tearsheets, two in typescript. In all five pieces, Fauvel's high self-esteem was evident, his egotism unrelenting. The doctor referred to the subject as 'Patient C'; however, Chase recognized himself — even though he was portrayed through a radically distorting lens. Every symptom that he suffered had been exaggerated to make its eventual amelioration appear to be a greater achievement on Fauvel's part. All
the clumsy probes that Fauvel had initiated were never mentioned, and he claimed to have succeeded with strategies of therapy that he had never employed but that he'd apparently developed through hindsight. Chase was, according to Fauvel: one of those young men who go to war with no well-formed moral beliefs and who, therefore, are clay in the hands of manipulative superiors, capable of being induced to commit any atrocities without questioning their orders. Elsewhere, he observed that Patient C: came to me from a military hospital, where he had recovered sufficiently from a total nervous breakdown to attempt social reintegration. The cause of his breakdown had been not a sense of guilt but extreme terror at the prospect of his own death, not a concern for others but a crippling recognition — and fear — of his own mortality.
'You bastard,' Chase said.
Guilt had been his constant companion, whether he was awake or asleep. Recognition of his mortality had not been a source of fear, for God's sake; instead, it had been his only consolation, and for a long time he had hoped for nothing more than the strength to end his own life.
Fauvel had written: He still suffered nightmares and impotence, which he felt were his only afflictions and were a result of his fear. I recognized, however, that the real problem for Patient C was an underlying lack of moral values. He could never heal himself psychologically until he made peace with his horrific past, and he could not make peace with his past until he fully understood and acknowledged the gravity of the crimes that he had committed, even if in war.
Understood and acknowledged! As if Chase had blithely pulled the trigger, waded through the blood of his victims, and then had gone in search of a good shoeshine boy to buff the stains off his boots. Jesus.
Dr. G. Sloan Fauvel — psychiatrist extraordinaire, confessor, and tower of moral rectitude — had therefore: at last commenced the long, difficult process of inculcating in Patient C, by diverse and subtle means, an understanding of the concept of morality and a capacity for guilt. If he could develop a sincere sense of guilt about what he had done, then the guilt subsequently could be relieved through classic therapy. A cure might then be possible.
Chase returned the material to the plain brown envelope. He tucked the envelope under the passenger seat.
He was shaken by the realization that he had spent so much time in the care of a physician who neither understood him nor possessed the capacity to understand. For too long, Chase had trusted in others to save him, but the only salvation was to be found in God and in himself. And after his experiences in Southeast Asia, he still was not entirely sure of God.
In the Metropolitan Bureau of Vital Statistics, in the basement of the courthouse, three women hammered away at typewriters with a rhythmic swiftness that seemed to have been arranged and conducted with all the care of a symphony-orchestra performance.
Chase stood at the reception counter, waiting for service.
The stoutest and oldest of the three women — her desk plate read NANCY ONUFER, Manager — typed to the end of a page, pulled the page from her typewriter, and placed it in a clear-plastic tray full of similar forms. 'May I help you?'
He had already figured what tact Judge must have used when asking to search the files here, and he said, 'I'm doing a family history, and I was wondering if I could be permitted to look up a few things in the city records.'
'Certainly,' said Nancy Onufer. She popped up from her chair, came to the gate at the end of the service counter, and opened it for him.
The other two women continued to type with machine-gun rapidity. There was a high degree of efficiency in the Bureau of Statistics that was unusual for any government office, no doubt because Nancy Onufer would accept no less. Her brisk but not unfriendly manner reminded Chase of the better drill sergeants whom he had known in the service.
He followed her through the office area behind the counter, past desks and worktables, and through a fire door into a large concrete-walled chamber lined with metal filing cabinets. More cabinets stood in rows down the center of the room, and to one side was a scarred worktable with three hard chairs.
'The cabinets are all labeled,' Nancy Onufer said crisply. 'The section to the right contains birth certificates, death certificates there, then health-department records over there, bar and restaurant licenses in that corner. Against the far wall we keep carbons of the draft-board records, then the minutes and budgets of the city council going back thirty years. You get the idea. Depending on the contents, each drawer is primarily organized either alphabetically or by date. Whatever you remove from the files must be left on this table. Do not attempt to replace the material yourself. That's my job, and I do it far more accurately than you would. No offense.'
'None taken.'
'You may not remove anything from this room. For a nominal fee, one of my assistants will provide photocopies of documents that interest you. If anything should be removed from this room, you will be subjected to a five-thousand-dollar fine and two years in prison.'
'Ouch.'
'We enforce it too.'
'I've no doubt. Thanks for your help.'
'And no smoking,' she added.
'I don't.'
'Good.'
She left the room, closing the door behind her.
It had been this easy for Judge too. Chase had hoped that the city would require a sign-in procedure by which those who wanted to use the files were identified. Considering Nancy Onufer's efficiency and the law against removing documents, Chase was surprised that she didn't keep a meticulous log of visitors.
He looked up his own birth certificate and also found the minutes of the city-council meeting during which a vote had been taken to hold an awards dinner in his honor. In the carbons of the selective-service records, he located the pertinent facts regarding his past eligibility for the draft and the document calling him for service in the United States Army.
Easy. Too easy.
When he left the storage vault, Nancy Onufer said, 'Find what you were looking for?'
'Yes, thank you.'
'No trouble, Mr. Chase,' she said, immediately turning back to her work.
Her reply stopped him. 'You know me?'
She glanced up and flashed a smile. 'Who doesn't?'
He crossed the open office area to her desk. 'If you hadn't known who I was, would you have asked for a name and ID before I went into the file room?'
'Certainly. No one's ever taken any records in the twelve years I've been here, but I still keep a log of visitors.' She tapped a notebook on the edge of her desk. 'I just put your name down.'
'This may sound like an odd request, but could you tell me who was here this past Tuesday?' When Mrs. Onufer hesitated, he said, 'I'm being bothered a lot by reporters, and I don't care for all the publicity. They've said everything about me there is to be said, after all. It's getting to be overkill. I've heard there's a local man working on a series for a national magazine, against my wishes, and I was wondering if he'd been here Tuesday.'
He thought that the lie was transparent, but she trusted him. He was a war hero, after all. 'It must be a pain in the butt. But journalists — they can never leave anyone alone. Anyway, I don't see the harm in telling you who was here. There's nothing confidential about the visitors' log.' She consulted the notebook. 'Only nine people came around all Tuesday. These two are from an architectural firm, checking some power-and-water easements on properties they're developing. I know them. These four were women, and you're looking for a man, so we can rule them out. That leaves three — here, here, and here.'
As she showed him the names, Chase tried to commit them to memory. 'No… I guess… none of them is
