by Jack Kerley
I said, “I know you’re busy with society things, pathology things, a heavy social schedule. Tell me what’s a good time for you.”
“I’ve done all my society things for this month, Ryder—a fund-raiser for the symphony. Pathology I do at work, not home. As for…what was the third option?”
“Your social life, like dates and whatnot.”
“I’ve got two guys hitting on me, Ryder. One’s a banker who waxes rhapsodic about money market funds, ugh.”
“The other?”
She made a purring sound deep in her throat. “A hottie, I think is the term. A charming and intelligent man, self-made multimillionaire, one home in Mobile, one in Provence, a pied-à-terre in Manhattan. We were out together last night.”
“Oh.”
“I’d be real interested if he wasn’t eighty-four years old. What are you up to Saturday, Ryder?”
“My new routine: nothing.”
“Want to come here? Or my office at work? I can close the door, we can talk as much as you want.”
“How about my place?” I suggested. “We’ll sit on the deck, watch the dolphin-tour boats go back and forth.”
She turned and walked back to the mailbox, her hips graceful beneath the denim. She dipped the brush in paint, poised it over the mailbox.
“You sure know how to show a girl a good time, Ryder. How about sevenish? That work for you?”
CHAPTER 31
I pulled away from Clair’s and aimed my truck for Dauphin Island when my phone rang: Harry. I pulled to the side of the road.
“You at home, Cars?”
“Still in town, Harry. I was just talking to Clair.”
“You’re at the morgue?”
“I stopped by her house for a few moments.”
A two-beat pause. “After you took off I nuked some leftover Chinese. Then I sat down and pulled out a stack of Rudolnick’s cases to scan while I ate, plow through another half inch. There was a magazine mixed in with them, a psychiatry thing. Some pages fell out.”
“Pages from the magazine?”
“Pages tucked inside the magazine.”
“Those are subscription forms, Harry.”
“Whatever pills you’re taking, Cars, they’re working. These ain’t subscription forms. They’re notes in the doc’s handwriting. Comments on a case, I think, but this is the kind of thing you know more about.”
“How about I stop by in the a.m., eight or so?”
“There’s something about the notes, Carson. I’d really like you to look at them now.”
I was sitting on Harry’s gallery in minutes. It was verging on dusk, but the gallery was well lit and the skeeter truck had been by minutes earlier. I had no idea of the chemical composition of the gray fog that poured from the mosquito-control truck, but like everyone who lived near coastal marshland, I didn’t care as long as it kept the bloodsuckers at bay.
“Here’s how it was when I grabbed it up, Cars.”
Harry handed me the spring issue of the Journal of American Psychiatry from two years back. It was Rudolnick’s personal issue, sent to his home address. Harry handed me the magazine by its spine, pages open toward the floor. Several pieces of white typing paper fell to my lap. Six pages, I counted, held at the upper-right edge with a paper clip.
There was only one small block of handwritten text on the front page:
This commences a special project. The undertaking is my own, “independent study,” I suppose. But I believe there are behaviors to be observed and catalogued.
This will be a record for reference.
“Get ready for an interesting trip,” Harry said.
I turned the page. Handwritten notes, sparse, some simply a line or two. There was no name, only “Subject.”
The pages were dated, the dates starting three and a half years back. I read the first entry.
Subject agitated. He paces behind me during my visit. There’s no doubt he wishes to get my attention (though I’m uncertain whether he himself has this realization). He complains of feeling “depressed” and “out of sorts.” He laughs, says, “Maybe it’s the surroundings.”
I lead him to a discussion of visualization techniques as foci for relaxation. I provide suggestions: waves, birds in flight, scudding clouds. He becomes agitated and demands I not treat him as I would “one of my fucked-up patients.”
I assure him that visualization techniques are commonplace, used daily in the home and workplace. His suspicion abates and he indicates interest. Like many, he selects clouds as his preferred setting, and we spend a half hour working with techniques to calm his mind.
I continued reading, wondering if Rudolnick had stuck the pages in the journal for later transcription and forgot where he had put them. The entries were sporadic, averaging six weeks between each. Most were three or four lines, much in the vein of an entry the second year:
Subject calm, a good day. He sits by the window, hands folded, and gazes into the trees. He watches Freddy playing.
The next entry, a few months later, was longer. And more foreboding:
I must be very circumspect, not a shrink, but more a—what? Friend? He has no friends, not in a usual sense. I must provide him with relaxation techniques without seeming to prescribe them. Or anything else I might suggest without seeming to make suggestions. If I appear to prescribe, he will believe I think he is sick. If he thinks I think he is sick, there could be dire consequences. Mirrors within mirrors. How did I get myself into this?
Two more mundane entries—the subject seems to enjoy watching “Freddy” playing outside—then, a month after, a bit of an insight into whoever is described:
He can be absolutely charming, humble. An interesting person to be around, normal, relaxed. Moments later he is demanding, dictatorial. His changes are mercurial and, I am beginning to think, difficult to control, though still contained. He sublimates his impulses exceptionally well, especially what I perceive as an anger toward women.
I doubt the sublimation can continue.
I read, fascinated, a brief entry occurring two months later.
Today he asked me, “Do people really taste like chicken, Rudolnick?” A minute later he was striding forcefully across the floor, appearing to make business decisions. Then he sat and read several of the magazines laying around, general-interest. Later, putting the magazines away, I discovered he had scratched the eyes blank in the photographs of several women, probably unconsciously.
There were several more observational visits, Rudolnick commenting on the patient’s(?) state of mind. The doctor’s observations seemed circumspect, veiled, almost as if he were watching from behind a glass window. The next long entry was the penultimate entry. I noticed the writing was looser, less controlled, as if written in a hurry or in a stressful situation.
When I arrive, he is waiting. His first question: Do I think women’s blood differs from men’s blood? I am becoming a magnet for him. He needs me, but does not realize it. I cannot fathom what will happen if he develops a dependency. He asks me to walk in the woods with him. I am reminded of photographs I have seen of leaders at Camp David, slow-walking down paths bordered with trees, heads bowed in discussion, hands folded behind backs. Except instead of discussing world events, all he discusses is sex and control and death. Not philosophy, but methodology.
I lie—what are my choices?—and assure him his thoughts are normal, and as a psychiatrist, I am perfectly qualified to make such assurances—everyone has such thoughts.
He talks of “escaping” without going into detail; though several meanings can be inferred, none good. In the best of all possible worlds I would be allowed to medicate him. Forestall what I feel is the inevitable.
It is not a choice.
For a few moments he becomes agitated and angry. There are clouds in the sky and I point upward and remind him of the relaxation techniques. I never know what creates such moments. It is like walking beside a normal and respected person who has decided to become a suicide bo
mber, never knowing when he will grasp the plunger.
Then, a week later, the final entry:
This marks the last of this series. I have made my decision to extricate myself from this situation. Everything is a spinning mirror and my share of the blame is large and horrendous. I suspect the subject has come to see me as an enemy. How do I know? He is nicer to me than he has ever been, solicitous of my health. Gentle.
I smell his hand on the plunger.
I must get out.
Five weeks later, Rudolnick was dead.
“What do you think?” Harry asked when I had finished reading.
“I think there’s a decent chance he was treating our killer,” I said, a cold knife tracing circles over the base of my spine.
“I figured you’d agree,” Harry said.
Near midnight, I got a call from the reporter, Ted Margolin. Dani, bless her, had contacted him. She had told Margolin two local dicks were wondering how certain political procedures worked in Montgomery.
“Naturally,” Margolin said, “it intrigued me.”
“We’re interested in a former Mobile County officer, Benjamin Pettigrew. He is not—repeat, not—the subject of any form of investigation. We’d like to know, in general, how Pettigrew got hired.”
“I got a real good source for that kind of stuff,” Margolin said. “I’ll need time to make some calls, maybe wait until a friend can get to some locked files. How about we get together late tomorrow morning?”
I didn’t try to hide my surprise. “You’ll have it by then?”
“If it’s have-able. Oh, Detective Ryder?”
“Yes?”
“I haven’t talked to DeeDee in a few months. She sounded pretty down. She all right?”
“She’s fine,” I said. “Something to do with the change in the weather.”
After wrestling with the notion for several minutes, I decided to call Dani, thank her for the assistance. Maybe buoy my conscience. Her number was still first on my speed dial.
Tap. Connect. Ring.
“Hello?” Her voice tentative. “Carson?”
“It’s me, Dani. I just wanted to let you know that—”
“Buck’s here,” she whispered.
I clicked the phone off and stared at it for several seconds. I pulled up my call list and deleted her number.
CHAPTER 32
Harry and I went to the office in the morning and caught up on every bit of paperwork the case had generated. We had the feeling that something was due to break. We wanted to be caught up if the shit got delivered to the fan.
The Crandell character had come to light and we were using it to leverage Barlow. A four-year-old murder appeared to have been done by Taneesha Franklin’s killer. I suspected Dr. Bernard Rudolnick had treated—or at least observed—the perpetrator. The man who killed Rudolnick had been poisoned after being interviewed by our primary victim, Taneesha. It was a rat’s-nest of tangles, but we were picking it apart a twig at a time. Something was going to bust loose on one of the angles.
At ten forty-five we headed to Harry’s house, where we’d arranged to meet Margolin. The day had turned too hot for sitting outside, so we paced in the living room, Harry north to south while I went east to west. After a few crossings we got the rhythm right. At eleven-thirty we heard a car door slam and Harry went to the window.
“He’s here.”
Margolin strode into the living room with a black leather bag over his shoulder. He was a small, fit guy in a blue seersucker suit and white shirt, no tie. His eyes were dark and electric, his steel-gray hair buzzed short. He moved like a Jack Russell terrier, fast and choppy. The guy looked closer to fifty than sixty; investigative journalism must have agreed with him.
We did introductions. Margolin took the couch, Harry and I pulled our chairs close.
“What you got?” I asked.
Margolin reached into the bag, dug out a folder, set it on his lap.
“First off, don’t get the idea I jump like this for anyone. Cops especially. I’m doing this because DeeDee told me to. I do mean told, like an order. I owed her one for a tip she passed on last year. This is me paying back.”
“Understood,” I said.
Margolin snapped open the folder, put on reading glasses.
“Pettigrew, Benjamin Thomas. Started with the Montgomery force four years back. Patrolman second grade, the rank owing to three years’ experience as a county cop. Made detective one year later. Nicknamed ‘Bulldog’ because of his investigative tenacity. A perp once found out Pettigrew was on his case, came in and surrendered. Actually, I think that’s happened twice.”
“Pettigrew’s not a guy to give up,” Harry said. “And known for it.”
Margolin looked over his glasses. “If you’re looking for a downside to Pettigrew, I never found one. This boy’s all silver and no tarnish.”
“Actually, we’re more interested in how he was selected,” Harry said.
Margolin shuffled through his papers, reviewed one for a few seconds.
“Pettigrew got lucky, actually.”
“Lucky how?”
“The city got a special grant to add cops that year. I mean, like the week before. Over a half million bucks in money drops in from a KEI grant—”
Like touching me with a live wire. I jerked forward, waving my hands in the time-out motion. “Wait a minute, Ted. KEI?”
“Kincannon Enterprises, International.” Margolin’s reporter sense kicked on. “I say something interesting, guys?”
Harry said, “Keep going, Ted.”
“KEI tossed big money on the table, special one-time grant—use it or lose it. It was a little out of KEI’s range to provide funds for direct hiring, but welcomed by the city, of course.”
Harry said, “Would folks at KEI have any sway over who was chosen?”
“If the Kincannons had a candidate for a cop position, the candidate would get heavy consideration. No, he’d flat-out get hired.”
Harry said, “What if the Kincannons wanted a guy out of their hair? They’d do the same, right? Have him plucked away by Montgomery?”
Margolin started to reply, but his eyes turned cautious. He looked between Harry and me.
“I’m late for an appointment. That’s all I know about Pettigrew. I do know the Kincannons are rumored to have inroads into law enforcement.” Defiance in his voice, and veiled anger.
Harry held up his hands. “Wait a minute. You think we got you here under false pretenses? Maybe dope out your view of the Kincannons?”
Margolin picked up his bag, slung it over his shoulder, stood. “Nice talking to you fellows.”
Harry reached out and snatched the bag from Margolin’s shoulders.
“Hey!” Margolin snapped.
Harry slid the bag over a cannonball shoulder. Margolin looked between his bag, Harry’s shoulder, and Harry’s face.
“Have a seat, Ted,” Harry said. “Please,” he added.
The reporter sat warily.
“You need a quick history lesson,” Harry said. “Buck Kincannon helped me create an inner-city baseball team. A year later, when the team’s mentors wouldn’t play dirty political ball with family interests, Kincannon deep-sixed the dreams of about fifty kids I cared about. I’d personally like to rip Kincannon’s face off and shit in it.”
Margolin studied on that for a moment, then looked my way.
“I have my own story,” I said. “It isn’t his face I want.”
Harry said, “Someone we know described the Kincannons as using one hand to give while the other takes. Everything’s quid pro quo. Fit anything you know, Ted?”
“The old Kincannon quid pro quo…I got one: the Montgomery Chamber Orchestra. The Kincannons were trying to schmooze their way into Montgomery society, wanted to impress the social register types. They approached the symphony and donated money to create a chamber orchestra. Three months later, music.”
“And?” I said.
“You can’t wash stripes off
a skunk. The Kincannons can’t bear giving without getting. Every time the family had a bash for their political ass-kissers up in Montgomery—and they have a lot of ’em, bashes and asskissers both—the MCO was expected to perform gratis. After a year of freebies, the musicians rebelled. The funds quietly dried up over the next year.”
Margolin shifted his gaze between Harry and me. “That’s a funny story and no one was hurt. I’ve heard other stories, never verified, that weren’t funny, you get my drift. I’ve always wanted to put a tight lens on the Kincannons. Maybe it’s time.”
Harry slipped the bag from his shoulder, handed it back to the reporter.
“Watch your back,” Harry said.
Margolin winked, said, “One of the things I do best.” He skittered out the door, all sauce and energy.
I turned to Harry. “Pettigrew is checking into the killing of Ms. Holtkamp. He’s got a rep as a guy who finds things out. Suddenly the KEI dumps a shitload of the big green jizzle into the kitty in Montgomery, says hire some cops. And by the way, there’s this guy in Mobile County…”
Harry nodded. “Pettigrew is called to the big city. Barlow slides into place and becomes a wrecking ball.”
“Crandell arrives on the scene and works some kind of magic,” I added. “Problem solved.”
“Four dead bodies, a funky Wookiee, and a high-level fixer. What the hell have we stepped into?”
