Sleepwalker Read online

Had the cops taken it? Possible, but Richard hadn’t noticed either of them near the refrigerator, much less one kneel down and covertly pocket the eight-inch piece. And if so, then why would they choose that particular knife? After all, the kitchen floor had been littered with them. It would have been much easier taking any one of the others if they felt the certain need to obtain--however wrongfully--some evidence. The only justification he could imagine was that the steak knife had been the biggest of all the knives. That it had been somewhat, well, hidden. A bit of a red flag for the inquisitive eye.

  Again he looked to the floor, found nothing new. He looked up at the refrigerator door. Held by magnets on the shiny appliance was a small white plastic writing tablet he used for jotting down items of importance. It had shifted slightly in the fray, and as Richard straightened it out he read the three lines making up the short list he scribbled yesterday using the blue magic marker clipped to the top:

  1) Visit Mom’s grave

  2) Call Samantha

  3) Dr Delaney, Thurs 1:00

  A tiny wave of panic sent a tingling sensation up and down his spine. The first two items could be put off for any other day. But Dr Delaney? He couldn’t miss that! Monday’s visit with the psychiatrist had shown brief snippets of success, and he looked forward to his next trip downtown with hope of shedding more light on his anxieties, his sleepwalking, his dreams. According to Dr Delaney, Richard had finally started showing progress, had begun coming to terms with the loss of Debra. And although the doctor didn’t yet see much improvement with Richard’s sleepwalking, he still wanted Richard to come in for a second visit this week, in an effort, as he explained, to ‘maintain the momentum of our success’. That coming to terms over the loss of his daughter may in fact trigger a healing of all additional woes.

  The appointment was for today, Thursday, 1:00. He looked at the kitchen clock. It was 12:45. Time to hit the road.

  I’d appreciate if you could make yourself available for most of the day, in case we need to speak with you again, Moldofsky had said.

  Was it a crime if he didn’t? Richard leaned on the counter, the magnitude of this morning’s events starting to hit him as a single enigma, an intimidating ordeal that would not be a cinch to deal with. It would encompass him, drive him back down into the weak individual that had been succumbing to his dreams for as long as he could remember. When he looked at the morning’s troublesome events this way, it seemed as if they’d been part of another frightening dream, its characters not unlike the people, both new and familiar, friendly and violent, that had visited him so many times during the night time and time again. The only discernible difference was the vista that was his home--slightly more tangible than the lasting environments of his dreamscapes.

  So what if he went out today? The cop Moldofsky hadn’t demanded he stay home, he simply said he would like it if Richard made himself available. Richard’s therapy, now that Pamela seemed to be history, would be his only means as an outlet for his frustrations. It had suddenly become all too important, regardless if the sessions had seemed so futile up until recently. They were the only true constant in his life. He had to go, no question. If the police found a need to speak with him, then they would have to wait until later. Besides, they might not even call.

  Richard had a strange feeling they would.

  Bus

  Richard dressed in a pair of jeans and a blue cotton golf shirt, then left through the front door, scooting from the condo with the apprehensiveness of a thief lamming the scene of burglary. He was certain some nosy neighbors--perhaps the ones that called the police--would be waiting impatiently behind the windows of their homes for him to emerge; he didn’t want to give them much to look at.

  The sky was cloudless, a bright burning sun igniting the manicured landscape with golden beams, magnifying the natural tones of the outdoors. The green grass glimmered, the perfectly paved asphalt roads swelling like charcoal veins, the retirees and mothers and children pacing lazily about, three generations of lifelines coursing through the calm environment, bringing vitality to their little world. As it turned out, nobody seemed to notice him, or care. They could very well have been ignoring him, the story of this morning’s disquieting event no doubt traveling fast and causing alarm and trepidation amongst the residents, but it didn’t seem that way. Indeed, on this beautiful day where spirits were high and dispositions mellow, no one even offered a casual glance or hello to Richard.

  Don’t be fooled, Richard. Your neighbors, they all know about you. The rumors are spreading.

  “They could just be going about their business,” he answered out loud. “They might not even know I’m here.”

  Two young mothers approached, walking in the opposite direction along the curb. One had an infant in a stroller, the other a three year-old in hand. The little girl, curly blonde hair and milky skin, looked up at Richard as he muttered to himself. The girl tugged on her mother’s arm, interrupting a conversation on dessert recipes. “Mommy, that man over there is talking to himself!”

  Both mothers glanced at Richard, one having a harder time hiding her apprehension than the other. The mother pulled her daughter close, smiled, mouthed I’m sorry, then picked up the pace and continued on their path away from Richard.

  Hope you got all that blood off your hands, Richard.

  Always one to listen to his conscience, he looked down at his hands. They looked clean. It was all gone.

  Are you sure it’s all gone?

  He turned left at a condo with a yellow Volkswagen parked in the driveway, an elderly man out front tending to a small garden below the dwelling’s front window. Walking past, Richard wondered if the cops were still around (perhaps that gardener is a cop in disguise, no?), watching him from some inconspicuous location, taking notes and researching deeper into his checkered past. Briskly he continued along the short curving roads of the complex, darting his sights back and forth in paranoid skirts, looking for any vehicle moving slowly after him, for middle-aged men lazing about with no direction in mind other than to keep their curious eyes him. But all he saw were the early afternoon activities of the residents enjoying a nice sunny day.

  Finally he approached the guard station. A repair crew of two grease-stained men were putting in a new gate. The ‘quite a bit of damage’ Moldofsky referred to as a result of Pamela’s reckless escape had already been cleared, the new gate looking less than twenty minutes from being completely installed. The guard, a stocky middle-aged man with brown-framed glasses, stood away from his post in an authoritative hands-on-hips posture, supervising the situation. He gave Richard a bitter yet hesitant gaze, pulling it away as soon as Richard locked eyes with him. Apparently the guard had been enlightened about ‘Mr Sparke’s’ girlfriend causing all this unnecessary damage.

  Ignoring the guard and the rest of the scene, Richard stepped up onto the curb and exited the complex. He paced down Alister Avenue to the corner of Caulfield, where he sat on the curb and waited for the bus to take him downtown. Every half hour, a local Fairview Area Transport came by to ferry passengers from the neighborhoods into the village.

  1:00 approached, and so did the bus. He turned quickly to take one last view of the rather mundane action at the security post. Mr hands-on-hips had stepped out into the street and was staring at Richard from a safe distance. The bus pulled to a hissing stop, the doors opening to admit Richard. He boarded, seated himself, then cupped his hands against the window and looked outside. The guard was still staring.

  Only now he was speaking into a walkie-talkie.

  As the bus pulled away, a familiar-looking gray sedan pulled out of the complex entrance, blocking Richard’s view of the guard. Two figures were in the front seat. Richard twisted his body and watched as the car reached the corner of Alister and Caulfield, then turned left, heading in the opposite direction of the bus.

  Peeking back down Alister, he saw that the guard had vanished.

  You’re just being paranoid. Relax.

  “Vo
ice of reason…right.”

  This little outburst earned him the gaze of a female passenger.

  Richard settled back in his seat, a total of four other riders mindfully going about their business with no worries in the world, it seemed.

  He blew out a slow deep breath. Delaney will have a field day with today’s events. Wonder what words of wisdom he’ll come up with next?

  Moldofsky

  Forty-seven year-old Leonard Moldofsky had never once questioned his decision to become a cop. His life’s career had provided a fairly smooth ride in Fairview where the biggest problems were petty crimes, teenagers scribbling graffiti on the high school’s walls, or random domestic disputes that either climaxed to a point of violence or ended up as a family counseling session that Moldofsky himself had to bequeath. Twenty-three years on the force. One murder, a fair share of bar fights (and of course those spousal brawls, sometimes ending up more bloody and violent than your average tavern dispute, thank you Mr Sparke for contributing), and countless fender-benders. Speeding tickets, parking tickets, parentless teenage get-togethers that got too loud and too messy, forcing the neighbors to summon the strong arm of Fairview’s law to cool the adolescent engines. Hundreds of common incidences--all adding up to quite a career in law enforcement for Len Moldofsky, earning him a lengthy resume perhaps not so rich in color but nonetheless rewarding and satisfying to a man who simply had to provide for his wife and teenage son.

  “Turn left here,” Kevin Hughes said, pointing. “It’s quicker.”

  Moldofsky shuddered. Kid means well, but you think he’d realize that I already know how to get downtown after living my entire life in this not-so-grand town. Moldofsky took a left on Indian Head Road, the unmarked sedan hugging the road like a lover.

  Hughes scratched his upper lip. “So...you believe him?”

  Fact was Leonard really didn’t know what to make of Richard Sparke. He seemed a bit too approachable, likable. A kindly cooperative man who didn’t seem all that capable of committing the rather violent crime he’d been accused of two years ago. He was soft spoken, and even today, while angered, his demeanor leaned towards an uninhibited attempt to create peace instead of war. The question remained: was he telling the God’s honest truth about what happened with Pamela Bergin inside his condo this morning?

  Leonard was more than confident that Sparke had left out some finer details.

  Which led to another interesting tidbit. It wasn’t entirely impossible, but Leonard found it strange that Sparke hadn’t--or at least didn’t appear to remember--that it was he, Leonard Moldofsky, who had worked the domestic violence report Samantha Sparke filed two years ago.

  Moldofsky had recorded detailed conversations with both the Sparkes following the event, and even though Richard’s story had remained coolly consistent, Leonard’s instincts, even back then, had told him that Richard wasn’t telling him everything there was to know.

  So what Leonard had now were two reported incidences of violence, spread apart in time, the particulars lost beneath a thin layer of mystery, each running deeper than just the indisputable blood on the perpetrator’s hands.

  Leonard had always told himself that any hunch, however remote, was worth looking into, especially when there wasn’t much else going on. Clearly Richard Sparke had a private little something up his sleeve, and the intuitive detective in Leonard Moldofsky wanted to find out exactly what it was.

  Leonard blew out a deep breath. “I’m not sure what to believe, other than I feel we’re not getting the whole story.”

  “Well…I think I’m a pretty good read on people,” Hughes said. He sneezed at the end of his self-rewarding remark.

  Typical cop self-praise, Leonard thought. I know it well.

  Hughes opened the glove compartment, removed a tissue and wiped his nose. “Did you happen to notice if Sparke had a cat?”

  “No, didn’t notice.”

  Hughes sneezed again. “Ugh…I think I’m having an allergic reaction. I get this way around cats.” He blasted another, then blew his nose.

  “He could have had one, I suppose.”

  “Yeah. But if he did, then I would’ve started sneezing as soon as we got there.”

  Leonard laughed, made a left turn. “Don’t know what to tell you, kiddo. What difference does it make?”

  Hughes brushed what looked like a few strands of cat hair on his lap. “Damn, well someone has a cat.”

  “Maybe his girl has one, and left some dander behind?”

  Hughes nodded. “Maybe.”

  Moldofsky stopped at a red light. “So you were saying, about Sparke?”

  “Yeah...what I was saying is that my gut tells me he’s telling the truth.”

  Moldofsky nodded. “It did seem that way, didn’t it? But let’s not forget everything we know about him: two probable acts of violence...both against women he’s had relationships with. First his wife, and now his girlfriend. You know I...” He paused, suddenly uncomfortable with the conversation, yet feeling a need to get it off his shoulders.

  “What?”

  “The first incident two years ago, the one I told you about on the way to his place? I worked it.”

  “Really? The case with his wife?”

  He nodded. “Not a case. Just a report, as the charges were eventually dropped.” He paused, then said, “A real number was done on her. She was damn near paralyzed from her injuries.”

  Kevin Hughes looked at Leonard, grin thin and suddenly wet. “Len, you think this might all be about…rough sex?”

  The idea had crossed Moldofsky’s mind back when questioning Richard following Samantha’s charges, but it’d ended up as an improbable consideration --an unlikely scenario. For one, Richard had called the paramedics himself, and then the police. In most cases of spousal abuse, the aggressive husband would never turn himself in, much less show the genuine compassion he displayed following the episode. As well, there’d been too much blood present for it to be simple case of roughing it between the sheets. You didn’t ascend to this level unless you were into the ultra-kinky stuff: razors, whips, chains, and there’d been no evidence of such devices. It had become all too clear: Samantha’s broken bones and lacerations had showed full intent to harm.

  Over the years Leonard had encountered a few situations where the victimized woman had stepped forward to press charges against the husband or boyfriend for assault stemming from consensually rough sex. The results of their injuries amounted to mere bruising at the neck and chest along with a scattering of tell-tale scratches acquired in an attempt to end the session (Leonard could never understand the mystique of harmonizing orgasm with partial asphyxiation and pain). So, Moldofsky had become convinced that there hadn’t been consensual rough sex going on behind Richard Sparke’s closed doors, as there would not have been ample amounts of blood, and broken bones.

  The facts were apparent: the man had beat Samantha senseless, and had probably tried the same with Pam.

  “With both situations, it could’ve started out as sex,” Leonard answered, exploring all possibilities. “But then he might’ve sprung the aggressive part on them during lovemaking, catching them by surprise. The women might’ve freaked out and responded in self-defense, fending off his overly heated advances, and in turn totally pissed him off, making him even more rambunctious. I’d imagine things would get real ugly at that point, you know? His adrenaline surges, and he loses all rational thought, like an animal fending off a kill from hungry opponents.”

  Kevin rubbed his chin. Leonard made a left onto Foster Avenue, heading towards downtown Fairview. “So you think he’s really into beating his women for pleasure? He doesn’t strike me as the type, Len. No offense. Too wishy-washy.”

  Moldofsky shook his head. “Don’t let appearances fool you.” He turned right onto New Street. Parked cars packed the curbs, shoppers taking the sidewalks and store entrances with enthusiastic strides. Ahead Main Street was alive with its usual throng of daily activity. “But if I had to guess,
I’d say he’s no whacko sex offender. I can’t remember him having any scratches on him after the incident with his wife.”

  “He had a nasty welt on his lip today.”

  “Yeah, no doubt he took a punch. But the blood was in the kitchen.”

  “Hmm…we didn’t check the bedroom.”

  “I peeked into the hallway. There was no trail of blood. Whatever happened occurred right there in the kitchen.” He paused, then added, “I think there’s more to this story than meets the eye, Kev. And I want to find out what it is.” Leonard turned left onto Main and pulled the sedan into a vacant spot behind a Toyota SUV. “Lucky. A perfect spot.”

  Hughes raised an inquisitive brow. “I thought we were gonna check out the hospital.”

  “Now why would I park here when the hospital is a mile away?”

  Kevin shifted in his seat, undid his seat belt. “Lunch?”

  “A good cop eats with his eyes, not with his stomach.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “Look.” Leonard pointed. Kevin followed his cue. The Main Street bus pulled up next to a row of buildings, depositing three passengers. One of them was Richard Sparke. He paced the length of three storefronts, hesitated as he read a sign on a slate-colored professional facility, then went inside through a pair of glass doors.

  “Well, I’ll be a son of a gun. Didn’t you tell him to stay home where we could reach him?” Hughes’s sarcasm was obvious, the grin on his face wide.

  “Told you he wouldn’t--that’s why I had the guard cue us when he left. I just wanted to make sure he got on the Main Street bus before we came down here.”

  “All right, fess up. What clued you in?” Smiling, the young cop was clearly impressed with his senior’s intuition.

  “He had one of those little magic marker note pads on the fridge. Said ‘Dr Delaney, Thursday, 1:00’. That’s today. He wasn’t going to miss his appointment. Guarantee you that.” Moldofsky’s eyes were glued to the inactive doorway of the slate facility. “He’s been seeing Delaney--a shrink by the way--for a long time. Started right after the incident with his wife--mentioned it to me during an interview with him. He was having a lot of anxiety related B.S. that kept him from a good night’s sleep.”