The Murder Book

'What's his excuse?' I said.

'He's weak. Cut him open you'll find a Silly Putty spine.'

'You sensed the weakness right away,' I said.

'You noticed that, huh? Yup, moved right in on ol' Nicky. Got a nose for weakness. Doesn't that make me pleasant company?'

When we reached the gray Olds, I said, 'I know you're going to tell me I'm laying more shrink stuff on you, but I don't believe your situation's comparable to Hansen's. He had access to firsthand information about the murder and kept it to himself for twenty years. In order to do that, he convinced himself Chapman had been hallucinating, but those details- cigarette burns, the way they moved Janie- say he knew better. Hansen engaged in two decades of self-delusion, and who knows what it did to his soul. You tried to do your job and were ordered off the case.'

'Following orders?' He gazed up the block absently.

'Fine,' I said. 'Torment yourself.'

'Hansen paints, I don't,' he said. 'We all need our hobbies… listen, thanks for your time, but I need to sort things out, figure which way to go with this.'

'What about the main point we got from Hansen's story?' I said.

'Which is…'

'What you were getting at with that final question in the studio about anyone else being at the murder. Chapman spilled his guts to Hansen but made no mention of Caroline Cossack or Willie Burns. Meaning they probably weren't there. Despite that, the Cossacks stashed Caroline at Achievement House for six months and had her tagged with a behavioral warning. Burns returned to the streets, got busted for dope, took a big risk by getting himself a job at Achievement House. Maybe he skipped on Boris Nemerov because of what he'd seen at the party. If he went to jail on the drug beef, he'd be a sitting duck.'

'Burns as a witness.'

'Maybe he followed the King's Men because he figured there'd be more doping and he could peddle more merchandise. Caroline could've just been hanging with him. Or she wanted to hang out with her brothers- the odd little sister who'd always gotten shunted to the background. The initial motive for Janie's murder was to silence her. Luke Chapman may have died for the same reason. Caroline and Burns would've been extreme liabilities.'

'Victims, not murderers,' he said. 'And all the more likely to be dead.'

'Those two photos preceding Janie's death shot. A dead black guy and a mangled white female mental patient. Maybe whoever sent the book was trying to tell you about two other db's.'

'Except, as you pointed out, the dead black guy was in his forties, which would be Burns's age now, not twenty years ago.' He took hold of the door handle. 'I need to develop a few migraines over this. Ciao.'

'That's it?'

'What?' he said.

'You go your way, I go mine?' I said. 'Is there something you aren't telling me?'

His half second hesitation belied his answer. 'I wish I had something not to tell, Alex- look, I appreciate your effort but we can go over theories till the Second Coming, and it won't move me any closer to solving Janie.'

'What will?'

'Like I said, I need to do some thinking.'

'Alone.'

'Sometimes,' he said, 'alone helps.'

I drove away wondering what he was keeping from me, peeved at being shut out. Thinking about what didn't await me at home turned irritation to dread, and before I knew it I was hunched over the wheel, driving too fast- going nowhere fast.

Nothing worse than a big house when you're alone. And I had no one to blame but myself.

I'd screwed things up, royally, despite Bert Harrison's wise counsel. Like most expert therapists, the old man wasn't one for offering unsolicited advice, but during my visit he'd made a point of warning me off the paranoia trail when it came to Robin.

'Sounds like small things have been amplified… this is the girl for you.'

Had he sensed something- sniffed out nuances of my impending stupidity? Why the hell hadn't I listened to him?

A blast of honks jolted me. I'd been sitting at the green light at Walden and Sunset for who knew how long and the cute young woman in the VW Golf behind me thought that justified a snarl and a stiff finger.

I waved at her and sped off. She passed me, stopped talking on her cell phone long enough to flip me off again, nearly collided with the curb as her VW struggled with the winding road.

I wished her well and returned to thoughts of Bert Harrison. The other opinions the old man voiced that day- outwardly casual remarks tossed out at the tail end of my visit.

Coincidence or the old therapist's trick of harnessing the power of the parting word? I'd used it myself hundreds of times.

Bert's parting shot had been to bring up Caroline Cossack. Out of context- well after we'd stopped discussing the Ingalls case.

'That girl. So monstrous, Alex. If it's true.'

'You seem skeptical.'

'I do find it hard to believe that a young female would be capable of such savagery.'

Then Bert had gone on to express doubts about Willie Burns as a lust murderer.

'A junkie in the strict sense? Heroin? Opiates are the great pacifiers… I've certainly never heard of a junkie acting out in such a sexually violent manner.'

Now it looked as if Bert had been right on.

Was all that the intuition of an exceptionally insightful man?

Or did Bert know?

Had Schwinn continued to work the Ingalls case for years after leaving the department? Had he told Bert about what he'd unearthed?

Bert had admitted knowing Schwinn but claimed the relationship was casual. Chance meetings in theater lobbies.

What if it was anything but casual?

Schwinn had fought his way out of drug addiction, and perhaps he'd done so on his own. But that kind of progress would've been helped along by treatment, and Bert Harrison had trained in addiction treatment at the Federal hospital in Lexington.

Schwinn as Bert's patient.

Psychotherapy. Where all kinds of secrets tumbled out.

If any of that was true, Bert had lied to me. And that could explain all those apologies he'd tendered. His contrition- so puzzling at the time that I'd wondered about Bert's deteriorating mental state.

Bert had encouraged my suspicions: 'One regresses. Loses one's sense of propriety. Forgive me.'

'There's nothing to forgive-'

I remembered how he'd wiped away tears.

'Is everything okay, Bert?'

'Everything is as it should be.'

Seeking forgiveness because he knew he had to lie to me? Protecting Schwinn because of patient confidentiality?

But Schwinn had been buried seven months ago and any privilege had died along with his body. Perhaps Bert held himself to higher standards.

Or maybe he was protecting a living patient.

In drug treatment- the kind of intensive treatment Bert would've prescribed for a long-term addict like Schwinn- family members were included. And Marge was all the family Schwinn had had left.