Prodigy

by Charles Atkins

  “No!”

  “Then take this as a warning.”

  “I can’t go back,” his voice went flat, “I’ll kill myself. Please. You don’t know what it was like.”

  “Calm down. I’ll talk to Ellen and we’ll get through this.”

  “Okay.”

  It seemed as though she were talking with a frightened child.

  “Dr. Conyors …”

  “Yes?”

  “I can’t go back.”

  “That’s entirely in your hands, Jimmy. And Jimmy?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m real good at knowing when someone is telling a lie. Don’t do it.”

  After she hung up she wondered what Hobbs’ take would be on all of this: the low lab value, Ellen’s overpayment, her gut telling her that something was very wrong. Thinking about the detective helped quiet her racing thoughts. After all, there was nothing concrete. Her certainty that Jimmy had not been taking his medication was shot down by the results of the bloodwork, and the check could be a misunderstanding. Maybe Ellen thought she had to pay for Barrett’s time at dinner; that was probably the answer, and thinking about the extra money, Barrett wondered if maybe that was okay. It still felt wrong, almost like a bribe, but for what purpose?

  She stared out the window, the countryside now colored in a palette of evening gray. She glanced at her watch and then stuffed her tape recorder and notes on Walker Green into her briefcase. She had wanted to review Jimmy’s files in the basement archives, but somehow the time had slipped away, and now it was too late.

  TWELVE

  A piercing pain shot behind Jimmy’s eyes as he thought back through his conversation with Dr. Conyors. She’d sounded cross, disappointed.

  “She’ll send you back, Jimbo,” Father whispered, the voice stronger since he’d restarted the medication. The pills were supposed to make voices decrease; they made it worse. “She’s waiting for you, Jimbo, she’s going to lock the door and throw away the key.”

  “No!” Seated at his computer in the carriage house, he stared at the screen that displayed date-stamped files for Barrett’s calls. First, he replayed his phone conversation with her. When he got to the part about the check, it didn’t quite make sense. He played it back a second and third time. Her words ran through his head.

  “She took the money, Jimbo.” The voice reminded him.

  Jimmy stopped, waiting for more. What Father gave with one hand usually came with the other balled into a fist. Like his beautiful cello. Eight years old and already considered a prodigy when Father made the extravagant purchase. But that same day other things happened, bad things, things that crept up in the middle of the night and... “Maylene,” he whispered, conjuring up a beautiful dark-skinned face with soft loving eyes. The face of the only person—other than Ellen—who’d ever loved him.

  “She took the money, Jimbo. She took the money.”

  “Yes,” Jimmy said aloud.

  “Not according to Hoyle, is it, Jimbo?”

  “No,” he answered, suspicious of the voice’s newfound helpfulness. “She should have ripped it up.”

  Jimmy pondered this. Morris Kravitz had been easy. Dr. Kravitz loved his money, and that blond wife of his had had no difficulty in spending it. And with the others, the guards, and the other patients, subtle, and not-so-subtle gifts were how he’d survived those long years in Croton. With Barrett, his beautiful Barrett, it had to be different. He wanted her to have everything. All the things she deserved, but couldn’t afford.

  He pressed the button for her home phone, and a series of files popped up on the screen, each one gave time, date, and the caller’s number.

  He played the first. A man’s deep voice came in. “Barrett, please call me back. We have to talk … I’m sorry. Whatever it is, I’m sorry.”

  Jimmy smiled, and clicked on the next. Again, it was her husband, Ralph. Obviously things weren’t going well. The timing couldn’t have been better.

  But the next stopped him cold, “Barrett, I must sound desperate leaving all these messages. I just wanted to say how glad I am we cleared things up. I’m really looking forward to seeing you tonight … I love you, babe. Always have, always will.”

  Jimmy’s hands shook.

  Father sang, “Her boyfriend’s back and you’re going to be in trouble.”

  He pressed the button to hear the final message. It was another man. “Barrett, you there? I guess I’ll try you at the office.”

  He recognized the voice, the detective who’d run after her. Why was he calling?

  “She’s playing games, Jimbo.”

  “No!” Jimmy replied, as his anger surfaced. “It’s a test.” He pictured the detective, like so many other men who’d questioned him for hours on end, trying to trick him, trying to lock him away. It had happened once, it could happen again. Bile rose in his throat.

  He stood on shaky legs. Barrett was testing him. Her phone call, the husband, the detective, all tests. Just like the competitions when they were children, each performance clearing the way to the next and then the next. Each prize bigger, each audience more adoring. He didn’t doubt that she loved him, but she needed him to prove himself.

  He clicked on the last message—the detective again.

  “Barrett, it’s Hobbs. Guess you’re not there, either. Give me a call. I got the thing we talked about. I really think you should wear it … give me a call.”

  “What the hell?” Jimmy hissed. “Wear what?”

  “Fun and games, Jimbo,” Father whispered. “Fun and games.”

  ___

  Perched on the toilet in the carriage house, Jimmy steadied the new key with both hands, hating the way the lithium made them shake. The pills had to go, but for now, he would take them for her. She had to look as though she was doing her job.

  Bending over, he waited for the red light and then plunged the electromagnetic device into the latch of his ankle bracelet. He held his breath, and for an agonizing moment heard nothing. And then it clicked, and the padded metal shifted on his ankle. He gingerly separated the halves, freeing his leg. He stood and looked at his reflection. He wore a dark human-hair wig and a pair of tinted glasses that enhanced his night vision. Dressed in a black leather car coat and jeans, he felt pumped as he bounded down the stairs.

  He entered the garage, and headed toward the parked yellow cab with the darkly tinted windows. Anywhere other than New York, it would stick out like a sore thumb, but here it was anonymous and perfect. He turned over the eight-cylinder engine, and looked up at a pair of black-and-white television monitors mounted to the left of the bay doors. They afforded him a panoramic view of the street outside. When it was clear that there were no pedestrians in visual range on 19th Street, he hit the button. The door slid open, and he was out.

  He cracked the window, savoring the cool night against his cheek.

  He glanced at the time, signaled, and turned up Madison, timing the lights, as one of Mother’s chauffeur’s had taught him. He pictured Barrett, and began to hum the opening bars of the Revolutionary Étude. He could see her beautiful lips, hear the traces of a Southern accent, calling to him, wanting him to prove himself. He would do this for her. He would pass this test.

  THIRTEEN

  Back at work on Tuesday morning, it was all Barrett could do to keep from screaming. Why had she believed him? She’d waited over two hours at the bar in D’Emilio’s, thinking that maybe the symphony got out late, or that they had to play multiple encores, or that he couldn’t get a cab. All the while the hands on the clock had inched around and around. Several times, she’d gotten up from her corner table and circled the bar and the back dining room, just in case he’d shown and hadn’t seen her, sitting at their usual table in a clingy black-knit dress—Ralph’s favorite. Throughout her wait, men had approached, wondering if she wanted company. She’d smiled and told them she was waiting for her husband. One had been bold enough to ask why no ring. She’d forgotten it, the gold band still in a pocket of her gym
bag. It had been almost one a.m. when she’d finally left. She’d felt numb and doubted whether she’d sleep at all. She’d thought of calling Ralph’s mom’s house, where he’d been staying. Maybe he just forgot? But no, standing her up for two-and-a-half hours without as much as a phone call was not an accident. It was deliberate and cruel. She’d angrily taken out her vintage jet earrings—a birthday gift from Sophie and Max—and left her dress crumpled on the bathroom floor. When she’d hit the bed, she’d tried not to think about him, about wanting him there with her. She’d hugged her pillow tight and cried. And when she’d finally drifted off, it was to a world of twisted dreams, one swirling into the next, the alarm finally pulling her from a crashing wave of black spiders that had surged out from under the lid of a grand piano.

  And now, even work seemed too much of an effort. She wondered if others could tell how furious she was, how confused. But no one had said anything, other than Anton, with an off-handed, “Rough night, last night?”

  Marla intruded over the intercom, “Dr. Conyors, it’s the D.A.’s office on line one.”

  “Thanks,” she pressed the flashing button.

  “Barrett, it’s Jim O’Malley.”

  “What’s up?” she asked, picturing the late-twenties assistant D.A. with his close-cropped red hair and ghost-white complexion.

  “I wanted to discuss your report on Todd Anderson.”

  “Not my best work,” she admitted, thinking back to her rush job.

  “It’s fine, but before we go into the hearing I wanted to ask …”

  She didn’t let him finish, “I thought that was last week.”

  “No … it’s Thursday.”

  “They changed the date again?”

  “No … it’s not changed at all, at least as far as I’m aware.”

  “Okay, Jim … something’s strange. Anton told me last week that you needed it right away.”

  “That didn’t come from me, Barrett. You know I’d call you myself for something like that.”

  “Right … maybe someone else on your team?”

  “Not likely. Not without my knowing.”

  “Then what the …”

  “Something wrong, Barrett?”

  “I don’t know,” she admitted, trying to fathom Anton’s motive. She finished her conversation with the detail-oriented attorney, giving him the additional insight he sought into the mind of the copy store killer.

  She hung up and stared at her cold Dunkin Donut’s coffee. Her first thought was to call Anton, but she stopped herself. Last Thursday—her first meeting with Martin—was a big ball of weirdness, and Anton’s funky behavior was a part of it.

  She sipped the stale coffee and dialed the twenty-four-hour hotline for the forensic center. “Has the rest of Jimmy Martin’s labwork come back?” she asked.

  “I’ll get his chart.”

  Barrett waited, and pictured Ellen and Jimmy as children. He still played wonderfully, and she had a twinge of guilt, knowing that the medications would weaken his abilities on the cello.

  The woman came back on the line, “The Risperdal level isn’t back, but the prolactin is.”

  “And?”

  “It’s normal.”

  “Thanks,” Barrett said, about to hang up. “Wait a minute, could you do me a favor and go back and give me all of his lithium levels?”

  “From when?”

  “Back to Croton, at least a couple year’s worth. And especially any done since his release.”

  “I’ll see what I have.”

  Barrett heard the rustle of paper over the line.

  That’s interesting.”

  “What?” Barrett asked.

  “I’m going back all the way and he hasn’t had any since his release. The set you ordered was the only one. I can give you the old ones.”

  “Great,” Barrett scrambled for a pencil and piece of paper.

  The woman read off the results, all of them within the normal range.

  “You’re certain there are none since he got out?” Barrett asked. “Kravitz didn’t order any?”

  “Not that I see.”

  “And he’s been on lithium all that time?” Something didn’t add up.

  “That’s what it says.”

  “Any chance there’s an old prolactin level somewhere in his chart?”

  “Let me look. I’ve got one that’s six years old—you want it?”

  “Sure.”

  “It’s really high,” the woman said. “What does that mean?”

  “It means he was taking his medication. Prolactin is a hormone that nursing mothers secrete. A lot of the antipsychotic medications make it go up. That’s why some people get breast enlargement—both men and women.”

  “So that’s why they check it.”

  “Pretty much. Can you tell if he was on the same medications he’s on now, when that level was taken?”

  “You’re pushing it, but I’ll try … no … I can’t tell. The order sheets don’t go back that far.”

  “Thanks anyway,” Barrett said.

  “But, wait a minute,” the woman paused.

  “What?”

  “This is odd, about two weeks ago a set of bloodwork was ordered by Dr. Kravitz.”

  Barrett perked up, “Where are the results?”

  “I don’t know … unless …”

  “What?”

  “That must be it. Two weeks ago our phlebotomist got side-swiped by a hit-and-run taxi.”

  “She was carrying his blood?”

  “Definitely. The cops were more concerned about that than anything else. There was a ton of OSHA paperwork to fill out. They even got the guys in the white paper suits from HazMat. I think your man’s blood may have been dumped on the street. So what’s this all about? You think he might have stopped his medication?” the woman asked.

  “I can’t say for certain.”

  “If you want I could call up to Croton and get them to retrieve his record.”

  “I already tried,” Barrett said. “The whole thing is on microfilm and I was told there’s no way to get in until Monday.”

  “God bless the state.”

  “Exactly,” and they hung up.

  Barrett sipped bitter coffee as her stomach churned. Coincidence? Not likely. And for the one set of bloodwork that Kravitz ordered to wind up shattered in a freak accident gave her a chill. And why the hell hadn’t Kravitz checked before? Why did he wait? It’s the first thing he should have done. Anton had hinted that Morris Kravitz was greedy; he hadn’t said a thing about incompetent.

  She started to pace.

  She grabbed the phone and called the medical examiner’s office. She gave them her state identification number and asked them to pull a copy of Morris Kravitz’s death certificate. “Could you fax me a copy?” she asked.

  She hung up and waited. Five minutes later her machine emitted an electronic squeal. She watched as the state seal of New York rolled out followed by the two-page document. The box for natural causes, had been checked off. The narrative stated that he died from “cardiac arrest secondary to complications of a preexisting diabetic condition and acute hypoglycemic shock.”

  Under next of kin it listed Sheila Kravitz, his wife. There was a phone number and a notation that Mrs. Kravitz had been informed of the medical examiner’s findings.

  Barrett looked at the number. She dialed.

  A tired-sounding woman picked up, “Hello?”

  “Mrs. Kravitz?”

  “Yes?”

  “My name is Barrett Conyors and I’m a psychiatrist working with one of your husband’s clients. I was wondering if it might be possible for me to stop by some time when it’s convenient and ask you a couple of questions.”

  “I wouldn’t know about my husband’s patients,” she said, a slight reproach in her voice. “He didn’t talk about them.”

  “Of course not,” Barrett said, wondering what she hoped to gain by meeting with this woman. “It’s just that I’m struggling a bit with this p
atient and was hoping that you might be able to give me some insight into how your husband worked.”

  Sheila Kravitz lowered her voice, “This is about that Croton patient, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.” Barrett felt a tingling along the backs of her arms, “Why?”

  There was silence on the other end.

  “Mrs. Kravitz?”

  “You said you were working with him? With the Croton patient?”

  “Yes, I’m a forensic psychiatrist.”

  “I don’t know that I have anything to tell you. You’re not trying to sue my husband’s estate or anything like that?”

  “No, I just wanted to ask a couple of questions.”

  “I’ll be leaving town soon. But I suppose if you wanted to come by this afternoon I could see you for a few minutes.”

  Barrett got her street address, reassured her that she had no ulterior motive, and thanked her.

  Then she punched Anton’s line. She knew she should have called him sooner, as soon as she had suspected that Jimmy wasn’t taking his medications, or the minute after she’d opened her envelope with the big check. The review board was very specific about how psychiatrists, case managers, and anyone else interacting with the releasees were supposed to respond. You didn’t need to catch someone red-handed, all it took was a suspicion of wrongdoing.

  “Anton,” she started, “we’ve got to talk.”

  “What’s up, Barrett?” he sounded annoyed.

  “It’s about Jimmy Martin. I don’t think he’s been taking his medication and I’m pretty sure he tried to bribe me.”

  “What’s the evidence?”

  Barrett ran through her first meeting with Jimmy. She told him about the lack of a lithium tremor.

  “A lot of people don’t get a tremor,” Anton replied curtly.

  “When he was at Croton, he had a marked tremor, Anton. And his prolactin level is now normal—it used to be sky high. I think I need to contact the review board, but I thought I’d run it by you first.”

  “As part of the board, Barrett, I can tell you they’re not going to do anything. What have you got to go on? He’s not shaking? Maybe his body acclimated or maybe he’s under a lot less stress so you can’t see it anymore. Same thing goes for the prolactin, it can normalize in people who’ve been taking meds as long as he has; you know that.”