Death Match

by Lincoln Child

  As he listened, Lash became aware of another voice: low, just on the edge of audibility, little more than a whisper. It was not coming from any of the screens, but seemingly from all around. He paused to listen.

  Technology, the voice was saying. Today, it’s used to make our lives easier, longer, more comfortable. But what if technology could do something even more profound? What if it could bring completion, bring utter fulfillment?

  Imagine computer technology so advanced it could reconstruct—virtually—your own personality, the essence of what makes you unique: your hopes, desires, dreams. The inmost needs that not even you may be aware of. Imagine a digital infrastructure so robust it could contain this personality construct of yours—with its countless unique facets and characteristics—along with those of many, many other people. Imagine an artificial intelligence so profound it could compare your construct with these multitudes of others, and—in an hour, a day, a week—find that one person, that sole individual, that is your perfect match. Your ideal soulmate, uniquely fitted by personality, background, interests, countless other benchmarks to be your other half. To make your life complete. Not just two people who happen to share a few interests. But a match where one person complements the other in ways so profound, so subtle, it could never be imagined or anticipated.

  Lash continued to watch the endless sea of faces before him while listening to the disembodied, sonorous voice.

  No blind dates, it went on. No singles parties, where your choice is limited to a handful of random meetings. No evenings wasted on incompatibility. Rather, a proprietary system of profound sophistication. This system is now. And the company is Eden.

  The service is not cheap. But if there is even the slightest dissatisfaction, Eden Incorporated offers a full refund, guaranteed for life. Yet out of the many, many thousands of couples Eden has brought together, not one has requested a refund. Because these people—like those on the screens before you—have learned there is no price that can be put on happiness.

  With a start, Lash looked away from the screens and down at his watch. He was five minutes late for his appointment.

  Walking across the lobby, Lash drew out a card and handed it to one of the uniformed guards. He was given a signed pass and cheerfully directed toward the bank of elevators.

  Thirty-two stories above, Lash stepped into a small but elegant reception area. The tones were neutral, and there was the faintest rush of industrial pink noise. There were no signs, directories, formal guides of any kind: just one desk of polished blond wood, an attractive woman in a business suit behind it.

  “Dr. Lash?” she asked with an engaging smile.

  “Yes.”

  “Good morning. May I see your driver’s license, please?”

  This request was so strange that Lash did not think to question it. Instead, he pulled out his wallet and fished for his license.

  “Thank you.” The woman held it briefly over some scanning apparatus. Then she handed it back with another bright smile, rose from her chair, and motioned him toward a door in the far wall of the reception area.

  They passed down a long corridor, similar in decor to the room they’d just left. Lash noticed many doors, all unlabeled, all closed. The woman stopped before one of them.

  “In here, please,” she said.

  As the door closed behind him, Lash looked around at a well-appointed room. A desk of dark wood sat upon a dense carpet. Several paintings hung on the walls, beautifully framed. Behind the desk, a man now rose to greet him, smoothing his brown suit as he did so. Lash shook the proffered hand, typing the man from old habit as he did so. He looked to be in his late thirties: fairly short, dark complexion, dark hair, dark eyes, muscular but not stocky. Swimmer, perhaps, or tennis player. His bearing spoke of someone self-confident, considered; a man who would be slow to act but, when acting, do so decisively.

  “Dr. Lash,” the man said, returning his gaze. “I’m Edwin Mauchly. Thanks for coming.”

  “Sorry I’m late.”

  “Not at all. Take a seat, please.”

  Lash sat down in the lone leather chair that faced the desk while Mauchly turned toward a computer monitor. He typed for a moment, then stopped. “Give me just a minute here, please. It’s been four years since I gave an entrance interview, and the screens have changed.”

  “Is that what this is?”

  “Of course not. But there’s some similar initial processing to be done.” He typed again. “Here we are. The address of your Stamford office is 315 Front Street, Suite 2?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. If you could just fill out this information for me, please.”

  Lash scanned the white card that was slid across the desk: date of birth, social security number, half a dozen other mundane details. He took a pen from his pocket and began jotting on the form.

  “You used to give entrance interviews?” he said as he wrote.

  “I helped design the process, as an employee of PharmGen. That was early on, before Eden became an independent company.”

  “What’s it like?”

  “What is what like, Dr. Lash?”

  “Working here.” He slid the card back. “You’d think it would be magic. Listening to all those testimonials in the lobby, anyway.”

  Mauchly glanced at the card. “I don’t blame you for being skeptical.” He had a face that managed to look both candid and reticent at the same time. “Two people’s feelings for each other, what can technology do about that? But ask any of our employees. They see it work, time after time, every time. Yes, I guess magic is as good a word for it as any.”

  On the far side of the desk, a telephone rang. “Mauchly,” the man said, tucking the phone beneath his chin. “Very well. Good-bye.” He replaced the phone, then rose. “He’s ready for you, Dr. Lash.”

  He? Lash thought to himself as he picked up his satchel. He followed Mauchly back out into the corridor, to an intersection, then into a wider, plushly appointed hallway that ended in a set of brilliantly polished doors. Reaching them, Mauchly paused, then knocked.

  “Come in,” came a voice from beyond.

  Mauchly opened the door. “I’ll speak with you again shortly, Dr. Lash,” he said, motioning him inside.

  Lash stepped forward, then stopped again as the door clicked closed. Before him stood a long, semicircular table of dark wood. Across it sat a lone man, tall and deeply tanned. He smiled, nodded. Lash nodded back. And then, with a sudden shock of recognition, he realized the man was none other than John Lelyveld, chairman of Eden Incorporated.

  Waiting for him.

  THREE

  T he chairman of Eden Incorporated rose from his seat. He smiled, and his face broke into kindly, almost grandfatherly lines. “Dr. Lash. Thank you so much for coming. Please, take a seat.” And he motioned toward the long table.

  Lash took a seat across from Lelyveld.

  “Did you drive in from Connecticut?”

  “Yes.”

  “How was the traffic?”

  “I was parked on the Cross Bronx about half an hour. Otherwise, okay.”

  The chairman shook his head. “That road is a disgrace. I have a weekend place not far from you myself, in Rowayton. These days I usually take a helicopter. One of the perks.” He chuckled, then opened a leather portfolio that lay beside him. “Just a few formalities before we get started.” He took out a sheaf of stapled pages and passed it across the desk. It was followed by a gold pen. “Would you mind signing this, please?”

  Lash looked at the top page. It was a nondisclosure agreement. He flipped quickly through the pages, found the signature line, signed.

  “And this.”

  Lash took the second proffered document. It appeared to be some kind of guarantee of confidentiality. He turned to the back page, signed.

  “And this, if you please.”

  This time, Lash simply signed without bothering to review the verbiage.

  “Thank you. I do apologize, I hope you understand.”
Lelyveld returned the sheets to the leather portfolio. Then he placed his elbows on the desk, resting his chin on tented fingers. “Dr. Lash, you understand the nature of our service, I believe?”

  Lash nodded. There were few who didn’t: the story of how Eden had grown, over just a handful of years, from a research project of brilliant computer scientist Richard Silver to one of the highest-profile corporations in America was a favorite of financial news services.

  “Then you probably won’t be surprised when I say that Eden Incorporated has fundamentally improved the lives of, at last count, nine hundred and twenty-four thousand people.”

  “No.”

  “Almost half a million couples, with thousands more added each day. And with the opening of satellite offices in Beverly Hills, Chicago, and Miami, we’ve dramatically increased our service range and our pool of potential candidates.”

  Lash nodded again.

  “Our fee is steep—$25,000 per applicant—but we have never yet been asked for a refund.”

  “So I understand.”

  “Good. But it’s important you also understand our service does not end on the day we bring a couple together. There is a mandatory follow-up session with one of our counselors, scheduled three months later. And after six months, couples are requested to join encounter groups with other Eden couples. We carefully monitor our client base—not only for their benefit, but to improve our service, as well.”

  Lelyveld leaned slightly toward Lash, as if to impart a secret across the massive table. “What I’m about to tell you is confidential and trade secret to Eden. In our promotional material, we speak of providing a perfect match. The ideal union between two people. Our computer intelligence compares roughly one million variables from each of our clients to those of other clients, looking for a match. With me so far?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m speaking in gross simplifications here. The artificial intelligence algorithms are the result of Richard Silver’s ongoing work, as well as countless man-hours spent researching the behavioral and psychological factors. But in short, our scientists have determined a specific threshold of matching variables necessary to declare a fit between two candidates.” He shifted in his chair. “Dr. Lash, if you compared these million factors in an average happily married couple, how closely do you think that couple would match each other?”

  Lash thought. “Eighty, maybe eighty-five percent?”

  “That’s a very good guess, but I’m afraid it’s way off. Our studies have shown the average happily married American couple matches in the range of only thirty-five percent.”

  Lash shook his head.

  “You see, people tend to be seduced by superficial impressions, or physical attractions that by themselves will be practically meaningless in a few years. Today’s relationship services and so-called Internet dating sites—with their crude metrics and simplistic questionnaires—actually encourage this. We, on the other hand, use a hybrid computer to find two ideal partners: people for whom a million personal traits are in synch.” He paused. “Not to delve too deeply into proprietary matters, but there are varying degrees of perfection. Our staff has determined a specific percentage—let’s just say it’s over ninety-five—that guarantees an ideal match.”

  “I see.”

  “The fact remains, Dr. Lash—and forgive me if I remind you of the confidentiality of this information—that during the three years Eden has been offering this service, there have in fact been a small number of uniquely perfect matches. Matches in which all one hundred percent of the variables between two people have been in synch.”

  “One hundred percent?”

  “A uniquely perfect match. Of course, we don’t inform our clients as to the precise exactness of their match. But over the lifetime of our service, there have been six such statistically perfect matches. ‘Supercouples,’ as they’re referred to in-house.”

  So far, Lelyveld’s voice has been measured, assured. But now he seemed to hesitate slightly. The grandfatherly smile remained on his face, but an undertone of sadness, even pain, was introduced. “I’ve told you that we do post-monitoring of all our clients . . . Dr. Lash, I’m afraid there’s no pleasant way to say this. Last week, one of our six uniquely perfect couples—” he hesitated, then went on “—committed double suicide.”

  “Suicide?” Lash echoed.

  The chairman glanced down, consulted some notes. “In Flagstaff, Arizona. Lewis and Lindsay Thorpe. The details are rather, ah, unusual. They left a note.” He looked up again. “Can you understand now why we’ve requested your services?”

  Lash was still digesting this. “Perhaps you could spell it out.”

  “You’re a psychologist specializing in family relationships, particularly marital relationships. The book you published last year, Congruency, was a remarkable study on the subject.”

  “I wish more book buyers had felt that way.”

  “The peer reviews were all quite enthusiastic. In any case, in addition to being utterly perfect for each other, the Thorpes were both intelligent, capable, well adapted, happy. Clearly, some tragedy must have befallen this couple after their marriage. Perhaps a medical problem of some sort; perhaps the death of a loved one. Maybe it had to do with financial issues.” He paused. “We need to know what changed in the dynamic of their lives, and why they took such an extreme action as a result. If by some remote chance there’s a latent psychological tendency operating here, we should know so we can prescreen for it in the future.”

  “You’ve got a team of in-house mental health professionals, right?” Lash asked. “Why not use one of them?”

  “Two reasons. First, we want an impartial person to look into the matter. And second, none of our staff has your particular credentials.”

  “Which credentials do you mean?”

  Lelyveld smiled paternally. “I’m referring to your prior occupation. Before you went into private practice, I mean. Forensic psychologist with the FBI, part of the Behavioral Science team operating out of Quantico.”

  “How did you know about that?”

  “Dr. Lash, please. As a former special agent, you no doubt retain behind-the-scenes access to places, people, information. You could undertake such an investigation with great discretion. Were we to investigate ourselves, or request official assistance, there might be questions. And there is no point in causing our clients—past, present, and future—unnecessary concern.”

  Lash shifted in his chair. “There was a reason I left Quantico for private practice.”

  “There’s a newspaper account of the tragedy in your dossier. I’m very sorry. So it doesn’t surprise me you’re not eager to leave the comfort of that practice, even temporarily.” The chairman opened the leather portfolio, removed an envelope. “Hence the amount of the enclosed.”

  Lash took the envelope and opened it. Inside was a check for $100,000.

  “That should cover your time, travel, and expenses. If more is needed, let us know. Take your time, Dr. Lash. Thoroughness, and a subtle approach, are what’s required here. The more we know, the more effective we can make our service in the future.”

  The chairman paused a moment before speaking again. “There is one other possibility, however remote. And that is one of the Thorpes was unstable, had a prior history of mental problems they were somehow able to conceal from our evaluation. This is highly, highly unlikely. However, if you are unable to find an answer over the course of their married life, you may have to look into their past as well.”

  Lelyveld closed the portfolio with an air of finality. “Ed Mauchly will be your primary point of contact for this investigation. He’s put together a few things to get you started. We can’t release our own files on the couple, of course, but they wouldn’t be of much interest to you anyway. The answer to this riddle lies in the private lives of Lewis and Lindsay Thorpe.”

  The man fell silent again, and for a moment Lash wondered if the meeting was over. But then Lelyveld spoke again, his voice qui
eter now, more intimate. The smile had faded. “We have a very special feeling for all of our clients, Dr. Lash. But to be honest, we feel particularly strongly about our perfect couples. Whenever a new supercouple is found, word ripples throughout the company, despite our best attempts to keep it private. They’re very rare. So I’m sure you can understand how painful and difficult this news was to me, especially since the Thorpes were our very first such couple. Luckily their deaths were kept out of the papers, so our employees have so far been spared the sad news. I’d be personally grateful for any light you can shed on what, precisely, went wrong in their lives.”

  When Lelyveld stood and extended his hand, the smile returned, only now it was wistful.

  FOUR

  T wenty-four hours later, Lash stood in his living room, sipping coffee and gazing out the bay window. On the far side of the glass lay Compo Beach, a long, narrow comma of sand almost devoid of waders and walkers this weekday morning. The tourists and summer renters had left weeks before, but this was the first time in a month he’d taken the time to really look out the window. He was struck by the relative emptiness of the beach. It was a clear, bright morning: across the sound, he could make out the low green line of Long Island. A tanker was passing, a silent ghost heading for the open Atlantic.

  Mentally, he went over again the preparations he’d made. His regular private therapy and counseling sessions had been cancelled for one week. Dr. Kline would cover for the groups. It had all been remarkably easy.

  He yawned, took another sip of coffee, and caught sight of himself in a mirror. Deciding what to wear had been a little more difficult. Lash had always disliked fieldwork, and his upcoming appointment felt a little too much like old times. But he reminded himself it would speed things up enormously. People didn’t just deviate into aberrant behavior, especially something as exotic as double suicide. Something must have happened in the two years since the Thorpes got married. And it wouldn’t be subtle: some minor life upheaval, say, or a drift toward serious depression. It would be massive, obvious in hindsight to those who’d been around them. He might, in fact, understand what went wrong in their lives by the end of the day. With luck, he could have the case study written up tomorrow. It would be the quickest $100,000 he’d ever earned.