The Mask of Sanity

by Jacob M. Appel

  She stepped away from the car, and for a moment, he feared she might choose to walk. But then she crossed in front of the vehicle, and seconds later she was settled into the passenger seat with the knapsack braced between her legs. He smiled at her and eased the car gently on its way.

  “You have a name?” he asked.

  “Jane,” she said.

  He’d have wagered his entire salary that the girl had given him an alias. No matter. It probably served him right.

  “Good to meet you, Jane,” he said. “I’m Jeremy.”

  They coasted along the deserted backstreets of Jersey City. Balint navigated the potholes while searching for a suitable spot to deposit a body. About a half mile down Fox Place, the commercial district gave way to rows of dingy wood-frame homes.

  “Where you from?” asked Balint.

  “Someplace,” said the girl. “You sure you know where you’re going?”

  “Almost there,” said Balint.

  And then he slammed on the brakes.

  “Dammit,” he shouted. “I think I hit something.”

  He climbed out of the vehicle quickly. As he’d hoped, the girl followed. To their right stood a rather inhospitable playground, its jungle gym and monkey bars towering over the iron gate that surrounded the perimeter. During the day, Balint suspected the site crawled with schoolchildren. On the opposite side of the street stood a vacant parking lot advertising low monthly rates.

  He popped open the trunk and slid out his snow shovel.

  “Can you check the front tires?” he asked the girl.

  Jane did as instructed. As she conducted her inspection, leaning slightly forward, he brought the head of the shovel down upon her skull. He had taken a risk, he knew—another vehicle might have come along at that moment. In that case, he’d have denied offering her a lift and instead claimed that he’d merely hit her with his car, an accident; it would have been her word against his. Thankfully, no other cars appeared.

  Balint quickly carried the girl’s limp body to the playground entrance. Then he squeezed his hands around her neck. What amazed him most was how calm he felt as he wrung the life from her. Gone were the tingling nerves and the adrenaline rush. Now, killing was merely a routine task. As he tied each of the seven green ribbons around her neck, all he experienced was a numbing sense of indifference.

  THE NEXT day drew another summons to Bruce Sanditz’s office. Balint found the department chairman at his desk, gorging himself on a pastrami sandwich. Specks of lettuce clung to the nephrologist’s bicuspids. Even wearing a cashmere sweater, instead of a jacket, Balint’s boss did not appear casual. “Take a seat, Jeremy,” he urged. “I know what you’re thinking—that I’m killing myself with these cold cuts. Well, what would you say if I told you that my father is 102 years old and has been eating two pastrami sandwiches a day for nearly a century?”

  “I’d say he has excellent genes,” said Balint. “And very good luck.”

  “So would I,” agreed Sanditz, grinning. “Unfortunately, my father died from malignant melanoma at age sixty-three. But if he hadn’t, mind you, he’d still be devouring red meat like there’s no tomorrow.”

  “I don’t doubt it.”

  “Anyway, I didn’t drag you in here to gab about my hardening arteries. Now do you want the good news first or the bad news first?”

  Balint wondered if this were a trick question—if he were somehow stumbling headlong into a trap that might cost him his job.

  “The bad news,” he said.

  “Exactly. A man after my own heart,” replied Sanditz. “Always take care of the storm before you enjoy the calm.” The chairman paused, likely for effect. “So the bad news, Dr. Balint, is that I intend to live forever. Or, at least, until I reach 102 . . . And I don’t intend to retire. Ever.”

  “That’s the bad news?”

  “For you, it is. Because the good news is that if I had to recommend someone to Dr. Kimball to serve as the next department chairman, it would be you.”

  “Thank you. That means a lot.”

  “And do you want to know why?”

  Balint searched the chairman’s features, but they yielded nothing. “I’m not sure. Do I want to know why?”

  “You do, Dr. Balint. You most certainly do.” Sanditz removed his handkerchief from his slacks pocket and patted down his forehead. “The reason I would unequivocally recommend you as my successor is because Laurendale-Methodist’s reputation is based only partially on our state-of-the-art medicine. Equally important to our success—if not more so—is our good name. And our good name stems from our commitment to ethics. Now do you see what I’m driving at?”

  “I confess I’m not sure.”

  “Well, I am sure. I have an inside tip from my former graduate student that you are going to be named the first recipient of the Wenger Award for Ethics in Medicine by the American College of Physicians.”

  Balint hadn’t expected to win. “Jesus Christ,” he exclaimed.

  “I doubt Jesus Christ had anything to do with it. It’s all your doing, Jeremy. They were very impressed by that health project you’re running with the rabbi.”

  “It’s nothing, really . . .”

  “The only other person who deserves any credit is poor Sugarman, for bringing your brilliant work to my attention. Too bad about Sugarman, isn’t it?”

  “Not a day goes by,” replied Balint, “when I don’t think of Warren.”

  “Same here. Jeanine is still a wreck. Between you and me, she’s seeing someone now—a therapist, I mean. Not that I expect it will do her much good. What she needs is time and more time. But insurance pays for therapy, not time . . .”

  “I am truly sorry.”

  The funny thing was that Balint actually did feel sorrow for a brief moment—not regret that he’d killed his rival, but rather the detached sadness he might experience if someone else had murdered the supposed fiancé of the chairman’s daughter.

  “I do hope they catch that bastard,” said Balint. “Although honestly, I’m not too optimistic.”

  “They’ll catch him all right,” countered Sanditz. “Trust me on this one, Jeremy. I have more experience in these matters than you do—I’ve been hearing the media report on unsolved crimes for nearly sixty years. And do you know what I’ve learned?”

  “What?”

  “These men always get caught. They talk too much—they brag to a girlfriend, they confide in a neighbor . . . or they get arrested for something else entirely and spill the beans to the guy in the adjoining cell. Half the time, that other inmate turns state’s evidence—and the other half of the time he’s an undercover cop. So mark my words, Jeremy: by this time next year, we’ll be sitting in this office, watching them try that Choker fellow on live television . . .”

  “I hope you’re right.”

  “I know I’m right. Anyway I’m confident you have better things to do than gab about serial killers. So get back to work. Make some money for the hospital. And congratulations once again—only remember, the award’s not public yet. You’ll be named a finalist next week and they’ll invite you to their annual banquet in New York City—but the actual winner won’t be revealed until the event. So when they call out your name, make sure you look surprised.”

  “I won’t breathe a word. Now take good care of those arteries.”

  “Strongest arteries on the planet,” answered Sanditz, already browsing the next folder on his desk. “Practically lined with Teflon.”

  AS SOON as he arrived home, Balint shared his success with Delilah. If he’d still been living with Amanda, he’d have had to keep the secret to himself; otherwise, half of New Jersey would have been in on the news within hours. But Delilah was as discreet as she was devoted—so discreet that when he added that he’d promised Sanditz not to share the information with anyone until the award ceremony, she wondered aloud if he hadn’t done wrong by taking her into his confidence. “I’ll try to look surprised,” she said. “But I’d hate to make a mistake tha
t gives anything away.” She added that she’d read a novel about a breeder who fixed horse races—and how he’d been discovered because his wife always wore fancy outfits on days that his animals were slated to win.

  “I promised you no secrets,” said Balint. “Not even small ones.”

  She responded by hugging him to her chest. “I don’t know how I duped you into falling for me. But even if you left me tomorrow, I’d still be grateful for the time we had together. Truly.”

  Balint savored the warmth of her slender body.

  “Nobody’s leaving anyone,” he pledged.

  They made love in three different rooms that evening, and the next day he arrived at work in one of the best moods of his adult life. He’d nearly blocked out the knowledge that he still had yet another murder to perpetrate. Even when Chief Putnam announced the discovery of his most recent victim, whose name actually did turn out to be Jane—Jane Johnson of Belfast, Maine—Balint found himself surprisingly unconcerned with the news. His own life and the killings somehow seemed increasingly disconnected.

  Balint didn’t notice the stack of pink phone messages on his desk until the receptionist reminded him that he’d received three phone calls from the same extension. Only then did he recognize the name: Dr. Kimball! That was Dr. Marion Robbins Kimball IV, the president of the hospital. Balint knew the man by sight and had strolled past the oak-paneled doors of his second-story office on countless occasions—but his knowledge of the institution’s patriarch came largely secondhand. For Dr. Kimball kept an extremely low profile at Laurendale-Methodist, leaving most public matters to his army of executive vice presidents and department chairpersons. At the same time, Kimball was rumored to be both savvy and ruthless. His great-grandfather, Francis Marion Kimball, had founded the hospital as a community dispensary in the late nineteenth century. His uncle, Marion Robbins Kimball III, later transformed the facility from a small-time clinic into a nationally renowned tertiary care center. If a leading research scientist like Bruce Sanditz was willing to relocate from Johns Hopkins to central New Jersey, that alone served as a testament to Kimball’s skill as a recruiter.

  Balint’s hand trembled while he dialed the number. He feared the worst: that Kimball was cleaning house—firing both Sanditz and all of the chairman’s division chiefs. Why else contact him directly?

  “This is Dr. Balint,” he said, “returning a call.”

  “Jeremy Balint? Kimball speaking,” replied the gravel-voiced president. “Would you mind popping downstairs for a minute? If now is a convenient time, that is . . .”

  “I’m on my way.”

  Five minutes later, Balint found himself seated face-to-face with the hospital’s chief executive. He was surprised to find Kimball’s office as cozy as Bruce Sanditz’s was spacious. Other than the computer, the chamber looked as exactly it might have appeared in the days of the administrator’s greatgrandfather. Velvet curtains flanked the windows. Portraits of prominent Kimballs lined the walls. On a shelf behind the intricately latticed walnut desk stood pictures of Marion shaking hands with five different United States presidents.

  Marion Kimball was a slight, beak-nosed man in his fifties. He wore a pair of thin-rimmed spectacles, but he could just as easily have sported a monocle. Another man sat in the chair beside Balint: a burly, younger executive with a crew cut.

  “Jeremy Balint,” Kimball introduced him. “Roger Slade. External affairs.”

  Balint recognized the name instantly. Slade was the unseen figure behind the e-mail messages surrounding Sugarman’s death.

  “Good to meet you, Dr. Balint,” said the vice president.

  Slade wasn’t an MD, he remembered. He shook the man’s hand.

  Kimball offered Balint a cigar; he declined. The hospital president then lit one for himself and let the blue smoke curl toward the ceiling.

  “I’m sorry I haven’t had an opportunity to get to know you better before today. Somehow I’m always putting these things off—and then I’m forced to introduce myself to people under tragic circumstances.” Kimball puffed vigorously on his cigar. “I suppose I have nobody to blame except yours truly.”

  The words “tragic circumstances” welled in the pit of Balint’s stomach. He instantly feared something had happened to the girls—but that made no sense. Why would he learn of a personal calamity from the president of the hospital? More likely, he realized, the institution had discovered something suspicious in his professional conduct. For all he knew, maybe they’d figured out that he was the Emerald Choker, but they wanted to paper over the matter. That would certainly explain the presence of the public relations man. His exposure would look awful for the hospital, after all—and high-ranking people had certainly tried to cover up worse offenses. Watergate, for example.

  “I imagine you’re wondering why I summoned you,” said Kimball.

  A long silence ensued until Balint realized that the administrator was actually awaiting a reply. “I am curious,” he finally stammered.

  “Understandably.” Kimball removed his spectacles, cleaned the lenses with a tissue, and then returned them to the bridge of his nose. “I regret that I must be the bearer of misfortune, but there’s no alternative. Your colleague, Bruce Sanditz, passed away this morning.”

  “Sanditz? Dead?”

  “I’m afraid so. Rather suddenly. He was sitting in that very chair less than two hours ago—and now he lies on a cold slab in the basement. A stroke, it seems. As soon as we’re through, I’m going to have Roger call his family to let them know.”

  Balint struggled to digest the news. “You haven’t told his wife.”

  “Not yet,” said Kimball. “We will. But there are certain priorities, you understand. The welfare of the hospital is at stake . . .”

  “Of course,” said Balint—for the sake of agreement.

  “Bruce Sanditz was a fine fellow. A first-rate chairman. At the same time, I’ve been of the opinion for a while now that the medicine department was in need of new leadership—younger leadership. So it delights me to inform you that you are now the new chairman of the department of medicine. Effective immediately.”

  The president didn’t appear to be offering him the post, because an offer implied a choice of whether or not to accept. If he turned Kimball down—and he couldn’t imagine why he would—he half-feared the man might have his kneecaps shattered.

  “Acting head?” inquired Balint.

  “Permanent head,” retorted Kimball. “A smooth transition is our foremost priority. Besides, I can’t tell you how fed up I am with all of these temporary appointments and search committees and whatnot. I saw a sign once that read, ‘If Moses had been a committee, the Israelites would still be wandering in the desert.’ At a time like this, what we need is leadership and stability.” The administrator stubbed out his cigar. “Now clear your schedule for the day. We’ll have a press conference at noon. Roger will introduce you.”

  “I don’t know what to say,” said Balint. “I’m honored.”

  “They tell me you’re an ethics guy,” said Kimball. “Only last week, Bruce sat right in that chair and called you ‘The Conscience of the Medicine Department.’ Told me you’re winning some big-time award.”

  “The Wenger Award,” interjected Balint.

  “Wenger. That’s right. Anyway, I just wanted to reassure you that the chairmanship shouldn’t interfere with your clinical duties.” Kimball pointed directly at the vice president and added, “You keep doing what you’ve been doing all along. Only in a bigger office. Roger here will take care of everything else.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Bruce Sanditz’s wife had accompanied her daughter to visit Warren Sugarman’s gravesite that morning, forgetting her cell phone on her kitchen table. On the way home, mother and child stopped for lunch at a diner in Marston Moor. The proprietors, a trio of Greek brothers, kept the television running above the counter at all times. As a result, after watching Detective Mazzotta brief the media on developments—or ra
ther, the lack of developments—in the Constantinou slaying, Mrs. Sanditz was treated to an emergency twelve o’clock press conference on the local public access channel during which Roger Slade announced the death of her husband. Balint spent the next three days apologizing—to anyone who would listen—for this “gross oversight in judgment.” When he finally managed to reach the chairman’s widow directly, she told him to “take his new job and choke on it” before hanging up. So began his tenure as head of the Laurendale-Methodist department of medicine.

  Kimball hadn’t been lying: the only significant difference between his former position and his new one appeared to be the increase in office space. Sanditz’s desk was large enough to practice putting golf balls along the blotter, and his corner window offered a panoramic view of the posh coastal hamlets below, but the chairmanship didn’t appear to entail any tangible responsibilities. All of the hiring and firing decisions that Balint had long attributed to Sanditz apparently took place at higher levels of management. Even the nonrenewal of the junior attending who’d complained about the cost of banquet tickets appeared to be a coincidence; Balint used the perks of his new post to order the discharged physician’s personnel file from storage, and learned that the man had been caught fabricating research data. Fortunately, if Balint remained as powerless as ever, his colleagues remained blissfully ignorant of his lack of authority. Oncologists and pulmonologists he hardly knew clambered over each other to offer him their congratulations. Only Myron Salt swam against the current. Balint encountered the neurologist in the parking lot after work one evening, and Salt warned, “Those who can, do; those who can’t, teach; and those who can’t even do that, administrate. You’re too smart to spend the prime of your career ordering paper clips, Balint. Aren’t you?”

  Salt had a point. On the other hand, Kimball had tripled his salary overnight. At least until his divorce was settled, Balint assured himself, he’d been wise to accept the promotion. He didn’t have to serve as chairman forever—or even to remain at Laurendale Hospital. In fact, over the long haul, once the slayings were well behind him, the safest move might be to depart from the region entirely.