A burst of arctic air had swept across the region overnight and the bitter chill ached in Balint’s lungs. His daughters blew on the car windows and fingered patterns in the condensed moisture. “Listen to me, Jessie,” said Amanda. “I want you to be nice to Davey Sugarman, okay?”
Jessie didn’t respond.
“Okay?”
“Okay, Mommy.”
Balint heard the resistance in his daughter’s voice—but he wasn’t in a mood to argue with Amanda. He’d been too busy before they left home to update himself regarding developments in the murder investigation and now he was burning to learn the latest details. Claiming that he wanted to check the weather, he flipped on the radio news. To his amazement, he heard his own voice: The tragedy is that these people are entitled to free comprehensive care—often only minutes from their own homes . . .
“Wow,” said Balint. “That’s my ad.”
The girls recognized his voice too. “Daddy’s on the radio!” exclaimed Phoebe. “Daddy’s on the radio!”
Balint glanced at them through the rearview mirror. Jessie wore a doubtful expression. “Is that really you, Daddy?” she asked.
“Yes, it is,” said Amanda. “Your father is fast becoming a radio celebrity.”
The expression of delight on Jessie’s face was worth the five hours he’d squandered at Steinhoff’s studio.
“You sound good,” said his wife. “Very professional.”
“Steinhoff thought I sounded too much like a real doctor.”
“As opposed to . . . ?”
“The idealized image that disenfranchised ghetto dwellers have of the kind of physicians who serve rich white people, or something like that. Although I’m sure your friend wouldn’t describe it exactly in those terms.”
Amanda folded her arms across her chest. “I’m sure he wouldn’t.”
After that, they drove in silence—except for the drone of the radio. As they were approaching Musselburgh Township, the station ran a short update on “The Choker.” First, they played an audio clip of Detective Mazzotta urging the public to come forward with knowledge of the crimes. “Anything out of the ordinary,” she said. “If you know of someone preoccupied with news about these killings, for instance, or someone who has been acting strangely of late. Please let law enforcement judge what’s important and what’s not. No suspicion is too trivial to report.” Balint also learned that the Saint Nicholas Society of Long Island, to which Stavros Constantinou once belonged, had raised $15,000 for clues leading to a conviction in the Queensferry case. At the rate that these bounties kept mounting, Balint reflected, he’d soon be worth more as a felon than as a physician. It genuinely frustrated him that he couldn’t share this irony with anyone. He reached forward to turn off the radio, then caught his mistake.
They arrived at the rink around ten o’clock. During the summer, the structure served as home court for the Musselburgh Mud Hens’ basketball team; in the winter, the municipality lacquered the gymnasium floor in a thin veneer of ice and used the structure as a hockey arena. On weekends, when the team was on the road, the town opened the facility to the public. Despite the weather, Balint found the parking lot nearly full. Sugarman and his son had already rented their skates and waited for them near the concession stand.
“Cold enough for you, Balint?” asked Sugarman.
The surgeon wore a Columbia Lions sweatshirt. His son sported a knit cap and matching mittens, but he’d taken off one of the mittens to stick a finger up his nose. No wonder that the girls showed no interest in him.
“Is it cold?” asked Balint. “I hadn’t noticed.”
Sugarman and Amanda shared a polite greeting. They didn’t shake hands or hug.
Balint had determined to make the most out of this encounter—to use the afternoon to pry from his nemesis any information he could glean about his schedule. Yet he feared this might appear incriminating and he realized he had to tread rather lightly. Then fate sailed his way once again. “I can’t tell you how good it feels to get out of the house,” said Sugarman. “I have an IRB proposal due first thing Monday morning—we’re testing Pfizer’s new antirejection drug—and I’m still not done with the protocol. It’s looking like the minute I get home, I’m going to be working straight through until the deadline.” He stretched his arms over his head. “I haven’t pulled an all-nighter since residency.”
The gears of Balint’s mind kicked into overdrive.
“What are you going to do with Davey?” he asked.
“Gloria’s taking him off my hands. Her father’s back on his feet—and not a moment too soon. I love that kid—don’t misunderstand me—but I didn’t go to medical school to drive carpools and pack lunch boxes. You know what I mean.”
Balint wondered if Sugarman would have had more time for a likable child. “I’d go crazy if anyone tried to take my girls away from me,” he said.
“Each to his own, I suppose. Being a father is important to me . . . but so is getting my research proposal approved.”
While they were chatting, Amanda had taken the girls to rent ice skates. His wife was now helping them tie the laces. Balint ordered his own pair and exchanged them for his sneakers with the teenage attendant. He did not enjoy skating. In hindsight he regretted having introduced the girls to the activity. Overhead the loudspeakers piped a wordless chorus of “Winter Wonderland” into the gymnasium.
Sugarman asked Balint, “Would you mind if I borrowed your wife?”
A moment passed before Balint registered that his rival meant as a skating partner. “That’s between you and her,” he said. His thoughts had already skipped ahead to the next day—when his rival would be alone at home.
Sugarman took Amanda by the hand and led her onto the rink. The man immediately demonstrated his skills: he was by far the most talented amateur skater that anyone present had likely ever witnessed. Balint’s wife had received lessons as an adolescent, but with Sugarman leading, she performed spins that rivaled Peggy Fleming. Her partner kept her on the ice through “Frosty the Snowman” and Tchaikovsky’s “Waltz of the Flowers.” Other skaters cleared space for the couple and watched in awe. At the end of the routine, many of these spectators applauded. Amanda whispered into the surgeon’s ear and giggled. Delight radiated from her every feature. She returned to the sidelines for hugs from Jessie and Phoebe.
“I didn’t know you were a ringer,” said Balint.
Sugarman beamed. “I played hockey in high school. The coach insisted we study some basic figure work in the off-season. At the time, I thought it was bullshit . . .”
“But now you can wow the ladies,” offered Balint.
“Something like that.”
Davey Sugarman tugged at his father’s elbow. The kid apparently had to use the restroom, but didn’t feel comfortable going alone. “We’ll be back,” said Sugarman.
After the pair departed, Amanda sat down on a nearby bench and adjusted her skates. Perspiration beaded her forehead.
“Can we go on the ice now?” asked Jessie.
“I’ll take them,” offered Balint.
Amanda shook her head. “Wait until Warren’s son gets back.” She turned to Jessie and added, “Please show Davey how to ice-skate.”
“I don’t want to,” said Jessie. “He’s disgusting.”
Amanda’s expression sharpened. “I’m not asking you, Jessica. I’m telling you. He’s our guest and we have to be kind to him.”
“I wish he hadn’t come,” said Jessie. “He’s not my guest.”
“Yes,” replied Amanda. “He is.” She clasped her daughter’s coat by both forearms and looked firmly into her eyes. “If you want us to bring you skating again this winter, you’re going to have to include Davey. Am I making myself clear?”
Balint had heard enough. “Don’t pressure her. She’s capable of choosing her own friends,” he warned. He smiled at his daughter and added, “It’s okay, honey . . .”
His wife glowered at him.
“Your fa
ther is mistaken. It is not okay.”
Jessie appeared frightened. She glanced over her shoulder, looking for reassurance from her sister, but Phoebe was occupied performing spins on dry land. For a moment, Balint feared his daughter might start to cry. Ultimately, Amanda relented.
“It’s all right, darling,” she said. “Never mind.”
Immediately the girls cavorted off toward the ice, where they’d spend the afternoon ignoring Sugarman’s nose-picking dolt of a child. Balint stood up to follow, holding onto the railing to maintain his balance. Behind him, he heard Amanda’s voice fire like a frozen bullet: “I truly hate you sometimes.”
Those were the final words she spoke to him all day.
HIS WIFE’S silent treatment lasted through the evening. The only reason Balint didn’t sleep on the sofa again was that he didn’t want to cede territory to her—either moral or physical. As far as he was concerned, she’d been way out of line to bully Jessie into socializing with that unpopular misfit. How could she possibly value the interests of her lover’s child over the welfare of her own daughter? It raised serious questions about Amanda’s judgment.
That night, Balint experienced one of the most intense and vivid dreams of his adult life. In the dream, he found himself seated in a courtroom—on trial for the murders of the Rockinghams, Kenny McCord, and Sofia Constantinou. Among the jurors, he recognized several colleagues from the hospital: Myron Salt, Andy Price, Sid Crandall. Also Ellen Arcaya and Matilda Rothschild. The forewoman, to his delight, was none other than Delilah. His mistress wore the same floral-print skirt and ruffled yellow blouse that he’d enjoyed removing from her body on their first date. As the prosecutor rose for his closing argument, the nursing student winked at him—and he felt confident he had the case in the bag. Even when the lawyer decried his villainy in the starkest terms, describing each death in dramatic and highly embellished detail, Balint remained confident that his fate was secure. But then he looked up—and the judge, wearing his Columbia Lions sweatshirt, was Warren Sugarman. His rival wielded a scalpel in place of a gavel. “The service of the jury will no longer be necessary,” declared the surgeon. “I will decide this matter myself.” In his dream, Balint felt himself seized with panic.
Somehow, in the landscape of his unconscious, Sugarman transmuted into Etan Steinhoff. The rabbi sported a white lab coat. At first, Balint feared that the rabbi was also going to condemn him—yet, to his amazement, Steinhoff lavished praise upon his actions. “God plays a mean game of chess,” said the Israeli. “But sometimes, He needs help moving around the pieces. That takes courage. So I’ve come here to honor a genuine hero, a man who devotes as much passion to snuffing out life as to saving it . . .” Balint experienced a surge of relief—and then he was awake.
It was already seven o’clock and sunlight peeked around the blinds. Out in the neighboring yard, he heard the Robustellis’ beagle howling at the dew. If he’d believed in the meaning of dreams, he’d have devoted the next hour to exploring his psyche. But Balint had no more patience for dream interpretation than for faith healing or the laying on of hands. To him, all were varieties of quackery. So instead of inventorying his soul, he spent the next hour mapping out his assassination plan.
The pretext Balint had determined upon to escape his family was another trip to his parents’—but to keep Amanda from sending the girls with him, he’d explain that the purpose of the visit was to discuss “living wills” and end-of-life planning. This conversation was a morbid affair, but one he’d been meaning to have with them for some time—and, for reasons he couldn’t articulate well, even to himself, the matter had taken on an added urgency since his killing spree began. Obviously such a discussion couldn’t take place in the company of small children.
Balint brewed himself a cup of coffee and read the New York Times. The Metropolitan Section contained a brief update on the Choker investigation, but the article revealed no new details. About twenty minutes later, Amanda appeared in the kitchen—her expression a blanket of exhaustion. His wife poured herself a glass of orange juice without acknowledging him. Balint informed her that he planned to meet his parents for lunch to review “advance directives.” In response, his wife glared at him and walked out of the room.
On any other morning, Balint would have pursued her and sought to reconcile. Instead he phoned his mother to make certain that his parents would be at home when he arrived. Then he looked in on his sleeping daughters, but refrained from kissing their foreheads, as he usually did, for fear that they’d wake up and delay him. By nine A.M., he was on the road—on his mission.
The day was dreary and windswept, punctuated by bursts of cold rain. On the golf course, an abandoned cart rested near the center of the green—the only evidence of any human presence. Balint was reminded of the August morning half a year earlier when he’d collided with the brindled dachshund. How strange that only six months had elapsed. He could no longer remember who he’d been before he’d started plotting his revenge against Warren Sugarman.
Balint’s parents were, as always, thrilled to see him. Even though it wasn’t yet ten in the morning, his stepdad wore a sport jacket and bow tie. He deflected their questions about Amanda and reassured them that he’d return the following Saturday with their granddaughters. Then the three of them settled down around the table in the living room. His mother passed him a cup of coffee.
“If you’d given me more notice,” she said, “I’d have prepared a hot breakfast. I’m afraid all we have are bagels and cream cheese.”
“I come for the company, not the food,” answered Balint—as he’d emphasized thousands of times before. “Anything new on the home front?”
“Well, the ignoramuses on the board of managers rejected my idea for distributing Iron Necks,” said Henry Serspinsky, shaking his head. “I’d be lying if I didn’t say I was mightily disappointed.”
“They didn’t see the risk?”
“Oh, no. They agreed with us about the danger. One of the numbskulls even acknowledged that my invention could save lives. The problem—Get this, Jeremy—is that they’re afraid of patent infringement. According to the legal department, some guy in Arizona markets protective equipment for circus performers with a similar design.”
“They call it the ‘Juggler’s Pal,’ ” interjected Balint’s mother.
Serspinsky scowled. “Can you believe that? Lives are at stake and they’re worried about intellectual property codes.”
Balint suspected the board was relying on the other invention as an excuse, rather than as a reason, but there was no point in pulling the wool from his stepfather’s eyes. “I wouldn’t worry too much about the Emerald Choker,” he counseled them. “If nothing else, it looks like you’re beyond the southern tier of his range.”
“I forgot you were the expert,” said his mother. “All I can say is, if you show up one day and we have green cords wrapped around our throats, don’t say we didn’t warn you.”
“I’m sure I’ll be kicking myself,” answered Balint with a smile.
His mother offered him a second bagel. “Very well. Joke about it. See if I care.”
Balint wondered if his parents were genuinely concerned about the Choker, or whether they’d merely latched onto the serial killings as a way of filling their ample expanses of free time. In either case, fear of strangulation offered an excellent segue into the end-of-life conversation he’d been wanting to have for months. “On the subject of dying,” he said, “I’ve been meaning to talk to the two of you about living wills.”
“Our wills are already with the lawyer,” said his mother. “Everything goes to you—except a few pieces of jewelry I’d like to leave to my cousins on the Kimball side.”
“Not regular wills. Living wills,” said Balint. He described the concept of advance directives, highlighting his concerns. Henry listened closely; his mother appeared bored. “Now I hope we don’t have to deal with this for another fifty years,” said Balint. “But in case something happens�
�let’s say you get injured fighting off the Emerald Choker—it’s important for me to know your wishes.”
Lilly Serspinsky refilled his coffee cup. “We’ll leave it to you to decide whatever you think is best. Won’t we, Henry?”
“As long as I’m not in pain,” said Balint’s stepfather.
Balint had feared this response. “But I’d like to know what you want, Mom. It should be about what you think is best.”
“Nonsense. We’ve raised a wonderful son—the most ethical human being on the planet, as far as Henry and I are concerned—and we have every right to trust you to make the best decisions for us. Capisce? Now we’ve had enough morbid conversation for one morning. Let’s talk about something uplifting . . .”
Balint winced internally when his mother called him “the most ethical human being on the planet.” Had his life always been filled with so many routine references to morality and justice? And was he only noticing now, for the first time, because of the circumstances? Or was this focus something new? These were purely academic questions, of course. The bottom line—and this was what mattered—was that he’d be the last person anybody might suspect of homicide.
Balint gave up his efforts to engage his parents in a discussion of advance directives, and instead they chatted about Jessie’s struggles with fractions and Henry’s conflict with a neighbor whom the retired veterinarian believed to be overfeeding her cat. At noon, he permitted his mother to kiss him on the cheek and then he set off for Meadow Court. His intention was to finish off his rival and still return home before two o’clock.
The Mask of Sanity Page 15