Psych Co.: The Corporate Awakening

By Justin Mazzotta

Major corporations are a part of world-wide industry. They keep the money flowing; they keep the economy rolling. But what is a corporation, really? To Detective Bruno Polidori of the Orlando Police Department, a corporation is nothing but a name on paper. The goings-on of these money-monsters have little to do with Brunos everyday lifethat is, until one night, when everything goes wrong.

An unusual energy flows across the Florida peninsula one night, and the corporations suddenly become living, breathing human beings. Not only are they now among the living, but Bruno begins to suspect these newly formed humans are criminal psychopaths. Hes seen his share before, working law enforcement, but nothing like this. These psychopaths dont just want to wreak havoc; they want to bathe the city in greed.

As the police department struggles to stop the psychopaths by brute force, Bruno struggles to understand the psychology of these corporate souls. Each one has a unique personality and pathology, and in order to stop them, he must get close enough to ruin them from the inside. Orlando is falling apart around him. Detective Bruno Polidori is its only hope if the corporations dont kill him first.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Jul 28, 2011
• ISBN: 9781462039845

Justin Mazzotta

Justin Mazzotta holds a degree in corporate finance from the University of Ottawa and is a devoted reader of fantasy, horror, and science fiction books. He lives in Canada with his wife and daughter. This is the second book in Psych Co. series.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

Sunday, February 3

While most people were put off by the windy and rainy conditions that night, Gary and Jose had smiled when they heard the weather forecast earlier in the afternoon. From their position on the water, they could usually see Miami’s lights from the deck of their medium-sized boat. The rain whipping across the choppy water outside of Biscayne Bay brought visibility down to nearly zero that night, and their craft was shrouded in blackness, which was exactly how they liked it.

The Coast Guard was always patrolling these waters, but Gary and Jose had noticed that on Sunday nights, the patrols were shorter, and there was more time between each cutter. Gary liked to joke to Jose that the Coast Guard supposed poachers had to get up early on Monday and would not be out poaching on Sunday evening. The weather had been a happy coincidence, and Gary did not feel his regular compulsion to duck low on the deck as he hauled up his crab traps. Despite the security of the night’s trip, the poachers had still run without any lights.

Obtaining waterproof night vision goggles had been easy for Gary, whose friend owned a security and emergency supplies store. The sheeting rain did nothing to confound the goggles; Gary and Jose had been able to pilot the boat and haul in traps from the two previous spots as if it were as clear as day. The absence of lights on board, together with the heavily muffled engine that they only operated at a low speed, ensured that the Coast Guard would never detect them.

Gary pulled up on the line, hand over hand, until the triangular cage-like trap reached the surface, teeming with blue crabs. With his night vision goggles, he could see every tiny claw and leg squirming and grasping for purchase as he threw the trap onto the deck for Jose to empty into the plastic storage drums lashed to the deck.

Gary! The poacher heard through the rain. They normally worked silently, and while the rain did provide some interference, it was not an excuse to yell. He looked up at his partner, who had called to him from across the deck. Jose was motioning for Gary to come closer and pointing out across the water. Gary peevishly bent down, grabbed the trap he had just pulled up, and dragged it after him to where Jose stood by the drums.

Shut up, Gary growled quietly at Jose’s ear. Gary had been unhappy when his sister had married Jose because the young man did not have much sense, in Gary’s opinion. He was easily dominated, though, and Gary had to admit that Jose had helped to cut his nightly harvesting times in half.

There’s a boat, Jose grunted urgently, lowering his voice. Is it the Coast Guard? Jose continued to point out onto the water. Suddenly alert, Gary scanned the darkness off the starboard side. There was indeed a group of lights bobbing in the distance that indicated another craft. Gary increased the magnification on his goggles, zooming the view in until he was able to discern what type of boat it was.

He knew the types of vessels the Coast Guard used by heart, and thankfully, this was not one of them. It seemed to be a small, two-decked yacht anchored not far from their position. Gary squinted as he tried to see anyone on the deck of the other craft, but in the intermittent glances he got through the waves, he could see no one on board.

Holy… Gary heard Jose whisper beside him. Gary decreased the magnification on his goggles and turned to report that it was not a Coast Guard ship, but Jose had now turned his attention to their own deck. Gary considered cuffing the young fellow and telling him to stay on the task at hand, but he followed Jose’s line of sight and pointing finger.

The crab trap was moving away from them. Their boat’s deck was covered with a rough, sandpapery layer that provided friction so that they could keep their footing in bad weather without slipping. The waves rocked the boat slightly, but the motion was far from strong enough to cause the heavy trap to slide on the no-slip deck.

The two poachers moved forward down the deck, following the trap. When they got close enough to see fine details, Gary was mystified to see that it was the crabs inside that were moving the trap. Each little crab had stuck its legs through the steel mesh of the cage bottom and lifted the cage with its pincers. The crabs had been able to lift the cage a half inch off the deck—far enough to be able to walk with it.

While he was aware that crabs could communicate on a very rudimentary level, Gary had never seen anything remotely near this level of coordination from the little sea creatures. Dumbfounded, he sank to his hands and knees and crawled abreast of the trap, peering in at the crabs. Each and every one was gripping the cage’s steel floor strands with both claws and lifting up while its legs pushed the deck along underneath.

The crabs walked the cage all the way to the other end of the boat while Gary and Jose looked on in mute stupefaction. Once the cage had bumped the wall, the crabs immediately dispersed into the random scrabbling and clawing that Gary was used to seeing. He shook his head and stood while Jose continued to stare at the creatures. He did not know what to make of the bizarre behavior. If he could get them to repeat it, perhaps he could sell them to the Discovery Channel or National Geographic.

His vision swung back to the drums as he thought of setting aside a single container to store these particular crabs. His eyes widened as his goggles showed him a figure by the drums. How had someone gotten onto his boat? Was this person from the anchored yacht? The figure was a scrawny man with a pair of scissors in his hand. As Gary watched from the other end of the deck, the man cut the ropes holding the drums to the deck with the scissors and opened the nearest drum. As Gary moved carefully back along the deck toward the man, the stranger lifted the thick plastic barrel and emptied it over the side, letting the hundreds of crabs inside spill out and splash into the water.

Gary resisted the urge to cry out angrily at the intruder. He reminded himself that the man could not see him approach in the absolute blackness of the stormy night. He quickened his pace, hoping to stop the man before he could empty another drum. He pulled the short club from his belt, planning on knocking the man unconscious and then having Jose help him throw the stranger overboard to drown. The stranger bent down to grasp the second drum as Gary approached from behind and raised the club.

Though there was no way that the stranger could have seen or heard Gary on the dark, rainy deck, the man turned at the last second and thrust with the scissors. Gary tried to scream, but there was no air coming up his windpipe. Gary’s final thought before the green display of the night vision goggles faded to black was that it was strange that the man had not stabbed him with the scissors. He had thrust with them open and closed the blades on Gary’s neck, like a crab.

I

Wednesday, February 13

"We head into this shop on Pine Street where the silent alarm came from, not knowing what to expect. Inside, there’s some idiot pointing a knife at the counter clerk while his buddy is stacking cases of beer on one of those trolley carts." Bruno stared at himself in the full-length mirror as he told his story.

Beer? Domenic asked incredulously from down at his feet, pinning the hems of Bruno’s pants with blue-headed pins.

Yeah, like he was planning on making his getaway on foot, pushing a cart of beer down the street. Some of these guys—ow! Dom! Bruno stamped his foot as one of the pins pricked his ankle.

Sorry, Domenic said perfunctorily as he raised his husky frame to stand up beside Bruno. All done. What do you think?

They look great, Bruno assured him, twisting his hips to look at the new pair of beige pants he was buying. The mirror displayed an athletic man in his midthirties with short, dark hair that was parted in the center. His strong jaw was balanced with his high cheekbones. His warm, brown eyes observed the way the pants hung off his not-too-muscular legs.

So I pull out my Taser and order the suspect at the counter to freeze and raise his hands. Bruno mimed pulling a sidearm from the left side of his belt and holding it out at arm’s length, pointing it at his own reflection in the mirror. Then he mimicked the knife-wielding crook, pointing an imaginary blade at Domenic’s throat.

The suspect turns toward me and reaches into his pocket… Bruno reached into the pocket of the new Canali corduroys. So I fired the air cartridge and took him down.

Was he going for a gun? Domenic asked with interest as he slipped his fingers into the waist of the pants and tugged to check the fit.

There was another knife. I don’t know what he was planning. Anyway, he went down, and Scott got the other suspect; the guy wasn’t even armed. The waist is good, Dom.

I’ll hem them tonight then. The portly tailor gestured toward Bruno’s slacks on the chair beside the mirror. I always wondered what it must feel like to be shocked by one of those things, Domenic mused in his Italian accent, which was heavy compared to Bruno’s neutral Floridian. The tailor had on a pair of tan slacks and a dark blazer with a blue and gold crosshatched tie. Domenic always looked good.

It feels like pins and needles. Like sticking your finger into a light socket, only all over your body, Bruno said, undoing the front buttons and slipping the pants off. We’ve all had it done to us. Policy says you have to get Tased yourself before you’re allowed to carry one.

Domenic hissed and ran a swarthy-skinned hand through his styled, graying hair.

Does it hurt? he asked, picking up the pants while Bruno went for his slacks. Bruno took his time since they were the only ones in the tailor’s shop and hidden from the front door besides. The shop had an unusual L-shape. Most of the shops on Wall Street went straight in from the pedestrian mall, but Domenic had bought the back half of the unit beside his own when his neighbor had gone out of business almost ten years ago. While the contractors had been there, Domenic had taken the opportunity to renovate the whole store.

Bruno remembered when the store had been populated with nothing but steel garment racks standing in the middle of the rectangular space with beige wallpaper covering the concrete walls. Despite the humble surroundings, the garment racks had held beautiful imported suits that Bruno had loved to touch as a child when his father had brought him shopping.

Now the racks were recessed into the walls, each rack devoted to a certain shade of gray or blue interspersed with racks of tan, taupe, and brown. Instead of wallpaper, the store was paneled with rich hardwoods in warm tones. The gloss on the panels reflected the track lights overhead while still letting the grains show in sharp relief. In the center space were tables of the same wood displaying colorful silk ties laid out in rainbow order. There were thirty or forty ties of each color, meticulously organized by shade and pattern, ranging from plain to kaleidoscopic and calligraphic.

A bit, but it’s more like an out-of-body experience, Bruno continued. In training, they have you kneel with a guy on either side of you, holding your arms and with a pistol on the ground five feet away. The guys aren’t there to hold you back; they’re to hold you up. All you have to do is dive for the pistol and aim it. The instructor Tases you in the back and orders you to begin. It’s weird; you tell your body to move, but all your muscles are locked up and won’t listen. I’ve never felt anything else like it. Bruno zipped his slacks up and slipped his shoes back on while Domenic went to the front counter to ring in the pants.

It’s the same thing with the squads who are trained on riot equipment. To control a violent mob, they’ll get a tanker truck with a high-pressure water cannon and spray the front ranks to knock them down. You have to get sprayed by the cannon five times before they clear you to fire it, Bruno added.

You don’t usually get called to crimes in progress though; you’re a detective, Domenic called, frowning.

We were a block away when the clerk hit the alarm. Bruno shrugged, coming up to the glass-topped counter with a display case underneath, fishing in his pocket for his wallet.

You’re braver than me, that’s for sure, the tailor mumbled, tilting his head back to look at the register screen through the thin glasses that he always wore halfway down his nose. Sixty dollars. You can pick them up tomorrow after four. As Bruno picked the bills from his wallet, Domenic narrowed his eyes at Bruno’s inseam. You still hang it down the right leg, right? he asked seriously. Bruno chuckled as he set the bills on the counter.

After all these years, I am still convinced that tailors do not need that information, he retorted, grinning widely. Domenic’s weathered face did not flinch, and he kept looking expectantly at Bruno.

Yes, Bruno said in defeat, just before pushing the door open. The right leg. Domenic nodded and actually made a note on the chit. Bruno laughed out loud as he stepped onto the cobbled walk outside.

The Wednesday afternoon was cool, meriting long sleeves. Orlando weather typically did not call for overgarments, but Bruno wore a light coat because it was February. Bruno liked the look of a coat on a police detective, and the short months of what passed for winter in Florida were the only time that he could get away with wearing one comfortably.

Wall Street was busy. People were taking small breaks from their downtown jobs, and women were shopping in the higher-class shops on the pedestrian mall. Bruno made his way to the street adjacent where he had parked his blue Mazda by a parking meter. He arrived with two minutes left on the timer and smiled. He got in the car, started the engine, put the car in drive, and pulled out into the downtown street behind a city bus loaded with people.

Before he could get up to speed, another car sped out in front of him, making him brake hard. He honked his horn at the fleeing car, wishing that he was in his burgundy police cruiser. He wondered if the moon was full; lately, the traffic cops had been seeing a sharp increase in aggressive driving all across the city, which nothing could account for.

The offices of the Eleventh District Police Department were on the eighteenth floor of the county courthouse in the middle of downtown. It was a large complex of modern design, and Bruno appreciated the concrete underground parking garage, which kept the service vehicles and the employees’ own cars cool in the summer heat. He arrived there and parked the Mazda in his designated spot, quickly taking the elevator to the eighteenth floor.

The department’s squad room was an open floor of desks with dedicated lamps and computer screens, while the offices of detectives and commanding officers were recessed into the walls. Bruno greeted his friend Mark, who everyone called Switch. He worked part time in the field and part time as a dispatcher, and got the nickname because he switched between the two positions. Mark liked to think the name was short for Switchblade because he was a tough field officer, but in truth, he was a much more competent dispatcher. Bruno privately thought of Mark as Switchboard.

Bruno passed the corner office belonging to his superior, Captain David Holt. Holt was part of a proud military family, and the office was appropriately decorated with martial memorabilia. There was a miniature bronze Civil War cannon on the end table and several rifles from the same period on the wall. He had cherry shelves behind his desk supporting picture frames that held photos of Holt shaking hands with various high-level public officials in the city. The walls held plaques and commendations.

Finally coming to his own office, Bruno sat down. It was at the end of the row beside a storage closet, but he was proud of it because everything was in order. The wires to the movable TV stand in the corner were neatly coiled in the tray beside the VCR. Bruno’s papers and files were stacked neatly in defined piles on his desk, held down by pewter paperweight statues of knights on horseback and tome-wielding wizards. Bruno was a huge fan of The Lord of the Rings and the genre it had created. On the shelf behind his desk was a stone statue of a small dragon, holding down a file that did not pertain to his police work. It contained the whimsical plans of the Doghouse, a bar he dreamed of opening someday with his partner, Scott Monday.

Satisfied that everything was in place, Bruno sat down at his desk and logged on to his computer. Checking that everything was in place was a good habit for him because finding an element out of place was frequently the key to solving a crime. He checked his e-mail and logged briefly on to Facebook. He did not have that many friends on Facebook, and he mainly kept his subscription to the networking site for the Fish Tank application, where he bred all different types of exotic virtual fish in a cartoon tank. After only a few months, he had gotten up to level twenty-two. He fed his fish and was about to get to the files on his desk when Dave Holt came into his office, in full duty uniform as the captain preferred, with a perfunctory knock. Holt’s crew cut and alert posture said everything about him.

Something for you to check out, Bruno, Holt said crisply. Get Scott and head out to Ricardo Street. A nightclub burned down early this morning.

Yes, sir, Bruno replied. Has anyone started a file?

Ian was the first responder, Holt confirmed. The site’s been cleared by the marshal’s office, but be careful anyway, Holt said. Some of the younger recruits mistook Holt’s brisk manner for insensitivity. In reality, the captain had genuine care for everyone under his command.

Bruno rose from his desk and got his coat, following Holt out the door. Scott had appeared at his desk on the open floor; Holt had probably waited until Scott arrived to brief Bruno. He sauntered up just as Scott was sitting down in his chair. Bruno’s partner carried an extra forty pounds of muscle on his solid frame, and it showed through his fitted shirt. Scott’s close-cropped black hair was touched with early gray, even though he was Bruno’s age. His chiseled features displayed their usual dour expression.

We caught something, Bruno said with easy familiarity. A fire in a nightclub on Ricardo Street. Dave wants us to check it out now.

Do we think it was arson? Scott asked, pulling on a light windbreaker with the Eleventh District department’s logo on it.

Maybe. Let’s just get out there before we start making assumptions. Bruno led the way back to the elevators and pushed the button for the parking garage.

I hate Ricardo Street, Scott mumbled as they got into the elevator.

You hate a lot of things, Bruno said lightly. Scott was a person who got annoyed very easily. Unfortunately, sometimes he let it affect his actions. The excessive force complaints in Scott’s file were one of the reasons that Bruno had been promoted to a detective while Scott remained on the officer pay scale. To his credit, Scott was as loyal as a hunting dog and twice as keen. He did complain, though.

But I really do hate Ricardo Street, Scott insisted. Ricardo Street was a paved segment, just outside the high-rise downtown area, that was lined with nightclubs, dance halls, bars, and restaurants. Bruno had sometimes heard it referred to as Party Street. Every time we go out there, something happens with the dumb, drunk people in the lines, Scott continued. You’ve been with me; you know the people I’m talking about. The punks who want to show off to their friends by cursing at me. The girl who’s having a fight with her boyfriend, who yells at me to arrest him because he pushed her or something. I know it’s nothing, but I have to go over there anyway and calm everyone down, which takes time away from what we really should be doing. Scott let out a miffed breath of air.

It’s three o’clock on a Wednesday, Bruno pointed out as they left the elevator and got into the burgundy cruiser. There won’t be any club people there.

Bruno was wrong. After a short drive from the station through the downtown core, they came to the area to see a long lineup of young, excited-looking people waiting to be admitted to a dance club across the street from the blackened shell of the burned-out building. A line that size was normally seen only on busy Saturday nights in summertime. Bruno was suddenly less interested in the burned-out building as he was in the club across the street.

Scott met with Ian McLaughlin, the responding officer whose shift was just ending. Ian handed Scott the folder that he had started on the fire.

What does the fire marshal’s report say about cause? Bruno asked Ian after they had greeted each other.

The burn pattern suggests an improvised incendiary weapon, Ian admitted, opening the folder in Scott’s hands to a page with a highlighted section. Most likely a bottle filled with gasoline, thrown through the front window. The melting patterns confirm that one of the glass panes was broken inward before the fire started.

Did you speak with the club owner? Bruno asked, letting his gaze slide back to the lineup in front of the adjacent club.

He’s upset, says he doesn’t have fire insurance, Ian said, following Bruno’s eyes. Then he added, The owner swears up and down that it was the guy across the street that set the fire. He said the guy’s gone crazy in the last few days.

Whatever he’s doing, it seems to be working, Scott commented, indicating the volume of people waiting.

Uh-huh, Bruno answered, mirroring Ian’s smile. Scott, do you want to go through and check the points of the report so we understand everything? Bruno asked. I think I’m going to head over there.

Scott complied without a word, turning away to inspect the ruined building. Bruno’s partner was used to the way he worked; Bruno followed the element out of place. A giant lineup to a dance club on a weekday afternoon was definitely out of place. The club was two stories tall and displayed a large neon sign that read, Club Lode.

Bruno strode up to the broad, bearded bouncer who was manning the front door. The bouncer stepped aside respectfully; he had seen Bruno get out of the police cruiser and did not make Bruno get his badge out to show him. It demonstrated that he was one of the quality bouncers who were serious about the enforcement profession. The man might have even applied to a police agency before; many applicants who were not hired for whatever reason became bouncers or security guards.

Business is going very well for you, Bruno commented with an impressed tone. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a club with enough business to stay open during a weekday.

Yes, sir, the remodel made us very popular, the bouncer said right away.

Remodel? Bruno asked curiously.

Sunday night, Mr. Mencia shut the club down all of a sudden and did a whirlwind remodel and rebranding. We reopened yesterday, and we haven’t closed since.

Can I see Mr. Mencia, please? Bruno asked politely. The words were barely out of his mouth before the bouncer motioned for another man to come out and hold the door. He then proceeded to lead Bruno inside. What changed in the remodeling? Bruno asked as they made their way through a thick pair of soundproofed doors. Pulsing dance music filled the air once they were through, forcing the broad bouncer to have to shout to be heard.

The magnets, the man said, pointing a meaty finger to the club’s dance floor. Bruno noticed a full-scale metal detector between the sit-down portion of the establishment and the dancing area; the guests were being scanned as they came in. The dance floor was strange. It had several large floor-to-ceiling pillars right in its center, which people were dancing around. No one can wear anything metal on the dance floor. We check everyone, and we can hold their keys, change, cell phones, credit cards, and jewelry for them while they dance, the bouncer added.

Credit cards are plastic, Bruno commented back as the bouncer led him past the detector setup toward a bar set along the back wall. The bouncer turned and pointed to the pillars in the center of the dance floor.

Those pillars are new from the remodel, he explained, pausing at a railing. Mr. Mencia had industrial-strength electromagnets installed in each one. They mess up the stripe and the chip in your card. Bruno’s eyes widened. The bouncer continued, We give everyone on the dance floor a small belt with a certain number of metal bearings in it. There’s a computer in the electrical panel behind the bar that turns the magnets up and down in sequence so the belts get pulled in certain directions at certain times. The belt dances for you. It’s a crazy experience; everyone wants to try it.

Is it safe? Bruno asked, voicing the first question that came to his mind.

Everyone walks out with a smile, the bouncer said, shrugging. That’s Mr. Mencia behind the bar. If you have a metal weapon on you, just stay in this area. The magnets don’t reach this far, he said helpfully. Bruno saw that the bar area and the tables around it were filled with people who had elected to keep their metal items with them. He thanked the man and walked over to the bar, keeping his eyes on the dance floor. He had thought that the young people on the dance floor were moving in unison according to some new dance. He now saw that it was only their hips moving in unison, controlled by the pillars surrounding the center of the floor, with their limbs flailing wildly to maintain their balance.

Mencia was a shorter man with tanned skin, long black hair, and a goatee. His arms were covered in tattoos, and Bruno could see several on his chest and some creeping up his neck. He wore a bright violet shirt with his top two buttons undone. He was preparing a drink when Bruno walked up.

Are you Mr. Mencia? Bruno asked politely, taking out his badge and showing it plainly.

What can I get you? the club owner asked without a trace of an accent.

I’m investigating the fire last night across the street, Bruno said, putting his badge back on his belt. Would you be able to come outside and answer some questions?

Sure, Mencia agreed, turning back to put away the liquor bottle he had been holding. Just let me grab my coat…

Too late, Bruno noticed the large gray electrical panel underneath the liquor shelf. Mencia flipped the cover open to reveal a bank of fuses and a computing module attached to a current regulator. Bruno’s hand strayed to his pistol holster, and he opened his mouth to shout a warning when Mencia extended his fingers to a large override switch on the current regulator and threw it all the way open.

The lights flickered, the speakers blaring the music cut out, and in that second of quiet, Bruno heard a humming sound coming from the pillars on the floor.

Suddenly, Bruno was being pulled backward by the service pistol, handcuffs, radio, and badge on his belt. He cried out as he felt a second gravity pulling him backward away from the bar. The entire club exploded into chaos. Everyone on the floor, in the booths around the edges, at the bar, and even at the door were all sucked toward the pillars. Most grabbed chairs, cushions, lamps, and anything else they could hold onto. That only brought more debris into the tangle. Bruno saw one man pulled in by his shin and the steel medical plate that must have been inside it.

He fell backward onto his bottom and slid further toward the sunken dance floor. He grabbed a railing on the way by and hung on tightly. The railing was made out of plastic and held his weight. Bruno saw Mencia vault over the bar and sprint for the door. He was not wearing metal and was unencumbered by the magnetic field.

Bruno fumbled to undo his belt with one hand only to find it pulled backward by his college ring. He let the ring slip off and fly away, as did his belt as he released the buckle. They joined the hundreds of other small metal items whizzing into the screaming mass of people crushed against the pillars by their belts. The trapped customers were pelted by coins, key chains, lighters, and phones as they struggled to extricate themselves from the churning mass of limbs.

The lights went out. The magnets started ripping down the colored light fixtures from the ceiling, making everything go dark. Bruno was outside of the magnets’ pull, but he still felt as if he was falling. He felt sick, and he tasted metal in his saliva. Though the club had gone dark, Bruno saw flashes of light before his eyes that did not illuminate anything. He fumbled around on the floor, trying to keep from vomiting as the pressure inside his head built. He found the bar with his hands and started to crawl around it. He had to follow the outline of the bar to keep going in a straight line; the dizziness threatened to overwhelm him.

He made it behind the bar, feeling spilled liquid on the floor amid broken glass. The magnets had shifted the wiring behind the wall, making it buckle inward and spilling the liquor bottles in the display onto the floor. He scrabbled across the slick surface, trying to find the electrical panel. His fingers found the hinges of the panel’s door ripped open and the door missing. He found the override switch just as warm, heavy unconsciousness overtook him. He pressed it closed and passed out.

II

Wednesday, February 13

Thank you for seeing me on such short notice, Dr. Regan, the thirty-something woman said graciously, sitting down on the green-upholstered couch and crossing her legs. Though the office was situated in a hospital, the doctor had made the environment halfway cozy, substituting the original utilitarian furniture with more welcoming accoutrements.

Please call me Tonya, the doctor answered, sitting down in her matching armchair opposite the couch. I’m sorry that we could only fit you in at the end of the day like this, but it’s hectic around here, she continued, rubbing her left temple only partly for emphasis. It had been a long day.

I’m happy that you could see me at all. I really need your help, the woman implored, locking Tonya with an intense gaze. She had seen that kind of intensity before from patients who had experienced some kind of an episode that they were trying to make sense of. As a publicly employed psychiatrist, Tonya had seen more than her fair share of those. Reconciling an experience like that typically took sessions upon sessions of work. Tonya winced as she looked at the clock.

I can only give you about fifteen minutes, Joni. My open hours end at seven. She smiled apologetically. But you can certainly let me know what the problem is… Joni did not seem fazed by the time restriction. Perhaps Tonya had been wrong, and the issue was small enough to begin working on in fifteen minutes. Joni took a deep, steadying breath.

I’m being haunted by my husband’s ghost, she said.

So much for an easy solution. Normally, Tonya would not consider broaching an issue that significant with so little time left in the session, but Tonya saw a resemblance to herself in Joni. Both Joni and Tonya were small-framed women with blonde hair and blue eyes. Tonya was taller and more toned, while Joni was shorter with attractive curves. Tonya recognized she was experiencing the similar-to-me bias but decided to explore Joni’s problem nonetheless.

You had an experience that suggested that to you? Tonya opened. She knew that the first thing to do with Joni was to use language that allowed them both to look at the experience in an objective way.

Harold died a few days ago, Joni explained, nodding her head. "He made his money trading stocks on exchanges from our house, and sometimes he would keep really erratic hours because he wanted to be awake for the opening bells of exchanges on different continents. He would get hungry in the middle of the night, so he would make fruit shakes. I didn’t like it because the sound of the blender always woke me up. It’s one of those industrial-strength models that’ll blend anything; you know the ones you see on TV? It’s really loud.

Last night, I was sound asleep because the funeral was yesterday, and I was exhausted. Then I got woken up by the blender. I was still half asleep, and I hadn’t remembered that Harold was dead. I got up, and I went downstairs to ask him for the thousandth time not to run the blender in the middle of the night. The sound turned off while I was halfway down the stairs. I got to the kitchen, and no one was there. The blender was there on the counter, but no one was there. I stood there, swearing that I’d heard it.

Was there anyone else in the house with you? Tonya asked, jotting notes down on her notepad. Later, her notes would be interspersed with small analyses, but right now, all she could do was gather information.

Sara, my little girl, Joni said, nodding. She had been dipping her head in tiny nods all through her explanation, a telltale sign of how close to her wits’ end she was despite her sunny disposition. She’s nine. She’s never played with the blender before, but I thought that she had to have been the one who turned it on. I unplugged the blender and then went up to her room to check on her. She was fast asleep, which made me think it had been a dream since it would have woken her up too.

Tonya nodded while she took down her notes, trying to exude the right mix of understanding, validation, and competence.

I went back to my room, closed the door, and got back into bed. It was around two o’clock when I had woken up, and I laid there trying to get back to sleep until the clock said two forty-seven. Joni paused, her lower lip trembling. She had a pleading expression on her face, which told Tonya that the part that came next would be stranger.

"Then I heard the blender right outside the bedroom door. I had almost calmed down enough to sleep, and I wasn’t expecting it. I screamed and ran into the bathroom. It had only gone off for a few seconds, but I know I heard it. I was terrified. I locked the door and ran water into the sink and doused my face. I shouted at the door, ‘What’s going on? Who’s out there? I’m calling the cops,’ and a whole bunch of other stuff.

I only came out when I heard Sara’s voice outside the door. She said that my screaming had woken her up. She was scared and confused. I asked her if she had heard the blender, and she said that the only thing she had heard was my scream.

What did you do then? Tonya asked.

I took her back to her room and told her to stay put, trying not to scare her. I went around the house and turned on all the lights on the way to the kitchen. When I got there, the blender was on the counter, unplugged just as I had left it. I stayed up the rest of the night. I haven’t slept since. I’m scared. Joni laced her fingers together in a supplicating gesture and rested them on her knee. Her hands bobbed slightly as a nervous tic caused her heel to rapidly tap the floor. Tonya glanced over her notes for a moment before responding.

You heard the blender twice? Tonya asked. Joni nodded. Both times while you were in bed, once coming from the kitchen, and once coming from just outside your bedroom door? She nodded again. You say your husband’s funeral was the day before?

We buried him at one thirty, she confirmed, nodding. Her nods were starting to become indistinguishable from the nervous shaking.

I think that you need to tell me more about this tomorrow, Tonya said gently, grimacing inside at how many times she had uttered that phrase before and at how insensitive it sounded.

But what do you think? Am I being haunted? Joni asked with a desperate edge creeping into her forcedly calm tone.

I think that you’ve had a stressful few days, she extemporized, trying to deflect the question. Did your husband die unexpectedly?

Tonya noted with interest that an unmistakably dark expression crossed over Joni’s face. It disappeared quickly, replaced by a plastic smile that was crumbling at the edges from overuse and little maintenance.

I didn’t expect it at all. No one did, Joni stated adamantly.

I want to hear more about it. Book a full session with Jocelyn at my next opening, okay? Tonya got up out of the green armchair and turned toward her desk.

You have to help me! Joni implored, jumping to her feet. I don’t think I can sleep there again! Please don’t let me hear that damned thing again!

Before turning around to face Joni, Tonya put three fingers to her blouse below her throat and felt for the small pendant that hung there. She shifted her fingers until she felt the outline of a tiny horseshoe under them and rubbed it once between her thumb and forefinger.

Tonya then turned and fixed Joni with a sober look. Here’s what I want you to do, she said in a very serious tone. Is Sunday your garbage day? The other woman looked puzzled, but a nod was visible between the shakes. Tonya smiled. Mine too. Is the blender still in your house? Another nod. I want you to take your garbage out early. I know it’s only Wednesday, but I want you to take the garbage that you have already and put it out by your curb. Then put the blender out with it.

Tonya could see that Joni was about to protest. She cut her off. You need to get rid of it. Don’t take it out into the next county and bury it in a hole. Just put it out with your garbage. That’s all the energy I want you to spend on it. Either the garbage truck will take it away on Sunday, or someone will come by and take it off your hands earlier. You should go on with your life, take care of your daughter, and come see me tomorrow. She ended with a note of brusque finality.

Joni seemed cautiously encouraged. She smiled and thanked Tonya as she picked up her purse—a lovely understated Gucci handbag made of fine canvas—and left out the inner office’s front door while Tonya sat down at her desk to make a folder for Joni.

Tonya knew that the blender being out of the house would not stop Joni from hallucinating sounds. However, if Joni went through the ritual act of throwing it out with the rest of the garbage, her mind might dissociate the appliance from her domestic sphere and cease making it the object of her episode or even stop the episode completely. She was concerned about how Joni’s behavior might affect the daughter, but she needed more understanding of Joni’s mindset, not to mention a medical history, before she could recommend any long-term solutions.

She barely had finished writing Joni’s name on the folder when the clock struck seven, signaling the end of her practice hours and the beginning of the time she had allocated to the police consulting contract she had signed not three days ago. She had dealt with the Orlando Police Department for years but always on the officers’ side, providing support and treatment for the department’s staff ranging from posttraumatic therapy to spousal and family issues. Only recently had she received an offer from the chief of police’s office, asking for her to consult on the psychology of suspects. She had tentatively agreed, inquiring politely about the reason for the new appointment. The chief’s secretary had simply said that work was suddenly appearing faster than their current complement of experts could handle it. A box of neatly packed files had been summarily dropped off at her office yesterday, and this was the first chance she had had to look through them.

She opened the box and took out the first case. It was a description of a man named Alfred Lennox, who was an art dealer by profession. Two nights ago, the man had thrown a party for all his artist clients at his home on South Magnolia Avenue, announcing that he had come up with a brilliant business plan that would increase the selling prices of their artwork many times. Once the dozen intrigued and grateful artists were in attendance, Lennox had proposed a toast to success, producing glasses of champagne for all. After the toast, the assembled artists barely had time to comment on the drink’s peculiar bitterness before they all dropped to the floor in ghastly convulsions that left none alive. Lennox was caught the next day after he had bungled an ill-thought-out plan to dispose of the bodies. The police had swept his house and found the champagne bottle in the recycling bin. The lab reported that an obscene amount of strychnine had been mixed with the liquid.

The reason that Lennox’s file had been forwarded to Tonya for analysis and evaluation was the justification that he had given for his deed when questioned by the police. He had explained calmly and reasonably that an artist’s work appreciates in value many times after his or her death. He had happily described it as the most profitable action he had ever undertaken.

Normally, Tonya would have written a very brief and simple analysis on this case, reporting that Lennox exhibited all the signs of being a textbook psychopath. There was one element, however, that did not fit with the pathology. When Lennox had been asked to state his name for the record during his interview, he had denied that his name was Alfred Lennox. He had insisted that his name was Lennox Fine Art Incorporated, which was the name of the corporation he owned and sold his clients’ art through. Psychopaths distorted morality in their minds, making their own satisfaction the only priority. While this was a major and dangerous mental disorder, psychopaths were usually able to function well in basic daily tasks and seldom experienced delusions about concrete facts. This suggested that Lennox suffered from a more complex pathology.

Tonya stared at the intake mug shot and profile of Lennox, who was a middle-aged man with fair skin and a widow’s peak. On the surface, he did not seem capable of much skulduggery.

The phone on her desk rang as Tonya was still staring at the mild-looking murderer’s photo. It was Jocelyn, her secretary.

Tonya, you’re being paged to ob 3, Jocelyn said with familiar directness. Orlando PD requested a consult on a prisoner. You’re the on-call right now.

Thanks, Joss, Tonya replied, hanging up the phone. She saw that it was only 7:06 on the clock. She had been on official duty for six minutes, and the police had already brought in a potential mental patient. The chief’s secretary had not been misrepresenting their situation.

Tonya gathered up her notebook and her glasses, took her plastic-sheathed badge on its retractable cord, and clipped it to the belt of her skirt. She exited her office into the waiting suite where Jocelyn’s desk faced the door. She gave her friend and coworker a questioning look, indicating her clothes and hair. Jocelyn flashed back the okay hand sign, opining that Tonya looked very professional for her first encounter with the on-duty officers.

The observation rooms were a short walk through the Florida Hospital Orlando from Tonya’s office. Little more than padded cells with removable tables and chairs, the term observation room was a euphemism for a holding tank for suspected psychotics while their sanity was being determined. Each one had two doors: the door to the padded room itself and the professionals’ entrance to the adjacent workroom where the patient could be studied through a barrier of glass.

Entering the ob 3 workroom, she saw a plainclothes officer with dark hair that looked hurriedly styled back from an upset state. His clothes fit his tall and athletic frame so well that Tonya was sure they were tailored. He was attractive, with engaging brown eyes and a jaw that was defined without being exaggerated.

Hi, Tonya said to him in a reserved yet friendly tone. I’m Dr. Tonya Regan. She extended her hand.

Detective Bruno Polidori, Orlando PD, the officer replied, shaking her hand gently. Thanks for coming. Procedure says we have to log a deranged suspect’s behavior with a member of the psychiatric staff to have complete disclosure on their file. His voice was not as low as she had expected but still pleasantly masculine.

You say that as though you take issue with the process, Tonya commented, falling back into an analytic mode of conversation almost automatically.

This guy is malicious, Bruno said with disgust, indicating the window to the observation room. His thoughts are organized and clear. I think it’s a waste of time.

There was a single chair in the observation room where a tanned man sat under the watch of a broad officer with clenched fists. The man was