The Professional Victim Ch. 01

"Got it," she whispered.

"Get outta here!''

And she went home.

As fate would have it, she'd never see the inside of a police station again.

Wednesday, 6:14 pm

She sat at one side of the bar and looked at Dr. Brett Wheatley, only three bar stools from her, across the corner. She sipped her wine, and looked away. There was a mirror behind the bartender, and she studied his reflection. He didn't seem to notice that she existed at all; and that surprised her.

She wore the same dress that she'd had on the night before. Men were supposed to be aware her when she wore this dress. It was designed to make them notice, no matter what kind of girl wore it. She'd followed him from his apartment ... his office/apartment ... at a safe distance, but when she slid onto the barstool so near to him, he hadn't even looked up. He was reading a Kindle ... one of those electronic book thingies. She sat sipping her wine, wondering whether or not to start a conversation. But the problem solved itself.

"Helloooo there," a guy said, sliding onto the barstool beside her. "Can I buy you a drink?" She glanced up at him ... a large, blonde man in his late twenties. His eyes sparkled. His speech was a little slurred. His haircut had to have been done at a major stylist's solon.

"No thanks," she said dispiritedly. She held up her wine glass. "I'm nursing this one."

"You can't get rid of me that easy," he purred.

"How CAN I get rid of you?" she asked sweetly.

He slid his arm around her. "Come on, babe," he implored. "I'm working pretty hard here! Why don't you to let me show you the best evening of your life!"

"Hey! Let go!" she said, trying to work the arm away from her waist.

"Sorry, babe. My arm seems to have been compelled by some supernatural power. I think it was just made to hold you."

"Let go!"

"The lady says no," Brett Wheatley said calmly, standing beside the man, his hand on the guy's left shoulder.

In an instant, the big man was off the barstool, and he towered several inches above the intruder. He glowered down at the psychologist. "The little lady and I are having a private conversation, buddy. You interrupt, and I'm going to have to teach you a lesson."

Wheatley seemed to contemplate these words gravely for a moment, and then he nodded. "My friend," he spoke flatly, "I've considered the situation seriously, and I've decided to lay all the options out for you." He paused a moment. "Now, the way I see it, you can't possibly come out of this little confrontation on a purely positive note. If we fight, you will undoubtedly beat the living daylights out of me, and then you will be ejected from this bar, not only losing your opportunity to attract this lady, but all of the other lovely women in this establishment." He waved his arm around the room to illustrate his point. "If you choose to ignore me and persist with your unwanted advances, then I, too, will persist, leading to a fight ... and, well ... see option 'A' above. IF, on the other hand, you listened to the lady's entreaties and decided to take 'no' for an answer, you would still be free to explore all of the aforementioned OTHER female conquests in the room ... PLUS we would part as friends; and I buy all of my friends drinks. What do you say?"

The blonde man looked puzzled for a moment, and then broke into a wide smile. "I say scotch," he slurred.

"Scotch," Dr. Wheatley said to the bartender, and then sat back down and started reading his book again. The drunk man picked up his drink and wandered off to accost a forty-something brunette at the other end of the bar.

... Leaving Donna in the same predicament she'd been in before. If she was going to get the good doctor to make a move, she'd have to move first.

"Thank you," she told him with some degree of feeling.

Finally, he looked at her. "'Twarn't nothing, ma'am," he said in a fake cowboy drawl. And then he looked back down, started reading, and ignored her again.

Quickly, she considered this action. If he were, indeed, the Stateline Rapist, he might be psychologically incapable of normal conversation with a woman. Still, she decided to press ahead.

"Do you rescue damsels in distress here often?"

Once again, he looked up at her. There was no animosity in his eyes, but there was no great amount of interest, either. He appeared slightly ill-at-ease, but there was no hesitation in his answer.

"I wouldn't really call it a rescue. More of a negotiation, I suppose. Most people will listen to reason if you put things in terms they can understand. The guy is out to score, and you are definitely the top prize in this room. I'm sure he isn't a bad fellow, deep down inside."

"You didn't get to see him from my perspective," she said, smiling faintly.

"All's well that ends well," the doctor replied, giving up a little smile at last. But then he looked back at his book, and once again the opportunity was lost.

She couldn't believe it. Dressed like this, just about every red-blooded male animal should, at the very least, be sneaking peeks at her; but, once again studying his reflection in the mirror behind the bar, she found that he kept his eyes firmly on the electronic book.

She sipped her wine slowly and tried to shoot holes in her theory about him; but examining the reflection more carefully only strengthened her resolve. DNA really DID tell you a few things about a guy, even when you couldn't find a match. The Rapist had a 99% probability of being Caucasian, and the Doc was certainly that. From there, the percentages went down considerably, but sometimes small percentages added up to big ones. 50% probability of brown hair. Check. (Of course, a lot guys have brown hair.) 45% chance of green eyes (higher than blue or brown, anyway). Check. Probably a large man (well, he wasn't as large as the blonde drunk, but he was easily five-ten). Check – sort of. The perp had genes that suggested the possibility of male pattern baldness in later years; and Wheatley's hair, though thick, DID sort of seem to be receding a bit. Okay ... Check. But most telling of all, he had been there.

Donna had made copies of all the pictures from all the surveillance cameras near all the snatch sites ... fifteen data DVD's worth, and after only three hours sleep, she had poured over half of them during the afternoon. And she'd found him again. That was four times. Four clear pictures of Brett Wheatley from four of the seven crime scenes ... and she hadn't had a chance to go over the other three yet. What were the odds? It HAD to be him!

This was her ticket back. If she broke this case, she'd be able to get past just about anything the Captain threw at her. As a result, she wasn't about to tell anybody else about it ... not until she was sure. Not until she had enough evidence to at least show probable cause. No one else had come up with this. According to Phelps, who she'd called a few hours ago, the Captain, based on the "impossible" verdict from the FBI profiler, had told the team to forget Wheatley. She was the only one pursuing it. And she just KNEW she was right.

But what was she going to do now?

Sighing, she decided to change the way she was presenting herself. She drank the wine until about a third of the glass remained, then she asked the bartender in a meek voice (it wasn't hard to sound meek ... she FELT meek) where the ladies room was. Then, instead of using the hooker-style hip-wiggling walk that she'd worked so hard to perfect, she slid off of the barstool as if she was very self-conscious (because she WAS self-conscious), and walked timidly across the room (because she WAS timid). She blushed, feeling so many eyes upon her, because it was EASY to blush. In other words, she decided to be herself instead of acting. What did she have to lose?

And when she got back, her glass was full.

She couldn't keep the flicker of a smile from her lips ... but he didn't notice. He didn't look up.

"Thank you," she said timorously, smiling sweetly at him.

He glanced up and matched her slight smile. "I was feeling effusive. Why should I buy Tarzan over there a drink, and not you?"

"Well, thank you."

"You're welcome." And he looked down again.

Oh, no. Not this time!

"I refuse to drag you into a conversation by uttering some inane cliché, like asking what it is you're reading," she said coyly.

That brought a bigger smile, anyway. "It's a book by some guy named Erik Larson," he replied.

"The Devil in the White City?" she asked.

"Why, yes!"

"I'd seen in the literary section of the newspaper that there was still one person left who hadn't read it."

And that earned her a genuine laugh.

"Have you read his new book?" she asked him.

And finally, finally, the evening began to progress.

The conversation remained on literature for awhile, then education, then briefly, the weather, and even more briefly, politics. She told him she hadn't been out on a date in over a year, which was the truth. In fact, almost everything she said to him was the truth. When the topic came up, she told him she was in "social work" ... which was the truth ... sort of.

At last, he invited her to dinner (just to break the year-long dateless streak, he said), and though she had actually practiced just the right amount of indecisiveness in front of her mirror in her apartment earlier, she didn't hesitate at all. Yes. Oh, yes. And all night, the conversation just went on and on. Continuously. Joyously.

But then, a psychologist was good at keeping the conversation rolling, wasn't he? And he was very, very good at listening. (And putting women at ease?) (And hypnotizing them?) (And raping them?)

And after three hours, she sat back in her chair while he was telling some funny story, and she regarded HERSELF for a moment instead of her suspect. What was she doing? (Well, she was having FUN, that's what.) How could she have done such a thing? Disregarding direct orders from her commanding captain! Putting herself in imminent danger with a possible serial rapist! (Oh, but she hadn't had an evening like this in ... in ... well, ever!) It was so easy to let herself fall under his spell. So easy to smile and talk and laugh ... and just LET herself become a part of him. He was so easygoing, so charming, so witty ... and so much of everything she'd never experienced before. He was ... he was ... he was staring silently across the table at her.

Omigod! "Brett," she stammered. "Brett, I'm sorry! I was ... just ... letting my mind wander a little." She couldn't help looking down at her hands, which she'd let fall into her lap. "I was just thinking about how much I was enjoying the evening. Please try to understand. It's been a long time."

He smiled and reached his hand across the table, and she found herself automatically putting her own hand in his. The touch was electric, and she abruptly felt very warm. "It's been awhile for me, too," he told her with feeling.

"How long?" she asked before she could stop herself.

His smile faltered a little. "More than a year."

"A year? But I would think that a successful psychiatrist like you ...."

"Psychologist," he corrected.

"What's the difference?

"A psychiatrist is an MD ... a Medical Doctor. My doctorate is strictly in the science of psychology. I can't prescribe medication; a psychiatrist can."

"How do you cure your patients without medication?" she asked, thinking she knew the answer already.

"My patients don't need 'curing,'" he replied (which was NOT the answer she'd been expecting). "They just need a little help through troubling times. If I think medication is necessary, I refer that person to a psychiatrist. It DOES happen."

"Do you ever use hypnosis?" she asked. RATS! She couldn't believe she'd just blurted that question out! She didn't want to make him suspicious with too many questions too fast. How much wine had she had tonight? She was really slipping!

But he didn't seem to notice at all. "I use hypnosis all the time. I don't like to brag, but it's something that I seem to be relatively good at. I guess I put people at ease, or something. They go under pretty effortlessly for me. I haven't found a patient yet that I couldn't put into a trance ... as long as they're really willing to submit to hypnotherapy. Sometimes it takes more than one session."

"I've never been hypnotized," Donna continued recklessly. "I'd LOVE to see what it feels like."

And now Wheatley paused and studied her. She HAD had too much wine! She'd gone too far! She couldn't help blushing crimson and looking down again. Maybe if she could make him think she had another motivation, she might be able to salvage the situation.

"You must think I'm a TERRIBLE girl," she said, unable to look up at him. "Dressed the way I am, I mean ... and now practically begging you to hypnotize me."

"I love your dress," he said sincerely ... at least, he made it sound sincere. "In fact, I found it almost impossible not to stare openly at you when we were in the bar."

Now, she looked up and laughed gaily. "You didn't even NOTICE me in the bar!" she accused. "You just kept looking down and turning the pages of that funny book of yours."

"I may have kept looking at my book, but I was thinking about you," he countered. "In fact, I was thinking so hard at one point, that I found that I'd left my finger in the "next page" button, and wound up four hundred pages ahead of where I thought I was. I STILL haven't found my place!"

And now she laughed with absolute glee. When was the last time that she'd laughed? She couldn't even remember.

"And as for women wanting to know what hypnosis 'feels like'" (he used his fingers for the quotes), "it's not uncommon at all. Lots of women ... and men, too ... are curious about it. I don't think any less of you because of your curiosity. In fact ... I think ... um ... I think I like you very much."

And she was flabbergasted to see HIM looking down and blushing. Good Lord! She found herself thinking that he was cute ... she really did.

But now, he was paying for the meal, and before she knew it, she was letting him lead her to the door, and they were walking along the closed businesses of Overland Park, hand-in-hand. And she thought to herself: This is how cops get in trouble ... forming an "emotional attachment" with a suspect. But that was just a cliché. And this ... this was ... oh, this was HEAVEN!

He tried to put his arm around her. Well, actually, he didn't really try ... he just did it. And she found herself leaning into him, and feeling the nearness of him ... the warmth of him. And, against all the better efforts of whoever thought up that ridiculous code-phrase the night before, there WAS a moon out tonight. And then she was in his arms. And then she had her arms around his neck. And the kiss was the most wonderful thing that had happened in her whole LIFE!

When he said "My apartment is not far from here," she almost blew the whole thing by replying "Yes, I know." But fortunately she was too out of breath for an immediate response, so eventually she simply said "Alright," and then they were on their way to his place.