The Conspiracy Club

by Jonathan Kellerman

  “What’s that, Arthur?”

  “Your views—psychology’s views on violence. Specifically, the genesis of very, very bad behavior.”

  “Psychology’s not monolithic,” said Jeremy.

  “Yes, yes, of course. But surely there must be a body of data—I’ll retrench. What’s your take on the issue?”

  Jeremy sipped scotch, let the subtle fire linger on his tongue. “You’re asking me this because . . .”

  “The question intrigues me,” said Arthur. “For years I’ve dealt with the aftermath of death on a daily basis. Have spent most of my adult life with what remains when the soul flies. The challenge, for me, is no longer to reduce the bodies I dissect to their biochemical components. Nor to ascertain cause of death. If one excavates long enough, one produces. No, the challenge is to comprehend the larger issues.”

  The old man finished his martini and motioned for another. Motioned at an empty bar; no sign of the portly waiter. But the man materialized moments later with another frosted shaker.

  He glanced at the nearly empty tumbler of scotch. “Sir?”

  Jeremy shook his head, and the waiter vanished.

  “Humanity,” said Arthur, sipping. “The challenge is to maintain my humanity—have I ever mentioned that I served a spell in the Coroner’s Office?”

  As if the two of them chatted regularly.

  “No,” said Jeremy.

  “Oh, yes. Sometime after my discharge from the military.”

  “Where did you serve?”

  “The Panama Canal,” said Arthur. “Medical officer at the locks. I witnessed some gruesome accidents, learned quite a bit about postmortem identification. After that . . . I did some other things, but eventually, the Coroner’s seemed a fitting place.” He took several thoughtful swallows, and the second martini was reduced by half.

  “But you switched to academia,” said Jeremy.

  “Oh, yes . . . it seemed the right thing to do.” The old man smiled. “Now about my question: What’s your take on it?”

  “Very bad behavior.”

  “The very worst.”

  Jeremy’s stomach lurched. “On a purely academic level?”

  “Oh, no,” said Arthur. “Academia is the refuge of those seeking to escape the big questions.”

  “If it’s hard data you’re after—”

  “I’m after whatever you choose to offer. Because you speak your mind.” Arthur finished his drink. “Of course, if I’m being offensive or intrusive—”

  “Violence,” said Jeremy. He’d spent hours—endless hours, all those sleepless nights—thinking about it. “From what I’ve gathered, very, very bad behavior is a combination of genes and environment. Like most everything else of consequence in human behavior.”

  “A cocktail of nature and nurture.”

  Jeremy nodded.

  “What are your thoughts about the concept of the bad seed?” said Arthur.

  “The stuff of fiction,” said Jeremy. “Which isn’t to say that serious violence doesn’t manifest young. Show me a cruel, bullying, callous six-year-old, and I’ll show you someone worth watching. But even given nasty tendencies it takes a bad environment—a rotten family to bring it out.”

  “Callous . . . you’ve treated children like that?”

  “A few.”

  “Six-year-old potential felons?”

  Jeremy considered his answer. “Six-year-olds who gave me pause. Psychologists are notoriously bad at predicting violence. Or anything else.”

  “But you have seen youngsters who alarm you.”

  “Yes.”

  “What do you tell their parents?”

  “The parents are almost always part of the problem. I’ve seen fathers who took great joy when their sons brutalized other children. Preaching restraint in the presence of strangers—saying the right things, but their smiles give them away. Eventually. It takes time to understand a family. For all intents and purposes, families still exist in caves. You have to be inside to read the writing on the wall.”

  Arthur waved for a third drink. No sign of intoxication in the old man’s speech or demeanor. Just a slight increase in his high, pink color.

  At least, Jeremy mused, a slip of his scalpel wouldn’t kill anyone.

  This time, when the waiter said, “For you, sir?” he ordered a second Macallan.

  Finger food came, unbeckoned, with the drinks. Boiled shrimp with cocktail sauce, fried zucchini, spicy little sausages skewered by black plastic toothpicks, thick potato chips that appeared homemade. Arthur hadn’t ordered the hors d’oeuvres, but he was unsurprised.

  The two men nibbled and drank, and Jeremy felt warmth—a lacquer of relaxation—flow from his toes to his scalp. When Arthur said, “Their smiles give them away,” Jeremy was momentarily confused. Then he reminded himself: those obnoxious, pathogenic dads he’d been talking about.

  He said, “Do as I say, not as I do. It never works.”

  “Interesting,” said Arthur. “Not counterintuitive, but interesting. So, it’s all about families.”

  “That’s what I’ve seen.”

  “Interesting,” Arthur repeated. Then he changed the subject.

  To butterflies.

  Specimens he’d come across while serving in Panama. Off-duty forays into the jungles of Costa Rica. Weather that “had one drenched in sweat even as one showered.”

  The old man drank and fooled with his bumblebee bow tie and ate skewered sausages, and a dreamy look came into his eyes as he embarked upon a story. A patient he’d seen back in Panama. A young officer in the Corps of Engineers who’d returned from a jungle hike, felt an itch under his left shoulder blade, reached back and fingered a slight swelling and believed himself bitten.

  He’d thought nothing of it until a day later when the swelling had tripled in size.

  “But still,” said Arthur, “he didn’t come in for examination. No fever, no other discomfort—the old machismo, you know. On the second day, the pain arrived. Wonderful messenger, pain. Teaches us all sorts of lessons about our bodies. This pain was electric—or so the fellow described it. A high-voltage electric shock running continuously through his torso. As if he’d been hooked up to a live circuit. By the time I saw him he was deathly pallid and shaking and in quite a bit of agony. And the swelling had trebled, yet again. Furthermore,” Arthur leaned forward, “the lad was certain there was something moving within.”

  He selected a potato chip, slid it between his lips, chewed deliberately, dusted crumbs from his beard and continued.

  “My assumption upon hearing that—motion—was crepitus. Fluid buildup secondary to infection, nothing alarming on the face of it. But the poor lad removed his shirt and as I observed the mass I became intrigued.” Arthur licked salt from his lips. In the dim light of the bar, his eyes were the color of fine jade.

  “The swelling was huge, Jeremy. Highly discolored, the beginnings of necrosis had set in. Black flesh, somewhat bubal, so one had to consider plague. But there was no serious probability of plague, the corps had cleaned the Canal Zone quite thoroughly. Still, medicine is predicated on surprise, that’s the fun of it, and I knew I had to culture the mass. In preparation, I palpated—the wretch could barely contain himself from screaming—and as I did I noticed that there did, indeed, seem to be some sort of independent movement beneath the skin. Unlike any crepitus I’d ever seen.”

  Another potato chip. A slow sip of martini.

  Arthur sat back again.

  Jeremy had moved forward on his seat. He relaxed, consciously. Waited for the punch line.

  Arthur ate and drank, looked quite content. The old bastard hadn’t finished. Too drunk to continue?

  Jeremy fought the urge to say, “What happened then?”

  Finally, Arthur drained his martini glass and gave a low sigh of contentment. “At that point, rather than commence with the examination, I sent the fellow for an X ray and the results were quite fascinating, if inconclusive.”

  Munch. Sip.
>
  “What did it show?” said Jeremy.

  “A gelatinous mass of indeterminate origin,” said Arthur. “A mass unlike any neoplasm or cystic formation I’d ever seen. My reference books were of no help. Neither was the radiologist—not the brightest fellow in the first place. In any event, I decided to cut the lad open, but gingerly. Which was fortunate because I was able to preserve it, intact.”

  Arthur stared at the empty martini glass and smiled in reminiscence. Jeremy busied himself with the last drops of single malt.

  Unbuttoning his vest, the pathologist shook his head, in wonder. “Infestation. Larval infestation. The poor lad had been selected by a little known jungle beetle as the nutritional host for its new family—an unusually petite ectoparasitoid of the Adephaga family. The insect is equipped with a set of biochemical tools that prove extremely useful to its survival. It’s brown and unassuming and, hence, hard to spot, and, to the uninformed, appears minimally threatening. Furthermore, it exudes a chemical that repels predators, and its excrement possesses anesthetic properties. Its modus is to deposit its feces on the victim’s skin, which accomplishes the dual goal of relieving itself and numbing the host epidermis. That allows for a swift, clean incision large enough to accommodate an extravagantly curved ovipositor—a beak, if you will, connected to the creature’s reproductive tract that allows for rapid injection of eggs. Of even further interest is the fact that it’s the father beetle who accomplishes this. I was reminded of all this by your mention of violence-enabling fathers.”

  Smile. A rueful glance at the empty glass. Arthur went on, “Once his mate’s eggs have been fertilized, the male takes it upon himself to assume full responsibility for the family’s future. He reenters the female, extracts the eggs, injects them into his own thorax and feeds the brood with his body tissue until a suitable host is found.”

  “Liberated man,” muttered Jeremy.

  “Quite.” Arthur twirled his martini glass, ate the pearl onion, placed his large hands flat on the table.

  “What happened to the patient?”

  “I scooped out the entire mass, taking pains to do it cleanly. Thousands of larvae, all quite alive, thriving quite nicely, thank you, because of the high protein content of young, American military musculature. No lasting damage to the poor lieutenant other than a scar and some tenderness for several weeks. And several months of rather disturbing dreams. He applied for and received a discharge. Moved to Cleveland, or some such place. The larvae didn’t survive. I tried to come up with substitute nutrition for the little devils. Agar, gelatin, beef broth, bonemeal, ground insect parts—nothing worked. The fascinating aspect of the case was that the very existence of this particular beetle had been under speculation for some time. Many entomologists believed it extinct. A rather interesting case. At least I thought so.”

  “The male beetle,” said Jeremy. “Sins of the fathers.”

  Arthur studied him. Gave a long, slow nod. “Yes. You might say that.”

  5

  Jeremy and Arthur left the bar together and parted at the hotel’s revolving brass doors.

  Jeremy was drunk, needed to walk it off, and he headed out to the street. A light rain had fallen. The sidewalks smelled of burnt copper; the city glowed. He walked to the fringes of downtown, entered dark, murderous avenues, unmindful of his own safety.

  Feeling curiously uplifted—fearless—after drinking with the pathologist. The gruesome story of the soldier with the larval hump cheered him. When he finally drove home, his head was clear and when he reached his small house he thought, What a pathetic little place. More than enough for someone like me.

  Jocelyn’s belongings had been packed up and shipped to the police. Four cartons, she’d brought so little.

  Doresh and Hoker had stood around during the packing, and Doresh said, “Mind if we Luminol the bathroom? It’s a chemical we spray and then we turn down the lights and if it glows—”

  “—there’s blood,” finished Jeremy. “Go ahead.” Not bothering to ask, Why the bathroom?

  He knew the answer. The bathroom was the place, if you were going to . . .

  They sprayed and found nothing. Uniformed officers carried the four cartons away. It was only when they’d left that Jeremy realized they’d taken something of his.

  A framed snapshot that had sat on his bedroom dresser. He and Jocelyn, walking along the harbor, eating shrimp from a takeout stand, a warm day, but windy, her head barely high enough to reach Jeremy’s shoulder. Her blond hair all over the place, masking half of Jeremy’s face.

  He phoned Doresh, asked for the picture back, never received a reply.

  He stripped naked, dropped into bed, figuring he’d be up half the night. Instead, he fell asleep readily but woke up in the early-morning hours, head pounding, muscles aching, brain clawed by images of voracious, cannibal bugs.

  Stay out of my life, old man.

  Arthur did.

  Shortly after drinks at the Excelsior, as Jeremy tagged along during psych rounds, he heard the page operator drone his name. He straggled away from the mental health army, phoned in, picked up a page from Dr. Angela Rios.

  Over the past few weeks, the beautiful young resident had tried to catch his eye during at least four chance walk-bys in hospital corridors. Angela had a fine, quick mind and a soft heart, and she was as pretty as they came. Exactly the type of woman Jeremy would go for, if he was interested in a woman.

  Careful not to be hurtful, he’d smiled and walked on.

  Now this.

  He answered the page, and Angela said, “I’m glad you’re on service. I’ve got a problem patient—thirty-six-year-old woman with lupus in apparent remission but now her blood work’s looking scary, and we need a bone marrow aspiration.”

  “Leukemia?”

  “Hopefully not. But her counts are off in an ominous way, and I’d be derelict not to pursue it. The problem is, she has real difficulty with procedures—scared out of her wits. I offered to sedate her, but she says no, with the lupus receding she’s worried about taking any drugs and messing up her system. Could you help me? Hypnotize her, talk to her, whatever calms her down? I heard you do that.”

  “Sure,” said Jeremy.

  The first patient he’d “helped” with a procedure had been a twelve-year-old girl with a resected brain tumor—a malignant glioma—about to undergo a spinal tap. The Chief Psychiatrist had given Jeremy’s name to the neurosurgeon who’d put in the consult, and there was no turning back.

  He showed up at the procedure room wondering, What am I supposed to do? Found the girl in restraints, kicking and screaming and foaming at the mouth. It had been six months since the tumor had been shelled out of her skull, and her hair had grown back as three inches of fuzz. Ink lines across her face and a yellowish tan said she’d been radiated recently.

  Twelve years old and they were tying her up like a felon.

  A frustrated second-year resident had just ordered a gag. He greeted Jeremy with a furrow-browed grunt.

  Jeremy said, “Let’s hold off on that,” and took the girl’s hand. Felt the shock of pain as her nails cut into his palm and drew blood, looked into her panic-poisoned eyes, tried not to wince as she shrieked, “Nonononononononono!”

  Sweat poured from his armpits, his bowels shuddered, and his equilibrium started to go.

  He stood by the gurney, frozen, as the girl’s nails cut deeper. She howled, he swayed. His left foot began to slide out from under—

  Blacking out–oh, shit!

  The resident, staring at him. Everyone staring at him.

  He braced himself. Breathed deeply and, he hoped, inconspicuously.

  The girl stopped screaming.

  His colon felt ready to explode and his back had gone clammy but he smiled down at her, called her “Honey” because he’d forgotten her name though they’d just been introduced, and on top of that he’d just read the damn chart.

  She stared up at him.

  Oh, Lord, trust.

  Th
e room fish-eyed and shimmered, and he felt his knees give way again. Drawing himself up, he began talking to the now-silent girl. Smiling and talking, intoning, droning, uttering Godknewwhatjibberish.

  The girl commenced screaming again.

  The resident said, “Shit, let’s just do it.”

  “Hold on,” ordered Jeremy. The violence in his voice silenced the room.

  The girl, too.

  He concentrated. Suppressed the shakes that threatened to betray him.

  Talked her through it.

  Within moments, the girl’s eyes had shut and she was breathing slowly and able to nod when Jeremy asked if she was ready. The resident, now looking off-balance himself, did his thing with merciful skill, extracted the lumbar puncture needle, filled a vial full of golden spinal fluid, and left the procedure room shaking his head.

  The girl cried, and that was okay, that was good, she had every right, poor thing, poor poor thing, just a child.

  Jeremy stayed with her, endured her whimpers, stuck with her until she was ready to smile and he got her to do so. His full-body sweat was foul-smelling, but no one seemed to notice.

  Later, out in the hall, one of the nurses cornered him, and said, “That was amazing, Dr. Carrier.”

  Angela’s lupus patient was no screamer. A wan, pretty woman named Marian Boehmer, she expressed her terror by going rigid and silent. Dead eyes. Lips folded inward. In the wrong setting, some nincompoop shrink might’ve slapped her with a catatonia label.

  Angela moved away from her and gave Jeremy room to work. Angela’s silky hair was tied back and rubber-banded, her makeup had been eaten up by stress, and her skin bore a library pallor. She looked as if she hadn’t slept in a very long time.

  Here she is at her worst, thought Jeremy. The way she looks on a bad morning. And still, pretty good.

  The bone marrow aspiration kit lay unwrapped on a bedside tray. Chrome and glass and dagger points, that horrible grinding thing used to puncture the sternum so that blood-forming cells could be sucked out. In order to gain leverage, the doctor loomed from above and leaned in hard, put some muscle into it. Patients willing to talk about the procedure said it felt like being stabbed to death.