Miller Avenue Murder: An addictive police procedural legal psychological thriller Page 8

  He’d settled on a seat by the window. It was looking out into the city. Small town, Tillamook, there was nothing much to see that he hadn’t already taken in growing up. Into his pocket, Paul had reached for his phone, typing up a reply to a burdened Claire Fisher who’d inquired into his day in a text. She couldn’t even give him the cold shoulder for a day. He chuckled to himself. The woman from the desk had approached him and collected his insurance and medical details.

  He never got to send his reply to Claire.

  Not too long into her leaving him again, he’d been instructed what door belonged to Dr. Patterson. He let himself in.

  Her office was petite. It had startled him, to say the least. He'd stopped in his tracks and gradually taken in what sat at the other end of office 323’s white Oakwood door.

  Chic and professional; two words that popped in his head but refused to slip through his lips. He bobbed his head and continued further into the room. Were all the offices this size? With the way she'd carried herself with enough aloofness, he'd anticipated an office overlooking Tillamook, an office that spoke of all her sweat in the industry. In all sincerity, his initial description was a polite way of saying "monochrome.", "boring" As in it lacked color and architectural aesthetic. Not that he could do a better job... His office in Portland—cubicle as he’d only recently started as a financial advisor with Larsson & Brown—was only a little better than what she'd settled with. Then who was he to critique her taste?

  Did he even once consider if she'd had a say in what her workplace resembled? No, this couldn't be him, he would move a motion for a better workroom, or he wouldn't provide his services to the company. Sincerely, the walls were a shade of grey that made him regret being called in there. The chairs, two armchairs placed opposite each other were wine red. If he didn't know any better, he would wonder whether she'd chosen the dungeon theme to contrast the pleasant foyer he'd walked through. Her desk had only an iMac and a keyboard and a mouse. Nothing else sat atop it. No papers, nothing. It was clean, too clean.

  “What seems to be the problem, Mr. Campbell?" She’d shut the door behind her and strolled to her desk, the sound of her heels clicking against the hardwood floors filled his ears. He was forced to confine himself in one of the wine chairs.

  “How do you… know my name?”

  “We have your presence on record, your appointment was this morning, but you never showed up.” She sat pin straight in her seat enough so that he'd begun to doubt his own posture. Now he didn't have the best by a long shot, but he couldn't help straightening out after a stolen glance at her. “My floor assistant Bridget informed me that you don’t have a Plan with us and, that could better prevent you from waiting in line.”

  Paul pretended to consider her offer. He didn’t have a reason to have an insurance plan with their private hospital. Not since he resided in Portland. When he didn’t answer immediately, she skipped over the topic and said instead; “According to Pierce, you just lost your mother, should we start there?”

  He couldn't help but notice now perched in place the floral scent that trailed her was more alive in her office. He didn't know whether it put him at ease or spiked his already rattled nerves. He would have asked what brand of perfume she was wearing and why it felt like her office had been baptized with it. That was rude. He ought to keep thoughts and comments like that to himself.

  He'd glanced over his shoulder at the white Oakwood door. "It's unlocked if you want to run." She hadn’t bothered a glance at him from where she’d been booting up her iMac.

  Did he want to run? Run from what? The opportunity to open up about his mother? Wasn’t this for the best? But how much could he unload on Lisa that wouldn’t cost him his entire wedding budget?

  “I’ve been here twice, running isn’t an option.” He eased into his seat. The irony wasn’t lost on him.

  “Then why did you overlook my question?” He felt as if he were on the hot seat.

  “You’ve asked a lot of questions—”

  “No, I haven’t. I asked one, and you are yet to answer.” She typed away on her keyboard and he’d listened to the soft patter of her nails against the keyboard.

  “Umm… you want to know about my mother.” His mouth went dry.

  “Mr. Campbell, I am a busy woman, who turned down my lunch break because Pierce is such a good friend of mine. So, if you would cut to the chase, I would really appreciate it.”

  He wasn’t comfortable with her irritability. Weren’t therapists meant to be patient?

  “I don’t know what you want to know about her, she was brutally murdered less than three-days ago, stabbed twenty-two times around her chest and stomach and strangled to death in a wedding dress for some goddamn reason no one wants to explain to me.”

  For the first time since she’d joined him in her office, Lisa Patterson looked at him, and her eyes had been broadened.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Lisa Patterson was startled. He was the son of the woman in the threadbare wedding dress. She’d heard about the Campbell murder. Who in Tillamook hadn’t? It had made the headline every day since it happened. The morning and the night news reports had special segments to discuss the gruesome details of the crime on 6358 Miller Avenue. Lisa hadn’t been able to watch the news without that woman’s picture coming up with reruns of reporters standing outside her home documenting their findings. It had become a permanent subject of conversation amongst her team.

  Assistant Psychologist Stuart Middleton claimed it was a crime of passion, a wedding-night-gone-wrong, he believed the antique storekeeper had been killed by her newlywed husband, he’d heard it from the news report and couldn’t stop theorizing in the breakroom just how common it was for a marital dispute to turn bloody.

  Lisa didn’t know what to believe.

  Things had taken a darker turn and reporters had begun to fear this could have been a premeditated attack.

  From what Lisa had heard, there were no leads and the Sherriff’s department as well as the City Police Department were scrambling through witness reports, their suspect, a strong, lean male who's quick on his feet. Not nearly the age of the late Mrs. Campbell.

  “And I can imagine you’ve had a hurricane of emotions to sort through, can you tell me about them?” What hadn’t he felt?

  “Anger. Regret. I’m not even sad, I just, wish I could have been there. She was… so old and so… helpless.” Lisa nodded. It wasn’t uncommon for grief to morph into anger and regret. But that wasn’t what she was looking for. She was listening, evaluating his mental stability, probing for self-destructive behaviors. Any indication that he was in need of her services.

  “You’re entitled to every feeling you have.” She briefly returned her attention to her computer and documented his words.

  “And if you were there, what would you have done?” She’d held his eyes; they were a blue-green that was more blue than green in the light. He shifted in his seat. He tinted. He dreaded that about his chapped skin. Women of color, people of color like Lisa Patterson didn't glow when they were embarrassed. If anything, they had the upper hand. They could remain unreadable. Tasking everyone else to take a guess what they were feeling and maybe just if fate would have it, their speculations might be in the ballpark. He frowned.

  “I… I…” He was at a loss for words. He’d never thought to put himself at the scene. What would he have done if he’d had the chance? What would he have done to change the outcome of his mother’s case? Would he have killed a man in defense of his mother? The answer seemed easy enough, why then couldn’t he explain that to her. If he had, the tables would have been turned and he would be the one sought after by the authorities. Because in all honesty, even if he’d done a noble thing and saved his mother, he would have to live with the burden of another man’s blood on his hands. He would have to undergo a court process to prove that his actions had indeed been in the defense of his mother. “I don’t know what I would have done.” He ran his hands through his hair, his leg
s thumping.

  “And that’s okay,” He didn’t seem convinced. “Mr. Campbell, I want you to hear me, and understand that, whatever outcome your mother faced, whether you would have been there to save her or not, is perfectly okay.”

  He shook his head but said nothing.

  “It’s okay,” She said again.

  “It’s okay,” He echoed. He’d been staring at the wall behind her, as if evading her amber eyes. They were downturned and flecked with devotion.

  “And how is your sleep?” She steepled her hands. His responses were delayed as if he was purposely taking all the time in the world to deliberate. She didn’t have all the time in the world. This was her only opportunity to sneak a turkey wrap sandwich. Her stomach whined at the thought. She ran her tongue over her bottom lip and drew it between her teeth. Perhaps she wouldn’t be so famished if she hadn’t missed out on her breakfast.

  She knew why she’d skipped out on it.

  She had no one else to blame but herself.

  “I don’t.” Paul said concentrating on the hole in her wall where it appeared a nail had been shoved. Why had she taken it out? What had been hung on it? A calendar? A clock? A picture frame? Oddly enough none of those features seemed to fit into her gothic décor.

  “You don’t what?” Her jaw clenched. She wasn’t the best person to associate with on an empty stomach.

  “I haven’t been able to sleep since it happened…” He traced the outline of her rounded face with his finger on the tabletop. “The night I heard, I got on the first plane here with my fiancé, Claire… I live in Portland and I know the drive would have cost less and it wasn’t all that far, but I didn’t think I had it in me to drive…” She had high cheekbones like most celebrities. Although hers were real. And with her soft chin and dainty nose, she stood out in her own way. “And I haven’t even been able to confirm the body… The county morgue has been on my neck about it… and I know they can probably proceed with her investigation without me, but what type of son am I if I can’t even go see her?” He was uneasy in his seat. That was normal. Most of her clients, her patients squirmed in their seats if they weren’t thoughtlessly fiddling with the features she drew from her drawer for their entertainment.

  “What was she like?” She asked. He let out a hard breath.

  “What wasn’t she like. She was my mother… she was…” Anyone else would have missed it, the anger that flashed across his blue-green eyes. But there was a reason she was the most recommended Counselling Psychologist in Tillamook. She was observant. It was gone as quickly as it appeared. “I’m sure you’re expecting me to tell you some epistle about her loving she was in her own way, how she was willing to do anything to give me the life she thought I deserved…” Lisa Patterson was inclined to believe that he was deflecting. He was hiding something… He wasn’t going to answer her question. At least not in simple straight forward terms. And she had a strong inkling that whatever she sought; she wasn’t going to get it out of him that easily.

  “And did you?” He tipped his head, his forehead puckered.

  “Did I what, Doctor?” He sat up in his seat, her stomach whined again and she internally winced hoping for the sake of the progress they were making, that he didn’t hear it.

  One thing she’d learned on the job as a psychologist was that her patents, nine-out of ten were easily spooked back into their shell. He was giving her what she needed, what she could work with. And to her, that counted as progress.

  “Did you deserve the life she gave you… or wanted to give you?” He shrugged.

  “How should I know. I was a kid.” He barked; his voice bored. She nodded.

  “And how was it, being a kid with a mother like Blake Campbell?” He gripped the arm of the chair.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” He jutted forward; a hand jabbed in her face. “I hope for the sake of your career with this establishment you’re not disrespecting my mother?”

  She stiffened. “Mr. Campbell may I remind you, this session is off record. I have said it before and I would say it again, it is cutting into my lunch hour. Your threats are out of line, and I would beg you to take your time and understand my words. You’re just hearing them and we can’t move forward if you don’t choose to listen.” He returned to his seat. She relaxed. “Do you think you can answer my question?” He nodded.

  A silence perched in between them. It wasn’t a no. She waited. Watching, listening.

  “It was difficult. Especially because of that damned portrait. It made my life a living hell.”

  Lisa Patterson couldn’t stop thinking about Paul Campbell. About his case. Twenty-five percent of witnesses to murders or other heinous crimes were plagued with post-traumatic-stress-disorder. The patients often undergoing episodes of helplessness, fear and a lack of expressive ability.

  “Can you tell me a little bit more about this… portrait?” She glimpsed at her Breitling watch, her legs tapping beneath her table. From the waist up, she seemed put together, collected.

  She’d maintained eye contact with her new client and listened, her other hand pressed against the surface of her polished desk. For the sake of their session, she’d scattered her organized worksurface with documents, and booklets. On her computer, she had opened a file for Mr. Campbell. Not to his knowledge, and not that he would find out, but she was unable to create a record of him on the Wellness Center’s database. She hadn’t intended to in the first place. She’d taken him as her private client. Her secret that the board of directors at the top of Wellness Center need not find out about.

  Evening had come like a barreling truck slamming into Tillamook and she was anything but pleased with having to part ways with Mr. Campbell. He was unlike any of her other clients. He promised a surge of adrenaline with his case. It wasn’t everyday she got the son of a murder victim in her office. Often times they were troubled teenagers, youths who’d found themselves in the wrong arms and were undergoing unnecessary treatment.

  Her clients were people the hospitals and psychiatry departments had failed. They were young women and men who’d shared a similar experience to hers…

  It was only their first session. She would pen him down for another. He wouldn’t need to compensate her. His cooperation with her would be enough.

  “She believed he… it… was alive.” He chuckled to himself at the error he’d made. “It’s been years of her correcting me, I even forgot I could stop referring to it as he.” Lisa sat up in her seat. Things just got a little more interesting… His mother had displayed signs of schizophrenia? Her lashes fluttered.

  “And I gather this was a picture of your father?” He nodded. She’d heard the stories. Seen the articles on Tillamook Times, an ageless newspaper native to the small town.

  “She would bring it dinner, take it to the living room to join her as she watched State of Tillamook, that was her favorite news program and she refused to watch anything else.” She knew her phone’s recorder was capturing his words and even still she’d penned down the news program mentally noting the research she would do into it at her own time.

  “It was her favorite because he liked it?” It wasn’t absurd for schizophrenics to like what their mental manifestations liked as well.

  “Not at all. That one was all her.” Her shoulders fell.

  “And this continued even in her last days?” He exhaled a deep long breath.

  “I wasn’t with her, Patterson. Last I saw, the both of them were with us at Christmas Dinner.”

  The phone on her desk blared. She knew who was calling. Julie from the front desk needing to take her leave and carpool with Lisa. Her time with Mr. Campbell was up. Her stomach knotted, but this time it wasn’t out of hunger.

  Her eyes fluttered shut, she counted to three and pried them open, reaching for the still blaring office phone. She took it off the receiver. “Patterson’s office, Lisa Patterson speaking?”

  “I’m all packed up, where did you park anyway? I’m about to leave my desk,” J
ulie’s voice filled her ears and she winced. She wasn’t ready to leave. She didn’t have a say in the matter.

  “I’ll be down in about five… I am still… working on something.” She glanced at Mr. Campbell who’d reached for his own phone. She returned her eyes to the white Oakwood door that kept in the son of a murder victim.

  “Well hurry, you know I have to get back to Tyler unless he’s going to ask more questions than I can handle.” She knew about her neighbor’s hyper curious husband. Tyler Huggins. Lisa was still yet to consider the benefit of settling down in a one-sided marriage with men like that, the men that overpopulated and roamed the streets. Men fueled by jealousy and droplets of concern for the strain his wife endured during the workday. Lisa had met Tyler, he wasn’t friendly. According to Julie, he was nicer to her, but Lisa doubted it.

  Lisa was unmarried. Sure, the idea had crossed her mind once or twice, but her career had proposed and she’d said yes. She was loyal to the Tillamook Wellness Center despite the ups and downs. She was willing to stick by it through thick and through thin.

  “Sure.” She pressed the phone back where she’d picked it.

  In her youth, back when she was at the ripe age of twenty-five, she’d been proposed to, planned everything down to the bachelorette party when she was going to get shit-faced with her friends... She never made it to that night.

  She cleared her throat and forced on her lips a paper smile that didn’t meet her tired eyes. “Well, Mr. Campbell I guess that unfortunately brings us to the end of our session for the week,” She flipped through her desktop schedule trying to fit him in. There was little to no wiggle room to slot in another session with him unless a client were to cancel and she didn’t see that happening. She deliberated a home session, but didn’t want to come off as strange. The best she could offer would be her lunch yet again—It wasn’t as if starving herself was a new phenomenon if her youth had taught her anything. However, unlike this session, he would only be allowed an hour. It was better than nothing. She’d added him for the same day the following week.