Witness to Myself

by Seymour Shubin

  Although the thought horrified him, he saw this as hope.

  And then it stopped horrifying him.

  He must have been sitting there for at least five minutes, staring at the computer, when the phone rang. He just let it ring, waiting for the answering machine to take it. It stopped after three rings and the machine went on, and the silence that followed told him it was going to be another hang-up. Somehow this brought him out of it and he lifted the phone.

  “Yes.”

  He got only silence. But he thought he could hear the sound of breathing.

  “Hello,” he said.

  And this time a man’s voice spoke. He said only one word. “Why?”

  Alan frowned. “Who is this? Why what?”

  “Why?” the man repeated. And his voice, which had been soft at first, was a little stronger.

  “Who is this? Who are you?” Alan was about to hang up but then he heard:

  “I didn’t ask you to save me. I didn’t want it. Why?” It was a shout now.

  Alan’s hand was frozen on the receiver.

  “Was it any of your business?” the voice went on. “Any of your goddamn business? You wanted to be a big man, didn’t you, a hero! Big shot! Get your name in the paper! Well, you got your name in the paper all right, you bastard!”

  “I wasn’t trying to be a hero,” he shouted back. “I didn’t even — I just did it!”

  “Weren’t trying to be a hero! Oh yeah! Well, fuck you! You hear me? Fuck you!”

  And then the line went dead.

  Chapter Thirty

  He stood gripping the phone for several moments before putting it down. Then he tried to redial the number from which the call had come. Instead of ringing, he heard a recording: We’re sorry, but this payphone does not accept incoming calls. He hung up.

  What was going on? It was no mystery how the guy had gotten his home number — his name was right there in the damn phone book — but what did he want? He had to be a nut, a lunatic. He wanted to kill himself? Well, it wasn’t as if, having been stopped once, he could never try again. He could still jump off a bridge or out a window or under another subway car, if that’s really how he wanted to go.

  As he gradually calmed down, Alan thought of the revolver and shells in his night table. It was as though the guy had called to say you’re the last person in this world who should have stopped me. And maybe he was right.

  Alan tried to put the call out of his mind. There were too many other things to think about, all of them infinitely more important. Like that guy Luger here in Philly. No, Luder. Luder. It was almost with a chill that he thought of him, and yet it was with something of relief, too.

  But the following morning, driving to the office, every fear flooded back on him.

  He had noticed a gray car pull out from the line of cars in back and then settle in right behind him. That was nothing, of course, but then he saw the same car — or was it? — follow him through a turn into another street, which still might be nothing but had him a little tense. His eyes kept going to the rear-view and side-view mirrors as he drove on. When he saw that the car was still behind him into another turn, he almost stood on the gas. He sped through a yellow light, then made several quick turns before feeling safe enough to pull into his parking lot.

  His immediate thought was that it was the police in an unmarked car. But why? If they wanted to arrest or question him, they would simply do it. There was nothing he could think of that they would learn by following him around. His mind then went to that voice on the phone. But that was ridiculous, wasn’t it? Why would he follow him when he knew where Alan lived and worked?

  Walking along the crowded sidewalk to his building, he tried convincing himself it was all his imagination.

  What was definitely not his imagination was Elsa Tomlinson’s annoyance with him. She wasn’t rude, they spoke about the usual business matters, but he could detect a difference. And then it came out, when she stopped him as he was leaving her office that afternoon.

  “I just want to say this,” she said. “I want you to know I am quite proud of what you did.”

  “Thanks.” But he waited for more.

  “Nevertheless I think you were wrong in how you handled it. It’s like you’re ashamed. Or bashful. In business, in projects like ours, you can’t be bashful, you know.”

  “I know what you’re saying,” he said. “But can I say this? Can I say this again? I don’t want to act like the super-modest guy but I really didn’t do anything heroic. It wasn’t like I was brave, I just grabbed the guy.”

  “And that’s nothing? All right, let’s call it nothing if you want. It’s more than something but let’s call it nothing. There are too many lousy ways to get in the papers or on TV. And when a good way comes along that we’re all proud of, I say take the opportunity. That’s all.”

  He didn’t say if he agreed with her or not. He just nodded again and went back to his office. He tried to lose himself in work but then as it grew time to leave he began to think more and more about Anna, how he had to stop seeing her. But when he got home and the phone rang and the first thing he heard was, “Alan, it’s me. I want to see you, can I see you?” he almost ran to his car.

  He was to doubt, later, whether he gave a thought to whether anyone was following him.

  He came back to his apartment about seven in the morning, to shower and change before going to work, feeling a lightness that was almost strange in his life. But the moment he walked in he saw the little light blinking on his answering machine, and when he went to listen it was as though the whole room was darkening around him. He heard only hang-ups, three of them. At least one if not all of them, he was sure, had to be him.

  He took a shower but he couldn’t help opening the shower door twice, thinking he might have heard the phone ringing. He was wrong each time. But he wasn’t when it rang while he was dressing.

  “You bastard,” the same voice said.

  “Look, what do you want?” It was almost a yell. “Tell me what you want!”

  “What did you want from me? Tell me that. Why couldn’t you leave me alone? Why didn’t you leave me alone?”

  “Let me tell you something. I’m sorry I did it. Okay? Okay? I’m sorry!”

  “Sorry. You’re sorry. You bastard, you have it so goddamn good,” he went on, “you think everyone has it good! You don’t know! You’ve got no idea!”

  “I don’t know? Who the hell says I have it good?”

  “You’re a goddamn lawyer. You’ve got money. You’ve got it all. And you think everyone has it all.”

  How, he wondered immediately, did this guy know he was a lawyer? The item in the paper hadn’t said anything about that. But all he could think to say, in rage, was: “You bastard, you’ve been following me. It’s you, isn’t it? You know what? I should have let you die. What the hell do I care if you live or die?”

  “And that’s the goddamn truth! Finally the truth! You just don’t know what suffering is, what real trouble is. You live in a world of your own. You’ve got no fucking idea.”

  “I don’t? I don’t? I don’t know what suffering is? I don’t know what trouble is?”

  But then he caught himself and hung up fast.

  He stood there, his hand holding down the phone.

  My God, he thought. He had almost blurted it out.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  During this time I had my own tensions to deal with. The Luder case, I knew, had to be attracting every true crime writer in the country; and though I had alerted my publisher that I was looking into it, and he thought it worth following, I didn’t have enough material yet for the kind of proposal that would bring not only a contract but a hefty advance.

  And Haggerty, meanwhile, was still biting at my heels. Though he was starting to sound like he was ready to give up on me.

  It wasn’t that I hadn’t accumulated material. In addition to talking with Detective Murray and a few other officers, I’d interviewed several of Luder’
s neighbors and a two of his nieces; his parents were dead, and a younger brother had died when Luder was ten. Although I had a long, long way to go, the picture of him that was emerging was so familiar as to be almost a cliché: The kid who was to grow up to be a serial murderer had been quiet, withdrawn, church-going, and an average student through high school. He then began drifting around, mostly working as a short-order cook, and had never been in any trouble until his arrest as a pedophile.

  A story that, so far, had been told a million times.

  I looked at the newspaper I had placed across my desk. Today’s paper had a picture of Luder at still another gravesite, this one over in New Jersey. It showed him with some officers in the woods, staring down at what appeared to be a mound of leaves, his hands cuffed behind his back. Although he was cleanshaven there, the pictures at the time of his arrest had showed him with a straggly beard, half-bald, what hair he did have tied back in a gray ponytail.

  I had just finished clipping out the picture and the story when I remembered something Patty had asked me to do that morning. She would be home soon and I still hadn’t done it. I dialed Alan’s number, and after a wait of several rings his voice came on, loud. “What do you want now? What do you want?”

  Frowning, I held the phone away from my ear. Then, “Alan? What’s wrong?”

  Silence. A long one. “Oh God,” his voice said quietly, “I’m sorry.”

  “I’m only trying to sell you an insurance policy,” I said.

  “I’m sorry, Colin. Oh Christ. I must have sounded like a horse’s ass. But someone’s been bugging me and I’ve had it.”

  “Is it your kindly minister’s aged mother?”

  He managed a little laugh. “It’s just some guy bugging me, trying to sell me something.”

  “Well, with that you’re forgiven.”

  And then I told him why I’d called: Patty and I wanted to know if he and Anna would like to go out to dinner with us this Sunday.

  “Sounds good but I’ll let you know after I talk with her.”

  “Good enough. Take care. Oh by the way, don’t be so shy with those guys.”

  He laughed again. A little one.

  What I didn’t know, of course, was that he had just gotten a call, where that voice said, “I want you to know —” and Alan had immediately hung up, wanting to throw the damn phone against the wall. And now, after my call to him, he remained standing by the phone although telling himself he wouldn’t answer if it rang a thousand times.

  But when the phone rang a few minutes later he couldn’t resist and swept it up. But he just held it to his ear, said nothing.

  “You’re there,” the voice said. “I know you’re there. And I just want to say this.”

  “I’m right here,” Alan said. “I’m right here. Now what the hell more do you want from me?”

  “I just want to say this,” he repeated, and for the first time Alan realized from the muffled tone of his voice that he must be holding something like a handkerchief to the mouthpiece. “I just want to say that you not only butted into something that was none of your business but you milked it, you got yourself publicity out of it.”

  “Look, you’ve said all this before. How many times do you want to say it?”

  “Oh, you big hero,” he went on, as if he hadn’t heard. “Big man, big hero.”

  “Look, buddy, I didn’t ask for that, I didn’t want it.”

  “Oh you didn’t want it! My ass. Let me ask you, do you know what being desperate means? Do you know what having nothing means? You have any idea at all?”

  “Look, do you want me to call the police? Because that’s what I’m going —”

  “You can call whoever the hell you want. You can —”

  Alan quickly put down the phone; set it down quietly, though he wanted to slam it back on its hook. His immediate thought was that, though he hated to, he would have to change to an unlisted phone number. But what good would that do since the guy knew where he worked and could call him there? He thought about calling the police, but that lasted only about five seconds. The last people he wanted to talk to were the police. The Cape Cod police had surely distributed the sketch to them, it was in their files, perhaps even in their memories. And anyway, they wouldn’t get involved in tracking down nuisance calls. It wasn’t as if he’d been threatened.

  And yet he felt as if he were being threatened. And — though this seemed crazy — he had the eerie feeling there was a reason, a dark one, why the guy had come into his life.

  That night he was concerned enough about the caller to think again about getting a license to carry a gun. The next morning he even called the shop where he’d bought the gun to see how long it would take to get one. Just a few days, he was told. But though he played with the idea of doing it, common sense said no: He was afraid he might use it. And for the next few days he had no reason to regret it.

  Not only didn’t he hear from the caller but the story of Susheela Kapasi disappeared again from the Breeze. No more sketch, no more about Luder. Alan wouldn’t even let himself be bothered by the occasional thunder of music from next door.

  That Sunday the four of us decided to go to the zoo before going to dinner. None of us had been there in years, and the fact that it was a cool gray day, with a possibility of rain, somehow made us even more interested in going: It wouldn’t, we thought, be as crowded as usual. But it was, which didn’t bother us at all. We ate popcorn as we walked along the paths through the outdoor exhibits. Many of the animals were indoors, perhaps sensing rain, and one of the exhibits we went to was the monkey house. And it was there that, without Patty and I being aware of it, Alan noticed a certain man.

  Every time Alan glanced at him, the guy was looking at us but then would turn away.

  He was standing at the fringe of the group gathered around the chimpanzee window. He looked to be in his mid-thirties and was rather short, with a round face, heavy-lidded eyes, and black hair that was brushed a little over his forehead, like bangs. He was wearing a light windbreaker, and from what alan could see he also wore a nasty little smile. the four of us were about to walk on when alan looked at him again, and this time the man’s eyes didn’t shift away. for a moment alan felt a little jolt of recognition, even though he couldn’t place him. but there seemed to be something, something....

  Alan looked away. And then when he looked back he was gone.

  Alan told himself that his imagination was out of control.

  We all wanted to go to the carnivore house in time for the feeding of the lions and tigers. We had about twenty minutes to get there, and Anna, Patty and I went on ahead to get a good spot while Alan lingered behind to watch the monkeys a while longer. When he did enter the carnivore house it was echoing with roars as the animals, striding back and forth in their cages, anticipated the feeding.

  This part of the building was jammed with people; it was the prime daily exhibition.

  Alan looked around for us and then saw us at the back of the crowd; Anna, however, was turned away from the animals and was talking to that same man. Alan stood there watching. Then he walked a little closer. And it was then that the man saw him. He showed Alan, briefly, that same little smile, which seemed to have nothing of humor about it. Then he reached out and shook Anna’s hand and started walking away, with a look over his shoulder at her.

  Alan stood with us, forcing himself not to say anything as one of the keepers walked along the outside of the cages, flinging in slabs of red meat. But afterward, as the crowd thinned out, Alan said to her, “Who was that guy you were talking to?”

  His voice was so sharp that Patty and I, who were just a little ahead, couldn’t help turning quickly toward them.

  “Who was who?” She looked genuinely puzzled. Then, “Oh, you mean that fellow.”

  “Yes, the guy you were talking with. Who is he?”

  “Who is he? I don’t know who he is. Just someone who started talking to me.”

  “Can I ask what about?” He didn�
��t seem at all concerned that Patty and I were standing there, listening.

  “Alan.” She smiled. “Don’t tell me you’re jealous.”

  “I’m serious.”

  “What he talked to me about? About children. How the only way to really appreciate a zoo was to bring a child.”

  “I see.”

  “And how he remembered his aunt bringing him here. I guess she raised him. He said he felt bad because she has to go to a nursing home.”

  Alan felt a chill ripple through him. “He said that? He brought up nursing homes? Did you tell him you worked in one?”

  “Alan, what is it?”

  “I don’t know. I’m not sure.” He hadn’t told her about the calls, hadn’t wanted to worry her. And he wasn’t sure if he should tell her now what he suspected.

  “Alan, tell me what it is. You’re starting to scare me.”

  I took Patty by the elbow and we walked a short distance away, to give them privacy. It was hardly subtle but I doubt if Anna or Alan noticed.

  “Look,” Alan said, “I don’t know if this is so. I don’t know for sure. But I have a feeling, I have a suspicion. A strong one. That he’s the guy I pulled from the subway.”

  She stared at him, her mouth open. “Oh Alan, that can’t be. Are you sure? It would be so coincidental.”

  “I said I don’t know for sure. But I feel it, I think it.”

  “Oh this is so crazy.” Then a look of anguish came over her face. “Alan, I didn’t give him my name. But I did give him the name of the nursing home. Did I... oh Alan, was I wrong?”

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  It wasn’t until they left us after dinner and had just gotten into their car that Alan decided to tell her about the calls. He’d been debating it in his head, hating to scare her but at the same time afraid for her. This guy at the zoo — and Alan was becoming convinced he was the caller — possibly had learned about Anna by following him to her place. If so, he not only was crazy, he was determined, and who knew what else he might do?

  So he told her, and all the while she kept looking at him in dismay.