SR Murders-8

SR Murders1

By Andy Stephenson and Geri Fitzsimmons2

Chapter Eight3

The easy camaraderie at Mallory’s that night quickly drifted away into a serious conversation between Doctor Neil Harris and Detective Joe Farley. Huddled at a rear table, viewed through a hazy atmosphere of dull lighting enhanced by cigarette smoke, the two friends were nearly invisible from the bar area.4

Neil confided, “ I called the Crisis Line and spoke with a supervisor. I was told that the information about their success rate was not shared with the public." Neil had just polished off a corn beef on rye. He washed the remains down with a rare beer. 5

“Beer, lad?” Joe shook his head. He felt justified in kidding the Doc about the beer. This was the first time Joe had seen Neil drink alcohol before a show.6

“Seems to fit with corn beef and horseradish. Those names I found online… Mark refused to release the tapes for those dates.”7

"Don’t sweat it. We already have them.” Joe assured him. “I figured you were on to something so I did some digging myself. In the past six months there have been ten women who have overdosed on medication. These women died from the same drug and had similar amounts of it in their systems. In a city smaller than New York it would have caught attention much faster. We have you to thank. The Baine investigation has been upgraded to a possible serial murder investigation." 8

"Serial Murder?" Now that Joe had named it, Neil was tempted to order another beer. Then thought better of it and waved Sandy back when the waitress started for their table.9

"Yes, wholesale suicide using the same method seems very unlikely. Something else is going on."10

“Were the women ill, perhaps with debilitating or end stage diseases?”11

Joe shrugged, “No connection there. They were young, fairly healthy women. Depressed, maybe, but then who isn’t?12

“We’ll get as much info together as we can in the next few days. Then the Chief will bring it to the Mayor’s attention. Probably setup a taskforce.” Joe was already anticipating the part he would get to play. 13

"Do you think you can find who's behind this?"14

"Well, Doc, that’s if there is someone behind it, you've provided our best lead. Apparently they all contacted the Crisis Line before they made their final decision. At least four were referred from your station." 15

Referred from his show, damn, he should have been allowed to talk with them…not on the air but he could have suggested a later session.16

After the conversation with Joe Farley, Neil Harris drove to the station fully intending to brace Mark Gheil with the information he’d learned from the Detective. If his show was going to continue, they were going to make some changes. He’d been mentally practicing his arguments all the way in.17

He’d entered through the rear door, and was completely thrown off his game as he found himself confronted by the producer.18

“Join me in my office.” Mark’s tone didn’t broker a refusal.19

As Doctor Neil Harris followed behind the younger, larger and taller man he suddenly felt like a schoolboy heading for the principal’s office. I’m ten years older, already sporting some gray hairs, and Hell of better income, he thought and wondered if it was Mark’s size or mouth he found more intimidating. He fought an urge to laugh. Wisely it remained an urge. 20

He stepped into Mark’s office.21

“Four damn fuckin’ hours.” Mark stormed around Neil to slam his office door shut. He spun back his face a thundercloud, he ranted, “Four hours they raked me over the coals Neil. The station manager said the police came by and got a printout of our caller ID lists for the past six months. Then they confiscated tapes of the show. Connelly’s fuming—skinned my hide in front of the lawyers," said Mark. The fury continued to flash in his eyes. "Why couldn't you leave well enough alone?"22

"I have to do what I believe is right. Too many callers have killed themselves."23

"So…we can't assume liability for all the nut cases in this city who want to do themselves in. That's what the Crisis Line is for. You should have never talked with that detective friend of yours."24

Neil perched on the edge of the desk like a bird ready to take flight; as Mark stomped around to drop in his chair. He picked up a used Styrofoam cup from his desk, wiped it inside and out with a used napkin, folded the napkin and tossed both in the trash. Neil had seen him do this many times so he ignored it.25

“Don’t you realize Mark,” Neil said. “ So long as we advertise the fact I’m a psychiatrist we are obligated to give the serious cases the same consideration we give the comics who amuse the audience. We can’t keep up the practice of switching them over to Crises Center.”26

Mark had his chin resting in his left palm, now he raised his right hand to scratch at the back of his head. “You want to practice your profession on the air? In what damn universe!” 27

“Well…not exactly. I was thinking more in terms of allowing the questionable cases the opportunity of a private phone session with me. “28

“We’re going to stop in the middle of a live show, to allow you to have a private conversation with ‘Sweet Sally’ while the audience starts switching their dials because of the dead silence on KJAB? Or maybe we should hire someone with less of an ethics problem.” Like any cautious businessman Mark tended to play down the value of an individual to their face. 29

Neil, fully aware of the ploy, snapped, "You threatening me? Maybe you think I’m easily replaceable; but Connelly did hire me himself. So you can try treating me with a little respect." 30

"You pompous ass!" shouted Mark who pushed up to his feet and towered over Neil. "If push comes to shove, do you think management will back me or you?"31

Standing now, Neil growled, "You forget, I don't need this job. I have a lucrative practice. What have you got to fall back on?"32

Neil was normally mild mannered, so Mark was taken aback by his determination and sudden anger. There were things to take into consideration. Not only did Connelly like Neil but so did the radio audience. “Let’s calm down.” He offered his hand. “This isn’t getting us anywhere. We’ll get together in the morning; see what kind of compromises we can come up with. We've got a show to do and it's just about time."33

On the other side of Manhattan in a far less affluent studio arrangement, there were ten tiny cubicles with a separate computer terminal for each. There were usually eight volunteers at a time handling the phones. Presently, being the graveyard shift, three hadn’t shown up so there were only five to relieve the present shift. 34

Some of the new people had staked a claim on a favorite station and were hovering at the opening waiting to take over when its present occupant picked up and exited.35

"Did you know that the police were here today?" asked Sherry, the middle-aged night supervisor at the Crisis Line. Since she was one of the few paid employees, she didn’t deem it necessary to get to work more than a few minutes before her scheduled time. She was setting up the institutional size coffee pot that was made only once a night, and tasted a little like tar before the shift was over. Since Sherry drank tea and kept the coffee grounds in the supervisor’s office, which was off limits unless you were called in for a one on one warning, no one could correct the situation.36

So during the one break they were allotted half way through the shift, some of the volunteers bought their own coffee from the Dunkin Donuts shop down the street. "What did they want?" The same question came from several of the volunteers.37

"When May called me to fill me in, she said they got a computer printout of all our calls for the last six months."38

"Really?" Dale a most dependable young man asked. Sally silently wished she had more like him. Then she wouldn’t be so damn short handed at night when they were needed most. 39

"Yeah." 40

“Wow, wonder what they’re after?” Kelsey, a plain young lady with acme scars on her cheeks that her makeup couldn’t hide; and razor scars at her wrists she kept hidden beneath long sleeved shirts, was obviously excited. “Were they checking into anyone’s background?”41

“May said,” Sally continued to repeat what the afternoon supervisor told her. “They just wanted files?” Sally said.42

Dale asked, "For all shifts?"43

"I don't know." Sally was clearly disappointed she had no further information to divulge. “You better man those phones.”44

The new shift headed for their stations as the departing volunteers of the Crises Center made their way out into the false brightness of a New York night, and Doctor Neil Harris waited for his signal. 45

Mark Gheil’s hand came down, Neil cleared his throat.46

"This is KJAB, talk radio, 102.1 on your radio dial. I'm Doctor Neil Harris and I'm here to discuss your problems in the wee hours of this morning. Who do we have as our first caller?"47

The voice was muffled, like the caller intended to hide her identity behind a palm. “Renee,” she nearly whispered.48

“Renee, a lovely name,” Neil answered. “And Renee…what seems to be your problem? How can I help you?” Was followed by the expected pause.49

They always had second thoughts. Always needed the pause before they could say the words that disclosed the reason for the late night call. Once decided, the tone became rushed and the words spilled out. “New York is so stifling, so many people but I’m invisible to them. I’m alone. My job isn’t working out, I don’t…” Sobs had built in her throat and now they burst forth to flood her words and make them nearly indistinguishable. 50

Neil’s voice was soft and confident. “Take your time Renee. I’m here to listen. You’re not alone when you have someone who will listen. Take a few deep breaths…”51

He caught Mark’s stare. With a lift of his chin and quick head shaking he indicated a sharp no. “Try counting slowly,” he said into the receiver. “That’s better. How long have you been in the City?”52

“Four, no three and a half months. Sometimes I wish I was dead.”53

“You have a lot of company there.” Neil gave a gentle laugh. Then suddenly he heard the taped conversation of his own voice in his ear, “I need you to listen carefully. I'm going to switch you over to Mark, my producer, and he is going to connect you with someone who can help you."54

He could see Mark was already punching the keys that would connect the caller to the 24-hour Crisis Line. Through his headphones he heard the male voice cut in, “Hi Renee, I’m Dale, I’ve been where you are…”55

Neil’s face felt like fresh sunburn, and the heat of anger crept rapidly up his spine to his neck. He could do nothing but say into the receiver, “and who is our next caller?” 56