Mind Games

by William Deverell

  “Not to worry, Werner. Happy to have you stick around.”

  Werner’s smile was strained. “Good. All’s forgotten.”

  However oppressive, these stop-and-go hearings were beginning to entertain me, and I was curious as to how the next episode would play out. Vivian would quickly fall apart when confronted with the episodes of stalking and her public pronouncements that she was prepared to lie to this tribunal. They’d see her for what she was and feel compelled to apologize.

  Irwin Connelly, my mentor, strolled in to a round of greetings and sat, leaning to my ear.

  “Christ, Tim, you still don’t have a lawyer?”

  “This is my favourite entertainment,” I whispered. “A lawyer would only derail it.”

  “Do you know who they’re bringing as a witness?”

  “An utterly confused woman by the name of Vivian Lalonde.”

  “Yes, but first a certain Mr. Ivan Kolosky.”

  My intrusive former landlord. Either out of stupidity or a need to blot out the fact of his existence, I hadn’t given thought to the damage he could cause. I was expecting to confront my accuser first, and through her to expose this sham. My mind raced back to the episode in my consulting room – what had Kolosky seen and heard?

  “Very well.” Schulter was beaming. “Let’s hear from Mr. Kolosky. Fred, do you think you might fetch him?”

  Rawlings looked blankly at him. “Sorry?” To boot, he was hard of hearing.

  Louder: “We need Ivan Kolosky – he’s in the next-door waiting room.”

  Rawlings rose.

  “Hold on here,” I said. “What happened to the complaint about the state of my office?”

  “Yes, of course. A marked improvement, according to Dr. Connelly. You’re to be commended, Tim. So there’s just this last little item of business. Ah, here we are.”

  Kolosky was wearing a checkered suit and mismatched tie. He was told to be comfortable. He took a chair. He wouldn’t look at me. Vivian had turned this witness over to the authorities, Vivian Lalonde, who promised to lie for me.

  Relaxing under Schulter’s avuncular manner of putting his questions, Kolosky left: no detail unturned. He described going to the building late on August 14 to determine whether I’d evacuated my office and to ensure it was locked. He found my outer door open and upon entering heard raised voices from the consulting room.

  “The lady seemed to be protesting.” The defendant then emerged, pulling up his pants, a longitudinal scar of lipstick on his face. He saw “the lady” half-naked, hiking up her dress, and heard her describe me as an utter, total bastard.

  And add this: While I was in the washroom, he asked her, “Are you all right, miss?” Vivian replied, “I feel totally used,” and strode out. It was then that he observed, scattered on the floor, Vivian’s nude photographs.

  “Sir, you’ve been most kind in volunteering to come,” said Schulter. “Tim, I don’t doubt that you have some questions.”

  Werner Mundt seemed to be straining not to smile. He’d never been so careless as to be caught with his pants down. Or with photographs of a naked patient strewn about his office.

  Kolosky had made nothing up, and had painted a credible picture of seduction. I hadn’t fully considered the perils of circumstantial evidence.

  I stood. “I will be hiring counsel. I’d like an adjournment.” My words rang hollowly, like guilt. I felt defeated and ashamed.

  “Of course. I think that’s best, don’t you, Tim?” Schulter was all sympathy.

  We adjourned until the call of the chair. I no sooner made my spineless way from the hearing room than Vivian pounced. “Timothy, what have I done? They won’t let me withdraw the complaint.”

  In fury and exasperation, I roared at her – she was a sick, manipulative witch from darkest dungeons of hell. She backed away ashen-faced. I fled down the stairs.

  I spent the rest of my day fuming at my desk, drafting a presentence assessment of a small-budget filmmaker who’d kicked a yapping dog at an outdoor shoot. I identified with him, felt a kinship.

  James entered tentatively. “Ms. Lalonde is on the line again, sir.”

  “For Christ’s sake, stop calling me sir.”

  “My, we’re being quite crotchety. She says to tell you she’s done a terrible thing, and it’s okay if you call her names, she deserves it. She’d like to express these sentiments to you directly.”

  “Tell her to choke on it.”

  “I will do that, sir.”

  She’d called three times that day, theatrical, remorseful, demanding forgiveness. All of which feeds my suspicion she doesn’t want a lawyer coming between us.

  I asked James to call the firm of Pomeroy, Macarthur, Brovak, and Sage, and make an appointment. John Brovak had grown in my estimation as a result of his show of blunt skill at Victoria’s libel trial – hire a brawler, she said.

  Brovak was able to see me the following day. His firm is in Gastown, in a heritage building overlooking Gassy Jack Square, named for the rowdy saloonkeeper whose statue can be seen from Brovak’s cluttered office. The room smelled of stale cigar smoke and whisky fumes, the latter from an open bottle of malt and a half-filled tumbler.

  He poured me a drink, and though it was mid-afternoon, I didn’t protest. Brovak was disappointed that I’d rejected a chance to further discombobulate Clinton Huff at the upcoming trial. His petition to the court to bar me from attending “ain’t worth ass-wipe”; it showed he was running scared.

  “What’s with his fixation about you?”

  I explained my theory: Huff senses I hold some mysterious power over him, that I might expose a fetish or some shameful event in his past. But another, more dangerous person was fixated on me, fastened to my skin like a leech. As I recounted my ordeals with Vivian Lalonde, Brovak listened quietly, except for the occasional grunt of sympathy. At the end he poured another whisky.

  “Any chance this dame is wigged out enough to think you actually fucked her?”

  I thought about that. Clearly, Vivian suffers a form of erotomania, a belief that I’m in love with her. Could she have persuaded herself that we connected sexually? Delusions can cement themselves into the psyche. (On the other hand, have I persuaded myself the act didn’t happen? Was it possible that in the frenzy of the moment I lost my head? No. That is inconceivable.)

  “She’s definitely manufacturing. She’s obsessed, but she’s not close to being psychotic. Hell, she’d flunk a lie detector test.”

  Brovak made a note. “She said she’d lie for you?”

  “Her lies would be my truth.”

  “You got witnesses to this conversation?”

  “Dotty Chung and the owner of the Pondicherry Restaurant.”

  “Well, shit, we’re laughing. Frankly, I can’t see how it got this far.”

  “Vivian Lalonde’s father is a prominent surgeon and Schulter is as obsessed as she is.”

  “Stuff Schulter. It’s a walk in the park, pal.” I found his confidence stimulating.

  Retaining John Brovak, even at his princely hourly rate, provided quick-acting relief, at least for the next couple of days. But I had to monitor my calls. Vivian had somehow obtained my cellphone number. At home, in the evening, I would listen transfixed to her recorded voice. “Honestly, Timothy, I tried to withdraw the charge, but Dr. Schulter thinks you pressured me. He thinks I’m under your sway.”

  I’d listen for a while, then blip the rest: “That terrible kangaroo court. Oh, Timothy, I know you’re hurting …” “Timothy, if I could only apologize to you face to face …” “I’m going to keep calling …”

  On Thursday, yesterday, Bob Grundison showed up for his biweekly checkup after classes – he’s now registered for the fall semester in psychology at SFU. He was in the company of Lyall, as usual, but also with a tall woman in tight cutoff jeans, a snake tattooed on her arm – Jossie Markevich. Martha Wade had mentioned her, Grundy’s favoured female companion. Though the day was cloudy, she was wearing sunglasses. I
thought that odd.

  I sent her and Lyall to the balcony, feeling secure enough to sequester myself with Grundy. Still, I was leery of showing my limp, and remained seated at my desk. Predators sense such weaknesses.

  “Not bad, eh?” he said. The reference was to Jossie. “She’s nuts about me. It’s a happening thing, Doctor. I never felt this way about a girl before.”

  “What way?”

  “You know – totally out there.”

  “Out there. I’m not sure what you mean.”

  He wasn’t sure either, because he stalled, seeking words for feelings not felt, not comprehended. Love of another being? How might a full-blown psychopath cope with that concept? In the manner of one born sightless who seeks to grasp the qualities of vision?

  “I feel like I’ve been … zapped. Hit with a charge of electricity. She’s something special.”

  This effort to convince me of his normalcy would have been amusing if it hadn’t been so cloying; it was obviously devised to reassure me, following his outburst in front of Martha Wade, that he was capable of normal affection toward women. He tried on a moonstruck look, his eyes not meeting mine.

  “How did you meet?”

  “Lyall and I picked her up hitchhiking a few weeks ago.” She’d been on her way to a job interview, he explained, but is still unemployed.

  “What about the woman you rescued from the river? I understood you were interested in her. Dr. Wade said you spent a night together.”

  “I really liked her. She wasn’t my scene, really. This is different.” He gestured toward the balcony: his scene. Again, I wondered about her dark glasses: hiding a black eye?

  Grundy confided, “I never mentioned to Jossie about making out with the other girl. You know how women are.”

  “You erupted in front of Dr. Wade a couple of weekends ago. Tell me about that.”

  The quick shift put him in a stall before he found his prepared script. “I’ll be truthful, she was egging me on, trying to get me upset, kind of testing my limits, and, ah, well, she made her point. I kind of blew my top a little. You, know, I vented. I had a headache, one of my tensions, it just chose a lousy time to come on. Everything’s okay. I apologized. She’s been great, she’s really helped me.” He handed me an envelope. “Anyway, back to the Skeena River, here’s some clippings for your file. Hey, it was nothing, I just reacted on instinct. They’re talking about a life-saving medal.”

  Afterwards, I showered long. That evening, I biked up Little Mountain, Queen Elizabeth Park, and watched the setting of the sun, watched the city light up like a many-candled cake – but I was unable to shake his aura, the immoral stink of him.

  But this is a sour note upon which to start the weekend …

  Bring something warm tomorrow, Allis, I’m cooking outside and an early autumn chill is in the air.

  1 For example, the powerful lesbian sexual images from Monday night.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Date of Interview: Friday, September 19, 2003.

  Tim arrived in a sombre mood. He has been much affected by what appears to be a second hate murder, and feels frustrated by his inability to aid the police forensically. That having been said, he showed no signs of unwarranted anxiety this day. I continue to sense a mending, a healing of the wound of marital separation.

  He is now convinced that Celestine Post is playing a dubious role, exacerbating the situation, the “gremlin in the gears” who is sabotaging his effort to reunite with Sally. To this purpose, Tim says, Celestine’s strategy includes “vamping” him – though I found his reasoning obscure, given his suspicions that she and Sally are romantically involved.

  His recovered memory of being in the locked trunk has helped him come to grips with his claustrophobia. He has been feeling less discomfort in such situations, and is taking elevators more frequently. His fear of crowds has lessened as well, and he has expressed eagerness – and I believe he’s ready – to deal with his problem with heights, with flying.1

  Despite what he calls his “highly unprofessional loathing” of Robert Grundison II, he finds himself wavering about whether the man poses a physical threat to him or can realistically be considered a suspect in the recent murders. Tim’s other major concerns have paled significantly, the burden of addressing them having been shifted to his lawyer, John Brovak, who has assured him he’ll be fully exonerated by the discipline board.

  The appearance of Tim’s mother in a dream is a hopeful signal that he’s preparing himself to deal with major causative factors in his neurotic behaviour pattern: the issues surrounding his provenance. But he feels threatened by this dream and is reluctant to discuss it with his mother.2

  You’re walking better.

  Two-thirds of the way to full recovery. James’s partner recommended a first-rate therapist. She works with the ski patrol.

  How do you feel otherwise?

  I’m in my usual state of transcendental bliss. How do you feel?

  Okay. A little tired. Relieved, though.

  After the letting go? That’s good. You made a decision about your marriage, it frees up a lot of emotional and mental energy for better use.

  You were very kind on Saturday. Anyway, let’s shelve my own stress factors.

  Yeah, let’s get the bad stuff out of the way. There’s been another hate murder. It looks like we might have a serial killer out there.

  I heard about it, some poor homeless man …

  Homeless and homosexual. What hasn’t come out in the news yet is that Moe Morgan has a brief court history, an indecent act in public. The police have dismissed him as a reprobate – it makes their lack of success easier to bear. We’re trying our best, could have been worse had the guy been a deserving citizen.

  How is this impacting on you?

  I’m discouraged. Anyway, enough – murder seems to make my other concerns seem picayune.

  Can you expand on that?

  Well, violent death does tend to add a certain perspective, doesn’t it, when one has been a self-obsessed, whining bore.

  Don’t put yourself down.

  You’re too forgiving.

  How are things with Sally?

  I sent her flowers finally, even though she broke a date and sent a proxy. I’ve survived yet another assault on my innocence. I feel besieged – it’s the new sexual age, I’m not prepared psychologically for it.

  Forgive me if this seems blunt – have you ever had sexual relations with other women than Sally?

  There were some early débâcles, mostly during my teens. Nothing since we started living together.

  How important is that to you – being sexually faithful?

  I’m not sure any more.

  You’ve indicated your lovemaking with Sally had begun to wane in intensity. Would you like to talk about that?

  Relative to other long-term couples, I’d say we were on the normal curve …

  I sensed discomfort. He abruptly changed the subject.

  You’re okay about Saturday night? I thought you might need a follow-up, because you were a little …

  Out of character? Not the Allison Epstein you thought you knew.

  Fourteen years of ballet training …

  Where were we?

  The following case study is based on behavioural observation and may require test-retest reliability correlation. Subject is mid-thirties, five-foot-ten, but of slender build – indeed, willowy. Of her many attractive features, the most notable are large, percipient eyes that are capable of expressing sympathy and scorn with equal intensity.

  Subject arrived ten minutes late, initially presenting as tentative and polite in manner. There was no clouding of consciousness, and she seemed alert and aware of her surroundings, to the point that she described them as “delightful and cozy,” though she found preposterous the Sigmund Freud pencil sharpener retrieved from the office.

  I observed that her hair had recently been cut and styled, and she was stylishly dressed in silk blouse and scarf, long skirt, all in m
uted shades of Titian brown in complement to her hair. Subject’s concern with grooming and appearance might suggest, in others, insecurity and a longing to gain social acceptance, but in Dr. Epstein’s case, it stems from her innate sense of aesthetics.

  At one point, as I led her aboard, she stumbled into a coil of rope and may well have pitched into the sea if I hadn’t grasped her waist. There seemed little reason to suspect that a subconscious suicidal motivation was a factor – Dr. Epstein, though mildly depressed by the infidelity of her partner in marriage, is in vigorous health, is engaged in a challenging vocation, and is on the threshold of achieving a miraculous cure for one of her most difficult patients.

  As I held her by the rail, she turned and gripped me by my arms, and we embraced briefly. After a moment of awkward laughter, we parted, and I led her below to safety. She accepted with alacrity a glass of chardonnay. Her anxiety was contagious, causing me to babble on about my vintage cutter, the hard work and joy and peace of sailing, the wind in the face clearing the mind, bringing answers, solutions …

  I hope, Allis, I was able to bore you enough to put you at ease. I’m as sorry as you that Dotty was able only to drop in for drinks before running off with a custody order. I’m sure your impression was a positive one: tough, blunt, and as protective as a tiger to her cub.

  I was outside, at the propane unit on the dock, unaware you were contracting her services, and when Dotty, as she left, thanked me for the referral I realized why you had wanted to meet her. (By the way, she thinks you shouldn’t have challenged Richard with your suspicions, however valid, because he may try to cover up. On the other hand, he’s an image-maker, and will dread the prospect of messy court proceedings.)

  Later, you watched admiringly as, with flourishes aped from The Shiftless Chef (Channel 52, eight p.m. Tuesdays), I brush-stroked my sauce orléans over two red fillets with the tenderness normally reserved for a lover.