could be traced, that the way each struck a key against a piece of paper was distinct and recognizable. Is the same true for a computer printer?”
Riggins shook her head. “No.”
Ricky paused. “I don’t know much about computers,” he said. “Never really had the need in my line of work…” He stared across at the detective, who seemed to have grown slightly uncomfortable with his questions. “But don’t they internally keep a record of everything that was written on them?”
“You’re correct about that, too. On the hard drive, usually. And I see where you’re going with this. No, I did not check Zimmerman’s computer to make certain that he actually wrote the note on the computer he kept in his bedroom. Nor did I check his computer at work. A guy jumps in front of a train and I find a suicide note on his pillow at home. This scenario pretty much discourages any further inquiries.”
“That computer at work, a lot of people would have access to it, right?”
“I’m guessing he had a password to protect his files. But the short answer is yes.”
Ricky nodded, then sat silently for a moment.
Riggins shifted about in her seat, before continuing, “Now you said there were ‘circumstances’ around the death that you wanted to speak about. What are they?”
Ricky took a deep breath before replying. “A relative of a former patient has been threatening me and my family members with some unspecified harm. To this end, they have taken some steps to disrupt my life. These steps include bogus charges against my professional integrity, electronic assaults on my financial status, break-ins at my home, invasions of my personal life, and the suggestion that I take my own life. I have reason to believe that Zimmerman’s death was part of this system of harassment that I have been undergoing in the past week. I don’t believe it was a suicide.”
Riggins’s eyebrows had shot up. “Jesus, Doctor Starks. Sounds like you’re in some sort of mess. A former patient?”
“No. The child of one. I don’t know which one quite yet.”
“And you think this person who has it in for you persuaded Zimmerman to jump in front of the train?”
“Not persuaded. Perhaps he was pushed.”
“It was crowded and no one saw a push. No one whatsoever.”
“The lack of an eyewitness doesn’t preclude it happening. As the train approached, wouldn’t everyone in the station naturally have looked in the direction the subway train was traveling? If Zimmerman was at the rear of the crowd, which is suggested by the lack of precise eyewitness testimony, how hard would it have been to give him the necessary nudge or shove?”
“Well, of course, doctor, that’s correct. Not hard. Not hard at all. And certainly the scenario that you describe is one we are familiar with. We’ve had a few killings that fit that pattern over the years. And you are also correct that people’s heads naturally go in one direction when a train approaches, allowing almost anything to happen at the rear of the platform more or less unnoticed. But here we have LuAnne who says he jumped, and even if she’s not terribly reliable, she’s something. And we have a suicide note and a depressed and angry and unhappy man in a difficult relationship with his mother, staring at a life that many would consider to be something of a disappointment…”
Ricky shook his head. “Now you’re the one sounding like you are making excuses. More or less what you accused me of when we first spoke.”
This comment quieted Detective Riggins. She fixed Ricky with a long stare, before continuing. “Doctor, it seems to me that you should take this story to someone who can help you.”
“And who might that be?” he asked. “You’re a police detective. I’ve told you about crimes. Or what might be crimes. Shouldn’t you make a report of some sort?”
“Do you want to make a formal complaint?”
Ricky looked hard at the policewoman. “Should I? What happens then?”
“I present it to my supervisor, who’s going to think it’s crazy, and then channel it through police bureaucracy and in a couple of days you’re going to get a call from some other detective who’s going to be even more skeptical than I am. Who have you told about these other events?”
“Well, the banking authorities and the Psychoanalytic Society…”
“If they determine there is criminal activity, don’t they routinely refer matters to either the FBI or state investigators? Sounds to me like you need to be talking to someone in the extortion and fraud bureaus of the NYPD. And, if it were me, I might be looking to hire a private detective. And a damn good lawyer, because you might need them.”
“How do I go about doing that? Contacting the NYPD…?”
“I’ll give you a name and number.”
“You don’t think that you should look into these things. As a follow-up on the Zimmerman case?”
This question made Detective Riggins pause. She had not taken any notes during the conversation. “I might,” she said carefully. “I need to think about it. It’s hard to reopen a case once it has received a closed status.”
“But not impossible.”
“Difficult. But not impossible.”
“Can you get authority from your superior…,” Ricky started.
“I don’t think I want to open that door quite yet,” the detective said. “As soon as I tell my boss there’s an official problem, then all sorts of bureaucratic stuff has to occur. I think I’ll just poke around myself. Maybe. Tell you what, doctor, why don’t I look at a few things, then get back to you. At the least, I can go check that computer Zimmerman had in his bedroom. There might be a time stamp on the file that contains the suicide note. I’ll do it tonight or tomorrow. How would that be?”
“Fine,” Ricky said. “Tonight would be better than tomorrow. I’m under some time restraints. And you might pass on the name and number of the right people at the NYPD at the same time…”
This seemed like a reasonable arrangement. The detective nodded. Ricky took some inward pleasure in the observation that her mildly mocking and sarcastic tone had changed, shortly after he had raised the possibility that she had screwed up. Even if she thought this possibility remote, in a world where promotions and raises were so carefully connected to successful completions of investigations, the idea that she had overlooked a murder and defined it as a suicide was the sort of mistake that any bureaucrat was especially scared of. “… I’ll expect your call at your earliest convenience,” he said.
Then Ricky rose, feeling as if he’d just struck a blow for himself. Not a victorious sensation, but, at least, one that made him feel a little less alone in the world.
Ricky took a cab to Lincoln Center, to the Metropolitan Opera House, which was empty except for a few tourists and some security guards. There was a bank of pay telephones outside the men’s and women’s rooms that he was familiar with. The advantage of the phones was that from that location he could make a phone call, while at the same time keep an eye on anyone who might try to follow him into the opera house. He doubted that anyone would be able to get close enough to determine who he was calling.
The number he had for Dr. Lewis had been changed, as he’d expected. But he was connected to a second number with a different area code. He used most of the spare quarters he had to connect to that number. As the phone rang, he thought Dr. Lewis was now probably well into his eighties, and he was uncertain whether he would be of any assistance. But Ricky knew that this was the only way he could get some perspective on his situation, and with a desperate quality to his every step, it was one he should take.
The receiver rang at least eight times before being answered.
“Yes?”
“Doctor Lewis, please.”
“This is Doctor Lewis.”
It was a voice Ricky had not heard in twenty years, yet filled him with a rush of emotion that surprised him. It was as if a torrent of hates, fears, loves, and frustrations suddenly was loosed within him, and he forced himself, struggling, to maintain some composure.
“Doctor Lewis, this is Doctor Frederick Starks…”
Both men were silent for a moment, as if the mere meeting on the telephone after so
