few decorative water pipes, rugs hung on the walls along with travel posters of ruins and mosques. That’s where the atmosphere stopped and reality set in as a local news radio channel filled the air instead of strains of exotic music. The cafe was shouldered on one side by a large Syrian-owned food shop and on the other by a Pan-Arab bookstore.
“Have you ever had Turkish coffee, Mr. Prager?”
“No.”
That elicited a big smile from Ogologlu. He clapped his hands together and held up two fingers to the counterman. Then, as he pointed at some pastries in a glass case, he and the barista had a brief conversation in their native tongue. When he came back to the table, he was still wearing the smile.
“This city is a remarkable place,” he said. “I only wish we appreciated that fact.”
“How do you mean?”
“Here we are in a Turkish cafe surrounded by Arab businesses in a city with perhaps the largest Jewish population in the world. I live in Ditmas Park or, as some call it, Little Pakistan. Little Pakistan abuts Mid-wood, which is dominated by Hasidic Jews. History would say none of this should be possible. And let us not even discuss Queens, where there are over one hundred and thirty languages spoken each day.”
“I’ve lived here my whole life, Doc. The melting pot is a crock of shit.”
“I am not naive, Mr. Prager, but I have lived in other places, places where the people are victims of their histories. Here, in this place, people rebuke the yokes of their histories. Not always, but on most days.”
“Nice speech. Maybe you should run for mayor.”
“I am afraid I would make a most dreadful politician. And I realize that the things I so admire about this place make it a target as much as anything else.”
The barista brought over two espresso-sized cups on saucers and a larger plate with a selection of crusty and syrupy pastries. Some were sprinkled with chopped pistachio nuts, others covered in a kind of shredded wheat. All seemed to feature gobs of honey. Ogologlu thanked him and watched him retreat back around the counter.
“I know it looks like espresso, but I would advise against drinking it so. The grinds are at the bottom of the cup. The pastries… for them, I will leave you to your own devices. Enjoy.”
I took a sip of the coffee, which the psychiatrist watched with delight. “Amazing,” I said, “strong and sweet. I’ve never had anything quite like it.”
For the next ten minutes we sat there making small talk, sipping our coffees, sampling the pastries.
“You were talking about people being prisoners of their histories, Doc. Was John Tierney a prisoner of his?”
The smile ran away from Ogologlu’s face. “As complex as we like to believe human history is, schizophrenia is a far more difficult a proposition. It defies the kind of analysis and deconstruction we feel comfortable with. Oh, we can describe it well enough, list its various manifestations, symptoms, drug therapies, and the rest, but…” He didn’t finish his thought. He didn’t need to.
“He suffered from paranoid schizophrenia, right?”
“Broadly speaking. And before you ask, most people with this diagnosis tend not to be violent. Sometimes, however, they turn on people, even those closest to them.”
“How long had you been treating him?”
“Since he was about nineteen. He was a sophomore at the Rhode Island School of Design, a fine arts major, I believe. Apparently, he had been displaying some symptoms since his mid-teens, but his mother and teachers dismissed his unusual behavior as the eccentricities of a talented and precocious child. When he was forced to withdraw from college, his mother was referred to me.”
“Did the cops tell you about the paintings of the saints on his walls, the Christ-heads, the altar?”
“They did. It was not a surprise to me. From the beginning, John, like many schizophrenics, had incorporated a strong religious element into his organizational scheme. Schizophrenia is an amazing disease, Mr. Prager, in that its manifestations can be very similar from patient to patient. The aluminum foil on the windows, the conviction that someone or some group is trying to read and influence thoughts, these are common things.”
“Did he ever talk about Sashi Bluntstone?”
Ogologlu swallowed hard. “He had, but more with a kind of religious reverence. He had mentioned a hundred people this way. What is it you are really asking me?”
“You’re a smart man,” I said. “There’s lots of questions, but the one I guess I want answered is, could anyone have seen this coming?”
“I don’t know if anyone could have seen it coming. I can only say that I did not.”
“So there was no indication that he could turn violent.”
“I did not say that. Maybe there were a thousand indications that he was capable of such heinous acts and I failed to see them. Maybe there were none. As I said, John’s disease defies easy answers. I can say that there were no overt and obvious signs that John was a danger to himself or others. On the other hand, I hadn’t seen him for several months before this happened. Therefore, I cannot say with any degree of certainty that his psychosis hadn’t deepened or evolved into something different and dangerous.”
“There’s a lot you cannot say.”
“There is one thing I can say, though. It seems to me that you are searching for some kind of absolution. Looking to me for that will only lead to disappointment. Absolution does not fall within my purview, I’m afraid. And frankly, in this kind of situation, I’m not certain there is anyone who can grant it to you. I can also say that I treated John and was myself shocked to hear the news about what he had done. Therefore, I would not be so fast to judge myself as harshly as you have judged yourself. You spent a few minutes with him and made an error. I spent years with him. If there is guilt and culpability here, there is plenty to go around. So you see, there is no hope of absolution for me either. Now, if you’ll excuse me,” he said as he stood. “I think I would like to go home and see my family.”
I stood and shook his hand. “Thanks, Doc. If I have any other questions, would you mind if I called?”
He shrugged, not looking thrilled at the prospect of rehashing the subject of John Tierney. Yet, he said, “If I can be of assistance, certainly feel free to contact me.”
When he left, I ordered another coffee and sat, listening mostly to the traffic noise on Atlantic and my even noisier thoughts. No matter what Dr. Ogologlu had said, I was choking on guilt. I’d been through this kind of thing before, in the wake of Katy’s murder and, all things considered, I’d take a lungful of cancer over guilt. You can cut cancer out, burn it out, starve it, poison it. And if none of that works, the worst thing it can do is kill you. Cancer has a spot, a place, a name, even a face, but guilt is more insidious. It doesn’t spread because it’s everywhere to begin with, and it has a voice. It sings to you, but it won’t kill you. No, that’s on you. Guilt is the cab that drives you to the airport, but you have to crash the plane yourself.
Then, above the traffic noise and the din of my guilt, a news story came over the cafe speakers that just made my day complete.
… for that we go to our Long Island bureau chief, Marsha Farmer…
“We’re here at the Junction Gallery in Sea Cliff where, only minutes ago, patron of the arts Sonia Barrows- Willingham announced that the hundred thousand dollar reward she offered for information leading to a break in the Sashi Bluntstone case, has been awarded to Moses Prager. Prager, a Brooklyn native, is a private investigator and retired NYPD officer. A friend of the Bluntstone family, he was brought into the case three weeks after the young artist was kidnapped from this scenic North Shore village. Within a week, Mr. Prager had gotten a line on a possible connection between Sashi Bluntstone and John Tierney. Following the lead developed by Prager, the NYPD and detectives from the Nassau County Police went to Tierney’s Gerritsen Beach, Brooklyn home…”
I left ten dollars on the table and my second cup of coffee untouched.
TWENTY-EIGHT
That first night was worst of all. My phone machine was already full by the time I got home and I shut off my cell after taking calls from Aaron and Sarah. Both were politic enough and knew me well enough not to ask if I was happy about getting the money. There was nothing happy in any of this. Well, maybe Sonia Barrows-Willingham caught a buzz. Her extensive collection of Sashi’s art had probably just gone up several fold in value and the thought
