“How about I stop by in the a.m., eight or so?”
“There’s something about the notes, Carson. I’d really like you to look at them now.”
I was sitting on Harry’s gallery in minutes. It was verging on dusk, but the gallery was well lit and the skeeter truck had been by minutes earlier. I had no idea of the chemical composition of the gray fog that poured from the mosquito-control truck, but like everyone who lived near coastal marshland, I didn’t care as long as it kept the bloodsuckers at bay.
“Here’s how it was when I grabbed it up, Cars.”
Harry handed me the spring issue of the Journal of American Psychiatry from two years back. It was Rudolnick’s personal issue, sent to his home address. Harry handed me the magazine by its spine, pages open toward the floor. Several pieces of white typing paper fell to my lap. Six pages, I counted, held at the upper-right edge with a paper clip.
There was only one small block of handwritten text on the front page:
This commences a special project. The undertaking is my own, “independent study,” I suppose. But I believe there are behaviors to be observed and catalogued.
This will be a record for reference.
“Get ready for an interesting trip,” Harry said.
I turned the page. Handwritten notes, sparse, some simply a line or two. There was no name, only “Subject.”
The pages were dated, the dates starting three and a half years back. I read the first entry.
Subject agitated. He paces behind me during my visit. There’s no doubt he wishes to get my attention (though I’m uncertain whether he himself has this realization). He complains of feeling “depressed” and “out of sorts.” He laughs, says, “Maybe it’s the surroundings.”
I lead him to a discussion of visualization techniques as foci for relaxation. I provide suggestions: waves, birds in flight, scudding clouds. He becomes agitated and demands I not treat him as I would “one of my fucked-up patients.”
I assure him that visualization techniques are commonplace, used daily in the home and workplace. His suspicion abates and he indicates interest. Like many, he selects clouds as his preferred setting, and we spend a half hour working with techniques to calm his mind.
I continued reading, wondering if Rudolnick had stuck the pages in the journal for later transcription and forgot where he had put them. The entries were sporadic, averaging six weeks between each. Most were three or four lines, much in the vein of an entry the second year:
Subject calm, a good day. He sits by the window, hands folded, and gazes into the trees. He watches Freddy playing.
The next entry, a few months later, was longer. And more foreboding:
I must be very circumspect, not a shrink, but more a-what? Friend? He has no friends, not in a usual sense. I must provide him with relaxation techniques without seeming to prescribe them. Or anything else I might suggest without seeming to make suggestions. If I appear to prescribe, he will believe I think he is sick. If he thinks I think he is sick, there could be dire consequences. Mirrors within mirrors. How did I get myself into this?
Two more mundane entries-the subject seems to enjoy watching “Freddy” playing outside-then, a month after, a bit of an insight into whoever is described:
He can be absolutely charming, humble. An interesting person to be around, normal, relaxed. Moments later he is demanding, dictatorial. His changes are mercurial and, I am beginning to think, difficult to control, though still contained. He sublimates his impulses exceptionally well, especially what I perceive as an anger toward women.
I doubt the sublimation can continue.
I read, fascinated, a brief entry occurring two months later.
Today he asked me, “Do people really taste like chicken, Rudolnick?” A minute later he was striding forcefully across the floor, appearing to make business decisions. Then he sat and read several of the magazines laying around, general-interest. Later, putting the magazines away, I discovered he had scratched the eyes blank in the photographs of several women, probably unconsciously.
There were several more observational visits, Rudolnick commenting on the patient’s(?) state of mind. The doctor’s observations seemed circumspect, veiled, almost as if he were watching from behind a glass window. The next long entry was the penultimate entry. I noticed the writing was looser, less controlled, as if written in a hurry or in a stressful situation.
When I arrive, he is waiting. His first question: Do I think women’s blood differs from men’s blood? I am becoming a magnet for him. He needs me, but does not realize it. I cannot fathom what will happen if he develops a dependency. He asks me to walk in the woods with him. I am reminded of photographs I have seen of leaders at Camp David, slow-walking down paths bordered with trees, heads bowed in discussion, hands folded behind backs. Except instead of discussing world events, all he discusses is sex and control and death. Not philosophy, but methodology.
I lie-what are my choices? — and assure him his thoughts are normal, and as a psychiatrist, I am perfectly qualified to make such assurances-everyone has such thoughts.
He talks of “escaping” without going into detail; though several meanings can be inferred, none good. In the best of all possible worlds I would be allowed to medicate him. Forestall what I feel is the inevitable.
It is not a choice.
For a few moments he becomes agitated and angry. There are clouds in the sky and I point upward and remind him of the relaxation techniques. I never know what creates such moments. It is like walking beside a normal and respected person who has decided to become a suicide bomber, never knowing when he will grasp the plunger.
Then, a week later, the final entry:
This marks the last of this series. I have made my decision to extricate myself from this situation. Everything is a spinning mirror and my share of the blame is large and horrendous. I suspect the subject has come to see me as an enemy. How do I know? He is nicer to me than he has ever been, solicitous of my health. Gentle.
I smell his hand on the plunger.
I must get out.
Five weeks later, Rudolnick was dead.
“What do you think?” Harry asked when I had finished reading.
“I think there’s a decent chance he was treating our killer,” I said, a cold knife tracing circles over the base of my spine.
“I figured you’d agree,” Harry said.
Near midnight, I got a call from the reporter, Ted Margolin. Dani, bless her, had contacted him. She had told Margolin two local dicks were wondering how certain political procedures worked in Montgomery.
“Naturally,” Margolin said, “it intrigued me.”
“We’re interested in a former Mobile County officer, Benjamin Pettigrew. He is not-repeat, not — the subject of any form of investigation. We’d like to know, in general, how Pettigrew got hired.”
“I got a real good source for that kind of stuff,” Margolin said. “I’ll need time to make some calls, maybe wait until a friend can get to some locked files. How about we get together late tomorrow morning?”
I didn’t try to hide my surprise. “You’ll have it by then?”
“If it’s have-able. Oh, Detective Ryder?”
“Yes?”
“I haven’t talked to DeeDee in a few months. She sounded pretty down. She all right?”
“She’s fine,” I said. “Something to do with the change in the weather.”
After wrestling with the notion for several minutes, I decided to call Dani, thank her for the assistance. Maybe buoy my conscience. Her number was still first on my speed dial.
Tap. Connect. Ring.
“Hello?” Her voice tentative. “Carson?”
“It’s me, Dani. I just wanted to let you know that-”
“Buck’s here,” she whispered.
