Johnson stopped dead in his tracks. “I can’t go in there,” he stammered.
Nick suddenly remembered Johnson’s bet with his wife. “Oh, I forgot! Sorry. Want me to grab us a couple of coffees? I’ll just bring them back out.”
“That’d be great. Thanks.”
“Should I ask how the diet is going?” Nick said as they approached the front steps of Roasters.
“No,” Johnson said flatly.
Nick left it at that.
When he came back out, Johnson was coming back down the street in the same direction that they had just walked. Nick chuckled softly. “Getting the extra steps in?” he asked, handing Johnson a large, very warm cup.
“Might as well,” his partner said, shrugging his shoulders.
They crossed the street and headed for the ferry terminal. Outdoors, but covered from the weather, it was a good place to sit and think. They found an empty bench and sipped their coffee in silence.
A loud blast from a departing boat interrupted Nick’s thoughts. He looked over at it, watching the seagulls swooping dangerously close, but never actually hitting anything. He’d always marveled at how birds could do that. His mind drifted back to the Bernstein case. It was the same thing. All of the suspects had been flitting around, near the crime but not close enough to pin any of them down. It had all seemed so strange to him.
“We’re gonna have to get at the files again and go through everything,” Johnson said. Nick nodded in response. “Chief won’t be happy,” Johnson added.
“You’ve got that right. He likes a tidy finish so he can move on. We’ll have to just keep it as quiet as possible,” Nick replied.
Johnson finished his coffee with one large swig, then tossed the cup into the trash can about ten feet away. It bounced off the rim, but went in. He gestured two fingers, points for the basket. Johnson was a kid at heart. One corner of Nick’s mouth tugged up in a half-smile, but it was his only acknowledgement.
“What’s your gut?” Johnson asked.
“Good question. My gut says that Lawrence Bellamy didn’t do it. We both agree on that. But your real question is, who do I think did? Damned if I don’t have a good answer to that. That painting is interesting. The kid isn’t stupid, he just thinks differently. What I don’t know is, is he really trying to tell us something with that image, or is it just something random he did showing the night that his grandfather just happened to be killed?”
“My gut says it isn’t random. He did it for a reason. He also got it to Dulcie for a reason. We just don’t know what that reason is.”
“That’s what we need to figure out,” Nick said. The last inch of his coffee was cold. He stood up and dropped the cup in the trash. “All right, let’s get back and start digging.”
Johnson grunted in agreement.
#
Dr. Raymond Armand sprinkled a small quantity of aftershave on his hands, rubbed them together, then slapped them on his cheeks. He was meeting Dulcie for dinner and decided to be ready for anything. He had called her earlier in the day, telling her that he had been so busy with appointments that the only time he had available to talk about the project would be over dinner. Of course, there had been no appointments at all during the day. He simply intended to mix business with pleasure.
His file on Xander Bellamy was sitting on the desk. Dr. Armand had just read through the contents again. As far as he was concerned, it seemed pretty standard, if an autistic savant could be considered standard. Xander had been diagnosed at an early age. Thanks to his grandfather’s money, he had received a great deal of therapy. Raymond knew that the earlier therapy happened, the better, and that had certainly been true in Xander’s case. He’d learned enough life skills, such as feeding himself properly, hygiene, dressing, etc., to function well. Raymond thought about his plan to make a case study of Xander, publishing the results in one of the Boston medical journals for psychology. The grandfather had interfered. When Oscar Bernstein learned of Raymond’s plans, he was immediately dismissed. To Oscar, his grandson was nothing more than a disgrace. Oscar had only paid for the therapy in an attempt to make him “normal” and less of what he considered to be an embarrassment. It hadn’t worked to his satisfaction. He wanted as few people to know about Xander as possible.
Raymond had been livid. Publishing his own case study would have been a big step in his career. His name would be linked to Xander’s. It could have led to more studies of Xander and others like him, followed by more publications. He had imagined giving lectures to his so called ‘esteemed colleagues,’ the very same people who had snubbed him so recently before. Oscar Bernstein had certainly thrown a wrench into Raymond’s career.
He glanced at the file again, debating whether he should bring it with him. It probably wasn’t a bad idea. At the very least, it would make a convincing prop, showing that he was there for business. And if something else just happened to develop, well, that was certainly acceptable. He had every intention of ensuring that something else did indeed develop. Dulcie was well connected. She would be very useful. The fact that she was quite easy on the eyes was a serious bonus.
He shoved the file into his buttery leather briefcase, checked to make sure he had a pair of reading glasses in with it as well, then left the office. They were meeting at a trendy new restaurant, the Seaglass Bistro. He arrived early and secured a table at the edge of one of the large windows. He was careful not to place them too far back into a dark corner. That would be too obvious.
Dulcie arrived within ten minutes. Raymond immediately stood and, when she had attempted a standard handshake, took her hand gently in his, placing his other hand on top. He then slid her coat from her shoulders. She immediately felt uncomfortable.
Raymond handed the coat to a nearby waiter without even acknowledging him. The man looked momentarily bewildered, then put it on a hook on the wall within easy reach of them. He gave each of them menus and was about to relate the chef’s specials when Raymond interrupted. “I believe the lady would like some refreshment. If I may be so bold,” he hesitated, glancing at Dulcie. Inwardly, she was not amused, but simply gave him a slight smile and nodded. “A glass of prosecco for each of us, if you will. Your best, if you don’t mind.” He then turned his attention to Dulcie, obviously dismissing the waiter by ignoring him. “We’ll see if this place is as good as it claims to be,” he said, knowing that the waiter could easily hear him.
Dulcie was amazed that someone whose career was devoted to understanding the thoughts of others could be so oblivious to their feelings. She quickly realized, however, that he was not oblivious at all. He simply didn’t care. She reached into her bag and took out a small notepad and pen. They were meeting for work, not to review the restaurant.
“I wonder if you’ve had any thoughts regarding the best way to approach telling Xander’s story? We’ll need to be as brief as possible,” she added.
“We will, and we’ll need to make sure that it’s in terms that the lay-public can understand. I guess that means I’ll simply have to dumb it down quite a bit,” Raymond sniffed.
“This is going to be the longest dinner I’ve ever had,” Dulcie thought. Aloud she said, “I thought we could begin by showing his subject, the camera moving around him or her, then pull back and show that person sitting behind Xander. The camera could then move to a close-up of the canvas as he works, gradually pulling back as you explain his condition. He works so quickly that I think we could give our audience the essence of what he does in about five minutes.”
The waiter had just returned with the drinks. Raymond was examining his closely. He froze with it hovering in the air. “Five minutes? That’s all? I don’t see how one could explain the complexity of his condition in five minutes!” he gaped. “Especially to the general public who have no real understanding of how the mind works.” He trailed off, refocusing on his prosecco. He took a sip and made a face. “Passable,” he sneered.
Dulcie looked up at the waiter and gave him a bright smile.
“I’m just going to order an appetizer; I really don’t have time for an entire dinner. The crab cakes sound delicious.”
“Very good. I’ll put that right in. And for you sir?” the waiter asked, turning to Raymond.
He was caught off guard. “Weren’t we having dinner?” he stammered.
“I’m so sorry, I didn’t get a chance to mention it when I came in, but I have a conference call with a colleague in Los Angeles. It’s at half-past three, Pacific Time, so I’ll have to dash off in,” she looked at her tiny gold watch, “less than an hour!” Her eyes widened in surprise. She hoped she had fooled him.
He cleared his throat. The waiter was still standing over them. Raymond did not want to look like a fool in front of him. “Certainly! My schedule has been simply packed as well,” he recovered and glanced at the menu. “I’ll have the calamari in puttanesca.” He flipped the menu back toward the waiter.
Dulcie sipped her prosecco. “Is this the La Marca?” She asked the waiter.
He flashed a surprised smile. “Yes, it is. Do you like it?”
“Absolutely! The melon really comes through in this vintage. Thanks so much for choosing it for us.” She wanted him to know that at least one person at the table had manners. Plus, Dulcie knew her wines. It was a hobby bordering on a passion. She usually kept quiet with her knowledge, not wanting to come across as arrogant, but in this case Dr. Raymond Armand needed to be taken down a notch. He fixed his gaze out the window, pretending to be distracted by the street traffic.
When the waiter left, Dulcie said nothing, allowing silence to descend upon them. After several increasingly awkward moments, Raymond said, “Yes, you were telling me about the video. Where do you see my role? What would you like me to do?” He had quickly decided to hand her the reigns entirely or he was in danger of losing the project.
She toyed with the pen on her notepad. “I had thought that if you narrate, essentially through a voice-over, that would give it the level of professionalism, from a psychological standpoint, that we need.”
“I would be happy to,” he said simply, inwardly relieved.
“I do have some questions about Xander. First of all, how do we know that he’ll paint the subject that we put in front of him?”
Raymond looked truly thoughtful for the first time since Dulcie had joined him at the table. “We don’t. What I mean to say is, we can’t be sure that he will. He paints what he wants to paint.”
“He seems to be communicating again. Is there a way to ask him to paint someone? Has anyone tried communicating that before?”
“I don’t think so. Xander has been given free reign with his painting.”
“That leads me to another question. How did he learn to paint?” Dulcie asked.
“From what I understand,” Raymond answered, “it was part of his therapy when he was very young. They used tempera paints with him. His skills were astonishing, so he eventually advanced to the oil paints that he uses now.”
“Acrylics,” thought Dulcie. “Not oils.” She decided not to correct him.
“I think what I’d like to have you describe is the workings of a typical person’s brain in terms of what they see and how they recreate it on paper or canvas, then describe what you believe is happening in Xander’s brain.”
“Would I do this while he’s working?” Raymond asked.
“Initially, yes,” Dulcie said. “But mainly that’s to get your impressions as he works. Then we’ll work out a script and do the voice-over for the final video.”
“You’ve done this before, I see,” Raymond observed.
“A couple of times,” she answered.
As their food arrived, Dulcie realized that when Raymond let his guard down and stopped acting the part of the ‘brilliant scientist’ he was actually quite interesting. They continued talking until Dulcie glanced at her watch and realized that she had to leave for her fictitious phone call. She quickly reached into her bag and took out her wallet.
“No, no!” Raymond waved her off. “This is on me!”
Dulcie had no intention of letting him pay. “Thank you, but I couldn’t let you. It’s work, after all. Here,” she said, laying cash on the table, “We’ll split it. But I don’t have time to wait for the check. Do you mind handling it?”
“With pleasure.”
Dulcie wondered how it could be a pleasure to sit and wait for the check, but didn’t ask. Raymond stood and helped her with her coat. His hands lingered on her shoulders a bit too long. She stepped away quickly and stuck out her hand formally, then managed a firm, quick handshake with him. “Thank you. I think we have plenty to work with now. I’ll be in touch.”
As she closed the door behind her and stepped onto the sidewalk, Dulcie initially turned toward the street she lived on, then quickly remembered that she was supposed to be on the phone with her imaginary colleague back at the office. She switched course, grateful that she was not walking in front of the window where Raymond still sat, although she was sure, somehow, that he was watching her.
She was regretting bringing him in to the whole project. Surely she could have found someone else. Yet he did have a history with Xander, so he would be able to give the needed insights in the least amount of time possible. She knew the phrase time is money all too well. The budget for the entire exhibit seemed to be sifting through her fingers. She couldn’t afford to pay Dr. Raymond Armand for any longer than was absolutely necessary.
When she was well away from the restaurant, Dulcie turned down a side street and pulled out her cell phone. She pushed the number for her favorite Chinese restaurant and ordered a large chicken fried rice with two egg rolls. Then she pocketed the phone and continued on her way. “Good!” she thought. “Now I can look forward to dinner!”
Whether you succeed or not is irrelevant,
there is no such thing.
Making your unknown known
is the important thing.
― Georgia O’Keeffe
CHAPTER 7
Rain swept in from the ocean in sheets the following morning. Giselle watched it hammer at the window as she drank her coffee. It was the cold, thick, dark rain that she liked. To her, it felt as though it formed protective walls around everything. Did she still need the walls? She had put up so many in her life. Some were for her alone, but most were for others. Especially Xander.
From the moment she had first seen him, she knew he was special. He had not yet been diagnosed, but she knew. Her bond with him was instantaneous and permanent. She loved him as she would have her own child.
Her own child. It would never be. She had been told long ago that she was barren. The doctor had given her all of the medical jargon to explain her condition, but it didn’t matter. The outcome was the same whether or not she understood why.
She was not a woman who yearned for a baby anyway. Babies grow up. They become children, then teenagers, then adults. They develop their own personalities. Simply because you are related doesn’t mean that they will be nice. It doesn’t mean they will like you, or even respect you.
What she did yearn for, and what she received from Xander, was a purpose for living. He needed her. She needed him, too. He gave her a reason to get up each morning.
She looked around the kitchen, soft and dark on the rainy morning. She should turn the lights on. Someone else would be coming down soon.
Giselle remembered the times when he came down. The old man. He stamped down the stairs and typically snarled something at her. She had learned to ignore it. When he wasn’t snarling he was leering. She had also learned to stay out of arms reach. To be grabbed or, even worse, cornered by Oscar Bernstein was somewhere between unpleasant and horrifying.
Yet that wasn’t why she had hated him. She hated him because of his disgust for Xander, his only grandchild. The only reason Xander was under this roof was to keep him from being seen by the rest of the world. The only reason that Oscar Bernstein had paid huge sums of money for therapy was to ‘make that ridiculous fool
of a child stop being an idiot’ as Oscar would say over and over, even with Xander in front of him. Xander never reacted, but Giselle knew that, at some level, he understood. He must have. Giselle’s hatred had burned for many years. She was glad it was over. She was glad he was dead.
A soft footstep pulled her away from her thoughts. Xander had padded into the kitchen in his slippers. He stopped in the middle of the room and stared out the window. Giselle waited. Sometimes he sat at the table. When he did that, she knew it was scrambled eggs. Sometimes he walked to the counter. On those days it was just toast. Yet today he did neither. He simply looked out the window at the rain. He stood, motionless, for a very long time. Then he turned and left.
Giselle was a bit surprised. Perhaps he wasn’t hungry? She would bring him up something in a little while. Now she heard a sturdy clomping on the stairs. Edith. Giselle did not dislike Edith. Although they were immensely different, they had a shared motivation. Both would not allow any harm to come to Xander.
Edith stepped into the kitchen and immediately flicked on the light. “Sitting in the dark? That won’t do. Encourages brooding!” She marched over to the coffee pot, poured out a cup and drank half of it down. She refilled the cup and went to the table where Giselle sat.
Scraping out a chair and hefting herself into it, she plunked down the cup. “How’s the boy today?” she asked. “Saw him on the stairs when I came down.” Her voice was brash but Giselle knew that she asked the question in earnest.
She replied with equal earnest, “If I didn’t know better, I would say that he was thoughtful.”
“Maybe he is? How could we know?” Edith declared. She sipped her coffee more slowly now. “Maybe he is,” she repeated quietly. She looked up intently at Giselle. “He’s been different everyone says, since Oscar died.”
“Yes, he has,” Giselle confirmed. “More reserved, if that’s possible. But over the past few days I think he’s begun with his hand gestures again. I would love to see that come back.”
A Mind Within Page 8
