The Analyst

by John Katzenbach

  Ricky sat at the computer, slightly astonished.

  When his own name came up, and the second of the family tree programs that he was employing showed him as recently deceased, he stiffened in his chair, surprised, though he shouldn’t have been; it was the same way that one feels a momentary surge of shock when an animal runs in front of their car wheels at night, only to disappear into the shrub brush by the side of the road. An instant of fear, swept away in the same moment.

  He had worked for decades in a world of privacy, where secrets were hidden beneath emotional fogs and layers of doubts, mired in memory, obscured by logjammed years of denials and depressions. If analysis is, at best, the slow peeling away of frustrations in order to expose truths, the computer seemed to him to have the clinical equivalence of a scalpel. Details and facts simply blipped across the screen, cut free instantaneously with a few strokes on a keyboard. He hated it at the same time that it fascinated him.

  Ricky also realized how antique his chosen profession appeared.

  And, swiftly, he understood, as well, how little chance he’d ever had at winning Rumplestiltskin’s game. When he replayed the fifteen days between the letter and his pseudodeath, he realized how easy it had been for the man to anticipate every move Ricky made. The predictability of his response at every turn was utterly obvious.

  Ricky thought hard about another aspect of the game. Every moment had been designed in advance, every moment had thrust him in directions that were clearly expected. Rumplestiltskin had known him every bit as well as he had known himself. Virgil and Merlin together had been the means used to distract him from ever getting any perspective. They had created the breakneck pace, filled his last days with demands, made every threat real and palpable.

  Every step in the play had been scripted. From Zimmerman’s death by subway to his trip to see Dr. Lewis in Rhinebeck, through the clerk’s office at the hospital where he’d once seen Claire Tyson. What does an analyst do? Ricky asked himself. He establishes the simplest yet most inviolable of rules. Once a day, five days per week, his patients showed up at his door, ringing the bell distinctively. Out of that regimen the rest of the chaos of their lives gained form. And with that, the ability to get control.

  The lesson was simple, Ricky thought: He could no longer be predictable.

  That was slightly incorrect, he told himself. Richard Lively could be as normal as necessary, as normal as he desired. A regular kind of guy. But Frederick Lazarus was to be someone different.

  A man without a past, he thought, can write any future.

  Frederick Lazarus obtained a library card, and immersed himself in the culture of revenge. Violence dripped from every page he read. He read histories, plays, poetry, and nonfiction, emphasizing the genre category of true crime. He devoured novels, ranging from thrillers written in the last year, to Gothics from the nineteenth century. He blistered through the theater, almost memorizing Othello and then, deeper still, to The Oresteia. He plucked segments from his memory and reread passages recalled from his own college days, spending time in particular with the man who donated his screen name to him and lent him the name he’d used with the derelict whose wallet he’d stolen. He absorbed the sequence where Odysseus slams shut the doors on the suitors and promptly murders all the men who presumed him dead.

  Ricky had known little of crime and criminals, but fast became expert—at least, he understood, to the degree that the printed word can educate. Thomas Harris and Robert Parker taught him, as did Norman Mailer and Truman Capote. Edgar Allan Poe and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle were mixed liberally with FBI training manuals available through the Internet bookselling outlets. He read Hervey Cleckley’s The Mask of Sanity and came away with a much better knowledge of the nature of psychopaths. He read books entitled Why They Kill and The A to Z Encyclopedia of Serial Killers. He read about mass murder and explosive killings, crimes of passion and murders thought to be perfect. Names and crimes filled his imagination, from Jack the Ripper to Billy the Kid, to John Wayne Gacy and The Zodiac Killer. From past through the present. He read about war crimes and snipers, about hit men and satanic rituals, mobsters, and confused teenagers who took assault rifles to school, searching for classmates who had teased them perhaps once too often.

  To his surprise, he discovered he was able to compartmentalize all he read. When he shut the cover of yet another book detailing some of the more grisly acts one man can do to another, he put aside Frederick Lazarus and returned to Richard Lively. One man studied how to garrote an unsuspecting victim and why a knife is a poor choice for a murder weapon, the other read bedtime stories to his landlady’s four-year-old grandson and memorized Green Eggs and Ham, which the child never tired of hearing at virtually any moment of the day or night. And, while one man studied the impact of DNA evidence in crime scene analysis, the other spent one long night talking an overdosed student down from a dangerous high.

  Jekyll and Hyde, he thought.

  In a perverse way, he discovered that he enjoyed the company of both men.

  Maybe, curiously enough, more than the man he’d been when Rumplestiltskin entered his life.

  Late one early spring night, nine months after his death, Ricky spent three hours on the telephone with a distraught, deeply depressed young woman who called the suicide prevention line in despair, a bottle of sleeping pills on the table in front of her. He spoke to her of what her life had become, and what it could become. He painted a word picture with his voice of a future free from the sorrows and doubts that had driven her to the state she was in. He wove hope into every thread of what he said, and when the two of them greeted the first dawn light, she had put aside the threatened overdose and made an appointment with a clinic physician.

  When he walked out that morning, more energized than exhausted, he decided that it was time to make his first inquiry.

  Later that day, when he had finished his shift in the maintenance department at the university, he used his electronic pass card to enter the computer sciences department’s student study room. This was a square space cut up into study carrels, each with a computer linked to the university’s main system. He booted one up, entered his own password, and slid right into the system. In a folder by his left hand, he had the small amount of information that he’d obtained in his former life about the woman he had ignored. He hesitated momentarily, before making his first electronic sortie. Ricky understood he could probably find freedom and a quiet, simple life, merely by living the rest of his days as Richard Lively. Life as a janitor wasn’t that bad, he had to acknowledge. He wondered, for an instant, whether not knowing would be better than knowing, because he knew that as soon as he began the process of uncovering the identities of Rumplestiltskin, and his partners, Merlin and Virgil, he would be unable to stop. Two things would happen, he told himself. All the years spent as Dr. Starks, dedicated to the proposition that unearthing truth from deep within was a valuable enterprise, would take hold of him. And Frederick Lazarus would demand his own dues, as the vehicle for his assault.

  Ricky warred within himself for some time. He was unsure how long. It might have been seconds, he might have stared at the screen in front of him for hours, fingers poised, frozen, above the keyboard.

  He told himself that he would not be a coward.

  The problem was, he thought, where did cowardice lie? In hiding. Or in acting?

  A coldness swept over him as he made a decision. Who were you, Claire Tyson?

  And where are your children today?

  There are many kinds of freedom, Ricky thought. Rumplestiltskin had killed him to acquire one sort. Now he would find his own.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  This is what Ricky knew: Twenty years earlier a woman died in New York City and her three children were turned over to the state for adoption. Because of that fact alone, he’d been forced to kill himself.

  Ricky’s first computer sorties, chasing Claire Tyson’s name, had come up curiously empty. It was as if her death had erased her
from the records he could access electronically as surely as it had erased her from the earth. Even with the copy of the twenty-year-old death certificate, he was initially stymied. The family tree programs that had displayed his own stack of relatives so rapidly, proved to be significantly less effective at tracing her. She seemed to stem from folks with far less status, and this lack of identity seemed to diminish her presence in the world. He was a bit surprised at the lack of information. The Find Your Missing Relatives! programs promised to be able to trace virtually anyone, and her apparent disappearance from any record rapidly obtained was unsettling.

  But his first efforts weren’t complete wastes. One of the things that he’d managed to learn in the months since his final vacation had begun, was to think considerably more tangentially. As a psychoanalyst, he’d learned the art of following symbols and tracing them into realities. Now, he was using similar skills, but in a far more concrete manner. When Claire Tyson’s name didn’t produce success, he began to search for other avenues. A computer sortie into Manhattan real estate records gained him the current ownership of the building where she had lived. Another inquiry led him to names and addresses in the city bureaucracy where she would have applied for welfare, food stamps, and aid to families with dependent children. The trick, Ricky thought, was to imagine Claire Tyson’s life twenty years earlier, and then narrow that down, so that he could understand all the forces that were in play at that time. Somewhere in that portrait would be a link to the man who’d stalked him.

  He also searched electronic telephone books for the north of Florida. That had been where she had come from, and Ricky suspected that if she had any living relatives—other than Rumplestiltskin—that would be where they were located. The death certificate listed an address for her next of kin, but when he cross-checked the address against the name, he determined someone different was living at that location. There were a number of Tysons in the area outside of Pensacola and it seemed a daunting task to try to ascertain who was who, until Ricky remembered his own scrawled notes from his few sessions with the woman. She was a high school graduate, he recalled, with two years of college before dropping out to follow a sailor stationed at the naval base, the father of her three children.

  Ricky printed out the names of potential relatives and the addresses of every high school in the area.

  It seemed to him, as he stared at the words on the sheets of computer paper, that what he was doing was what he should have done so many years before: try to come to know and understand a young woman.

  He thought that the two worlds couldn’t have been much different. Pensacola, Florida, is in the Bible Belt. Jesus-thumping, raised voices, praise the Lord and go to church on Sunday and any other day when His presence was needed. New York—well, Ricky thought, the city probably stood for pretty much everything anyone who grew up in Pensacola knew to be wrong and evil. It was an unsettling combination, he thought. But he was relatively certain of one thing: He was far more likely to find Rumplestiltskin in the city than in the countryside of North Florida. But he didn’t think that the man had had no impact down South.

  Ricky decided to start there.

  Using the skills he’d already mastered, he ordered a fake Florida driver’s license and retired military identification card from one of the novelty identification outlets on the Internet. The documents were to be sent to Frederick Lazarus’s Mailboxes Etc. box number. But the name on the identification was Rick Tyson.

  People were likely to want to help out a long-lost relative, he thought, who innocently appeared to be trying to trace his roots. As a further hedge, he made up a fictional cancer treatment center, and on invented stationery wrote a “to whom it may concern” letter, explaining that Mr. Tyson’s child was a Hodgkin’s disease patient in need of a bone marrow match, and any assistance in tracing various family members, whose marrow DNA carried an increased chance of match success, would be appreciated and possibly even lifesaving.

  This letter was wholly cynical, Ricky thought to himself.

  But it would likely open some doors he needed to open.

  He made himself an airplane reservation, made arrangements with his landladies and with his boss at the university maintenance department, switching around some workdays and hours to give himself a block of time, then he stopped in at the secondhand clothing store and purchased himself a simple, extremely cheap summer-weight black suit. More or less, he thought to himself, what a mortician would wear, which, he believed, was appropriate for his circumstances. Late in the evening of the day before he was to depart, wearing his janitor’s shirt and work pants, he let himself into the theater department at the university. One of his passkeys opened the storage area where costumes for various college productions were kept. It did not take him long to find what he needed.

  There was a heavy dampness hidden like a veiled threat in the heat of the Gulf Coast weather. His first breaths of air, as he walked from the airconditioned chill of the airport lobby out to the rental car waiting area, seemed to hold an oily, oppressive, slick warmth far removed from even the hottest days up on Cape Cod, or even in New York City during an August heat spell. It was almost as if the air had substance, that it carried something invisible, yet questionable. Disease, he thought at first. But then, he guessed that was too harsh a thought.

  His plan was simple: He was going to check into a cheap motel, then go to the address that was written on Claire Tyson’s death certificate. He would knock on some doors, ask around, see if anyone currently at that location knew of her family’s whereabouts. Then he would fan out to the high schools closest to the address. It wasn’t much of a plan, he thought, but it had a journalistic sturdiness about it: knock on doors and see who had something to say.

  Ricky found a Motel 6 located on a wide boulevard that seemed to be dedicated to little except strip mall after strip mall, fast-food restaurants of every imaginable chain, and discount shopping outlets. It was a street of sun-washed cement, glowing in the undeniable sun of the Gulf. An occasional palm or shrub-brush landscaping seemed washed up against the shore of cheap commerce like flotsam and jetsam after a storm. He could taste the ocean nearby, the scent was in the air, but the vista was one of development, almost endless, like a repeating decimal of two-story buildings and garish signs.

  He checked in under the name Frederick Lazarus, and paid cash for a three-day stay. He told the clerk he was a salesman, not that the man was paying all that much attention. After surveying the modest room, Ricky left his bag and walked through the parking lot to a convenience store gas station. There, he was able to purchase a detailed street map for the entire Pensacola area.

  The tract housing near the sprawling naval base had a certain uniformity to it that Ricky thought might be similar to one of the first circles of Hell. Rows of cinder-block framed houses with tiny splotches of green grass steaming beneath the sun and ubiquitous sprinklers dashing the color with water. It was a short-hair-and-page-boy-cut area; it seemed to Ricky, driving through, that each block had a quality to it that seemed to define the aspirations of the inhabitants; the blocks that were well mowed and modestly manicured, with houses freshly painted so that they glistened with an otherworldly bright white beneath the Gulf sun seemed to speak of hope and possibility. The cars that rested in the driveways were clean, polished, shining, and new. There were swing sets and plastic toys on some of the lawns, and despite the midmorning heat, some children were at play beneath the watchful gaze of parents. But the lines of demarcation were clear: A few blocks in a different direction and the houses gained a worn, more used appearance. Run-down, flaking paint, and rain gutters that were stained with use. Streaks of brown dirt, chain-link fences, a car or two up on cinder blocks, wheels removed, rusting. Fewer voices raised in play, trash cans filled past their brims with bottles. Blocks of limited dreams, he thought.

  In the distance, he was aware that the Gulf, with its expanse of vibrant blue waters, and the station, with great gray navy ships lined up, was the a
xis on which everything revolved. But as he moved farther from the ocean, deeper into disadvantage, the world he traveled in seemed limited, aimless, and as hopeless as an empty bottle.

  He found the street where Claire Tyson’s family lived, and shuddered. It was no better, no worse than any of the other blocks, but in that mediocrity, spoke volumes: a place to flee from.

  Ricky was looking for number thirteen, which was in the middle of the block. He pulled up and parked outside.

  The house itself was much the same as the others in the block. A single-story, small two- or three-bedroom home, with air conditioners hanging from a couple of windows. A slab of concrete served as front porch and a rusty black kettle grill was leaned up against the side. The house was painted a faded pink and had an incongruous thirteen in hand-lettered black near the door. The one was significantly larger than the three, which almost indicated that the person who’d put the address on the wall had changed his mind in midstroke. There was a basketball hoop nailed to the portal of an open-air carport that looked to his unpracticed eye to be six inches to a foot lower than regulation. Regardless, the rim was bent. There was no net. A weathered, faded orange ball rested against a stanchion post. The front yard had a neglected look to it, streaks of dirt sidled up against grass choked with weeds. A large yellow dog, chained to a wall, confined by a steel fence to the tiny, square backyard, started to bark furiously as he walked up the driveway. That morning’s paper had been left near the street, and he picked it up and carried it to the front door. He touched the buzzer and heard the bell sound inside. A baby was crying inside, but quieted almost instantly as a voice responded, “I’m coming, I’m coming . . .”