A Tax in Blood

by Benjamin M. Schutz

  The session with Gutierrez had disoriented me. I knew I should try to figure out what had happened and what it meant, but as I watched my feet lead me into my office I also knew that, truth be told, I was afraid of the answers.

  My desk provided me with some unpleasant but welcome distractions. I typed out a final report for Nate Grossbart, Xeroxed it and my expense log and sealed them in an envelope. The copies went into my files. Then I stared at the note I had taped to my lamp: Call Benson. I would rather have my teeth pulled. Leaning back in my chair, I dialed his house. Sadly, I knew the number by heart.

  “Hello, Tillie. This is Leo Haggerty. Is Mr. Benson there?”

  Tillie was silent for quite a while. “I’ll get him for you. Hold on please.”

  The phone erupted in my ear with Benson yelling, “What the fuck do you want, Haggerty? How dare you call me at my home!”

  I had learned through hard experience over the last year to ignore most of Benson’s insults and accusations and to stick to the facts, just the facts.

  “Randi will not be coming home for Thanksgiving.”

  “Why the hell not?” he bellowed.

  “Because I say so.”

  “You can’t do that, you son of a bitch.”

  “The hell I can’t. I’m her legal guardian, and what I say goes. It’s as simple as that.”

  “You can’t block visitation forever, you know. I have rights. She has to see me sometimes.”

  “When I say so. And don’t call me or her. I’ll call you. In fact, the next time you or your wife call her I’m going to delay visitation another month.”

  “Fuck you, Haggerty. You scumbag. You better watch your step. Maybe I’ll put a peeper on you. Watch you ’round the clock for a while, see what kind of ‘moral atmosphere’ you provide for a teenaged girl. It can go both ways, you know.”

  “You’re welcome to try. You might want to use Carmine Nicoletti, he’s your kind of guy. You want the number?”

  I took the resounding crash of the receiver for a no. There were no other loose ends I could distract myself with so I went into the living room and turned on the television. Somewhere along the way, helped no doubt by the beer and the pills, the somnolent effects of canned laughter and inane dialogue overcame me and I fell asleep. The last afterimages from the television died away and became dream images.

  There was a ball lying alongside some railroad tracks I was following. I looked behind me and the tracks were lost in the distance. Ahead, they disappeared in the shimmering desert air. I couldn’t recall why I was following these tracks and decided that it would be more fun to play ball than march on. I kicked the ball away from the tracks and began to follow it. I followed the ball across the desert and kicked it into a room. As I ran towards the room its heavy door swung closed. I ran right up to it and saw that there was no handle to the door. I felt all over it for a way in. I wanted my ball back. I started to kick the door, but it did no good. Suddenly there was a man standing next to me. He was so tall that I couldn’t see his face. As he reached out to the door, a doorknob emerged from the wood and slipped easily into his hand. He turned the knob and let me into the room. I ran by him. My ball was on the floor next to a crib. I bent down and picked it up. There was a baby in the crib. It was a girl, my sister. She was blue, which was funny, because she should be pink. Actually, I was glad she was blue. Now she was like me. But my mother really liked her because she was pink. I figured I’d better get out of here, because they’ll think I turned her blue. But I didn’t. She was just like that when I found her. I ran back to the door. It was closed. I didn’t hear it swing shut behind me. I reached up to grab the doorknob but it wouldn’t turn. It was very slippery. I dropped my ball to try with both hands, but it was no good. I couldn’t turn the knob and I couldn’t get out. Someone was laughing at me. I looked between my hands and saw the doorknob turn into a face. It was laughing at me and its spittle was flying all over me. Everywhere it touched me I was burning. I looked at the knob and the face was Rolando Gutierrez’s and his laughter burned me. My face burned.

  “Leo. Leo, are you okay? Say something,” I heard a voice say. I blinked once, then again. My heart was in my mouth. I tried to swallow and force it back into my chest. It was still dark, but there was no door in front of me. I blinked again.

  “I’m okay. I was having a nightmare.” In the dark, I felt squeezed down to a pinpoint, and a loathsome one at that. As my night vision returned, the pinpoint spread out and like a kaleidoscope, other colors emerged, formed, dissolved and reformed. Eventually I looked up and saw Samantha’s face. There were furrows in her forehead. The start of a frown held in abeyance by the tentative smile at the corners of her mouth. She looked glad that I was back but worried about where I’d been.

  “Whew. That really freaked me out.” I ran the back of my hand across my face.

  “Here, wait. Let me get you something.”

  “Okay.”

  Samantha got off the sofa and hurried to the bathroom. When she returned, she held up my chin and swabbed my face with a cool washcloth. I closed my eyes. I still felt flushed. Finally my heart stopped pounding. I took a deep breath to try to calm myself down.

  “Do you want to tell me about it?”

  “Whew. Thanks. Yeah, I guess so. I think it all started when I went and saw that shrink, Gutierrez, today. The session didn’t go at all like I expected it would. Somehow he took control of the session and I started to feel very strange, very weird.”

  “How so?”

  “It felt like no matter which way I moved my mind to evade him, he anticipated each move, countered it, and was herding me towards things I didn’t want to talk about.”

  “Did you go there pretending to be a patient?”

  “Yeah, and that’s what’s really confusing about the whole thing. Gutierrez was just doing his job, I guess. He seemed genuinely concerned about Donnelly and about me. I don’t know though. The more he outmaneuvered me, the more confused and the more frightened I got.”

  “What finally happened?”

  “I just told him that I was going to leave. I’d changed my mind. So I up and left. He said something about being able to help me with hypnosis, that I went into trance easily.”

  “Do you think he hypnotized you?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve never been hypnotized that I can remember. If he did, I don’t know how he did it. No swinging watches. No ‘when I count three, you will do as I say.’ This wasn’t the stage magician brand of hypnosis. I sure as hell felt out of control though.”

  Samantha squeezed my hand, “Do you want to tell me about the dream?”

  “Yeah. I think it was a dream about my sister Caitlin.”

  “Your sister? I didn’t know you had a sister.”

  “I don’t. She died when she was about eight months old. Crib death, they called it. A total mystery. No explanation. Just boom, you’re dead. No reason.”

  “How old were you when this happened?”

  “Probably three and a half when she died. I think this was what I was starting to remember when I was with Gutierrez—her death. What really undid me was that I felt so ashamed, and I didn’t know why. I just knew that if I stayed in that room with him I was going to start crying and telling him things I didn’t want to, so I left.”

  “What were you ashamed of? Do you know now?”

  “I think I do. When I was in the room looking at her in the crib, I remembered that a part of me was glad that she was dead. I hadn’t wanted a sister. I didn’t want to share things with anyone.”

  “Have you ever told this to anyone?”

  “Not hardly. I didn’t even realize it until the dream. I mean, I knew my sister had died, but not that I had been glad. Somehow I kept that hidden until now. I think Gutierrez somehow drove me out of my hiding places. That’s not fair though. I wanted to stop hiding as much as I wanted to hide. He just kept finding ways to remind me that I wanted to remember until that was all I wanted to do. Tonight it just
all bubbled up in my mind. It’s still hard to accept that I could feel that way towards her. She was my sister. I mean, I remember playing with her, too, and helping to take care of her with my mother.”

  “Leo, you were three years old and wishes aren’t deeds.”

  “Maybe. It’s just not the way I like to think of myself. Protector of the innocent and all that crap, and here I am glad that my sister is dead. Not real pretty.”

  “But real human, Leo. Look at me.” She held my hands. “What use would I have for a saint, or he for me?”

  “How many guesses do I get?”

  “One. So make it count.” With that, I let her lead me away from my disillusionment. It would be easy enough to find again should I want to.

  “You know what, Leo Jerome Haggerty?”

  “No. What?”

  “I think I love you, that’s what.”

  I picked her up in my arms and carried her to the bedroom. Sam kicked off one shoe, then the next. They caromed off the hall wall. I kicked open the door. We fell on the bed, and, fumble-fingered, tried to undress each other. Some mending would be necessary. She ran her fingers through my hair and pulled our faces together. Our tongues began the slinky flow of need between us. She would lead. I would follow. Back and forth, we wove ourselves on the loom of sex into the fabric of each other’s flesh. We climbed an ever-steeper staircase and leaped through a window. I flew. I fell. Icarus landing with a smile on the warm cheek of a woman. Samantha rolled me onto my back and ministered to my retreating desire. The kiss of life. A Lazarus of the loins. Mounted, happy is the steed. We rode on ever faster. She strummed herself and then dug her fingers into my chest. Eyes closed, she arched until her back would break. Finally the bow snapped and she was released. She shuddered and draped herself limply across me. I held her tightly. At least briefly we were out of harm’s way.

  She nuzzled my neck. “Umm. You are just what I wanted. Just what I need.”

  I smiled all the way through. “Do tell?”

  “God, an ounce of abandon is worth a ton of technique.”

  “You mean my variable speed tongue with reverse and overdrive isn’t what does it?”

  “No, darling. It’s your desire, your passion, that I want. I can diddle myself just fine, but I don’t hunger for myself. Never have.”

  With that we began again and chased, caught and released each other from our prisons of desire until there was nowhere left to go.

  Chapter 26

  Samantha stuck her head in while I was shaving.

  “Breakfast is on. Come and get it.”

  “On my way.”

  I dried off, put on a robe and went into the kitchen. Samantha had really laid out a spread. Eggs over easy on a pile of corned beef hash, English muffins with butter and raspberry jam and freshly ground coffee.

  Samantha sat down with just a muffin and coffee. She flipped through the paper, parceling out what we were each interested in. I got sports, national and metro news. She took food, show and style. The rest was debris. The picture of the man they suspected of being the “memorial bomber” was on the front page. I spent a few minutes staring at it. Halfway down the page from it was a photograph of General Villarosa, due to arrive today. His famous profile was shown to good advantage. While I chased the last remnants of hash around my plate, I watched Samantha devour an article on Caribbean hideaways.

  “You know, I’ve been thinking about my dream. Why was Gutierrez’s head on the doorknob? Why was he laughing? It doesn’t square with the rest of the dream.”

  Samantha looked up. “No, it doesn’t. He sounds like he was just doing his job and that he’s damn good at it.”

  “Tell me about it. His gentleness seemed real enough. And you’re right, he was doing his job. He found my private pain. That’s what he was supposed to do. I was the one there under false pretenses. I just can’t shake the feeling that he was gloating, though. That he enjoyed watching me squirm.”

  “In the dream or in the session?”

  “Clearly in the dream. He had me where he wanted me. I couldn’t get out. I just don’t believe that I made that up for no reason. I must have sensed something in that room that I couldn’t articulate but it came back to me as part of the dream. I don’t think I can ignore it.”

  “So run a background check on him. You’ve got your personal impressions of him. See where he fits in his professional community.”

  “Very good, Watson, I shall.”

  With that I went into my office and let my fingers do the walking. An hour later I knew that Dr. Rolando Gutierrez had no hospital or teaching affiliations in the area. I went back to the kitchen and poured out the dregs of the coffee. Samantha walked in fully dressed and said, “Got to go.” She gave me a light kiss. “I’m going over to Sandra’s. She’s asked me to read her first draft and tell her what I think. We’ll probably go out to eat, stay up late and talk. Call me tomorrow.”

  “Sure. Oh, by the way, you might want to give Arnie a call. I went by to see him again. He’s hurting bad, and he’s real stuck. I don’t know whether he needs to be cut loose or reeled in.”

  “Okay. I’d be glad to. How long do you think you’ll pursue this loose end?”

  “Today, maybe tomorrow. I’d hate to be the one to give Truman Whitney over to Nate. I know Malcolm consulted with Gutierrez. I’d bet he was the one Donnelly called when he was in the hotel room. I’ll never be able to prove that though. If I can put him in the hotel, that’ll help. The suicide note had a verbatim line from Donnelly’s chart. Only Gutierrez and Whitney signed that chart out, and I can account for Whitney.”

  Even as I said that my noose turned to smoke. I remembered that anybody could read the chart, provided they didn’t leave the records room. Maybe looking into Gutierrez’s background would turn something up. “Even if Donnelly’s death isn’t murder, Gutierrez has something pretty big to cover up. If I had a patient I was worried about, I don’t think I’d sit down first to type out a suicide note, a carefully worded suicide note. Not unless I was awfully worried about something being discovered. I’m going to follow up your idea about his insurance coverage, but if that’s not it, then what is it? If he murdered Donnelly that’s big enough to cover up, but for the life of me I don’t know why. It also doesn’t square with my feelings about Gutierrez. He seemed genuinely warm and concerned when I talked to him.”

  “But you also dreamt of him as a laughing doorknob that kept you locked in a room with a lot of pain.”

  “Maybe that was just resentment at him for doing his job?”

  “Maybe not. Maybe it’s your unconscious telling you not to ignore all these questions. Anyway, now that I’ve sent the manuscript back to my publisher, I thought we might sneak away for a few days.”

  “Now there’s an idea.”

  “I have a new crop and some spurs I’ve been dying to break in.” She laughed.

  “Dream on. I never met a rider who couldn’t be throwed.”

  “Nor I the horse that couldn’t be rode.”

  “Isn’t that us in a nutshell.” We kissed again. “Be careful. Remember, there are no smart bombs.”

  Back at my desk, I started calling the local and national professional associations. Another hour later and Dr. Rolando Gutierrez remained a mystery. There were no collegial ties, no professional oversights, no rudder nor helmsman to help him steer a course in the mainstream of his craft. Nothing but a soundproofed room in a house without a nameplate. He was a psychiatric UFO. No radar blips, no pictures, no debris left behind. If I hadn’t had a close encounter I wouldn’t have believed in him.

  All the information I had sought so far was about optional affiliations. Time to go back to basics. Like myself, he had to have a license to practice and malpractice insurance. Skill or talent are optional. I called the local licensing board.

  “Hello. Licenses. Moultrie speaking.”

  “How do you do, Mr. Moultrie. This is Carl Rivington, over at C.M.H.C. We’ve had an insurance reimbursemen
t claim denied against Dr. Rolando Gutierrez. Seems he failed to list his license number on the claim. Could you give me that number so we can expedite this. Dr. Gutierrez is out of town right now and there’s quite a large amount of money outstanding.”

  “No problem. Hold on, please.”

  I sat there waiting to see if Dr. Gutierrez was real in the eyes of anyone other than me.

  “Dr. Rolando Gutierrez holds license number 3431.”

  “Thank you. Does he have any specialty areas listed on his license?”

  “Why do you need that?”

  “We are conducting a review of all professional staff. Considering the cost of our liability insurance we want to be sure no one is working outside of his area of competence. I just thought I’d kill two birds with one stone, as long as you have his file there.”

  “Okay, his specialty areas are cross cultural psychiatry, and hypnotherapy.”

  “Could you tell me where he received his training?”

  “The Instituto de Psicologica.”

  The what? “Excuse me, where is that located?”

  “Buenos Aires.”

  “Thank you.” Bingo. I may not have you in that room yet, but I’ve got you and Malcolm on the same planet at least. I made another call.

  “National Psychiatric Association.”

  “Hello, I’m a newly licensed psychiatrist and I’d like to know who handles the profession’s malpractice insurance.”

  “I’ll connect you with the insurance office.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Insurance. Mrs. Pendleton. May I help you?”

  “Yes. Who is the profession’s liability carrier? I’m interested in getting coverage since I’m going into private practice.”

  “The carrier is National Medical Liability Underwriters.”

  “Are they the only company that offers coverage for psychiatrists?”

  “No, but they are the association’s carrier and our group policy rates would be quite a bit lower than any individual coverage you could obtain.”

  “Is there another carrier?”

  “Well, yes. Diversified Risk is now offering a policy on an individual basis. They’re testing the market. If there is a response, they’ll make us a competitive bid next year.” She sounded miffed that I’d even consider that option.