Charcot's Genius

by M. C. Soutter

  “I’m taking care of it,” Martin said curtly. “Just sit still and don’t say anything.”

  “You’re the boss,” Kline said meekly.

  Martin stuck his head out the car window. “Officer!” he yelled. “Officer, we’ve got a problem over here!”

  The cop looked in their direction. He seemed annoyed at the interruption. “I’ll have your ticket in a few minutes,” he yelled back to them. He made no move to get out of the cruiser.

  “No,” Martin shouted. “This is a serious problem. I can come and show you, if you want…”

  That did it. “Stay right there,” the officer said. He climbed out of his car and came walking towards the Cadillac.

  The cop came up alongside Martin’s window. “What is it?”

  “My friend and I were talking,” Martin said, “and we’re lost. Can you help us out?”

  The cop’s expression switched from caution to relief. “That’s it? Let me finish with these tickets first – ”

  “We’ve got the map right here,” Martin said, reaching into the pocket on the driver’s side door. “Let me show you.”

  The policeman saw the danger, and he tried to go for his gun. But Martin had timed his move very carefully. He watched for that split second of relaxation after his insipid “we’re lost” announcement, and the cop’s defenses didn’t return to normal quite fast enough.

  Just like that, Martin was holding a gun under the cop’s chin.

  Kline raised his eyebrows.

  This guy might be crazy, he thought. But he’s also very fast.

  Martin climbed slowly out of the Cadillac, being careful to keep the muzzle of his Magnum pressed firmly into the soft flesh underneath the cop’s jaw. He unsnapped the holster on the officer’s hip and threw the service revolver onto the pavement.

  “Hop in,” Martin said. “Make a move and I’ll blow you away.”

  Kline smiled. He couldn’t have said it better himself.

  “Now, then,” Martin said, when they were all back in the car. “Let’s talk about this.” He flicked the gun barrel at the cop, who was sitting with his hands on his head.

  “What?”

  “Don’t ‘what’ me!” Martin barked. “Tell me how much you know.”

  “About…?” The cop sounded genuinely perplexed. “I’ll need some help. How much do I know about what?”

  “About me, you idiot. Who tipped you guys off? The insurance agent? Or was it that real estate bitch? She called an arson inspector, I suppose. That house was a piece of shit, anyway. It’s not as if anyone was going to buy it. I did everyone a favor by burning it down.” Martin shook his head. “How many units are after me?”

  The cop gave Martin an exasperated look. “Nobody’s after you,” he said, sounding more frustrated than scared. He nodded at Dr. Kline.

  “It’s him.”

  2

  They were back on their way. Martin wasn’t driving anymore, busy as he was with pointing a gun at the cop. He kept asking for more speed, but Dr. Kline was determined to hold them under eighty. As before, he simply wasn’t ready to die. There were too many loose ends that needed his attention.

  “He doesn’t even care about me!” Martin shouted, glaring at the policeman.

  Kline nodded silently. He could understand Martin’s frustration. In the backseat, the cop seemed to be holding back a grin. Martin scowled. “For a man with a gun pointed at him, you’re in an awfully good fucking mood.”

  “Sorry,” the cop answered softly. “I must be in shock. Hostage syndrome, or something.”

  “Yeah, my left nut. Come on, Kline. Faster.”

  “This is probably far enough.”

  “I’ll decide what’s far enough. Shit. I’m done listening to you.”

  Kline ducked his head like a turtle.

  “Okay,” Martin said finally. “Take that fire road.”

  Kline pulled the big car off the highway and through a gap in the trees. They bumped along the dusty, partially mowed path until they came to a clearing, where Kline brought the car to a stop. Martin helped the officer out of the backseat. He took the handcuffs off the man’s belt and pointed to a tree. “Go hug it.”

  The policeman, ever pleasant, did as he was told. Martin kept the gun pressed against his head as they walked, and he gave the handcuffs to Kline.

  “One on each wrist,” Martin instructed. “I want him married to that thing.”

  When Kline was done, they both stepped back to inspect the arrangement. Martin nodded with satisfaction. The officer’s arms were hooked to one another behind the trunk. “He’s going nowhere,” said Kline.

  “I know.” Martin raised the gun to shoulder-level.

  The officer spoke up quickly. “Whoah. Hey, now. Don’t go doing that.”

  Kline marveled at the man’s calm. He sounds like a father warning his child not to touch a poison ivy plant.

  Martin paused, lowering his weapon a few inches. “And why shouldn’t I?”

  “Because you haven’t done anything worse than a college fraternity prank so far.” The cop’s voice was still easy, almost amused. “The frat brothers up at Dartmouth do this kind of thing to sophomore pledges all the time. The kids get a bunch of mosquito bites along the way, but that’s about it.” He pointed his chin at Kline. “It’s your friend there who’s in trouble. He’s the murderer. You don’t want to do anything to change that distinction.”

  Surprise registered on Martin’s face, and he glanced at Kline. Murderer?

  Kline shrugged. Yeah, so?

  “If you pull that trigger,” the cop went on, “you’ll be right there with him. They’ll hunt you down. Both of you.”

  Martin lowered his gun a little farther, and the cop pressed his advantage. “Just take off. Leave me here. Like your friend said, I’m going nowhere. Eventually my guys will find me, but that won’t be for at least a day. Maybe two. And I won’t tell them who did this. That’ll be my little gift to you.” He smiled. “For sparing my life.”

  Martin’s eyes narrowed. “You already called in the arrest,” he said. “When you were sitting in the car.”

  The officer nodded slowly. “Right. Which is why they will find me, eventually. But I was calling about him, not you. They don’t know your license plate, make, or model. And they sure don’t know your name. I was too busy requesting backup.” The officer paused. Something seemed to occur to him.

  “Wait a second,” he said. “Was this gentleman hitchhiking?”

  Martin frowned. “What if he was?”

  The cop started to laugh, and they stared at him in disbelief. The man was handcuffed to a tree, miles from anything, with a cocked gun pointed at his head. And he was laughing.

  “You don’t even know who this is,” the cop said.

  Martin raised the gun again, as if to encourage a more honest conversation. “Educate me.”

  “That’s Dr. Nathan Kline.” He spoke the name with reverence, as if it were a dignitary’s. Kline felt a little welling of pride in his chest. “He’s wanted for – ” The cop searched for an appropriate description. “ – for a whole lot of killing.”

  A mild way of putting it, Kline thought.

  Martin didn’t seem impressed. “Who cares?” He looked again at Kline. “You’re a bad guy, huh?”

  Kline decided to keep quiet. He had a dog phase coming on, and he could already smell the fear in the air. You’re doing a very good job of hiding your emotions, officer.

  He could smell Martin, too, and he didn’t like what he smelled there. Not one bit.

  “Let’s go,” Martin said suddenly, lowering the gun for the last time. He turned and headed for the Cadillac. “You coming?”

  Kline nodded. He spared a last glance for the cop. Try not to wet your pants until we’re gone.

  To his credit, Officer Barnhart maintained his placid demeanor until the Cadillac was out of sight. Then he lowered his large head and leaned forward. Very quietly, he began to cry. His massive shoulders shook, and hi
s arms rubbed up against the bark of the tree. The tension leaked out of him in huge, shuddering waves.

  After a few minutes of sobbing, he felt much better.

  Members of the 2nd precinct squad found him a day and a half later. He was very thirsty, and, as he had predicted, thoroughly bug-bitten. But otherwise he was in good spirits. He kept his word to Martin Hartman, refusing to divulge any details of the incident that had brought him there. His superiors pressed him, but he had always been a stubborn man. Stubborn, and unerringly pleasant.

  Not that his integrity made much of a difference in the end. By the time he was rescued the next afternoon, Martin and Kline had both found what they were looking for, and it was all over.

  3

  The big Cadillac was back on the highway. Martin had calmed since their adventure with the patrolman, and he wasn’t driving quite as fast. Also, he had stopped talking about daughters. About how much he hated wives, sisters, and women of all kinds. Kline was glad for the break.

  After a few minutes of silence, Martin gave his passenger a sideways glance. “You going explain it to me?” he said suddenly. “Why they’re chasing you, I mean?”

  Kline didn’t turn his head. “Got into some trouble,” he said quietly. “Like the officer told you. Never messed with anyone who didn’t deserve it, though.”

  Martin grunted. He seemed to like this answer. “You got that right. Sometimes they’re just asking for it.” He gripped the steering wheel, and his fingers went white again. The calm atmosphere in the car evaporated, and Martin’s foot came down on the accelerator. The big car leapt forward.

  Kline said nothing. He was right in the middle of the dog phase, and it was all he could do to cope with Martin’s scent.

  The man smelled like rage.

  The Other Teacher

  1

  When he was done reading through the information on Dr. Nathan Kline, Officer Watts sat back and tried to collect his thoughts. This was a very dangerous man, this doctor. And apparently he was on the loose.

  Who in God’s name decided to let him out? Someone at Clancy Hall?

  He shook his head. Blame wasn’t important now. Kline was murdering people; that was the issue. Watts needed to know if Kline was responsible for this killing – the murder of Professor Carlisle. Not that he expected to actually apprehend Kline himself. That would be a job for the Hanover PD.

  But I can do some more looking on my own, Watts thought. I can help. No law against that.

  Dutifully, he began researching some of Carlisle’s closer associates. Surely he could find someone who would have liked to see Carlisle dead.

  People hated that man, the friendly nurse at the medical center had said to him.

  It was simple enough to find a list of names on the psychology department website. Watts began playing the Google game again, working his way through the teaching staff. Progress was slow. After several hours of tedious searching, he was almost ready to call it a day. The computer screen was starting to blur in front of his eyes, and he was nearing the end of the psych faculty list. There was no one left now except tenure-track associates and teacher’s assistants.

  But then, just as his eyelids were becoming almost too heavy to hold up anymore, Watts found some information.

  Some very odd information.

  He had typed in the name of a second-year hire, some guy named Jeffrey Gooding. The search returned most of the usual junk links: a few journal papers, a biography from the college website, a stray resume. Near the bottom of the page, however, the Google engine returned a link that looked different.

  Watts clicked on it, then sat back with his mouth open.

  He had heard of this kind of thing, of course. He had just never actually seen it in person. And certainly never in connection with a teacher. This was a special web page. And the longer Watts stared at the screen, the more confused he became.

  I’m not sure if this is even relevant, he thought.

  Still, it was worth investigating. Watts felt his energy returning. He glanced at the clock on the wall; it wasn’t six yet, and he could probably catch Gooding in his office if he hurried. He got up quickly, not bothering to log off the machine. He wanted to settle this before the day was out.

  Mr. Gooding had some explaining to do.

  2

  The four students didn’t talk much on the way to Jeff Gooding’s office. Jason could remember seeing the teacher’s name on a list under the Silman Hall directory, so they knew which building to visit. “Is that it?” Jason asked.

  “Not yet, Blind Man,” Garrett said. “Third one on the left.”

  Melissa kept one hand on Lea’s shoulder, for balance. She looked confused by Jason’s directions. “I don’t understand this. Why isn’t his office in the Medical Center, like Carlisle’s?”

  Garrett shrugged. “Who cares? Let’s just try to get there.”

  Lea nodded in agreement, even though she could now understand only bits and pieces of what the others were saying.

  Garrett didn’t knock on Gooding’s door. He and the other three students walked into the office without pausing, as if they had an appointment. Gooding was sitting behind a large desk. He looked up in surprise at the group of teenagers before him.

  Jesus, he thought. What’s wrong with these kids? The students seemed – he struggled for the right term – debilitated. As if they had just made a break from the infirmary to visit his office. He recognized the hockey player, Jason Bell, from Carlisle’s psych class a couple of days ago. Bell was standing next to the senior who had wandered in late that day.

  No, not just standing next to him. Holding him. As if the hockey player needed a seeing eye dog. And the two girls: Gooding recognized them as well. The thin, pretty one with the glasses. And the gorgeous one. The one with hard, strong eyes.

  She looks like she’s about to topple over.

  “What can I do for you?” Gooding said.

  The senior stepped forward. He spoke through clenched teeth, as if enduring some unseen, unimaginable pain. “Did you kill Professor Carlisle?”

  Gooding’s mouth dropped open, but no sound came out.

  The students stared back at him, faces blank. We’re not here to be polite, those faces said. We are busy people with things to do.

  Gooding finally found his voice. “You can’t come in here and – ”

  “Just answer the question,” Garrett said with a sigh. “Did you kill him or not?”

  Lea watched carefully for the reaction. Very carefully.

  The teacher shook his head. “I am not going to sit here and be subjected to an inquisition. Please leave immediately.”

  Unfazed by Gooding’s indignation, they turned to Lea.

  So? Is he our guy?

  But Lea looked confused. “He doesn’t… talk like…”

  “Did he do it?” Garrett said, as if Lea might have forgotten why they had come to Gooding’s office. “Did he kill him? And what about the antenna thing? Did he take it?”

  “Shut up,” Melissa said sharply. “Let her think.”

  Lea bit her lip. “Something… strange,” she said, struggling to find each word. “I can’t… with him… don’t know.” She dropped her head, as if she had let them all down. “Sorry,” she whispered.

  Melissa’s hand was still on Lea’s shoulder, and she gave her a small squeeze of encouragement. “What’s wrong?” she said softly. “Is it wearing off?”

  “No,” Lea said, her head coming back up. “I … still see… you. All of you.” She looked fearfully at Gooding, as if he were a ghost. “Not… him.”

  Melissa nodded. “Don’t worry. We have other tricks.” She turned to Garrett. “Can you get him to open up?”

  Garrett rubbed his temple. “I can try.”

  Jeff Gooding watched all of this with a rising anger. He was being treated as if he were invisible, and he didn’t like it. “Did none of you hear me? I said get out!”

  “Absolutely, Professor,” said Garrett, changing his
voice to a mellow drawl. “And we will, in just a minute. But wouldn’t you like to chat a bit?” His tone was warm and friendly.

  Gooding’s eyebrows shot up, as if Garrett had just asked him to come dancing with him. “Are you joking? Get out of here! All of you!” He gave Garrett a little sneer. “You too, Barry White! Why are you talking like that? What is this nonsense?”

  Garrett was speechless, shocked by the hostile reaction. He glanced behind him. Melissa was already starting to look woozy, and Lea had stars in her eyes.

  It’s working, Garrett thought. My juice is on. Why doesn’t he feel it?

  He took a deep breath and forced a smile. “But Professor,” Garrett said, “why don’t you and I – ”

  “OUT!” yelled Gooding. “Out before I have you all sent to the disciplinary committee!” He stood up and jabbed his finger at the door. “This is unbelievable!” he barked. “Who are you people to come in here and – ”

  “Okay, come on,” Melissa said suddenly. She seemed eager to escape the cramped quarters of the office. Lea helped her out, and Garrett and Jason followed. They didn’t bother closing the door. Gooding was still shouting as they walked down the stairs.

  3

  It took less than five minutes for Officer Watts to make his way from the computer center to Silman Hall. He passed a small group of haggard-looking students just outside the building, and he thought he heard Jeff Gooding’s name mentioned.

  “…couldn’t get a thing out of that guy…”

  Watts assumed the students were trying to negotiate better grades for a class project. He hoped they had met with some success.

  They don’t look happy, he thought, as he ran up the stairs.