Manner of Death

by Stephen White

  Lauren and I poked our heads in the door and said hello to the same waitress we'd had the last few times we were in, her name was Megan, she suggested, and we gladly took, a sunny deuce by the front windows, we ate at the KP five or six times a year, always on our way somewhere else. It was sufficient frequency that we were treated like honorary regulars.

  We both ordered Mexican and decided to split a beer.

  Megan smiled at Lauren and ignored me. My memory was that she had done that the last time we were in, too.

  Maybe thirty seconds after we ordered, another couple entered the cafe. I noticed their arrival because they were both in suits. Megan stopped wiping the counter because they were both in suits. His was a nondescript navy, hers was a vibrant fuchsia trimmed with raspberry. I didn't recognize her but I knew that suit, these two had been at Amie Dresser's funeral.

  I whispered to Lauren. "They were at the funeral, too."

  She glanced over. "In that suit?"

  I shrugged. "I doubt if Arnie was offended."

  "That's important. I suppose. But how does one offend ashes, anyway? Doesn't make it funeral garb in my book."

  "I didn't know you had a book."

  She punched me across the table as Megan directed the couple to a cramped table in back, near the door to the rest rooms. I assumed, with some confidence, that they weren't regulars. I watched with gossipy interest as the two of them immediately entered into a contentious discussion about something I couldn't quite overhear, their upper bodies were leaning forward over the rickety table so far that their heads almost touched in the middle.

  Her voice was louder than his. I thought I heard the Deep South hibernating somewhere in it. I finally lost interest as Megan dropped a couple of menus on their table.

  A minute or so later. Megan brought us our beer along with a basket of tortilla chips and some salsa that didn't come out of a bottle, as Lauren was taking her first sip of beer, her eyebrows arched. I turned toward her gaze and saw that fuchsia suit was approaching our table. I sat back on my chair.

  She said. "Dr. Gregory? Dr. alan Gregory?"

  The woman wearing the fuchsia suit was apparently somebody I should have but didn't remember from long ago at the medical center in Denver, with more embarrassment in my voice than I felt. I said. "Yes, that's me. I'm Alan Gregory. I'm sorry; do I know you from the Health Sciences Center? I think I recall seeing you at the funeral."

  She fingered the lapels of her suit jacket with both hands. "Yes, yes. I was at Dr. Dresser's services. But no, I didn't do my training here. I went to Georgetown. Not the little one we just passed down the hill, here, the big one in D.C." She laughed at her own wit and held out her hand to shake mine. "I hope you will please forgive my intrusion. My name is A. J. Simes. Dr. a. J. Simes."

  I wasn't sure if I was ready to forgive her intrusion. I shook the hand she offered and said. "This is my wife, Lauren Crowder. Lauren. Eh". Simes."

  "Pleased to meet you. Ms. Crowder."

  I was afraid she was going to ask to pull up a chair, she didn't. I hoped her visit was over. It wasn't.

  She said, "This may seem presumptuous— my walking up to you like this— and after you hear what we have to say; perhaps preposterous as well, but my associate and I feel that it's essential that we have a word or two with you, Dr. Gregory. I do hope you don't mind." She tilted her head toward her companion across the room, who appeared embarrassed and wasn't looking our way.

  I sighed. "Actually; we're enjoying a rare afternoon out, another time would be much better. I'll be happy to arrange some time to see you.., both. Why don't I give you a card?"

  She shook her head in a tight little arc, almost more of a shiver than a shake. "Please don't jump to conclusions. Doctor. I'm not usually an impolite woman. Not at all. Interrupting you like this makes me easily as uncomfortable as it is making you. What we want to discuss with you just shouldn't wait. I'm afraid."

  Simes looked back over her shoulder at her companion, he was studiously avoiding her, his eyes raised toward heaven. It appeared that he was either in deep prayer or was into architectural relics and was doina a thorough examination of the pressed-tin ceiling.

  Megan walked up behind A. J. Simes with two large platters of steaming Mexican food that she was gripping with potholders, she had a pained smile on her face and she was dancing back and forth from one foot to the other as though she had to pee. I was guessing that the aging potholders in her hands had lost some of their original insulating capacity.

  Over Simes's shoulder. Megan said. "Careful, now, you guys, these platters are hot."

  I cleared space in front of me for the food and asked, with minimal interest. "And why is that, Dr. Simes? I don't even know you. Why can't this wait?"

  Simes moved her feet a little— though not quite enough for Megan to pass— and faced me directly, she turned her head toward Lauren until she was certain that she had her attention as well as mine. But she spoke to me.

  "This can't wait because," she said, "after quite a bit of investigation, and a significant amount of contemplation. I'm relatively certain that someone is going to try to kill you. Dr. Gregory."

  Behind her, the green chili burrito platters went down with a roar. Refried beans erupted into the room like lava from the Second Coming of Mount St. Helens.

  THREE

  Megan said. "Oh shit. Frank. I need some help out here. Bring the mop. Bring the broom. Bring the damn trash can."

  I stood to help. Megan almost shoved me back into my seat. "No, no. Sit. Sit. Your shoes are covered with green chile and crap, all of you, sit, damn it." She faced Simes, who didn't have a chair. "God. I'm sorry about my mouth. Oh, no. Look what happened to your pretty suit."

  A. J. Simes didn't seem to know what to say, she turned to face her associate. His face was buried in his hands and he was shaking his head back and forth, with her back to us, I could clearly see the damage that the burritos had done to Dr. Simes's clothing, a pattern of splatters and chunks spread out like a fan from the top of her thighs to her shoulders. I thought that Henry Lee could probably do an entire lecture on the splatter pattern of green chili burrito platters off century-old pine flooring.

  Lauren was dressed in black jeans and clogs, the damage to her wardrobe was, relatively, minor, she wiped her shoes clean with her napkin, stood, and slipped Dr. Simes's jacket from her shoulders. "I'll do your jacket. You'd better spin that skirt around and see what you can do with the back. I'm afraid it's not pretty."

  Somebody is trying to kill me? Why is everybody so damn concerned about thefrijoles? I actually looked out the window to see if there was someone coming my way with a weapon.

  Dr. Simes said. "I'm so sorry. This is all my fault. I didn't handle this well." She headed to the rest room to salvage her fuchsia skirt and to try to escape her obvious humiliation.

  Lauren went immediately to work on the back of the jacket with my napkin and a glass of water.

  I said. "Did she say she thought someone was trying to kill me?"

  Megan looked up from her catcher's crouch on the floor and said. "Damn straight that's what she said."

  Lauren just nodded. I couldn't read her expression at all.

  Frank and Megan made quick work of the burrito catastrophe. Lauren continued to dab at the jacket, a. J. Simes maintained her retreat to the bathroom. I'd been in that bathroom on a couple of occasions. Nineteenth-century charm ends at plumbing. Period, end of sentence.

  The bathroom of the KP Cafe was absolutely no place for a leisurely respite.

  Without glancing up, Lauren said. "She has MS. Dr. Simes."

  "She does? How can you tell?"

  She shrugged. "Look at the muscles around her eyes, she forms her words a little too carefully, she's a little unsteady. I don't know. I can just tell."

  I nodded. Lauren could tell, the mild form of the disease wasn't as invisible to people who lived with it as it was to the rest of us.

  "What on earth do you think she was talking about
? I mean, someone trying to kill me? Is she nuts?"

  "I don't know. I got the impression that she was planning on telling us soon enough, though. Before the burrito thing, anyway."

  Across the room, the man in the navy suit stood and approached our table. Lauren lowered the fuchsia jacket to her lap and smiled politely. I said. "Hello. I'm Alan Gregory. This is my wife. Lauren Crowder."

  He held out his hand. "I know who you both are. I'm Milton Custer, by the way. Pleased to meet you."

  Milton Custer was built like a redwood. Tall, thick trunk, thin limbs. His hair was salt-and-pepper, and his handshake was painful. "Call me Milt,” he said, he tilted his head toward the back of the cafe and raised his left eyebrow. "But I think you should call her Dr. Simes." Lauren asked. "What kind of doctor is she?" "Same as your husband, ma'am, a psychologist." Lauren seemed to be considering something, and said. "Won't you pull up a seat, Mr. Custer?"

  Reluctantly, it seemed to me. Milt Custer sat, first twirling the chair around so he could straddle it. I sensed he liked the idea of having some kind of barrier between us, he removed his glasses and started to clean them. It turned out to be a complicated ritual that involved a tiny lavender cloth he pulled from inside a hard case that he retrieved from the pocket of his suit jacket.

  As he polished the second lens, he said, "I didn't want to do it here. Tell you like that, you know, about what we think is going on and all, that was her idea, she was determined. First I told her I didn't think we should do it at the church— I mean, that's not right, at the church right after a funeral. I told her we should follow you home and tell you there. Where you feel more comfortable, safer, you know. But then you didn't go home, you came here, and then I didn't think we should do it here, either." He looked self-conscious. "For obvious reasons. But she was sure you guys were heading someplace overnight and insisted we better take care of things right now. Dr. Simes, she's single-minded sometimes, maybe you might even say stubborn."

  I asked. "You and she are ... ?"

  He considered the question. "Colleagues. Partners. I guess. For now, anyway."

  You guess?

  "And you both think someone is trying to.., what? Hurt me?"

  He reflected for a good ten seconds before answering. When he was ready to speak he stared right at me and nailed me with a glare that screamed pay attention, he said. "No. This guy is definitely planning to kill you. Merely hurting you would indicate failure on his part, and so far as we can tell, he hasn't failed at any of this, yet, he's batting a thousand."

  A thousand? Instantly I wondered how many times the guy had been to the plate.

  Lauren asked. "Who the hell are you people?"

  I thought, Yeah!

  Megan wanted to clean a little more thoroughly under our table and asked if she could move us all to a little alcove by the counter, a secondary benefit occurred to me: If someone took a shot at me over there, it wouldn't be as likely to endanger the other patrons.

  A. J. Simes rejoined us a few minutes later. Lauren handed her the jacket and said, "I did the best I could."

  She said, "Thanks. I'm so embarrassed."

  I found myself examining A. J. Simes for indications of multiple sclerosis, maybe there was something odd about the coordination of her eyes when she blinked. But so far she appeared to me to be just an attractive woman in her late forties who had an intriguing swirl of gray in a thick head of auburn hair.

  Milt said. "They just asked who the hell we are."

  Simes nodded. "Good question. May I sit?"

  I said. "Please."

  "I'm so sorry, that was infelicitous. Blurting that out the way I did, and I accept full responsibility. Including dry cleaning, of course."

  Lauren said. "It's forgotten already."

  "You are too kind. How to begin?"

  I said. "I think you've already begun."

  She widened her mouth into something that was either a sardonic smile or the beginnings of a snarl. "The easiest way to explain our interest in you. Dr. Gregory, is to tell you we're both ex-FBI." She lowered her chin at Milt. "My colleague is— was— Supervisory Special Agent Milton Custer, who concluded his career in Chicago, and I spent almost all my time with the Bureau in the Investigative Support Unit. Initially, at Quantico, that's in Virginia, as I said before, my name is Dr. a. J. Simes."

  The "Doctor" stuff was beginning to sound pretentious. But I knew about the Investigative Support Unit.

  I said. "That's Behavioral Sciences, right?"

  "The name changed a few years back, a bureaucratic thing. But yes, a similar division. Most of the same responsibilities."

  "Were you in VICAP?" I was asking if she had been involved with the Violent Criminal Apprehension Program, the team that profiled serial killers and sexual psychopaths, among others.

  "Yes. You're familiar with our work?"

  I said, "Unfortunately," but didn't elaborate about my friend Peter's murder a couple of years earlier by a suspected serial killer. I had a funny feeling that these two already knew about Peter's murder. "Were you a profiler. Dr. Simes?"

  "Yes. It was one of my responsibilities. I have those skills and a significant amount of experience, and expertise, in the area."

  Lauren had narrowed her focus, her gaze was locked on Simes. Lauren, a deputy DA, was moving quickly into prosecutor mode. I was grateful, she was an astute observer and a more pointed interviewer than I was, she asked. "You said ex-FBI. Dr. Simes?"

  Simes answered. "That's right. Ex. Mr. Custer and I are participants in a consortium of ex-agents and other ex-

  Bureau personnel who provide private consultation to law enforcement agencies, businesses, and, occasionally; individuals, on matters in which we might have particular expertise."

  I remembered reading something about this group once. "Your organization was invited to participate in the JonBenet Ramsey investigation in Boulder, weren't you? A couple of years ago?"

  "Some of our colleagues were asked to assist the family, yes, with one unfortunate exception, everyone who was contacted declined, we are quite selective about where we lend our resources and experience, that offer from that family was particularly easy to decline."

  I said. "And now I assume you're on a different case? And you are lending your experience to ... ?"

  The two FBI types looked at each other. Simes nodded. Custer answered. "WeVe been given permission to inform you that we were retained by the mother of Dr. arnold Dresser."

  Given their presence at Arnie's funeral. I shouldn't have been surprised at the answer, but I was. Lauren pressed on with her earlier line of questioning. "Why did you leave the FBI. Dr. Simes?"

  Simes raised her chin a little and said. "Medical disability." The way she formed her words communicated her desire that Lauren not inquire further seeking details.

  Lauren said. "And you. Mr. Custer?"

  "I did my twenty-five. I retired."

  Lauren nodded as though their answers were somehow self-evident. "And Dr. Dresser's mother hired you to investigate something involving her son's death on that mountain, right?"

  "Right," Custer said.

  "Mrs. Dresser wishes for you to determine what, exactly?"

  Simes replied, crisply. "She would like us to determine whether or not her son was murdered."

  Murdered?

  Lauren continued. "And by your earlier statement about the danger that my husband's in. I take it we can assume that you’ve determined that Dr. Dresser was murdered?"

  Simes answered." 'Determined'? Perhaps too strong a word for this stage of the investigation. But we've begun to assemble a body of evidence that indicates that it is possible, even likely, that Dr. Dresser's death was in fact a homicide and not an accident."

  "And you are here with us, today, because you've made some connection that takes you from Dr. Dresser to my husband?"

  Simes said, "We have reason to be .., concerned. I felt— Mr. Custer and I each felt— that our concerns ara strong enough and the evidence is sub
stantial enough that it would be a dereliction of duty to fail to inform your husband that he, too, may be at some risk."

  I protested, "I barely knew Arnie Dresser."

  I felt Simes's gaze turn to me. It felt condescending, and I didn't like it. "If our theory is correct, the risk comes not from how well you knew Dr. Dresser. I'm afraid. Dr. Gregory, but rather from when you knew Dr. Dresser."

  "I haven't spent any time with him for over fifteen years."

  "Exactly."

  Lauren looked at me and. I'm sure, saw the complete befuddlement in my face, she said. "What does that mean? 'Exactly.' What do you mean?"

  Simes said. "That's the time period— the window, if you will— that appears to be important, almost sixteen years ago. When Dr. Gregory and Dr. Dresser were in training together on an inpatient psychiatric unit at the Health Sciences Center of the University of Colorado in Denver, the unit was known as Eight East."

  She had her facts right. I didn't find that reassuring, however. I asked, "Why is that important?"

  A family with two small children was taking the table next to ours. Milt raised his voice above everyone's and said, "I'm not real comfortable with how all this is proceeding. Please, everyone, let's not do this here. Why don't we take a little walk, get ourselves some air?"

  I hadn't eaten a bite. I wasn't at all hungry. I asked Lauren if walking was okay with her, she said it was. I threw forty dollars on the table to cover our beer, our burritos, and the havoc we'd precipitated and said. "Okay, let's walk."

  The afternoon was radiant, the angle of the autumn sun and a light wind spiraling down from the Divide caused the aspen leaves on the mountain faces to twinkle like a million golden stars. Stark cumulus clouds were tugged and distorted by the winds as they floated against the blue sky, the steam whistle from the Georgetown Loop train pierced the quiet from across the narrow valley-Milt said. "I love trains. I wish we had time." Simes admonished him sharply; "We don't." If Dr. Simes had children. I was certain they never grabbed items off the shelf at the supermarket.

  Lauren took my hand and we began walking toward the general store at the eastern end of the little town, she pointed toward the door. "Remember the bread? This place has great bread,” she said to me. "We need to buy some before we leave today."