The Kill Riff

by David J. Schow

  "Burt, that's one of the reasons I'm worried about Lucas running to earth somewhere up north. Finding psychological replacements isn't the greatest thing that could happen in Lucas' life right now. It'd be moving backward."

  "Back toward Cory." His eyes told Sara a story about how nasty that might be.

  She swallowed a blockage in her throat. This was getting rougher than she'd anticipated. "When Lucas first came to Olive Grove, we did a PETT scan of his brain."

  "Is that anything like a CAT scan?"

  She nodded. "It's shortform for-hold your breath-'Positron Emission Transaxial Tomography.' Know what a tomogram is?"

  He gave back a sly smile. "Yeah. It's a roentgenogram." He paused a beat. A good punchline could give them both a small relief. "Sorry. A tomogram, as far as I know, is a little picture like an X-ray of a Hostess Twinkie that shows you the cream filling without the shadow distortions of the surrounding junkfood, yes?"

  "A picture of the brain without the skull in the way."

  "Gotcha." Burt's father had died of brain cancer. A lot of tomograms had been done. Whole stacks, before his corpse had been wheeled away on a gumey. They were rather expensive to do, and his father had not benefited.

  "Lucas' PETT scan gave us a pattern that was markedly schizophrenic. It's a very distinctive pattern. The frontal lobes don't take up as much of the 2-deoxyglucose, the radioactive tracer, as they should."

  "Schizophrenic? You telling me he had an alter ego, a Good Lucas and a Bad Lucas that killed Cory, or something?" Burt was gearing up to forcefully express disbelief, if that was in fact what she was proposing.

  She cut him off before he could work up a mad. "No, no. Schizophrenia isn't the same thing as multiple personality. That's a popular delusion-"

  He overrode her in return because he saw what she was doing. "You mean like the delusion that says if a car falls off a cliff, it'll explode instantaneously when it hits."

  "Right. Another delusion fostered by television, I guess. Schizophrenia, the word, means sptit mind. The disorder is more a matter of a breakdown in the unity of the brain, as though one part takes over and begins to dominate all the other parts. A lot of scientists have spent a wad of government money arguing over what causes it. But the PETT scan gives us the kind of symptomatology we can treat. Treatment is still as hit or miss as it ever was. We put Lucas on perpenazine, and his tomograms gradually became normal."

  "Meaning…" Burt paused to keep on track. "Meaning his brain absorbed the right amount of the tracer."

  "It absorbed it at the rate a normal brain would. So we had a brain that was possibly schizophrenic, we treated the symptoms, and it became normal. After that, there were two aspects of Lucas' personality to deal with. The first was Lucas the unintentional widower and grieving father, the man who might have been upset enough to kill himself. The second was Lucas the problem solver, the man who engineers manipulative PR campaigns, and who plotted that brilliant stunt against Gabriel Stannard-Whip Hand's lead singer-on the steps of the Beverly Hills Courthouse." She picked up her legal pad. Under Burt's increasingly incredulous gaze, she laid out the sequence of events and the chain of theorizing involving the ex-members of Whip Hand, the "rock sanctions," and Lucas' possible vengeance motive.

  She hated it as she read it off. It looked more convincing on the ruled yellow paper than it sounded coming out of her mouth. She rose to freshen Burt's drink and find the first of many filtered Salem 100s for a long night.

  Burt shook his head a long time. "You just said he was normal. Cured."

  "I know." She kept her eyes on her bare feet, on the polished stretches of hardwood floor separating the throw rugs, as she marshaled courage. "But bear with me for a second. I'm going to suggest something pretty wild, and I'm not sure it'll stand up to a lot of punching around just yet."

  Burt folded his arms. Defensive body language was a bad sign. He watched his drink steam, unsipped.

  "What could make Lucas kill someone?" she said. "There was no one to blame for Cory, but what about Kristen? What if he'd used a real gun on the courthouse steps? I'm sure he must have weighed the pros and cons of killing that rock singer. Instead, he pulled off something almost elegant. You know the guy sustained a head wound. He bled even though Lucas never touched him."

  "He was marked…"

  "Something like that. But that brought me to another area, a touchy but relevant one. You see, Burt, I've always been interested in humankind's capacity to kill. What, exactly, forms it? You were in the military; so was Lucas. You know the ways in which circumstances can get screwed up, or become irrelevant. How killing is made necessary. The ways people justify it to themselves when the reasons aren't as clear-cut. Moral distinctions fly right out the porthole." She pulled a deep and deadly puff of her cigarette. "We're all latent killers. The question is, what makes a killer evil?"

  Burt sped ahead. "I thought to myself once… that if Lucas had been involved in Cory's suicide, it didn't matter. Maybe she deserved it, for all the pain she whipped on him. I'm not contradicting myself; I'm really not. It didn't occur to me in any practical sense. More theoretically."

  "That's part of my point: you thought of it." Puff. "At some point, we all think, That person should die. Not as a matter of corrupt morals, simply as an expedient. So let's say Lucas was innocent in the matter of Cory's death. But let's also say he had a mental problem. Let's say he was clay, waiting to be shaped by a catastrophe. Cory dies. Kristen dies. Catastrophes." With a weird detachment, Sara watched her body curl up in her chair, as though trying to contract, defensively, fearing an attack on her fragile guesswork. The cigarette was already sucked down to a glowing nub between her fingers. Acid churned in her stomach. The slight odor of the dead tea lees was making her stomach bubble. She butted out her smoke and lit another. "Did you know the chemical imbalances in the brains of schizophrenics have led some researchers to believe that schizophrenics are in the process of actually altering their physical structure? And all we know is that we can treat an aberrant PETT scan until the tomogram changes, becomes what we call 'normal.' When it does that, the schizophrenic tendencies conveniently recede."

  "You said you'd cured him, Sara." Not that he needed to remind her.

  Her voice became very soft. "Language is funny, Burt. It can mean contrary things. You know what I've begun to think? That technical expertise makes us arrogant. We treated a PETT scan instead of the patient, and put all our faith in a chemical, technical solution. The tomogram is what we cured. I'm not so sure about our friend Lucas."

  "But you said the tomogram's configuration became normal. You treated symptoms and effected a change." He prompted her to continue. He was intrigued, if resentful. His gaze finally left the woman in "Girl's Portrait" and met Sara's.

  This is it, she thought. The shit-or-git crunch point, the place where she laid down her professional reputation as a wager. "What if. What if by using chemicals to force Lucas' brain to become normal, we made it into a new configuration? Suppose the schizophrenic pattern wasn't an aberration. Suppose Lucas was abnormal all along, and normal, for him, is a guy who ruthlessly murders rock musicians. Because the consciousness of this new brain draws a vengeance motive from Lucas the grieving father, and the moral right to kill from Lucas the plan man."

  Burt suddenly looked very tired, like a man waiting for a phone to ring, knowing bad news is on the way. Carefully, he said, "Lucas loved Kristen. Maybe he didn't love Cory so much; maybe he had brutal thoughts toward her. But I don't think his mind, his intellect, could countenance such an insane revenge fantasy based on Kristen's death alone. Because he knew her death was an accident. Regardless of all the smoke, it really was accidental. And he realized how much that upset him-" Burt cut himself off, as if he smelled impending doom. "And that's what brought him to you."

  "I'm suggesting that to search for a single cause, a key event to blame, is fruitless. There is only a sequence of events-what came first hardly matters. Three things are important. Kristen die
d. That was fate, bad timing, a genuine tragedy. We treated Lucas… and perhaps made the mistake of believing that all solutions are chemical. And then there was a flaw in our raw material we didn't know about. Like the tainted ingredients that turn Jekyll into Hyde, and doom him because no other batch of chemicals is tainted in quite the same way. By treating Lucas, we force his new mind into being-the mind that looks so deceptively normal on the PETT scans. Three things-the gun, the bullet, the trigger finger." She made a mock pistol with her thumb and forefinger. "Bang." Saying it scared her.

  "You're saying that we're all killers," said Burt sourly, "waiting for the right combination of chemicals and circumstances. The correct input to make us run amok."

  "Not everybody-just Lucas. His brain was different in a special way none of us could understand."

  "It wasn't circumstances or tragedies. It was him." With a tang of justified sarcasm, he added, "Well, thank God he's normal now, if you're right."

  "Oh, Burt, can't you tell how much this hurts me?" She damned her eyes a thousand times for tearing up. "This stings the hell out of me. I care about him. I'd never seen anyone as alone as he was when he came to Olive Grove. He needed someone who cared so badly-"

  "Unless he was just playacting for you, stringing you along the whole time." His voice did not waver. "What if the whole gig at the hospital was a sham, to give himself an alibi? He's cured, there are papers to prove it, so no one could say he's the one out there killing." It was an insult to Burt to think he could not have known so much about his friend. Part of his rising anger was an attempt to wound Sara for giving him a convincing story that he wanted not to believe. "Suppose he was just leading you down the garden path? And to make sure you don't get in too deep and find out what he's really up to, he makes you fall in love with him. If you're a professional, how could you fall for a ploy like that? Part of Lucas' goddamn job is turning charm on and off like a light switch. And you knew that. Haven't you ever heard of countertransference, Sara? That's classified as dangerous malpractice-a doctor falling in love with a patient. And from the way Lucas talked about it, it's love. Believe it."

  She was prepared for the accusation as well as she could be. "How professional are you, Burt, when it comes to love? To your marriage to Diana? People talk about not falling in love because they've gotten burned at it. They get fanatic about it. They vow never to fall in love again as though they had some kind of control over it! And the people who succeed in turning off their emotions turn to ashes inside. If you try to impose rules and logic on a process like that, you make yourself a little bit dead. How logical is anyone, for christsake, when it comes to getting married or having kids? I'm not a machine. I knew what I was doing, and I felt justified. Maybe I'm a little screwed up myself. Yeah, even doctors have problems-so sue me. But I'm not crazy. So just who the fuck do you want me to apologize to?" It was gushing out of her in a torrent now, all her own poisonous recriminations about her shattered past. Lucas had helped to heal some of that… and now Lucas was rotting away right before her shocked eyes, leaving her alone again. "A bunch of little disasters got together and made a great big disaster. We're all to blame, Burt. Even you. If you and Lucas were such tight asshole buddies, how come you never whiffed a thing? You're to blame, and I'm to blame, and Kristen's to blame for dying, and Cory's to blame for being such a cunt. For all I know, it was her unending cruelty that was the initial catalyst. Lucas didn't fall, Burt-he was pushed. And even the poor fuckers in that has-been rock group are culpable. Assigning blame isn't going to solve the problem by a millimeter. That's rule number one in even the most elementary analysis. You have to fix what's broken and figure out who broke it later!" She trembled now with a kind of righteous anger. "All that matters now is finding out the truth. And if any of what I've told you is correct, then just maybe you and I can prevent a murder or two!"

  She smacked the chair arm, and the Salem butt somersaulted from the ashtray and bounced, scattering orange sparks across the rug. Burt jumped to help Sara kill the smoldering particles chewing their way into the nap. It was comically mundane. The tension between them was vented in an instant.

  "Okay. Okay." He was consciously controlling his tone. "I apologize. No vituperation." He seemed contrite, and she watched his large, muscular hands knead each other. "I always thought it was uncanny, the way Lucas in particular could turn it on and off. Seemed like a lot more control than was ever necessary."

  "Don't worry about it. Uh-the carpet, either." Her own voice had become timid and apologetic.

  "My mind-assuming I'm not crazy, too-cannot accept on any rational level how someone as radically changed as you suggest Lucas might be could appear so goddamned normal. And now you tell me it is normal. But if you're right, if even a degree of what you say is true, then we've got to find him. And quick. We may not think exactly alike, Sara, but I think we're after the same thing. I want him to be saved, and you want him to be helped."

  "Close enough," she said. "If I'm wrong, then I'll be embarrassed as hell. That I can live with. I might be crippled professionally." She flashed on the thought that one more emotional handicap, in her current state, wouldn't increase her load an ounce. "However, if I'm right and we do nothing, the authorities will just scream 'coincidence!' until everyone in that band is dead meat. Worth the risk, I say. Put Lucas in your own place, Burt. Would you have you tilt at a friendship that way?"

  "I'd insist he kick my butt, if that was what I needed." He drained his second mugful of spiked coffee. It had gone tepid. "Lucas has always been straight with me. I'd get mad if he didn't consider our friendship worth the risk of pissing me off."

  "That's all I need to hear." Burt didn't need the history of her own emotional pecadillos right now.

  "Good," said Burt. "Let's get going, then."

  "Going?"

  He smoothed his trousers. "Up to Point Pitt. That's what you wanted me for, right? To find Lucas' hiding place? Well, we can find out where his cabin is from the rangers. Let's find out now. I hate waiting for anything. I mean it. You and I can drive up there tonight. One sleeps while the other drives. Go on-put together an overnight bag. If you're really serious about this." His mind was locking into a chosen groove of action. Preparations he could handle automatically, and better than almost anything. It was mechanical, and less painful than further poking and prodding.

  Sara felt a reactionary urge to protest, but that was overshadowed by a rush of relief. She had an ally. Her body impelled her toward the stairs while her mind raced through a catalog of the things she would need. She was smiling, though grimly.

  Burt's voice stopped her on the threshold of the kitchen. "Sara?"

  "Yes?"

  "I hope we get up there and find him roasting marshmallows or something over a campfire. And I hope he laughs in our faces."

  16

  LUCAS LOOKED DOWN AND SAW at least a hundred Smokey Bear hats. He could not see where he was placing his feet, nor could he hear the sound of his careful steps on the flat black metal of the catwalk.

  His feet were invisible because he was dressed in black down to the neoprene soles on his boots. He was deaf because even with earplugs, the sound flooding toward him from below was more than loud. It was internecine, fatal both to those putting it out and those receiving it.

  'Gasm's concert opener was ''Barbed Wire Babes," a tune from their forthcoming album, as yet untitled. The pulsating onslaught of the music vibrated the metal of the webwork of girders and support cables and access walks. This maintenance maze was designed to be invisible from below and hugged the black ceiling of the Arena at the Tucson Community Center. It was lit up only when the amphitheater floor was devoid of patrons, lit for lighting setups, or special effects, or the adjustments attendant to the conversion of the arena floor from concrete pit to a million-dollar plastic basketball court. Only technicians and some janitors ever ventured onto the precarious complex of singing wires and lurching catwalks. None were foolhardy enough to try it during a full-scale atom
ic-holocaust rockshow. When it was required-like the time Pink Floyd had insisted that artificial snow be dumped on the heads of the audience during an encore of ''Echoes," the techs wore climbing harnesses and snap-ringed safety leads. It was easier than it looked, to be shaken off that catwalk while a rock and roll P.A. system was bombarding the arena with noise that threatened the structural integrity of the building.

  Below Lucas, far below, the sold-out crowd was SRO-more than standing. Squashed together. A still life of a stampede. The bodies and faces formed an aggregate, like plankton in a rolling ocean, totally indistinct as people, a swaying, amorphous mass. There were at least a hundred Pima County sheriffs on duty; Lucas could pick out the tan circlets of their hats, and he suspected most of them were watching very carefully, hoping to spot a crazed assassin of rockstars. They milled around the central crush of bodies filling the open-floor, festival-seating area like languid antibodies around an enormous white blood cell. Some covered their ears against the music and grinned at each other.

  How 'bout these stupid kids, huh?

  Lucas looked ahead and down, to where the members of 'Gasm leapt and rampaged and posed on the curving stage, the body-building physiques and the spread-legged stances of Marvel Comics superheros made flesh and granted motion. Their output rattled not only the auditorium, but the city block on which the auditorium stood.

  From his high vantage on the stage-right catwalk, Lucas could only perceive jumping shapes. He already knew who they were by position.