Wolfman - Art Bourgeau

by Art Bourgeau

  But why?

  "We were talking about your mother. . ."

  Loring stared at her for a moment. Maybe she can understand, he thought.

  "You’re much younger, much prettier, much smarter, but sometimes you remind me of her when you do that . . . smoke, I mean. The way you look at me when you do that. It's as if you know a secret. There's a cool elegance . . . a sensual — sorry, shouldn't have used that word. It's unprofessional here."

  He was still not accepting his role of patient. "You mean the word ’sensual’? It's okay if you find something about me sensual."

  By the book, she told herself, but in spite of her words Margaret was now self-consciously aware of her cigarette. He had boxed her into a corner. If she continued to smoke after what he’d just said he might well interpret it the wrong way, as sexual interest on her part. But if she stopped he would certainly interpret it as rejection. She took a drag on her cigarette, trying to keep her movement as natural as possible while watching him watch her.

  Of the two possibilities rejection was the more serious. Patients often developed crushes on the analyst. She could handle that, but if he felt rejection all their work, the trust would come undone. She blew out the smoke and tried to think of it as building a working bond between them rather than a submission on her part.

  From the first, if someone had given her a pencil and told her to draw an emotional portrait of him she figured it would be a hunchback, body bent, twisted, handsome features filled with pain. Not a cripple. He wasn't that. She was adamant with herself about that. In time he would straighten, realize his worth, but the pain of the process would be his. Her role was to have the guts and skill to help him face that pain.

  As he watched her he felt something that he had never felt before. He knew it was not another of the things that happened nightly since the episode. Things he hoped were dreams but feared were not.

  What he felt now was not of the darkness but of light, and he wanted it to fill him, he wanted to revel in it, to nurture it, to call it . . . love. It must be, he told himself. See, she feels it, too. She gives herself to me. We are no longer faces on playing cards that rub against each other in the deck. We are one, like Lancelot and Queen "G" . . . The desire teared his eyes.

  From a distance he heard her say, "Why haven't you seen your parents since you graduated from college," and the mood was broken. He felt a bubble of anger release and before he could stop it, rise to the surface.

  The explosiveness of it startled Margaret.

  "Don’t call them my parents. Parentology should be the name of a religion. A California church that sells vitamins. You sound like my sister. They are not my parents. She is my mother, an accident of birth . . . he is her husband. My father is dead. Do you hear that . . . my father is dead . . ." His voice rising.

  Margaret sat very straight in her chair. What was happening was important, their first breakthrough. It was so sudden, so powerful. She continued to smoke with deliberate movements, wanting him to feel the bond between them, mentally urging him on, thinking the words "Come on. Let it out. Come on," over and over.

  He turned away from her in his chair, feeling ashamed. Like a night long ago with his mother. The femininity of tears made him embarrassed and he didn't want Margaret to see him.

  "Don’t you understand?" It was as if he was feeling one language but speaking in another, unable to link them.

  "Look at me. Help me to," she said quietly, feeling something of his pain, wanting for a moment to touch him, to reassure him.

  He turned to her. "He . . . he killed himself. . . when I was eight . . ."

  The past, that part of it, came rushing at him in a jumble. It was on his lips before he could think. Stop, he told himself. You'll lose her. Don’t say a word. You'll lose her if you say any more.

  Margaret waited. When he shut up she knew that the door that had opened so abruptly had closed again. She was, of course, curious about his father's suicide, but only as it related to Loring. It wasn't her immediate concern. They could go back to his father's death later. She was more interested in his feelings about his mother. Clearly his outburst was linked to her, provoked by talk about her.

  "After your father's death she remarried . . ."

  "He was my father's business partner. They were manufacturers’ representatives," he said, holding himself tight in check.

  The way he answered bothered her. His tone was flat, empty of emotion, each word getting a too measured beat with no emphasis. The flatness could mean he was trying to tell her his displeasure that he was unable to express in words. "How long was it before she remarried?"

  He shook his head. Why this? Why did she go out of her way to hurt him? Didn’t she understand that painful as these sessions were, being here with her was the only thing in his life that he looked forward to? Maybe if he explained it in his own way she would understand . . . "A few months," he finally said. He knew Margaret wanted more, but there were things about those years he would not even let himself remember,

  much less speak about.

  "Even though she's artistic, structure is very important to my mother. At first you wouldn’t think the two would go together, but they do. She weaves these incredible tapestries from scratch. They’re like nothing you’ve ever seen, not colors or flowers, human figures, I mean whole scenes. They sell for thousands and thousands. Museums buy them, collectors, she's booked up years in advance. Always has been . . .

  "Once after she remarried I drew a picture like one of her tapestries and gave it to my sister. It was of a picnic. In it was my mother, my sister, Wolf my German shepherd, and me. When my mother saw it she was angry." His tone was still flat.

  Margaret was delighted. The door hadn't closed after all. So far he had refused to discuss his dreams, but at least here, fertile for interpretation, was his subconscious at work. Freud had said dream-thinking and wish-thinking were the same thing, central to the resolution of the conflict, bypassing the repressions of the conscious mind. Well, they were getting closer. she liked the feeling, the bond between them. 'Her patients were people, not modules of neuroses, she reassured herself. They were important to her, but because of the intricacies of his particular conflict, and perhaps his newness, she admitted that sometimes he seemed more so than some others.

  "Why was she angry?"

  "She said it was a bad picture. The structure was all wrong, that I'd made Wolf too large in relation to the other family members, but I knew the reason was really because I hadn't included her husband. You see, she'd made her choice . . ."

  "And you weren't too happy with her choice . . ."

  "Happy or not happy . . . it was her life," he said.

  "It was your life, your sister’s life, too," she said, wanting him to confront his anger about her choice.

  "My sister is happy, always has been."

  "Then you . . ."

  "There were times . . . it was okay with me. I was happy I . . ." Suddenly defensive.

  She lit another cigarette. "Do you remember actually drawing the picture?"

  "Vaguely. It was a long time ago."

  "When you drew Wolf larger than the people, what were you thinking."

  Her question brought back memories of Wolf. Of his room and Wolf sleeping at the foot of his bed, protecting him. Of them together, exploring the world, their fort, their playtime. Finally he said, "That was the only real friend I had."

  "What about the other people in the picture. Weren’t they your friends, too?"

  He shook his head. "Maybe when my father was alive . . ."

  Margaret took a drag on her cigarette. He was no longer watching her when she did, his attention seemed on the far away, as if he was watching scenes from long ago. The look on his face was so unhappy that she wished she could be in those scenes with him to help him through.

  "Do you miss your father?"

  He looked around the room. It’s cool softness reminded him of a cave. He tried to think of it that way. Their fort, his
and Margaret's. It could be.

  "A day never goes by that I don’t think of him," he answered truthfully.

  The aloneness in his reply had to move her, and she remembered her own father's death.

  He focused on her. "They're wrong, you know, when they say the body can’t remember pain . . ."

  Her eyes momentarily widened. It was the exact thought she was thinking at that moment.

  CHAPTER 8

  SLOAN LOOKED at the findings from the Hightower apartment and listened to Mercanto's theories without interruption. When he finished there was a look of some respect on Sloan's face that Mercanto had not seen before.

  "I have to agree with you. It looks like you're on to something. Of your two theories you’re probably right, drugs look like the more likely. His lifestyle fits it. The park fits it, but I wouldn't rule out the blackmail theory, either."

  "You have something in mind?"

  "The ex-wife . . . remember how I told you she acted when she came to identify the body? Seeing him mutilated like that didn't faze her. Could be something sexual . . ." Sloan said, picking up the amyl nitrates, "something that started when they were married, and she hated him for it. Maybe it wrecked their marriage and the blackmail was a way to get even. Maybe he decided he'd had enough. That's why they met, for him to tell her he wasn't going to pay her any more and she flipped out."

  Mercanto nodded. "Makes sense . . . in a sick sort of way."

  "It’s a sick business. Keep at it."

  Mercanto drove from the Roundhouse on Race to Locust Street near Rittenhouse Square. He parked and walked down the block to Hightower Opticals. The business occupied an entire brownstone.

  The first floor reception area was more like an art gallery than a place that made and sold glasses. Scattered on the polished pine floors were low square chairs covered in black, glass tables with magazines on them, and green plants.

  Soothing music was piped in. Mercanto recognized it as New Age by a Japanese musician named Kitaro. He'd heard it before from friends in his Aikido dojo.

  He went up to the receptionist, a young blonde with long hair seated behind a white desk, and showed her his badge.

  "I’m here about Mr. Hightower’s murder. Could I see whoever’s in charge?"

  The sight of the badge seemed to make her nervous. "That would be Cheryl Goldman, the manager," she said.

  While she made the call Mercanto strolled over and looked at one of the large paintings on the wall. It was done in blues, greens, and reds, all blending together in a soft harmony without any discernible lines. A brass plaque at the bottom of the frame said: "Seafire by Murray Dessner." He knew Frank would admire the way it seemed to capture from the inside the essence of its subject.

  The receptionist hung up the phone. "She'll be right down . . . God, the place has been in a upheaval since . . . you know. We were all so shocked. He was such a nice man. Who would do such a thing?"

  "That's what I'm trying to find out."

  A tall, dark-haired woman in a close-fitting black dress entered the room. "I’m Cheryl Goldman," she said.

  Mercanto showed his badge again and followed her to an office on the second floor. She sat behind the desk, he in front.

  "This seems like a pretty big operation here . . ." he said.

  "It is," she said proudly. "We have a staff of twelve. For an optometry practice that's an incredible size."

  "What makes this one so special? Chestnut Street is loaded with them," he said.

  "You may have seen some of the articles. We cater to difficult needs in glasses . . . Are you the man who's heading up the investigation into Stanley's death?"

  "That’s right. I'll try not to take too much of your time, but there are a few points I need to clear up." He consulted his notebook. "Right now we’re trying to piece together what happened the night he was killed. Do you have any idea what he was doing that evening from, say, eight-thirty on?"

  "Well, when he left here he was going home to change, then he was going to have dinner at Lagniappe with John and Elizabeth Cohen. They’re old friends who own Interiors, the decorating place on Walnut near Le Bec Fin. We used to have dinner with them at least once a week."

  "You say we, were you there?"

  She hesitated. "Usually the answer would be yes, but that night he didn't invite me."

  "Did he give you any reason?"

  "No, he just said he wanted to see them alone."

  ". . . And that was unusual?"

  An angry look. "What are you driving at?"

  "I’m just trying to figure out what happened. Let's backtrack. I never met him. Tell me what he was like."

  Her eyes began to tear. "I met him when I was in optometry school, four years ago. I worked for him part-time then. He was the nicest man I ever met. A caring man. My last year of school I ran out of money and he paid for it. When I graduated I came into the practice full time . . . he had terrific enthusiasm, it just bubbled over. Everyone around him felt it. That's really the secret to the practice . . . his enthusiasm. People were drawn to him. I can't imagine what life’s going to be like without him."

  "Now about that day, what was his mood like?"

  She thought for a moment. "I guess if I had to put it in a word I'd say preoccupied. He wasn’t himself. He seemed very distant. I thought afterwards he even seemed sad."

  "Was this a new side of him?"

  Again she thought before she spoke. When she did she chose her words carefully. "No, for the past three or four months he'd had days like that. Several times I asked him about it, but he would just shake his head. I didn’t press too hard. Stanley was a private person. When he didn’t want to talk he wouldn't."

  "What about dinner that night? Do you know if he had any other plans?"

  She shook her head. "I don’t know of any. Stanley did like to party. Often when we went out we would close things and even wind up at an after-hours place like the Black Banana. In fact, the last few months it seemed like whenever we went out we did that."

  Her answer didn't surprise him. Not with all the drugs he'd found.

  "When you did stay out late was there anyone in particular you ran into on a regular basis?"

  "No, he knew lots of people. We’d run into one and then another. Why do you ask that?"

  Sex or drugs. Mercanto chose sex. "What I'm getting at is his personal life. Aside from yourself, did he see anyone else?"

  "He didn't see me, either. Not the way you're implying. Stanley didn't believe in getting involved with people he worked with, but I'll tell you, all he had to do was say the word and I would have. I don't know of any partners. Satisfied?"

  "What about his ex-wife? Did you know her?"

  "To know Dominique is to loath her. I knew her. She was the most mercenary two-faced bitch I ever met. All she ever cared about was what she could get out of him. She didn't care about Stanley. Their divorce was the best thing that ever happened to him."

  "When were they divorced?"

  "Less than a year ago, and he had to force it then. Otherwise she would have hung on to the bitter end."

  "Financially how were things for him?"

  "The divorce cost a lot. She got plenty of cash. He had to buy a condo, have it decorated, but he was still all right. Like I said, the practice is lucrative. When you do the kind of things we do, you can charge a lot for it."

  "Still, there's no such thing as too much money, is there?"

  Mercanto said, thinking about the withdrawals from Hightower's checkbook.

  "No, I guess not."

  "You mentioned that he helped you out with your last year of school. Was he doing anything like that for someone else?"

  "Not that I know of."

  Should he mention the drugs? If she was involved it would tip his hand. He looked at her. The look of sadness on her face was too real. She was genuinely upset or a hell of an actress. He didn’t think she was involved but he didn’t want to take the chance of ruling her out yet.

  "Do yo
u have any idea who could have done it?"

  She shook her head. "No, not at all. Everyone loved him."

  ""I guess that’s all I have, although I might need to talk to you again." He reached for a pad on her desk and wrote down his number. "If you think of anything give me a call . . . Now, if you don’t mind, I'd like to spend a few minutes with each of the staff, one at a time. I won't keep them long, I promise."

  "Will you tell me one thing . . . when will the body be released?" She paused. "I want to make the funeral arrangements. I know what he would want."

  "I can't answer that, except to say it will be as soon as we've completed our investigation."

  She stood up. "Thank you. Why don’t you use my office. I'll send in the staff like you want."

  Mercanto spent the rest of the day questioning the other employees. They all said more or less the same things, but by the end of the day one thing had clearly emerged . . . for the past few months Stanley Hightower had shown a marked change in personality from a bubbling, enthusiastic person to one who was distant, preoccupied, some even said gloomy.

  On the way home Mercanto again took dinner to Frank, but this time he didn’t stay because all Frank wanted to talk about were plans for his own funeral. He couldn’t sit there and listen to that.

  At his apartment on Catherine Street he changed clothes and lit a fire in his small fireplace. While he was at Frank's he had not eaten, and for a few minutes he toyed with the idea of making dinner but settled for a Rolling Rock instead. In the living room he put on a tape of Michael Feinstein at the Algonquin and settled himself in front of the fire. As the music played he tried to relax and not think about the case.

  He had three more beers while the fire burned down, using the case to keep his mind off Frank. About ten he went to bed but could not sleep. His mind was in a jumble. Lying there he kept wondering what had caused the personality change in Stanley Hightower, and what the hell was he doing in the park at three in the morning?

  After an hour he gave up on sleep, dressed, slipped on his shoulder holster, picked up his coat and left the apartment. He drove across town, up the parkway and past the aft museum. Traffic was light on Kelly Drive, the river shimmering darkly beside it.