by Bill Moody
I’ve done that already.
Chapter Two
After it was all over, after I was out of Los Angeles, I wandered around New York trying to get some perspective on what I’d been through—days and days spent walking as you can only in that city, going with whims, spur-of-the-moment ideas that took me to areas I’d never been to before, enjoying the anonymous, out-of-touch-with-everyone feeling. I spent long aimless afternoons strolling through Central Park, watching kids play, couples holding hands, runners, walkers, bicyclists, and many people like myself, judging from their expressions, just getting lost for a few hours away from the din of the city.
True, I could rationalize, easily point to the facts. Gillian Payne was in prison, Danny Cooper had fully recovered, and Gillian’s brother could now perhaps resume a fairly normal life. But there had been a price for all this. Natalie and I were probably over, and I still didn’t know how I felt about that. Maybe our breakup would have happened anyway. Maybe the whole awful nightmare was only the catalyst. I hadn’t called her, and she hadn’t tried to contact me, so there was that to consider and add to the equation.
On the plus side, the recording had been finished and would be released soon. My hand was fine, I was playing well. It remained now for me to pick up the pieces and get on with my life. All things considered, there was every reason to believe in the future. That’s how it should have been, but it wasn’t working. I couldn’t erase those images from my mind.
I forced myself to keep busy, looking up old friends, listening to music, even sitting in a couple of times at sessions. Cindy Fuller, my old stewardess girlfriend, had been on the flight. We’d gotten together for dinner, but Cindy had her own life now, and there was nothing to rekindle there. I’d even made a trip up to Boston to visit some of my former teachers at Berklee. I actually thought about visiting my parents, but we’d been out of touch for so long, what was the point? They had their life, and I had mine. Short, civil visits were all either of us wanted or could endure, and it had been that way for years.
It all came back to the slip of paper in my wallet, a scribbled phone number and a name, constantly dragging me back to the past like an unpaid bill.
It was part of my debriefing from the FBI, the complimentary counseling they not only offered but recommended. I could still hear Wendell Cook, the senior agent, trying to convince me, the day before I left L.A.
“Evan, at least take the number. You’re going to be in New York. You’ve been through quite an experience. It might help to talk about it to someone who can view it objectively, and Dr. Hammond is one of the best.” I dutifully took down the number, but I was convinced I’d never use it.
But after only a few aimless, unsettled days in New York, I was still unfocused, restless, disconnected from the few friends I knew there, much less the people I passed on the crowded streets.
It was worse at night. The images continued to haunt me—Gillian Payne’s twisted smile behind the glass partition in jail, the phone conversations when she taunted me, the crime scenes, her brother’s look of surprise and shock as her blade caught him in the throat. I caught myself looking at the faces I passed, trying to see if they knew what I knew, if they’d seen what I’d seen. But there were no answers there.
One night I took the subway downtown. I’d planned on going to the Village Vanguard, but once there, I stood in front of the club, staring at the marquee, hearing the music filtering out to the street, wondering why I was there and no longer interested in going inside. I think it was at that moment I knew it was time to do something about it.
The next morning I gave in and dialed the number, but I hung up the first two times when somebody answered, not sure I wanted to relive the experience. Maybe I didn’t want to hear some of the answers I knew were there, buried somewhere I wanted to keep them; getting them out would be a struggle, and carry consequences. Looking at them would perhaps be worse than keeping them hidden.
Realistically, I knew the whole counseling idea was no more than the FBI’s way of protecting themselves from future litigation, an exercise in covering their ass. They didn’t want me to turn up on a talk show a year or two or three from now, claiming I’d been coerced into cooperating with them and had suffered anguish or trauma, or whatever the label might be, from assisting them with the apprehension of a serial killer. Yet I didn’t doubt Cook’s claim that even seasoned agents are required to undergo counseling, particularly when they have witnessed crime scenes of what Cook called “such a violent nature.”
When I called the third time and stayed on the line, they almost seemed to be expecting me. Somebody, probably Wendell Cook, had told them to be ready. I was given an appointment the next afternoon at an address on Riverside Drive.
The office was done in restful pastels, soft lighting, and I sat apprehensively in one of the two comfortable chairs, opposite the psychologist, Rosemary Hammond, a pleasant, fortyish woman in a long, flowing dress and glasses on a chain. She had me sign a document stating that I was there voluntarily, but once that formality for the FBI was covered, she assured me she was there mainly to listen objectively and possibly offer some suggestions.
“Relax, Evan. I’m not a dentist. You look like you’re about to have a root canal.” She smiled and leaned forward to reassure me, “I promise not to use words like ‘issues,’ ‘relate,’ or phrases like ‘Feel good about yourself.’ I’ve read your file, I know all about your background, what happened, all the players.” I could see it right there on her desk, a dark green folder probably faxed from Los Angeles. “You went through quite a lot in a very short time. More than most field agents experience in their entire careers. It’s understandable that you wanted to get away from where it happened. That is why you’re in New York, isn’t it?”
I knew how counselors worked. I’d been through a number of sessions after my accident, trying to come to terms with the idea that I might not ever play the piano again. They were earnest, their recommendations were well meaning, but to me, not much help. How could anyone understand, and why would Rosemary Hammond be any different? I was cautious at first, trying to get a read on Hammond.
“I don’t know. I suppose it is, but I’m not staying here. I plan on going to Europe if I can get some work.”
She didn’t say, Oh, running farther away, huh? She just smiled again and said, “Tell me about it.” She didn’t take notes, and I saw no tape recorder. She just leaned back in her chair and focused her attention in a way that made me want to tell her everything. Maybe I could leave it all right here in her office and be on my way.
“There was Andrea Lawrence, one of your agents. That got to be more than a working relationship, or at least I felt it could have been.”
“Ah, that’s not in the file,” Hammond said, “but it doesn’t matter, this is all confidential.”
“Okay, I’ll get to that later.”
Hammond shrugged as if to say, However you want to do it.
“I was just getting my career back together after years of physical therapy, not being able to play, when Danny Cooper called, asking for my help. Just look around the crime scene, he said, help us understand this. The killer had written ‘Bird Lives!’ in blood on the mirror in one of the victims’ dressing rooms, referring to Charlie Parker, the saxophonist. The victim was still there on the floor, blood everywhere, his horn smashed, and there was a Bird CD playing when they found him, and a white feather in the saxophone case. The police didn’t know what to make of it, but I knew what it all meant immediately. The killer was sending a message. That room was filled with rage.”
“And you saw all this.”
“Yes. Saw it, smelled it, felt it. It made me sick. I just wanted to get out of there so I could breathe. But I felt obligated to Cooper. We’re old friends, from high school, and he’d helped me in the past, so I stuck with it. When they were sure it was a serial killer, and the FBI got involved, I explained more clues for them—saved them time, so they said, and I
was okay with that.”
“And then what happened?” Hammond asked.
“Somebody leaked it to the press that I was involved. The story trotted out my past, my involvement with similar things. Then I got personally involved with Gillian, the killer, through phone calls, tapes, mail, even poems. She was very clever. I became the go-between. There was no way out, nothing to do but see it through to the end. To be truthful, I resented the intrusion. On my personal and professional life. I’d just signed a recording contract, work was coming in, and things with Natalie were fine. Then Lawrence—Andie, everybody called her—got involved. I had to help her create a profile of Gillian. Natalie didn’t understand all the time I spent with Andie or why I was so involved in the first place, and I couldn’t tell her everything.”
“And did she have any cause to be worried, jealous even?”
I paused a moment before answering. “Worried? Yes, it was more dangerous than anything I’d ever done. Jealous? I don’t know. Not at first, but there was chemistry between Andie and me, strong sexual tension. I admit that. I thought I was committed to Natalie, but maybe not as much as I thought. It didn’t help that Andie was very attractive. She made it very clear she was available and interested.”
“Did you think that was unprofessional of her?”
I shrugged. “I didn’t connect it like that. I knew she was testing the waters, but under the circumstances, it was different. We were thrown together, we traveled together to San Francisco. People can’t help their feelings, even if it means being unprofessional. It happens all the time, and I suppose I was flattered by the attention.”
“And did you act on those feelings?”
“No, I didn’t, but Natalie wasn’t convinced, and that in turn made me doubt her, wonder why she couldn’t trust me. I was just doing a job I didn’t want to be doing. I could tell her less and less as they closed in on Gillian, but it was in part for her own protection as well. Nobody knew what Gillian was going to do. I was juggling Gillian, the FBI, Natalie, Andie Lawrence, and trying to keep my music together, all at the same time.
“In San Francisco, Andie and I were staying at the same hotel, in adjoining rooms, but something kept me from opening that door, even though I knew it wasn’t locked. Natalie, of course, didn’t see it that way. She suspected the worst, and nothing I could tell her would make it go away. But there was something else as well.”
This was the real problem, and I’d been working up to it gradually by talking about Andie Lawrence and Natalie. Now it was time.
“What?”
“Gillian. Her phone calls. I never knew when they were coming, but she was playing with my head, seducing me in a way, mentally. I wanted…to know. It became an obsession to know why she was doing this, what would make anybody do what she did, and if I could stop her.” I smiled at Hammond. “Makes me sound weird, huh?”
“Not at all. It was a natural feeling. You had too many opposing forces closing in on you all at once, that’s all.”
“I always thought music was the only thing for me, but I got caught up in those other things the same way, just on a different level. I had to know the answers once the questions were put before me. Wardell Gray’s death—how did it happen? The Clifford Brown recordings—were they real or not? I wanted to know, even though I should have stopped long before I did.”
“And when you found the answers, was there satisfaction?”
“Yes, there was satisfaction, even though all the questions weren’t answered.” I got up and walked around the office, glancing at Hammond’s certificates on the wall, the art posters.
“Can I smoke?” I asked Hammond. She nodded yes. I lit up and sat down again while she poured us both some coffee. “It’s hard to explain, but yes, I got satisfaction from tracking down people, finding the answers, resolving things. Sometimes maybe even as much as I get from music. And that scared me.”
Hammond said, “No reason it should. You were perhaps transferring the frustration from your accident to something you had some control over. Finding those answers was up to you.”
“But that doesn’t explain it all, how I feel now.”
“No, it doesn’t. Your loyalty to Cooper and Natalie was rewarded by one, rejected by the other. Your resistance to Lawrence was not acknowledged by Natalie, at least not to your satisfaction, so your feelings for her changed.”
“Yes, they did.” And in that moment, I was suddenly clear about it.
Hammond paused then, considering. “When you left Los Angeles, who came to see you off? Anybody?”
It was the first time I’d thought about it. “Cooper drove me to the airport. Andie was there at the gate. I didn’t see Natalie after the last time we talked, a few days before I left.”
“And the case was over,” Hammond said. “Lawrence had no reason to be there other than she wanted to see you.”
I looked away then, replaying the airport scene in my mind, remembering Andie’s words: You know how much I’d like to get on this plane with you? Things might have been different if I hadn’t already been involved with Natalie.
Hammond looked at me then. We both knew I was avoiding what was really bothering me, however gradually I was easing into it.
“I still see Gillian, that last meeting when she was already in jail. I still see her slashing her brother’s throat.”
Hammond nods. “Those images are hard to erase. What you’re experiencing is similar to what combat veterans go through. You know the term. Post-traumatic stress disorder. You may never be free of those horrific images, but over time, they will fade. It was because of you that a killer was stopped. The file is very clear about that, and you should be too. If you were an agent, you’d be on mandatory leave now until we thought you were able to return to the field.”
“But I’m not an agent. Am I ready to return to the field?”
“To life, you mean?” Hammond smiled then and stood up. “Perhaps that’s enough for today.”
“How do you know I’ll come back?”
“You’ll come back,” Hammond said, and showed me to the door.
***
Dr. Hammond was right. I did go back. For three afternoons in succession. It was like I wanted to get it all out and over with as soon as possible. I drank coffee with Hammond, smoked and talked, and answered her occasional question. It seemed easy, like telling your life story to a stranger you’ll never see again, not caring what they think of you. It was thinking out loud, getting nonjudgmental feedback. It felt damn good.
“What do you think draws you away from music, gets you involved with these other things?”
“It begins with doing somebody a favor, feeling obligated, helping somebody I know. With Wardell Gray and the Clifford Brown recordings, that’s the way it was. But I was too good at it and dug too deep. I got more than I bargained for. Plus, as you said, I wasn’t playing. It was a way to get my mind off that.”
“But it’s more than that, isn’t it?”
I sat up straighter in the chair, as if I’d been pulled upright. “Yes, yes it is. Calvin Hughes said something similar. It’s some fascination, maybe even an obsession with knowing. In all those cases, there was a point when I could have, should have, stopped. But I didn’t.”
“But there was a trade-off. You got satisfaction, but it cost you a lot, and perhaps made you a different person.”
“Yes, it did. You’re right. All those things are true. I might have been doing that the other times, but with Gillian there was no choice.”
Hammond stops me for a minute and looks through my file. “Tell me about Calvin Hughes, Pappy Dean.”
The question surprises me, and I take a moment to consider. “Both musicians—Pappy and I became friends. He helped me with the Wardell Gray thing. Calvin, I’ve known for years. He was my piano teacher at one time. We’ve stayed in touch over the years, remained fairly close.”
“A kind of mentor?”
“Yes, I guess you
could say that. Why do you ask?”
Hammond pauses, looks away for a moment. “I don’t know. It’s just a feeling. You haven’t talked at all about your parents. Are they both still living?”
“Yes. My father and I never got along, he had no empathy for music. My mother does, but neither of them communicate much. They have their world, I have mine. I see them rarely.”
Then I see where she’s going. “You think Calvin and Pappy are father figure substitutes? Is that it?”
“Possibly. They’re both considerably older than you are and both musicians, so the connection is there, perhaps in a way you would have liked to have with your father.”
“Aren’t we getting away from the point here?”
Hammond doesn’t push it. “Yes, I suppose we are.” She looked at me then and smiled. I knew I’d told her more than I meant to. “I don’t know if this has helped you, but my instinct tells me you’re going to be okay. You acted courageously under pressure, and you were certainly an asset on this case. Your drive, determination, it’s who you are, but sometimes you need to rein it in.”
I knew then exactly what she meant. I leaned back, distinctly feeling a weight lifted from me. “So what do you think?” I asked Hammond, trying to keep it light. “Am I ready for the field again?”
“I think you know the answer to that better than I do,” she said. She closed the file and plopped it on her desk. The sound was a satisfying one to me. “Call me anytime if you want,” she said.
She was right. I did know. I’d never see things quite the same way again, but I also knew I could probably go on.
I didn’t call her again, and a month later, I left for London.
April 28, 1988
Chet Baker, nodding, listens to the playback in the cavernous Hamburg studio. Only two tracks to go. His teeth are hurting, getting worse lately. He touches his jaw, feels them slip. Making it so far, though, playing good, but now he just wants to get out of there, get in the Alfa and drive as fast as he can to the gig in Paris. Just cool it for a while.
