by Art Bourgeau
Dr. Foster looked up from some papers he was reading, his all-purpose pipe in his mouth.
"Sorry to break in on you like this . . ." Mercanto began.
"Quite all right. If it will help us to catch this man . . ."
Mercanto made the introductions, Dr. Foster nodded and asked what they had found out.
"I think Erin, Miss Fraser, can explain it better than I can. She's the one who understands it."
Foster waited.
"I'm an anthropologist, the curator at the Braddon Museum, shamanism is my specialty," she began. "Recently Detective Mercanto came to me for information about voodoo. He said it might be a factor in these murders. I couldn't help him then, but when he came back today he told me some things that lead me to believe I might be helpful . . . Have you ever heard, doctor, of lycanthropy?"
"Certainly," replied Dr. Foster. "Every first-year medical student knows something about lycanthropy and porphyria. It's a joke among the first-year people."
Mercanto gave Erin a quizzical look.
"Porphyria is the Dracula disease," she told him. "It's hereditary, a person’s teeth fill up with blood. He also develops acute sensitivity to light. Some think Vlaid the Impaler, the role model for Dracula, had it."
"I'm impressed," Foster said.
She looked hard at him. "Neither one is a joke, doctor. They are both real diseases."
"Agreed. Still, the rareness of them . . ."
"The facts of the murders fit the disease," Erin said. And she repeated the story about the Haitian shaman. When she was finished he said, "Yes, they do seem to fit . . . somewhat."
He got up from his desk and went to one of the bookcases lining the wall of his office. "Understand, I've never had any personal experience with lycanthropy. It occurs so infrequently . . ." He took down a volume of bound journals and brought it back to his desk. As he thumbed through it he said, "If memory serves, there have only been two, perhaps three, recorded cases in the last decade or so." When he found what he was looking for he said, "Ah, yes, I thought I remembered an article about it in one of the British journals. Give me a minute to refresh my memory."
They sat while he read. When he was finished he said, "It's certainly controversial. I think we can discount the Navajo Coyote ceremonies and concentrate on the case histories from a Freudian aspect. Although schizophrenics are not commonly the split personalities they are popularized to be, in this case there seems to be a split caused by a traumatic incident during childhood. That does agree with what I suspected about the killer's background"'
"You mean a multiple personality? said Mercanto.
"No, multiple personalities are not usually schizophrenic. They occur because of some terrible abuse, often sexual, that began before age five, the formation of the personality. They're a protective mechanism for the abused . . . In this case the pattern of abuse is the same, the abused is forced into a passive sexual position, but later in life, after the formation of the personality. Here is where the difference shows. The abuse produces a conflict and resultant guilt. One part of the person wants it to continue; the other knows it’s wrong and wants it to stop. To compensate for the helplessness of it, the part that wants it to stop splits off and takes the personality of a predatory beast, usually, it seems, a wolf, to protect the weaker side from more abuse."
"But all that's in childhood. We’re talking about a grown man here. What makes it happen now?" said Mercanto.
"There has to be a triggering incident, something that raises up the old conflict in him again." And, surprisingly, this talk brought his lunch with Margaret to mind, when she told him about her patient’s shrinking episode after the invitation to his sister's wedding. Just, come to think of it, the sort of incident that could trigger a psychosis . . .
"Why a damn wolf?" Mercanto said. "I know, it goes way back, but I still don't see . . ."
"Because of spirit possession," Erin said. "He thinks, believes, he has become a tool of a higher power, probably the devil, that is symbolized by the wolf, the mark of the beast. He's obviously an intelligent person, well-read too."
Dr. Foster picked up his pipe. "You apparently think spirit possession is a reality. I’m afraid I can't go along with that."
"You do admit there are certain things that defy rational explanation, even by the so-called science of psychiatry."
"No, I really don’t," he said, but wondering all the same if the answer to the killer's identity could possibly be as simple as that — a patient of Margaret's . . . He tried to dismiss the thought, telling himself that Margaret was an insightful, intuitive professional. Still . . .
"Let me put it this way," said Erin. "In my work I have come across literally hundreds of examples of spirit possession, in one degree or another. I've seen some personally. I would classify the lycanthropic shaman as one. I’m not saying he's possessed or anything like that. All these examples of spirit possession are explainable according to various disciplines, but all the explanations are reduced to fit a particular discipline. None can explain the total experience . . . Don't reject the concept of a lycanthropic because it gets into the area of spirit possession . . ."
When she first agreed to come it was to please Mercanto. But now she felt personally involved, it was important to her. She wanted this killer caught, too, and damn well didn’t want to be excluded from helping on account of some philosophical disagreement between professions.
Mercanto looked from Erin to Poster. "So what do you suggest?"
Dr. Foster looked at him, half-smiled.
"Lieutenant Sloan is at the Park Station. I think you should go out there and tell him what you've found. I'll follow you out because I think you’re going to need my backup to support this theory. I'll be a few minutes behind you, though. There's something I have to attend to first . . ."
CHAPTER 22
DR. CHARLES FOSTER dialed Margaret’s number. On the fifth ring he heard the answering machine tape begin: "This is Dr. Margaret Priest . . ."
"Damn, she's with a patient," he muttered as he hung up, not waiting for the tape to end. He grabbed up his hat and coat and headed for the door. In his outer office he told his receptionist, "Cancel my appointments for the rest of the day. Reschedule them." He turned to the waiting patient. "I’m sorry, but something urgent has come up. Please understand."
The patient did not understand. "Look, goddamn it, I have important things, too . . ."
"Yes, yes, we'll discuss that at our next session," soothed Dr. Foster, and headed out the door.
Outside he looked around for a taxi. None to be seen. He thought about getting his car but it would take too long, he could more quickly walk the six or eight blocks between their offices. Pulling down his hat against the winter wind he started up Walnut Street, passing the Forrest Theater. The whole notion was farfetched . . . a modern-day werewolf, he thought, allowing himself the more sensational term rather than the clinical lycanthropic. It couldn’t be happening, it was too rare. The very idea conjured up visions of villagers with torches and pitchforks.
At Thirteenth a young woman in a short skirt and fake fur jacket approached him. He waved her away before she could speak, hurrying on. At other times he found the come-on palaver of the neighborhood prostitutes interesting, even provocative. Not today.
If what he suspected was true, which was still a big if in his mind, he couldn’t help wondering about Margaret not being aware of the condition of her patient. Had she been that bemused by her own emotional attachment?
On Broad Street he turned at Robinson's toward Locust. He remembered the literature he had just been reading, together with Erin’s testimony and the facts of the case as laid out by Sloan.
The wolf was a protective mechanism, true, even if to the person suffering it also seemed like Satan's curse. Unlike a multiple personality it would not show itself willy-nilly but would occur only when the patient felt particularly threatened. Assuming her patient returned Margaret's emotion, exceeded it, there would be no re
ason for that part of him to show itself with her. Being with Margaret would be like a state of grace for him. The time when he was sure nothing bad would happen. He would have to believe Margaret was the cause, and worship her for it.
Walking up Locust he passed a string of restaurants — Mexican, Cajun, Italian. As for Margaret’s attachment, professional or not, she like every therapist was human. At their lunch she had said he was an attractive man. At a time when her self-esteem was so shaken by the discovery of Adam's affair, along with this hardly customary intensity of her patient's adoration . . . "Yes, many patients can be seductive," he said aloud, thinking of his advice to her as he entered her building. Any patient in a transference. And this one. . .
Margaret's waiting room was empty. Like many therapists she did not have a secretary. No choice but to interrupt her session.
He knew what he was going to say would not endear him to her. Their lunch had ended on a bad note, straining what he had always counted as a most valuable and stable relationship. Since then there had been no communication between them. Appearing now like this, she might consider it outrageous meddling, coming between her and her patient. Well, he would have to risk it, he decided as he opened the door to her private office.
She looked up, shocked. Sitting in front of the desk was a young woman who was thoroughly confused and cut herself off in mid-sentence.
"Charles? What . . . what are you doing here?"
"Doctor, I'm terribly sorry to interrupt, but I must speak to you."
She looked at her patient. "Will it take long?"
"Yes, I'm afraid it might."
What could she do? . . . It must be important for him to break in this way. To her patient, she said, "Carol, this is Dr. Foster, a colleague. Could we reschedule for eleven tomorrow? That way I can skip lunch and give you extra time to make up for this."
The patient agreed, what could she do . . . but Margaret saw the anger at the interruption.
She walked the patient to the door while Charles took off his coat and sat down. Behind her desk now, she waited for an explanation.
Foster knew he would have to be careful. Margaret was a fiercely protective person. If he blurted out his suspicions she would get defensive and they would have a repeat of their lunch.
"Margaret, I'm sorry about what happened the last time we were together. Please understand, you're very important to me. When I said what I did it wasn't because I doubted you, it was because I was concerned . . ."
He was like the old Charles. Control was so important to him that you could never expect a direct response. Even in an extreme situation like this. "Are your phones out of order, Charles?"
He forced a smile. Obviously there was no good way to start this. "I need to talk to you about that special patient of yours."
Margaret bristled. "Why?"
"Because I'm more concerned than ever," he said, instantly regretting his choice of words.
"Well, doctor, you can put your concern to rest. I'm not his therapist any longer. He fired me."
"What happened?" he said, surprised. This hardly followed his state-of-grace theory. He had felt sure Margaret was the man's only link with his tolerable emotions . . . perhaps even reality itself.
"We had an unpleasant incident, a couple of them, to be precise."
"Tell me?"
"I didn't send my patient away just now to give you that satisfaction."
"Come on, Margaret, you know better than that. Give me some credit . . . it is important."
The urgency in his tone impressed her. "It happened at a chance meeting . . . at the party for the opening of an exhibit at the museum. Things weren’t going well between Adam and me but we went anyway. He was there with a date."
"He?"
"Loring, my patient." He knew damn well who, she thought.
"Naturally I was surprised to see him, but these things do happen." She paused. "Adam sort of vanished, which didn’t help my mood. Loring asked me to dance. I know I shouldn't have, but I was distracted by Adam, face-to-face with a persistent, terribly vulnerable patient . . . Anyway, we danced. Afterwards, I don't know exactly how it happened, but we wound up in an office together . . . He tried to kiss me and I stopped him. But too late." She hesitated, forced herself to go on. "It wasn't his fault. I tried to tell him that, but it was no use. Charles, I handled it wrong. I let my personal problems mix into my professional. I'm afraid we're both paying for it . . ."
"Margaret, you're being too hard on yourself. From what you've told me there was nothing else you could do . . . You said a couple of incidents. What about the other one?"
She hated to relive it still another time. "Well, when I pushed him away he ran out of the room. I looked for him to try to repair the damage but he was gone." She left out what had happened between her and Adam afterward. "I changed and drove out to his house. I know that was hardly by the book, but he was having a crisis, it couldn't wait for an office appointment. At least that’s how I felt at the time."
"What happened?"
"When he finally let me in I could see he had been crying. As he talked he got more and more upset. Not tears, anger. The most deep-seated I’ve ever experienced. The upshot was he hit me, then in an orgy of shame, self-hate . . . who knows what else?. . . he insisted I leave and said the therapy was over. I guarantee you there was no convincing him otherwise . . . All right, I’ve answered your questions, now answer mine. Why this sudden appearance?"
"Did you see the morning paper, the story about the murder in the park?" When she said she had, he told her he was working with the police on it.
"What?" And then it dawned on her. "My God, you're telling me you think . . . no, that's not possible. Loring couldn't be responsible for that. God and Sigmund know I may have handled him wrong, but I'm sure I know him too well to believe that. Charles, this man wouldn't kill anyone, let alone commit the kind of killing I read about. What happened between us, even his hitting me, they were my fault, my responsibility. He wouldn't hurt anyone, it's not in his nature — "
"Margaret, you just mentioned his deep-seated anger."
"I know . . . but he still couldn't have done it," she said, her arms folded across her chest.
"Last night I read over everything about the cases." She noted the plural and turned to look at him. "That’s right," he continued. "The one in the paper was not the first but the second. The first was a Stanley Hightower, an optometrist."
She shook her head. "I read about his death, too. His office is just down the street, but there was no cannibalization like in today's report . . ."
"Yes, there was. The police managed to keep it quiet. This morning I met with the people from homicide and told them, based on what I was able to piece together, that the killer was probably a paranoid schizophrenic."
When he saw her about to interrupt he raised his hand.
"Hear me out. After the meeting one of the detectives, a man named Mercanto, came to see me. He brought along an anthropologist who specializes in shamanism, someone he’d already consulted with about a voodoo angle in the case." He paused. "Do you know anything about lycanthropy?"
Her eyes widened. "At lunch you tried to tell me he was a schizophrenic, now you’re trying to tell me he's a . . . a werewolf? Charles, please. I may have handled him wrong, but he's neither of these things. He's an hysteric, deeply troubled, I agree, but — "
"I felt the same way at first, but the anthropologist had seen an actual lycanthropic, a Haitian shaman, so I looked it up in the journals. The facts fit the killer too well."
She went back to her desk and lit a cigarette. "Assuming what you’re saying is correct, you’re talking about the killer, not my patient."
"Margaret, believe me, I hope I’m wrong . . . but we can’t ignore the possibility that they might be one and the same person — "
"No, goddamn it — "
"Forget the term . . . werewolf. Look at the facts with me. We are talking about a psychosis rooted in the guilt of an early p
assive sexual situation, usually prepubertal or early pubertal. The personality splits off, with one part assuming the identity of a predatory beast, giving it qualities the conscious personality cannot accept — a means of coming to terms with that guilt without acknowledging it. When we talked you said there was a sexual abnormalcy . . ."
True, and she thought about what his stepfather had done. But this wasn't enough. "Inexperience is not sexual abnormalcy," she said, choosing not to mention what Loring had told her at his house. "What he attempted with me doesn't fit that pattern at all. To the contrary, it showed him at least striving for a normal relationship. Nearly all of our patients have a sexual problem of one type or another. The statistics have it that one in four women has been sexually abused and one in ten men. None of which turns them into lycanthropics."
"But the schizophrenia. . ."
She shook her head. "Charles, I'm surprised. You're trying to do what you lecture against — diagnose from afar. A couple of articles, a lunch conversation, a session with the police and some anthropologist aren't enough. I know this man. I've spent time with him. He is not schizophrenic."
"Yes, you’ve spent time with him, but don't you see, that's just it . . . when he was with you it wouldn't reveal itself. It would only come out when he felt threatened, as the time when he thought he was shrinking. And when you rejected him, he thought but didn’t say. With you, he felt protected, even loved. It wouldn't show. You were the one person he could trust." He paused. "I know this is difficult, but I want his name. You won’t be involved, we’ll see to it that your name never comes up — "
"Absolutely not," she said, sorry now that she had even let his first name slip. "I might not be his therapist any longer but I will not violate his confidence like that, and you shouldn’t ask me to."
"Of course, under almost any other circumstances I would agree with you. But sometimes, Margaret, all our fine rules and principles need to be bent for a larger purpose. There will be no railroading. We will check him out carefully. If he is not the one, that is the end of it. If he is, well, he has already killed twice, and will keep on doing it until he is stopped. You do not want that on your conscience."