by Walter Marks
"Of course," I said out loud, "The Kung Pao Chicken! MSG — powerful migraine trigger...Schmuck!”
When I got back to the motel, I injected the sumatriptan and lay down in the darkened room. Just endure the pain, wait the monster out. After half an hour the medication kicked in and helped. But not enough. I got up, searched in my briefcase, and found a sample packet of Nembutal. It was old, but I took it anyway. As it came on, the headache started to fade, and then I conked out.
I had a strange, inchoate, disturbing dream.
Victor Janko has me cornered in his cell, slashing me over and over with his razor-sharp palette knife. I’m screaming in pain, helpless to defend myself. The blood spills from my body and runs in a crimson stream across the floor, then up into a claw foot porcelain-enameled bathtub.
Suddenly Melissa is there, twisting the hot water faucet, turning it on full blast as rising steam clouds the air. Gradually the water turns to the color of rosé wine, then to cherry Jell-O, and finally to the inflamed scarlet of arterial blood.
I awoke at dawn, my pillow soaked with sweat. My vision was bleary after a night of drug-induced sleep. But one thing was clear — I knew what I had to do about Victor Janko.
CHAPTER 7
"Gin."
"Nuts," the priest said, laying down his cards on Ben's desk. "Ten...twenty...twenty eight."
Ben took his E-cig out of his mouth. "That's game," he said. "Score is Protestants 107, Roman Catholics zippo. Looks like the Reformation all over again."
"Okay, okay," the cleric said with a moan. "I owe you a dollar seven. Put it on my tab."
I was watching from the open door, not wanting to interrupt them. The priest looked to be about sixty years of age. He had a full head of snow-white hair and a florid face. His voice had the flat, sort of dimwitted tone of a hockey player in a post-game TV interview. Probably he was French-Canadian.
"Y'know, Pops," Ben said to him, "I can't believe you discarded that ace. It's almost like you wanted to lose."
"Do you come to me for confession?"
"No."
"Well, I don't come to you for psychoanalysis," the clergyman said. ”So button it.”
They laughed. I decided to come in.
“Hey, David,” Ben said warmly. “Meet Father Emile Toussenel. He’s pastor of the Roman Catholic Church in town, the Church of the Incarnation. Pops...Dr. David Rothberg.”
"I do double-duty as chaplain up here," Father Toussenel said. "The Church of the Incarceration."
He chuckled at his own wit, then shook my hand. I've always felt a bit awkward around priests because I'd spent fifth through eighth grade in a Catholic school, where I was the only Jewish kid. I’d been transferred to the Our Lady of Martyrs Academy to avoid what my father called "the bad element" which was beginning to overrun P.S. 189. I wasn't treated badly at the parochial school, yet I always felt like an outsider, a misfit.
As I released the cleric's hand, I recalled what I thought as a ten-year-old, when I met my first priest. Why should I call somebody father who isn’t my father?
"These are your welcoming presents," Ben said, handing me two plastic cards. "One is your key-card — it lets you use the staff entrance when you enter the prison."
"Thanks."
"You can bypass the metal detector, which is good because sometimes there's a line, and like a twenty minute wait."
"Great."
"The other is your photo ID," Ben said. "Clip it to your jacket."
I looked at the picture and grimaced. "Geez. I look like Alfred E. Neuman on a bad hair day."
"Well, your mother certainly gave you an appropriate name," the priest said amiably.
"What makes you say that?"
"In the Old Testament, David is described as a red-head."
I thought about telling him that although Renaissance artists often painted David with red hair, the Bible actually described him as ruddy. I stifled myself.
"And, of course," Father Toussenel went on, "In Hebrew, David means beloved."
"My mom told me I was named after the famous Michelangelo statue," I said. "So I always thought the name David meant young man with small pecker."
Ben laughed, the priest pursed his lips. I guess I'd made that crack to zing Father Toussenel. I was in a feisty mood, partially because of my Nembutal hangover, but mostly because of my plan for Victor Janko. It would force me to go mano a mano with Ben Caldwell.
I was about to bring it up when Ben beat me to it.
"Have you done anything on the Janko situation?"
I hesitated, not wanting to discuss a patient in front of the priest.
"Don’t worry about Pops," Ben said, picking up my concern. "We talk shop all the time. We're in the same business; trying to get people to shape up."
"Well," I said, "I did meet with Janko yesterday."
"How did it go?"
"All right. It's hard to connect with him, though."
"You're talking about Victor," the priest interjected.
I nodded.
"You're right,” he said. “For years I've tried to get through to him, but he's a real hard case. He's Catholic, and once in a while he'll pray with me, but beyond that he's, well, it's like he's put up a wall around himself."
"He’s very self-protective."
"It's interesting," the priest went on. "Most of the time he strikes me as a real cuckoo, but when I see him with his girlfriend, he's as normal as blueberry pie."
"Girlfriend?" I said. "Victor has a girlfriend?"
"Quite a looker too,” he said. “Name’s Daisy.”
Oh, the lady with the Polish name.
"Have you spoken with her?" I asked.
"A few times, in the visiting room. She's a nice, bright lady. Works in the town library."
I turned to Ben. "Did you know about her?".
"Yes, but I've never met her," Ben replied. "You seem surprised, David. You shouldn't be. Incarcerated killers attract groupies just like rock stars. Kenneth Bianchi, Richard Ramirez, Ted Bundy...they all had girlfriends. It's a strange phenomenon."
"I'm sure you've got some brilliant psychological theory to explain it," Father Toussenel said.
Ben puffed on his E-cig. "Maybe these women are sexually drawn to killers out of a primal need," he said. "At one time, back in the caves, the man who was the fiercest warrior, the one most capable of brutal slaughter, was the most virile — hence, the most sexually attractive."
"Why are your theories always about sex?" the priest asked.
"What other kind of theory is there? You want Relativity? Check out Einstein."
Father Toussenel laughed.
Ben turned to me. "So, what was your take on Janko?"
"Well, he's neurotic as hell, but at this point I wouldn't bump him up to psychosis. He's got this obsession with tidiness and order, but he's channeled it into Photorealist painting, which is not unhealthy. He's thrown some bizarre defensive behavior at me, but that's not entirely inappropriate. After all, he sees me as a threat; I have the power to deny him parole."
Ben gave me the Shrink Nod; the one that means "I hear what you're saying, but I won't tell you what I think about what you're saying."
"One thing puzzles me," I went on. "When I interviewed Victor he claimed to have no memory of doing the murder. Then later, the guard, Stevie Karp told me Victor did remember killing the woman — in fact he’d boasted about it in great detail."
"Which one do you believe?" Ben asked.
I shrugged.
Ben turned to the priest. "What do you think? You know Janko better than we do."
Father Toussenel hesitated. "I have no opinion."
"C'mon, Emile," Ben said. "You always have an opinion."
"Not this time."
"But you've known him for years. Haven't you tried to get him to discuss his crime? You must have..."
Then Ben got it. "Ah-hah," he said. "He told you about it in confession. So he’s got...penitent confidentiality."
The pri
est looked at Ben without expression.
"That's a helluva poker face, Pops. You oughta use it playing cards."
Father Toussenel checked his watch. "Gotta go. Late for a meeting at the parish house."
He made for the door, stopped. "Nice meeting you, David. See you later, Ben."
After he left Ben smiled. "Obviously Janko admitted to the murder in confession,”
"We don't know that for sure."
"Look," Ben said firmly, "You don't confess to something you didn't do...you only confess to something you did do."
"But you're assuming there was a confession..."
Ben ignored me. “So clearly he was lying when he told you he didn't remember killing the woman. And that's reason enough to keep him in here. Which I'm sure the computer will confirm."
I wanted to discuss the confession, but Ben had brought up a more crucial issue.
"Fact is, Ben," I said in a casual voice, "I'd like to stay away from the computer for the time being."
"Why?"
"I want to find out a little more about Victor."
Ben gave me an accusing look. "You mean you want to do a clinical evaluation."
"I think he should be given a chance..."
"To do what? Convince you he's just a sweetie-pie? To swear on his mother’s grave that he positively won't go out and stab a couple more mamas?”
“I’m talking about fairness, Ben. He should be evaluated in person. If he’s stable enough to get out, he’ll...”
"Are you serious?"
“I’m not saying he should get out. Only that...”
“The man lied to you.”
"He may have," I said quietly, "But that doesn't prove very much. I've never had a preliminary session in which the patient didn't lie about something. Never."
"He lied about murder."
I tried to sound non-confrontational. "My feeling is...I just need a bit more time. I've only met with him once. "
"David. You know I think a lot of you, and I'm damn happy to have you here. But you don't know what you're getting into with this Janko thing. Predicting dangerous behavior isn't only extremely difficult, it's also risky. You can put a lot of people in jeopardy by making this decision, and one of those people — who is at very serious risk — is you."
"I can handle myself."
"I'm not talking about physical risk," Ben said. "I'm talking about psychic risk."
"I can handle it. Comes with the territory."
"I'm sorry, David. I have to say no. Just use the computer."
I exploded. "I didn't come here to process data. I came here to be a doctor — to heal people, to help people. You asked me to evaluate this man. In my book that means using my professional skill to learn all I can about him. Okay. I accept the responsibility. I accept the risk. But it's gotta be my call. If you don't want that from me, then why the hell did you hire me?"
Ben sighed. I'd pushed the right button. He was so swamped with work he couldn't afford to lose me or make me an unhappy camper. "All right," he said quietly. "Do it your way."
"I'll need the warden's permission to be in the cell alone with Victor. I think the guard inhibits him."
"I'll arrange it," Ben said. "But you've got less than two weeks. I don't know what you can hope to accomplish."
"I'll do what I can."
"Remember, you've got a full schedule here."
"I'll do Janko on my own time."
Ben leaned forward. "David," he said, "I've been in this game for a couple few years. So, at the risk of sounding like a pretentious gray eminence, I'd like to give you a piece of advice."
He paused, then continued. "The guys here are all criminals. When you deal with the complexities of the criminal mind, you gotta remember — you're never as smart as you think you are. Your judgment is never as good as you think it is."
"I understand."
"Believe me, David," Ben said, "You don't."
CHAPTER 8
The Vanderkill town library was in a gray clapboard Colonial with a front porch. I guessed it had once been a private home. The house was surrounded by a white picket fence and a neat lawn. It had a flagstone entrance path flanked by carnations and hydrangeas.
I walked in through a screen door. The main reading room was a former living room; the club chairs scattered around it looked like they'd always been there.
The place was empty except for one blue-haired lady reading a newspaper attached to a wooden dowel.
At the Return desk, I saw a young woman, also reading. She looked up and I noticed her clear gray eyes and long, uncombed blonde hair.
"Can I help you?"
"Are you Daisy?"
She closed the book. It was John Donne and the Metaphysical Poets.
"What's this about?" she asked.
"I'm from the penitentiary. Dr. David Rothberg."
"Oh," she said. "You’re the shrink."
"Yes."
"Victor mentioned you when I visited him yesterday."
"I'd like to talk to you about him, if you've got a some time."
Her hand scooted up to her head and she twirled some strands of hair around a finger. "Oh, gee," she said. "I wouldn't feel right about that. You're a psychiatrist, so I'm sure you understand. Like, if you treat somebody, you're not supposed to reveal what the patient tells you. Well, I believe if you love somebody, it's the same thing. It's not right to reveal stuff about him."
"This is different," I said. "It's part of the parole process to have Victor evaluated by a psychiatrist. The more information I have, the more accurate and fair I can be. I'm sure you want that."
"Of course, but..."
"I’m not asking you to betray him. But you're an important part of his life - a very positive part - so you'd really be helping him."
She looked at me closely, trying to figure out if she could trust me.
"Well," she said, "I can't talk to you here. Maybe we could meet somewhere."
"Fine."
"There's a diner down at the corner. I get off in about an hour.”
"See you there."
At the Silver Streak Diner, Daisy bounced in with a girlish smile. Her teeth were white as Chicklets, but not capped.
"Listen,” she said, “In case you’re interested, my last name is pronounced Le-shinsky. Spelled L-e-s-z-c-z-y-n-s-k-i."
"It's Polish.” She laughed. “D’ja ever think so many consonants could hang out together without touching a vowel?"
I began by asking Daisy for a little background. She came from Akron, Ohio, an orphan raised by foster parents who took her in to increase their welfare payments. As a kid she had intense feelings of loneliness and estrangement. She said her life was meaningless till her final year of high school, when she happened to see Victor Janko's beach painting in Newsweek.
"And I knew..." Daisy said, excitedly, "I just knew whoever painted that picture was special. Once, when I was little, my folks took me to Florida; it was the only vacation they ever took me on. God, I loved the beach down there. It was so beautiful and clean, compared to the dirty, ugly factory town where we lived. And this painting, it seemed to totally capture the feeling of that beach. So I wrote Victor a letter telling him I admired his work. I included a copy of one of my favorite poems, which is sort’ve about being on a beach, and then being in prison. It goes: 'Always I climbed the wave at morning/Shook the sand from my shoes at night./That now am caught beneath great buildings...'"
I completed the quatrain. "Stricken with noise, confused with light."
"You know Millay?"
"My mother used to read poetry to me at bedtime. She loved Millay."
"Wow. That's beautiful," Daisy said. "Did you understand the poems?"
"Not really. But I loved the sound of her voice.”
“How neat. What does your mom look like? Does she have red hair like you?"
"We're getting off the subject. Please go on about Victor."
"Oh, sorry," Daisy said. "Well, Victor answered my letter. It was
just a polite note really, but he said he liked the poem, except for the part about climbing the wave. He said you couldn’t climb a wave — it was made out of water. I wrote back and explained about, y'know, poetic license and metaphor. And soon we became pen pals. Then gradually we started opening up with each other, and sharing thoughts that were terribly personal. I realized that Victor and I were...kindred spirits, we were bonded together in some special way."
Her face got dreamy. Then she frowned.
"Well, my folks weren’t exactly overjoyed about my corresponding with a convict, and they started hassling me. But I didn't care. After I graduated high school, I decided to go visit Victor. I'd been working after school at the Public Library, so I had money for bus fare, and a hotel when I got here. My folks ordered me not to go, and when I refused, they said don’t bother to come back. Terrific parents, huh? Anyway, I went, and after I met Victor, I had no reason to go back. I knew I had to be near him. Been here about a year now."
I found it hard to put Daisy together with Victor. She said they were kindred spirits, but I couldn't see it. And Ben's theory about women being sexually attracted to killers — I couldn't pick that up from Daisy either. There certainly didn’t seem to be an intellectual connection. Daisy was well read and articulate, and Victor was...well, I had no real handle on Victor yet.
I asked Daisy how she felt about Victor being a convicted murderer.
“He might’ve been convicted,” she said, “But he’s certainly not a murderer.”
"How do you know that?"
"I know Victor," Daisy said. "He couldn't kill anybody. He's the most gentle soul in the world."
"Did Victor tell you he was innocent?"
"He doesn't know what happened," she said. "He had a sort of blackout at the time. But I’m sure he didn't do it. I read all the newspaper articles on Victor's case — the city papers are on microfilm here at the library. The police never really investigated. The murder took place in one of New York's worst drug areas, so it sure could’ve been drug-related. And the woman had an ex-boyfriend. In the paper there was a picture of him at her funeral, looking real grief-stricken. Come over to the library and I'll show it to you. He's huge...and really scary-looking — y'know, the type who'd kill you just for looking at him wrong. In cases like this, everybody knows a former lover is automatically a prime suspect. But the cops never looked into that."
