That was odd. “Excuse me?” I said. I have been told that when a comment another person might make confuses me, the best thing to do is to stall a bit, get the time to analyze the situation before responding. If I could think for a moment, I’d be able to determine why Sandy was suddenly asking not to be contacted again. Asking her to repeat her statement was not intended to clarify the request; it was meant to fill a few seconds while I found a proper response.
She disconnected the call.
I have seen motion pictures in which people who have had another person “hang up on them” stared at the telephone receiver or mobile unit in hand as if the phone itself had been rude and confusing. The gesture had always struck me as artificial and irrational. It is not the telephone’s fault that someone else has ended the conversation.
Yet I found myself staring at the telephone receiver in my hand.
Ms. Washburn looked over at me. “What?”
“She hung up,” I said.
Ms. Washburn’s eyes widened. “Really,” she said.
“What does it mean?” Perhaps Ms. Washburn would have some insight into that sort of gesture that I would not have otherwise understood.
“There was something she didn’t want to tell you.”
I placed the receiver back on its cradle. “She could have told me that,” I said.
Ms. Washburn shook her head. “She didn’t want to tell you that, either.”
I do not believe, finally, that there is a significant difference in the thought process based on one’s gender. While many standup comedians and even others in conversation seem to believe that women’s minds operate differently from those of men (and there has even been some scientific research that examines this supposed phenomenon), my experience has always been that each individual thinks in a unique fashion. Even people whose behavior will classify them as having an autism spectrum disorder do not behave—and therefore think—in identical styles.
Still, the fact that Ms. Washburn could interpret Sandy’s behavior without having heard anything but my side of the conversation would indicate there was some inherent understanding between the two. The only similarity I could discern based on my limited knowledge of Sandy’s personality was that they were both women. Perhaps there was something I was not seeing.
“How do you know that?” I asked Ms. Washburn.
“You think people all act based on your own view of logic, Samuel. My mind is considerably less well structured than yours. I understand the emotional side of things a little better because I’m not blessed with your keen ability to think through every question. So I know when someone is being emotional, because I have acted that way myself.”
I’m not sure how, but I did begin to suspect that Ms. Washburn was speaking both of Sandy’s behavior on the phone and her own at Simon Taylor’s apartment. Something in the back of my mind began to tingle, a nervousness I could not clearly identify. Perhaps this was one of those emotional moments Ms. Washburn was discussing.
(Of course I have emotions. All of us on the autism spectrum do. Part of what so greatly irritates me about the perception the “typical” have of us is that they believe we are robotic, unfeeling entities. The difference is that we feel without necessarily understanding why, and we do not always know how to react to the emotions we have. It is therefore more efficient to keep them hidden because the displays we tend to make are considered inappropriate in the majority’s society.)
The memory of that blue brassiere was not currently helping me navigate this conversation.
“Are you thinking of our visit to your husband’s apartment?” I asked Ms. Washburn. Perhaps this was how friends showed empathy or at least interest in others’ troubles.
Ms. Washburn’s face reddened a bit. “Where did that come from?” she asked.
Since the words had come from my lips, the question confused me a bit. I decided to explain my train of thought. “I have observed a difference in your behavior since we were there,” I said. “If something is troubling you … ” I wasn’t sure how to phrase the sentence. “ … it would not be inappropriate for you to talk to me about it if that would make you feel better.”
Ms. Washburn shook her head. “I’m okay,” she said. “Don’t worry, Samuel.”
“What do you think, then, that I should do about Sandy hanging up on me?”
“Ignore it and move on.”
I chose to take her advice, which is almost always wise. “The next order of business, then, should be to contact Tyler’s therapist, Dr. Shean,” I said. “Would you mind doing that?”
Ms. Washburn gave me a quick look, possibly considering the idea that she should encourage me to make the phone call myself. She knows it is something I dislike doing, but feels I should do some of those things anyway, preparing for a time when she might not be in the office to handle it. She forgets sometimes that I did operate Questions Answered on my own for three months before she arrived to help answer the Question of the Missing Head.
Then, perhaps deciding the ensuing conversation would not be worth it, she picked up the phone and dialed the number she had called up on her screen. She waited a few moments, then clearly was listening to a recorded voice mail prompt. The idea that a caller still needs to be instructed to “wait for the beep and leave a message” is somewhat disturbing.
“This is Janet Washburn of Questions Answered in Piscataway,” she said at the appropriate moment. “We have some questions concerning Tyler Clayton, a patient of yours. Please call me as soon as you can. The matter is fairly urgent.” She recited the office phone number, thanked the voice mail service, and hung up the phone. She turned toward me. “She wasn’t there.”
“I gathered that.”
My cellular phone rang, and my hand, which had been in my pocket to check on it, pulled it out. The caller was displayed as Mason Clayton, so I accepted the call and assured Mason he had reached me.
“Sandy called me,” he said. “She thinks you’re trying to get Tyler convicted.”
“That is not the case,” I assured him. “I am attempting, as you requested, to accurately answer the question of who killed Richard Handy.”
“That’s what I thought,” Mason said. “But Sandy was really upset.”
“Women, right?” I said. I have heard that said before. I do not really understand what it means. Ms. Washburn gave me a somewhat amazed look, one which did not seem to be especially approving.
“What?” Mason said.
Clearly I had said something I should have avoided. “Excuse me, Mason,” I said. “I do not always know the correct phrasing. What I meant to say was that I am not approaching the question with any prejudice whatsoever. My concern is only to provide the correct answer.”
“Sandy wants me to fire you,” Mason said. “She thinks you’re working against Tyler’s best interests.”
“What do you want to do?” I asked. I have been dismissed from answering some questions in the past. It is not a pleasant experience, but it’s the kind of thing that can’t be avoided in business. Usually the client doing so is wrong.
“Well, that depends,” Mason answered. “How do you intend to proceed from here?”
Usually I do not discuss methodology with clients. For one thing, I would probably not diverge from a plan even if the client objected and for another, there is no business advantage in revealing how one performs a service if the client can then be persuaded that he or she could do the same thing as effectively. Again, it is unlikely that would be the case, but people are sometimes misled.
In this case, however, I felt it was best to answer Mason’s question. If he had moral or ethical objections to my method and wanted me to stop, I could release him from his contract. I would mostly likely continue to research the question, but Mason would not have to pay for my efforts beyond this moment.
“I expect to talk to Tyler’s therapist,
Dr. Shean, when she calls back,” I began. “Assuming that does not happen soon, I will probably go home for the day and watch a baseball game on television before sleeping. Tomorrow I will try to interview Richard Handy’s coworker at the Quik N EZ and contact the members of both their Swords and Sorcerers groups. I’ll attempt to get Detective Hessler to tell me if the ballistics test on the bullets that killed Richard are from your gun, and also to gain access to the brief security videos taken before the person who shot Richard spray painted the lenses. Beyond that, I do not currently have a plan of attack, but each step along the way will undoubtedly lead to new questions that must be answered so that will mean additional tactics will be devised and executed.” I noticed Ms. Washburn was looking curiously at me, writing in her notebook without looking at the page on which she wrote.
Mason seemed to take a moment to absorb what I had told him. “That sounds like a pretty thorough plan,” he said. “I don’t see any reason to fire you.”
“Thank you,” I said, although I wasn’t sure why.
“Is there anything I can do to help?” he asked.
“Yes. Find the license for the gun and make a copy or scan it and send it to my associate Ms. Washburn. Then please call Dr. Shean and tell her—even in a voice mail message—that you authorize her to talk to me. I will not ask anything that violates her privilege. Are you legally Tyler’s guardian?”
“No,” Mason said. “He’s over eighteen and not in a condition that requires him to be cared for, so there is no guardian.”
“That might complicate the dealings with Dr. Shean and a few others, but aside from her, we’ll hope no one else knows that.” I thought quickly. Mason was asking to help and that is not always the case with clients; many want an answer to appear magically on their doorstep. “Do you have any idea who Tyler was playing Swords and Sorcerers with online?”
“Not really. I could look on his computer, but the cops took his laptop to look for evidence so I don’t really have anything.” Mason sounded perplexed. “The only one he ever talked about was Margie Cavanagh. She lives in New Brunswick, I think. Somewhere around there. And some kid Adam … something. He was in Jersey someplace, but I don’t know where. All the other people in the group were in other states. Tyler used to have to play late at night because they were in different time zones.”
“Were he and Margie friends?” I asked.
Mason hesitated. “As far as I know, they never actually met. Tyler would mention every once in a while that she seemed to be really good at the game. Slaying monsters or something. I didn’t really pay attention.”
“Did Tyler ever play the game on a computer other than his laptop?”
“No. Wait. I think he did once when his laptop was in the shop for repairs. He used my laptop. Maybe two months ago.”
I know a bit about computers, so I suggested that Mason bring his laptop—thankfully Tyler had not played Swords and Sorcerers on a desktop computer, which is harder to transport—to the Questions Answered office the next day, and we made an appointment to meet there at two in the afternoon. Mason said he was not working for the time being as he was uncertain as to Tyler’s status and did not think he could concentrate on his job while that was the case.
“Have you secured a legal representative for Tyler yet?” I asked.
“We really can’t afford a top-flight criminal defense lawyer,” Mason said, expressing some sadness in his voice. “At the moment, I’m working with the Public Defender’s office, but we might be able to scrape enough together to hire that guy from TV.”
I knew exactly which attorney he meant, because T. Harrington Swain’s advertisements were sometimes broadcast during telecasts of New York Yankees baseball games. The ads featured Swain, a somewhat stiff and unconvincing presence, reading from a teleprompter that he would “fight for your rights no matter what you’ve done,” a selling point that might have been considered somewhat accurate given the setup of the American criminal justice system, but which hardly inspired much confidence if the listener was paying careful attention.
Still, giving Mason advice about legal counsel was probably outside my purview in answering his question, so I did not suggest the public defender assigned to the case might be a better option no matter the financial arrangement Mason and Sandy might reach. Instead, I said, “Very well, then. Please keep me informed.”
“You do the same,” Mason said, and disconnected the call more appropriately than his sister had done before.
I looked at Ms. Washburn. “It’s getting late,” she said. “Do you want a ride home?” If I am not staying late in my office, Ms. Washburn will provide transportation to Mother’s house. If I do stay past her departure, I will call my friend Mike the taxicab driver and he drives me to the house.
I glanced at the time on my computer screen; it was 4:36 p.m. “It’s a little early,” I said. “Do you have a reason to leave before five?” I was asking not as an employer. Despite the fact that we do not punch a clock at Questions Answered, I was curious as to Ms. Washburn’s motivations.
She looked oddly defiant. “I told Simon I would meet him for a drink at five thirty.”
That was an odd statement. “Your estranged husband?” I asked. I actually did feel some hairs stand up on the back of my neck. It was uncomfortable.
Ms. Washburn avoided eye contact, something I am familiar enough with that I can spot it easily when someone else is doing it. “Yes,” she said quietly.
“Is that advisable?” It seemed to me that if her attorney was against the idea of her seeing Simon on a professional basis, meeting him socially would probably be that much more perilous.
Ms. Washburn’s eyes flashed but she continued to look away. “It’s a personal matter, Samuel, so let’s not discuss it.”
That suited me, so I nodded.
“Would you like a ride home?” she asked again.
“No, thank you. I’ll call Mike.”
Ms. Washburn said good night and left the office.
Twelve
“She’s having second thoughts,” Mike said.
The drive from Questions Answered to the home I share with my mother is not a long one, so Mike the taxicab driver had listened to my description of Ms. Washburn’s behavior and was offering his viewpoint with only two minutes left in the ride. Mike is one of the few people I can ask about interpersonal relationships, particularly those which I am not comfortable discussing with Mother or Ms. Washburn.
“She is reconsidering her divorce?” I asked.
Mike nodded without taking his eyes from the road. “It’s not very unusual. Women especially. They think they can fix the guy or that it was their fault. They’re usually wrong—always about fixing the guy—but you can’t try to persuade her otherwise, Samuel. She’ll do what she’ll do.”
“But her attorney advised her not to talk to Simon at all,” I said. I was not trying to prove Mike wrong, as I trust his judgment; I was instead attempting to understand why Ms. Washburn, usually a very rational woman, would act in such a blatantly emotional and inadvisable fashion.
Mike chuckled a bit under his breath. “Probably one of the reasons she’s going,” he said.
I had met Mike at Newark Liberty International Airport a few years ago when Mother was visiting her sister, Aunt Jane. I had accompanied her to the airport and had been instructed to find a taxicab to drive me home after her flight had departed. I chose Mike’s cab, which he had named Military Transport because he was an Afghanistan veteran not long returned from duty and was not interested in “sitting behind a desk or standing on a sales floor.”
It had been an unexpectedly pleasant trip in Mike’s cab, so when I discovered that he was based (that is, that his house was) very close to Questions Answered and my home, I asked if he might be called upon to drive me home from work on nights Mother could not do so. Mike had agreed, and even after Ms. Washburn had come t
o work with me, I would contact him on evenings I worked late to ask for a ride. He had always complied and became a trusted adviser.
“Do you think Ms. Washburn will reconcile with Simon?” I asked now.
He shrugged while keeping both hands on the steering wheel. I know quite a bit about driving although I rarely practice. It makes me feel more secure to pay attention to the person behind the wheel when I am a passenger. I am not able to say whether my attention has the same effect on the driver. “No way of knowing,” Mike said. “Janet’s a smart girl. Do you think she should get back with her husband?”
“It does not occur to me that I should have an opinion on the subject,” I said.
“Except you do, Samuel. Even if you’re not admitting it, you don’t want her to go back to Simon, and it’s bugging you enough that you called me, even when she could have driven you home, just so you could tell me about it.” Mike steered the taxicab into Mother’s driveway. He stopped the car and shifted into park, then turned to face me. “You care about Janet. You don’t want her to get hurt and you know Simon has not been the best husband since time began. So you’re rooting for her to get the divorce and move on. Now tell me I’m wrong.”
Mike did not, in fact, want me to tell him I believed him to be mistaken. Instead, he was saying he thought it unlikely I could do so honestly. I have learned this particular conversational tactic in social skills training. It was not an easy one to understand, and I am not certain I always recognize it in use even now. This time, however, I knew what he meant.
“I don’t know if you are wrong,” I told him. “I am concerned about a coworker and hope she does not leave herself open for emotional pain, which is a real condition. It would disrupt her efficiency and be unpleasant for both of us. So it makes perfect sense for me to be concerned about her current direction, doesn’t it?”
The Question of the Felonious Friend Page 11