Prodigy

by Charles Atkins

  “You sure I can’t take these off, they’re hurting my wrists.” He put his hands on the table. “It’s getting all red; it’s hard to think with them on.”

  “Not my decision,” she repeated, in no mood for a repeat of Charlie Rohr. Not to mention that those hands had strangled a woman and left her for dead less than three months ago. That had been Green’s undoing; one of his victims had survived.

  “No harm in asking.”

  “I guess not, so tell me about Valerie Blake?”

  “Which one was she? I’m not good with names.”

  “How many have there been?” she asked.

  “Just the three.”

  “So no more women will come forward and make accusations?”

  “I don’t know. It’s like someone else is inside of me when I do these things.”

  “You can’t remember?”

  “That’s right, I get amnesia.”

  Barrett suppressed a groan, as this guy added a second twist to try and distance himself from guilt—not only pretending to be crazy, but now he wanted to throw amnesia into the mix. “What attracts you to these women?”

  He smiled. “Something in the way they look at me. You know, like they’re better than me. Like the way you’re looking at me now.”

  Gooseflesh raised beneath her freshly starched-and-pressed blouse. “Did Valerie Blake look at you that way?”

  “Yeah, like she was superior or something, wouldn’t even talk to me. I bought her drinks and she wouldn’t even talk to me. Rude like,” his breathing deepened and his voice drifted. “Some women need to be taken down a peg or two.”

  “How do you do that?”

  “I’ve got ways.”

  “So you met her in a bar?”

  “Yeah, it was one of those snooty places on the Upper East Side, everyone in their fucking expensive clothes drinking fifteen-dollar martinis.”

  “So you bought her a drink?”

  “Right, I had the bartender bring it over to her. Told him to tell her who it was from.”

  “What happened?”

  “She looked at me and made this face like she’d tasted something bad. But she took the drink.”

  “Did you go over to her?”

  “What’s the point?”

  “Then what happened?”

  “I bought her another, maybe four or five, and she just kept sucking them down while all these bozos tried to hit on her. I mean for seventy-five bucks you can get a decent whore on Third Avenue.”

  “Why didn’t you?”

  “You crazy? You know what kind of diseases are out there, stuff that’ll make your dick fall off. No, I like them clean. I like them in suits and I like what they’ve got on underneath, not that cheap shit, but like the stuff from the good stores. They keep it all hidden away, like they’re these ice princesses on the surface, but underneath they’re all looking for the same thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “A good fuck.”

  “So you bought her a few drinks, and then …”

  “I could see that she was feeling pretty good, so I went over to her. Figured I’d introduce myself.”

  “And?”

  He shook his head. “She told me she wasn’t interested.”

  Barrett watched as the tips of his fingers curled into fists. “How did that feel?”

  “How do you think? That’s when the voice started.”

  “What did it say?”

  “Take her.”

  “How did you do that?”

  “It’s not hard. I told her that I understood and just to show there were no hard feelings I bought her another drink—one of those stupid things that looks like a martini but has orange slices and weird shit in it. She was pretty loose by then and the voice told me to put something in her drink. There was so much crap floating around in there I nearly spilled it. She called me clumsy. Here I’m buying her drinks and all she does is insult me like I’m some fucking lowlife.”

  “What did you put in the drink?”

  “I don’t know, the voice bought it.”

  “Right, what was it?”

  “It was blue. Like I said, I didn’t know what was going on, like there was someone else controlling my body.”

  “And then?”

  “Then she got real tired, and the rest as they say is history.”

  “Nice try,” Barrett said. “What happened?”

  “You want the details?”

  “It’s my job.”

  “Hell of a job.”

  She waited and watched. His eyes glistened as he thought back.

  “I helped her out of the bar and walked her down the street to my van, dropped her in back and then headed out of the city to a place I have on the shore.”

  “You’d done this before,” she stated.

  “What makes you say that, doc?”

  “Call it a hunch.”

  He chuckled, but neither confirmed nor denied her speculation. “I just do what the voice tells me.”

  “What was it telling you?”

  “She needed to be taught a lesson.”

  “How did you do that?”

  He leaned into the table, “Slowly, doc. I did it slowly. Bit by bit waiting for her to wake up. It’s important that they know what’s happening. The lesson has to stick, otherwise what good is it? They need to feel every piece of clothing being cut off their body, feel the knife decide whether to go through fabric or flesh. They have to feel my fingers, my tongue, and my cock in all the places they don’t want. You can’t rush it. I have to see it in their eyes.”

  “See what?” Barrett tried to mask her revulsion, to not think about the terror Valerie Blake must have felt in the last moments of her life.

  “That they know who’s the boss.”

  She didn’t need any more. It was clear that Walker Green’s crimes had been carefully planned and executed. His psychotic sham was transparent and would never hold up; it was interesting that the court had requested two separate evaluations, but that was often the defense strategy. Get two forensic experts to disagree and it would essentially cancel out both reports. That would leave the determination to the judge and jury, and in a case like Walker’s that might up his chances for avoiding prison. He’d have to improve his act, but a few more months in Croton might make that possible. She’d have to do what she could to see that didn’t happen.

  She spent another hour with him, letting him regale her with accounts of his crimes—all at the command of his bogus voice. She turned off her recorder and was about to call in the guard, when something Walker said caught her attention.

  “There’s a lot of us out there.”

  “What do you mean?” she asked, suddenly thinking of Jimmy and wondering if this creep had some real insight to offer.

  “You know, guys who like to be in control.”

  “But they don’t drug women, force them into vans, and rape them.”

  “That’s what you think, you’re a shrink, and people aren’t all that different.”

  “You think so?”

  “I know it. I may not have your education but I’ve been around. Guys act one way around women, try to come off all smooth and caring, but we’re still cavemen inside. Like in the cartoons where you club some chick over the head and drag her off to your cave. And once you’ve done that, you can’t go back.”

  “So it’s natural, what you did?”

  “It is. Why would God make us like this if it weren’t okay?”

  “When you masturbate is that what you think about?” she asked, clicking the recorder back on.

  “All the time, but so do most guys.”

  “You think that’s true?”

  “Swear to God, all I did was cross a line. It’s not that far from fantasy to flesh—just a few short steps, a couple knockout drops, and a place to go. Easy as pie.” He laughed, “Cherry pie.”

  “How old were you when it stopped being a fantasy?”

  He opened his mouth and then shut it.
He shook his head and clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “Just these chickies, doc. Loose lips sink ships.”

  “Right,” she gathered up her pad and stuffed her recorder into her jacket pocket.

  “You coming back to see me?” he asked.

  “Probably not, unless you’ve got more to tell me.”

  “There’s always more,” he looked in her direction, but more through her than at her. “Then again, after a while, it’s all the same.”

  ___

  Barrett passed through the security checks and exited the razor-wire perimeter of Croton. She hiked across the park-like grounds that surrounded the forensic hospital, which was part of a ten-thousand-acre complex that had once comprised one of New York State’s largest mental institutions. She thought about the interview. In many ways it was typical of sexual sadists; an old story, and a central theme in her research and soon-to-be published book. A line gets crossed and then another and another, “Better than heroin,” he’d said, and a hard habit to break.

  She thought about Ralph and the line that he had crossed. And then she thought about her father. What little she remembered from Georgia and her first seven years of life in a five-room farmhouse that had belonged to her grandfather, was filled with images of her father’s red and angry face, her mother sending her to her room, and the awful sounds of the fights and the beatings.

  She looked up at the weathered-brick facade of Gunther Hall. It was an imposing structure that a century ago had been the very first building for the then New York Hospital for the Insane. Spread over valuable Westchester acreage, it had embraced the moral treatment—a belief that hard work, fresh air, and religious devotion could free a person from mental illness. That of course hadn’t lasted long and what followed was the addition of building after building until in the 1950s Croton housed nearly 30,000 patients—the snake-pit era, with insulin-shock therapy, wet wraps, and Thorazine doled out in gram-high doses that left the sick folk drooling and shuffling through endless days and years. Then deinstitutionalization and they were released into the community, and buildings like Gunther Hall were either left derelict or transformed into administrative offices for state employees displaced from their previous jobs.

  She went up to the second-floor office she’d commandeered. It was nicer than what she had in Manhattan, and over the years she’d made raids on the basement where wonderful old oak, walnut, and mahogany desks, chairs, barrister bookcases, and the like had been stored and forgotten as, one-by-one, buildings shut down and began their crumbling deterioration.

  Through her window she had a view of rolling green hills, distant mansions, and the dip in the green countryside through which the Hudson River meandered on its way toward New York City. It was nearly six and the pre-dusk light splashed the landscape with a rose-colored wash.

  She inserted a disc into the computer and decided to get a quick start on Green’s report. As the screen flashed to life, a buzzing sound intruded. Reaching down she grabbed her vibrating pager; she didn’t recognize the number in the display. She dialed.

  “Barrett?” Justine’s excited voice bubbled into her ear.

  “What’s up?”

  “I got in!”

  “What?”

  “Harrison picked me. I can’t believe it!”

  “That’s wonderful,” Barrett said. “Have you told Mom?”

  “Not yet, you’re the first. You know, he’s never picked a woman. I’ll be the first.”

  “You totally deserve it,” Barrett said, thrilled for her sister, and keeping her less-gracious thoughts hidden. Justine had just been accepted into a highly competitive surgical fellowship, in which she’d be chief resident. An incredible honor, and her sister’s greatest wish. It also meant that for another two years, Justine would be working at a salary too low to support herself, and as Barrett had been doing for Justine since leaving her own residency, she’d be helping out to the tune of a grand a month.

  Her other line rang, and the red light flashed. “Hold on, Justine, I’ve got another call.” She pressed the button for the other line.

  “Barrett?”

  It was Ralph, and she immediately regretted picking up. He’d been leaving messages on her home machine, asking why she wasn’t calling back, pleading. She’d not returned them, still too furious.

  “Barrett?” he repeated.

  “Yes,” her throat went dry. “What do you want, Ralph?”

  “What happened?” he asked, his voice hollow. “I thought after the other night …”

  Her pent up-rage exploded, “And then what happened in the morning, Ralph? Did you go straight from me to her?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Don’t do this, I can’t take the lying. Just tell the truth … for once. I saw Carol.”

  “So? I swear to God, Barrett, I’ve not seen her …”

  “Since when, Ralph? Let me make sure I’ve got your story straight.”

  “Since the day you walked in on us. I’ve not seen her.”

  “Interesting, because her story’s different.”

  “You’ve got to believe me, the last I spoke to her was last week. I didn’t see her, it was over the phone. I told her I was sorry, that there was no way we could see each other. Barrett, you’ve got to believe me, it was only sex, it was wrong, and it was stupid. You’re the only one who matters. I love you.”

  Competing thoughts battered away. She remembered something Sophie had once said …“When someone starts a sentence with, ‘you got to believe me,’ you probably shouldn’t.” “So what day did you call her?”

  “It was after I left our place.”

  Barrett hesitated; Carol hadn’t exactly said she’d seen Ralph; just that they’d spoken. It’s possible she’d leapt to the wrong conclusion. “So what do you want?”

  “You sound so cold … it’s you … and us, that’s what I want.”

  He sounded sincere, vulnerable; her resolve wavered. “I can’t take the lies Ralph. I just can’t.”

  “Can we get together and talk.”

  “ … When?” she asked, feeling her resolve soften.

  “Tonight … please. I could meet you after work.”

  “Okay, I’ll meet you at D’Emilio’s,” she said, naming the corner bistro and their favorite, let’s-not-cook-tonight restaurant.

  There was a pause. “Barrett … I love you so much. The other night made me realize what a complete idiot I’ve been. I can’t lose you. Whatever you want me to do, just tell me. I don’t want to lose you.”

  “We’ll talk,” she said, wondering if talk would again lead to the bedroom, and would that be enough to make her forget, or at least blind her for a time. But that still wouldn’t do a damn thing for why he’d cheated in the first place.

  “I love you, Barrett.”

  She said nothing, feeling his words swim in the back of her head, how easy it would be to say, “I love you too, Ralph,” but she didn’t. Instead, “I have to go, Ralph, 10:30?”

  “I’ll be there.”

  She heard the disappointment in his voice, he’d wanted her to say it. She thought how easy those words came to his lips; did he mean them? He sounded sincere, but what sincere words had gotten Carol into their bed?

  She felt lightheaded. Her gaze drifted to the flashing light on the telephone. She pressed the other line, having forgotten about Justine. “Sorry about that,” she said.

  “What happened? Where’d you go?”

  “It was Ralph.”

  “Oh … what did he want?”

  “Everything. He said that he hasn’t seen Carol again.”

  “But I thought you said …”

  “I know, I might have jumped to a wrong conclusion. I don’t know. I don’t know what to believe. He says that he loves me and that he’ll do anything I want.”

  “Do you still love him?” Justine asked.

  “Yes … but I don’t know if that’s enough. Love is supposed to make everything better; it doesn’t
.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “I told him I’d meet him for drinks after he gets off.”

  “Are you going to take him back?”

  “I don’t know. I miss him so much.” She thought about their great night together, and then the scene of opening the bedroom door, and seeing Carol, and then Ralph, naked. “I can’t stand feeling this way. It’s not just my husband being unfaithful … Ralph is the only man I’ve ever felt like I could just be myself with … that I didn’t have to try and be someone different. And now I think I was wrong; I’m not who he wants, or what he wants...”

  “Look Barrett, I’m getting paged. We can talk later, okay?”

  “Sure …” and then remembering why her sister had called, “and Justine, congratulations. It’s fantastic news.”

  She hung up and pressed her hands against the sides of her face. It was hard to think. And she hated the fact that one of the things that kept popping through her mind was money. Justine’s call, while great news, made things worse. Although, the Martin case, if it were to continue, would certainly help. It was a big if, and Jimmy’s low lithium level, and the overpayment—which she should never have deposited—weren’t helping.

  She picked up the stylus for her Palm Pilot and punched up Jimmy’s name. Twinges of panic quickened her pulse. She took several slow breaths and forced her fingers to dial. He picked up after the fifth ring.

  “Hello?”

  “Mr. Martin? It’s Dr. Conyors.”

  “Yes?”

  “Your sister told you that your bloodwork came back?”

  “She said it was okay.”

  Barrett paused. “It was low.”

  “But that’s still okay.”

  She heard his anxiety. “I won’t report it, if that’s what you’re wondering. But I will redraw … frequently. So I suggest you don’t play with your pills. I need to talk to you about my fee. The check was for four times the amount. I expect to be paid for each session, no more, no less.”

  “I didn’t write it. Ellen did. If there’s a mistake, it wasn’t mine.”

  “I’ll call her,” Barrett said. “But Jimmy, no games. The same goes for Ellen, and I will talk with her. You need to take your medicine and do everything according to your release agreement. If you don’t, they’ll pull you back.”