The Dean thought about it for a moment then sighed. “Why not?”
Kurtz leaned forward. “Here’s the story…” he said. Werth made a few notes on a yellow pad but listened without speaking. Psychiatrists, Kurtz reflected, get a lot of practice at listening. When he had finished, Werth put down his pen and absently scratched his cheek.
“Psychiatrists are good at coming up with explanations for why people do things,” Werth said. “We’re not so good at predicting actions before they take place.”
“Ah, so you admit that you’re all quacks.”
Werth frowned, evidently taking the statement more seriously than Kurtz had intended. “I wouldn’t say that,” Werth said. “The problem is that motives are complicated and an action can arise from many differing motives. Unless you can examine the actual patient, you can only speculate on what might be driving the guy.” He shrugged. “Frequently, we’re wrong. You want my professional opinion?”
“Yeah,” Kurtz said. “Why else would I be here?”
“The guy is not nuts, or at least, he’s not exactly nuts.”
“Really…”
“He has a reason for doing what he’s doing and the reason makes sense to him. It may or may not make sense to anybody else.”
Lenore had said much the same thing. “That’s it?”
“Some of these guys are motivated by a general sense of injustice. The school represents a corrupt political system, for instance, but that’s pretty rare. Usually, it’s personal and specific. Something bad has happened to him and somebody other than himself is to blame. Or so he thinks. You and I may regard his actions as disproportionate—therefore, nuts—but I would bet the guy has a reason that makes sense.”
“From what Barent and Moran have told me, these guys don’t stop. They escalate.”
Werth nodded. “The cops never hear about the ones who make a few obscene phone calls and then get bored. Most of this stuff is just stupid kids doing stupid things, but once they reach a tipping point…yeah. This guy has been doing it for at least four months. I think in this case Barent and Moran are right. I don’t think this guy is going to stop until he gets what he wants.”
“So, what does he want?”
Werth shrugged. “Damned if I know.”
“On the TV shows, they know.” Kurtz gave a weak grin. “Can’t you give me a profile of the guy?”
“What bullshit,” Werth said. “Look, you take some would be Hannibal Lecter, a guy who’s committed every crime known to mankind and you analyze him, you dissect his thoughts and emotions back to the time his mother deprived him of some ice cream when he was two years old and maybe, maybe, you can figure out what drove the guy to do it. Or maybe you can’t. Maybe he pulls the wings off flies and tortures little children just because he likes to do it. Sometimes there is no motive, and sometimes the motive, the obvious motive, the motive that he admits to, is just a coincidence. Sometimes he does it just because he feels like doing it. And that’s the guy we catch and can talk to and can try to figure out. You want me to tell you what might be driving some unknown lunatic we don’t even know? Forget about it. It’s just fiction.”
“Okay,” Kurtz said, “I get it, but now that you’ve given me the standard disclaimer, why don’t you let loose and speculate a little?”
“Sure,” Werth said. “Speculate.” He let out a heavy sigh. “Why not? Okay, first of all, the guy resents women, he resents academics in general, he resents the medical school and he certainly resents Christina Pirelli. You’re right. All of this began once she became Chairman. Did she harm the guy somehow? Not that she knows of, but that doesn’t necessarily mean anything. Actions have all sorts of consequences, some of which are unintended. Go back and talk to her. Maybe you’ll figure it out.”
“That’s it?”
“Afraid so.”
“I knew all this, already. I was hoping for something new.”
“Well, you’re not going to get it from me, that’s for sure.”
“Thanks,” Kurtz said. “You’re a big help.”
“Coffee?” Harry Moran asked.
Lew Barent looked up from his desk. “Sure.”
Barent and Moran were old friends and partners. They had shared an office until a few months before, when Moran had been granted a cubicle of his own on the second floor. Moran poured a cup, put in two packets of Splenda and some artificial creamer and placed in on Barent’s desk.
“Family okay?” Moran asked.
Barent gave a faint smile. “Since the last time you asked? No change. Grandkid number one is walking. I think he likes me more than my son-in-law, which annoys the little wimp no end.”
Moran shrugged.
“What’s bothering you?” Barent asked.
“This idiocy at Staunton…I have a bad feeling.”
Barent leaned back in his chair and grinned. “Kurtz does have a tendency to jump in with both feet.”
“Don’t I know it…”
“Sooner or later,” Barent mused, “this guy is going to do something drastic.”
“Probably. You got any brilliant advice?”
“Not really. Keep doing what we’re doing and hope something comes up.”
“The essence of police work,” Moran said.
“Better to be bored. If it’s not boring, we’re in trouble.”
“Right,” Moran said.
“And tomorrow is another day.”
“Oh, that’s profound.”
Barent grinned, glanced at his watch and then rose to his feet. “Yeah, well. Time to go home and practice my clichés.”
“Have a good night,” Moran said.
Lenore was already waiting by the time he arrived, seated at a little table in a corner. She was dressed in a gray business suit, which did nothing to hide the lush swell of her breasts nor the generous golden hair falling down her shoulders. She was studying the menu, her tongue nibbling at the corner of her lower lip, and Kurtz began to salivate. Lenore hadn’t seen him yet, and Kurtz stopped for a moment to silently admire her.
She smiled as he walked up. “I ordered a bottle of wine. Silver Oak cabernet.”
“Good,” he said, and picked up the menu. The wine arrived. They gave their orders. The waiter smiled, his teeth flashing white, and left them.
“Cheers,” Lenore said. “How was the day?”
Kurtz sipped the wine. He had occasionally toyed with the idea of getting into wine in a serious way but in the end, a decent bottle of red tasted like any other bottle of decent red, and the really expensive stuff didn’t taste much better. Maybe his palate was simply not capable of telling the difference. “Routine,” he said. “Thank God.”
On the other side of the restaurant, a short, fat woman in a print dress rose to her feet, clutching her neck. Her face was red, her eyes wide and panicked. She staggered away from her table.
Why can’t I have one lousy quiet meal? Kurtz sighed and rose to his feet as well. Absently, he noted that two other men had also risen. All of them were staring at the woman. If they’re wheezing, you leave them alone. Any air is better than no air, and if you screwed around, you might make it worse. The woman wasn’t wheezing. Whatever glob of food had lodged in her trachea had efficiently and completely blocked it. She staggered toward Kurtz. The restaurant, he dimly noted, had gone silent.
Oh, well, time to do your thing. He picked up a steak knife. The Heimlich didn’t always work. He just might have to slit her throat.
Just then, the woman grunted. Her mouth opened. A wet glob of something gross and unidentifiable plopped out onto the floor. She drew a long, deep, shuddering breath and sank down onto a chair. Breathing. She was breathing. Kurtz drew a deep one himself. One of the other men had also picked up a knife, a tall man with black hair, graying at the temples. His eyes met Kurtz’. He grinned. Kurtz grinned back and shrugged. The maitre’d and two waiters were hovering over the woman like frightened birds, no doubt visions of lawsuits dancing through their heads. The woman, however, w
as crying hysterically, clutching a stout, balding man who patted her on the back. Crying takes a lot of breath. The crisis was over. Kurtz sat back down.
“Oh, brother,” he said.
“Would you really have slit her throat?” Lenore said.
“If I had to. The correct term is a cricothyroidotomy.”
Lenore put her hand on top of Kurtz’. “My hero,” she whispered. “My brave surgeon.” Her eyes were shining.
Kurtz grinned. “Suddenly, I’m anxious to get home.”
“Not yet,” Lenore said. “First, we have to eat. My brave surgeon is going to need his strength.”
“More than usual?”
“Maybe. We’ll just to have to see about that, now won’t we?”
Chapter 20
Central Park had seen its fair share of crime over the years but the place was almost always crowded in the afternoon between Wollman Skating Rink and the Met. Christina Pirelli considered it a safe enough place to get some exercise. Christina was not a fanatic about keeping in shape but she liked to jog in the park.
It was an unusually warm day for early December. The sun was shining. Most of the leaves had fallen from the trees and still lay, dry and yellow, on the grass and the walkways. It had rained yesterday, and the air was still and smelled like decaying vegetation and warm earth. You had to enjoy days like this while they lasted, Christina thought. It was supposed to turn cold tomorrow and this being New York, it just might stay that way until spring.
She had gone a little over a mile, feeling like she could do a couple more, when she first noticed the guy behind her. She didn’t think much about him, at first. He was just a guy, but after another half mile, it occurred to her that he was still there, not close, just keeping pace. She frowned. She was tempted to go a little faster but the guy wasn’t crowding her and there were plenty of other people on the trail so she resisted the urge. She turned off onto a side path, careful to choose one that had plenty of people on it. The guy turned off with her.
Enough of this. The Fifth Avenue entrance at 59th Street was only a few hundred yards away. Time to go home. The guy apparently didn’t follow once she was out of the park. She walked slowly back to her apartment, feeling a little ridiculous. He was just a jogger. The whole incident meant nothing. She glanced at her watch and tried not to think about it. She was supposed to meet John at The Modern in an hour for an early dinner. Her little interaction in the park had gotten her adrenaline flowing, now that she thought about it. She smiled. She hoped that John had a good appetite. Christina had plans for later in the evening. She planned on ordering him around quite a bit.
She was, after all, a chairman, and chairmen have their privileges.
Two days later, her last patient of the afternoon canceled. She went home early, put on her sweats and running shoes and headed out to the Park. The guy didn’t show this time and after a mile or so, she forgot about it. The next Saturday, however, after a nice easy mile, there he was. A surge of annoyance flushed through her system. Coincidence? Maybe. Again, he didn’t crowd her, just jogged along behind. When she turned off, he turned off, too. When she sped up, he sped up with her. No coincidence, then, but he wasn’t threatening her, not overtly, anyway. He was just…there.
She finished her run and exited the park and he turned off, jogging along the path. She stared after him. Tall, lean, brown hair.
Asshole.
Three days later, he was there again, and then again, two days after that. She almost grew used to it, her silent, distant escort. Almost, but not quite.
The next time she jogged, he picked her up at the half mile mark, jogging silently along behind. After another half mile, however, he was inching up. This was a first, and this, she didn’t like. She sped up, and he sped up, too.
Suddenly, she was running, but he was running faster than she was and then he was right behind her, right on her heels. She could hear his breathing, easy and regular and she knew that she couldn’t get away from him. And then he said, “Soon. It will all be over soon.” And he laughed and stopped and she kept running. She ran until she was out of the park, dizzy and light-headed and nauseous, and continued to run until she reached home. She opened the door to the apartment, barely able to hold the keys in her shaking hands, and slammed the door behind her and locked the bolt and slumped to the floor. Then she picked up the phone and called Harry Moran.
Lenore looked exquisite in the dim light, the candles barely flickering. Kurtz tried to ignore the hint of cleavage peeking out of her dark blue dress then decided to stop fighting it. Better to concentrate on the positives, since he was not as happy with the meal as he should have been. They were eating at Buddakan, a palace of fusion haut cuisine inside Chelsea Market.
“Basically, this is glorified Chinese,” he said.
Lenore nodded. “So? It’s really good glorified Chinese.”
“We could eat just as well in Chinatown for a third the price.”
“Probably not, and this place has a much better wine list.”
“Humph.” Kurtz moodily stirred his tea smoked sesame beef with his chopsticks. Lenore continued to eat with obvious pleasure, which obscurely annoyed Kurtz.
“Have you ever heard the parable of the Russian farmer?” Kurtz asked.
Lenore paused with a dumpling halfway to her lips. “No,” she said.
“We had a resident a few years ago; his name was Ilya Kirilenko. He had emigrated from Russia to Israel and spent about six months in a residency in Israel before coming to the US. He was crazy.”
“How so?”
“Let’s just say that had an exaggerated opinion of his own judgment and abilities. He not only thought that he knew more than the other residents, he thought he knew more than the attendings. One time, we were doing some sort of minor case and I asked him if he wanted to suture the skin.” Kurtz shook his head, still amazed after all these years. “He said, ‘I’m not interested in sutures.’
“I said, ‘What do you mean, you’re not interested in sutures?’
“He said, ‘I already know how to suture.’
“So, I said, ‘Why don’t you show me?’ So, he tried and he did a lousy job.”
“Suturing is pretty basic, isn’t it?”
“Sure, once you know how. This idiot thought that he did, but he didn’t. Needless to say, you can’t do surgery if you don’t know how to suture.”
Lenore frowned but didn’t stop eating. “Oh, well.”
“Yeah. One time, we did a biopsy of a skin lesion on a teenage girl. She had local anesthesia and some minimal sedation. We dropped her off in the back of the Recovery Room and I went to the phone to dictate the case. Suddenly, I hear the girl screaming. I went running back to see what was going on and Ilya was trying to force an oxygen mask on her face and she was yelling, ‘Get away from me, you pervert!’
“I said, “What the hell are you doing?
“He said, ‘This is hypoxic encephalopathy. She needs oxygen!’”
Lenore looked bewildered. “Did she need oxygen?”
“No. She was wide awake, breathing normally and her oxygen saturations was absolutely normal. He was nuts.” Kurtz shook his head. “I apologized to the patient and told him to leave her the hell alone. Jesus.”
“So, what does all of this have to do with Russian farmers?”
“Oh. Well, in addition to being insane, Ilya actually had a sense of humor. One time, he told me what he called the parable of the Russian farmer. It seems that there is a very poor farmer. His soil is stony. He can barely plow it. He can’t grow enough crops and his family is hungry. One day, God appears to him and tells him that he’ll grant the farmer any wish that he wants. The farmer asks for a horse, so he can plow his fields. The next day, a horse appears at the farmer’s front door. The farmer plows his fields, his crops grow and his family has enough to eat.
“The farmer has a neighbor, also a Russian farmer. Like the first one, his soil is stony, his crops won’t grow and his family is starving. G
od appears to the neighbor and tells him that he’ll grant any wish that he wants. What do you think he wants?”
“I don’t know,” Lenore said. “A horse of his own?”
“That would make sense, wouldn’t it? But nope. The farmer knows exactly what he wants and that’s not it. He says to God, ‘I want you to kill my neighbor’s horse.’”
“Cold,” Lenore said.
“This was supposed to illustrate something about human nature in general and the attitude of the Russian people, in particular. After having suffered for seventy years under communism and hundreds of years under the czars, they were simply incapable of conceiving of a better life for themselves; but they still resented anybody who might have more than they did.”
“You said he was crazy.”
“Nuts,” Kurtz said. “Completely nuts.”
“But nuts with a sense of humor.”
Kurtz nodded. “Yup.”
“What happened to him?”
“He finally pissed off too many people. We fired him.”
“So much for a sense of humor.”
“What else were we supposed to do? He couldn’t do the job.”
“Nothing,” Lenore said. “Nothing at all. If you can’t do the job, then you have to go.”
“Unfortunately, true,” Kurtz said.
“So, what happened to him?”
Kurtz shrugged. “Who knows?”
“And even more to the point, why are you thinking about this?”
“I’m wondering what’s driving our current lunatic.
“So how do Russian farmers and dead horses help you?”
“Damned if I know. I’m just thinking.”
She gave him a long look then shrugged. “It’s good that you’re thinking. Keep thinking. Meanwhile, you want dessert?”
“Sure,” Kurtz said.
“Good. Me, too.”
Ten minutes later, Kurtz paused with a spoonful of almond bread pudding halfway to his lips. A far away look came slowly over his face.
“What?” Lenore asked.
“Hmm?” Kurtz looked at her, looked down at his dessert, carefully placed the spoon down on his plate and sat back in his chair. He let out a breath and slowly smiled. “I’ve got an idea,” he said.
The Chairmen Page 17
