The Doomsday Girl Page 17

  “Why?” I asked.

  “Look,” she said, pointing at the man’s profile. “His face—it’s older and thinner than Jeff’s, but the nose and the chin. If Jeff was twenty years older, twenty pounds lighter, and bald, with a suntan, this is what he would look like.”

  I looked over her shoulder and watched her fingers trace the image on my screen. The only pictures I’d seen of Jeff Jordan were postmortem shots shown to me by the Cedar City detective. None that I remembered showed a clear view of his profile.

  “Do either of you have any pictures of Jeff we could use to compare?”

  “Possibly, back at home,” Walter said.

  “I do,” Melanie said. She handed me my computer and pulled a cellphone from her purse. “Just got it yesterday. All my files were backed up on the cloud, so I didn’t lose a thing.”

  “Your old phone is gone?” I said, feeling stupid as it occurred to me I’d never seen Melanie with a phone in her hands.

  “I never saw it again after I was knocked out.”

  While Melanie looked through her photo gallery, I considered the likelihood the intruders had taken Melanie’s phone. Since I’d searched the house and found only Jeff’s phone, it was a reasonable assumption that Melanie’s had been stolen. But what value would it be to the intruders, if any?

  “Give me your number,” I said.

  “Okay,” she said, then she held up her phone. “Here’s a good one.”

  I looked at a photo of a smiling Jeff Jordan. He held an electric drill in one hand and in the background I recognized their land in Cedar City. It was only a partial profile, and his face was a little too small to see clearly.

  “Here,” Melanie, expanding the image with her fingers. “Hold it next to your picture and tell me you don’t see the resemblance.”

  I did as she said, noting the shapes of their heads, the jawlines, the eyes, the ears. There was some similarity, but not enough to indicate the two were blood relatives. I handed her phone back.

  “You don’t see it?”

  I shook my head. “Not really.”

  She scanned through more pictures in her gallery, then said, “Here we go. Look at this one.”

  She had expanded the image to show only Jeff’s face. It was a clean, unsmiling profile. I compared it to the image on my computer, and this time there was no doubt.

  “Jeff’s older brother?” I said.

  “No, I’ve met him and he looks different.”

  “Who, then?”

  She shrugged. “His father?”

  ******

  We walked out of the hospital and I watched them get into Walter’s car, then I went back inside and returned to the second floor reception desk.

  “I was just speaking with the neurologist here,” I said to the attendant. “I’d like to make an appointment with the psychiatrist he works with.”

  “That would be Doctor Marques. You’ll need to contact him directly.” She handed me a business card.

  “Is he here, at the hospital?”

  “Not today. He usually sees patients at his office, over on Sahara.”

  I looked at the address on the card. “Thanks,” I said, and went to my truck and got on the freeway. The temperature had risen to nearly seventy, but the dry air felt brittle, as if it might shatter and be invaded by harsh cold at any moment.

  Ten minutes later I parked at an office complex and found the suite for Doctor Felix Marques. I went into the carpeted lobby and asked the woman at the desk if the doctor was available.

  “He’s with a patient now. Would you like to make an appointment?”

  “Actually, I’d like to speak with him about a murder case involving one of his patients.” I handed her my card.

  She looked up at me, a cynical smile beginning on her face, as if she’d heard everything and wasn’t impressed by my request. But then she said, “Take a seat if you like. He’ll be done in fifteen minutes. I’ll let him know you’re here.”

  The décor in the lobby looked like it was designed to soothe patients with frazzled nerves. It was done in earth tones, from the green carpet to the tan walls and the painted landscapes on the walls. The couch and four chairs in the room were matching pieces with orange cushions. After a minute, I noticed the sound of waves and birds chirping, coming from invisible speakers and set at a volume so low it was almost indiscernible.

  As I waited, I wondered if the shrink would grant me an audience, or if I was just wasting time. All casework involved this type of fundamental challenge; deciding who was worth talking to, and what actions would deliver results. If I made the right choices, I could conclude cases in a timely manner and provide good value to my clients. That would enhance my reputation and result in more business. Conversely, billing clients for unproductive hours would ultimately hurt my ability to make a living. This was not a subject I took lightly, because Candi had mentioned having kids, and in the back of my mind I had no doubt the conversation would be recurring. I also knew that parenthood meant she would stop working, at least temporarily, and I’d need to work more consistently.

  I closed my eyes and reminded myself that my job requires the ability to wait with a purpose. Lack of patience is a trait that separates amateur investigators from pros. But patience is only a virtue if the waiting is worthwhile. And I was beginning to question my reasons for being here. There were many other things I could be doing.

  I pushed my doubts aside, opened my computer, and reviewed my case notes, trying to immerse myself in the two separate investigative lines I was following; first, the who and why of Jeff’s meeting at the Port of Los Angeles, and second, my effort to find Mia. Hopefully, these paths would soon intersect. If not, I’d need to quickly recalibrate.

  The door at the far side of the room opened and a woman who looked anorexic beneath her long overcoat came out and walked past me to the exit. The receptionist went through the door and closed it behind her.

  “Mr. Reno?” she said a minute later, holding the door open. “Doctor Marques will see you now. He has fifteen minutes until his next appointment.”

  I went in and stood before an oversized antique desk with scrolled, ornate woodwork, but the man behind it seemed all wrong. Perhaps I subconsciously expected a Sigmund Freud lookalike, or maybe a heavyset, scholarly type, but Doctor Felix Marques was no older than me, and looked younger, mainly due to facial skin that was so smooth I doubted it had ever been touched by a razor. His complexion was quite fair, almost milky white, in stark contrast to his jet black hair, which was long and combed back. He wore a blue knit sweater with yellow stripes across the chest.

  On the wall behind the desk hung a number of diplomas. Among them I noticed not one, but three PhDs: psychology, psychiatry, and sociology.

  “That’s one hell of a desk you got there,” I said, smiling.

  He stood and offered his hand. “It’s been in my family for three centuries. What can I do for you, Mr. Reno?”

  I blinked. He had pronounced my name correctly. But I was more curious about his credentials. “Three PhDs?” I asked.

  “Yes. I began college in Spain, at twelve years old. Please, take a seat.”

  I sat across from him. “I’ve studied criminology as well,” he said, “so my natural curiosity couldn’t resist when I saw your card. What is it you’d like to discuss?”

  “Your patient, Melanie Jordan, and the crime committed against her and her family.”

  “Ah. She has told me of it, but those details are bound by doctor-patient confidentiality.”

  “Let me ask this in a very general way, then, Doctor Marques. Is there anything she said suggesting she might have any idea who killed her husband?”

  He shook his head. “She’s said nothing of the sort. That much I can assure you.”

  “How about regarding her missing daughter? Any insights she’s shared that might help me find her?”

  “She’s obviously distressed by the disappearance of her daughter, as any parent would be. But she has sa
id nothing to indicate any particular suspicions.”

  I leaned forward and noticed his fingernails looked professionally manicured. “If she’s said anything you think might help bring her husband’s murderer to justice, would you reveal it?”

  “Certainly, with her permission. But I think she’s fully cooperating with you, isn’t she?”

  “As far as I know.”

  “She says she trusts you.”

  I paused and leaned back. The doctor seemed willing to cooperate, and didn’t seem at all full of himself, despite his academic achievements and obvious intellect. He also had a certain androgynous quality that was a distraction, although I didn’t think he was gay. But it did make him hard to read.

  “Let me share with you something that happened at her house in Cedar City, doc,” I said. “I was staying in her guest room, and in the middle of the night she comes in, her face all done up, stark naked except for high heels, and tries to jump in bed with me. While doing this, she referred to herself as Sasha. I fought her off, and the next morning she was back to being Melanie, with no recollection of what happened.”

  The doctor stared at me, his quick brown eyes scrutinizing. “This really happened?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Fascinating. It could be a sign of trauma-induced multiple personality disorder.”

  “I’ve never heard of such a thing.”

  “It’s rare, or more accurately, theoretical. The precursor to MPD would need to exist prior to the injury, from childhood experience. The question is, how does a brain trauma interact with latent MPD? This is a largely unstudied topic.”

  “So, Melanie likely had MPD brewing before she was struck?”

  “Almost certainly. Brain trauma can cause many problems, but there is no known case of it being a sole cause of multiple personality.”

  “It sounds like you’re suggesting she must have had some horrible sexual experience as a child.”

  “Given the emergence of Sasha, yes. But horrible is a subjective term. What’s important is she perceived something so negatively that she couldn’t consciously accept it. So she suppressed it deep in her subconscious. This is the dynamic that results in the manifestation of a secondary personality.”

  When I didn’t respond, he said, “I’m sorry if this isn’t the feedback you’re looking for.”

  I took a deep breath in an effort relieve a knot of unease that had taken hold in my gut. I exhaled slowly and decided to change the subject.

  “Here’s another angle,” I said. “Melanie’s husband believed in conspiracy theories, and thought a secret society of powerful people were plotting to bring about anarchy, and then take control of the world. He thought the economy would collapse, the dollar would become valueless, and the masses would fight for food and energy. He felt so sure of this he was storing enough food to last for years, and had built a home powered by natural energy. His goal was to be totally self-reliant.”

  “A doomsday prepper,” Marques said.

  “Right. But I don’t think Melanie really bought into it. I’m thinking, maybe the stress of being forced into an alternative lifestyle might play into her mental issues.”

  Marques shook his head in disagreement. “As I said, the genesis of MPD is always from childhood. While Melanie may have felt stress about her living situation, that alone is not a significant causal factor. More likely, the death of her husband, along with the disappearance of her daughter, would have preempted the incidence of a secondary personality. But again, the root cause must be traced further back, to traumatic events in her younger years.”

  “Are you aware of any of these events?”

  “No, but Melanie has not come to me for psychoanalysis.”

  “Well,” I said after a moment, suddenly regretting my visit. I began to push myself out of the chair, then stopped.

  “Just out of curiosity,” I said, “these doomsday preppers and their conspiracy theories. What do you think about it?”

  The doctor looked at his watch and clasped his hands. “Before the Internet, the common man relied on mainstream media for the information that forms our values and cultural norms. While network news stations, newspapers, and print magazines are not wholly unbiased, for the most part they adhere to traditional journalistic standards. That means these media make an effort to draw a clear line between factual reporting and editorial content.”

  “That doesn’t apply much to the Internet, does it?”

  “No, Mr. Reno, it does not. The Internet is an unfiltered forum for information of every conceivable sort. In many ways, it’s wonderfully beneficial to society. But there is another side to the coin. There are those who use it for nefarious purposes; a blatant example is the recruiting of terrorists by ISIS. But perhaps just as harmful are sites that peddle fake news, which guides the unsuspecting populace away from truth and reality.”

  “I’m not sure how all this applies to conspiracy theories.”

  “Please forgive my prolixity, I’ll do my best to be succinct. There are a plethora of sites that seek to convince us of notions commonly called conspiracy theories. These sites often present their claims as irrefutable and disbelievers are characterized as sheep or lemmings. They insist that the data upon which they base their assertions is factual, but what they usually do is take a small collection of facts, and then add a gross amount of supposition in an effort to make the facts fit their preconceived narrative. The conclusion reached by all conspiracy theories is the same: a clandestine group of ultra-rich businesspeople, politicians, and intellectuals is conspiring to tear down society, and then rebuild it in their own vision, and under their full control.”

  “What kind of people buy into this stuff?”

  “There are a few different profiles, but in every case the ego is at play. Take ex-cons, for instance. They may be unhappy with their lot in life, and thus adopt a mindset that says, “Well, my life’s bad, but we’ll all be doomed soon enough, so no one is really better off than me.” This is the ego’s way of combatting feelings of inadequacy. Next, consider the man who has failed in his career. He may buy into conspiracies, based on a general distrust of those in power, as he feels they are responsible for his failings. Again, the ego is being appeased, this time by claiming higher understanding, as in, “I’ve been victimized by evil forces, but I know what they’re up to.” And sometimes, even relatively successful and prosperous people become doomsday preppers. They do so not only because their life experiences have taught them to distrust others, but also because they are instinctively distrustful, or even paranoid. In this case, embracing the conspiracy narrative elevates the individual’s sense of security, and also superiority and rightness, which is a drug the ego can never resist.”

  “Kind of bizarre, huh?”

  “Not really, when you consider the human psyche. I should also add that education level is a factor. Those who have a college degree tend to be more trusting of institutionalized power, as they’ve been successful within the system. So they gravitate away from conspiracy theories. Likewise, those without the advantage of higher education are more prone to distrust our institutions, since they’ve not benefitted from the system. These people also at some level need to validate their intelligence and worthiness. Subscribing to conspiracies allows them to feel they have inside information that only a privileged few are savvy enough to understand.”

  The door opened, and the receptionist said, “Doctor, your four-thirty is here.”

  “Thanks again,” I said, standing.

  “My pleasure,” he replied. “I feel sorry for Melanie, and I like her.”

  “So do I.”

  “I hope in some small way our conversation will help you with your case.”

  “Hard to say,” I said.

  ******

  My phone rang just as I reached my truck.

  “Hey, Cody,” I said, leaning against the fender.

  “Abbey ran the plates. She wants to discuss it with you.”

  “Why?�
�

  “Because the owners are soulless douche bags someone should have made into fertilizer a long time ago.”

  “Sounds promising. Are you at the Plaza?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’ll be there in ten minutes or so.”

  We hung up, and I stood at my bumper and looked at where the sun was sitting low on a distant ridge. The doctor’s lecture on the psychology of doomsday preppers hadn’t been particularly helpful, but his comments about Melanie gave me reason for pause.

  Might it be possible that whatever occurred in Melanie’s childhood somehow played into the crime against her and her family? It seemed like a stretch, and I told myself it was an unlikely notion, and to resist the temptation to call the McDermotts. But my job required turning over every stone, and not doing so would be a sign of laziness, or worse, incompetence. So, despite my reservations, I tapped their number into my cell. I was hoping Walter would pick up. No such luck.

  “Yes?” Lillian said.

  “It’s Dan Reno, Mrs. McDermott.”

  “Yes, I know. What is it?”

  I hesitated, then said, “There’s no easy way to ask this, so…”

  “Get to the point, please.”

  “I have reason to believe Melanie suffered some sort of sexual trauma as a child. That could mean any number of things.”

  “What are you suggesting?”

  “She may have witnessed a rape, or simply saw someone close to her having sex. Or maybe it was something worse.”

  “Why on god’s green earth would you think that has any relevance to what I’ve hired you to do?”

  “I like to know what I’m dealing with.”

  When Lillian replied, her uppity diction was replaced by a hard, southern twang that shocked me. “Melanie’s childhood has nothin’ to do with your case, you nosey son of a bitch. So quit wasting my fuckin’ time and pull your nose out of your ass and find my granddaughter. I hope that’s plain enough for you.”

  The line went dead before I could reply. I stared at my phone and said, “Lady, what’s your problem?”

  But maybe I should have asked myself the same question, because she was probably right; I was almost certainly off on an irrelevant tangent. By calling her, I’d admitted as much, and had foolishly walked into a stiff backhand.