Skull Session

by Daniel Hecht

  Or Erik died. Can you think of any others?"

  They both considered it. Outside, the bushes and trees above the garden shivered in the wind, full of nervous energy. As if the silence of the house reminded them both of Lia's absence, the tension grew between them. Mo fidgeted, picking up and discarding the handful of interesting trinkets Paul had found in the big room and left on the table along with the photographs. A ball of amber with a small dragonfly trapped inside, a queer earring consisting of a silver skull backed by a small red-and-green feather, a pewter paperweight in the form of a miniature steam locomotive. The detective's fingers returned several times to the earring.

  "A weird piece, isn't it? My aunt has strange tastes," Paul said, feeling awkward.

  Mo dropped it distractedly, shrugged. They were both stalling, Paul realized.

  For a moment, Paul felt the old tics building, the itching inside. To cover the bell-ringing gesture, he stretched and stood up. "You want some coffee?" he asked.

  "Coffee'd be good."

  Paul turned to the table and poured coffee into Styrofoam cups.

  "Black okay? We've got powdered white stuff* if you want it."

  "Black's fine."

  "I've been drinking a lot of this shit the last few days. I don't know if I told you, my aunt's supposed to come out this weekend. I'd like to be further along. I'm trying to catch up—a lot of late nights."

  "Yeah, Lia mentioned she was coming back." The detective's eyebrows jumped involuntarily as he realized he'd backed into the issue.

  "She, uh, told you we had lunch yesterday?"

  "Yes, she did."

  Mo nodded. "I figured she would."

  Paul didn't answer.

  "I've been working too hard," Mo said. "One of the kids I've been talking to about this whole thing killed herself, it kind of bent me out of shape. So I got drunk the night before, I was a little off when I ran into Lia. I guess you could say I, uh, came on to her. I don't mean anything physical, but—she told you this?"

  Paul nodded.

  Mo looked at his hands. Then he seemed to get over his need to apologize. "She's an exceptional person. You are a very, very fortunate son ofa bitch."

  "You're divorced, aren't you?" Paul said mildly. "Sometime within the last year or so?"

  "I tell you that earlier?"

  "Let's just say I recognize the state of mind. From first-hand experience." Mo had handled it well, humbling himself only so far and no further, paying some dues but not more. You had to like him. "Mo, if I met Lia now, I'd go for her like crazy, I'd try for her, no matter who she was with. I don't blame you."

  He sat back down, facing Mo. They drank coffee in silence.

  "Anyway," Mo said, calmer.

  "So where do we go from here? I can't go running any outside research, I don't have the time. I'm scrambling to get this job done, with my aunt coming. I want to get the rest of my pay and get the fuck out of here. Can you look into Erik III for me?"

  "It's on my agenda. I'll start with the last place we know he was—this Westford Center in Schenectady." Mo slapped the wrinkled papers.

  "This is Michael Stropes." The voice was deep, cultured. Not a crackpot's voice.

  "Dr. Stropes, this is Paul Skoglund. I wrote to you recently about hyperdynamism.''

  "Oh, yes. Did you get my letter?"

  "Yes, I did. I wanted to thank you, and also to ask if there was any chance you and I could meet. Preferably sometime soon. I'll gladly accommodate your schedule if you can spare me the time."

  Stropes was quiet, and Paul wondered if the doctor had noticed the urgency in his request. "As a matter of fact, Thursday afternoon has suddenly opened up for me. A cancellation. Not that there hasn't been a rush to fill the vacuum, but I'll gladly set aside some time to see you, if you can make it tomorrow."

  They settled on one o'clock, at Stropes's office in Manhattan.

  After talking to Stropes, Paul tried Vivien in San Francisco, and again she didn't answer. He hung up, feeling speedy, full of energy, full of pressure. Through the kitchen windows, he could see that the weather had darkened and seemed to be mirroring his internal state: The trees and undergrowth jerked as if something were scurrying among them.

  Without really thinking about it, he brought Ted's .38 upstairs when he went back to work in Vivien's bedroom. The feel of the gun tucked under his waistband wasn't too bad, he decided.

  He filled bag after bag with shattered things, putting valuables or reparable items into boxes he stacked along one wall. The more he saw the details, the more the damage registered. Here was a solid rosewood drawer-front, folded in thirds as if it were cardboard. The heavy ebony legs of what had once been a canopy bed, broken and twisted. What finally stopped him was a crushed, grapefruit-size sphere of brass, elaborately etched with Arabic designs. The sphere was hollow, with threaded holes at both ends, and from the shred of electrical wiring running through it Paul deduced that it had served as the base ofa lamp. Turning the heavy thing in his hands, he could see that the brass was over half an inch thick, yet had been squeezed almost flat by some incalculable pressure. Looking closely, he saw a familiar pattern in the four evenly spaced parallel dents that marred one side. He slid his fingers into them and found it a perfect fit. On the other side, the rounded dent ofa thumb.

  Yes, it had to be. A handprint.

  61

  THURSDAY MORNING, MO SAT AT his desk reviewing his conversation with Paul Skoglund. There was something different about him, Mo decided, beyond just the bloodshot eyes of overwork. Some quality of assertiveness or alertness. He had seemed to take charge of their conversation, leading, deciding, anticipating.

  All in all, their talk about Lia had gone better than Mo had any right to expect. He found himself appreciating Paul more than ever. Part of it was the way he'd smiled when they talked about it. There wasn't any pity or condescension or one-upmanship in it. Just a moment of understanding, an ain't life a bitch smile. A good guy.

  He wasn't sure how the sudden appearance of another Hoffmann son altered the picture. Paul thought it was important, and the history of violent pathology might connect to the business at Highwood, the dismembered and missing kids, or it might not. What did Paul think, he was living up there in the woods or something? Was Erik III, in his violent rages, Heather's Superman? Mo still couldn't escape the feeling that Paul wasn't telling him everything.

  The problem in tracking Erik HI was that the last institution he'd been committed to, or at least that they'd found the papers for, no longer existed. None of the directories in the library reference section showed a Westford Psychiatric Treatment Center licensed in New York, and the Schenectady phone directory did not list a number. Westford must have gone out of business since 1983. Presumably its patients had been transferred to other institutions, and their medical records would no doubt have traveled with them. What about other records of a defunct mental facility? Some would be found in various files maintained by the state—licensed care providers, registered corporations. But would they offer information on transfers of patients?

  There had to be a way to narrow the field of where to look. Long-term care for somebody like Erik Hoffmann III would have to be a speciahzed thing. You wouldn't want him in a bed next to a sweet grandmother with advanced senility, and you'd want staff trained to deal with violent behaviors. Plus Vivien would no doubt have looked for top experts in the field.

  Mo thumbed through his phone book, dialed a number in Albany. He got routed through several departments before finding the right person in the records department and identifying himself. "I'm in a rush on an important investigation," he told the secretary. "Perhaps you could do me a favor? I need information on the Westford Psychiatric Treatment Center, in Schenectady. I believe it is now out of operation but was still in business in 1983."

  "We maintain annual directories from prior years, sir. I have it here."

  "I need the name of the director of the facility. Also of the chief of psychiatric services.
"

  "Okay." Mo could hear her lips moving as she scanned the page.

  "Oh, here. Dr. Bernard B. Andrews, executive director, Dr. Mona D.

  Wright-Kerson, managing director, Dr. Morris K. Gunderson, director of psychiatric services."

  "Perfect," Mo said, jotting the names. "Now, do those things have indexes? Are they cross-referenced by staff?"

  "Let me see. Yes, it has a staff index."

  "Fabulous. Can you do me one more favor? Get a copy of the current directory. Tell me where those people are now?"

  Mo waited, listening to the air on the other end of the phone.

  "Looking in this year's edition, sir, I don't see a listing for Dr. Bernard Andrews. I've got the other two, though."

  "Okay. Where do they work now?"

  He heard the flipping of pages, and she read off the names of two facilities.

  Mo asked for Mona Wright-Kerson and was told that Dr. Wright wasn't available, but that he could leave a message. He wondered if Dr. Mona had gotten divorced since 1983. Welcome to the club, Mona. Dr. Gunderson was now director of the Isaac P. Cohen Center in Syracuse. Mo dialed and asked for the doctor and was shocked to find himself on the line with the man within moments.

  "Dr. Gunderson, this is Morgan Ford, I'm an investigator with the New York State Police BCI. I'm hoping you can provide me with some information."

  Dr. Gunderson spoke like a man accustomed to authority. "We need to be cautious about issues of legal authority and medical confidentiality. I can't promise I'll provide you with what you want."

  "I'm trying to locate a person who may be associated with a series of violent crimes in upper Westchester County. Specifically, I am looking for an individual who was under your nominal care at Westford, around ten years ago. I want to know where he is now."

  "That's correct, I was chief of psychiatric services there. But as to where a given patient is—"

  "His name is Erik Hoffmann III. Mother and legal guardian is Vivien Hoffmann, from Lewisboro—"

  "As to where a given patient is," Gunderson went on, "the laws of medical confidentiality prevent me from even acknowledging whether a person is or is not currently a patient at this institution. Without proper authorization."

  Gunderson's implacable tone made it clear he wasn't going to be shaken. Mo's heart sank. This could be a major runaround, and probably all for nothing anyway.

  "But frankly, Mr. Ford," Gunderson went on, "I don't know why you're asking me this. Your department should know all about it already."

  "How so?"

  "Because we sent you Erik Hoffmann's records. When he disappeared. For the missing persons investigation."

  Mo rocked back in his chair. "I'm sorry. Please explain."

  "The only patient ever to be lost from this facility. And the only reason I'm telling you this much is that confidentiahty was waived a long time ago. When he disappeared, his mother authorized giving your agency his records, to help trace him. I suggest, Detective, that you do your homework before wasting your own time and other people's. Now, if there's nothing else—"

  "When was this?"

  "Six years ago. I remember it well because it nearly wrecked my professional career—the patient's mother certainly did her best to see that it did." Gunderson's voice had some venom in it, barely concealed. "I'd ask what brings it up again, but, frankly, I'd just as soon not involve myself or this institution in any way. Good-bye, Detective."

  62

  "I APPRECIATE YOUR SEEING ME today," Paul told Dr. Stropes. "For someone with a very busy schedule, you've been generous with your time."

  "The pleasure is mine," Stropes said affably. "You've given me an excuse to expound on my favorite subject. And my so-called 'free' time today we both owe to the fact that a video conference we'd planned for this time had to be rescheduled."

  They stood at the security desk in the polished marble lobby as the guard filled out a visitor's authorization for Paul.

  Stropes was a tall man, not much older than Paul, with slightly stooped, narrow shoulders, intelligent eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses. He had skin the color of dark chocolate, with the shining, scrubbed look Paul invariably associated with medical people. He was dressed in dark slacks, a starched blue shirt with its sleeves rolled up, a boldly striped tie.

  Stropes's office on the third floor was large and well-lit, separated from the hall by glass walls. Inside, it was furnished in tasteful natural woods and textured fabrics. A counter ran the length of one wall, holding two oversized computer monitors, keyboards, a pair of printers, stacks of paper and manila folders. A floor-to-ceiling window let in light from a small internal courtyard.

  Stropes gestured for Paul to sit in one of the chairs in front of the counter and took a seat himself. "Only so much of my work is actually done in the lab. A lot of it is done here—the data entry, statistical analysis, graphic development, projections, computer modeling. I can access files from all over the country. One of the side benefits for me, of course, is that I can use the hardware for some of my personal projects. If I may ask, what prompts your interest in the arcane field of HD/HK?"

  Paul had anticipated the question but still wasn't sure how he'd answer it. "I'm in education," he improvised, "and I'm fascinated by the study of cognition. I stumbled across a piece you wrote when I was doing some research in the MedLine database. I was thinking I'd write an article about the topic sometime."

  "So you've come to the horse's mouth. Be forewarned, my work in this area is not—what's a nice euphemism?—'enthusiastically embraced' by many of my colleagues." He clapped his hands on his thighs. "But I'll tell you what I can. Let me start by asking a question: Are you pretty good with computers?"

  "I'd say I have basic computer literacy."

  "Well, these stations are connected to a mainframe Cray, which will handle pretty well anything. So in my spare moments, I get to play with some very powerful applications." Stropes slapped a key on the keyboard in front of him. "You've heard of Virtual Jack?"

  "Virtual, as in virtual reality, I'm familiar with. What's Virtual Jack?"

  "Well, Virtual Jack is a sort of a, a cyberspace robot, a computer program ofa human form in three dimensions that will operate on the screen in a way that's anatomically correct. The original was developed by a friend of mine, Norm Badler, at the University of Pennsylvania. Jack is quite an amazing fellow." Stropes moved the mouse and clicked it several times, opening up a succession of brightly colored windows on the screen. "In the medical field, a number of variations of Virtual Jack have been developed for specific purposes. What I've done is borrowed some ideas, invented a few new twists. This is my masterpiece, so far. I call him Hyper Jack." Stropes's grin broadened, a shy smile of pride.

  Paul guessed that in the skeptical confines of the research center, he didn't show his masterpiece to many.

  An outline ofa human figure appeared in neon blue against the almost black background of the screen. Within seconds, a tracery of lines filled in the outline, until the figure appeared to Paul as a three-dimensional wire sculpture ofa man, made of polygons like a geodesic dome. He stood on a checkerboard floor that tapered away into the distance.

  "What's valuable about this simulacrum is that he is subject to all the same constraints of motion as a real person. Each line of the grid he's made of is mathematically quantifiable. If he lifts his leg or bends his arm, it's within the real limits of skeletal arc and muscular contraction or extension. He has virtual weight and mass. The forces that Jack can bring to bear are all accurate models ofa living human and available for me to visualize and measure."

  Stropes's enthusiasm grew as he talked: "As I said, each line, and each area enclosed by the lines, is a quantifiable unit. That means I can get a true measure of what any movement means. I can see it in graphic form on the body of Jack, or I can see it in a numerical readout up here. For example, when he bends his arm, say like this, the biceps must contract to lever up the forearm. I can visualize the amount of contractio
n by looking at Jack's arm, shortening here, thickening here, or I can see on the readout that in moving the arm through a 135-degree arc the biceps shortens from ten inches to seven-point-two inches. I can do this with every muscle system in the body. The program can also calculate the speeds of movement caused by any amount of muscular contraction, and the foot-pounds of force required to produce any speed."

  On the screen, Jack did knee-bends, jumping jacks, squat thrusts. Flashing figures in a column of boxes at the right of the screen analyzed the movements of each muscle group.

  "This is the skeletomuscular Jack, but there are several other views of him. First is the internal Jack—his organs, and the biochemical processes occurring within the organs."

  As Paul watched, the hollow interior of the blue image filled with colored structures. He recognized lungs, heart and circulatory system, spinal cord and peripheral nerves, other organs. The heart pulsed regularly, the lungs expanded and contracted.

  "For me, the important part is what each anatomical system does. Let me give you an example. Jack is right now an adult human male, five feet eleven, 175 pounds, he's fit and active. Let's look at him in two different modes of activity." Stropes touched the mouse and the screen split in two, with an identical version ofJack on each side. Now, inside the neon blue outline of his body, his heart, organs, brain, and muscles showed in varying intensities of blood red.

  "I'm going to look at his blood flow. On the left is Jack at rest. You can see that his heart and lungs are pulsing slowly—about seventy heartbeats and ten breaths per minute. You can also see by the intensity of the color of his organs and muscles where his blood is going. The figures over here tell the exact story: At rest, he's pumping about 5,900 milliliters of blood per minute. About 750 go to his brain, 250 to the heart, 650 to his muscles, 500 to his skin. The biggest recipient of his at-rest blood flow is his internal organs, which are getting 3,100 milliliters a minute."

  Stropes tapped the mouse again, and the Jack on the right-hand screen changed. He did a quick round of calisthenics, then began to run at a good clip, arms pumping, the floor scrolling behind him. His heart fluttered, the lungs squeezed faster. The organs dimmed, while the large muscles exploded with crimson.