Free Side Effects: An FBI Psychological Thriller by Jeff Menapace Page A

wait until he’s awake to get the cuffs on him? Fingerprints all over two of the four walls told us our guy didn’t cuff the victim until he was conscious.”
    “Maybe he woke up.”
    I sipped my wine. It was the simplest explanation. Or…
    “Maybe it’s not part of the fantasy,” I said.
    “Cuffing is part of the fantasy? Explain that.”
    “I can’t—not yet.”
    “What can we explain about his methodology? What drives him?”
    I sipped more wine as my mind churned. “Exploiting the victim’s fear of fire can’t be a coincidence; there has to be a connection there.”
    Morris spat the piece of ice he’d been sucking back into his glass. “If you’d told me our guy had been following the victim months—even weeks—out, then maybe I’d buy it. But this victim was a one-night stand, remember? There’s simply no way he could have known about the victim’s fear of fire beforehand, much less planned on utilizing it somehow.”
    “If the victim was indeed drugged, he might have mentioned his fear of fire to our guy without even realizing,” I said.
    “Okay, fine—I’ll buy that. But my point still stands. No way our guy could have been depending on such a thing. It was a fluke. A—forgive me for saying—pleasant bonus for our guy to have such an exploitable fear divulged to him.”
    “Unless our guy simply asked him?” I said.
    Morris drained his scotch. “Asked him if he was afraid of fire?”
    “No—that would be too specific. How about just asked him what he was afraid of?”
    “Reggie said the victim’s fear of fire was so intense he was even afraid to smoke. Why would he offer up such a phobia to a complete stranger?”
    “Because he was drugged,” I said with some satisfaction. Though I’m not sure why. To dust off an old chestnut, it felt like we really had only just scratched the surface.
    “All right,” Morris said. “Our guy simply asked, and the victim, in his drugged state, told him. There’s our guy’s leverage to do whatever the hell he does with them before bashing their heads in. No life-leverage like the other victims, so there’s our guy’s leverage on this victim: find out what scares the hell out of him and threaten to make it happen.”
    “Right,” I said. “And gasoline and a basic igniter aren’t exactly difficult items to come by at the last minute—our guy could have picked them up while the victim was shackled and unconscious in the mill.”
    “Right,” Morris said. “Good thing for our guy the victim wasn’t afraid of sharks.”
    “Funny.”
    We sat quiet for a moment, digesting it all.
    “Okay then,” he eventually said.
    “Okay then,” I said.
    Another moment of silence. We then exchanged a look as though neither of us had studied for the test, yet were offering to copy off one another.
    Morris eventually let out a long sigh and ran both hands down his face. “There’s so much more.”
    “Yeah—” I finished the last of my wine. “Maybe we should call it a night.”
    Morris gave a tired nod and stood. “I’ll go settle the tab.”
     
    And so now, showered and wrapped in towels and lying on the motel bed, still mellow from wine, having gone over everything Morris and I covered at the bar, I recalled Dr. Cole’s words about my not needing the drug to sharpen my investigative skills. I recalled telling him I needed the drug to expedite, not sharpen. I still believe that. And even though the smell of Morris’ peppermint TUMS had been the catalyst to me blurting out to Reggie about how the victim had been burned, the rest (linking my sorrow in remembering good times with Mike to Reggie’s sorrow…to Reggie drinking away that sorrow…to Morris’ comment about falling asleep after too much scotch…and then finally to the possibility that the victim had been drugged by booze, thus allowing easier transportation for our guy, possibly even mind control) had been my good old noggin doing its thing, not the drug.
    Now if I could only get