Dangerous Behavior (Revised Edition)

by Walter Marks

  Father Toussenel, attired in a purple robe with an embroidered golden yoke, instructed the couple to stand opposite each other in front of the altar. The guard stood off to one side. The priest reached under the altar-table, picked up an old Panasonic boom box, and placed it on a chair. He pushed the "Play" button and I recognized J.S. Bach’s First Prelude from "The Well Tempered Clavier". After a while, a clear soprano voice began singing over it, and her melodic "Ave Maria" harmonized beautifully with the Bach. I was glad it was the Bach-Gounod version, and not Franz Schubert’s lugubrious, sappy setting; "Ahh...vay — mah...ree...eee...ahh..."

  Oy vey Maria.

  The priest lowered the volume on the music. Then he crossed and stood between the couple. He got right down to business.

  "Victor," he said. "Do you take Daisy to be your wife? Do you promise to be true to her in good times and bad, in sickness and in health, to love her and honor her all the days of your life?"

  "I do," Victor answered solemnly.

  "And Daisy," the priest went on, "Do you take Victor to be your husband? Do you promise to be true to him in good times and in bad, in sickness and in health, to love and honor him all the days of your life?"

  "I do."

  Father Toussenel hesitated. He reached into the pocket of his robe, searching for something. Not finding it, he started rummaging in his pockets beneath the robe. Meanwhile, I heard the two women behind us, whispering.

  "Ay, qué linda novia."

  "Si, pero ¿por qué ella carga margaritas?"

  "Yo no sé."

  I didn’t get what they were saying. My attention was on the priest, who’d found the small prayer book he was looking for and began reading aloud. It was part of the traditional Roman Catholic marriage rites, but to me the words sounded creepy.

  "Children," Father Toussenel began, "Be correct in your judgment of what pleases the Lord. Take no part in vain deeds done in darkness; rather condemn them. It is shameful even to mention these things people do in secret, but when such deeds are condemned, they are seen in the light of day, and all that appears is light..."

  I suddenly realized what the cleaning women had said — "Ay, qué linda novia"...Oh, what a pretty bride...

  The priest was droning on. "That is why we read: Awake o sleeper, arise from the dead, and that will give you light..."

  "Pero ¿por qué ella carga margaritas?" ...But why is she...why is she carrying...daisies? My God, margarita is the Spanish word for daisy. And suddenly I remembered my dream, a baby girl in her carriage watching her mother being stabbed to death, while she said her daughter’s name, “Margarita... Margarita...” Daisy is...MARGARITA, THE MURDERED WOMAN’S DAUGHTER.

  "You have declared your consent before the Church..." the priest was saying.

  I jumped to my feet. "Stop," I shouted. “I know who you are, Margarita."

  Daisy froze. Then she reached into her bouquet of daisies, and drew out a long, kitchen knife. She raised it in the air and lurched towards Victor. I sprung forward, reaching for Daisy, as she plunged the knife down at the stunned bridegroom. I managed to seize her arm and jerk it away from her victim. I wrapped my other arm around her, and held her firmly. Victor tried to back away, but with his leg-chains he stumbled and fell.

  Daisy was struggling in my grasp with maniacal strength. She began shouting at Victor. "You have to die... An eye for an eye. You have to die...An eye for an eye." The words were sing-song, like a demented nursery rhyme.

  Daisy kicked back with her high-heeled pump and caught me on the shin. The sharp pain caused me to let her go, but by now Brian O’Mara had grabbed her. He tried to pry the knife out of her hand, while she shouted at Victor, "You have to die...An eye for an eye. You have to die..."

  The guard gave her a backhand slap across her face. Daisy dropped the knife and fell to the floor. O’Mara twisted her onto her belly, wrenched her hands behind her and snapped on handcuffs.

  Victor called over to her. "Why, Daisy?" he asked softly. "Why did you do this?"

  "I saw you..." she said hoarsely, still in a fury. "You were the one, Victor...the man who killed my mother."

  Her eyes glared at him.

  "No, No," Victor cried out. "It wasn’t me. I didn’t do it. Just ask Dr. Rothberg."

  "Liar," she raged.

  "It wasn’t me. Daisy, I love you. I love you..."

  Ben was kneeling next to the handcuffed bride. "We'll have to get her to the hospital," he said. "Brian, gimme a hand."

  They hauled Daisy to her feet. She looked at Victor and released a howl out of her primal depths; the sound echoed around the chapel walls like a cry of the damned. Then her body sagged and her eyes closed. The guard lifted her in his arms and carried her away.

  Ben and I went back to Victor. He was sitting on the floor with Daisy’s knife in his hand. He was looking at it intensely, as if to determine that it really existed.

  I gently took the knife away from him. It was a Kyocera ceramic cook’s knife with a plastic handle.

  No problem with the metal detector.

  CHAPTER 37

  Daisy was placed under observation at Capital District Psychiatric Center in Albany, and would presumably be prosecuted for attempted murder. If her lawyer went with an insanity defense, I knew I'd be called to testify on her behalf.

  I phoned Albany and spoke to Dr. Anvita Kapoor, who was treating Daisy. I gave Dr. Kapoor a rundown on the events leading to Daisy’s attempt on Victor’s life. I said I felt she was clearly psychotic, and witnessing her mother’s murder as a child had surely scarred her with PTSD — Lifetime Prevalence.

  “Sounds right,” Dr. Kapoor said. “We’ve got her sedated now, but we’ll ease her out of it in a few days and see how it goes.”

  “Ring me anytime if you have questions.”

  “I will, Doctor Rothberg. Thanks for calling.”

  I now saw the extent and complexity of Daisy’s hidden agenda. At first, she was hoping for Victor’s parole, so she could kill him on the outside. When that began to look unlikely, she tried to get contact visitation, figuring she’d stab him in the visitation room. She tried to use her seductive powers on me, to get me to recommend a contact visit, but when I turned her down, she decided to marry Victor, and kill him during their “honeymoon” in the visitation room. Then fortunately for Victor, I stopped her just in time..

  Daisy had no concern about being caught. Her obsessive revenge was all that mattered.

  I should’ve guessed sooner. I wish I’d paid more attention to my subconscious — to the song "Margaritaville", playing like a loop in my brain. I knew Daisy was disturbed and dangerous, but in the end I guess she proved Ben's contention — it's impossible to predict dangerous behavior.

  The police had me accompany them to Daisy’s apartment, to help them understand what brought her to this act of vengeance. Among her things we found a clipping of Victor's painting in Newsweek, a bundle of pen-pal letters from him, and her address book, containing the phone number of her parents in Akron, Ohio.

  I jotted down the number and later I called them from my office. Her father Jerry answered, and when I expressed sympathy for his daughter, he told me she was always a weirdo. I asked about her name-change, and he explained they'd adopted the little girl in New York, at age five. The social worker told them Margarita was Spanish for Daisy, and a year later, when they moved to Ohio, they decided to change it. Mr. Lesczcynski said they were never too happy about her having a Spic name.

  I hung up, and thought about Daisy’s accusation — You were the one, Victor...the man who killed my mother.

  To Ben and the priest, I'm sure Daisy’s statement was an affirmation of Victor’s guilt.

  But I believe she could’ve been mistaken. Daisy/Margarita was only 2 1/2 years old when the murder took place, and her memory would’ve surely been clouded by time. Besides, the NYPD report stated the apartment was dark. All the little girl could’ve seen was a shadowy figure.

  I began to type on my computer.


  My main concern now is Victor, who’s in very bad shape. I’ve looked in on him daily, but he’s always in bed; either sleeping or in a state of torpor. I’ve tried to engage him in conversation, but he’s withdrawn into his self-protective shell. He doesn’t even do his whistling.

  Ben says he can’t keep Victor in the hospital room indefinitely; which means at some point he’ll be returned to Ad Seg, back into Stevie Karp’s clutches.

  The next day I went to see the warden. Warden Carmichael was a tall scrawny man with a gray brush cut. He wore an ill-fitting three-piece suit on a 90 degree day. I told him about Karp’s abuse, and he said without proof there wasn’t much he could do. And if I brought charges, the union would get into it and they were a real pain. I asked if he could at least transfer Stevie Karp out of Ad Seg, and he said he’d think about it. I knew right away that meant no.

  Later Ben told me Carmichael and Karp were asshole buddies who go deer hunting together and have a weekly poker game. So I was wasting my time, a fact he could’ve told me if I’d discussed it with him beforehand.

  There’s only one thing I can do for Victor — get him the hell out of this place. The only way I can do that is by proving he didn’t kill Agnes Rivera.

  But how can I prove a negative? By finding out who the real killer is. That’s the key — prove Victor’s innocence by nailing the man who’s guilty.

  But how?

  Then the doubt crept in. All I had was a newspaper photo, my hope that Hagopian’s DNA was on the knife, and my gut feeling that Victor was innocent.

  What if I’m wrong?

  CHAPTER 38

  The following day after work, I waited till 8:00, when I knew Kim came on duty. Then I shouldered my laptop bag and went down to the nurses’ station.

  “Hey Kim,,” I said. “I read that Internet stuff on the Checker Cab Club. It was great. I signed up.”

  “Good.”

  “How Did Victor Janko sleep last night?”

  “Not much. I gave him the Ambien you ordered, but he shook it off like it was baby aspirin. Every time I checked on him his eyes were open, staring at the ceiling. You want to double the meds?”

  “Nah,” I said. “It’ll just fog him up even more.”

  “Looks to me like he's sliding into Major Depressive Disorder."

  Correct diagnosis. Impressive.

  I went in to see Victor Janko, hoping I could raise his spirits, at least a little. I took the voice recorder out of my bag and offered to show him how he could get the goods on Karp.

  He gave me a blank, disinterested look. Finally he spoke to me, but on a different subject.

  . “Doctor,” he said. “What did they do with Daisy?”

  “She’s in a hospital in Albany.”

  “Is it... y’know, a hospital like this?”

  “More or less.”

  “What’s gonna happen to her?”

  “Hard to say at this point.”

  Victor shook his head sadly and lay back down on the bed. Glasses off, eyes closed. His depression had clearly deepened. In fact, I felt something worse was going on. It was like he’d snapped inside.

  He hadn’t been too stable before Daisy tried to kill him. And now...

  After a few days my injuries had healed and I was feeling reasonably good. Until I got Laura Hecht’s phone call.

  “The good news is Hagopian was indicted and he pled guilty. Picked up five years for the plea bargain, but it’s still 20 years to Life. And parole’s unlikely for a three-time loser.”

  “Great. But...what’s the bad news?”

  “The blood samples on the murder weapon are degraded,” she said.

  “What?”

  “Somebody must’ve used EndDust on it. The report says EndDust contains something called...lemme see...Tri-chloro-ethane, which alters the chemical makeup of the blood.”

  “But the guy said the knife wasn’t cleaned.”

  “So his must’ve wife dusted it.“

  “Jesus,” I said. “So...we’ve got no case?”

  “Not really.”

  I was stunned. “What...where do we go from here?”

  “I wish I knew.”

  “Well, thanks for letting me know.”

  “David, I’m real sorry,” she said. “I’ll try to come up with something.”

  “Like what?”

  “Well, at this point our only hope is to get Hagopian to confess. He’s imprisoned at Sing Sing and we’ve got some jailhouse snitches up there who might get him boasting about the murder. But it’s a long shot at best.”

  “I understand,” I said.

  “The only other way is to prove that Janko is innocent. I don’t know how to do that.”

  “Neither do I.”

  “Meanwhile,” Laura said. “I think you might re-examine Janko’s story. There’s no point in even trying to get Hagopian’s jailhouse confession unless you’re sure Janko is innocent. Are you absolutely sure?”

  Doubt washed over me. “I’m not sure of anything.”

  I hung up, devastated.

  Could it be? The idea that Victor fooled me with his story is too terrible to contemplate. And yet...it is possible.

  How can I check out Victor’s story? There were no witnesses.

  Except...Daisy/Margarita. She was certain she’d seen Victor kill her mother, I felt she was mistaken. But.. what if she was right?

  I’ll have to talk to her. But who knows what shape she’s in? And no matter what she says, I can’t really trust her. Still...

  I called Dr. Kapoor and arranged to visit Daisy the following evening.

  CHAPTER 39

  The next afternoon there was a small crisis at the hospital. Nigel Penrose, with whom I now played chess on a regular basis, had tried to commit suicide. He’d cut open the veins in his wrists with a chess piece — using the sharp edge of the Bishop’s mitre. It couldn’t have been easy sawing through his skin with the wooden piece, and it must’ve hurt like hell.

  The nurse heard Penrose moaning and found him on his blood soaked bed. It was obvious the attempt wasn’t serious; he’d made enough noise to be discovered right away, and he kept crying out in his British accent, “Folly, all is folly.” His act was a cry for help and attention.

  I dressed his wounds, gave him Percodan and Valium, then talked to him for a long time. I told him I’d try to spend more time with him, and that I believed he could get well. After a while he calmed down.

  As I got up to leave, he said, “Doctor...do you think we can play chess later this afternoon?”

  “Checkers,” I said.

  “But I...”

  “No sharp edges.”

  He managed a smile.

  The phone rang in my office. It was Mrs. Lucille Simpkins, mother of Ninja’s rightful owner.

  “Hi, Lucille.”

  “‘Morning, Dr. Rothberg,” she said. “Dr. Sorenson gave me your number. I’m calling about Henry.”

  “How is he?”

  “Wonderful news, Doctor. I brought him home last night.”

  “Oh, that’s great.“

  “At Anson/Packwell they’re working miracles with autistic kids,” she said. “They put Henry on some kind of experimental hormone therapy.”

  “Secretin?”

  “...Yes. And he’s so much better. No more hand flapping.”

  “What about rocking?”

  “Hardly at all,” she said. “They said they don’t know how long it’ll last, but I’m grateful for anything.”

  “Of course.”

  “The thing is, Doctor, he’s asking for his turtle. Crying for it really. I don’t know what to tell him. I know you took Ninja, but...do you still have her?”

  “I...yes, I do. And she’s fine.”

  “Is there any way I could get her? Maybe I could rent a car and drive up there...”

  “No. No. I’ll...I’ll bring her down. Maybe this weekend...”

  “Could you do it sooner? Henry keeps going on about Ninja, and...the str
ess could cause a relapse.”

  “Yes, all right. I can’t tonight, but I’ll drive down tomorrow after work. I should get there around 8:00, 8:30.”

  “We’re at 310 Riverside Drive. Apartment 4B. Gee, Doctor, this is so nice of you. And Henry will be so happy.”

  That evening I went to see Daisy. It was about an hour and a half drive, crossing the Beacon Newburgh Bridge then catching the New York State Thruway north to Albany.

  The hospital was adjacent to the main Medical Center. It was a three-story glass and steel building resembling a midsized airport terminal. As I drove in, I saw a large spreading chestnut tree illuminated by floodlights. Under it were picnic tables, a see-saw, a jungle gym.

  At Reception I was told Dr. Kapoor had to leave but a nurse would take me to Daisy’s room.

  The nurse, Ms. Linda Haliburton, came out to greet me. She was a plump West Indian woman with silver rimmed glasses and a gold tooth.

  “Daisy off sedation now,” she said as we walked to the high security section. “Doin’ heavy-duty Risperidone, but you can talk to her. She just a little fuzzy.”

  The nurse unlocked the ward door and took me to Daisy’s room.

  Daisy was in bed dozing, but she opened her eyes as I entered.

  “Hi, Daisy.”

  She struggled to focus. “...Dr. Rothberg? Is that really you.”

  “Yes.”

  “They’ve got me so dopey around here...I don’t know when I’m dreaming or when I’m awake.”

  She sat up, adjusting her hospital gown.

  “Lean forward,” I said. “Let me fix your pillows.” I reached over and piled them behind her back, one vertical over two horizontal, as a nurse once taught me. There was no scent of perfume.

  Disheveled as she was, Daisy still looked pretty. But there was a dull look to her eyes. And the voice was different — slurred, hoarse and nasal.

  “How’re you feeling?” I asked.

  “Okay. I just have this horrible cold. My throat’s sore, my nose is all stuffed up...”