Irresistible Impulse bkamc-9

by Robert Tanenbaum

  “No.”

  “Why not, sir?”

  “Because there are no such tests. The indicia of the disease are straightforward, as I’ve testified. The flatness of affect, the retreat into hallucinatory fantasies, the inability to form normal social bonds, are diagnostic for this disease.”

  “Yes, thank you, Doctor. You’re a scientific man, do you know what Occam’s razor is?”

  This caught the witness off guard, as it was meant to. He frowned and said, “In a general way. I believe it’s the principle that says that if you want to explain something, some experimental result, then the simplest explanation, the one making the fewest assumptions, is the one likely to be true.”

  “Yes, very good, that’s my understanding exactly,” said Karp, beaming. “So, Doctor, since we have on one hand an elaborate set of assumptions about some mental disease, based on another set of assumptions of how this disease was generated during the defendant’s youth, based on the defendant’s word alone, with no independent verification, and on the other hand we have the alternate possibility that the defendant is spinning a line of malarkey to escape punishment, wouldn’t Occam’s razor practically force us to believe that you are being fooled?”

  Karp was rewarded by the flush that blossomed on the witness’s cheeks. “Absolutely not!” he declared.

  “Pray tell, why not, sir?” said Karp gently, as to a child.

  “Because I’m a psychiatrist. I’ve had years of training to distinguish malingerers from genuine sufferers, in addition to nearly twenty years of experience with all types of mental disease. I know what I’m talking about!”

  “Do you? Tell me, Doctor, how many of your patients, in your whole career, have been paranoid psychotic murderers?”

  The witness was startled by the question. His mouth opened but nothing came out.

  “Counting them up, are you?” put in Karp.

  “Your Honor, I protest this badgering,” cried Waley.

  “Mr. Karp, have a care!” growled Judge Peoples.

  Karp voiced an apology and waited.

  Bannock cleared his throat. “Mr. Rohbling is the only one.”

  “The only one!” exclaimed Karp in mock amazement. “Do you tell us, sir, that the defendant is the only patient you have ever had that was facing a charge of murder and might have a powerful reason to prevaricate as to his symptoms?”

  “Yes, but that’s-”

  “Then, isn’t it true,” said Karp, lowering the pitch and lifting the volume of his voice so as to sound as much like the Lord of Hosts as possible, “that your testimony as to the defendant’s so-called disease, and his ability or inability to comport his conduct to the requirements of the law, is worth nothing? Zero?”

  “No, no, my experience can be generalized to … the present case and, of course, I’m familiar with the literature-”

  “The literature, I see,” said Karp, his tone contemptuous. “I have no further questions for this witness.”

  Naturally, Waley rose for redirect, to repair the damage Karp had done to his star. Once again the jury was treated to a look inside Jonathan Rohbling’s skull, courtesy of Dr. Bannock. The on-again, off-again nature of his disease was explained as entirely consistent with paranoid schizophrenia. Mr. Rohbling was not going to attack a member of the jury because he was taking antipsychotic drugs. When he was taking these drugs, he was free of the violent impulses that characterized his disease. The drugs were uncertain in their influence, were they not? Of course. They even affected the same people differently at different times. Therefore, it was perfectly consistent with science that Mr. Rohbling could be a good little boy on a Thursday and a monster on Friday and a good little boy the following Monday. Of course, and this was delivered with a dose of psycho-speak equivalent to six hundred milligrams of Thorazine; the jury was stunned, gaping, psyched.

  Nevertheless, Karp came right back on re-cross. Doctor, you contend that the defendant was not under the influence of his medication when he committed the murder? He was not. But he was drugged at your appointment before and your appointment afterward? Probably. Then a colloquy on the pharmacology of Navane, or thiothixene, its effects, the absurdity of assuming that its effects could be turned on and off like a lightbulb over the course of a long weekend. Karp had done his homework, or Collins had. He waved research reports. He quoted. Then the finale: Doctor, do you know of a single other case, in the literature, where a paranoid schizophrenic committed a violent act attributable to his disease and then appeared normal to a psychiatrist three days before and two days after that act? Answer the question. The answer was no. Thus Karp ran out the clock, which was, at least in part, the point. The judge halted the proceedings at five-thirty, which meant that Karp could start with a fresh jury when he presented his rebuttal witness the following day.

  Outside the courtroom, in the hallway, a roped corridor had been set up, leading from the door to the D.A.’s private wing of the building, an aisle now manned, at the D.A.’s express order, by four burly court officers and a group of gigantic cops from the Tacticals, beyond which seethed the yowling press corps, down which Karp strode like the Prince of Wales.

  TWENTY

  Marlene awakened to birdsong and the sweet voice of the cello. She lay in bed for a few minutes listening, cozy within the bedclothes (an actual featherbed, the first she had ever slept in) watching gray-blue light streak the patterned wallpaper. The room was of a comfortable smallness, as a bedroom should be, and full of old, slightly shabby, lovely things-real lace curtains, a wardrobe inlaid with flowers and cupids, the brass bedstead on which she lay. She mused, as often before, on the insoluble mystery of family life, on how this marvelous environment, so secure, so tasteful, could have produced an Edie and a Ginnie Wooten. The cello swelled to a peak, stopped in mid-phrase, and after a brief pause, began again from the beginning of the movement, the second of Schubert’s Rosamunde quartet.

  With a sigh Marlene heaved out of bed, washed, dressed, armed herself, and went down to the kitchen, where Bridget Marney supplied her with egg, toast, excellent coffee, and conversation about geraniums and dogs. Ms. Wooten was not to be disturbed in the mornings: the iron law of Wooten Island, to which no conceivable danger might make an exception. Marlene fed Sweety his two pounds of kibble, walked him, and put him on guard. Mr. Marney, a male version of his wife (pleasant, sixties, weather-worn), arrived just as Marlene was finishing her second cup, and led her to the boathouse, in whose damp shade lay a half dozen craft: a couple of Boston Whalers with fifty-horse outboards, a slim wooden rowing boat, a dory with a center-mounted diesel, a racy wooden speedboat, and a forty-foot Chris-Craft in mahogany, circa 1925. They took the speedboat.

  Twenty minutes later, Marlene was at the marina dock. She waited, smoked a cigarette, watched the faint breeze pimple the still water of Sag Harbor. A horn sounded. To Marlene’s surprise, it was not Harry come to pick her up but Wolfe.

  “I’m surprised to see you,” she said as they drove off. “Are you okay?”

  “Fine. Good,” he said in a tone that did not encourage exploration. He seemed to regret their brief intimacy in the hospital. Clearly, he was one of those men who wish not to think that they can ever be anything but big, strong, and ready for action. As they approached the tennis club, Wolfe said, “Harry wants me to go with the tour. The client-”

  Marlene felt a quick stir of irritation, which she stifled. Edie hadn’t mentioned Wolfe, and despite what Marlene had told her husband, she felt herself entirely capable of guarding Wooten by herself. She grunted assent and got out of the car.

  A dull day on the courts passed. There were no copycat attacks. In the tournament, Trude Speyr came in second to a Yugoslav woman who had not been threatened with mutilation and death, which Marlene thought not surprising. Harry was busy arranging the rest of the tour, which Wolfe would join as chief bodyguard-next stop, Short Hills, New Jersey. Marlene made herself at home in Mort Griffin’s office and got Sym on the phone to check messages and then
spoke to Tranh, who seemed to be holding everything together rather better than Marlene herself did when she was there. After listening to his report, Marlene said, “Sounds great, Vinh, you’re a national treasure. Harry will be back late today to take over. Anything else?”

  “No, I do not believe so. I was somewhat surprised to see that the machine gun was missing from its place. I had thought that you did not approve of such weapons.”

  “I don’t. When did you notice it was missing?”

  “These past few days. Since you left for the tennis match.”

  “Shit! Dane probably swiped it back. I’ll talk to him.”

  Marlene next called the garage, where a man told her that it was not merely the alternator that had gone but the coil and a considerable, but yet to be tallied, number of spark plug wires, and did she really want to put that kind of money into the car. She did.

  Then she called her loft, where she spoke to Posie, who wrenched at her heart with blandly told tales of the twins’ narrow escapes from poisoning, scorching, sharp instruments, and other immolation, and held them each up to the phone so that they could whine, babble, and fret into the instrument, and scarify further their mother’s heart. Lucy was, in comparison, an oasis of good sense. She discounted heavily the tales of disaster, said everything was fine, that meals were regular, the loft was reasonably neat, don’t worry, and can I still come out to the island when you’re finished guarding?

  “I think it’ll be okay, Luce, but we have to check with Ms. Wooten.”

  “Is there swimming?”

  “I think there’s a pool.”

  “Oh, great! I’ll bring my red Speedo.”

  And more in that vein, until she signed off and Karp came on.

  “Disaster upon disaster, I hear,” said Marlene.

  “Exaggeration,” said Karp lightly. “We hardly know you’re gone.”

  “I believe it. How’s the trial?”

  “Trying,” said Karp.

  “I see. You going to win?”

  “Doubtful. I’m pushing not to lose. What’s happening with Dr. Dope out there?”

  “Hasn’t made a move yet. I may have to stir him up a little.”

  A pause. “That sounds like a good plan, Marlene,” said Karp in a tight voice. Spiky, spiky. They quickly ended the call, by mutual agreement.

  Well, that was depressing enough, thought Marlene. My sons are being raised by a hippie slut victim, my marriage seems to be in the toilet, my daughter … well, my daughter seems to be moving into the role of Family Sane Person. Maybe I should ask her advice. These and other increasingly maudlin and self-pitying fancies occupied her as she twirled back and forth in Griffin’s expensive leather swivel chair, and toyed with her split ends, until her reverie was interrupted by the entrance of her partner.

  “I was looking for you. They’re gone,” said Harry.

  Marlene returned to good-little-soldier mode. “The star?”

  “The star, the Germans, and Wolfe. I’m going back to the city. You got your car back?”

  Marlene explained about the VW.

  “You could rent one, no, here’s a better idea. You could use Wolfe’s. Ask the kid for the keys.”

  Marlene did so. Wolfe’s car was immaculately kept, smooth-running, and it had that terrific stereo. Marlene chose Greatest Hits of the ‘70s for the drive back to Sag Harbor. “Best of My Love” by the Emotions; “I’m Not in Love” by 10cc; “Love Will Keep Us Together” by the Captain and Tenille. Who could forget them! Marlene was slightly hoarse, but with a mood much improved, by the time she pulled into the marina. There she found Mr. Marney loading groceries and propane tanks into the Wooten speedboat, a happy accident. While he worked, she ran to a tourist shop near the marina and bought a black nylon tank suit (size five), rubber zoris, a cheap straw hat, and a straw carry-all. It was starting to turn hot, and Marlene thought she would spend the day by the pool.

  The body still drew looks, Marlene found. When she walked out onto the pool deck at Wooten’s Island, she was rewarded by a rustle of interested movement among the group of oiled degenerates gathered around the shallow end, the kind of stir you see among crocodiles when a gazelle comes down to drink. Marlene noted this, and noted also the presence of Ginnie Wooten and Vincent Robinson. The others were typical rich trash, all slim, smooth, tanned, and damned. She settled her things on a wooden lounger near the deep end, walked to the diving board, and dived in.

  The air was hot, the water delightfully cool. Marlene did three easy lengths and then emerged, dripping, her suit a glistening second skin. It had, naturally, worked its way up between her buttocks, but she did not bother with the traditional coming-out-of-pool finger flick, but left them attractively in view as she walked back to her lounger. She spread a towel, lay down, put on her sunglasses, and waited. In five minutes, she heard the lounger next to hers creak and a voice say, “I came over to see if you needed help getting your ass back into your suit.”

  “No, thank you,” said Marlene, recognizing the voice. “We meet again, Doctor.”

  “A line from every horror movie,” said Robinson happily. “I should tell you that displays of forbidden flesh are frowned on at this pool. Little Edie insists on it; otherwise, we would dispense with suits altogether. Also, no fucking in the pool during daylight hours. Those are the rules.”

  “Thank you, Doctor. I stand corrected.”

  “Would you like to fuck me in the pool tonight?”

  “No, Doctor, I’m working,” said Marlene.

  “Oh, right. Little Edie’s stalker. How tragic for her! Well, then, for the nonce I’ll have to content myself with studying your remarkably generous pubic bush. Is that your Italian heritage, I wonder?”

  “Sicilian. I wouldn’t be surprised.”

  He laughed. “Meanwhile, what about a drink?”

  “Is there a bar?”

  “Indeed there is. Fully stocked, right there under the awning by the cabanas. What can I get you?”

  “You can get me a tray on which there is a bucket of ice, a sealed bottle of tonic, a sealed bottle of Gilbey’s, a lime, a little knife, and a glass.”

  Robinson laughed again. “Oho! She’s afraid of being drugged, is she? Drugged and dragged into the shrubbery for obscene delights. That’s your husband’s influence, I imagine.”

  One of the disadvantages of having only one eye is that you can’t check things out from the corner of your blind side. Marlene shifted her position so that she could look Robinson in the face as she said, “Yes, he thinks you murdered your nurse with drugs.”

  Robinson smiled delightedly, as if she had just told him she liked his eyes. “Yes, I know he does. He had that nigger cop following me around half the winter. I suppose I should be insulted. I mean, really, the least he could’ve done is send a white man. I saw him on television recently, your hubby, pounding some little jig. I almost warmed toward him. He really is quite a gigantic Jew, odd, because we always say, ‘little Jew,’ don’t we. Does he have an absolutely gigantic willy?”

  “Gigantic enough,” said Marlene. “Did you kill your nurse?”

  “Probably. She was certainly growing tedious enough to deserve it. One thing I can’t abide is a tedious woman. Like little Edie, for example. Oh, I’m forgetting our drinks …!” Robinson lifted his arm and snapped his fingers twice.

  To Marlene’s surprise, Ginnie Wooten rose from among the group at the shallow end and trotted over to them, wobbling slightly on heeled sandals. She was wearing a red thong bikini on her skeletal body. Marlene noticed that she kept her eyes down while Robinson gave his order, and that there were two fine chains running from her crotch down each leg to ankle cuffs.

  “A serviceable slave, actually,” said Robinson as she walked away to the bar. “Of course, she’s not a real slave, so one’s, let us say, palette of outrages is limited, but one mustn’t complain. I noticed you looking at her little chains. They go up to studs embedded in the labia. A constant reminder and also, of course, the slig
ht, continual sexual irritation. Very effective in producing the proper attitude.”

  Marlene watched his face, which she still found attractive, although now in a horrifying way, like the sick attraction of subway tracks or a loaded gun. She had never seen an expression like his on a human face before: the eyes avid, bright, intelligent, utterly without any recognizable human emotion. It was like looking at a mantis. His mouth was fixed in a meaningless smile. Marlene found it hard to imagine why, when he walked down a street, people didn’t spontaneously drop what they were doing and tear him to pieces.

  “Why did you become a physician, Dr. Robinson?” she asked spontaneously.

  “For the drugs, of course,” he threw back. “And the power. The only power that means anything is power over the human body, preferably one body at a time, and we doctors have that par excellence.”

  “So you didn’t take the Hippocratic oath?”

  Robinson giggled. “No. Sadly, I was ill that day.”

  Ginnie came back with a tray containing the media for making gin and tonics and placed it slowly, drugged-careful, on a small folding table. As she bent over, Robinson said something into her ear. She smiled, turned her burnt eyes briefly on Marlene, and walked off.

  “I just told her that I was thinking of us all going over to the big house tonight and tying you up and letting her use her manicure set on you. Snip, snip. Make us a little drinkie there, would you?”

  “No,” said Marlene equably. “And I think I’ll pass on mine too.”

  “Oh, I hurt your feelings! I’m always doing that, I don’t know why. And we should be friends, you know. We’re very much alike.”

  “You think so.”

  “I do. I’ve been looking into your career. Both of us make our own rules, both of us do just as we please, the only difference being that you’re a hypocrite, and feel obliged to justify your actions-how many people have you killed? — as being in service of some notional higher good, whereas I do what I like merely because it pleases me. The will is all.”