The Analyst

by John Katzenbach

  “Yes?” she asked.

  “Hello,” Ricky replied cheerily. “I wonder if you might help me. I’m trying to trace the whereabouts of a young man named Daniel Collins . . .”

  The woman gasped, and lifted a hand to her mouth to cover her surprise. Ricky remained silent as he watched the woman struggle to recapture her composure. He tried to read the changes her face underwent, from shock, narrowing to a harshness that seemed to him to be filled with a chill that reached right through the screen door. Her face finally set stiffly, and her voice, when she was able to use it, seemed to employ words carved from winter.

  “He is lost to us,” she said. There were some tears that battled at the corners of her eyes, contradicting the iron in her voice.

  “I’m sorry,” Ricky said, still maintaining a cheeriness that helped mask his sudden curiosity. “I don’t understand what you mean by ‘lost ’? “

  The woman shook her head, not replying directly. She measured his priest’s outfit, then asked, “Father, why are you looking for my son now?”

  He pulled out the phony cancer letter, guessing that the woman wouldn’t read it carefully enough to find questions in it.

  As she started to eye the document, he started to speak, figuring that she wouldn’t really be able to concentrate on what was written while he spoke. Distracting her from asking questions of him didn’t seem like a difficult chore. “You see, Mrs . . . Collins, correct? The parish is really trying to reach out to anyone who might be a marrow donor for this youngster who is related to you distantly. You see the problem? I’d ask you to take the blood screening test, but I suspect you’re beyond the age where marrow can be donated. You’re over sixty, correct?”

  Ricky had no idea whether bone marrow ceased being viable at any age. So he made up a phony question where the answer was obvious. The woman lifted her eyes from the letter to respond, and Ricky reached out and took it from her hands, well before she’d had the opportunity to digest all of it. He said, as he did so, “This has a lot of medical stuff in it. I can explain, if you’d prefer. Perhaps we could sit down?”

  The woman nodded reluctantly and held the door open for him. He stepped into a house that seemed as fragile as the old woman who lived there. It was filled with small china objects and figurines, empty vases and knickknacks, and had a musty aged smell that overcame the stale air of the air conditioner pumping away with a banging sound that made him think some part was loose inside. The carpets had plastic runners and the couch, as well, had a plastic cover, as if the woman were afraid of any dirt that might be left behind. He had the impression that everything had a proper position in the house, and that the woman who lived there would be able to sense instantly any item that had shifted position even a fraction of an inch.

  The sofa made a squeak as he sat.

  “Your son, is he available? You see, he might be a match . . . ,” Ricky launched ahead, lying easily.

  “He’s dead,” the woman said coldly.

  “Dead? But how?”

  Mrs. Collins shook her head. “Dead to all of us. Dead to me, now. Dead and worthless, nothing but pain, father. I’m sorry.”

  “How did he . . . ?”

  She shook her head. “Not yet. But soon enough, I’m thinking.”

  Ricky leaned back, making the same squeaking sound. “I’m afraid I don’t precisely understand,” he said.

  The woman reached down and removed a scrapbook from a shelf beneath a coffee table. She opened it, flipped through several pages. Ricky could see newspaper stories about sports games, and he remembered that Daniel Collins was a high school athlete. There was a graduation picture and then a blank page. She stopped there, and handed it across to him. “Turn the page,” she said bitterly.

  Centered on a single sheet of the scrapbook was a single story from the Tampa Tribune. The headline was: man arrested after barroom death. There were few details, other than Daniel Collins had been arrested slightly over a year earlier, and charged with homicide following a fight in a barroom. On the adjacent page, another headline: state to seek death in bar fight slaying. This story, clipped and glued to the middle of another page, had a photograph accompanying it, of a middle-aged Daniel Collins being led handcuffed into a courtroom. Ricky scanned the newspaper clipping. The facts of the case seemed simple enough. There had been a fight between two drunken men. One of them had gone outside and waited for the other to emerge. Knife in hand, according to the state prosecutors. The killer, Daniel Collins, had been arrested at the scene, unconscious, drunk, bloody knife near his hand, victim spread-eagled a few feet away. The victim had been eviscerated in a particularly cruel fashion, the newspaper hinted, before being robbed. It appeared that after Collins had murdered the man and taken his money, he’d paused to swig another bottle of some cheap liquor, become disorientated, and passed out before fleeing the scene. Open and shut.

  He read meager stories about a trial and a conviction. Collins had claimed that he was unaware of the killing, so addled with drink that night. It wasn’t much of an explanation and it didn’t work well with the jury. They were out deliberating for only ninety minutes. It took them an additional couple of hours to recommend the death penalty—the same explanation being offered up in mitigation that was ignored. Official death, cut and dried, wrapped up and packaged with a minimum of messiness.

  Ricky looked up. The old woman was shaking her head.

  “My lovely boy,” she said. “Lost him first to that bitch girl, then to drink, now to death row.”

  “Have they set a date?” Ricky asked.

  “No,” the woman replied. “His lawyer says they’ve got appeals. Going to try this court, that court. I don’t really understand too well. All I knows is that my boy says he didn’t do it, but it didn’t make no difference.” She stared hard at the clerical collar snug around Ricky’s neck. “In this state, we all love Jesus, and most folks worship on Sundays. But when the Good Book says ‘Thou Shall Not Kill,’ it don’t seem to apply to our courtrooms none. Us and Georgia and Texas. Bad places to do a crime where someone dies, father. I wish my boy’d thought of that before he took up that knife and got into that fight.”

  “He says he’s innocent?”

  “That’s right. Says he’s got no memory of the fight at all. Says he woke up all covered in blood when the policeman shoved him with their sticks and with that knife by his side. I guess having no recollection isn’t much of a defense.”

  Ricky turned the page, but the scrapbook was blank.

  “Got to save a page, I guess,” the woman said. “For one last story. I hope I pass before that day arrives, for I do not want to see it come.”

  She shook her head. “You know something, father?”

  “What’s that?”

  “It always made me angry. You know, when he scored that touchdown against South Side High, in the city championship, why, they put his picture right on the front page. But all these stories, over there in Tampa where nobody much knew about my boy at all, why, they were little stories, stuck way inside the paper, where hardly anyone ever saw them. It seems to me that if you’re going to go about taking some man’s life away from him in a court of law, why you ought to make a big deal of it. It ought to be special and right up there on the front page. But it isn’t. It’s just another little story that gets stuck back next to the broken sewer main and the gardening column. It’s like life isn’t all that important anymore.”

  She rose and Ricky rose with her.

  “Talking about this makes my heart feel filled with sickness, father. And there ain’t no comfort in any words, not even the Good Book, to take the hurt away.”

  “I think, my child, that you should open your heart to the goodness that you remember, and that way you will be comforted.” Ricky thought trying to sound like a priest made his words trite and ineffectual, which was more or less how he wanted them. The old woman had raised a boy who was to all outward appearances a proper son of a bitch, he thought, who started out his sorry excus
e for life by seducing a classmate, dragging her alongside of him for a few years, then abandoning her and her children when they became inconvenient; and he ended up by killing another man over probably no reason at all, other than one created by too much liquor. If there was anything redeeming about Daniel Collins’s silly, useless existence, he had yet to see it. This cynicism, boiling around inside of him, was more or less confirmed by the words the old woman spoke next.

  “The goodness stopped with that girl. When she got pregnant that first time, why, any chance my boy had, just went right away then. She lured him in, used all that woman cunning, trapped him, and then used him to get out of here and away. All the trouble he had, becoming someone, making his way in the world, why, I blame it all on her.”

  The woman’s voice left no room for any compromise. It was cold, clipped, and utterly committed to the idea that her darling boy had nothing to do with creating any of the trouble that befell him. And Ricky, the onetime psychoanalyst, knew there was little chance that she would see her own complicity. We create, he thought, and then, when that creation goes so wrong, we want to blame others, when it is usually ourselves to blame.

  “But you think he’s innocent?” Ricky asked. He knew the answer. And he did not say of the crime, because the old woman believed her son was innocent of everything he’d done wrong.

  “Why, of course. If he said it, I believe it.” She reached into the scrapbook and found an attorney’s card, which she handed to Ricky. A public defender in Tampa. He noted the name and number and let her show him out the door.

  “Do you know what happened to the three children? Your grandchildren?” Ricky asked, gesturing with the phony medical letter.

  The woman shook her head. “They was give up, I heard. Danny signed some paper when he was in jail in Texas. He got caught doing a burglary, but I didn’t believe it none. Did a couple of years in prison. We never heard from them no time again. I guess they’s all grown up now, but I never seen any of ’em, not one time, so it’s not like I think of them. Danny, he did the right thing by giving them up after that woman passed, because he couldn’t raise three children he didn’t know all by hisself. And I couldn’t help him none, either, all alone here and being sick and all. So they became someone else’s problem and someone else’s children. Like I said, we never heard from them.”

  Ricky knew this last statement was untrue.

  “Did you even know their names?” he asked.

  The woman shook her head. The cruelty in that gesture almost struck him like a fist, and he understood where the young Daniel Collins had found his own selfishness.

  When the last of the day’s heat and sunshine hit his head, he stood dizzily on the sidewalk for just a moment, wondering whether Rumplestiltskin’s reach was so far, that it had put Daniel Collins on death row. He guessed that it was. He just wasn’t precisely certain how.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Ricky returned to New Hampshire and back to life as Richard Lively. Everything that he’d learned on his trip to Florida troubled him.

  Two people had entered Claire Tyson’s life at critical moments. One had left her and her children adrift, and now occupied a cell on death row, claiming innocence in a state notorious for turning a deaf ear on such protests. The other had turned his back on the daughter he’d abused and the grandchildren who’d needed help, and years later he’d been turned out on the street equally cruelly, and now was condemned to wheeze away his final days on a different, but similarly unforgiving death row.

  Ricky added to the equation beginning to form in his head: The boyfriend who beat Claire Tyson in New York was then beaten to death in his own turn, with a bloody R carved into his chest. The lazy Dr. Starks, who because of his own indecisiveness at one time failed to help the distraught Claire Tyson when she came pleading to him, was subsequently driven to suicide after every avenue where he might find help for himself was systematically destroyed.

  There had to be others. This realization chilled his heart.

  It seemed that Rumplestiltskin had designed a number of acts of revenge according to a simple principle: to each according to who they were. Crimes of omission were being judged and sentences being dealt out, years later. The boyfriend, who was nothing more than a thug and criminal, had been treated one way. The grandfather who’d denied his offspring’s entreaties had been punished differently. It was, Ricky thought, a unique method of delivering evil. His own game had been designed with Ricky’s personality and education in mind. Others had been dealt with more brutally, because they came from worlds where brutality was more refined. One other thing seemed clear cut: In Rumplestiltskin’s imagination, there was no statute of limitations.

  The end results, though, he took note, seemed to be the same. A consistent path of death or ruin. And anyone who might stand in the way, like the unfortunate Mr. Zimmerman or Detective Riggins were seen as impediments that were summarily erased with the same amount of compassion one would reserve for a horsefly that landed on one’s forearm.

  Ricky shuddered as he assessed how patient, dedicated, and cold-blooded Rumplestiltskin truly was.

  He started to make a modest list of people who also might have failed to help Claire Tyson and her three young children when they were in need: Was there a landlord in New York who demanded rent from the destitute woman? If so, they were probably on the street somewhere, wondering what happened to their building. A social worker who failed to get her into an assistance program? Had they been ruined financially, and now forced to apply for the same program? A priest who had listened to her entreaties and suggested that prayer might fill an empty stomach? They were probably praying for themselves, now. He could only guess how far Rumplestiltskin’s revenge reached: What happened to the city power worker who had turned off the electricity at her house when she failed to pay a bill on time? He didn’t know the answers to these questions, nor did he know precisely where Rumplestiltskin had drawn his dividing line, separating the people he’d judged guilty, from however many others there might be. Still, Ricky knew one thing: A number of people had once upon a time come up far short and were now paying a price.

  Or, more likely, had paid their debt. All the people who had neglected to help Claire Tyson, so that her only choice was to take her own life in despair.

  It was the most frightening concept of justice that Ricky had ever imagined. Murders of both the body and the soul. It seemed to Ricky that he had often been scared since Rumplestiltskin had entered his life. He had been a man of routine and insight. Now, nothing was solid, everything was unsettled. The fear that ricocheted within him now was something different. Something he had difficulty categorizing, but he knew it left his mouth dry and a bitter taste on his tongue. As an analyst, he had lived in his well-to-do patients’ worlds of convoluted anxieties and debilitating frustrations, but these seemed now to be uniformly petty and pathetically self-indulgent.

  The scope of Rumplestiltskin’s fury astounded him. And, at the same time, made perfect sense.

  Psychoanalysis teaches one thing, he thought: Nothing ever happens in a vacuum. A single bad act can have all sorts of repercussions. He was reminded of the desktop perpetual motion machines that some of his colleagues had, where a group of ball bearings were hung in a row, and if one was lifted slightly, so that it swung against the others, the force would cause the last in the line to swing out and then bounce back, making a clicking sound and starting an engine of momentum that would only stop when someone injected their hand into the works. Rumplestiltskin’s revenge, of which he’d been only a single part, was like that machine.

  There were others dead. Others destroyed. He alone, in all likelihood, saw the entirety of what had taken place. Perpetual motion.

  Ricky felt shafts of cold drip through his body.

  These were all crimes that existed in a plane defined by immunity. What detective, what police authority, would ever be able to link them all together, because the only thing the victims had in common was a relatio
nship with a woman dead for twenty years.

  Serial crimes, Ricky thought, with a thread so invisible that it defied imagination. Like the policeman who had blithely told him about the R carved in Rafael Johnson’s chest, there was always someone far more likely to wear guilt than the vaporous Mr. R. The reasons behind his own death were blatantly obvious. Career in tatters, home destroyed, wife dead, finances in ruins, relatively friendless and introspective, why wouldn’t he kill himself?

  And one other thing was abundantly clear to him: If Rumplestiltskin learned that he’d escaped, if he even suspected that Ricky still breathed air on this planet, he would be on Ricky’s trail instantly with evil intentions. Ricky doubted that he would have the opportunity to play any game the second time around. It also occurred to him how easy it would be to dispatch his new identity: Richard Lively was a nonentity in the world. His very anonymity made his own quick and brutal death a relative certainty. Richard Lively could be executed in broad daylight, and no policeman anywhere would be able to make the necessary connections leading him back to Ricky Starks and some man called Rumplestiltskin. What they would find out was that Richard Lively wasn’t Richard Lively and he would instantly become a John Doe, planted with little ceremony without a headstone in some potter’s field. Perhaps a detective would wonder idly who he truly once was, but, inundated with other cases, the death of Richard Lively would simply be shunted aside. Forever.

  What made Ricky so safe, also made him utterly vulnerable.