The Analyst

by John Katzenbach

  “Ah, Doctor Starks. I detect some desperation in your voice, as well.”

  “Well, Mr. Merlin, just how much time do you think I have remaining?”

  “Time, Doctor Starks? Time? Why all the time you need . . .”

  “Indulge me, Mr. Merlin, by either moving or quit lying. You know what I’m saying.”

  Merlin eyed Ricky closely, the same Cheshire cat grin playing around the corners of his mouth. But despite the self-satisfied smile, some pretense dropped alongside it. “Well, doctor, ticktock, ticktock. The answer to your last question is this: I would think you have less than a week remaining.”

  Ricky breathed in sharply. “There’s a truthful statement. Finally. Now, who are you?”

  “Not important. Just another bit player. Someone hired to do a job. And certainly not the person you might hope I am.”

  “Then why are you here?”

  “I told you: encouragement.”

  “All right, then,” Ricky said firmly. “Encourage me.”

  Merlin seemed to think for a moment, then answered, “There is a line from the opening of Dr. Spock’s Baby and Child Care, which I think is appropriate for this moment . . .”

  “I never had occasion to read that book,” Ricky said bitterly.

  “The line is: ‘You know more than you think you do. ’”

  Ricky paused, considering, before replying sarcastically: “Great. Dandy. I’ll try to keep that in mind.”

  “It would be worth your while.”

  Ricky did not reply to this. Instead, he said, “Deliver your message, why don’t you. That’s what you are, after all, right? A message boy. So get on with it. What is it that you want to get through to me?”

  “Urgency, doctor. Pace. Speed.”

  “How so?”

  “Pick ’em up,” Merlin said, grinning, slipping into an unfamiliar vernacular. “You need to ask your second question in tomorrow’s paper. You’ve got to get a move on, doctor. Time is being if not exactly wasted, at least flitting past.”

  “I haven’t figured out my second question yet,” Ricky said.

  The lawyer made a slight face, as if he was uncomfortable in his seat, or felt the twinge of a toothache coming on. “That was the fear,” he said, “in some circles. Hence the decision to prod you along a bit.”

  Merlin reached down and lifted the leather briefcase that was beneath his feet up to his lap. He put it down and opened it up. Ricky saw that it contained a laptop computer, several manila file folders, and a portable telephone. It also contained a small, steel-blue semiautomatic pistol in a leather holster. The attorney pushed the weapon to the side, grinning when he saw Ricky stare at the weapon, and seized the phone. He flipped it open, so that it glowed with that unique electronic green that is so commonplace in the modern world. He turned to Ricky. “Isn’t there a question left over from this morning on your mind?”

  Ricky continued to eye the pistol, before speaking.

  “What do you mean?”

  “What did you see this morning, on the way to the train?”

  Ricky paused. He did not know that Merlin or Virgil or Rumplestiltskin knew about his visit to Dr. Lewis, then, in a burst, he realized that they must know, because otherwise they would not have been able to place Merlin on the train to meet him.

  “What did you see?” Merlin asked again.

  Ricky’s face was set, his voice steely. “An accident,” he answered.

  The lawyer nodded. “Are you certain about that, doctor?”

  “Yes.”

  “Certainty is such a wondrous conceit,” Merlin said. “The advantage to being a lawyer over, say, a psychoanalyst, is that lawyers work in a world devoid of certainty. We live in the world of persuasion, instead. But now that I think about it, perhaps it isn’t that different for you, doctor. After all, are you not persuaded of things?”

  “Get to your point.”

  The lawyer smiled again. “I’ll bet that’s a phrase you’ve never used with a patient, is it?”

  “You’re not my patient.”

  “True. So, you believe you saw an accident. Involving . . . ?”

  Ricky was unsure how much the man knew about Dr. Lewis. It was possible he knew everything. Also possible he didn’t know anything. Ricky remained silent.

  The attorney finally answered his question. “. . . involving someone you knew once and trusted, and whom you went to visit in the rather optimistic hope that he might be able to help you with your current situation. Here . . .” He punched a series of numbers onto the phone’s keypad, then handed Ricky the cell phone. “Ask your question. Press send to make it work.”

  Ricky hesitated, then took the phone and did as suggested. The line rang once, then a voice came on: “State Police Rhinebeck. Trooper Johnson. How can I help you?”

  Ricky paused just long enough for the trooper’s voice to repeat, “State Police. Hello?” Then he spoke.

  “Hello, trooper, this is Doctor Frederick Starks calling. As I was heading toward the train station this morning on River Road there was apparently an accident. I’m concerned that it involved someone I knew. Can you fill me in on what happened?”

  The trooper’s reply was curious, but brisk: “On River Road? This morning?”

  “Yes,” Ricky said. “There was a trooper waving traffic around a detour . . .”

  “You say today?”

  “Yes. Not more than two hours ago.”

  “I’m sorry, doctor, but we have no reports of any accidents this morning.”

  Ricky sat back hard. “But I saw . . . involving a blue Volvo? The victim’s name was Doctor William Lewis. He lives on River Road . . .”

  “Not today. In fact we haven’t had an accident investigation around here in weeks, which is pretty unusual for the summertime. And I’ve been on dispatch duty since six a.m., so any calls for police or an ambulance would come through me. Are you sure about what you saw?”

  Ricky took a deep breath. “I must have been mistaken. Thank you, trooper.”

  “No problem,” the man said, disconnecting the line.

  Ricky’s head whirled dizzily. “But I saw . . . ,” he started.

  Merlin shook his head. “What did you see? Really? Think, Doctor Starks. Think carefully.”

  “I saw a trooper . . .”

  “Did you see his patrol car?”

  “No. He was standing, waving traffic around and he said . . .”

  “ ‘He said . . . ‘ what a great phrase. So, ‘he said . . . ‘ something and you took it for the truth. You saw a man dressed a little bit like a state trooper, and so you assumed it was one. Did you see him direct any other vehicles, in the time you were at that intersection?”

  Ricky was forced to shake his head. “No.”

  “So, really, this could have been anybody wearing a campaign hat. How closely did you inspect his uniform?”

  Ricky pictured the young man, and what he remembered were the eyes peering out beneath the Smokey the Bear hat. He tried to recall other details, but was unable. “He appeared to be a state trooper,” Ricky said.

  “Appearances mean little. In your business, or in mine, doctor,” Merlin said. “Now, how sure were you there was an accident? Did you see an ambulance? A fire truck? Other police or rescue squad members? Did you hear sirens? Maybe the telltale chop-chop-chop of a life flight helicopter’s rotors?”

  “No.”

  “So, you merely took one man’s word that there was an accident that possibly involved someone you had just been in close proximity to the day before, but you didn’t see a need to check further? You merely fled in order to catch a train, because you believed that you needed to get back to the city, right? But what was the real urgency?”

  Ricky did not reply.

  “And, for all you now know, in reality there was no accident down the road at all.”

  “I don’t know. Perhaps not. I can’t be sure.”

  “No, you can’t be sure,” Merlin said. “But we can be certain of one th
ing: that you felt that whatever you had to do was more important than ascertaining whether someone needed help. You might keep that observation in mind, doctor.”

  Ricky tried to swivel in the seat to be able to look Merlin in the eye. This was difficult. Merlin continued to smile, the irritating appearance of someone in utter control. “Perhaps you should try to telephone the person you went to visit?” He waved his hand at the cell phone. “Make certain they are okay?”

  Ricky quickly punched in Dr. Lewis’s telephone number. The phone rang repeatedly, but there was no answer.

  Surprise clouded his face, which Merlin registered. Before Ricky could say anything, the lawyer was speaking again.

  “What makes you so sure that that house truly was Doctor Lewis’s place of residence?” Merlin asked with a slightly stiff formality. “What did you see that connected the good doctor directly to that place? Were there family pictures on the walls? Did you see any signs of other folks? What papers, knickknacks, what we would call the furniture of life—what was there that persuaded you that you were actually in the good doctor’s house? Other than his presence, of course.”

  Ricky concentrated, but could see nothing in his memory. The study where they’d sat most of the night was a typical study. Books on the walls. Chairs. Lamps. Carpets. Some papers on the desk surface, but none that he’d inspected. But nothing that was unique and stood out in his recollection. The kitchen was simply a kitchen. The hallways connected the rooms. The guest room where he’d stayed the night was noticeably sterile.

  Again, he remained silent, but he knew that his silence was as good a response as the attorney needed.

  Merlin took a deep breath, his eyebrows lifted in anticipation of an answer, then lowering, relaxed, becoming part of the knowing smile he wore. Ricky had a brief memory of being in college and staring across a poker table at another student and knowing that whatever cards he held, they weren’t adequate to beat his opponent.

  “Let me summarize briefly, doctor,” Merlin said. “I find that it is always wise to periodically take a moment to assess, tote up the score, and then proceed. This might be one of those moments. The only thing that you can be sure of is that you spent some hours in the presence of a physician that you knew from years ago. You don’t know now whether that was indeed his home, or not, or perhaps whether he has been in an accident, or not. You don’t know for certain that your onetime analyst is alive, or not, do you?”

  Ricky started to reply, then stopped.

  Merlin continued, lowering his voice just slightly, so that it had a conspiratorial quality to it, “Where was the first lie? Where was the critical lie? What did you see? All these questions . . .”

  He suddenly held up his hand. Then he shook his head, as one might when trying to correct a wayward child. “Ricky, Ricky, Ricky, let me ask you this: Was there a car accident this morning?”

  “No.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “I just spoke to the state police. That guy said . . .”

  “How do you know it was the state police you spoke with?”

  Ricky hesitated. Merlin grinned. “I dialed the number and handed you the phone. You pressed send, right? Now, I could have dialed just about any number, where just about anyone was waiting for the phone call. Maybe that’s the lie, Ricky. Maybe your friend Doctor Lewis is on a slab in the Dutchess County Morgue awaiting some relative to come identify him right now.”

  “But . . .”

  “You’re missing the point, Ricky.”

  “All right,” Ricky said, snapping sharply, “what is the point?”

  The attorney’s eyes narrowed just slightly, as if irritated by Ricky’s brisk reply. He indicated the waterproof gym bag at his feet. “Maybe he wasn’t in an accident at all, doctor, but instead, in that bag right now I’ve got his severed head. Is that possible, Ricky?”

  Ricky recoiled sharply in surprise.

  “Is it possible, Ricky?” the lawyer probed, his voice now hissing.

  Ricky’s eyes fell to the bag. It was a simple duffel shape, without any external characteristics that might indicate what it contained. It was big enough to carry a person’s head, and waterproof, so that it would be without stains or leakage. But as Ricky assessed these elements, he felt his throat go dry, and he was not sure what terrified him more, the idea that there was a head of a man he knew at his feet, or the idea that he didn’t know.

  He raised his eyes toward Merlin. “It’s possible,” he whispered.

  “It is important that you understand anything is possible, Ricky. An auto accident can be faked. A sexual harassment complaint sent to your psychoanalytic governing body. Your bank accounts can be trashed and eviscerated. Your relatives or your friends or even just your acquaintances can be murdered. You need to act, Ricky. Act!”

  There was a quaver in Ricky’s next question. “Don’t you have any limits?”

  Merlin shook his head. “None whatsoever. That’s what makes all this so intriguing for us participants. The system of the game established by my employer is one where anything can be a part of the activity. The same is true for your profession, I daresay, Doctor Starks, is it not?”

  Ricky shifted in his seat. “Suppose,” he said softly, hoarsely, “I were to walk away right now. Leave you sitting with whatever is in that bag . . .”

  Again Merlin smiled. He reached down and just turned the top of the bag slightly, revealing the letters f.a.s. embossed on the top. Ricky stared at his initials. “Don’t you think that there’s something in that bag alongside the head that links you to it, Ricky? Don’t you think that the bag was purchased with one of your credit cards, before they were canceled. And don’t you think that the cabdriver who picked you up this morning and took you to the station will remember that the only thing you carried was a medium-sized blue gym bag? And that he will tell this to whatever homicide detective bothers to ask him?”

  Ricky tried to lick his lips, find some moisture in his world.

  “Of course,” Merlin continued, “I can always take the bag with me. And you can behave as if you’ve never seen it before.”

  “How—”

  “Ask your second question, Ricky. Call the Times right now.”

  “I don’t know that I . . .”

  “Now, Ricky. We’re approaching Penn Station and when we head underground the phone won’t work and this conversation will end. Make a choice, now!” To underscore his words, Merlin started to dial a number on the cell phone. “There,” he said, with brisk efficiency. “I’ve dialed the Times classified for you. Ask the question, Ricky!”

  Ricky took the phone and pressed the send button. In a moment he was connected to the same woman who’d taken his call the prior week.

  “This is Doctor Starks,” he said slowly, “I’d like to place another front-page classified ad.” As he spoke, his mind churned swiftly, trying to formulate words.

  “Of course, doctor. How’s the scavenger hunt game going?” the woman asked.

  “I’m losing,” Ricky replied. Then he said, “This is what I want the ad to say . . .”

  He paused, took as deep a breath as he could muster, and said:

  Twenty years, it was no joke,

  At a hospital I treated poor folk.

  For a better job, some people I left.

  Is that why you are bereft?

  Because I went to treat some other,

  did that cause the death of your mother?

  The ad lady repeated the words to Ricky, and said, “That seems like a pretty unusual clue for a scavenger hunt.”

  Ricky answered, “It’s an unusual game.” Then he gave her his billing address again, and disconnected the line.

  Merlin was nodding his head. “Very good, very good,” he said. “Most clever, considering the stress you’re under. You can be a very cool character, Doctor Starks. Probably much more so than you even realize.”

  “Why don’t you simply call your employer and fill him in . . . ,” Ricky started. But Merlin
was shaking his head.

  “Do you not think that we are as insulated from him as you? Do you think a man with his capabilities hasn’t built layers and walls between himself and the people who carry out his bidding?”

  Ricky figured this was probably true.

  The train was slowing, and abruptly descended beneath the surface of the earth, leaving sunlight and midday behind, lurching toward the station. The lights in the train car glowed, giving everything and everyone a pale, yellowish pall. Outside the window, dark shapes of tracks, trains, and concrete pillars slipped past. Ricky thought the sensation was similar to being buried.

  Merlin rose, as the train pulled to a stop.

  “Do you ever read the New York Daily News, Ricky? No, I suspect you’re not the type for a tabloid. The nice refined upper-class crusty world of the Times for you. My own origins are much humbler. I like the Post and the Daily News. Sometimes they emphasize stories that the Times is far less interested in. You know, the Times covers something in Kurdistan, the News and the Post, something in the Bronx. But today, I think, your world would be well served by reading those papers, and not the Times. Do I make myself absolutely clear, Ricky? Read the Post and the News today, because there is a story there that you will find most intriguing. I would suggest absolutely essential.”

  Merlin gave a little wave of the hand. “This has been the most interesting ride, don’t you think, doctor? The miles have simply flown past.” He pointed at the duffel bag.

  “That’s for you, doctor. A present. Encouragement, as I said.”

  Then Merlin turned, leaving Ricky alone in the train car.

  “Wait!” Ricky yelled. “Stop!”

  Merlin kept walking. A few other heads turned toward him. Another shout was halfway out of Ricky’s mouth, but he stifled it. He did not want anyone to focus on him. He didn’t want to gain anyone’s attention. He wanted to sink back into the station’s darkness and become one entity with the shadows. The duffel bag with his initials blocked his exit, like a sudden massive iceberg in his path.

  He could no more leave the bag than he could take it.

  Ricky’s heart and hands seemed to quiver. He bent over and lifted the bag from the floor. Something within shifted position, and Ricky felt dizzy. For an instant he raised his eyes, trying to find something in the world that he could seize hold of, something normal, routine, ordinary, that would remind him and anchor him to some sort of reality.