The Dead Student Page 9

  Jeremy doubted he would be so fortunate. He assumed the caller would be too smart. And anyway—what could the cops do to protect me? Park a cruiser outside? For how long? Tell me to get a gun and a pit bull?

  He knew he had great ability to extract information from a subject. This capability had always come easily to him. But he also knew that his examinations had been after the fact—crimes had been committed, arrests made.

  He understood crimes from the past. This was the promise of a crime in the future.

  Predictions? Impossible.

  Regardless, when he sat down at his small desk in his upstairs office, he had a feeling of confidence as he worked out some questions for that inevitable second call. This was frustrating, slow-paced work. He knew he had to do some rudimentary psychological assessments—he had to ask some questions that would ascertain that the caller was oriented to time, place, and circumstances in order to make sure he wasn’t schizophrenic and getting homicidal command hallucinations. He already knew the answer to that particular question was no, but the scientist in him demanded that he still make certain.

  Rule out as many mental illnesses as you can.

  But what dragged out his preparation was the realization that he was in uncharted psychological territory.

  Danger assessment tools were really designed to help social service systems assist threatened wives to avoid abusive husbands. Situational context was crucial—but he also knew that he could comprehend only half of this equation: mine. The part that he needed to know was: his.

  Jeremy Hogan sat in the near dark, surrounded by papers, academic studies, journal copies, textbooks that he hadn’t opened in years, and computer printouts of various web pages devoted to risk understanding.

  It was night. A single desktop light and his computer screen were the only illumination in the room. He glanced outside his window to take in the sweep of inky isolation that surrounded his old farmhouse. He could not recall whether he’d left any lights on downstairs in the kitchen or living room.

  He thought: I have become an old man. The steady gray fog of aging turns to deep night darkness.

  This was far more poetic than he usually was.

  Jeremy returned to his research. At the top of a blank sheet on one of his legal pads he listed:

  Appearance

  Attitude

  Behavior

  Mood and Affect

  Speech

  Thought Process

  Thought Content

  Perceptions

  Cognition

  Insight

  Judgment

  Under ordinary circumstances, these were the emotional domains he would probe before returning a psychological profile. Of the accused, he told himself. But now it’s me who stands accused.

  There would be no way to assess appearance or anything else that required him to observe the caller in the flesh. So he would be limited to what he could detect from the caller’s tone, the specific words he used, and the way he constructed his message.

  Language is key. Every word must tell you something.

  Thought process is next. How does he construct his desire to kill me? Look for signals that will underscore the meaning of murder to him. When does he laugh? When does he lower his voice? When does he speed it up?

  He thought of his assessment as a triangle. If language and thought were two lines, he would need to find a third. That would give him a chance.

  Once you know what he is, then you can start to figure out who he is.

  This is a game, Jeremy Hogan told himself. I damn well better win it.

  He rocked back in his chair, twiddled a pencil in his hand, looked down at his notes, reminded himself to constantly be the part scientist, part artist he believed he was, and found that he wasn’t exactly frightened.

  Curiously, he felt challenged.

  This made him smile.

  All right. You’ve made the first move, Mister Who’s at Fault?: a short, cryptic phone call that instantly made me panic like any damn fool who was suddenly threatened. White Pawn to e4. The Spanish Game. Probably the most powerful opening available.

  But I can play, too.

  Counter with: Black Pawn to c5. The Sicilian Defense.

  And I’m no longer panicked.

  Even if you do mean to eventually kill me.

  When the phone did ring, he was deep in the mixed fog and electric dreams of sleep. It took him several seconds to drag himself from unsettled netherworld into unsettled reality. The ringing insistence of the phone seemed like it should be part of a nightmare rather than wakefulness.

  Jeremy took several sharp breaths as he pivoted his feet to the side of the bed. It was cold, but it shouldn’t have been.

  He inwardly screamed Composure! although he knew this was a difficult state to attain. He reached out with one hand for the phone and with the other punched a switch to “record.”

  The caller ID had read “Unknown Number.” A quick glance at a bedside clock told him it was a few minutes after 5 a.m.

  Smart, he thought. He will have been preparing himself for hours, building himself up, knowing he was awakening me and taking me unawares.

  Another deep breath. Sound dull, befuddled. But be alert, ready.

  He made his voice slow, thick with night. He coughed once as he answered. He wanted to give the impression of age and uncertainty. He needed to sound unsteady and afraid—even decrepit and weak. But he wanted to reply in the same way that he would have years earlier, a physician called in the middle of the night for an emergency. “Yes, yes, this is Doctor Hogan. Who is this?”

  Momentary silence.

  “Whose fault is it, Doctor?”

  Jeremy shivered. He paused several seconds before replying. “I know you believe it is my fault, whatever it is. I should hang up on you. Who are you?”

  A snort. As if this question was somehow contemptuous. “You already know who I am. How’s that for an answer?”

  “Not very satisfying. I don’t understand. I don’t understand anything, and especially I don’t understand why you want to kill me. How long have you been—”

  He was interrupted.

  “I have been thinking about you, Doctor, for many years.”

  The reply made him jump.

  “How many years is that?”

  Damn, Jeremy Hogan berated himself. Don’t be so goddamned obvious. He listened to the voice on the end of the line. It seemed rough—as if carved out of some frightening memory and sharpened to a point with a dull, rusty knife. He felt nearly certain now that the caller-killer was using some electronic voice-obscuring hardware. So rule out: accent, inflection, and tone. They won’t help you.

  “If I have to die for something I allegedly did …”

  He restored his own voice to something between irritation and lecture. But as he asked his questions, he listened for the responses.

  “Allegedly is a great word. It has a nice, lawyerly ring to it …”

  Jeremy made a note on his legal pad.

  Educated.

  Then he underlined it twice.

  He made a second note:

  Not prison-educated. Not street-educated.

  He took a chance. “So, you’re either a former student or a former subject. What, did I flunk you? Or maybe I wrote some assessment for the court that you think put you away …”

  Come on. Say something that will help me.

  The caller did not.

  “What? Doctor, you believe those are the only two categories of people that might harbor ill feelings toward you?”

  The caller laughed.

  “You must feel you’ve led an exemplary life. A life without mistakes. Guilt-free and saintlike.”

  Jeremy didn’t have time to reply before the caller added, “I don’t think so.”

  “Why me?” Jeremy blurted out. “And why am I last on some list?”

  “Because you were only part of the equation that ruined my life.”

  “You don’t sound like i
t’s ruined.”

  “That is because I have been successful at restoring it. One death at a time.”

  “The man who died in Miami, he was a suicide …”

  “So they said.”

  “But you’re suggesting something different.”

  “Clearly.”

  “Murder.”

  “A reasonable inference.”

  “Maybe I don’t believe you. You sound paranoid, a fantasist. Maybe that death was something you’re imagining you had something to do with. I think I should hang up now.”

  “Your choice, Doctor. Not a wise one, for someone who has spent their life collecting information, but still, if that’s what you think will help you …”

  Jeremy did not hang up. He felt outmaneuvered. He glanced down at his list of psychological domains. Useless, he thought.

  “And my murder, that will make it complete?”

  “That’s an inference you are drawing, Doctor.”

  Jeremy wrote: Not paranoid. A sociopath?

  He thought: Not like any sociopath I’ve ever known. At least—I don’t think so.

  “I’ve called the police. They’re all over this …”

  “Doctor, why would you lie to me? Why don’t you make it a better story: There’s cops here now, listening in, tracing this call, and they’re going to be surrounding me at any second … Isn’t that better?”

  Jeremy felt stupid. He wondered: How does he know? Is he watching me? A shaft of cold fear dropped through him, and he looked wildly around the room, almost panicked. The caller’s steady mocking tones bought him back to the conversation.

  “Perhaps you should talk to the police. It will give you a sense of security. Foolish, but maybe it will make you feel better. How long do you suspect that sense will last?”

  “You’re patient.”

  “People who hurry to collect their debts invariably settle for less on the dollar than they deserve, don’t you think, Doctor?”

  Jeremy wrote down: No fear of authorities. He thought he should follow up on that.

  “The cops—suppose they catch you …”

  Another laugh. “I don’t think so, Doctor. You don’t give me enough credit. You should.”

  Jeremy hesitated as he wrote Conceited. He shut his eyes briefly, thinking hard. He decided to take another chance, and to add a slight mocking tone in his own voice.

  “So, Mister Who’s at Fault, just how much time do I have left?”

  A pause.

  “I like that name. It’s appropriate.”

  “How much time?”

  “Days. Weeks. Months. Maybe, maybe, maybe. How much time does anyone have?”

  A hesitation, coupled with that same humorless laugh.

  “What makes you think, Doctor, that I’m not outside your door right now?”

  And then the line went dead.

  10

  There was irritating Muzak playing in the elevator as Moth and Andy Candy rode up to the eleventh floor. Both were nervous and the background noise rubbed their thoughts the wrong way. It was an orchestral reinterpretation of some ancient popular rock tune, and both of them hummed along briefly, neither putting a title to the sound.

  “Beatles?” Andy Candy asked abruptly. She was on edge, wondering whether she might be tumbling toward obsession along with Moth. When she stole glances in his direction, it seemed as if he wore the look of a mountain climber hanging dangerously from a cliff: desperate not to fall and determined to find a way to lift himself to safety, no matter how frayed his ropes were and how loose the knots holding him in place might be. She could sense wind currents sweeping her along and wasn’t sure she should trust them.

  “Yes. No. Close. Maybe,” Moth replied. “Long before our time.”

  “But memorable,” she responded. “Stones. Beatles. The Who. Buffalo Springfield. Jimi Hendrix. All the stuff my mom and dad used to listen to. They used to dance in the kitchen …” Her voice trailed off and she wanted to say, And now she has to dance alone because he’s dead, but she did not. Instead, she continued, “Now they’re just Muzak.”

  The music distracted Moth. He was unsure how he would react when he saw his uncle’s longtime lover. He felt as if he’d completely let everyone down and he was about to be reminded of his inadequacies and failures. But he also didn’t know where else to begin his search.

  The elevator made a swooshing sound as they reached their floor.

  “Here we are,” Moth said. Except he knew it wasn’t where they needed to be. Andy had said to look where the police wouldn’t look—but the only places he could think to start were the same places the police had already considered. Or trampled, Moth decided.

  “I’m pretty sure it was the Beatles,” Andy Candy said, stepping out. Her voice was close to fierce, although she had nothing obvious to be angry about. “ ‘Lady Madonna.’ Only screwed up completely with mushy strings and oboes and things.”

  The door to Moth’s uncle’s apartment opened before they had a chance to knock. A slight man with sandy hair tinged with gray at the edges smiled at the two of them. But it wasn’t truly a smile of greeting as much as an upturn at the corners of the mouth that reflected more pain than joy.

  “Hello, Teddy,” Moth said quietly.

  “Ah, Moth,” the man answered. “It’s good to see you again. We missed you at the …”

  He stopped there.

  “This is Andrea,” Moth continued.

  Teddy held out his hand. “The famous Andy Candy,” he said. “I’ve heard about you from Moth. Not much, but just enough, a few years back, and you are far more lovely than he ever let on. Moth, you should learn to be more descriptive.” He bowed slightly as he shook Andy Candy’s hand. “Come on in.” He gestured an entry. “Sorry for the mess.”

  As they walked inside, they were met with a sheet of bright light. The apartment looked out over Biscayne Bay and Moth could see a huge, ungainly cruise ship slowly making its way down Government Cut like some overweight tourist, lurching past the high-end, rich folks’ playground on Fisher Island. The pale blue of the bay seemed to blend seamlessly into the horizon. The high-rises on Miami Beach and the causeway out to Key Biscayne bracketed the water world. Fishing charters or pleasure boats cut paths through the glistening bay, leaving white foam trails that dissipated rapidly in the light chop of waves. The bright sunshine poured into the apartment through floor-to-ceiling sliding doors that led to a balcony. Moth lifted his hand to shade his eyes, almost as if someone had flashed a light in his face.

  Teddy saw this.

  “Yeah. Kind of drove us crazy. You desperately want the view, but you don’t want to be blinded every morning by that sun coming up in the east. Your uncle tried a bunch of different shades, I mean he must have called up a half-dozen different interior decorators. He got tired of having to re-cover the couches because they would fade like in minutes. And he had a beautiful Karel Apfel lithograph on the wall that got damaged by the sunlight. Odd, don’t you think? The thing that brings us here to Miami causes all sorts of unexpected problems. At least he didn’t have to go see a dermatologist and have skin cancers cut off his face and forearms, because for years he liked to take his coffee out onto the porch every morning before heading to work.”

  Moth looked away from the view toward packing boxes half-filled with art from the walls, kitchen stuff, and books.

  “Actually, we liked to take our morning coffee out there.” This was said with a slight quaver. “I can’t stay here any longer, Moth,” Teddy said. “Too hard. Too many memories.”

  “Uncle Ed—” Moth began.

  “I know what you’re going to say, Moth,” Teddy interrupted. “You don’t think he killed himself. I have trouble believing that as well. So, in a way, I’m with you, Moth. He was happy. Hell, we were happy. Especially in the last few years. His practice was great; I mean, he found his patients to be intriguing, interesting, and he was helping them, which is all he ever wanted. And he didn’t care who knew about me—which is a big
deal for shrinks, let me tell you. He was just so happy to be out, you know. We’d both known so many guys who couldn’t reconcile who they are with family, friends, their work … Those are the guys that drink themselves to death—which is what Ed was doing so many years ago—or drug themselves or shoot themselves. All the guys who get overwhelmed by a lie that becomes their life. Ed was at peace—that’s what he told me, when …”

  He stopped.

  “When, when, when, Moth. What a fucking lousy word.”

  Teddy hesitated before continuing. “But then, Ed always had a mysteriousness about him, an inscrutability, as if there was something clicking and connecting behind his head and heart. I always loved that about him. And maybe that was what made him good at what he was.”

  “Mystery?” Andy asked.

  “It’s not uncommon for guys like us. Living unhappily for so long, hiding truths that should be obvious. Gives you a sense of depth, I think. Lots of self-flagellation. It’s sometimes worse than that. Torture, really.”

  Teddy stopped to think for an instant, then said, “I always thought that was what we had in common and that’s what pushed both of us to drink. Hiding. Not being who you are. So, we got sober when we met and became who we really are. Armchair psychology, but that’s the way it was.”

  Another pause.

  “That wasn’t your story, was it, Moth?”

  Andy Candy craned forward, waiting for the response.

  “No,” Moth said. “I would get angry and drink. Or I would get sad and drink. I would do well and reward myself with a drink. Or I would fail, and punish myself with a drink. Sometimes I couldn’t tell whether I hated me more or others hated me more, and so I would get drunk so I wouldn’t have to answer that question.”

  “Ed said his brother put unreasonable …” Teddy started, then stopped.

  Moth shook his head. “The trouble with binge drinking is that all you need is the simplest of excuses. Not the most complex. And that’s the problem. Psychologically speaking, of course. Same armchair you just mentioned.”