The Question of the Felonious Friend

by E. J. Copperman

  “We agreed we would not discuss your divorce,” I pointed out. “Besides, I have said nothing on the subject at all.”

  Ms. Washburn’s eyes rolled in a gesture of either sarcasm or disbelief; I am not certain. “I can barely hear myself think over your not saying anything on the subject,” she said.

  I did not understand that comment and felt it was best to refocus our attention on the question at hand. “Have any of the websites Simon e-mailed to you given us any additional information on the Tenduline?”

  “The only thing I can say for certain about it is that it’s very rare,” she answered, looking at her screen. “As far as I can tell, there are fewer than twenty of them in the world that are exactly like this one.” She looked at the die on the desk in front of her. It was still secured in a plastic sandwich bag. She picked up the bag and looked at the die. “How could this thing cause so much trouble?” she asked.

  “We have seen stranger things happen,” I reminded her.

  “Yeah, but at least I understood those.” She stood up. “Do you want a ride home for lunch?” she asked.

  I had checked the time on my iPhone one minute before to reassure myself the phone was still in my possession. It was 11:46 a.m. “I am not due until twelve thirty,” I said. “Is there a reason you need to leave now?”

  “I want to go back to my house and get the things I’ll be bringing Simon later,” she answered. “Is that a problem?”

  I considered the question. It was not a problem for Ms. Washburn to leave at this time. It was not really a problem for me to arrive at my home approximately thirty minutes early for lunch, although it was somewhat disconcerting for me to vary that seriously from my routine. If Ms. Washburn was asking whether there was a problem with her retrieving articles from her home to return to her estranged husband, however, that would be a more complex question.

  “Are you going to reconcile with Simon?” I asked.

  Ms. Washburn looked as if she had been punched in the stomach with moderate force. She let out a breath quickly, almost a grunt, and her nostrils flared. Her eyes did not have their usual friendly softness to them.

  “I thought I made it clear, Samuel. I’m not going to discuss my marriage with you.”

  It was now obvious I had misinterpreted her question about the problem, but it would be irrational to pretend I had not expressed some concern about her private life. Even if we agreed, as Ms. Washburn sometimes suggests, that “it never happened,” the fact was that it had happened and there was nothing that could change that reality.

  “I misunderstood,” I said by way of explanation. “But I am somewhat puzzled by your sudden change of attitude toward Simon.”

  Ms. Washburn’s voice came slowly, as if with effort. She did not raise her voice, which would have been a clear indication that she was angry. Instead, she spoke slowly and in low tones. I was not familiar with that sound from her, which made concentrating difficult. I tried to decode the tone rather than to listen to the words, but I heard them and filed them away for later reference.

  A few moments later I realized she had said, “I’m going to leave now.” But by the time I had played the message back in my head, Ms. Washburn had walked out the office door. I could see her get into her car and back out of the parking space. I wondered if she meant she was leaving for lunch, or leaving Questions Answered forever.

  I did the only thing I could do under the circumstances. I called my mother and asked for a ride home.

  Fourteen

  “The end of a marriage isn’t ever an easy thing, Samuel.” Mother sat across from me at the dining room table. Mother sometimes serves lunch in the dining room, particularly if she is not sure whether Ms. Washburn will be accompanying me. In this case, she had clearly miscalculated. “Janet wants to believe that her marriage wasn’t a mistake, that she didn’t waste the time she has spent being married to Simon.”

  That seemed irrational. “But the marriage was a mistake,” I said, noting the grilled cheese sandwich Mother had prepared was a little more well-done than I might have preferred. It was not seriously overcooked, so I decided not to point out the problem to Mother, who sometimes takes observations about her cooking more personally than they are intended. “If Ms. Washburn is now petitioning for a divorce, clearly she had concluded the marriage is a failure and should be terminated. Why would she want to believe something that is not the truth?”

  “Love isn’t something you can just quantify and tabulate, Samuel.” Mother’s eyes caught mine and she looked at the small salad next to my plate. She was signaling that I should not ignore the vegetables. I know that is a rational and reasonable thing to consider, but it is more a chore than I would hope. I took a bite of lettuce and she nodded. “A marriage isn’t just a casual acquaintance. People stand up at an altar and promise to stay together forever. You don’t give that up lightly.”

  “More than half of all marriages end in divorce,” I pointed out. “I don’t want to belabor the obvious, but my father has not been here for as long as I can remember.”

  Mother’s eyes closed for a moment; I was concerned before I’d mentioned my father that I would cause her pain, but I was simply trying to make a coherent point. “I’m sorry if that was insensitive,” I told her.

  She shook her head. “It’s a reasonable point. Your father did not keep his vow. A lot of people don’t. That doesn’t mean the commitment is less important. Janet is not the kind of person your father was, Samuel. She thinks things through and she doesn’t act impulsively. You can be sure when she married Simon she was convinced they would be married for the rest of their lives.”

  “Do you think she’ll come back and work at Questions Answered again?” I asked. That was the aspect of this incident most troubling to me. If Ms. Washburn left again, I believed she would not ever come back. And if that happened because of something I had said rashly, it would be difficult for me to accept. I was not sure I would ever be able to forgive Ms. Washburn.

  “Oh, I don’t think Janet would quit over a little misunderstanding,” Mother said. Since she is usually correct about such matters, I did feel my stomach relax a little. To reward her, I ate more of the salad. “You just have to give her time to get through it.”

  “Get through what?” I asked after the food was gone from my mouth.

  Mother scrutinized me, shook her head a bit, and said, “What do you think is the best lead you have in answering the question?”

  I realized it was her way of changing the subject and so assumed that was the appropriate thing to do. There was no point in discussing this with Mother, as her explanation would undoubtedly confuse me more than none. “I think the game group, or at least the greater part of it, is not a promising source of information. Most of them live too far away to be plausible suspects in Richard Handy’s death. In addition, finding a motive that makes sense is something of a stretch.”

  Seeing that we had both finished eating, Mother stood up and began clearing the table, so I did the same because I can perform the task faster. As I took her plate from her hand, Mother seemed to consider protesting and then decided against it. She knows I am determined in such matters to cause the least amount of physical stress on her.

  “You’re telling me what isn’t your best avenue of research,” she noted. “What is the most likely way to go?”

  “This is a process of elimination, Mother. The more I can determine in my own mind which leads, as you call them, are invalid, the better I can identify more promising ones. If the only worthwhile person to pursue in Tyler’s Swords and Sorcerers group is Margie Cavanagh, we can eliminate a number of other people.”

  “What about the people Richard Handy would play with?” Mother said. “Obviously all of those people are local.”

  “I don’t know much about them yet,” I said. “Ms. Washburn has not been successful in reaching any members of Richard’s family on
the phone.”

  “Why are you making Janet do that?” Mother asked, her face suggesting she knew the answer to her question. “Those people must be distraught. Is it that you don’t want to deal with the emotion so you’re forcing Janet to do it?”

  “I don’t think forcing is the word I would use. Making some phone calls is part of Ms. Washburn’s responsibilities, and she knows that.”

  My cellular phone rang. I reached into my pocket for it and noted the caller was Dr. Shean, Tyler’s therapist. Her call must have rung through the Questions Answered office phone. When I leave the office, I now forward the calls to my cellular phone. Until I had purchased the iPhone, all business calls had been forwarded to Ms. Washburn’s mobile phone.

  I pressed the “accept” button. “Hello, Dr. Shean,” I said. “Allow me to introduce myself. I am Samuel Hoenig, the owner of Questions Answered.”

  There was almost no hesitation on the other end of the line. “Good to meet you, Mr. Hoenig. I am Lisa Shean. You left a message for me?” The last sentence was not a question but Dr. Shean said it as if it were.

  “I did. I have some questions regarding a patient of yours, Tyler Clayton. Did his brother Mason inform you I might be calling?”

  Mother looked at me defiantly as she began to load our used plates and glasses into the dishwasher. She knew I would not interrupt while on the phone, but she also knew that I would protest if she tried to wash them by hand in the sink. Mother is not frail, but I feel a sense of responsibility and she, after all, does the cooking.

  “Yes,” Dr. Shean answered. “Mason gave me his permission to discuss Tyler with you, but since Tyler is an adult, Mason’s permission is not really all that valid.”

  “I understand,” I said. “Surely he has also told you that Tyler has been arrested under suspicion of murdering a friend and that I am attempting to answer the question of who might have shot Richard Handy. I believe a few key points of information from you might help me complete that task.”

  “I’ll tell you what I can, Mr. Hoenig, but I will not betray any confidential or personal information about Tyler. My privilege pertains even in this case, and you are not representing any law enforcement agency.”

  That was reasonable, so I nodded. Mother pointed at the phone. “I understand,” I told Dr. Shean. “Please let me know if any of these questions would be in violation of that privilege. First, how important was Tyler’s perceived friendship with Richard Handy to him?”

  “It was very important to Tyler,” Dr. Shean said. I waited, but no further statement was forthcoming.

  “From what he told you about Richard, was it your opinion that Richard really was a legitimate friend of Tyler’s, or that he was in some way manipulating Tyler into believing that was the case?”

  Dr. Shean took a moment before responding. “Without going into detail, my perception from a distance was that Richard was not really Tyler’s friend.”

  “I agree,” I said. “Did you tell that to Tyler?”

  “What was said in therapy is outside the purview of this conversation, Mr. Hoenig.”

  “Fair enough. How was Tyler perceived by the other members of his therapy group?”

  Dr. Shean did not hesitate this time. “I think I just said that anything said in therapy was not appropriate for me to tell you,” she answered.

  “I am not asking about what was said in session. I’m asking for your opinion.”

  “My opinion is that Tyler was accepted by the members of the group and there was never any friction evident in sessions. I’m not going to say more than that.”

  Clearly Dr. Shean did not intend to betray any patient confidences, which was admirable and ethical within the bounds of her profession. It was also a serious inconvenience for someone attempting to answer the question of Richard Handy’s shooting.

  “I am impressed with your integrity, doctor,” I said.

  “It’s not special,” Dr. Shean answered. “If I told you more than this, it would be serious violation of my privilege and I could be brought up on charges or lose my license. I will not do that no matter what your intention, Mr. Hoenig.”

  “Doctor, I myself have been diagnosed with an autism spectrum disorder,” I said, grimacing just a bit on the word diagnosed and again on disorder, both of which Mother certainly noticed. “I wonder if I might prevail upon you to include me in a group therapy session.”

  I pictured Dr. Shean’s eyes narrowing, although I had no idea what her physical appearance might be like. “I will not include you in Tyler Clayton’s group,” she said.

  “Of course not. Would I be welcome in the group that meets immediately after Tyler Clayton’s?”

  Mother shook her head in wonder.

  Ms. Washburn called to ask if I needed a ride back to the office as soon as I disconnected with Dr. Shean, who had been persuaded to include me in a group therapy session involving none of the participants in Tyler Clayton’s weekly meetings. I accepted the ride, feeling more confident that Ms. Washburn would not have offered it if she were planning on leaving the business forever.

  When I mentioned that to her in the car, Ms. Washburn sighed lightly. “Seriously, Samuel,” she said. “If you’re going to act like a scared puppy every time I leave the office with anything but a smile, you and I are going to have a very long and very tense working relationship.”

  I focused on the phrase “very long” and sat back in the passenger seat. “Very well,” I said. “I will ask no more questions about your marriage or your divorce.”

  Again came a small sigh, which confused me; had I said something troubling? “I need to apologize to you about that, Samuel,” Ms. Washburn said. “I got mad at you because I’m mad with myself and I just misdirected it. My lawyer told me not to even talk to Simon, and then I did because of our new question, and now things are confusing. It wasn’t your fault that happened; it was mine. But your asking made me have to think about it, and I didn’t want to. So I got annoyed with you. I’m sorry.”

  Since I had not suggested, nor had I even urged, that Ms. Washburn contact her estranged husband in connection with the question about Richard Handy’s death, I did not feel responsibility for the dilemma she reported. But I was not sure why she was apologizing to me when she seemed to be more angry with herself.

  “I accept your apology,” I said because that was what I had been told was a proper response under such circumstances. “But I think you are, as you have said to me in the past, being ‘too hard on yourself.’”

  Ms. Washburn made a right turn, one eyebrow raised. “Really,” she said when we were again traveling straight ahead.

  “Yes. I am told that these types of … entanglements can be very difficult and emotionally draining. Perhaps you are not being cognizant enough of the stress you are experiencing.”

  “Entanglements?” Ms. Washburn asked.

  “Divorce. Mother says it is never an easy thing.”

  Ms. Washburn approached the strip mall on Stelton Road. “She’s right. Samuel, what do you know about your father?”

  That seemed an odd non sequitur. Still, if Ms. Washburn saw fit to ask, the question must have some significance. “I know very little,” I said. “He left when I was four years old. It is my belief, although Mother will not confirm it, that raising a child with my type of behavior pattern was a factor in his departure. When I ask Mother about him—and I have not done so in years—all she will say is that he was a good man who did not know how to cope.”

  Ms. Washburn considered what I had said and nodded. “Thank you, Samuel,” she said. “I know it couldn’t have been easy for you to share that.”

  “You are entitled to a fair answer to a fair question,” I told her.

  “So are you. I’ll try to remember that.”

  We were back in the Questions Answered office for eight minutes when Mason Clayton and his sister Sandy Cl
ayton Webb arrived in Mason’s car, a 2010 Hyundai Santa Fe, an odd name for a vehicle designed in South Korea. They walked into the office, Sandy with arms folded across her chest and Mason with a distraught expression. He cracked his knuckles twice before reaching the office area, opposite the drink machine and the pizza oven.

  Ms. Washburn put out her hand in greeting. Sandy did not accept it, and kept her arms folded.

  “Really,” she said. That did not shed much light on the situation.

  I decided to concentrate on the issue at hand. “Mr. Clayton,” I said to Mason when they were near enough to hear and be heard, “did you bring the laptop computer?”

  “Tyler’s started talking again,” Mason said.

  “That’s wonderful,” Ms. Washburn said, but her voice betrayed feelings of confusion and concern. Was that just my interpretation? There was no way to know.

  “No it’s not,” Sandy said, her words sounding like they were spat rather than spoken.

  “Tyler’s been talking to the police,” Mason went on as if his sister and Ms. Washburn had not spoken. “And according to Detective Hessler, he has confessed to killing Richard Handy.”

  Fifteen

  “I shot Richard. I shot him with the gun.”

  Tyler Clayton looked agitated.

  Arms swinging widely at his sides, he paced the conference room at the Somerset police department headquarters. He was awaiting transfer to Somerset County jail in Somerville, approximately sixteen minutes by car. If the public defender assigned to him was not able to convince the judge in the case that Tyler was not a flight risk or a danger, he would be sent there within the hour, according to Sgt. Thomas Pendleton, who had been at the desk when we had arrived.

  Mason and especially Sandy were particularly concerned about this possibility, given Tyler’s level of social interaction and his anxiety at dealing with anything outside his routine. I agreed they were correct to be worried—this type of situation would be Tyler’s worst nightmare. Naïve, frightened, and barely verbal, he would be terrorized and victimized at even a minimum-security prison, which New Jersey county jails are not.