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Authors: C.E. Lawrence

BOOK: Silent Kills
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CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The route to Dr. Williams’s office was so familiar sometimes Lee left his apartment and found himself in her waiting room with no memory of how he got there. He had weathered the worst of his depression lying on her forest-green couch, staring at the bookshelf with its African sculptures and pottery.
Even now those days were becoming more dreamlike in his memory. Though he still remembered afternoons when he could only lie in bed gritting his teeth against the all-enveloping agony, waiting, praying for sleep to slip in and ferry him away into soft oblivion, the intensity of it was fading. In those days, he remembered the world outside, the people around him, with a vague memory of being one of them, but it was only an impression, a residue. Now, as he walked briskly past the food cart vendors on lower Broadway, his illness itself felt like a memory.
That’s what Dr. Williams called it: an illness. He remembered the relief he felt when he heard those words, and how they alleviated his guilt. It went so against the grain of his Waspy upbringing, where coddling oneself was looked down upon. Even when he was truly incapacitated, he couldn’t silence the inner voice snarling, “For God’s sake, snap out of it!”
But there was no “snapping out of it,” only painful months of therapy, medication, and finally, hospitalization. “Crawling out of it” would have been a more apt description of the process of recovery—a process he wasn’t finished with yet.
He arrived at the familiar grey stone building next to the hole-in-the-wall taco joint and got in the elevator, with its aroma of plywood and Play-Doh. He had never figured out why it smelled like that—perhaps there was a preschool somewhere in the building. The elevator was empty when he got on, but just before the doors closed a worried-looking woman carrying a Channel 13 tote bag slid in. She pressed the button for the fourth floor and stood huddled in the far corner as the ancient elevator lumbered to its destination. He and Dr. Williams had joked over the years about how slow the elevator was, but now, standing here, he felt the woman’s distress seep into his bones. The building was full of doctors’ offices, and she was no doubt a patient, perhaps awaiting an unwelcome diagnosis.
He looked at her out of the corner of his eye. She was thin and dark—the kind of deep bronze color you get from a tanning salon. She wore flat sandals with thin gold straps and a pair of lime-green linen trousers under a loose white cotton shirt. He wondered if her leanness was purposeful or the result of chemotherapy. She had that drawn look around her mouth he had seen in AIDS and cancer patients. He tried to avoid looking directly at her, and was relieved when she got off one floor before him. She slipped out into the hall, trailing unhappiness behind her like the tail of a comet.
Lee took a deep breath and exhaled, releasing the anxiety he had absorbed from her. It had always been like this for him. Even as a child he had been unusually attuned to other people’s moods. He tended to absorb other people’s emotional states, whether he wanted to or not. He was also good at reading people—their desires, their strengths, their weaknesses, their needs.
Over the years, he had honed his talent into a craft. First as a psychiatrist and then later as a criminal profiler, he used his innate skill to master his profession. He was always learning, refining his knowledge of human nature. For instance, he had noticed over the years that people’s faces tended to congeal into characteristic expressions that mirror their inner lives—a kind of reverse portrait of Dorian Gray. A sour, bad-tempered man will develop deeply furrowed frown lines and a downturned mouth, features that become more heavily etched into faces as people age. Similarly, a cheerful, kindly woman may go about with a habitual smile on her face.
But he also knew that a very angry woman might wear a smile as a cover-up for her unacknowledged, socially unacceptable anger. And yet the strain would show somewhere, in a tightening of the eyes, a certain tenseness in the shoulders, bitten nails. When Lee was really “clicking,” he was unaware of reading any specific signs at all—it was more as if he had a direct view of the other person’s soul, an instinctive grasp of the core of that person. On a good day, he saw past the temporary mood of a person, into deeper aspects of their being—whether they were a person of good or ill will.
He could be fooled by photographs, and sometimes by phone conversations, but rarely by a face-to-face encounter. Con men affected him like vinegar—instead of being taken in by them, he was immediately repelled. It was as if they exuded a noxious odor, like rotting cabbage. He could sense the arrogance behind an apparently humble priest, or the desperation lurking beneath a successful businessman. The more people tried to conceal their real core feelings, the more clearly Lee saw through them. He was like a doctor with a gift for diagnosis, except he was diagnosing people’s souls.
But in Dr. Williams’s office he played the role of the one observed—a role he was not nearly as comfortable with. He glanced at his watch as he took a seat in her waiting room. He was early. He reached for a magazine to distract him from the knot forming in his stomach, but as he did he heard the familiar click of her office door opening. He slipped the magazine back into the rack and stood up, wiping his palms on the front of his pants. He wasn’t even sure why they were sweating—but no doubt Dr. Williams would worm it out of him by the end of their session together.
She appeared in the hallway, her calm presence reassuring as always. “Hello,” she said in that low, liquid voice, inviting him in with a tilt of her head. Her long, elegant body was clothed in a colorful African-print skirt and a chocolate tunic, just a few shades darker than her smooth, dusky skin. The low cut of the shirt made her long neck appear even more swanlike, the effect further accentuated by her close-cropped hair. He slipped past her, feeling as always a bit like a naughty little boy, for no good reason. But then, that was one of the reasons he was in therapy.
“So,” she said, “how are you doing today?”
“Pretty good,” he said, trying to will away the twisted feeling in his stomach. In the old days the answer to the question was always “Fine,” until he came to realize that the old family mantra wasn’t working anymore—he was anything
but
fine. Now he avoided that response whenever possible. It rang hollow and only reminded him how far he had come from the stiff-upper-lip culture of his Scottish Presbyterian ancestors.
“You look anxious,” Dr. Williams remarked, leaning back in her chair and smoothing out her long skirt. She was a tall, elegant woman—her languid, stately movements and long neck reminded him of a giraffe. Her skin was rich as a chocolate milkshake, and her large, prominent eyes radiated a calm reassurance that Lee had found invaluable during the darkest days of his depression.
He told her about the woman on the elevator, and how her presence had made him jittery. Dr. Williams took a drink from a tall glass of iced tea on the table next to her. He knew what was in the glass because he had asked her once. She called it a leftover habit from her days in the South, though there was nothing about her manner or accent to suggest she had spent any time there.
He knew so little about her—that was part of the uneven nature of their relationship. He knew it shouldn’t bother him, but it did. Most attempts at small talk on his part were skillfully deflected or met with a patient silence. That was her job, he knew as well as anyone. He had once sat where she did, after all, seeing patients all day long—until that terrible day his sister went missing and his life changed forever. Now he spent his days in pursuit of criminals, tracking down psychotics instead of trying to cure the woes of everyday neurotics.
“What do you think she was worried about?” Dr. Williams said.
“The woman in the elevator? I think she was visiting her doctor, and was expecting some bad news. Or had recently been given some bad news, and was back for treatment.”
“Did she look sick?”
“She was very thin, but a lot of woman in New York are thin.”
Dr. Williams smiled, her large teeth white and perfectly even. “True enough. Anything else?”
“She was tanned ... very dark.”
“Chemo can sometimes darken the skin tone. Do you think that’s what it was?”
“I don’t know—maybe.” He couldn’t figure out why they were spending so much time on this—usually Dr. Williams didn’t encourage what he had come to think of as “red herrings.” There must be a reason for it—but what? What did she see that he didn’t?
“Did she remind you of anyone?” she asked.
“Like my sister or my mother, you mean?”
Now we’re getting to it,
he thought.
“Not necessarily. Anyone at all.”
He shifted in his chair. “Why do you ask?”
“No reason. But it might be worth pursuing your reaction to her.”
He thought about it. “She reminded me of myself.”
Williams cocked her head to one side. “How so?”
How to say it?
Even with Dr. Williams, it was hard to verbalize the experience of extreme psychic pain.
“She was consumed by her own unhappiness.”
“How is that like you?”
“I was too—for a while, at least.”
“And now?”
“I’m better. Not completely well, but better.”
“I’m glad. You still look worried. Is it about your new case?”
“Kind of. There’s been a media leak, and I think I know who might be behind it.”
She smiled. “You’re qualifying your hunch—you don’t want to suspect that person, do you?”
“Nope. I actually hope it’s not her, but I’m afraid it is.”
“Who’s that?”
“Susan Morton.”
They had spoken of her many times before—of her rapaciousness and Chuck’s infatuation with her, as well as Lee’s mistrust of her.
“Are you going to mention it to Chuck?” Williams asked, reaching for her iced tea.
“I don’t see how I can. What if I’m wrong?”
“Good point. It could ruin your friendship forever—not to mention your professional relationship.”
“I have to wait until I get evidence—
if
I get any. She’s very—”
“Calculating?”
“Among other things.”
He looked out the window at the soft fading light of summer. A mechanic in a stained white T-shirt lounged in front of the garage across the street, smoking a cigarette, watching the endless parade of pedestrians on University Place. Soon fall would arrive, and with the shorter days would come a deepening sense of the eternal.
It was a paradox, perhaps, but he had become more comfortable with paradoxes—like his sense that in the depths of pain and despair he often felt nearer to touching Infinity itself. There was something about death, whether physical or spiritual, something profound and solemn and holy.
“What are you thinking about?” she asked.
“Death.”
She nodded, unflappable as always. Lee felt relief mixed with some irritation at her professional reserve. For Christ’s sake, he thought, couldn’t the woman just let it go for once? But he knew that it was just his old longing—for the ideal mother, the mother he never had. He knew a certain amount of professional remove was essential to the therapeutic relationship—otherwise, the patient would fear drowning the therapist with his needs, just as the child feared the emotional fragility of his own parents.
“What about death?” she said.
“About how it gives life its meaning. The unity of opposites, and all that ... and every culture has their myths about it.”
“Such as—?”
“All the variations in the Christian tradition. Death and resurrection—that kind of thing.”
“And you can relate to that?”
“Yeah. Not the death of a supernatural being, the son of God, but ... part of me died.”
“I think it was Goethe who said that in order to grow, one must first die.”
He smiled. “And he was a German nobleman—a damn count, for Christ’s sake.”
“What about you?”
“I guess I had a spiritual death—and rebirth.”
She smiled. “Do you miss your old self?”
“Sometimes.”
He wasn’t even sure what his “new self” was yet. Out on the street, the man in the T-shirt finished his cigarette and flicked the spent stub onto the ground. He stretched, flexing his thickly muscled arms. On his left forearm was a grinning skeleton—a death’s head.
“See?” Lee said, pointing to him. “It’s everywhere.”
Williams turned and watched as the mechanic turned and went back into the garage. “Or maybe you’re just looking for it everywhere.”
“Maybe,” Lee said. “Or maybe it’s looking for me.” As he said the words, a thin, cold shiver slithered down his spine.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
McSorley’s Old Ale House—known to everyone simply as McSorley’s—boasts proudly of being the oldest continuous saloon in America. Others have a longer history—like Fraunces Tavern down on Pearl Street, where General Washington famously bid a tearful good-bye to his troops at the close of the Revolutionary War—but no tavern in New York disputes McSorley’s claim.
You could get only one beverage at McSorley’s—beer—but you could get a lot of it. Ale was the only alcoholic beverage served in its one-hundred-fifty-year history—including during Prohibition, when the brewing operation was quietly moved to the building’s basement until the repeal of the law in 1933.
McSorley’s also happened to be less than two hundred feet from Lee’s front door. In the evenings, the crowd was loud, the mood was raucous, and the shouts of laughter and cursing rang from tables scattered haphazardly around the ancient, scarred floor, increasingly slippery as the sawdust became saturated with spilled beer. The best time to be there was early afternoon, before the hordes of hooligans from the boroughs descended like crows, cawing and braying, intent on drinking themselves into oblivion.
Early Sunday afternoon found Lee and Kathy enjoying a brace of brews at one of the thick oak tables in the front room. It was too warm outside for a fire in the ancient potbellied stove, which on cold winter days seemed to blaze through a cord of wood. The bar’s cat, a dingy yellow tabby, lay sprawled on an empty chair, dozing on its back, paws in the air, oblivious to the clank of glassware and the din of conversation.
The thing people did at McSorley’s other than drink was talk. Even on quiet days, it was a noisy place, conversation bouncing through the thick air from table to table and back again. The sound varied from a steady drone to raucous shouts and guffaws of Saturday-night patrons—Lee could hear them from his apartment when the windows were open.
“Cheers,” Kathy said, raising her mug.
“Cheers,” he replied, touching his mug to hers and drinking deeply of the copper-colored ale, bitter and cold, just the way he liked it.
Kathy wiped her mouth and laughed, a staccato burst of air.
“What’s so funny?” he said.
“I just noticed the wishbones,” she said, pointing to a stack of dusty wishbones over the bar.
“Keep looking around and you’ll see some even weirder stuff.”
“I wonder how old they are?” she said, gazing at them.
“Why don’t you ask if you can examine them?”
She poked his shoulder. “Wise guy, eh?” she, perfectly imitating a tough gangster from a 1930s movie.
“Yeah, gonna make somethin’ of it?”
She made a fist. “Why, I oughtta—” Then she threw her head back and laughed. Lee had never met anyone who seemed to lean into life so much. At a time when he had been pulling away from it, meeting her felt like a gift, an omen.
“Seriously,” he said, “when did you first get interested in bones?”
“I’ve always been fascinated by them, ever since I was a kid. I used to collect things I found in the woods—deer skulls, fossils, interesting-looking rocks. Anything old and hard, my mother used to say. I think my father was disappointed I didn’t become a toxicologist like him, but ... well, you know how it is.”
“So what do you do when you’re not examining skeletons?”
She smiled at him. “I think you know.”
He flushed. “Other than that.”
“I hunt mushrooms.”
“Mushrooms? You mean in the woods?”
“Right.”
“Hmm. Do you eat them?”
She gave him coquettish smile. “Sometimes. If they’re not poisonous.”
“How do you know the difference?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know?”
He laughed.
“No, seriously, I do a lot of studying,” she said.
“It figures you would choose a hobby that needs study.”
“Everything needs study to do it right.”
Even sex,
he thought, and felt the heat rise to his face.
“Why mushrooms?”
She ran a finger around the lip of her beer glass. He imagined it on his skin instead.
“Mushrooms are the most mysterious organisms. They sprout up overnight, when we’re sleeping, and suddenly, there they are.” She took a long drink of beer. The skin of her throat looked moist in the afternoon sun streaming in through the front windows. “It’s like in that fairy tale, Jack and the Beanstalk—after Jack’s mother throws the beans down on the ground they go to bed, but when they get up the next day, the beans have sprouted into this miraculous thing—this magical beanstalk. Mushrooms are like that—they’re secretive, furtive, their mycelia spreading underground, waiting patiently for the next warm rain. It’s like a magic trick every time.”
She leaned forward, both elbows on the table, her sleeve almost touching her beer mug. There was a real danger she might knock it onto the floor. Lee thought about saying something, then decided against it. He reached over and pushed the mug a couple of inches away from her arm.
She smiled. Lee still hadn’t gotten used to the alarming whiteness of her teeth, like something out of a toothpaste commercial.
“I walk in the woods and I feel all of that mystery and power that we can’t ever completely fathom—nature’s secrets that we can’t control or even predict. I guess that’s why I like weather, too. Nature has some tricks up her sleeve that even our most advanced technology can’t unravel.”
She leaned forward even more. Lee could smell her shampoo—or was it conditioner?—the faint aroma of lavender.
“Someday I want to see a tornado,” she whispered, as though it were a naughty secret.
“Really? Why?”
“It has something to do with the excitement and awe I feel in front of nature’s fury.”
“Wouldn’t you be scared?”
“Sure, but more excited than scared. I could be wrong—maybe I’d run like a scared rabbit.”
Lee laughed. “Not you.”
“Who knows what they’ll do in the face of danger?”
“True.”
She looked at her watch. “Time to go back to Philadelphia.” She drained the last of her beer. “I think I’ll just hop on the subway.”
“You can get the IRT from Astor Place.”
“The what?”
The three formerly separate subway companies had long since merged, and were no longer called the BMT, IRT, and IND, but Lee still thought of the East Side line and the Seventh Avenue local—the oldest line in the city—as the IRT.
“It’s what we used to call the East Side trains,” he said.
“Oh. I just call them the green line.”
“I’ll walk with you,” he said, grabbing her bag.
They walked up Third Avenue, the line of cars roaring up the street like mad drag racers, screeching to an abrupt halt as the light changed.
Strolling along in the feathery September light, Lee had a feeling of being close to things unseen: the blurry, indistinct forms that swim through dreams—blunt, amorphous shapes swirling just below the surface of the tangible world of blood and concrete. When they reached the subway, he looked at Kathy, who stood on the top step, her face as open as the sun.
“Well, good-bye,” she said.
“Bye,” he replied, and kissed her.
“See you next week!” she called as she bounded down the steps. Watching her retreating form, he missed her already.
When he returned to his apartment, he went to the piano.
He pulled out the dog-eared copy of Book I of the preludes and fugues from Bach’s
The Well-Tempered Clavier
and started in on the prelude in D minor. The notes danced and weaved on the page before him, and he struggled to put the case behind him, and concentrate on the notes. No matter what else happened in his life, there was always Bach.
The patterns were all there on the page, he thought as he dug into the prelude in C minor. The notes, so orderly and neat on the page, were almost as beautiful to look at as to play. As the music rose around him in its mysterious majesty and beauty, it occurred to him that the patterns were there too in the work of the man he pursued—if only he could read them.
He didn’t even hear the patter of raindrops as he continued to play, faster and louder, letting loose all his frustration and rage onto the piano keyboard. Somewhere beyond the raindrops, a killer plotted and planned; somewhere in the gathering darkness, another pattern was forming in his sick and twisted brain.

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