“Who else knows about this syndrome thing?” he asked. “Is it in the paper?”
“No.”
New lede, he thought, drowsiness returning. “One had curious eyes, the other peculiar hair. But little did anyone know that in these eccentricities lay a common…something…”
Who says you can’t write on drugs?
“Did you bring a paper?”
“No. I can get you one. There was a box in the lobby.”
“No, stay.”
“Richter and his wife have vanished, no surprise,” she said after a moment. “It was on the radio. Did you know?”
Leo yawned. “I have vague recollections of my mother being here. And of Frank shouting at me. Poor Frank, ha ha. No one to arrest.”
“I don’t know how the Richters could leave without anyone getting wind, but I suppose they’ve always had some contingency plans.”
“Particularly after Mellish entered their lives.”
“That must have been a nasty surprise,” Stevie remarked. And in any other circumstance a richly deserved one, she thought bitterly. But the reunion of the two siblings had laid the ground for death, and anyone in possession of the damning truth might unwittingly have stepped on it. It had been Michael. Her mind flew suddenly to a rendezvous in some elegant riverside living room north of the city. She imagined the one, Mellish, eager, a little flushed, oblivious to what could only have been shock and dismay on the part of the other. To what length had Richter gone to contain this threat to the careful fabrication of his life, to manage the swarm of potentialities that Mellish represented? When Michael confronted Richter with his knowledge of the truth, did Richter then direct Mellish toward his murderous action? It was this thought that had been on her mind since she had read the cursory story of the murders in the Citizen that morning. She drew her hand away from the edge of a blanket she had been heedlessly worrying and put the question to Leo directly.
“Mellish told Liz that Richter was not involved,” Leo replied. “At least that’s what I overheard.”
“I wonder.” Stevie began doubtfully, thinking out loud. “Maybe Richter had a role after all. “The only way—sort of ironic—that he could have protected his identity would have been to tell Mellish the truth, or at least some version of it. And then instill in him the need for secrecy, making their continued relationship dependent upon it—”
“Which wouldn’t be hard,” Leo murmured. “You could almost feel Mellish’s need for approval at times.”
“So,” Stevie continued, “when Mellish found out what Michael had discovered he didn’t need to say anything to Richter, or ask what to do. He already knew what to do. And he did it.”
Leo thought back to the conversation he had overheard.
“‘Brotherly love’ Liz said last night. It’s strange, isn’t it, how love can be as destructive as hate? Mellish knew all about Richter’s crime and it didn’t matter. The need he felt to preserve his brother’s reputation must have been so fierce he was prepared to destroy in the process.”
Is this a lede?
Nah. Third paragraph.
“A grotesque form of identification,” Stevie continued.
“Been reading your mother’s psychology texts?”
“No, I got it directly from the source herself. She’s been psychoanalyzing it all morning. According to her, Mellish couldn’t separate himself from his brother so the threat to Richter became a threat to himself. He resembled Richter—I know you don’t think so—and then did what Richter himself did once upon a time—murder.”
Unbidden, images of Tuesday evening rushed through her mind. She could see it all now, as it must have been—Michael answering the door, taking him through the house to the study, walking ahead of him, just slightly ahead, talking affably of this or that, then perhaps bending to switch on the computer or pick up some photographs, then hearing a swoosh through the air as… A shudder went up her spine.
“Mellish was orphaned by the war, wasn’t he?” she said quickly.
Leo nodded. “Why? Is it important?”
“I was just thinking how shattering the loss of parents could be—particularly if you’re still a child.”
“I lost my father when I was seven years old. I don’t think I was too damaged.”
“But you weren’t orphaned. You still had your mother and a family around you. Mellish never knew his father. And then he lost his mother. And what about Merritt? And Guy? They were orphaned, too, at a young age.”
“And you think this accounts for their behaviour?”
Stevie shrugged. “Beats me. The one arts course I took at the U of M was in nineteenth-century English literature. I remember the prof saying novels then were full of orphans.”
Neat, Leo thought. A nice literary bullshit gloss. Ninth paragraph. He was about to ask the name of the prof when an obnoxious squeaking and scraping sounded outside in the hall. Stevie leaned back to look through the door and noted it was the meal cart.
“Dinner time,” she announced.
“I’m starved.” He smiled as the nurse, her broad features fixed in the patronizing smile of one who had tarried too long in the health care system, placed the covered plastic tray on a portable table and manoeuvred it across Leo’s lap. To make room, Stevie moved down to the end of the bed.
“There we are,” the nurse said airily. “I hope you’re not a reporter,” she barked in the same breath to Stevie. “We’ve been bothered by reporters phoning and showing up at the desk all day. I think we need to rest, don’t we?” she added to Leo. “Do we need anything else to drink?”
Stevie sorted through the “we’s” quickly. “No,” she said to the first question as Leo replied with the negative to the last.
“Oh, well then, we’ll look in on you a little later.”
“Why are reporters after me?” Leo blinked as the nurse departed.
“Don’t be so damned ingenuous. You’re today’s story in the Citizen.”
“Oh, hell,” Leo raised the lid of the tray. “I guess Liz blabbed.”
“You saved her life, you idiot.”
“Is this food?” Leo dabbed at the contents with a fork.
“Shall I go and get a paper?”
“Well, okay.” Leo examined something pale he’d speared with his fork. “I suppose it might be worthwhile to see what sort of hash they’ve made of the story.”
“I suppose,” Stevie drawled. “And maybe I’ll check through the classifieds for apartments. I think it really is time to move out of Max and Kathleen’s.”
“I know a place you could stay.”
Stevie gripped the railing and slid off the bed. She turned and gave him a smile. Unfortunately, it was ambiguous.
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