The Conspiracy Club

by Jonathan Kellerman

  Keeping busy to quell his anxiety, but to the detectives, such fastidiousness was out of character for a worried lover whose girl hadn’t come home. Unless, of course, said lover knew all along . . .

  It went on that way for a while, the two buffaloes alternating between patronizing and browbeating Jeremy. Whatever background check they did on him revealed nothing nasty and a DNA swab of his cheek failed to match whatever they were trying to match.

  His questions were answered by knowing looks. They spoke to him several times. In his office at the hospital, at his house, in an interrogation room that reeked of gym locker.

  “Was there tissue under her nails?” he said, more to himself than to the detectives.

  Bob Doresh said, “Why would you ask that, Doctor?”

  “Jocelyn would resist. If she had a chance.”

  “Would she?” said Hoker, leaning across the green metal table.

  “She was extremely gentle—as I’ve told you. But she’d fight to defend herself.”

  “A fighter, huh . . . would she go easily with a stranger? Just go off with someone?”

  Anger seared Jeremy’s chest muscles. His eyes clenched and he gripped the table.

  Hoker sat back. “Doctor?”

  “You’re saying that’s what happened?”

  Hoker smiled.

  Jeremy said, “You’re blaming her?”

  Hoker looked over at his partner. His snout twitched, and he looked satisfied. “You can go now, Doctor.”

  Eventually, they left him alone. But the damage was done; Jocelyn’s family had flown in—both her parents and a sister. They shunned him. He was never informed of the funeral.

  He tried to keep up with the investigation, but his calls to the detective squad were intercepted by a desk officer: Not in. I’ll give ’em yer message.

  A month passed. Three, six. Jocelyn’s killer was never found.

  Jeremy walked and talked, wounded. His life shriveled to something sere and brittle. He ate without tasting, voided without relief, breathed city air and coughed, drove out to the flatlands or the water’s edge, and was still unable to nourish his lungs.

  People—the sudden appearance of strangers—alarmed him. Human contact repulsed him. The division between sleep and awareness became arbitrary, deceitful. When he talked, he heard his own voice bounce back to him, hollow, echoing, tremulous. Acne, the pustulant plague forgotten since adolescence, broke out on his back and shoulders. His eyelids ticced, and sometimes he was convinced that a bitter reek was oozing from his pores. No one seemed repulsed, though. Too bad; he could’ve used the solitude.

  Throughout it all, he kept seeing patients, smiling, comforting, holding hands, conferring with physicians, charting, as he always did, in a hurried scrawl that made the nurses giggle.

  One time, he overheard a patient, a woman he’d helped get through a bilateral mastectomy, talking to her daughter in the hallway:

  “That’s Dr. Carrier. He’s the sweetest man, the most wonderful man.”

  He made it to the nearest men’s room, threw up, cleaned himself off, and went to see his next appointment.

  Six months later, he felt above it all, below it all. Inhabiting a stranger’s skin.

  Wondering what it would be like to degenerate.

  3

  After the chat in the dining room, Jeremy braced himself for some sign of familiarity from Arthur Chess at the next Tumor Board. But the pathologist favored him with a passing glance, nothing more.

  When the meeting ended, Arthur made no further attempt to socialize, and Jeremy wrote off the encounter as a bit of impulse on the older man’s part.

  On a frigid autumn day, he left the hospital at lunchtime and walked to a used bookstore two blocks away. The shop was a dim, narrow place on a grimy block filled with liquor stores, thrift outlets, and vacancies. A strange block; sometimes Jeremy’s nose picked up the sweetness of fresh bread, but no bakeries were in sight. Other times, he’d smell sulfurous ash and industrial waste and find no source of those odors, either. He was beginning to doubt his own senses.

  The bookstore was filled with raw pine cases and smelled of old newsprint. Jeremy had frequented its corners and shadows in the past, searching out the vintage psychology books he collected. Bargains abounded; few people seemed interested in first edition Skinners, Maslows, Jungs.

  Since Jocelyn’s death he hadn’t been back to the store. Perhaps now was the time to return to routine, such as it was.

  The shop’s windows were black, and no signage identified the business inside. Once you entered, the world was gone, and you were free to concentrate. An effective ruse, but it also had the effect of discouraging venture; rarely had Jeremy seen other customers. Maybe that was the way the proprietor wanted it.

  He was a fat man who rang up purchases with a scowl, never spoke, seemed pointedly misanthropic. Jeremy wasn’t certain if his mutism was elective or the result of some defect, but he was certain the man wasn’t deaf. On the contrary, the slightest noise perked the fat man’s ears. Customer inquiries, however, elicited an impatient finger point at the printed guide posted near the shop’s entrance: a barely decipherable improvisation upon the Dewey Decimal System. Those who couldn’t figure it out were out of luck.

  This afternoon, the bearish mute sat behind his cash register reading a tattered copy of Sir Edward Lytton’s Eugene Aram. Jeremy’s entrance merited a shift of haunches and the merest quiver of eyebrow.

  Jeremy proceeded to the Psychology section and searched book spines for treasures. Nothing. The sagging shelves bore the same volumes he’d seen months ago. Every book, it appeared, remained in place. As if the section had been reserved for Jeremy.

  As usual, the shop was empty but for Jeremy. How did the mute make a living? Perhaps he didn’t. As Jeremy continued browsing, he found himself fantasizing about sources of independent income for the fat man. A range of possibilities, from the loftiest inheritance to the monthly disability check.

  Or, perhaps the store was a front for drug-dealing, money-laundering, white slavery, international intrigue.

  Perhaps piracy on the high seas was hatched here, among the dusty bindings.

  Jeremy indulged himself with thoughts of unimaginable felonies. That led him to a bad place, and he cursed his idiocy.

  A throat clear stopped him short. He stepped out of Psychology and sighted down the next aisle.

  Another customer stood there. A man, his back to Jeremy, unmindful of Jeremy.

  A tall, bald man in a well-cut, out-of-fashion tweed suit. White fringes of beard floated into view as a pink skull turned to inspect a shelf. The man’s profile was revealed as he made a selection and extricated a tome.

  Arthur Chess.

  Was this the Lepidoptery section? Jeremy had never studied the fat man’s guide, had never been interested in expanding.

  Funnel vision. Sometimes it helped keep life manageable.

  He watched Arthur open the book, lick his thumb, turn a page.

  Arthur kept his head down. Began walking up the aisle as he read.

  Reversing direction, head still down, coming straight at Jeremy.

  To greet the pathologist would open the worm-can of obligatory conversation. If Jeremy left now, quickly, stealthily, perhaps the old man wouldn’t notice.

  But if he did notice, Jeremy would earn the worst of both worlds: forced to socialize and robbed of browsing time.

  He decided to greet Arthur, hoping that the pathologist would be so engrossed in his butterfly book that the ensuing chat would be brief.

  Arthur gazed up before Jeremy reached him. The book in his arms was huge, bound in cracked, camel leather. No winged creatures graced the densely printed pages. Jeremy read the title.

  Crimean Battle Strategy: A Compendium.

  The tag on the nearest shelf said, MILITARY HISTORY.

  Arthur smiled. “Jeremy.”

  “Afternoon, Arthur. No lunch today?”

  “Large breakfast,” said the pathologi
st, patting his vest. “Busy afternoon, a bit of diversion seemed in order.”

  With what you do all day, it’s a wonder you ever have an appetite.

  “Lovely place, this,” said the old man.

  “Do you come here often?”

  “From time to time. Mr. Renfrew’s quite the crosspatch, but he leaves one alone, and his prices are more than fair.”

  For all his purchases, Jeremy had never learned the proprietor’s name. Had never cared. Arthur had obtained the information because, like most gregarious people, he was excessively curious.

  Yet, for all his sociability, the old man had chosen to work among the dead.

  Jeremy said, “Very fair prices. Nice seeing you, Arthur. Happy hunting.” He turned to leave.

  “Would you have time for a drink?” said Arthur. “Alcoholic or otherwise?”

  “Sorry,” said Jeremy, tapping the coat cuff that concealed his wristwatch. “Busy afternoon, as well.” His next patient was in an hour and a half.

  “Ah, of course. Sorry, then. Another time.”

  “Absolutely,” said Jeremy.

  Later, that evening, walking to his car, he noticed Arthur in the doctors’ parking lot.

  This is too much. I’m being stalked.

  But, as with the bookstore encounter, Arthur had arrived first, so that was ridiculous. Jeremy chided himself for self-importance—paranoia’s first cousin. Had he slipped that far?

  He ducked behind a pylon and watched Arthur unlock his car, a black Lincoln, at least fifteen years old. Glossy paint, shiny chrome, kept up nicely. Like Arthur’s suit: well used, but quality. Jeremy envisioned Arthur’s home, guessed the pathologist would inhabit one of the gracious old homes in Queen’s Arms, on the North Side, a shabby-elegant stretch with harbor views.

  Yes, Q.A. was definitely Arthur. The house would be a Victorian or a neo-Georgian, fusty and comfortable, chocked with overstuffed sofas in faded fabrics, stolid, centenarian mahogany furniture, layers of antimacassars, doilies, gimcracks, a nice wet bar stocked with premium liquors.

  Pinned butterflies in ornate frames.

  Was the pathologist married? Had to be. All that cheer bespoke a comfortable, comforting routine.

  Definitely married, Jeremy decided. Happily, for decades. He conjured a soft-busted, bird-voiced, blue-haired wife to dote on Dear Arthur.

  He watched as the old man lowered his long frame into the Lincoln. When the big sedan started up with a sonorous rumble, Jeremy hurried to his own dusty Nova.

  He sat behind the wheel, thinking of the comforts that awaited Arthur. Home-cooked food, simple but filling. A stiff drink to dilate the blood vessels and warm the imagination.

  Feet up, warm smiles nurtured by routine.

  Jeremy’s gut knotted as the black car glided away.

  4

  Two weeks to the day after the bookstore encounter, a second-year medical resident, an adorable brunette named Angela Rios, came on to Jeremy. He was rotating through the acute children’s ward, accompanying the attending physician and house staff on pediatric rounds. Dr. Rios, with whom he’d exchanged pleasantries in the past, hovered by his side, and he smelled the shampoo in her long, dark hair. She had eyes the color of bittersweet chocolate, a swan neck, a delicate, pointy chin under a soft, wide mouth.

  Four cases were scheduled for discussion that morning: an eight-year-old girl with dermatomyositis, a brittle adolescent diabetic, a failure to thrive infant—that one was probably child abuse—and a precocious, angry twelve-year-old boy with a miniscule body shriveled by osteogenesis imperfecta.

  The attending, a soft-spoken man named Miller, summarized the basics on the crippled boy, then arched an eyebrow toward Jeremy. Jeremy talked to a sea of young baffled faces, trying to humanize the boy—his intellectual reach, his rage, the pain that would only intensify. Trying to get these new physicians to see the child as something other than a diagnosis. But keeping it low-key, careful to avoid the holier-than-thou virus that too often afflicted the mental health army.

  Despite his best efforts, half the residents seemed bored. The rest were feverishly attentive, including Angela Rios, who hadn’t taken her eyes off Jeremy. When rounds ended she hung around and asked questions about the crippled boy. Simple things that Jeremy was certain didn’t puzzle her at all.

  He answered her patiently. Her long, dark hair was wavy and silky, her complexion creamy, those gorgeous eyes as warm as eyes could get. Only her voice detracted: a bit chirpy, too generous with final syllables. Maybe it was anxiety. Jeremy was in no mood for the mating game. He complimented her questions, flashed a professorial smile, and walked away.

  Three hours later, Arthur Chess showed up in his office.

  “I hope I’m not disturbing you.”

  Oh you are, you are. Jeremy had been working on the draft of a book chapter. Three years before, he’d been the behavioral researcher on a study of “bubble children”: kids with advanced cancers treated in germ-free, plastic rooms to see if their weakened immune systems could be protected against infection. The isolation posed a threat to young psyches, and Jeremy’s job had been to prevent and treat emotional breakdown.

  At that he’d been successful, and several of the children had survived and thrived. The principal researcher, now the head of oncology, had been after him to publish the data in book form, and a medical publisher had expressed enthusiasm.

  Jeremy worked on the outline for seventeen months, then sat down to draft an introduction. Over a year’s time, he produced two pages.

  Now he pushed that pathetic output aside, cleared charts and journals onto the chair that abutted his desk, and said, “Not at all, Arthur. Make yourself comfortable.”

  Arthur’s color was high, and his white coat was buttoned up, revealing an inch of pink shirt and a brown bow tie specked with tiny pink bumblebees. “So this is your lair.”

  “Such as it is.” Jeremy’s designated space was a corner cutout at the end of a long, dark corridor on a floor that housed nonclinicians—biochemists, biophysicists. Bio-everything, except him. The rest of Psychiatry was a story above.

  A single window looked out to an ash-colored air shaft. This was an older part of the hospital, and the walls were thick and clammy. The bio-folk kept to themselves. Footsteps in the hallways were infrequent.

  His lair.

  He’d ended up there four months ago, after a group of surgeons came by to measure Psychiatry’s space on the penthouse floor of the main hospital building. Less glamorous than it sounded, the upper floor looked out to a heliport, where emergency landings sometimes rendered therapy impossible. Any view of the city was blocked by massive heating and air-conditioning units, and pigeons enjoyed crapping on the windows. From time to time, Jeremy had seen rats scampering along the roof gutters.

  The day the surgeons came, he’d been trying to write and was rescued by their laughter. He opened his door to find five dapper men and a matching woman, wielding tape measures and hmming. A month later, Psychiatry was ordered to relocate to a smaller suite. No suite existed to accommodate the entire department. A crisis of space was solved when an eighty-year emeritus analyst died, and Jeremy volunteered to go elsewhere. This was shortly After Jocelyn, and isolation had been welcome.

  Jeremy never came to regret the decision. He could come and go as he pleased, and Psychiatry was faithful about forwarding his daily mail. The chemistry lab stink that permeated the building was all right.

  “Nice,” said Arthur. “Very nice.”

  “What is?”

  “The solitude.” The old man blushed. “Which I have violated.”

  “What’s up, Arthur?”

  “I was thinking about that drink. The one we discussed at Renfrew’s shop.”

  “Yes,” said Jeremy. “Of course.”

  Arthur reached under a coat flap and drew out a bulbous, white-gold pocket watch. “It’s approaching six. Would now be a good time?”

  To refuse the old man now would be downright rude. And simply p
ostpone the inevitable.

  On the bright side: Jeremy could use a drink.

  He said, “Sure, Arthur. Name the place.”

  The place was the bar of the Excelsior, a downtown hotel. Jeremy had passed the building many times—a massive, gray heap of gargoyled granite with too many rooms to ever fill—but had never been inside. He parked in the humid subterranean lot, rode the elevator to street level, and crossed a cavernous Beaux Arts lobby. The space was well past its prime, as was most of downtown. Disconsolate men working on commission sat in frayed, plush chairs and smoked and waited for something to happen. A few women with overdeveloped calves walked the room; maybe hookers, maybe just women traveling alone.

  The bar was a windowless, burnished mahogany fistula that relied upon weak bulbs and tall mirrors for life. Jeremy and Arthur had taken separate cars because each planned to head home after the tête à tête. Jeremy had driven quickly, but Arthur had gotten there first. The pathologist looked tweedy and relaxed in a corner booth.

  The waiter who approached them was portly and militaristic and older than Arthur, and Jeremy sensed that he knew the pathologist. He had nothing upon which to base the assumption—the man had uttered nothing of a familiar nature, hadn’t offered even a telling glance—but Jeremy couldn’t shake the feeling that this was a favorite haunt of Arthur’s.

  Yet when Arthur put in his order, there was no “The usual, Hans.” On the contrary, the pathologist enunciated clearly, careful to specify: a Boodles martini, straight up, two pearl onions.

  The waiter turned to Jeremy. “Sir?”

  “Single malt, ice on the side.”

  “Any particular brand, sir?”

  “Macallan.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  As he left, Arthur said, “Very good.”

  The drinks came with stunning speed, obviating painful small talk. Arthur savored his martini, showing no inclination to do anything but drink.

  “So,” said Jeremy.

  Arthur slid a pearl onion from a toothpick to his lips, left the mucoid sphere there for several moments. Chewed. Swallowed. “I was wondering if you could clarify something for me, Jeremy.”