The Eulogist

by Liz McKinney Johnson

  December 17

  Revised files from S have not arrived. Taking forever. Received voice mail from Don Stachlowski, said he found something in his mother’s things I might be interested in. Returned call, no answer. Fundraiser tonight for lab construction. Original investor, Roger Jones, indicated he is willing to put in additional half to three quarter million. Haven’t met him, Lily says he is serious. We could use the money.

  December 18

  Don Stachlowski left another voice mail, going out of town for holidays with friends, but will call upon return. Mentioned finding photograph of father with another man about same age. Words "me and Jake" written on back of photograph. Son remembered question about any friends his father might have had. Maybe "Jake" was a friend.

  December 20

  Files arrived from S. Three patients to interview. Two women, one man. Do not recognize names or general histories from original research, but cover memo from S assures all three would make excellent subjects. Has contacted all and they are expecting my call. That makes it easy. Should be able to see them within next few days. Note to ask S whatever happened to pianist; he would make good video subject. Meeting Jones this evening to close deal on additional funding. $750,000. Jones obviously infatuated with Lily. Probably would have given full million if she held his hand and helped him sign on the dotted line.

  December 27

  Surprised to receive "me and Jake" photograph in the mail today from Don Stachlowski. Accompanying note contains local Park Hills phone number and short message from Don. He found photo and phone number in old address book in mother’s things. Don’t understand why he’s so fired up about photo. First time I talked to him, got impression he hadn’t bothered to open boxes his father brought with. Once you start looking, you probably can’t stop. Note says friend’s full name is Jake Tucker. Doesn’t ring a bell. Note also mentions father’s reluctance to talk about Tucker. Father increasingly irritable when asked about anything regarding testing experience, has demanded son have no further contact with me. Apologizes for having to cease communication and closes with odd mention about stress of sudden disappearance of the neighbor’s dog.

  January 4

  Unusual coincidence. Discovered Jake Tucker’s name on desk, came across old cover memo Janet prepared for original set of files. Listed all patient names. Jake Tucker’s name on list. He is not one of three files S delivered for interviews. Must be something unacceptable. Still have photo and phone number from Don Stachlowski. No answer from Jake Tucker. Not even an answering machine.

  January 8

  Ruth Fitzgerald, 79. Interview number one. Living in nicely appointed apartment complex with six cats. Chart notes show stage two dementia prior to drug testing. Patient appears completely on track, talks virtually non-stop. Apartment filled with several sewing machines, colorful quilts are stacked on every surface. Blood pressure, normal. Heart rate, normal. Slightly overweight, but not dangerously so. No family in area. Has help for light housekeeping and some meal preparation. Complained only of allergies she says are related to the cats, claims to love cats more than hate allergies. Eager to show off quilts, which are extremely detailed and complex. No two the same. Asked how long she’d been a quilter. Said she just picked it up, not hard, works around the clock and can finish one in about a week. She insisted I take one, searched through piles and presented me with a blue, silver and white quilt with a star pattern made of hundreds of tiny interlocking squares. Would not take no for an answer. Frenetic, like a windup mouse. Too intense for TV. What was S thinking?

  January 22

  Other two patients selected by S are satisfactory, but not dramatic. Not nearly as high-functioning as my earlier interviews. Would rather track down patients whose original stories were more compelling. Spoke with S and VM. They are researching. Also asked S for file on Jake Tucker. Video crew wants to get started on fundraising program, calling every day, very annoying. Note to direct calls to Lily. Things are not coming together smoothly. Too busy to track down all the loose ends. S and VM distracted by lab construction. Still no answer at Jake Tucker phone number.

  January 28

  Surrounded by incompetents. S and VM called out of town. No explanation. Research not complete on other patient interview options. Am scheduled for back-to-back surgery tomorrow. Lily has obligated me for some abysmal dinner engagement same day. Voicemail from Don Stachlowski asking about that damn photo again. Who the hell cares?

  February 3

  Tired of waiting. Some things you just have to do yourself. Hacked into Nesler server and downloaded copies of patient files. Not too hard. Pretty low level security for such an important company. Perhaps I should mention vulnerability to VM next time I see him.

  February 11

  Cannot sleep. Re-read notes, looking for patterns. Patients are all better. Better than before. Not just halting damage, not just recovering function. Patients are smarter, producing new neurons, making new connections. Appears to be what we always wanted, a way to rewire limbic system. Not just heal, improve. This is proof that will break open funding. Indicators all go up. Their reservoirs are drained, re-filled, and their intelligence tests improve each time. It’s all good, but something’s out of place. Their brains are firing, but it’s not controlled: it’s fast, capricious, like a wildfire. They are better. But are they better than ever? If fire surrounds itself will it burn through all connections? Is it possible to get better and better and better? Where does it stop? What if it doesn’t stop? Stroke? Insanity? Worse? Cannot sleep.

  February 15

  Reached daughter of Jake Tucker, Mary Anderson. Father diagnosed with pulmonary fibrosis. Dementia acute. Requires near constant supervision. Did not improve on drug therapy. Made appointment for interview and observation. Daughter very hesitant. Call S again for Tucker file. S confirms Tucker was negative responder, questions interview potential.

  February 18

  Met with Jake Tucker. Matches profile of typical early to mid-stage Alzheimer’s patient. Unable to stay on track long enough to answer my questions, but upon leaving, pulled me aside and whispered in my ear that Martin Stachlowski had murdered his wife. Daughter overhead comment and apologized profusely, insisting story was latest in her father’s string of paranoia. He had told mailman same story earlier that day. Her explanation makes most sense, but cannot shake intensity of father’s declaration. Cannot be true, but patient certainly believes it to be true. Left another message for Martin’s son.

  February 21

  Cannot sleep again. Something wrong. There’s a pattern I missed before. The notes are random but recurring. People have died. Pets have disappeared. Homes have been destroyed. Individual situations ordinary, almost mundane, but side-by-side, results are startling. More than coincidence. People and things that were annoyances have been dispatched with exquisite design. Don’t think patients have become smarter, they’ve become sociopathic, eliminating with horrifying precision anything and anyone they choose. Who would suspect them? Sweet Grandma and Grandpa, so happy to have their minds back. It’s the perfect alibi. So smart, so very, very smart. Jake Tucker isn’t crazy, maybe he’s only sane one left. S needs to know. Trials have to stop.

  February 22

  Contacted S and VM, still out of town. Can tell they don’t believe my theory. S adamant it’s coincidence. Says tragedies happen within everyone’s lives. Put any group of strangers together and you’ll find a string of unfortunate events. Says they’re just things that happen to people. I tell them about what Jake Tucker told me. S reminds me Tucker rarely coherent. Not convinced, tell S meeting is necessary to look at all remaining patients. Put every one through battery of psychological tests. Told S, will pull name and money from any further research or testing unless we follow through. S finally agrees to fly back in, but wants offsite meeting. Nervous about information leaking to investors or press. Suggests we both fly in and meet up north at Barnett to review, strategize. Seems unnecessary, S insists press are watching, doggi
ng him for information every time he comes or goes. Have agreed to meet. S promises to take my theory seriously. Can tell he doesn’t want to, thinks it will delay things. Too damn bad. My stamp of approval is all over his drug. If it’s true, if this thing is causing psychoses, if I’ve helped create these monsters, it doesn’t matter. I’ll go public with it now and shut down the whole lab. S is positive it’s nothing, a fluke, an oddity that can be explained away. He keeps assuring me nothing drastic will be necessary.

  That’s the last entry. Two days before Michael’s plane plunged into the Rock River. I watch the cursor pulse on the screen at the end of his final sentence: He keeps assuring me nothing drastic will be necessary.

  Murder is pretty drastic.

  The windows behind me are brightening. Dawn. Soon I’ll be into my second twenty-four hours of chaos. The light illuminates the dust swirling the air, mimicking the thoughts in my head. I need to get out of here before the sun shines. Like Count Dracula. No time to print all of Michael’s entries for Lily. I close the file and the program. No time to check to see if he kept a copy of the updated patient files he’d downloaded from the Nesler server.

  Just enough time to write a note. My own journal entry on a scrap of paper. I lay it carefully across the keyboard.

  Lily,

  Discovered something important. No time to explain. Will call you later. Don’t worry.

  Albert

  EIGHTEEN

  I spot the sack of shoes on Klein’s front porch. His house sits mid-block in a quiet neighborhood of well-tended flower gardens, brick retaining walls and swept driveways. It’s a two-story Tudor with a steeply raked slate roof, copper gutters and full dormers jutting out on either end. Some of those past insurance settlements have gone to good use in the home-improvement area. The front windows are still curtained against the morning light.

  The car clock reads 6:02. Only dogs and crazy joggers up this early. I wonder if Lily is up and has read my note. When you tell people not to worry, that is exactly the point at which they start worrying. I should call, but there’s no time to call. I have to stay focused on what’s in front of me. A Kroger’s plastic bag full of leather shoes.

  I hop out of the car and climb the stone steps curving up to Klein’s front porch. As if I’ve tripped an invisible guy wire, sprinklers suddenly rise from the manicured lawn and unleash a slash of water across my pants. I dodge subsequent assaults and finally reach the porch damp but not dripping. I grab the bag and turn around, hesitating a moment to plot my escape past the streams of water. I hear the door open.

  "Shoe Fly?" asks a voice from behind me.

  I pause, dying to answer with the obvious, "don’t bother me." Instead I spin around and smile through the screen door.

  "Yes, sir, Mr. Klein, sir. Here to pick up your shoes, as promised."

  "I was hoping I’d catch you."

  The dirty mesh of the screen door obscures his face, but I can still make out the shape of the famous Mr. Klein. He’s wearing a thick, white terrycloth robe looped around a generous mid-section. His chest is thickly carpeted with dark hair. In sharp contrast, his head is bald. Not balding, completely bald, like Mr. Clean, but without the pirate earring. He pushes the door open and his features come into view. Plump cheeks, heavy dark-rimmed glasses, and gigantic eyebrows, like little whisk brooms above his eyes.

  "Listen, there are five pairs in there instead of four. Can I still get the same deal?"

  What a guy. Always looking for the angle.

  "Five for the price of two? That’s quite a discount, but if it insures you’ll be a Shoe Fly repeat customer, we’ll make it happen. Could you spot me a little extra time though? Say I bring everything back tomorrow afternoon instead of first thing?"

  "You got a deal, young man."

  He looks at me, his pupils magnified to the size of kumquats behind the heavy glasses.

  "Have we met before?" he asks.

  Why yes we have. I’m that nervous feeling you get that you’re being followed. I’m the reason you hate to answer your phone.

  "Don’t think so, sir," I reply, smiling so wide it hurts. "I’ve only been in town here a few months. But I’ve got one of those faces. People are always thinking they know me. I must look like everyone’s second cousin twice removed."

  Klein laughs and releases the screen. It slams shut.

  "Tomorrow afternoon it is," he says. "Leave ‘em on the porch if I’m not here. Saturday is my day to visit my pop at the home for lunch. Salisbury steak and creamed corn." He laughs again. "Nothing soothes the soul like institutional food."

  He shuts the door, but I remain staring at it. "My pop at the home?" Klein. Klein. There was a Klein on Michael’s patient list. I’m sure of it. I don’t remember the full name. James or John or Jules or something. It couldn’t be the same person. That would mean my two worlds are about to collide. I believe when worlds collide there is usually a horrible explosion.

  I walk back down the steps to the car, not caring when the sprinklers whack me on the backside. I needed that. Now if I could just get someone to whack me upside the head.

  Pulling away from the curb, I consider driving straight to Lily’s. This is too much for one small brain to handle. I’m desperate for someone to confide in. But not Lily. Not yet. She only knows one side of the story. By the time I could explain my entire parallel universe, a lot more shit would have hit the fan, and something tells me I’m up to my knees in it already.

  The cards are beginning to fall into place. Not fluttering gracefully from the sky like a game of 52 Pick Up, but slapped down hard. Blackjack. House wins. Howard and Gavin know what Michael discovered and Michael is gone. If they assume I know what Michael discovered, Albert is gone.

  But not yet. Albert is not gone yet, and Charlie may be just the one to keep him around. Forgive me, Lily. Forgive me for making you worry and for stirring up this mess in the first place. But I’m here now, and maybe for once I can clean up after myself. Forgive me, Lily. Forgive me for falling in love with you. Then, forget me.

  I turn the corner and head for the condo. I need a shower and a shave and a clean shirt and tie. Charlie Sandors has some work to do.

  The condo is chilly when I step in. It’s early, but the heat should have kicked on by now. That damn message light is blinking on the phone again. I’m sure it’s Lily. I wonder how many times she’s called.

  Click. Beep.

  "Albert? Pick up, Albert. I got your note."

  Her voice is shrill, panicky. Has she been crying?

  "What did you find? Don’t you dare leave me in the dark. Call me back immediately."

  She’s upset. Deservedly so. I’d be pissed too if I’d awoken to an empty house and a mysterious note. Be patient, dear Lily. I need to do a little more digging. I promise you’ll be the first to know what I discover. That is, unless I am the last to know.

  There’s another message.

  Click. Beep.

  "Sorry to bother you so early, Mr. Mackey. It’s Gavin VanMorten. I know this is last minute, but I wanted to tell you Channel 2 is coming out to the lab construction site this morning. It’s for their Sunrise News segment. Should happen about 7:00. Howard thought you might be interested. Again, my apologies for the early call."

  Why didn’t Lily tell me about this? Surely she knew. We were supposed to be working this morning. She promised to get up first and make coffee. Maybe that just meant turning on the coffeemaker as opposed to bringing me a steaming mug of coffee in bed. Maybe she planned on sneaking out before I woke up. Guess I beat her to the punch.

  I glance over at the kitchen clock. 6:45. The clock is next to the sink. Over the sink is a window. The window is open. Did I leave the window open? No, it was raining when I left for Lily’s. I walk into the kitchen and slide the window closed. It’s big, but hardly seems big enough for anyone older than six to climb through it. I’d like to convince myself I left it open, but I can’t. The paranoia is building. Being in the kitchen reminds me I haven’t
eaten in quite awhile. I pull open the refrigerator. Slim pickings unless I can make an entire meal out of condiments. Maybe a glass of orange juice for now. I can grab something on the way to work.

  I cross into the living room and search for the remote. Fishing it out from between the sofa cushions, I scan to channel 2. An extremely happy young woman is talking about the weather in front of a big map of Illinois. I turn up the volume and head back to the bedroom to change. It’s a bit gray now, but it's going to be a "super nice" day according to the happy young woman’s voice. That must be official weather terminology. I peel off my clothes. Man, I am really hungry; it’s giving me a little headache. Can’t jump in the shower yet, though. Have to wait to see dear ol’ Howard on the news.