Dr. Corliss laughed. 'Come on in, David, come on in,' he said.
'But what about …?' David nodded toward the woman.
'Violet? She'll be fine. Always comes an hour too early. I let her keep the compulsion.'
Inside, the office was as simple as the waiting room and not much larger: basic leather couch, two recliners, maple desk and high-back chair. Its ivory sidewalls were sprinkled with diplomas, certificates and photographs of class reunions. Paintings of Sigmund Freud and Karl Menninger dominated the wall behind the desk, framing Dr. Corliss as he sat. David sunk in a recliner before the desk, but he kept it upright, feet on the floor, knees higher than his hips.
The psychiatrist looked the part: white beard, pince-nez, frumpy ashen suit that coordinated well with the fluff around his ears. Wrinkles terraced his forehead. A star key medallion dangled from his neck and David, conjecturing it was used as a metronome in hypnosis, determined he would cry foul if he saw it move.
He was still conscious of men's heights: what's going on? Did Foster only hire department chiefs as tall as he is?
'Sam, I'm not sure what Belle said but I'm not here for myself-although the way things are going, the day might come.'
'All she did was set up the appointment.'
'I'll get right to the point, then. We've had four killings here now …'
'Four? No. Let's see-Bugles and there's what's his-name, Everett Coughlin, from Yonderville across town.' He waved contemptuously.
'And Ted Tanarkle.'
'Ted? Oh, no! When?'
'This morning. You hadn't heard?'
'No. Poor Ted. What a grand guy.'
'Sam, you've been tied up reading too many of your journals. You've got to cut back. Nothing changes in Psychiatry anyway.' David corrected himself inwardly: except maybe you, Sam. You seem different.
'Ted Tanarkle?' Corliss appeared transported to the past. He repeated the name, shook his head like a stunned prizefighter clearing away cobwebs and said, 'No, actually it's not my journals. It's my caseload. I've been cooped up here since seven this morning and even missed lunch. I'll let you in on something, David.' Dr. Corliss pointed to a stack of patient records on. a side table, looked both ways and measured his words: 'People are getting crazier-and there are more of them.'
David snorted. 'Well, we have a case in point here. There's a real loony tunes running around this hospital.'
'How did it happen? With Ted, I mean.'
'He was on the sixth floor and, moments later, was found lying on top of the car at the bottom of the back elevator shaft. Someone rigged the mechanism.'
'Down the shaft? Oh, my! It couldn't have been an accident?'
'Conceivably, but think about it, Sam-the mechanism was rigged. Plus the killer left a message.' David revealed the contents of the smeared paper on his windshield the week before and of the tape in the control room. 'Now,' he added, leaning forward, 'and this is why I'm here. What's your read on the kind of person doing this? Hardly your run-of-the-mill miscreant, right?' Hell, David thought, why not 'shrink-speak'?
'Hardly. Take the way Charlie Bugles was slaughtered.' The psychiatrist spoke deliberately. 'Now you tell me about this elevator shaft thing-that took a lot of precision, I would guess. Why didn't our Mr. X just use a gun? He must have had a mental lapse in shooting Coughlin, and that's characteristic of this personality type-inconsistency. Next, we add the notes. That's also characteristic: `Look world, look what I'm about to do,' or `Look what I've done.' He not only kills, but gets a kick out of announcing it in advance or applauding himself afterward. The murder is not sufficient, even if there's real motive. He's compelled to add an unreal touch of the dramatic-an exclamation point, if you will.'
David slid to the edge of the recliner. 'He knows exactly what he's doing, then?'
'Yes, indeed. In my opinion, these aren't simply random killings. The guy's got motive and diffuse hostility. It's not well-organized like a specific gripe against a specific person or thing. It's diffuse. It's rage. And that's the worst combination: a person with a diffuse hostility who's presented with a motive he can't handle in predictable ways. He feels persecuted and goes bonkers.'
David realized he was receiving insights from a man who drew on many years of experience in the behavioral field, insights that coincided with his own tenuous ideas. That's the way it was for him lately: uncertain, everything a battle in his own mind. David needed reinforcement. But also structure. He was getting both from Dr. Corliss.
'Sam, can I ask you about a specific person?'
'You mean some famous cases? The Boston Strangler? Son of Sam? Jack, the Ripper? None of them fits this profile, incidentally.'
'No. I mean Victor Spritz.'
'Victor Spritz? He's a suspect?'
'I'd have to answer yes, but I'm not sure. You know him as well as I do. What can you say?' David leaned closer. 'Better still, has he ever consulted you?'
Dr. Corliss stood and walked to a filing cabinet, draping a thick wrist over its top. 'Everything in here is confidential, David. It would be a breach of medical ethics and my conscience, too, to reveal if a person is or is not a patient of mine, whether we discuss the case or not. You see, merely saying so-and-so was a patient gives him a label. A psychiatric label. And I happen to believe that an extension of that ethical canon-if we can call it that-is that it's unconscionable even to say someone has never consulted me. So the way we get around it is-if you're asking whether Spritz has ever seen me professionally, I can say there's no record of him in here.' He patted the file cabinet.
'Sam, you're beautiful! Okay, let me ask, then could he fit the mold you described?'
'Without a doubt ' The psychiatrist fingered his medallion as David checked for movement. 'I've seen Spritz at his worst and, frankly, he scares me. He's either easily triggered into rage reactions or he's got T.E.D.'
'T.E.D.?'
'Transient Explosive Disorder. Either way, he should be on medication. I'd love to see his EEG.'
Dr. Corliss returned to his chair and, drumming his fingers on the desk, said, 'But do you know what? There are plenty of others tottering on that same edge-working right here in this hospital.'
'Care to name a few?'
'Now, now. Ethics. Remember-ethics.'
For the most part, David had received the information he sought. And as he departed from the psychiatrist's office, he realized what it was that appeared changed in the wizened psychiatrist. He no longer acted like a disgruntled loser as he had the year before in the election for Chief of Staff at Hollings General.
Chapter 13
After the visit to Rosen Hall, David motored home primarily to upload three days of information into his computer. Typing haltingly, he came to understand such entries were another mechanism for structure, a means of distilling chaos while cleansing his mind.
Tuesday, January 20
MURDERS, continued-
Ted Tanarkle-bottom of elevator shaft.
Mayor and hospital committees acting up. Bernie never took flight to Tokyo.
Sparky: Coughlin's murder weapon Japanese rifle. Kathy: Says I'm still running show. But, what's Nick up to?
Foster had major surgical training.
