by Walter Marks
Victor turned his face away. I heard a tormented whimper. Then he began to make his whistling sounds.
The sickening realization hit me; "banana split" might mean...the image flashed in my mind, Victor being split open, forced to submit to the guard's violation. Plenty o’ whipped cream. I was disgusted and furious.
I fought my impulse to burst in on the scene and backed away. It would be better to return to my office and think about what I'd seen. I left quickly and returned to the hospital.
By the time I sat down at my desk, I realized I couldn't do much to help Victor — at least for the moment. If I reported the situation to Ben or the Warden, I could only accuse Stevie of forcing the prisoner to shine his shoes. The sexual aspect was speculation. And with any charge I made, it would be the guard's word against mine. I couldn't count on Victor's corroboration; he’d be afraid of being punished by Karp if the accusations didn’t stand up.
And to raise this issue five days before the parole hearing would only muddy the waters. I had no choice but to do nothing — deal with it after the hearing.
I opened my laptop and began typing some notes. As I described the guard's domination and humiliation of Victor, I realized I'd learned something important.
It's now clear Victor wasn’t lying when he said Karp took pleasure in hating him, that he’d do anything to keep him in prison. In fact, my guess is Karp was lying when he said Victor had boasted about doing the murder.
Also, watching these two men together has given me a different perspective on Victor. Although he's surely not a willing participant in this domination ritual, he probably has a psychological predilection for it — he’d tend to assume the passive role with an aggressive person. I’m going to act more forcefully towards Victor. Maybe he’ll respond to that. It's worth a try.
I recalled Victor's tortured whimper when Karp promised him a "banana split." I saw Victor's lips, puckered and emitting his strange, tuneless whistle.
There’s another card I can play: I'm going to try and beat Victor at his own game.
CHAPTER 19
At 7:30 I went back to the Ad Seg Unit. Karp had gone off duty, and the night man accompanied me to Victor’s cell. As he left, he said if any shit went down to just holler and he’d be there in two seconds.
Victor barely acknowledged me. He sat on his cot, using the thumb and index finger of his right hand to stretch up the loose skin on top of his left hand. Then he let it snap back down. He seemed utterly fascinated by the pliability of his epidermis.
"'Evening, Victor," I said casually. "Haven't seen you in a while."
Victor responded by switching his skin-stretching from his left hand to his right. He glanced covertly at me as he pulled the skin up, but said nothing. He let the skin drop.
“What’s goin’ on?” I asked.
More skin tweaking.
"How you feeling tonight?"
"Fine." Victor’s voice was flat, devoid of affect.
"Is that all you have to say?"
Victor raised his eyes, and gave me a blank look. I stared back aggressively.
After a few moments of silent face-off, I grabbed a towel and walked over to the chair. I started to dust it, but then made a big show of dropping the towel sloppily on the floor. I sat down on the unsanitized chair and looked at Victor. He began to whistle.
I upset him. Good.
We stared at each other. Victor’s whistling was unnerving, as if he were taunting me with the power of his anxiety.
Stay the course, Remember ‑ you’re the doctor here, you’re in control.
Victor had the advantage; relying on a defense mechanism which had always served him well. Silence was his comfort zone.
I maintained eye contact, showing I wasn’t going to crumble. After a while Victor’s confidence began to get shaky. He squirmed. He scratched his neck in nervous, clawing gestures. Still he said nothing.
Abruptly the prisoner stared down at the floor. He looked to either side, glancing at me furtively. Then he faced forward and shut his eyes tight, like a willful child. He was pulling back inside himself; if he couldn’t face me down, he could still beat me by withdrawing. Christ, he’s good. But the poor bastard doesn’t understand that if he wins this battle, he loses the war.
I came up with a counter-move.
I licked my lips and imitated Victor’s whistling, pushing the air through my teeth and adjusting the tone to an irritating whoosh. Victor’s body stiffened as he clamped his eyes tighter.
It was a fierce clash of wills. The tension increased, like a rubber band being stretched tighter...and tighter...until it snapped.
"Jesus Christ," Victor yelled. "What are you doing?"
"What do you mean?"
"Why are you?...I mean...I just don’t get what you’re doing."
"I asked you a question," I said calmly. "I’m just waiting for an answer."
"What question?"
"I asked how you were feeling."
Victor looked at me, puzzled. "Didn’t I answer you?"
"No," I said. "You said you were fine. Fine is not an answer.
"Jesus Christ."
"Did you miss me?"
"Pardon me?"
"These past two days. Did you miss me?"
Victor went silent again. I waited as the tension built. "You wanna go another round?"
He let out a long sigh. "What do you want from me?"
"Not much," I said harshly. "Y’know...I say something, you say something else. It’s called conversation."
After a few seconds, I spoke again. "I asked you if you missed me."
Victor moved his lips, till he managed to stammer out some words. "I...I w-w-wondered where you were."
"Did it worry you?" I asked. "Did it make you anxious?"
"Would you please..." Victor moaned. "Look, just leave me alone. I’m tired."
He heaved himself back onto the bed, head propped up on a pillow. He took off his glasses, covered his eyes with his arm and answered my next questions without moving.
"Why are you tired?"
"Dunno."
"There must be a reason."
Victor said nothing.
"How have you been sleeping?" I went on.
"On my back."
I exploded with anger. "Goddamn it. I’ve had it with you, Victor. You’re wasting my time. And you’re acting like a fucking asshole."
Victor sat up, stunned by my profane outburst. I pressed on.
"I’m your only hope for getting out of here," I said. "And if you give me shit you’re screwed. Now I’m gonna ask my question one more time, and I want a straight answer." A pause. "Why are you tired?"
"Bad dreams," Victor said acquiescently. "I’ve been having bad dreams. They wake me up and I can’t go back to sleep."
"What do you dream about?"
"I don’t remember."
"Try to remember."
Victor’s brow wrinkled. He looked at me, shook his head hopelessly.
"Do you dream the same dream every night?" I asked.
"Pardon me?"
"You’re giving me shit, Victor."
"No I’m not..."
"Victor."
"Okay...okay. I guess I have the same dream...sometimes."
"Try to remember one part of your dream," I said. "A person, a place...a feeling..."
"Scared. I feel scared."
"Of what?"
Victor shrugged. I leaned forward in my chair. "Where are you? What do you see in your dream?"
Victor thought for a moment. Then he spoke excitedly. "There’s a beach."
"What kind of beach?"
The prisoner pointed to his paintings on the wall. "Like...my paintings. With palm trees."
"Tell me more," I urged him. "You’re on this beach..."
"No. No. I’m not on it," Victor said. "I’m...I’m looking at it. I’m looking at the beach. And...and it’s coming at me. The beach is coming at me."
"The beach is coming at you?"
; "And there’s this guy," Victor continued. "He’s...he’s got a hold of me, and I try to run away..." He was shouting now. "But I can’t. He’s hitting me...hitting me, and I can’t get away."
He broke off, taking ragged breaths, reliving the terror.
"Who’s attacking you?" I asked.
"I don’t know."
"What about the beach? You said you were looking at the beach and the beach was coming at you. What do you mean by that?"
"I...I don’t know," Victor responded. "A beach is life. A beach...is..."
He groaned in confusion, moving his head back and forth.
"A beach is life?" I said. "Do you mean...life was coming at you?"
Victor said nothing. I looked hard at him for several seconds. Then I spoke sharply.
"What about the Cat in the Hat?"
"Huh?"
"The Cat in the Hat."
"I don’t understand."
I reached into my shoulder bag, pulled out the Dr. Seuss book, and held it up. Victor stared at it in shock.
"The Cat in the Hat," he whispered. "The Cat in the Hat..." His eyes widened in recognition.
I placed the book in Victor’s hands.
"The Cat in the Hat," Victor repeated. He looked down at the book, bewildered. Then he remembered.
"It belonged to the lady," he announced. "The lady at the A&P." He stopped, smiling as if he’d told me everything.
"Tell me about her."
Victor nodded. Then he spoke with a sense of discovery.
"She was my last customer — it was the end of my shift...nine to six. She was carrying the book, and she gave it to her little girl to hold while she paid for her groceries. The lady was so nice. I remember how she smiled at me when I packed her bag. I asked if she wanted delivery because it was awful heavy. But she said no. Then her kid started yelling, pointing at a carton of Tootsie Pops on the checkout counter, and having like a tantrum. The lady told her it would ruin her appetite, and if she didn’t shut up, she was really gonna get it. Then the lady apologized to me for how her kid was acting — she was kind of embarrassed — and I told her I knew how kids were. Then she left."
Victor paused for a moment. "After, I noticed she’d left the book behind...well, I saw it laying on the floor. The kid must’ve thrown it out of the stroller, y’know, when she was having her tantrum. So I decided to bring the book back to the lady."
Victor smiled faintly at me.
"Go on," I said.
"Well...when I got to her building..."
"How did you know where she lived?" I asked.
"Oh. She paid by check, so I sneaked a look in the register drawer. Her check had her address printed on it."
"I see..."
"So...so...anyway...I got to her building. She lived in the project, and it took a while to find the place, because, y’know, those address numbers are hard to read in the dark. And just when I got to the entrance, I heard this horrible scream. Then I heard a kid crying, and I knew...I knew something really bad was going down."
"The building door opens and this guy comes running out. When he sees me he lets out a yell and comes after me. I was like paralyzed for a minute, till I saw him up close. He was all splattered with blood, and he had a bloody knife in his hand. He had it raised up over his head, ready to stab me. I turned and tried to run, but it was too late — he grabbed me from behind. I saw the knife blade coming right at my chest, and I...somehow I grabbed his wrist, and then I bit him on the hand, or a finger, or something...anyway he dropped the knife and let me go. I grabbed the knife and I slashed at him — I remember I cut him on the face...on his chin, but then I panicked and started to run. Only I couldn’t because... because he jumped on me, he swung me around and bashed me in the face. He kept bashing me, and bashing me, till everything was just a red blur. And then...I heard a police siren and I guess I blacked out, because I don’t remember anything else. Next thing I knew I was sitting on the sidewalk, and my head was hurting real bad, and the police were asking me questions. But I couldn’t remember anything. All the stuff I just told you was gone from my memory...until now."
Victor’s body suddenly slumped down, drained of all energy. His breathing was slow and deep, his face slack with relief. I let him rest for a few moments before I questioned him.
"You say you were bringing the book back to the woman?"
"Yes."
“Did you have the book with you when the police caught you?”
He thought for a moment.
“Yes,” he answered. “They...they took it away from me.”
"How could you fight this guy with the knife, with a book in your hand?"
"It wasn't in my hand. It was in my pocket. I was wearing my Army jacket from the surplus store, and it had big pockets."
I wondered about fingerprints on the knife. “What else were you wearing?” I asked.
“Umm...a wool cap, y’know with earflaps?”
“Anything else?”
“No.” He squinted his eyes. “Wait...Gloves, woolen gloves. It was cold.”
"What was the woman’s name?"
"Pardon me?"
"The lady you were returning the book to."
"The lady?" Victor said, with disturbed look on his face. "I...I don’t remember...I don’t remember her name."
"You remembered everything else."
"I know. But...it was a long time ago. I...I just can’t remember."
"All right" I said. "This guy with the knife...do you remember what he looked like?"
"He was huge...really huge. He looked like an Indian... one of those Apaches you see in the movies. He had long black hair, and...and he had these three red stripes on his forehead. Y’know, like Indians wear when they go into battle?"
"War paint?"
"Yeah. Like war paint. And he had a funny nose."
"What do you mean?"
"It was like, off-center. Sorta squashed all over his face."
"You mean like a boxer's nose? Did he look like he might’ve been a boxer?"
“He coulda been."
"What was he wearing?"
Victor thought for a moment. "A sweat shirt," he answered. Then it hit him. "A sweat shirt..." he said slowly, "With a picture printed on it. A picture of a beach. A beach...with palm trees".
He clapped his hands and opened his mouth in amazement. He sat there in freeze-frame.
"There was printing above the picture. And, Doctor, what it said was...'Life’s a Beach'...'Life’s a Beach'. Get it? All I could remember was 'A Beach is Life.'"
"That’s very good, Victor."
"Oh, my God," the prisoner said. He looked at his paintings, one after the other. Victor’s eyes filled with tears. He fought them back for a moment, and then gave in completely. He put his hands over his face, and began to sob.
After a time, Victor regained his composure, and looked up at me. "Doctor," he said in a quiet voice, "Thank you so much. Thank you for helping me remember."
"You had a real breakthrough, Victor," I said. Then I looked at my watch. "Well, that’s enough for tonight."
I got up, and walked towards the cell door.
"Doctor Rothberg," Victor called out.
Interesting, that’s the first time he’s called me by my name.
"I’ve been praying every day," he said, "Every day for as long as I been in here. And now, finally, my prayers have been answered. I know...I’m sure I didn’t kill that lady."
You’re sure. I’m not.
I unlocked the door. "See you tomorrow."
CHAPTER 20
Back at the motel, I checked on Ninja. She’d retreated into her hide box. I picked it up and dumped her out into my palm. Her claws gripped me and she edged her head out. She was mouth-breathing.
She hadn’t touched her earthworm. It was all dried up.
I put Ninja back in her vivarium and took out my “Box Turtle Care” book. Under Stops Eating was listed “exposure to noxious chemicals, respiratory infection, environmental temperat
ure changes.” Mouth Breathing gave the same causes, plus “egg retention”. Maybe that was it. She had eggs to lay and they were stuck.
If she’s not better by morning, I’ll have to find a vet.
I checked my phone for voicemail. There were two. The first was from Ben Caldwell.
"David, I’m calling to tell you the date of Victor Janko’s parole hearing has been moved up...or moved back...I always get those two words confused. Anyway, it’s coming up this Friday morning, instead of next Monday. Reason is the head of the parole board decided to take his vacation starting Saturday...he’s taking his kids to Disney World. Do you believe that shit? Anyhow, that’s how it is. Let’s meet tomorrow at the end of the day, so you can update me on your evaluation of Janko. See you then! Bye."
Damn. I’d been counting on having the next five days to work with Victor. Now I had just two — tomorrow and Thursday.
My second voicemail was the now-familiar disguised voice. It was even more menacing. "Don’t let Victor Janko out. Don’t even think about it...or you’ll pay big time."
I pressed the button for my saved messages.
"Don’t let Victor Janko out. Or you’ll live to regret it."
These are odd warnings. They’re threatening me, but with what? Live to regret it? Pay big time? What does that mean? Both recordings have the same muffled, distorted voice; it sounds like a man, but I can’t be certain. I’m fairly sure it’s someone I know — something in the language sounds familiar, but I can’t put my finger on it. Is it Stevie Karp?
I played the messages one after the other.
"Don’t let Victor Janko out. Or you’ll live to regret it."
"Don’t let Victor Janko out. Don’t even think about it...or you’ll pay big time."
It’s in there. There’s something in the rhythm of the speech, or the pronunciation, or the timbre, that’s a tip-off.
I remembered how Karp talked, but not well enough to match it with the messages. After a few more listens, I gave up.
A shiver of fear went through me. I’d been so involved in figuring out the caller’s identity, I’d overlooked the threat itself. What if someone intended to injure me, or kill me if I allowed Victor to walk? My old fear of physical confrontation grabbed me. I saw a guy stalking me, jumping out of dark shadows and attacking me...with his fists, a baseball bat, a knife. How would I handle it?
