I wondered, too, about their pairing. How had they ended up together?
Surprisingly, though, I wasn't wondering much about their conclusion regarding a serial killer at work, the pattern they had proposed seemed intuitive, easy to grasp. Once I crossed the bridge that led me from my skepticism, I also had to let go of traditional serial killer images. This wasn't Jeffrey Dahmer or Son of Sam or the Hillside Strangler we were talking about. This wasn't a sexual psychopath. If this guy was real, his closest malevolent relative was the Unabomber.
The person who was stalking me was obsessed, he was patient, he was meticulous, he was dedicated.
And he was a believer.
Add all those things up and what you have, I decided, is a psychological terrorist.
I hit the redial button.
Diane's husband, Raoul, answered the phone, he asked about my day and about the status of the leaves in the high country and we ended up chatting for a few minutes about the origins of the term "Indian summer." I tried to help him put things in a cultural context that would make sense back home in Barcelona. I'm pretty sure I failed, he also informed me that he and Diane were thinking of moving to a house in town. "Winters are too difficult up here. You know?"
A lot of snow fell sometimes in those steep canyons in the Front Range above Boulder, like Lee Hill, where Diane and Raoul had their spacious home. Winter started early and spring started late, and sometimes it seemed that spring was as much about mud as it was about flowers. Summertime could be a major burden, too, well problems, deer problems, mountain lion worries, black bear worries, wildfire worries, flash flood worries.
I said. "Summers are hard on you guys, too, But the autumns are always special. Raoul."
"That's the truth, my friend, that's the truth. This time of year it's hard to think about leaving, but I think it's time to get urban, maybe we'll move out east, by you. I like the views out there. But I'm monopolizing you. I assume you phoned to talk to the brilliant one?"
"Is that what she's calling herself now?"
"She guessed right about that thing that happened with Intel, we made a few dollars. Suddenly she's a wizard, you know?"
"I know, she's difficult when she's wrong, and she's impossible when she's right."
"That's my girl. I'll get her, at this moment, the brilliant one is in the kitchen, making a tart of kiwis and berries. I will be courteous until it comes from the oven. Wise, right?"
A minute later I heard a loud buzz in my ear, followed by "Hey; I'm rolling dough, so I have you on the speakerphone. You're going to have to speak as though you actually have a voice."
Diane teased me frequently about the fact that my everyday voice was soft enough to stuff a pillow.
I said "I'll try." Then I thought better of it. "Listen, this isn't a speakerphone conversation. I'll call you back in a while."
"Oh no you don't. Hold on." The buzz disappeared and was replaced by one of Diane's admonishing tones. "You won't call back. You'll make me suffer wondering what it is I missed."
"What about the tart?"
"The dough's covered, well?"
"I went to Arnie Dresser's memorial service today: and—"
"You were that close to Arnie?" When she wasn't in therapist mode. Diane's tone couldn't disguise a thing. This particular intonation said. "You shittin' me?"
"No. Not really, we weren't close. Just showing my respect. I guess." I didn't want to go into the whola Christmas card thing. Diane would have a field day with that information.
"You respected Arnie Dresser?"
"Diane, please."
"Sorry."
"The services were in Evergreen. Lauren came up with me, got a massage at Tall Grass while I was at the church, after—"
"Was it great? I heard that place is great. Tell her next time I want to go with her, we'll do a girl thing. Get a foot massage. Tea and tootsies for the ladies."
I smiled; I couldn't help it. "Yes, she said the spa was great, after the services, we drove up to the mountains to try to find some leaves, we stopped in Silver Plume for a late lunch."
"Silver Plume has a restaurant?"
"Diane, yes. Silver Plume has a restaurant. Do you really want me to digress again?" ' "Sorry."
"And it turns out that two FBI agents followed us all the way from the church to the mountains."
"What?"
"Actually these two who walked up to our table in Silver Plume said that they're ex-FBI, they're consultants now. One was an agent in Chicago, the other one is a retired profiler, a Ph.D, in social psychology. Motivation.
They said Arnie's mother hired them, apparently she thinks Arnie's death might not be accidental."
"Wow! A profiler? Really? Like in Silence of the Lambs'} What did they want from you?"
I wasn't fond of Diane's literary allusion. I asked, "Do you remember Susan Oliphant, from our internship year?"
No hesitation. "Sure, she was the ward chief on Orange. Never had her for supervision myself. But I liked her more than I liked any of her residents." Diane's inpatient rotation had been on the Blue Team.
"They told me she's dead. Did you know that she had died? I didn't know, she died in a private plane crash that they think is suspicious. In the Adirondacks. Quite a few years ago."
"No, I didn't know."
"What about Matt Trimble? Remember him?"
"Yeah, the black resident? I know he died. I liked him, too, he was cute. You ever see his legs? Michelangelo would have liked his legs."
I was tempted to digress myself. When had Diane had a chance to see Mart's legs? I controlled myself. "Wendy Asimoto?"
The air was still for a few seconds. "I don't remember her."
"She quit after her second year. But she was on tha Orange Team, too, while I was there, she's another dead second-year resident, she disappeared while working on a cruise ship."
"Since when do cruise ships hire psychiatrists? What was she working on— the Divorce Boat?"
I could tell her mind remained more focused on her piecrust and her kiwis than on my litany of dead mental health professionals. "Diane, are you with me? Are you sensing a pattern here?"
"I'm reminded of that old joke about what do you call three lawyers at the bottom of a lake?"
I'd heard the joke, of course. But I didn't respond. I was speechless for other reasons.
She said "A good start. Get it?"
"I’ve heard it."
"Okay: these FBI types think that there may be an evil force at work. Somebody killing psychiatrists."
Diane's reflexive sarcasm was set to "high." I needed to jolt her into focusing her considerable intellect onto what was going on. I said. "Not just psychiatrists. Diane, they told me that there is some doubt whether or not Amy Masters's death was by natural causes, either."
It worked. When Diane finally spoke again, her voice betrayed quivers of shock and hollow rings of sorrow. "Oh my God, amy? No. Murdered?" Amy Masters had been Diane's outpatient psychotherapy supervisoa during our internship year. Diane had thought that Amy walked on water.
"The story they tell certainly makes it sound suspicious, she may have been murdered, these two agents are looking into it."
"What do they mean? How did it happen?"
"You know Amy retired in San Diego? That's where she was from."
"I know. How? We heard she died after an illness, she hadn't been well for a long time. But that's not what happened?"
"She had a skin condition, nothing terminal, that required UV treatment, she used a home tanning bed for the treatments, these two FBI people think someone may have rigged the bed so that once she turned it on and closed it, it wouldn't go off, and she could never open it again."
Diane framed the picture in her mind, she asked, "And it was on the whole time? She was toasted?"
"Yes."
She was quiet. I thought I could hear her switching the phone from one ear to the other. "This is truly awful, truly gross. Has there been anybody else? What's that so far/fou
r?"
"Arnie is number five. What ties everyone together is the Orange Team on Eight East, fall rotation, the yeaa we were there."
I heard her inhale deeply. "Sawyer was there, then, too."
"Yes, she was, they— the agents— haven't talked to her yet, they're on their way to see her."
"But they're worried? About her? Aren't they? And about you? They're worried about both of you."
"Yes, that's why they followed Lauren and me. To tell us that I may be in danger."
"Alan, we're talking Sawyer, here. Right? Brings back a shitload of memories, doesn't it? It's because this involves Sawyer Sackett, that's why you called me tonight, isn't it? Otherwise— I know you— you would have casually mentioned something to me at the office tomorrow. 'Oh, by the way; Diane, the FBI thinks somebody's trying to kill me.' Like that, right?"
"I guess."
"Does Lauren know about you and Sawyer?"
"No, we've never been a couple that does the ex-lover, romantic time travel thing."
"Me and Raoul neither, thank God. I'm not sure I want to know every pillow that pretty head of his has ever been on. I wonder if that's denial, hell's bells, of course it is. Have you talked with her since, well, you know?"
"You mean Sawyer?"
"Of course I mean Sawyer. Jesus."
"No. I don't even know where she went after she pulled out of the residency, she got married. I guess; one of the agents said her name is now Faire. You haven't talked with her, have you?"
She made a dismissive noise but didn't even bother to answer my question. "So you don't know why she ... ? You still don't know why ... ?" Her voice trailed away. Diane was rarely at a loss for words.
"No."
"What's their point? These two agents, are they going to do anything to protect you?"
"No, that's not it. I think they want to frighten me enough that I'll want to help them put together a patient roster from that fall on the inpatient unit. For possible suspects."
She scoffed, "You can't do that."
"I’ve been thinking about it. Diane. Ethically; I couldn't do it even if I wanted to. But the reality is that I can't remember the names of patients from that long ago, maybe two or three have come to mind, that's it. Could you name your patients from your inpatient rotation?"
"Of course, most of them. My own patients, anyway. But then, I'm smarter than you are, hey: why ex-FBI? Why not the real thing?"
"These two haven't convinced anybody but me that all these deaths are either, a, homicides, or B, connected to one another, the deaths share no similarities. On only one of them has the manner of death been determined to be— "
"Wait, what's 'manner of death'?"
"Determination of agency. You know, like who or what's responsible for someone dying. Suicide, homicide, accident, natural causes. It's a coroner's thing."
"I thought that was cause of death."
"No, cause of death is whatever results in the termination of life: the immediate how. Cancer, gunshot wound, asphyxiation, whatever. For example, if cause of death is 'gunshot wound of head.’ the manner of death would depend on who pulled the trigger and why. Get it?"
"And what about the brains that get scrambled by the bullet? What's that?"
"The scrambled brains would be the mechanism of death. Okay?" Diane grunted. I decided it meant she got it. "Anyway, on none of the deaths but Matthew's is the manner of death even considered a homicide by the local police agencies, the five people who have died have died in five different locations, and the various things they died of— those are the causes of death— couldn't be more different."
"Other than that all the dead people are professional staff from the Orange Team in the fall of ‘982?"
"Right."
"But you believe what they're telling you?"
"I guess I do, the consequences of not believing them are a little intolerable. I realize, though, that I'm looking at these two as adversaries. I'm not sure why that is. It doesn't feel exactly right. I mean, they've gone out of their way to warn me about this guy. Why would I look at them as though they're the enemy?"
Diane was silent. I knew, for her, the act required monumental effort, she wanted me to answer my own question.
"I suppose because they want me to walk them through the psychiatric records of a bunch of innocent people in hopes of finding one guy who's decided to spend his entire life killing off a bunch of doctors."
She said. "When you put it that way, it makes me think that maybe you should narrow your search and start looking only at managed care administrators, they certainly have impeccable motives for wanting to kill off a gaggle of doctors."
I smiled.
She continued. "What does Lauren think?"
"I'm not sure, she was with me the whole time these two FBI types were talking. From her questions. I think she feels this has more merit than she's comfortable with, she fell asleep as soon as we got home."
"Is she okay?"
"Yeah, She's fine. You know how tired she gets. This is routine stuff."
Diane must have heard some defensiveness in my tone, she said, "I have to ask, you know."
"I know."
"How quickly does this guy work? I mean, how imminent is the danger to you and Sawyer?"
"Apparently; he works slowly; methodically, the two deaths that are closest together in time are the most recent ones, amy Masters and Amie Dresser."
"And that is what, eight months or so, between those?"
"More or less."
"Do you have a gut feeling about this? Who it might be?"
"No. I'm drawing a blank on that."
"Nobody you guys put on a hold tried to fight you on it?"
"No."
"Did you do any commitments?"
"Personally? Not that I recall. I remember a couple of memorable psychotics from the unit. But no, no big hassles over anything. But then we may not be looking for one of my patients."
"You saw almost everyone in group, though? You heard about everybody in rounds, and met everyone in
Community Meetings?"
"Yeah, I'm sure I crossed paths with almost everybody who was admitted for more than a day or two. Over the course of a six-month rotation, that's a lot of patients, though."
"In the morning when you wake up, if you still believe what these FBI agents are telling you, you're going to have to find Sawyer, Alan."
"I know."
"How do you feel about that?" She even used her best shrink-voice to ask the question.
"I'd rather not."
"See her? Or feel?"
"Diane, please."
"Did you ever stop loving her?"
"It was a long time ago."
"Don't distract. It won't work with me."
"She was your friend, too."
"Whatever. It wasn't the same."
"She crushed me. Diane."
"That's not what I asked."
SIX
Once, from a helicopter that was hovering inside an extinct volcano in Hawaii. I saw a circular rainbow, a full three-hundred-and-sixty-degree orb of color. It was miraculous.
Once, in the desert outside Taos. I saw a boomerang of lights dot a parcel of sky the size of an aircraft carrier and speed away with the velocity of elsewhere. It made no sense.
And once, after a single glance of blond hair and a fleeting look at the barest of profiles. I fell in love with a strange woman from across a crowded room.
I can't explain any of it.
I'd arrived in Denver on July first, ‘982, to look for a place to live, although the psychiatric residents began their rotation at the beginning of July; the psychology interns began a month later, on August first. I landed in town early because I wanted to get settled and to get familiar enough with my new surroundings to try to make some of my anxiety evaporate.
The housing office of the University of Colorado Medical Center was located on the south side of the campus on the first floor of an old brick building. My experience w
ith university housing offices told me that they were of relatively little utility, but two days of classified ad hunting had left me without an apartment, so I stopped by on Friday morning to check the listings of available flats and rooms.
I wasn't feeling hopeful.
Four of five seats were taken at a long table on one side of the housing office. I settled onto the last seat on the right end and reached for the closest card file. I was flipping through it— "apartments to share"— without much interest because I'd already decided I didn't want to deal with a roommate. I clearly recall the instant I felt her presence across the room from me; I was reading a listing that was so full of acronyms I couldn't decipher what any of it was supposed to mean.
I felt her presence physically, as though a cool breeze were brushing over my bare skin, as I looked up to find the source of the sensation, I laid eyes on her, a clerk on the other side of the counter was smiling right at her, saying, "Thank you, Doctor." The woman's blond head was turned away from me, her chin tilted up and slightly thrust forward, she had a small daypack slung casually over her right shoulder, her shoulders were bare, her skin
the color of freshly oiled pine, her sunny hair was haphazard and short, her neck tan and long, the ring finger of her left hand was naked.
I never saw her eyes that day.
I returned my attention to the index cards long enough to exhale and process my reaction. I felt a smile creep onto my face and thought. Why not? I dropped the card file, picked up my appointment book, and faced the room.
She was gone.
The hallway outside the office was empty, at the adjacent staircase. I listened but I couldn't hear a flutter of steps retreating either up or down. Stepping outside. I scanned for her blond head in the distance, and thought for a second that maybe I saw her crossing Eighth Avenue, but then I wasn't sure. I rushed back inside the building and parked myself outside the entrance to the women's rest room for almost five minutes.
Manner of Death Page 5
