Delusion

by G. H. Ephron

  “I don’t know what you saw, or thought you saw. What I do know is you’re making a commotion. We don’t tolerate—”

  “You’ve got a murderer, wandering around loose …”

  “We’ve got lots of murderers here. It’s what we do.” He put his face in my face. “Bridgewater State Hospital for the Criminally Insane.”

  “But I saw him, I tell you. He was right outside—”

  “Sir, enough is enough,” the guard snarled. He put a heavy hand on my shoulder and pressed his fingers into the muscle. “I think it’s time for you to go.”

  The condescending bastard. I tried to get past him but he grabbed my arm, bent it behind my back, and propelled me up the corridor.

  “I already told you, sir. It’s time to leave,” he said.

  When we got to the examining room, he ushered me in. “Pack up. You’re done.”

  “I’m not finished. I’ve got another test.” I planted my feet and folded my arms across my chest. I ignored the throbbing in my shoulder, aware instead of the bemused way Nick was watching this little drama. “I want to speak to the captain in charge.”

  The guard picked up the pen from the table and wrote on my yellow pad. “That’s his name. You’ll have to call him and make an appointment.”

  “I’ve got permission from the court to evaluate Mr. Babikian,” I tried. “This evaluation is vital to his defense. And besides, the longer it takes for me to finish, the longer it will be before Mr. Babikian agrees to talk to the state’s psychiatrist.”

  The guard blinked at me calmly. “Then I hope Mr. Babikian likes it here. He’s in for a nice long stay.” The guard hooked his thumbs around his belt. “I don’t care who you are, or how many diplomas you got, you’re disrupting the routine, you disobeyed my instructions, now you’ll have to come back another time, sir.”

  Furious, I started to jam the test materials back into the suitcase. A second guard came to take Nick back to his cell. As he passed me, Nick whispered, “I saw him too.”

  9

  THAT EVENING, I went to meet Annie at Johnny D’s. It was early and only the bar side of the club was populated, with about a dozen regulars sitting in the shifting half-light of a large TV. Annie was huddled at the bar with a group of men. The only one I recognized was Detective Sergeant Joseph MacRae. Mac was sitting right next to Annie.

  I wasn’t completely comfortable with the guy. Though after working opposite him on a couple of cases, I’d developed a grudging respect, which I hoped was mutual. Still, I didn’t like him up close and personal with her.

  Mac saw me before Annie did. He got to his feet and shot out a hand. He was stocky and solid, with a jaw like a piece of carved granite. His red hair was cut so short you couldn’t even tell it was red. The handshake had equal parts warmth and wariness.

  Annie turned around. She gave me an unambiguous smile and an easy hug. I wondered if Mac thought Annie and I were “just friends” too.

  Annie introduced me to four other fellows, also detectives.

  Mac started. “Annie’s been telling us …” His back hunched and he coughed, a wet phlegmy cough, into the fist of the same hand I’d shaken. “Sorry, rotten cold. Said she’s been getting harassing phone calls. Suggestive ads in men’s rooms.” He coughed again.

  “You don’t think she’s in any danger, do you?” I asked.

  “Hey, she is standing right here,” Annie said. “Do I look like I’m in danger? I just want to find out who’s behind this shit.”

  “We’ll spread the word,” Mac promised. “See if we can’t catch someone posting them.”

  “I’d appreciate it,” Annie said.

  “Watch your back,” one of Mac’s pals told Annie.

  “Thanks, guys,” she replied. “Let me know if anything turns up.”

  Mac watched as Annie went over and settled in a corner booth. I got two Bass Ales from the bartender and joined her.

  “Tuesday Night Club,” Annie told me, jerking her head in the direction of the police officers who were now thumping a newcomer on the back and greeting him with, “Hey buddy, where you been” and “Long time no see.” I recognized the addition to the group. It was Detective Boley, who’d been in charge of the investigation at the Babikian murder scene.

  Annie went on, “The guys have been coming here for years, once a week. They have a few beers, go off to one of their houses for an all-night poker game. No women allowed.” She smiled. “Otherwise none of them would win a red cent.”

  We sat in companionable silence. After about half a beer, my back started to unkink. Probably the strain of my visit to Bridgewater. “You think paranoia can be catching?” I asked her.

  Annie looked over as the door to the bar opened and a couple entered. “You’re the expert on that one. But in my amateur opinion? Yes, most definitely. Also hunger.” She gazed at me and squeezed my knee under the table. “Lust, too. Very contagious.”

  “You hungry?” I asked.

  “No.” Annie exhaled the word slowly, as her foot went slowly up and down my leg. Her lips parted, and she ran her tongue across her lower lip. I watched, mesmerized.

  Just then, from across the room, MacRae coughed loudly and blew his nose. “Why?” Annie asked. “You catching something?”

  “I hope not. But this morning, when I was interviewing Nick Babikian at Bridgewater, I thought I saw Ralston Bridges.”

  Annie’s eyes widened. She’d been the chief investigator when Chip had defended Bridges against charges that Bridges had murdered a woman who’d made the fatal mistake of spurning his advances. “A dangerous wacko,” had been Annie’s take on him.

  I told Annie about seeing a face pressed up against the window of the examining room, grimacing at me. And about the guard who thought I was nuts. “He tells me, ‘You’re done, sir.’ I hate that sir thing that they do. Oh so polite. Then the bastard throws me out.” I was huffing with indignation.

  Annie had her hand over her mouth.

  “Told me to put my complaint in writing,” I added. “Barely gave me time to pack up my tests.”

  Now Annie was shaking with laughter.

  “I gather you find this amusing,” I said, unwilling to admit that it was starting to sound pretty funny, even to me. “They didn’t even return my paper clip.”

  Annie gave up trying to contain herself. “How many people do you know,” she said between yelps of laughter, “who’ve gotten themselves thrown out of a hospital for the criminally insane? You must have seemed completely bonkers.”

  I had to smile.

  “You have to agree. It does sound just a teensy bit paranoid. On the other hand …” Annie’s look turned sober. She thought for a few moments. “Nah,” she said, dismissing the possibility.

  “Babikian saw him too.”

  “I’m sure you found that reassuring,” Annie said with a wry smile.

  “You bet. Sort of like getting a hypochondriac to confirm my phantom pains.”

  “Or getting an anorexic to tell you that you need to lose weight. Or getting a psychopath …” Annie paused. That wasn’t so funny. If we’d ever met a true psychopath, it had been Ralston Bridges.

  “Bridges could have gotten himself transferred from Cedar Junction,” I said. “Bridgewater’s where they send you if you flip out.”

  “But what’s he doing wandering around in the corridors? Don’t they keep an eye on prisoners over there?” Annie asked.

  “Depends on what you’re in there for. They keep prisoners they don’t consider dangerous on a pretty loose chain.”

  “They let them wander around in the halls, unguarded?”

  “They do.”

  “Too bad no one asked me,” Annie said. “I consider him dangerous.”

  “Me too. And besides, how would he know I was going to be down there?”

  Annie thought a minute. “It was in the paper. That article about the defense team. Then when Babikian got sent to Bridgewater for evaluation, he could easily have put two and two together.�
��

  “And here I thought you were going to reassure me that it was only my imagination.”

  Annie’s gaze shifted up and over my shoulder. MacRae’s cough was getting closer. He was standing beside us. “Sorry to interrupt,” he said to me. “There’s someone here who wants to have a word with you.” He indicated his friends. Boley was staring back at me. He picked up his beer and moved away from his buddies to a separate spot at the bar.

  I went over and joined him. “Detective Boley?” I said.

  “Al,” he said, offering his hand.

  I looked at it. “This official business?”

  “Unofficial. Don’t worry.”

  I shook his hand and rested my behind against a bar stool.

  He looked as if he wasn’t sure what to say next. Finally he came out with, “Mac says you’re okay.”

  “I appreciate the vote of confidence.” I glanced back. Annie and MacRae were now a cozy twosome, with MacRae having slid into the booth alongside her. “You two poker buddies?”

  It was an innocuous enough remark on my part, but I could feel Boley’s radar go up. “Yeah, well, we’ve been getting together for years. A little beer. Cards. Takes the edge off.”

  Despite the careless tone, Boley was gripping the handle of the beer mug. I followed my instincts. “I guess no matter how much experience you have with investigating crime, it doesn’t do much to prepare you for a case like this one.”

  Boley’s eyes widened. Then they narrowed as he sized me up. “Yeah, well, you don’t see a lot of crimes as horrendous as this one. It can get to you.” That seemed fair enough. Police were people too.

  “You talked to Dr. Teitlebaum?” he asked.

  It wasn’t a secret. I nodded.

  “Mmm,” Boley said. “Just wanted to remind you, if you come across anything that the police should know about, any evidence we might have overlooked …” He smiled at me, nodding his head like one of those pottery dogs you put in the back of your car.

  “I’d be obligated to let you know. Of course,” I said. “But I’m investigating Mr. Babikian’s state of mind. It’s not likely that I’ll trip over a bloody glove.”

  He reached into his pocket and pulled out a business card. “Hey, you never know. Just in case you do, I’d like to be the first to know. Want to be sure we’ve got the right guy for this.”

  “You bet,” I said and slid the card into my wallet.

  “Glad we had a chance to chat.” He strode back to his buddies.

  I returned to the table where Annie and Mac were still sitting. “What was that all about?” Annie asked.

  “Nothing much. Asked me to let him know if I discover any evidence he should know about. Wants to be sure they’ve got the right guy.”

  Annie and MacRae exchanged a look.

  “What?” I asked.

  “Nothin’,” MacRae muttered. Then he gave Annie a hard look, like he was daring her to contradict him. He heaved himself out of the booth. “Annie told me about Ralston Bridges,” he said, his tone sympathetic. “Want me to find out if he got transferred to Bridgewater?”

  The last thing I wanted was to owe MacRae. “Hey, I appreciate it, but that’s not necessary,” I said, letting my ego get the better of my common sense.

  “Peter …” Annie started.

  “It’s really no trouble,” MacRae said.

  “Forget about it,” I said.

  MacRae held up his hands to fend off my words, which had come out harder and louder than I’d intended. “Hey, suit yourself. Just thought I’d offer,” he said and sauntered back to his buddies.

  “What was that about?” Annie asked.

  “Listen, he’s a nice guy. I just don’t want him in my business,” I said.

  I didn’t return Annie’s look.

  “In your business?” Annie asked. “Don’t you mean in my business?”

  “That, too,” I said.

  Annie gave me a pitying look. “Me and Mac, we go way back,” she said, reminding me that she and Mac had grown up together, their families had been close. Mac’s dad had been a cop; so had Annie’s uncles. “Now we’re just friends.”

  I knew that, but it felt good to hear Annie say so.

  Changing the subject, I said, “When I told you and Mac about Boley, you seemed surprised.”

  Annie shrugged. “Seemed out of character is all. Mac thought so too, though he’s too loyal to say so. Boley likes to rack up those notches on his belt. The quicker the better. Rumor has it, sometimes too quick. That’s how he got to lieutenant so fast. Now he’s looking for captain. And this is the kind of case that gets noticed.

  “So him asking you to call him if you tripped over any evidence he should know about? That’s not his usual line, especially since he’s got plenty of forensic evidence to nail Babikian. Why invite more suspects to the party? Much more up his alley to argue with me about whether or not they’d go back to the Babikian home to find the surveillance setup. After all, why go looking for evidence that may not square with his foregone conclusion?”

  Annie squinted toward the bar. “Maybe he’s developing a work ethic. Or a conscience.”

  A young, dark-haired woman in jeans and a midriff-baring T-shirt had joined the detectives. They were all laughing, and Boley had his arm around her waist. His hand drifted down to her ass. She froze, grabbed his wrist, and confronted him. I couldn’t hear what she said, or what he said back, but he was holding his palms up like he was apologizing. She took a step toward him and he lowered his hands to protect his equipment. MacRae stepped between them.

  “Wouldn’t hurt if he developed a little finesse,” Annie added.

  When I got back to my house, the porch lights were off. That usually meant that my mother had gone out in the afternoon and hadn’t come back.

  I opened my door and turned on the outside lights for her. I noticed a package sitting to the side of my door. It was the size and shape of a shoe box.

  Just then, Mom came up the walk. She was with her steady friend Mr. Kuppel. He was a few inches taller than her and rotund, and he wore a khaki cap and matching windbreaker.

  “Hi there,” I said.

  My mother’s eyes were locked on that package as if it were a live grenade.

  “This came for me,” I said.

  “Throw it away,” she said.

  I eyed the package. It had my name and address. It was wrapped in brown paper and tied with twine. I picked it up. The box was heavy, and the contents shifted when I turned it over. I gave it a shake. “Sounds like whatever’s inside got broken. It rattles.”

  “You want it should sing too?” my mother asked. “Throw it out! We need it like a hole in the head.” Her voice was strident.

  Mr. Kuppel stood behind her, supporting her with one arm around her waist and his other hand on her shoulder. “Pearl, don’t upset yourself,” Mr. Kuppel said, his voice soothing.

  My mother does not panic for nothing. When my brother came home, his pinky finger hanging by a thread, she’d barely batted an eye. She’d wrapped the hand in a clean dishtowel and bundled him out of the house. “Try not to get the blood on your new shirt,” she’d said as she flagged down a cab to the hospital.

  “Do you want to tell me what’s going on?” I looked back and forth from Mr. Kuppel to my mother. He was staring at her, and she was tight-lipped. “Have you gotten a package like this before?”

  “One isn’t enough?” my mother asked.

  “Someone sent your mother a package,” Mr. Kuppel said. I waited for them to tell me more.

  “It had stones in it,” my mother said, “and a picture of your father’s gravestone with a swastika painted on it.”

  “What?” I was horrified at the thought of my father’s grave being defaced, even more at the agony that would have caused my mother.

  “I called the cemetery. They’d already cleaned the gravestone. I burned the photograph, of course. And the stones, I brought back to the cemetery.”

  My father had been laid
to rest in the left side of a double plot, the space alongside him waiting for my mother. It was the way they slept. Him on the left, her on the right. He’d been dead five years. The last time I’d visited, I added another small stone to the dozens already on top of my father’s headstone. It was a Jewish custom.

  “When did this happen?”

  “The other day,” my mother said with a wave of her hand, signaling clearly that she didn’t want to talk about it anymore.

  So this was why my lame attempt at humor the other night, saying I was making a pizza delivery, had upset her. “This one could be legitimate,” I said.

  “And I might be Miss America.”

  I looked at the package and back at my mother’s terrified face. I knew next to nothing about the subject, but it seemed to me that the shake I’d given it would have set the thing off if it were a bomb. “Tell you what. I’ll take it inside, check it out. Carefully. If it’s something terrible, I’ll call the police. Seems like we ought to figure out who’s doing this and get it to stop.”

  My mother eyed the package. “You should throw it away. It’s probably garbage.”

  “Why would anyone be sending me garbage?”

  “Why would anyone be sending me rocks?”

  She would have made a great lawyer. “Good night,” I said. “I’ll take care of it.”

  “He’ll take care of it,” my mother muttered. “He couldn’t just throw it away?” She rummaged in her pocketbook for her keys. “Stubborn, just like his brother.”

  I let myself in, took the package into the kitchen, and set it on the counter. I poured myself a glass of wine and contemplated what to do next.

  The address was written in block letters. “Dr. Peter Zak.” Return address Boston. No postmark. A bunch of postage stamps with images of flags. I sniffed at the paper. Nothing more than brown-paper smell. It was tied with standard-issue hairy twine.

  It would be easy enough to open. Or should I call the police and let them do it? I shook the box again. The rattling didn’t sound dangerous.

  I went to the hall closet and pulled a pair of leather gloves from the pocket of my winter jacket. I took the package out to the back porch and turned on the light. I set it down on the wood floor and put on the gloves. Then I eased off the twine and loosened the taped edges. Inside was a shoe box from a pair of size-twelve Nikes.