Killing Mr. Griffin (22 page)

Mrs. McConnell said. “Listen—I want to read you something.” She drew a folded paper from her shirt pocket. “This is a description of a certain personality type.” She began to read: ” “This individual has a behavior pattern that brings him repeatedly into conflict with society.

He is incapable of significant loyalty to individuals, groups or social values. He is selfish, callous, irresponsible, impulsive and totally unable to experience guilt. His frustration level is low; he cannot stand to be thwarted. He tends to blame others or offer plausible rationalizations for his behavior.” ” She paused. “Sound familiar?”

When Susan did not answer, her mother continued. “There’s more.

“This individual is unique among

pathological personalities in appearing, even on close examination, to be not only quite normal but unusually intelligent and charming. He appears quite sincere and loyal and may perform brilliantly at any endeavor. He often has a tremendous charismatic power over others.”

“Now, do you recognize someone?” “It’s a description of Mark,” Susan said. “It’s a clinical description of a psychopath.” Susan stared at her mother. “Is that what the psychologist told you?” “The first part of the description is a definition published by the American Psychiatric Association. The second part is paraphrased by the psychologist.” “What will be done about him?” Susan asked. “What will be done about all of us?” “Our lawyer has requested that Mark be tried separately,” Mrs. McConnell told her. “In fact, he will probably face three trials—one for his part in Brian Griffin’s death, one for the possible murder of Mrs. Ruggles, and one for what he attempted to do to you. The lawyer feels that he may be able to get the charges against David, Betsy and JefE reduced to second-degree murder. I hope he can, as that might make the difference in whether they will serve time in a prison or in a juvenile facility.” “And me?”

asked Susan. “You weren’t actually involved in what took place in the mountains,” Mrs. McConnell said. “That fact is in your favor. If you agree to turn state’s evidence, you might be let off. The lawyer is working on that now. Otherwise, the charge will probably be manslaughter.” “Does ‘turning state’s evidence’ mean I will have to

testify against the others?” “You will have to go on the stand and tell the truth,” her mother said. “No matter how hard it is, you will have to describe exactly what happened. Your part, and their part.

Mark’s part. You will have to tell it all.” “I don’t think I can,”

Susan said. “You can, and you must.” Her mother reached over and took her hand. “You’ll do whatever has to be done. Meanwhile, Dad and I think it would be a good idea to get some family counseling to help us all through this difficult time. Will you agree to that?” “The whole family?” Susan asked. “We’re in this together, aren’t we? Whatever happens to you happens to all of us. Perhaps we’ll grow closer through this, somehow. Perhaps we’ll all understand each other better. There must have been something lacking in our life together if you needed someone like Mark to fill in the gap.” Mrs. McConnell got to her feet, giving Susan’s hand a quick squeeze before releasing it. “You’ve stayed in this room long enough. Get your hair combed and come downstairs. I want you to come with me when I go shopping for curtains.” “White ones?” Susan said with an effort. “Something darker, I think. Maybe beige.” After her mother left the room, Susan sat a long time unmoving. When she rose at last it was to go over to her desk and open the top drawer. She took out an envelope and withdrew from it a sheet of lined paper. Attached was a note: “I found this in his briefcase. He didn’t have a chance to give it back to you.” It was signed, “K.G.” How long ago it seemed that she had written this

final song for Ophelia. It was almost like reading a poem written by a stranger.

Where the daisies laugh and blow, Where the willow leaves hang down, Nonny, nonny I will go There to weave my lord a crown. Willow, willow, by the brook, Trailing fingers green and long, I will read my lord a book, I will sing my love a song. Though he turn his face away, Nonny, nonny still I sing, Ditties of a heart gone gray And a hand that bears no ring. It was the last verse that he had underlined: Water, water, cold and deep, Hold me fast that I may sleep. Death with you is hardly more Than the little deaths before. Below this, in Mr.

Griffin’s small, precise handwriting, there was a message: Miss McConnell: It pleases me to see the growing maturity of your work. It is indeed the “little deaths” the small, daily rejections of our well-meant offerings, that render the soul lifeless. It is an adult thought, well expressed. I am glad that you are a junior, for it will allow me one more year in which to work with you. I look forward to watching your continued development as a writer and hope that I may be

able to contribute toward it. Brian Griffin If she had been the Susan of two weeks before, she would have wept, but this new Susan had cried herself dry of tears. She replaced the paper in the drawer and went to comb her hair.