He's in his house long after the car leaves, and the moment he closes the door, he feels the need to vomit again.
It was unpleasant experience, but he gets rid of his stomach's contents one last time before he cleans his house up. He's maybe halfway done when the door makes a knocking sound, and looking at the close puts him in a state of realization.
It is 3:30PM. His patient's appointment has been scheduled to happen five minutes ago. So…the knocker is probably him.
Themba Killian sighs at himself and his inability to keep track of time. It's another bad habit. He tries to keep himself in touch with those kinds of things—but they tend to be ridiculously hard to keep track of sometimes. He always has so many better things to do.
Regardless of his wardrobe, he answered the door with a tight and tired smile. "Hello, you must be David," he says.
The man, David Steele, nods. "Um. Yes…and…and you must be Dr…Dr…"
"Dr. Rosebourne," he says.
David nods a little. "Dr. Rosebourne," he repeats, his voice soft and recessive. He scans Themba Killian with darting amber eyes. "You—you seem p-prepared…"
"Sorry for the inappropriate wardrobe. I've had a rather crowded day," he says. "Come in. Let's get started."
"H-how long will I be here…? I've—I've heard that some of your appointments t-take quite a few hours," he stammers, purposefully looking small despite his height as he shallowly steps inside the large living room of the house.
"You made a significantly shorter one. You'll only be here until seven, maybe a bit longer depending on how it goes," Themba Killian replies. He closes the door and guides David through the living room and down another hallway to a significantly larger room. It is a large library, and there are a few comforting chairs scattered about in the middle. There is a desk, and some small tables next to some wooden chairs, and a leather chair meant for lying down.
David looks fairly frightened as he enters the room, but he manages himself and follows the psychiatrist to a dark leather chair. "H-how does it work…?"
"Sit," Themba Killian instructs. "We'll get started in a moment. I just need to check on some things."
David looks at the chair nervously. "Why?"
"Why what?"
"W-why…c-check?"
"You're a brave one," Themba Killian comments with a smile. "It's simple. You just need to sit and keep that bravery. I will take care of the rest."
David eyes him before he nods and sits down in the chair with a slight shake to his legs.
"You'll be fine," Themba Killian assures him. He goes to the desk and pulls out one large box from underneath it, but whatever is inside is covered by a black sheet, and David can't see nor hear it. He pulls out a sheet of paper and a pen next, and approaches David. He keeps his distance when he gets close enough though, the box sitting ominously on the opposite chair. It's long enough that it could reach out to both armrests. "Here, sign this, please. It's important that you do before we get started."
David looks at it, taking the pen and skimming over what seems to be a gag order. "H-how come…?"
"It's nothing special," Themba Killian says. "You came to me over word-of-mouth. But you never knew how I work. It's a bit of a payment; without you're signature, we can't get rid of your ophidiophobia."
"…What—w-what will you do?" David asks quietly
"I can't say anything until the gag order is signed," Themba Killian points out. "I've signed a version of it myself. Treatments can't and won't be spoken of outside of this room without confidentiality. You signing it is your privilege to hear about it."
"…And…if—if I don't…?"
"Payment would double, and you'd be kept out of the loop as to what I'm going to do," the psychiatrist explains. "And your paranoia is another reason why you're here, isn't it? You told me all about it over email…about how it affects your daily life. I want to help you, David, and you want help. Don't let it overcome you. Keep your bravery."
David stares at him for a few quiet seconds before he signs the contract with a weak hand and gives it back just as the pen was lifted from the paper.
Themba Killian smiles, taking it and signing it as well before he sets it aside. "Alrighty, time to begin," he says. "Now, in this box is my good friend Jeff. He's here to help."
David shifts as the sheet is pulled from the box, but it still doesn't reveal what is inside.
"Jeff was a good friend of my cousins, once upon a time," Themba Killian says idly as he opens to flaps of the box. "I was terrified of Jeff and his friends for a while until my cousin put him on me in my sleep and held me down. It took a while, but I got used to Jeff. We're good friends now."
David felt dread rip through him as he hears a gentle scraping sound coming from that large, opaque box.
Themba Killian pulls out the snake of a huge python just then, carefully letting him slither up his arm. "Jeff killed my cousin about a year ago," he went on explaining. "Since I actually liked Jeff, I managed to save him. He's been with me ever since. He's a patient fellow. Really. He likes people…so long as they aren't loud or anything." The python is at his neck by now. "Fear is a vicious motivator, Mr. Steele. It's an amazing weapon that no one uses. Your ophidiophobia can be battled by you successfully accommodating with a snake."
David shivers and leans away from the sight, his breaths short and becoming real with panic.
Themba Killian is standing next to him moments later with that huge twenty-foot python wrapping around his body, the snake's head poking about as his tongue flickers for scents. "Now, this is where you really need to be brave, yeah?" David swallowed nervously and almost nodded. "Good. Stay still."
The terrified blonde looks at the psychiatrist with wide, pleading blue eyes that are leaking a little with fear, but Themba Killian doesn't bother with it. He just smiles, and lets Jeff slither onto the terrified David Steele.
---
"Dr. Rosebourne."
"A little busy, love. Can it wait, or do I have to kick someone out over something?"
The woman at the door looks a bit unnerved by that, and she clutches the straps of her purse.
It makes Themba Killian look up. He smiles apologetically. "Apologies, miss. I thought you were a disliked colleague of mine. Please, come in. Sit. What can I do for you?"
She quietly treads further into his office and stiffly sits in a chair, looking a bit nervous. Her breathing is a bit erratic, and she fiddles with her clothes.
"Has something happened?" he inquires seriously behind his glasses.
She nods. "Y-yes…m-my brother…David, he disappeared," she says nervously. "He…he was here. Or—or h-he was with you. Before that. D-do you know what happened?"
Themba Killian does. He had to do something about poor David. "I'm not entirely sure," he replies. "By the end of our session, he had chest pains. I told him to go to his doctor. Have you checked there?"
She shakes her head. "N-no…he—he would've called me if that happened…"
"He didn't have his phone on him," Themba Killian states. "I asked him if he did so it wouldn't disrupt anything, but he said he didn't have it. I thought it was a bit odd for someone like him."
Her eyes widen. "That's…that's not right…"
"Why? Is something wrong?"
"He—he keeps his phone on him at all times," she says with a worried expression. "I—I-I tell him to because of his suicidal tendencies…and if he doesn't have his phone…" She starts to cry and tremble with fear and sadness. "Dr. Rosebourne…please tell me…please tell me he's okay…"
Themba Killian can't. He knows David has heart problems, but he also knows how to keep someone's terror in-check so that his treatments wouldn't cause his patient's heart problems more problems. It's worked in the past. He even went as far as checking David physically when they finished their session last night at ten-something PM. There has only ever been the chest pain.
So, he dies of a heart attack. Simple as that. Only he doesn't. Themba Killian's hangover and agitation of the appointment's length and happenstances combined made him more pissy than usual, and he accidentally buried poor David alive at ten-elevenish-something.
But he isn't exactly a walking guilt trip. One little miscalculation isn't a strange and mysterious thing. Sometimes they cost a lot though—this is a good example.
Themba Killian sighed and stood up, walking around his desk and kneeling in front of David's sister, placing his hands in hers with reassuring hazel blue eyes. "I have a friend," he says, "on the force. He can help you in your search for your brother. How does that sound?"
Her crying ceases for a few seconds, reduced to sniffles as she regains her tiny composure and wipes her tears away. "Y-yes…please," she stutters, flustered by his touch and suggestions. "That—that'd be lovely…"
"I'll call him," he says. "You wait here, okay? I'll be right back."
She nods as he leaves the office, closing the door and pulling up his calls. He scrolls past his many useless contacts until he gets to one "Ivan J. Hamish", and presses the call button. It takes no more than two rings for him to answer.
"What do you want?" he asks grumpily.
Themba Killian rolls his eyes quietly. "Come pick someone up and bring her to the station," he says quietly. "She keeps claiming she has a brother that visited me. I think she's relapsing a traumatic event."
"Not my division," Ivan snaps.
"Send someone over to pick her up at least," he hisses impatiently. "I can't keep telling her all about how a brave and handsome detective will find her dead brother." Stupidly sad but true, he thinks as an after-thought to that sentence.
"…Fine. Scottie will come pick her up," he replies. "Keep her busy until then."
"Yup. Bye." And he abruptly hung up, tucking his phone back into his pocket.
He peers briefly into the office before he steps in completely.
She turns her head to him. "Will the police help?"
Themba Killian smiles sadly. "I'm sorry to say this, but your brother…he died," he informs. "He died of a heart attack."
She freezes and looks at him with wide eyes, her mouth tight and her posture stiffening.
"Whatever happened…was an illusion. You were hallucinating," he went on. "It's not uncommon among the grieving and shocked…"
His voice trails off when she stands up and turns her body towards him. Themba Killian almost sighs. She clearly isn't hearing him, and the likelihood of her attacking is climbing higher the longer this situation goes on. It isn't the first time; he's been attacked by violent patients before.
"He's dead," Themba Killian states again, his voice louder and more resolute than before. "Your brother is dead, miss. David died of a heart attack. He isn't here anymore."
She winced, but she still isn't completely responsive. In fact, her arm is moving to the innards of her purse—and Themba Killian was very sure that she was going to pull a gun out. They usually do.
"Did you hear me, miss?" he asks almost rhetorically. "David died. He is dead."
She finally blinks and sheds tears again, just as heavy as before, but…quiet. It's a quiet sadness, and Themba Killian knew he was a bit safer now. Not completely safe, but…safer.
"Could you hear me that time…?" he asks softly, stepping closer with a certain caution and slight unease. But he stays calm, because making anything sudden is a dangerous card to play.
She blinks again and sniffs. "Yeah," she says. "I did. David's dead. He died of a heart attack. I was hallucinating." She lets go of held breath full of her grief, her hand slipping into the purse completely and pulling out a small hand gun. "But I'd know if I were hallucinating, Dr. Rosebourne. I take medication to prevent it."
"It's clearly not working," he points out, but internally he feels himself kicking himself. "What will you do now? Kill me? Kill yourself? It won't do any good either way."
She stares at him with shaking hands and spilling tears before she pulls back the safety. "You've been lying to me," she says. "David had a tracker on his phone. When he was late, I checked where he's been. He was at your house…last night. And it was the last thing he ever did." She cried harder. "You killed him."
"No—"
"Shut up. You killed my baby brother," she hisses. "You killed him…how could you!"
She points the gun at him and shoots point blank quite a few times.
Themba Killian barely manages to duck in time. One of the bullets hits his shoulder as he goes down, and for a moment he is delayed by the pain. She's ready to pull the trigger again, but she's stopped when security personnel barges in and starts screaming at her. Her own fear does most of the job, and in the end, she breaks down crying and drops the gun.
Themba Killian, on the other hand, is bleeding. He isn't particularly bothered. The sight of blood was more relaxing than anything, but he can't breathe properly, and the pain is causing his vision to blur and darken. He does get help—but he ignores them, and can't help but wonder if he should get revenge on that stupid bitch for shooting him by killing her horribly, or by putting her in some sort of mental institute for the criminally deranged.
Either way, it won't make a difference.
He can burn her either way.
---
The twenty-second of February is a busy day. Themba Killian got a short-lived emergency surgery—and it lasts for maybe a few hours before he's awake, his arm in a sling and Ivan by his bedside with the birds chirping in light of the early, creamy and grey sunset.
"How did it happen?" Ivan asks.
"I told her David died," he explains, "and she thought I killed him because one of the last places he was at was my house."
"Do you know how that happened?"
"I followed him home to make sure he didn't do anything stupid," Themba Killian states. "He died while walking home. I called it in."
"Was she told?"
"Probably," he says. "She says she's on medication for hallucination. I checked her; she's schizophrenic and has anxiety, and has a history of hallucinating."
Ivan waves his hand dismissively. "Yeah, yeah. Tell your other psychiatrist friends that. What about David? Why didn't you help him?"
"Somebody was already trying and doing a good job at it. I just called 911," he replies. It is all one big fat lie unfortunately. The treatment was fairly successful with his ophidiophobia; he was planning to come in same time next week.
"We could never find him though," Ivan points out, frowning and flipping through a report. "I can't find any mention of a hospital arrival or even a time of death or treatment. Just that you called 911, and that the ambulance arrived without anyone to treat."
"I looked away for maybe a minute, and when I turned around both David and the person were gone," he says. "Wasn't sure what to do about that."
"Were you drunk again?"
"I only had three shots. But so did David. He wanted something intoxicating."
Ivan rolls his eyes and rubs one of them with the base of his wrist tiredly. "You're an idiot."
"Thanks, I appreciate your sentiment."
"Don't be sarcastic with me, Themba. My patience is thin with you today," he says sharply. Themba Killian just stares. The detective sighs and closes the file. "Why do you have to be so careless sometimes?"
"We were stuck in one room for seven hours," he points out. "You tend to get exhausted and pissy after a while."
"Shut up."
Themba Killian stares again, but his hazel blue eyes are slightly irritated this time. "Something's happened. What's wrong?"
"Well, you kind of let somebody die. And the pattern with our murderer isn't holding up," he says somberly. "He kills every two days, right? We'd have heard something by now.
Themba Killian blinks thoughtfully, his tongue working as he carefully chooses his words. Ivan tends to hate his careless ones when he gets like this. "…That's problematic…if he has what I think he has…" he murmurs. "What do we do?"
"We can't do anything," he points out. "I hate it."
"You always do."
Ivan sighs and looks at his shoulder. "Does it hurt?" he asks.
"Not really," Themba Killian replies. "Only if I move it. The painkillers are doing good work."
Ivan frowns at him for a few seconds, but then he nods slowly as his eyes start trailing away while he lets his thought process float. Themba Killian takes the moment to lean his head back on the hospital pillow perched up for his comfort, closing his eyes. Only a few seconds pass before he hears Ivan say, "Wake up."
"I'm not even sleeping," he says dryly.
"What?"
Themba Killian opens his eyes and looks at the detective. "I'm not even sleeping," he repeats with a flat tone.
"…Um, okay…" Ivan mutters. He sighs and gets up, the file tucking itself under his arm as he grabs his overcoat. "Well, anyways, I need to get going. Is the psychoanalysis finished?"
"No. Could you bring it to me? I couldn't finish it yesterday because of your dumb ass," Themba Killian says.
Ivan rolls his eyes. "Yeah, yeah. Sure thing," he grumbles. "Blame it on me."
Themba Killian just hums idly and takes his phone. He sees that it's almost noon, and his only notifications are the text messages he's gotten from co-workers he never talks to and Ivan spewing nonsense about ridiculous amounts of paperwork. "Bye-bye," Themba Killian says as the detective leaves the hospital room.
"Oh! By the way," Ivan says before he leaves, "Scottie needs some consulting on a case of his. Try not to talk him to death."
"When do I ever?" Themba Killian murmurs, but Ivan doesn't hear him, and the door closes behind his heels.
It leaves Themba Killian to wonder, though. He's been hearing the phrase "wake up" more than he likes to admit, and he isn't sure what to think of it. It's a haunting pair of words for him, because wake up from what? Audible hallucinations are no stranger to him; he sees it just about everyday, and in his bad days, he experiences it. But it's never repetitive with him.
Not to mention, "wake up" is a very common phrase. So what does it mean for him? When will he know if it's fake, or real? Themba Killian knew those answers were not his to answer though. He can't exactly got to anyone though. A psychologist…going to another psychologist…he doesn't like this idea.
It makes him feel too out in the open—and he can't stand for that vulnerability.
---
The murderer follows up on his pattern the next day, and Themba Killian is discharged hours before. The kill is a bit more discreet this time though.
And the methods are different.
"He was burned to death," Janelle is saying.
Themba Killian blinks at the crisp and scorched body. The flesh is burnt nearly to the bone, and he smells the kerosene standing at least three feet away as he watches Ivan and a team of forensics coordinate and collect evidence.
"Probably," he says. "Fire is also another way of getting rid of evidence."
"You mean how the victim could've been originally killed," she states. "The signature is there. Our murderer left a little note and took an organ. Say…Mr. Peter, what's the estimated time of death?"
The forensic scientist she is talking to—Mr. Peter—looks up at her. "Looks like they've been dead for about two or three days," he says. He points at some of the maggots that are burned by the outline of their body. "But they were burned mid-rigor mortis. These little babies here are at least a day old. He could've been interrupted."
"If it's a person, then we're looking for a second corpse," Ivan says almost tiredly. He sighs and wipes his forehead with his arm. He isn't sweating—it's more of an anxious tick than anything. "Maybe an animal?"
"It's more likely to be a person if he's been delayed or something," Peter points out. "Animals don't talk." He looks up to Themba Killian anyways. "What do you think, Dr. Rosebourne?"
"The second corpse would be within a half of a mile of this one," he states. "But then there's always the chance that this is the second one though. It would explain the delay between the original death and the burning. It's too abnormal for him to suddenly do this."
"We'll have some officers go search," Ivan says in a mutter. He pulls the gloves off properly, handing them to Peter and turning to Themba Killian. "Do you think this is David?"
"Why would they be?" he asks. But then his eyes light up as he looks at the detective. "The person who helped him."
"Yes. That guy," he says. "The one who spirited him away. Did you see his face?"
"No. He was tall and wore dark clothes, though," Themba Killian states. "His hair was dark brown. That's all I could see. I was trying to be discreet."
Ivan smiles and brightens up. His shoulders are slowly squaring themselves in a way that expressed anticipation and pride. "This could be a break-through," he says, his body practically vibrating with thoughts and emotions. "Was there anyone else?"
"It was in a neighborhood, but it was late. Nobody realized what was going on until the ambulance came," he replies. "There could've been security footage, but I have my doubts."
Ivan sighs. "You always do. Let's go find out," he says.
"I can't," Themba Killian points out. "I've had to push back all of my appointments until mid-April by two or three days because I was shot. I'm going to be working like a hellhound until then."
"Why do you do that?"
"Do what? Work? It's the social norm of being able to pay my bills and contribute to my country, Ivan, that's why I work."
The detective rolls his hazel green eyes. "Okay, well, can you still make it to that apple party?"
"I made sure to keep those hours free," he informs. He looks at the detective. "Don't you have another body to be worried about?"
"Well…yeah. But they haven't found it yet," he says. He sighs, scratching the back of his head and scrunching his nose. "How come you never said anything earlier?"
"I didn't suspect that he was the killer," Themba Killian points out almost sheepishly, his ears tinging red a bit as Ivan gives him a dry stare. "And…I was careless. Sorry."
"Fine. Apology accepted. Now stop being a careless idiot. Have you got the psychoanalysis with you?"
"…No."
The detective gives him a long and flat stare, obviously trying to think of how to response to that. He doesn't, though. He just turns his attention to the officer that approached him with an alert face. "Find anything?" he asks.
The officer nods grimly. "Yes," he says. "We found a mutilated woman almost a quarter a mile away from this body. It seems like Dr. Rosebourne's theory is correct."
Ivan looks at the psychiatrist blankly before he turns his face back to the officer. "Take me to her," he says, and leaves Themba Killian.
ns 15.158.61.8da2
