Six Strokes Under

by Roberta Isleib

  "Hello!" I screamed. "Hello!" I could barely make out the small, tinny voice on the other end.

  "Cassie? Is that you? It's Mom."

  "Mom!" I yelled down in the direction of the phone. "I need help!"

  "I can't hear you. Turn down the radio. You'll damage your hearing with all that noise."

  "Listen, Mom, please," I shouted. "I'm trapped in the gym under a piece of equipment. I need you to call the main desk and tell them to come and help me."

  "This connection is terrible," said Mom. "It sounds like you're breaking up. Call me back when you get out of the dead zone."

  "Mom!" I screamed. "Don't hang up!" Too late. The phone lay silently blinking. Even if she called again, I doubted I could stand the pain involved in rolling my hip over the talk button a second time.

  Maury signed off today's program, insisting that the father and daughter hug before they were allowed to leave the studio. The audience cheered and booed.

  I had begun to feel faint and woozy when the door to the gym burst open.

  "Oh, my goodness!" said the desk clerk.

  "What are you doing here?" said Laura.

  "The thing collapsed on me," I croaked. "My leg's crushed and I can't breathe. Please get it off."

  "I'm going to get the manager," said the desk clerk as she ran from the room.

  "Thanks a lot," said Laura. She squatted down, lifted the left side of the barbell, and eased the weight off my neck. The purple goose egg on her temple throbbed with her effort. She thumped the weight down on the floor beside me. I sat up, slid my leg out from under the bench, and gulped for air.

  "Are you all right?" Laura asked. She studied the Smith bar. "What were you thinking of, trying to bench ninety pounds?"

  "I was thinking you would kill me if I woke you up too early," I said, annoyed by her scolding tone. "I thought it was set for forty. The numbers are almost worn off. See if you don't think it looks like forty."

  The motel manager rushed into the room with the desk clerk. I reviewed the details of the incident.

  "The safety catch is not working and the cable snapped. It's very dangerous," I said, fingering my swelling neck. "Besides all that, you can't read the damned numbers on the bar. I'd recommend you spring for a new piece of equipment."

  "We need to call the police," Laura insisted.

  The manager looked horrified. "We'll take care of it," he said. "We'll look into it. We don't need the police. We'll give you one night's stay free for your bother."

  "You don't understand," Laura said. "Someone's threatened Cassie. This machine has been tampered with."

  I crawled over to lean against the wall. "I think it was just a fluke," I said. Laura had already punched 911 into my cell phone and begun to explain the situation to the operator.

  "I'm calling an ambulance, too," said the manager, apparently now committed to displaying his concern for my condition.

  Several minutes later, the sheriff's deputy who had worked with Pate at the scene of Kaitlin's murder was shown into the exercise room by the desk clerk. "Not you again."

  I smiled politely and explained my altercation with the Smith bar. The detective crouched down to examine the flattened bench.

  "Why do you think this was done deliberately? This equipment looks like it could use some updating."

  "Updating!" Laura snorted. "That's the term they use in real estate when the kitchen appliances were manufactured and installed in the Stone Age."

  "All of our guests sign a statement when they check in," interrupted the manager. "The athletic equipment is provided for the convenience of our guests and all use is strictly at your own risk. Let's go somewhere more comfortable." He ushered us out of the gym and down the hallway into the breakfast area, away from the sight of the offending equipment.

  "You're going to have to tell the detective about the closet," said Laura. "Tell him about Turner's threat." Joe and Jeanine arrived in the lobby as I finished reviewing the details of our foray into the False Memory Consociation's office.

  "So the second man, whose name you do not know, was instructed by this Dr. Turner to scare you off, is that accurate?" said the deputy. I nodded, shrugging apologetically at Jeanine. "And you were hiding in the closet because..."

  "Because, Sheriff, I mean Deputy, Pate was making me feel like you guys weren't looking very hard in any direction except mine for either Dr. Bencher's or Kaitlin Rupert's killers. One more thing," I said. "I don't mean to tell you how to do your job, but Walter Moore is not too crazy about me either." I reported our earlier conversation. "I saw his boss in the parking lot earlier today— he says Walter was charged with manslaughter."

  "When?" said Laura. "Who did he attack? Was he convicted?"

  "I don't know the details."

  "Hmm," said Joe. "I don't like the sound of that at all. One of the best predictors of violence is a violent history."

  An ambulance attendant, who had hovered in the background while we spoke, stepped forward and palpated my neck and upper chest, then examined my leg. "Nothing broken, as far as I can tell," she said. "Looks like some soft-tissue braising, which you can expect will swell and discolor. I'd recommend you stop by the ER just to be on the safe side."

  No way was I going to spend the evening in some emergency room. "I really feel fine. Except for thirsty and hungry. Are we finished here, Detective?"

  He nodded. "We'll be in touch. Stick around until you hear from us, will you?"

  I'd heard a lot of that lately. "I'll be playing golf again tomorrow," I said. "Final round."

  "Ice and rest," called the ambulance attendant on her way out the door. "I didn't say anything about golf."

  Chapter 24

  Jeanine parked the car in the Chili's lot. She turned to assess her passengers: Joe in his blue sling, Laura with a bruised and swollen face, me with the thick, red, striated neck of a professional wrestler. Though the V-necked U.S. Open T-shirt I had chosen did not constrict or irritate my sensitive skin, it definitely failed to disguise the ugly swelling.

  "All of you people look like you belong in an infirmary, not a restaurant," she commented.

  "Nothing a few cocktails won't fix," I said. Once we were seated, with drink orders safely delivered to the waitress, Joe addressed Jeanine.

  "How did you get involved with this person?" he asked, pointing to me.

  "Oh, we met at Dr. Turner's office. Cassie was practicing putting while she waited to see him and we got to talking." She smiled in my direction. "She told me that her friend Mike Callahan would introduce me to Rick Justice if I'd help her get some information about the doctor. I am so excited about this weekend. Will you excuse me, I need to run to the ladies' room." She popped up as if just the thought of meeting Rick created unbearable pressure in her bladder.

  Laura and Joe turned to stare me down as she threaded her way across the room. "You told her Mike would introduce her to Rick? Our Mike Callahan? Are you nuts?"

  "I didn't exactly promise." It was hard to imagine what I could say that would not sound lame and predatory. "I told her... I don't remember exactly what I told her. I was desperate for information, and I admit it, I probably led her on."

  "You have to come clean and tell her the truth," Laura said. Jeanine returned to the table and slid into her seat.

  "Truth about what?"

  "Mike isn't going to have the time to socialize this weekend, if he makes the cut," Joe explained. I flashed him a grateful look. "But if you do come up to the tournament, look for me and I'll show you around. I'd be happy to introduce you to Rick Justice."

  "That is so sweet," said Jeanine, batting her heavily mascaraed eyelashes over her green eyes. No wonder Joe was so eager to help me off the hook. I considered offering him a napkin to mop up his drool.

  "By the way," he continued. "Mike shot a sixty-seven today, so unless he really chokes tomorrow he'll definitely be playing this weekend. How do you like that—Mike Callahan finally makes the cut in a major."

  "That's fantas
tic," I said. "Of course the asshole had to show me up and shave a stroke off my brand-new tournament round record." That came out harsher than I'd meant it to. I knew I was annoyed more at Joe than Mike. I liked to keep my reactions toward Joe anchored in the just-plain-friends department. My irritation over his admiration of Jeanine suggested I hadn't been a hundred percent successful.

  "Mike probably hit from the ladies' tees," said Laura. "Besides, he's been a professional golfer for over a year now; he's supposed to know how to play. You're just getting started."

  "Look out, here comes Kaitlin's family," I said.

  Joe jumped to his feet as the Ruperts reached our table. "Mr. and Mrs. Rupert, I'm Joe Lancaster. I'm so sorry about your loss."

  Gary took Joe's offered hand first. "Gary Rupert. Thanks for the kind words."

  I introduced Jeanine and Laura. Gary and his father accepted their condolences graciously. Margaret Rupert remained silent.

  Then Gary noticed my neckline. "What the hell happened to you?"

  "A little altercation with some exercise equipment." I explained the bench-pressing incident in the motel gym.

  "I've never seen that happen," said Coach Rupert, frowning. He appeared relieved to move away from conversation about his daughter's death. "Sometimes my players disengage the counterbalance because it causes the weights to bind, but I've never seen the safety catch fail on one of those machines."

  "Could it have been vandals?" asked Gary. His fingers grazed my neck. "Are you sure you're all right?"

  "Fine." I smiled and did a little eyelash batting of my own. Mostly for Joe's benefit, I told myself—he'd asked for it. "I may not be able to talk a lot tomorrow, but in some circles that would be counted as an advantage."

  "There's vandalism everywhere these days," said Jeanine. "People are just plain mean. They don't seem to think about how their actions will affect someone else. Like that club they put in the Korean girl's bag." She realized what she'd said as soon as the words left her mouth. "I'm sorry, that was so thoughtless."

  Gary and Coach Rupert grimaced with identical thin smiles.

  "Not to worry," said Coach. "We don't believe our daughter would have done something like that. Though I don't suppose it matters anymore." Mrs. Rupert sagged visibly toward her husband. The claws from the high school mascot Nighthawk tattoo emerged from Coach's sleeve as he reached around to prop her up.

  "We need to get going," said Coach. "It's been a hard day. Have a good dinner. Nice to meet all of you."

  "Take care, Cassie," said Gary. "No more exercising tonight, I hope."

  "I am so stupid," said Jeanine after they'd moved across the room out of earshot.

  "You weren't thinking," I said. "It's okay."

  "That's just what Dr. Turner is always saying," she said, her eyes beginning to fill with tears. " 'You don't think before you speak, Jeanine. The most absurd things come out of your mouth. God gave you big boobs to make up for a shortage in the brains department.' "

  "I can't believe he'd say something so cruel." In truth, I was mostly surprised that she would have stayed in that job and put up with his crap. And even more surprised at her willingness to repeat those hurtful comments to the general public. I turned to Joe. "Speaking of that jerk, did you find out anything new about his memory association?"

  "I spoke to a colleague in the American Psychological Association central office," said Joe. "Turner had developed a particular vendetta against Dr. Bencher. Bencher saw Turner's daughter in therapy several years ago and, according to him, encouraged her to accuse her father of incest."

  "Gross me out!" said Jeanine.

  "Wow," I said. "That explains why he's so invested in this false memory organization."

  "Turner's daughter's story is similar to that of Kaitlin Rupert and Julie Atwater," explained Joe. "Once she'd had several sessions with Bencher, she turned on her father, claiming to have remembered that he abused her sexually."

  "Julie said Bencher never encouraged her, he just listened," I said.

  "Whatever the truth, Turner was a senior lecturer in his college physics department at the time. The publicity finished his career there. Who wants a child molester on staff? First his application for tenure was denied, then they asked him to resign. He fought it for a year, but in the end, he quit and started the FMC."

  "So he isn't a shrink at all," said Laura. "Cassie, you said he listed himself in the phone book as a therapeutic consultant."

  Joe shook his head. "He has no mental health training of any kind. And he'd made life hell for Dr. Bencher up until the day he was shot. The FMC featured Bencher many times in their monthly newsletter column—'Dangerous Liaisons.' Each month several former patients would talk about their interactions with a so-called charlatan shrink. Bencher's name got to be a regular there. Somehow, they tracked down his list of patients and found the ones who were dissatisfied with his services."

  "How did they find out who were his patients?" I asked. The idea of someone contacting me about my own therapist, or him about me, gave me the serious creeps.

  "With the records kept by managed care companies these days, privacy is a lot less private than it used to be," said Joe.

  "I don't get this Bencher dude," said Laura. "How come he got involved in so many crazy cases?"

  "I don't believe he was a charlatan," said Joe. "But he did enjoy the excitement of a high-profile, high-risk case. And once you get involved in something like that, you get the reputation for being able to handle difficult patients and situations."

  "Word of mouth." I nodded. "Like Kaitlin sending Julie Atwater to see Bencher."

  "It also looks like the FMC arranged to have Bencher picketed," said Joe.

  "You mean they paid Julie Atwater's father to picket?" I asked.

  "I don't think they had to pay Atwater much, if at all," said Joe. "He had his own axe to grind. He was convinced Bencher was a high priest in a satanic cult that took hold of his daughter and implanted her with these traumatic memories."

  "I really can't believe I worked for Dr. Turner," said Jeanine. "He sounds worse and worse." She wrapped her arms around herself and shivered.

  "Besides that, I managed to get in touch with Turner's daughter—the one who started the whole ball rolling."

  "How did you find her?"

  "How did you get her to agree to speak with you?"

  "I found her on the Internet," said Joe. "She lives in Tampa. She moved there before Turner set up his office in Sarasota. She wouldn't say a lot—she wasn't happy about me tracking her down and asking her to excavate her history. She did say Turner was violent and cruel and she's still scared to death of him. She's barely left the house since he moved to Florida."

  "Bottom line," said Laura. "Nothing you learned would eliminate him from our pool of suspects. Everything you've told us fits with what Cassie and Jeanine overheard in the closet. He might have gotten someone like Mr. Atwater to do the dirty work, but he sounds capable of anything, even murder."

  Joe nodded and looked at me. "He also sounds paranoid enough to have someone follow you around and do something destructive to get you to quit snooping in his business. I'm not buying the accident-in-the-weight-room hypothesis."

  'Turner would have had no idea I was going into that gym," I protested. "I had no idea I was going in there until five minutes before I went." I swallowed the last inch of my beer and motioned for the waitress. "I'm having one more," I told Laura before she could argue. "I deserve it."

  "What about Walter Moore, then," said Laura, frowning. "Could he have known you were going to work out? You said you talked to him just before you went into the weight room."

  "Why would he be mad at you?" asked Jeanine.

  "We overheard a big shot from Deikon telling the press that Walter is history with their company," Laura explained.

  "He has this idea that I was involved in exposing the experimental club," I said. "He knows I saw him showing it to Kaitlin back home, and I guess he thinks I ratted on him. Maybe h
e even thinks I teamed up with Kaitlin to put it in So Won's golf bag."

  "Well, you are the one who benefited most clearly from her elimination out of the tournament," said Joe. "Believing that, the guy definitely had motive to hurt you, whether or not the thinking was twisted. He's lost everything. So he had nothing to lose. He could have set up the bench press accident. With the manslaughter charge in his background, I'd put my money on Walter."

  "But at the time I spoke to him, I didn't know I was going to the gym. It's not like I posted an announcement: Cassandra Burdette will be working out at six o'clock."

  "What about the other possibilities?" said Joe. "Did you dig up anything on So Won Lee?"

  "Nothing," I said. "I got nowhere. I just can't see her beating Kaitlin to death, even if she had a good reason. And I did talk to her friend Jung Hyun Ro—she claims So Won had already left town before Kaitlin died."

  The waitress slid my bacon cheeseburger and a mound of Chili's fries in front of me.

  "I did have another idea while I was over at the office," I said, arranging mustard and onions on the bun. "What about Julie Atwater? Suppose she had a crush on Kaitlin and Kaitlin shut her down. Julie seems stable, but between the Bible study stuff and her crazy father, there's been an awful lot of upheaval in her life. She could have snapped, just like Maria Renda did today on the golf course." I took a huge bite out of the cheeseburger and sighed with satisfaction.

  "It sounds far-fetched," commented Laura. She pulled the list she'd made yesterday out of her pocket and smoothed it open on the table in front of her. "I'm sorry to say, I didn't do my part. I got distracted by a blow to the head." She lowered her voice to a whisper. "What do you think about one of the Ruperts?"