The Society

by Michael Palmer

Will conjured up images of last evening’s embryonic connection with Patty, but couldn’t even manage a smile. For nearly an hour the two of them had sat together on his couch, his arm around her, her head resting on his shoulder. Neither of them was willing to speak or break the mood in any way. Will sensed that their bond was forged as much by exhaustion and frustration as by their attraction to each other, and he was determined not to read too much into the moment. Still, they were together, touching. Then suddenly, having spoken barely a word, Patty had stood, kissed him first on the cheek, then briefly on the mouth, mumbled an apology, and left. Just like that.

  “They seem to be doing the best they can, Beano,” Will said, “but the guy is good. He knows handguns, he knows explosives, he knows surveillance electronics. He studies his victims and finds ways to get at them without any witnesses.”

  “And why is he doing this?”

  “He only shares things with me a bit at a time. It’s like a game. But from what he’s let me in on so far, someone close to him—his mother, it appears—was killed by what he perceives was managed-care policy. I’m guessing she was discharged prematurely from an ER or a psych ward and went ahead and killed herself.”

  “She wouldn’t be the first. I’ve lost two clients whom we couldn’t get into a detox because of refusal by their HMO.” Beane donned a padded mitt and helped pour a mountain of spaghetti into a giant colander. “Well,” he said, “I don’t want to make things any worse for you, but there is something I need to talk to you about.” He turned to a gangly teenager who was moving dishes out to the serving area. “Arielle, can you take over for Will, please? Get some help emptying those two other pots into this strainer, rinse the pasta, then fill up two of the deep serving pans.”

  “Glad to.”

  Beane put his arm around Will’s shoulder and guided him to his office.

  “I’m not sure whether or not you know it, Will, but after Grace Davis ran into you at your office, she and her husband, Mark, began coming in here to volunteer. Three times so far, I think. Maybe four. Coming back completed a circle for her. I was seriously considering hiring her part time to help out our counseling staff, as soon as her chemotherapy was over. Although she was before my time when she used to be a client here, her story and the way she carries herself now certainly impressed me.”

  “Me, too. I felt terrible having to tell her I couldn’t do her surgery, and even worse having to tell her why.” Beane’s grave expression brought a sudden chill. “Is she all right?” Will asked.

  “Her husband called just a little while ago. She had an allergic reaction during her first dose of chemotherapy.” He pulled a pink telephone-message pad sheet from his pocket and read the words. “He said it was shock. Ana-fil-ack-tic shock.”

  Will felt ill. Anaphylactic shock was the most fearsome of allergic reactions. Massive histamine release causing hives, precipitous blood-pressure drop due to widespread pooling of blood in dilated vessels, and airway obstruction due to swelling of the membranes in the throat and bronchial tubes. It was a terrifying medical emergency that was often fatal.

  “Did she die?” he managed, dreading the answer.

  “According to her husband, almost. One of the rescue-squad people performed an emergency tracheotomy in the cancer clinic. She’s in intensive care at your hospital. I’m not sure whether or not she’s regained consciousness.”

  “Thanks for telling me. I can call the unit for information.”

  “Are you going to go over there?”

  Will pictured Sid Silverman, puffed with anger, insisting that he not set foot in the hospital. There was no legal order to back up the demand, but Will had seen no reason to make his situation worse by putting Silverman to the test. Now there was one.

  “In the morning,” he said. “I’ll go in and see how she’s doing first thing in the morning.”

  Given the choice this night between table cleanup, which was his usual job, and staying behind the counter to serve, Will chose the latter. He was in no shape for much contact with the public. Gina, the full-time staff person in charge of scheduling and deploying volunteers, put him on salads. The line of clients, a number of whom still had their own home but could afford neither food nor fuel, seemed endless. Will recalled the early days when the Open Hearth was more of a food pantry than a kitchen, and marveled at the energy of the place. Tonight, four paid staff were working alongside fifteen or so volunteers, ranging from ten years old to seventy. It was a good bet that none of those volunteers knew Will was one of the founders, and that was certainly the way he wanted it. What he didn’t want, however, was the notion that before long, without a medical license, he and the twins might end up in the line on the other side of the counter.

  I’m sorry, Doctor, but you’re a little overqualified for our Burger King trainee program. . . .

  “Hey, there, mister, am I allowed two salads if I pass on the spaghetti and meatballs?”

  Patty eyed him from over the food-protection hood. She had on her worn leather jacket and a floppy black and red leather cap that looked perfect on her.

  “I would hate to offend the memory of my sainted mother,” he said. “That spaghetti sauce is her recipe.”

  “No it’s not.”

  “You’re right. It’s not. My sainted mother had trouble boiling water. But she really would have loved that sauce.”

  “I still think I’ll pass,” she said, “although I no longer have to be as light on my feet as I was when I was chasing after a certain serial killer.”

  “They took you off the case?”

  “To all intents and purposes they did, yes.”

  “Shit. I’m sorry.” Will glanced at the line, which was starting to build up, and passed across two plastic bowls of salad. “Dressings are over there,” he said. “I highly recommend the ranch and highly don’t recommend the diet Italian. Finish your salad, give me fifteen minutes, and we can blow this joint.”

  “I have all the time in the world,” she said.

  Along with the hospital and a remarkable antique-car museum, Will considered Steele’s Pond to be among the best things about Fredrickston. Tucked in the woods just west of the city, two miles around, Steele’s had paddleboats, a popcorn cart, and a hot-dog stand in the summer, and picture-book skating in the winter. The air, scrubbed by an afternoon of rain, was crisp and clean—perfect for a walk, Patty said. She followed him to the small parking area at the south end of the pond, locked the Camaro, and walked with him to the water’s edge. After a few silent minutes staring at the dark, still surface, she slipped her arm in his and let him guide her to the rutted dirt track that circumnavigated the pond.

  “So,” she began, “sorry I left the way I did last night. My brain was threatening to explode with all that was going on inside it.”

  “No problem. I enjoyed spending what time we did together.”

  “Me, too. Was it okay for you to desert your post at the salad station? People were still coming in.”

  “I’ve always been the last choice to be stationed at salads. Maybe it’s the hand–eye coordination required there. The trainee they replaced me with is already twice as good as I was. Benois Beane, the director, was relieved to see me go.”

  “Having spoken with Benois about you, I’ll bet he’s never relieved to see you go. It’s really an amazing place. You must be so proud of what you started.”

  “Thanks. It wasn’t just me, but you’re right, I am. There’s no way the little group of us all those years ago could possibly have envisioned what it was going to become.”

  “In a way, it made me sad. So much poverty. I kept thinking that maybe someday it won’t be needed.”

  “Wouldn’t that be something? Of course, such a world would require a few consecutive federal administrations that actually cared about educating the kids, and making sure they have jobs waiting for them when they finish school, and giving them reasons not to take drugs.”

  “It’s all about having hope,” Patty said.


  “It’s all about hope. So, you’re off the case?”

  “Yup. The killing last night was the last straw. My CO felt a reorganization was called for. So in the beginning it was my case, and now I’m off it altogether even though I really haven’t done anything wrong, except maybe have two X chromosomes. Actually, I have my CO’s permission to stay available to Wayne Brasco, just in case he can’t read my writing on any of the three or four feet of reports, notes, and documents I’ve got to turn over to him tomorrow. Not that Brasco would be interested in anything I’ve generated.”

  “You okay about this?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe. Maybe it’s for the best. The thing I feel worst about is my father. He never wanted me to be a cop in the first place. I really wanted to be part of the team that nails this guy.”

  “It’s hard. You’re playing the killer’s game by the killer’s rules, and he’s damn good at it.”

  “I guess. I’m not good at dealing with failure, but I also know this isn’t some sort of contest. The blood all over that motel-room bed was quite real, and even though he was a philandering jerk, I feel awful about that surgeon. From what I can tell, he actually knew from our warning that there was potential danger last night, but apparently, seducing yet another trophy was more important to him than staying alive.”

  “Do you think a woman killed him?”

  “It’s certainly possible. If it was a man, Dr. Richard Leaf must have been one surprised puppy.”

  They became aware of movement to their right and left a moment before three youths, two white, one black, stepped from behind trees on either side of the path. Two of them were built like football linemen. The third, considerably smaller, was wearing a Celtics jacket and a Red Sox cap. He stepped forward to confront them, his hands twitching excitedly at his sides. He had acne-scarred skin and emitted a dense aroma of marijuana. Had Will been alone, he would have spun around and taken off, but none of the three had a weapon that he could see, and Patty showed no inclination to run. Instead, she continued holding gently on to his arm. At one moment she tilted her head just enough to touch his shoulder. He could sense absolutely no tension in her.

  “Well, well,” the teen said, “it appears we have visitors to our toll area. We hope you are prepared to pay.”

  “What do you want?” Patty asked firmly.

  “Well, that wicked hat of yours for starters, right, guys?”

  “Right you are, dude.”

  “And for seconds, oh . . . um . . . let me see . . . how about . . . your wallets.”

  “Yeah, their wallets. Hey, good idea, dude. Good idea.”

  Patty slipped her arm free of Will’s. She pinched her cap by the bill, took it off, and wearily wiped imaginary sweat off her forehead with the back of her hand. Then she set the cap back in place.

  “Actually, dude, it’s a terrible idea,” she said. “I have two other things you might want to see, dude, before we give you this cap and our wallets. Wanna guess what they are? Huh, dude? Wanna guess?” She grinned at him most menacingly. “Well, first there’s my badge, and second, perhaps a source of even more concern to you assholes, is my gun.”

  She slipped her hand inside her jacket, but the silent vote had already been taken. In unison, the three youths whirled and bolted off into the woods. Patty watched them go, then slipped her hand back inside Will’s arm.

  “Let’s see,” she said, “where were we?”

  “Why didn’t you bust them?” he asked.

  “And ruin a perfectly lovely romantic walk? I don’t think so. There are plenty of punks like those around, but evenings with a handsome, funny doctor are pretty tough to come by.”

  “Is your gun really in there?”

  “It was, before I locked it in the trunk of my car. I try not to be packing when I take romantic walks.”

  “Me, too,” Will said. “Besides, the two big ones were all blubber. I could have handled them if I had to.”

  “I know. I’ve read all about your temper, remember? They’ll never know how lucky they were. Now, where were we?”

  He turned and, cradling her face between his hands, set his mouth on hers and rested it there until her lips parted. Their second kiss, with Will bracing his back against the trunk of a sprawling chestnut tree, lasted a minute or more.

  “Now do you see why I let them go?” Patty whispered.

  “‘I see,’ said the blind man as he picked up his hammer and saw.”

  “Ugh.”

  “And I promise not to report you for dereliction of duty.”

  Will put his arm around her, and for a time they just walked.

  “You thinking about the case?” he asked finally.

  “I guess there were reasons they demoted me to being Brasco’s assistant after it became apparent these were serial killings. But I haven’t done anything to deserve being dropped from the team. They needed a scapegoat.”

  “Is there anything you can do about it? Can your father intervene?”

  “I doubt he would, but I don’t want him to anyway. This is my gig.”

  “I understand.”

  “I’m not going to give up, though—especially as long as you’re our main connection to the killer. I’ll keep at it on my own time if I have to.”

  “Any way I can help?”

  “Just keep letting me vent. Will, I’ve looked at these murders from every angle I could think of, but I still can’t get past the feeling that there’s something I’m missing, or something I haven’t done.”

  “Maybe it’s in those letters.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Speaking of which—”

  “M and N,” she said, “tucked neatly beneath the hand that had removed countless brain tumors by day and, from what we’ve learned so far, stroked countless women’s bottoms by night. I don’t know why, but try as I might, I’m having trouble warming up to the guy.”

  “That’s okay. He’s having trouble warming up at all. M and N, huh? Do you think after we finish here we could go back to my place and use my set to play a little homicide Scrabble?”

  “Triple word. Double letter. I before E except after C.”

  “Precisely. Okay, Sergeant, here’s the way this all shakes down for me. This is a family of killers at work, not just one. I mean family as in brothers and sisters—at least one of each, maybe more. I feel almost certain of it. The guy who’s calling me said ‘us’ over and over. It looks to me like some managed-care company just tried to cut corners with the wrong patient, and now it’s backfired on them all. Given their policies, it was only a matter of time before someone went postal on them. These killers are furious over the death of their mother, and they won’t stop until everyone everyplace knows what happened to her.”

  “Then why haven’t they just gone right to the press?”

  “In time they probably will. But at the moment, even though they’re smart and professional, they’re also insane and arrogant and imbued with a bitter, angry sense of irony. I think they want to involve me because having a doctor on their side validates what they’re doing. They’re grooming me to be their spokesman, just as I was for the Hippocrates Society.”

  “But now you’ve fallen from grace.”

  “Big time. I think if I don’t set things straight and get back to work soon, they’re going to lose interest in me. They’ve chosen me to present their case to the public, and unless I can get out from under the charges against me, they’ll have nothing. They’re either going to demand I find out who did this to me and get myself back on the staff at the hospital, or—”

  “Or decide you’re not worth the energy and maybe pay you a little visit with a couple of more letters.”

  RTERBECNMN

  A phrase? A name? A clue?

  With the Scrabble board on the coffee table by the couch, Patty and Will took turns arranging and rearranging the tiles.

  “Look,” she said. “E TEMB R.”

  “September!”

  “Or November, or December—e
ven October if he’s holding back a couple of Os.”

  Will shuffled around the remaining tiles, searching for the suggestion of a word, then shrugged and shook his head.

  “The mother’s birthday?”

  “Maybe. What about remember?”

  Patty spelled out REME BR, then lined up the T, C, N, and N.

  “Remember somebody.”

  “That may be it. If it is, it’s not nearly as obscure as I would have guessed.”

  “Whatever it is, there still seem to be a lot of missing letters.”

  “That’s a frightening thought.”

  “We—I mean, they have a cryptographer working on the letters. There are ten of them now. He should be able to come up with some serious possibilities.”

  “Here’s some more,” Will said. “Let’s see you solve this puzzle.”

  He placed tiles spelling KI S ME across a triple word.

  “Let’s see now . . .”

  Patty used the K and put AN DO beneath it. She slid her hands behind Will’s neck and drew him close.

  “I never really liked Scrabble before,” he said.

  “That’s because you never played it with me.”

  At that instant, the phone began ringing. Once . . . twice . . .

  “It’s him!”

  Three times . . . four . . .

  Reluctantly, Will pulled away and hit the speaker button on his phone.

  “Yes?”

  Anticipating the frightening electronic voice, he squeezed Patty’s hand.

  “Will Grant? Micelli here. Augie Micelli.”

  Patty and Will sagged in unison.

  “Hey, this is a surprise,” Will said.

  “Believe me, it is to me, too. Listen, I sure as hell hope you’ve been staying in shape during your time off, because you’ve got a long, tough road ahead of you. I’ve decided to take your case and do whatever I can to help you out of the mess you’re in.”

  Will listened for the slurring that would suggest Micelli was in his cups, but the Law Doctor sounded sharp and focused.

  “That’s wonderful,” he said.

  “I’m assuming you didn’t take any fentanyl. If you’re lying to me about that, we’re not going to be friends anymore.”