The Conspiracy Club

by Jonathan Kellerman

  “As a matter of fact, yes—”

  “Aha! So who’s the detective in this family!” The woman laughed.

  “How did you know?” said Jeremy.

  “Because it’s the only case Nige’s been involved with any psychologist would be interested in. Had to be a crazy man, it did—but I shouldn’t say more. Indiscreet, and all that. What do you and your professor friend want with Nigey?”

  “I’d just like to ask him a few questions.”

  “You and everyone else.”

  “There’s been recent curiosity about the case?”

  “Not recent. But after it happened—when they found the second one, Bridget—you couldn’t keep this phone cold.” Silence on the line. The woman said, “Thank goodness, all that’s passed. So you want to talk to him, eh?”

  “I would appreciate it. Just for a—”

  “I suppose it wouldn’t hurt. Lately he’s been complaining about boredom. Nige!”

  The man’s voice was clogged—as if he’d stuffed his mouth full of eggs.

  “What’s this?” he demanded. “Something about Suzie and Bridget? Who are you? What’s this about?”

  Jeremy spun a web about Arthur’s forensic skills, erudite discussions between the two of them concerning important cases, the old man asking Jeremy to do psychosocial follow-up on cases he believed were yet unresolved.

  “Well, this is certainly bugger-all unresolved,” grumbled Nigel Langdon. “Never closed it. Surprised me at every turn. What with two bodies, I thought there’d be more. One of those serial things, you know? But that was it, two. Bastard ravaged those poor girls and just stopped. One of them had a boyfriend, a bad lot, served some time in Broadmoor for assault, I was certain he’d be the one. But he had an alibi. Locked up in Broadmoor—that’s about as good as it gets, wouldn’t you say? Other than him, nothing. Now, good night—”

  “Ravaged,” said Jeremy. “Was there sexual assault?”

  “I was speaking . . . dramatically, sir. Why should I tell you? It’s a bit impertinent—”

  “One more question, Inspector Langdon. Please. Was there evidence of surgical precision to the murders?”

  Silence.

  “What,” said Langdon, “are you really asking?”

  “Just that. Were the bodies dissected with . . . notable skill? Something that implied medical expertise?”

  “Where’d you say you were from, lad?”

  “City Central Hospital.” Jeremy rattled off the address, told Langdon he’d be happy to give his number and Langdon could call to verify.

  Langdon broke in: “Why all this curiosity from City Central Hospital, sir?”

  “Just what I said, Inspector. Intellectual curiosity. And a deep concern on Professor Chess’s part—and mine—about psychosocial issues. The origins of violence.”

  “Have a case like it over there, do you?”

  Jeremy hesitated.

  Langdon said, “I give all the answers, and you go dumb?”

  “It’s possible, Inspector. Nothing decisive. Professor Chess is a pathologist, worked at the Coroner’s Office, here. He and I review cases—you’ve never heard of Professor Chess?”

  “Chess . . . as in the game?”

  “Exactly.”

  “No, can’t say as I have.”

  “He’s world-renowned,” said Jeremy. “Currently, he’s traveling in Oslo.”

  “Too bad for him,” said Langdon. “As an overgrown fishing village it’s not half-bad. But those blokes. Sardines and oil is all they’re about. Which makes sense, har. Used to eating their fishies oily and got themselves bloody rich on oil, the Norsers. Worse than the Arabs. All that money, and they can’t bring themselves to install indoor plumbing in their summer homes, still walk around with rucksacks. Does that make sense to you—rich men eschewing indoor plumbing?”

  A long speech. Langdon’s voice had risen—anxiety—and Jeremy wondered if he’d prattled to hide something.

  “You’ve been to Oslo, Inspector.”

  “Been all kinds of places,” said Langdon. “Anyway, I am going to cut you off, now, because you’re bringing nasty stuff back into my life. Give me flowers, I like flowers. Flowers don’t rip each other apart for no good reason, then disappear and never show their ugly, psychopath faces again.”

  Snorting once, he cut the connection.

  Langdon had been to Oslo and didn’t want to talk about it.

  Jeremy thought about that, decided there was nowhere else to take it. That was that.

  But it wasn’t. Two days later, he received an e-mail from NigelLfleur@uklink.net.

  Ever the detective, Langdon had remembered Jeremy’s name and that of the hospital, traced his faculty account, obtained his address.

  Dear Dr. Jeremy Carrier,

  I fear I may have been unnecessarily curt with you during our recent phone chat. Perhaps I can be forgiven that curtness due to the unannounced nature of your call and the unpleasant subject matter foisted upon me by you during an otherwise restful evening.

  However, I do feel it incumbent upon me to pass along the following truths:

  With regard to your inquiry about various aspects of cases we discussed that have passed from under my responsibility, I’m afraid I’m not able to divulge details. Especially as said cases remain open. The new man in charge of the Clevington/Sapsted file is Det Insp Michael B. Shreve, however to my knowledge he is not actively investigating these cases as they have been deemed inactive, pending new evidence, none of which, to my knowledge has surfaced. Therefore, they are likely to remain closed. However, I have now passed along Det Insp Shreve’s name to you and feel that with that action I have acquitted my responsibilities in this matter.

  Furthermore, I doubt that Det Insp Shreve would fancy discussing said case with non-police personnel. However, here is his phone number, should you decide to persist.

  Best wishes,

  Nigel A. Langdon (very definitely Ret.)

  Jeremy phoned Michael B. Shreve’s office and was informed by an officious male officer that the detective inspector was on holiday.

  “Until when?”

  “Until he returns, sir.”

  “When might that be?”

  “I’m not at liberty to divulge personal details, sir.”

  Jeremy left his name and number and the fact that he was inquiring about Suzie Clevington and Bridget Sapsted.

  If that rang a bell with Mr. Officious, he gave no indication.

  “Is he in Norway?”

  “Thank you, sir. Good day, sir.”

  26

  Something that had never happened before:

  Jeremy forgot to turn off his pager, and it went off during a therapy session.

  The patient was a thirty-year-old man named Josh Hammett, an electrician, undergoing a final set of skin grafts for deep-tissue burns suffered last year when a storm-snapped power line had scythed across his chest and severed his left arm.

  Months after the amputation, phantom pain had set in, and when nothing else seemed to work, the plastic surgeon put in a psych consult.

  This was the sixth time Jeremy had seen the young man. Josh had proved an excellent hypnotic subject, responding readily, even eagerly, to Jeremy’s suggestion that his arm had found a peaceful resting place.

  Now, he reclined on a couch in the treatment room with Jeremy hovering near his head. Breathing slowly, regularly, the innocent smile of a dreaming toddler spread across his lips.

  The bleating at Jeremy’s belt failed to rouse him. Deeply under. Jeremy switched off the beeper, let him stay wherever he was for a longer while than usual, finally brought him out gradually. When the young man thanked him and told him he felt great, really great, fantastic, actually, Jeremy turned it back on him: “You did all the work, Josh. You’re excellent at this.”

  “Think so, Doc?”

  “Definitely. You’re as good as it gets.”

  Josh beamed. “I never thought it was something I could do, Doc. Tell the truth,
when you first mentioned it I thought it was bogus-pocus. But that power-board idea ended being a great idea. The minute I visualize it, all the circuits in place, see all those lights blinking, everything working real smooth, I just go right under. Like that.”

  He snapped the fingers of his only hand.

  “Today,” he went on, “I really got into it. Pictured I was fishing, out off the sound. Hauling up pike and whitefish, so many it was almost too much for the boat. I tell you, I could smell those guys frying in the pan.”

  “Set aside some for me.”

  “You bet, Doc.”

  Jeremy left the treatment room content. Angela’s number on the beeper brought a smile to his face.

  “I’ve got half an hour,” she said, when he reached her on the thoracic ward. “How about coffee and Danish in the DDR?”

  “I’m on my way.”

  When he got to the doctors’ dining room, she was sitting at a table with Ted Dirgrove, the heart surgeon. Coffee and a chocolate cruller sat in front of her. Nothing in front of Dirgrove. He was out of his crimson scrubs, wore his white coat buttoned. In the exposed V was the curve of a black T-shirt.

  Very hip.

  He got up as Jeremy approached. “Hey, Jeremy.”

  “Ted.”

  Dirgrove turned to Angela. “I’ll be doing it on Thursday, so if you want to watch, no prob, just let my secretary know.”

  “Thanks, Dr. Dirgrove.”

  Dirgrove returned his attention to Jeremy. “I’ve been meaning to call you about the Saunders girl.”

  “Everything okay?”

  “Not quite,” said the surgeon. His spider fingers flexed, and his bony face turned rigid. “She died on the table.”

  “God. What happened?”

  Dirgrove rubbed an eye. “Probably a reaction to anesthesia, one of those idiopathic things. Her vitals went haywire—a peak, just what I was worried about—then a really deep trough. Everything just tanked. At first I was sure it was a typical, anesthesia screwup. Tube down the esophagus instead of the airway, because all of a sudden her oxygenation just plummeted. It stinks, but it happens, you spot it, you fix it. The gas-passer checked, and everything was in place. He just couldn’t stop her from losing function. I’d opened her, retracted the sternum, had just gotten to the heart.”

  Dirgrove related the incident in a hollow voice, as if projecting through a bamboo tube. His eyes were weary, but he’d shaved closely this morning and looked well put together. “Everything was rolling along fine, then she was gone. It just stinks.”

  Jeremy thought of the chubby young woman with the multipierced ears and the unruly hair. All that anger. Dirgrove picking her out as high-risk.

  I come into this hellhole feeling fine and tomorrow I’m gonna wake up feeling like I got run over by a truck.

  You’re an adult and it’s your body . . . so if you have serious . . . reservations . . .

  Nah. I’ll go with the flow . . . what’s the worse that can happen, I die?

  “Stinks bad,” said Jeremy.

  “Stinks to high hell.” Dirgrove rolled his shoulders. “The autopsy results should come in shortly. No sense dwelling.”

  He walked off.

  “Poor man,” said Angela.

  “Poor patient,” said Jeremy.

  His tone was harsh, and she blanched. “You’re right, I’m sorry—”

  “I’m sorry,” said Jeremy. “I’m on edge.” He sat down opposite her, reached for her hand. She offered her fingertips. Cold, dry. “It took me by surprise. When I didn’t hear from him again, I assumed . . .”

  “Terrible,” she said. “Any other reason you’re on edge?”

  “Too much work, not enough play.”

  “Wish I could play with you, but they’re exploiting me, too.”

  He looked at her cruller. She said, “Take it, I’m finished.”

  “You’re sure.”

  “More than sure.

  Breaking off a piece, he chewed, swallowed. “I didn’t mean to snap at you.”

  “It’s okay. He shouldn’t have dropped it on you like that. I guess I felt sorry for him because I identified with him. Losing a patient. It’s what we all dread, and sooner or later it’s going to happen. I’ve lost a few, already, but I wasn’t the attending, they weren’t really my patients. That’s one good thing about what you do, isn’t it? Patients don’t die. Not for the most part.”

  “There’s always suicide,” said Jeremy.

  “Yes. Of course. What was I thinking?” She drew back her hand, ran it through her hair. Her eyelids were heavy. “I’m not doing very well, am I? Too much work, not enough play. I did love that dinner, though. That was a great escape. I like the things you do for me, Jeremy.”

  Her hand returned to his. The entire hand. Her skin had warmed.

  “May I ask you something?” she said. “When it does happen—a suicide, or when a consult patient goes, like this one—how do you deal with it?”

  “You convince yourself you did your best and move on.”

  “Basically, what Dirgrove said. No sense dwelling.”

  “Basically,” said Jeremy. “You can’t be a robot, but you can’t bleed for everyone, either.”

  “So you learn to do that. Distance yourself.”

  “You have to,” he said. “Or you wither.”

  “Guess so.”

  “Want coffee?”

  “No, I’m fine.”

  Jeremy got up, poured himself a cup from the doctors’ urn, and returned.

  Angela said, “The girl who died. Do you think there could’ve been something to Dirgrove’s worries?”

  “What, she scared herself to death?”

  “Nothing that pat . . . yes, I suppose that is what I mean. Could there be something unconscious going on? Is there a death force that grows in some people and takes them down—causes their autonomic system to go haywire, poisons their system with stress hormone? Isn’t there some tribe in Vietnam that has a high rate of sudden death? Nothing’s predictable, is it? You go through all that basic science in premed, think you’ve got a handle on it. Then you see things: Patients coming in looking hopeless, but they recover and walk out on their own two feet. Others who aren’t that sick, end up on the wrong side of the M and M reports.”

  Morbidity and Mortality. The right-hand column reserved for deaths. The M and M’s were the purview of Arthur’s department. The old man again . . . let him stay in Scandinavia, consuming lutefisk and pornography and whatever else they produced there . . .

  Angela was saying, “What if the difference isn’t what I do? What if it comes down to psych factors? Or voodoo? For all we know, there’s the equivalent of a psychic virus that colonizes our basic survival instincts and bends us to its will. Merilee Saunders could’ve felt it taking her over. That’s why she was nervous.”

  She smiled. “Weird. I am definitely sleep-deprived.”

  Jeremy pictured Merilee’s face. Angry, taut with . . . knowing? “What you’re talking about,” he said, “is an autoimmune disorder of the soul.”

  Angela stared at him.

  “What is it?” he said.

  “What you just said—autoimmune disorder of the soul. The way you phrase things. I wish you’d talk more. I love listening to you.”

  He said nothing.

  She squeezed his hand hard. “I mean it. I could never put it that way.”

  “ ‘Psychic virus’ is pretty good.”

  “No,” she said, “words aren’t my thing. All through school, I aced math and science but throw a three-paragraph essay at me, and I’m lost.” Her eyes looked feverish. A faint sweat had broken out on her upper lip.

  “You okay?” he said.

  “Tired, that’s all. I’ll bet essays came easy for you.”

  He laughed. “You should only know.”

  He told her about his struggle to write the book.

  “You’ll do it,” she said. “You’ve been distracted.”

  “By what?”

&
nbsp; “You tell me.”

  He laughed again and ate the rest of the cruller.

  “Jeremy, you master words, they don’t master you.”

  “Words are all I’ve got, Ang. You’ve got science backing you up. For me, it’s what I say and when I say it. Period. At root, it’s a primitive field—”

  She placed a cool finger on his lips and he smelled Betadine and French soap.

  “The next time we’re together,” she said, “tell me more about yourself.”

  27

  The next time was two days later, at Angela’s apartment. She was off call, working mere fifteen-hour days. Had somehow found time to fix a beef-and-bean casserole and a salad of baby greens. They ate on the secondhand couch, listening to music. Her taste was rock about ten years too current for Jeremy.

  For the first time, he spent the night.

  He did talk. Not about himself, about Angela. Telling her she was beautiful, letting her know how she made him feel. She kept her eyes on him until pleasure forced her to close them. After they washed and dried the dishes, they returned to the couch and entwined. She clawed him, wrapped around him like a crab engulfing its dinner, and after it was over, they stumbled to her bed and slept until daybreak.

  He drove her to the hospital and dropped her off at the elevators. After buying a newspaper in the gift shop, he grabbed vending machine coffee and brought caffeine and the day’s tragedies to his office.

  He flipped pages idly, same old stuff. Then an item at the rear of the Metro section stopped his breathing.

  A woman had been murdered last night, just east of Iron Mount, not far from where Tyrene Mazursky had been savaged. An unnamed woman. Her body had been left out in the open, on a sand spit north of the harbor called Saugatuck Finger.

  Jeremy knew the place, a boomerang-shaped quarter mile of gritty silica, surrounded on three sides by pines and spruce and dotted by the occasional rickety picnic table. Nothing to do there but kick sand and toe out into pebble-bottomed, lapping water that looked cleaner than it was. Sometimes a stink rose from the cove. Poor families could be seen picnicking on the spit during the friendly months.

  When the sky turned to pig-iron, no one came. An abandoned spot. At night, it would be ghostly.