Authors: J. A. Faura
“He is incredible in cross-examination, made a senior vice detective look like a bumbling rookie patrolman and did it with style. He looks like the wise old man, like he’s seen everything and knows best. I swear he looks like a sage grandfather imparting wisdom.”
Max narrowed his eyes as he searched his memory.
All of a sudden his eyes widened, “You mean Big Ray? I know him, know him well, actually. His last name is Gretche? I didn’t know. I’ve just known him as Big Ray for as long as I can remember. He’s older than his mid-50s, though, quite a bit older, actually. He’d already tried a number of high-profile murder cases by the time I started practicing law. You’re right, he is perfect. Alright, do you want to contact him or do you want me to do it?”
Drew thought for a couple of seconds, “Why don’t you let me contact him. With everything being covered in the media, he might think it really is a stunt. If I contact him, he’ll know we’re on the up and up.”
Max nodded, back to his perpetual-motion, good-natured self. The weight was off his shoulders, “Fair enough. If you need a hand with it or if you want me to go with you, let me know.”
He turned and left leaving Drew almost talking to himself, “I’ll do that.”
Steven had gotten into the building before seven that morning and as he had thought, there weren’t more than a few news trucks outside, no reporters and a handful of photographers hanging out around the building. He knew that would change before too long. He was still amazed that there was that much media interest a week after the story had come out in the paper. He was starting to realize that it was not likely that the media attention would die out. If anything, it was beginning to sink in that this was just the beginning, that it would only get more intense from here.
He was going over some of the deals he had put together that were now being handled by his VPs. It vexed him to not be able to finish what he’d started. He had seen every single deal to its conclusion since he had come onboard at GIC. Part of the price he had to pay.
Stephanie got in about 30 minutes after he had gotten there. After giving him a hug and a once-over, she had gotten him a cup of coffee just the way he liked it and left him alone to continue his work. She knew him better than almost anyone else and knew that what he wanted more than anything was for things to be normal again, so she had known to just let him do his thing, the way she had done many times before.
At eight in the morning she went into his office to let him know that his appointment had just arrived, “Steven, Dr. Barlow is here.”
He looked up from his desk, “Please show him in, Steph.” He closed the files on his desk and stood up to greet his guest. Dr. Nigel Barlow looked like the stereotype of an academic. He was in his 50s, about six feet tall, thin and athletic, Steven thought. It looked like he kept himself in pretty good shape. He was impeccably dressed in a three-piece suit with a nicely matching, small bow tie. He was almost completely bald, with only a neatly cut band of gray hair surrounding his head. He wore round, stylish glasses and had an air about him of someone who was in a moderate state of anxiety. Steven made all these assessments as the man came over to shake his hand. There was something that made Steven uneasy about the man, although he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. He was definitely nothing like Tyrone Leonard. He didn’t have the same charisma or the presence that Leonard had. The look Steven saw in him was more like what? Hunger?
He put the thought aside and greeted Barlow, “Dr. Barlow? It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
Barlow pumped his hand up and down as they greeted, “Mr. Loomis, quite the contrary, the pleasure is certainly mine. Quite an honor, indeed. I am much obliged that you agreed to see me.”
Steven detected a faint British accent. Barlow had obviously been in the US for some time, but the accent still came through. There was still something that was bothering Steven and it was starting to send red flags up, but he’d be damned if he knew what it was. Maybe he was just on edge, wary of people he didn’t know. He didn’t think so, that had never been the case before, but then again, the circumstances had never been as they were now.
He held his hand out toward the small round table in his office, “Please sit down. Can I offer you some coffee, water?” Barlow walked over to the table, set his briefcase down next to the chair and sat down, “Most kind, no, thank you, I’m fine for the moment.”
Steven now sat across from the man. He wanted to just lean back and relax, listen to what the man came to talk about, but he found he couldn’t do it. He was uptight, edgy, the way he felt before an operation and it was a strange enough feeling that, given the circumstances, he found he couldn’t just relax.
He leaned forward, elbows resting on the table, and started the conversation, “What can I do for you?”
Barlow, sitting back in his chair with his legs crossed and his hands on his lap, proceeded to let Steven know why he was there.
“First of all, Mr. Loomis, let me apologize for my insistence on seeing you. I dare say I made a most annoying pest of myself with your assistant, but what I want to discuss with you is of the utmost importance, you understand. I also wanted to say that I am most sorry for your loss and for your other…difficulties.”
This last part he said with something akin to annoyance, as if it had been something he knew he had to get out of the way but didn’t really care for. Steven nodded and waited for him to continue.
Barlow went on, “You see, I am a criminal profiling consultant. I work with the FBI, have now for some years, and I am very interested to learn as much as I can about Donald Riche and his actions, how he came to do the things he did, his motivations, that kind of thing.”
What Barlow had said was in no way remarkable, it was something that someone in his field would most likely say, given the situation. What was odd was the way in which he said it. There was no gravity, no sense of professional detachment in what he said. He sounded and looked more like a kid talking to someone who’d played with Michael Jordan wanting to know what it had been like to play next to him. There was an eagerness, a sort of… there was that idea of hunger again. Steven’s unease continued to grow. He gave up on trying to understand the reason for it and simply decided he would try to let his instincts guide him. They’d never let him down before.
He gave Barlow a puzzled look and decided to play dumb, “I don’t understand, Dr. Barlow, surely you have access to more information about those things than I do. I’m not sure that I can be of any help to you.”
Barlow’s countenance had shifted slightly. No longer the eager and obsequious guest, he now looked at Steven with an intensity that hadn’t been there before.
His tone also changed. He now had a more purposeful set in his voice, “On the contrary, Mr. Loomis, I believe it’s you and only you who can provide the insights I need. You’re right, I do have the details, the information about Mr. Riche and his actions. I do, after all, consult with the FBI. As you can imagine, however, everything I’ve reviewed is provided in reports, photographs, written statements, that sort of thing. It is all very detailed and complete, but it lacks the most critical element.”
Steven now leaned back into his chair and took on a different tone himself, more guarded and careful, “What element would that be, doctor?”
Barlow noticed the change and once again tried to take on the simple, curious tone he’d begun with. He tried but just couldn’t pull it off, “The intimate element, of course. I want to understand the motivations and the thought processes that led Mr. Riche to engage in his quest, his journey. Those are things a report simply cannot convey, Mr. Loomis. I am interested in understanding the inspiration that took Mr. Riche down the path he chose.”
Steven’s instincts were now on full alert. There was something most definitely off about Barlow. The deferential, almost wistful tone with which he referred to Riche’s ‘quest,’ the eager, hungry way in which he said he wanted to understand the ‘inspiration’ that had driven Donald Riche.
Now, with his instincts and every one of his senses fully engaged, he finally got what it was about the man and their initial greeting that had such a powerful effect on him. It was a faint but distinct scent. Steven had smelled it when the man had first come in. It had been so faint and so strange that he couldn’t identify it. He now knew what that scent was, it was the acrid, metallic smell of blood and some sort of astringent, some sort of an astringent cleaner. The man was a doctor and probably had been exposed to blood and to a cleaner designed to remove the smell of it. Steven tried feebly to hold on to that thought because the alternatives were simply too disturbing. He wanted to get more from Barlow, to form a better idea of what the man was about and what he was looking for, so he held himself in check, remaining completely impassive and under control as he sat across from him, his mind racing to get a bearing.
“I don’t know that I can help you with any of that. I know as much about Riche as you, probably less, actually.”
Barlow gave him a thin, knowing smile, a smile that chilled Steven to the bone, “Come now, Mr. Loomis, as I understand it, you were there, you were in his studio, you experienced everything firsthand, before it was corrupted by all the technicians and investigators.”
Now Steven knew that Barlow had absolutely no interest in the science and he was not engaged in any sort of research. His interest was personal and ‘intimate’ and given his continued references to Riche’s ‘studio’ and the scene being ‘corrupted’ by the technicians, Loomis now understood much better what it was that Barlow was looking for.
“Dr. Barlow, I’m not quite sure what it is that you think I can tell you or share with you. Whatever it is that I saw or experienced at that warehouse is of a very personal nature to me, and as you can imagine incredibly painful, so I have no intention of reliving the experience, whatever the nature of your inquiry happens to be.”
As he progressed through the statement, the intensity in Steven’s voice grew and his eyes began to reflect a quiet anger that visibly affected Barlow. However fit the man was, he was clearly no match for Steven. As someone schooled on human emotion and reaction, he became immediately aware of the fact that he had completely misread Steven Loomis and responded accordingly, “A thousand apologies, Mr. Loomis, it was not my intention to upset you in any way. I am very sorry for being insensitive. It is just that I have been a keen observer and longtime researcher of this type of behavior.”
Barlow was almost theatrical in his apologies, trying to physically communicate just how sorry he was.
It all gave the situation an almost surreal tone, “You see, I was, and I don’t want to sound insensitive again, looking forward to being able to better understand what drove Mr. Riche. A trial, the resulting interviews and interrogations, would have given me an excellent idea of what it was that Riche’s grand plan was.
“Once you…once he was shot, all of that disappeared. Oh, of course I have access to all of the written reports and the pictures and the few statements that he made, but none of that, none of it at all, communicates the true insights into his mind.”
Steven was now in information gathering mode. The entire exchange had revealed what Steven had intuited in the beginning. Nigel Barlow’s interest in Donald Riche was the same type of interest that a professional had in how an amateur, a talented amateur, practiced his craft.
He wanted to understand what he was dealing with, so he went along, “And what grand plan is it that you think Riche was following?”
Barlow looked surprised. He had not expected the question and now that it had been posed, he responded immediately, without taking the time to figure out how to edit his response, “What plan? Well, I don’t know, that’s what I wanted to find out, to glean from your experience. It will almost be impossible now, without his input, without his insights.
“The world will see this simply as a mass murder committed by a madman, Mr. Loomis. They will air their stories and get their rating and their experts will go on and on talking about things they simply do not understand. No one, not one person, will understand the kind of planning, the kind of careful consideration it takes to do what Riche did. None of the experts will ever address or even mention the kind of meticulous thought processes that are required to execute that kind of enterprise.
“I think what you have done is wonderful, sir, and I commend you for it. I think it is time that the world understood that there is now a more advanced being, what I call a Prime Force, on the face of the earth.”
As he listened to Barlow, Steven noticed a distinct change in the man. He was indignant, upset about what he saw as inferior creatures trying to pass judgment on the deeds of a more advanced intelligence. His whole countenance, the way he punctuated every point with his hands, how flush his face looked, the rising volume of his voice, all spoke to indignation. Steven now believed this was a man who had been looking forward to perhaps interviewing Riche and, God help him, talk shop. His was not the same type of interest that Leonard had, a professional interest in a scientific breakthrough. Barlow’s interest had to do with feeling
kinship
with Riche.
Loomis had wondered if he had come face-to-face with a
Homo sapiens predaer
in Riche. He’d also wondered whether he would come face-to-face with one again. Now he thought he had his answer. He wanted to understand them better, but he was also starting to feel something else. What was it? Not fear, he wasn’t afraid, it was more like feeling overwhelmed, like someone who’d read about sharks, who’d lost a loved one to a shark and who all of a sudden was in the water with a shark with no protective cage in between.
As much as he wanted to learn more about Barlow, he couldn’t risk more exposure for himself, his case and, most importantly, the people he loved.
Still, he couldn’t pass up one more question, “And have you done much work with people like Riche? Is that the kind of work you do?”