coworker once accompanied you to your apartment, and they reported you had volumes and volumes of the same type of notebook.”

  “So?”

  “You have them sorted by date and case number.”

  “They’re sorted by date and then alphabetically. I don’t use case numbers.”

  “What is the purpose of these books?”

  “A good detective keeps every detail organized. There’ve been many times the notes I’ve taken have helped me solve a future case. It’d be irresponsible of me, and it’d make a shit ton more work, if I didn’t keep them organized.”

  Milo wouldn’t mention that if he couldn’t find the same spiral bound notebook he preferred, he’d replace all of them, rewriting every single page as he did so, because he couldn’t stand it when they didn’t match. Sure it didn’t seem sane to someone else, but rewriting those notes often it brought details to light that he missed. He wasn’t weird. He wa
s smart.

  “And your aversion to pencils?” Rochelle asked.

  He sighed. Of course she’d mention the damn pencils. “I don’t like them. So what?”

  “You hate them so much that you’ve assaulted someone for suggesting you use one?”

  “It wasn’t like I just stabbed him without provocation, and it had nothing to do with the damn pencil. He got stabbed because he was an asshole.”

  Rochelle scribbled something in the file. “Is it true you also record the steps you’ve walked each day in these books?”

  “Who said that?” Fuckers. He hated every last one of them.

  “I don’t think who said it matters. Is it true?”

  “Lots of people record their steps. It’s a thing now.”

  She nodded. “But most people use an app on their phone or a device designed to track them. They don’t count the steps themselves and record the total on paper. You have actual “steps” books. Is this correct?”

  He shrugged. “Maybe.” He liked looking for patterns. Was it so wrong for a guy to have a hobby?

  “And why don’t you carry a cell phone?”

  “I carry one. The department issued a phone to every detective. I just don’t answer it if I don’t feel like it.”

  “You never answer it according to your boss.”

  He hated cell phones. He hated most technology, but knew he wasn’t alone in that. Not everyone had to be “connected” for fucksakes. “Maybe I just don’t answer her calls. She’s a cunt, you know.”

  “I don’t like profanity.”

  He smiled. “Maybe I can’t help myself.”

  “Touché, sir.” She flipped a page in the file. “What do you have against jelly donuts?”

  “Seriously? She mentioned the donuts?”

  “You become quite enraged—”

  “Because I have better things to do with my time than eat a powdery, chemical filled piece of shit pastry.” His chest burned. So he hated jelly donuts. What was wrong with not liking a particular food?

  “They make you angry? Your boss says they can’t even have them in the office, or you end up losing your temper.”

  “I lose my temper every day. Nothing to do with the donuts.” Almost nothing. Jelly donuts did make his skin itch, which led to anxiety, and eventually, anger, because jelly donuts had no place at work. They were messy and sticky and gross. Food meant for a child.

  “And your feelings on gingers?”

  “They have no souls,” he said without thinking.

  “Does that sound rational to you?”

  “We all have our shit. Are we done judging me?” He was done with this shit. Forget his job, his life, and just get the fuck out of town. Screw Captain Cunt and her fucking psychiatrist.

  “Oh, I’m not judging you,” Rochelle said as she set the folder on the table. “This discussion gives me an idea of what we need to address. You’re not alone. I have my own idiosyncrasies. You’ll find out about those in group. Right now, I’m establishing a baseline, so I know how to approach your case. What your boss told me is only hearsay. I know that many of these things she’s concerned about probably have perfectly logical explanations.”

  He stared. Was she screwing with him? Maybe trying to gain his trust so she could climb inside his head and deem him insane.

  “Please,” Rochelle said. “I don’t want to hurt you, Milo. I’m here to help you get back to your life and your job.”

  “Then write me a note. Tell that bitch I’m fine.”

  “I will... in thirty days.”

  His reply was cut off by a slight pressure on his leg. He heard a low purr, and his blood turned cold. “Tell me that’s not what I think it is.”

  “Murray,” Rochelle said. “You’re not supposed to be in here.”

  “Murray?” He refused to look down. His skin felt clammy, and he wanted to vomit.

  “My cat.”

  “Get him away from me.”

  “You’re afraid of cats?”

  “Get. Him. Away.”

  Rochelle smiled, but stood. He closed his eyes as she approached. He heard her make soft noises to the beast, and then the pressure left his leg. He kept his eyes closed until her footsteps left the room.

  Fucking cats. He did fear them. So what? Everyone had a fear of something.

  “I think that’s enough for now,” Rochelle said as she reentered the room. “I’ll see you at group tonight. Seven o’clock, right here.”

  “And the fucking cat?”

  “I’m not sure what you mean.”

  “Will the cat be here?”

  “I’ll put him away.”

  He stood. He’d have to burn his pants. “See you then.”

  CHAPTER 7

  “Are we meeting early because of Shamus the cunt-face?” Ozzie asked. “Oh, that was disrespectful. So fucking sorry.”

  Rochelle had only discussed Shamus briefly that morning, because the police had called about him and she had to get them out of the house before Milo arrived, but she knew they had questions, just as they had with the previous group members. “That’s part of the reason. Have you watched the news?”

  They nodded.

  “And what do you think?”

  “Wasn’t Oz supposed to go with him?” Estella glared at Ozzie. “That was the plan, right?”

  “I did go with him, you fuck-sucker.” Ozzie slouched into the sofa. “Shit-biscuit idiot went back.”

  “Yes, he did,” Rochelle said. “This isn’t Ozzie’s fault. He did exactly what we discussed. Shamus went back later and the police believe he hid until they locked him inside the store. He tried to contact me, but I didn’t get the text until morning.”

  “You always have your phone on,” Andy pointed out.

  Rochelle looked to her right, where Andy always sat, and smiled. “I do. I was tired. It’s rare that I don’t hear my phone, but I must’ve slept through the notification. I feel like I failed him.”

  They digested this blatant lie, and Rochelle made a monumental effort to avoid pulling her hair. Whenever she was stressed, the urge to pull intensified. She hadn’t done it in years, and she wouldn’t do it just because Shamus was a failure. Once the group accepted it, they could move forward.

  “So… he choked on a bird head?” Andy asked. “This is what actually happened?”

  Rochelle nodded. “It was an unfortunate tragedy. Shamus was doing so well, I thought he was ready. I’ll never forgive myself for not seeing the truth.”

  “The cops will question us,” Andy’s already whispery voice lowered. “I can’t be questioned. If they ask about the thoughts, I’m in trouble. I have awful thoughts.”

  “No, the cops won’t question us,” Rochelle said. “And you can’t be in trouble for thinking about something. It’s only illegal if you do the things you’re thinking about.”

  “Maybe I did and I don’t remember.”

  She shook her head. “They won’t talk to you guys. There’s no reason to, because Shamus wasn’t officially under my care. There are no files, no documentation of any kind. If the police do link him to me, I will tell them I’d only just begun treating him. You will be left out of it.”

  “They’re going to question all of us,” Andy said. “I can feel it.”

  “This group is anonymous and I plan to keep it that way. You have nothing to worry about as long as you don’t talk about him with anyone.”

  “So we aren’t mentioning his name again?” Estella asked. “We forget about him just like that?”

  Rochelle sighed. Estella and Shamus had been close. She could become a problem. “Nothing like that, Estella. If you want to talk about him, you’re free to do so, but not in group.”

  “Isn’t group the perfect place to talk about him?”

  “No. We’re getting a new member and I’d rather he doesn’t learn about Shamus, or the others. If you feel you need to talk about them, we can meet privately.”

  They stared.

  Rochelle waited. One of
them would say something eventually. She pulled a thread on her sweater sleeve. It helped assuage the need to reach for her hair.

  “When do we meet this new guy?” Andy finally said.

  “In an hour.”

  “What?”

  “I know you guys usually like more time to prepare, but our new member, whose name is Milo, is a special case. Under no circumstances can we ever discuss the others with him. He won’t understand.”

  “I don’t like this. He’s a twat-waffling cunt-licker.” Ozzie shifted on the sofa. “No new members. You said it last—fuck-your-mother—shhh…night. What’s special about this ball-sack ass-face.”

  “He’s a homicide detective.”

  Silence.

  “But he knows nothing about the others,” Rochelle continued. “Not that we have anything to hide, because not one of you is responsible for their unfortunate deaths. Milo has been sent here by his boss. He genuinely needs help. After thirty days, he’ll be gone. Can you manage thirty days of secrecy?”

  They nodded. Well, everyone but Charlie nodded. Rochelle raised an eyebrow.

  “Won’t that hurt my recovery?” Charlie asked.

  “I don’t see how it could.”

  “I’m not supposed to lie. You said if I tell a lie, I’ll be out. You’re asking me to lie to the new guy, and I don’t lie.”

  “Not saying anything is different from lying, Charlie.”

  “But if he asks—”

  “He won’t.”

  “But if he does, then what?”

  “Change the subject. If you don’t answer the question, you haven’t lied.”

  Charlie bit his lip. “I don’t like it. Still feels like lying.”

  “Because it’s lying by omission,” Estella said.

  Rochelle smoothed her pants to resist the urge to slap Estella. “Charlie, you can’t mention the others no matter what. Let’s call it a white lie, which is harmless. You need to be able to differentiate harmless lies from hurtful ones anyway.”

  “But you said no more lying at all.”

  “If the police know that four people in this group have died, they’ll believe something’s wrong. If they think something’s wrong, they’ll ask questions. If they ask questions, your identities, and your pasts, will be revealed. Do you want this to happen?”