The Question of the Felonious Friend

by E. J. Copperman

  She thought that over and nodded. Ms. Washburn knows the way my mind works and does not question the things that she believes help me achieve maximum efficiency. “Anything I can do to help?” she asked.

  “Yes. I believe you should get in touch with Mr. Robinson of the Quik N EZ and ask him if we might see his most recent inventory figures.”

  Ms. Washburn began driving back to the Questions Answered office. “Any item in particular?”

  “Cigarettes,” I said.

  Twenty

  “Do you have any recent copies of Rolling Stone or Yankees Magazine?”

  The receptionist looked what Mother would call “askance” at me from behind the window and took a moment. “The only magazines we have out there are the ones you can see.”

  She was a large woman in every way and had a weary air to her that is unusual in my experience. Dr. Mancuso’s receptionist Joanie is very pleasant, even if the affability does not always seem completely sincere. Joanie tries. This woman, whose name I did not know, was not trying.

  There was nothing to do but sit back down in one of the uncomfortable chrome-and-fabric chairs lining the room. The coffee table just beyond my feet held copies of O The Oprah Magazine, Golf Digest, Psychology Today, and (rather incongruously) Cycle World, a magazine for motorcycle enthusiasts. No doubt Sherlock Holmes would have been able to piece together a complete biography and psychological profile of Dr. Shean just from those titles, but unfortunately I do not share the fictional detective’s powers of deduction.

  I was aware that seven minutes remained before the current group therapy session taking place inside Dr. Shean’s private office would end. There was nothing to do but consider the question I was solving or to look up at the television, which was projecting an afternoon talk show with the sound muted so that only a person well versed in lip reading would be able to gain any insights from the programming.

  It had occurred to me that I might alert Dr. Mancuso of my visit to Dr. Shean’s office, but I had not done so after mentioning my intention to Ms. Washburn and hearing her advice that such a call was not necessary. But I was still concerned, given that therapy sessions reveal some emotional information about the subjects but almost nothing about the therapist, that Dr. Mancuso might discover I had visited another psychologist and mistakenly assume I was unsatisfied with his services. I’m not always certain that I need to attend therapy sessions, but that is not the fault of the doctor himself.

  This moment afforded me time to ponder the information I had gathered about Richard Handy’s shooting and to conclude that we had made some progress toward answering the question, but not yet enough to support any theory regarding it. Richard had definitely been shot at the time and place the police had noted, but the evidence was mounting that Tyler Clayton was not the shooter. Unfortunately, none of that evidence was definitive. I believed Tyler had not shot Richard, but I could not prove it and therefore had to leave the question open even in my own mind.

  The information gathered from Margie Cavanagh and Billy Martinez had been diverse but not inconsistent. Margie believed the die in our possession to be cursed. That was of course nonsense, but it did indicate a thought pattern that might be useful. Billy, although he had no knowledge of Swords and Sorcerers, did have some insight into Richard Handy’s psyche and had determined that Richard would not believe in such theories of magic and sorcery. He was practical, and he had probably been involved in some illegal activities during his employment at the Quik N EZ, the extent of which was not yet clear.

  The inner door opened and from inside the office I heard Dr. Shean say, “Very good session, guys. Remember what I gave you to think about for next week.”

  I watched the doorway closely. Through it walked four people. Three of them, ranging in approximate age from nineteen to twenty-eight, watched their own feet as they walked. I knew not to expect Tyler Clayton, as Mason had told me that since the arrest, Dr. Shean had been seeing Tyler privately. So the fourth person exiting I had to assume was Dr. Shean. She was about forty-three or forty-four, dressed more formally than the three younger people in a suit with a skirt and her hair up in what Ms. Washburn would later tell me (based on my description) was a French twist. It did not look especially Gallic, but that is far from my best area of expertise.

  The young man who exited first was shaking his head as he walked but he did not appear to be disagreeing with the idea of remembering what he should think about to prepare for the next session; it was something of a self-stimming action, much like my hand flapping when I was younger. He was vocalizing but did not form words. It was possible he did not have the ability to speak but might have been able to communicate, as Tyler now did, through written or typed messages. He carried a tablet computer whose screen he studied raptly.

  The young woman after him, who must have been Molly Brandt based on what Tyler had told us about his therapy group, was dressed in jeans and a blue denim work shirt. She wore one red cotton sock and another that was white striped with orange. Her hair was clean but uncombed. She was making up for the first young man’s lack of verbal communication by talking without a pause as she walked.

  “It’s not about the Book of Leviticus,” she said. “It’s about the Book of David. Nobody sees that. There’s a general disconnect on the subject, but I can prove it because I’ve read both books. I’m an atheist and I’ve read both books. Not many people who are devout believers have read both books, but I have. It’s about the Book of David.”

  The young man walking out immediately before Dr. Shean raised his head from looking at the carpet. He was not speaking to himself and he was not murmuring in tones only he could understand. But he clearly had some behaviors that would place him on the autism spectrum in the eyes of those who think in such terms.

  I do not dispute that some of us identified in that way act in an unusual manner. What I dispute is that the “usual” manner is by definition a rational or better one. Heroes in books, films, television, and drama behave in ways that are not usual. They are not considered “odd” or as having a “disorder” because of their actions.

  This young man, the oldest of the three, placed his fingers up next to his cheeks and rubbed them on his face. He nodded in understanding or satisfaction and repeated the gesture. Again, there was a nod. When he saw me looking at him, he stopped but did not look embarrassed. As he passed where I was standing, he simply looked a foot to my left (pretending to look at me without having to do so) and said, “It’s what I do. I have autism.”

  “I know,” I said. “So do I.” The definition has shifted enough that I am not sure that is technically true, but the argument could certainly be made for it.

  That caught his attention and he looked at me for a very brief moment. “Really. I wouldn’t have known.”

  “I’d like to talk to you about Tyler Clayton,” I said.

  The young man’s eyes looked back down at his feet. “You a cop?”

  “No.”

  “Then let’s talk. There’s a Starbucks on the corner.”

  “I don’t drink coffee,” I said.

  “Neither do I. But you can buy a bottle of water there and they have couches.” He walked past me and to the office door, the matter apparently being settled.

  The three members of Tyler’s group left and Dr. Shean approached me. “You must be Mr. Hoenig,” she said. Three adults in the waiting room—two men and a woman—stood up as the doctor approached, so I assumed they were the members of the group I had contracted with Dr. Shean to attend.

  “Yes, I am,” I said.

  “May I shake your hand?” she asked. It was wise of her to get the information first; too many people make an assumption and irritate or frighten those of us who do not follow the norms.

  “I prefer not, but I hope that does not offend you,” I said.

  Dr. Shean smiled very professionally. “Not at all. I’m glad I
asked.” The three other people walked by the doctor and down the corridor toward her inner office where the session would take place. “Won’t you come in and join us?” Dr. Shean asked.

  “I think not. But thank you, Dr. Shean. I will see to it that you are compensated for the session.” I started for the door.

  The psychologist called toward me. “I don’t understand,” she said. “You specifically asked for this group and this time. What is it you have to do that is more important than this?”

  “I need to go to Starbucks to buy a bottle of water,” I said and left.

  The young man from Tyler’s group was seated in an overstuffed easy chair in a corner of the Starbucks that was indeed on the corner of the street on which Dr. Shean’s office was located. He had purchased a bottle of water and a slice of pound cake, which he was eating rather carefully, making sure each crumb was caught on the paper plate in front of him. He looked up when I walked in.

  “I thought I’d have to wait longer,” he said. “Didn’t you have a session with Dr. Shean?”

  I had purchased a bottle of water but no other food and sat down on a loveseat next to the man. There was no other person on the loveseat, which is called that not because people fall in love on such furniture but because it is small enough that it can be assumed those who use it would prefer to be near one another.

  “I did,” I said. That was true. I had never intended to keep the appointment, but it had been established. “But I decided this was more important. Allow me to introduce myself. I am Samuel Hoenig and I am the proprietor of a business called Questions Answered.”

  The young man’s face did not change in any way. He continued not to look in my direction, but to be fastidious about the pound cake he was eating slowly. “So you’re trying to find out what happened with Tyler? Tyler is in jail for shooting a guy.”

  I shook my head. “No. He is not in jail. He posted bail and is now living at home awaiting trial, which could be as much as a year from now. I am trying to answer the question of who killed Richard Handy, the person Tyler is accused of shooting.”

  I took a sip from my bottle of water and waited. There was, as I had anticipated, no reaction from my companion. “What is your name?” I asked.

  He looked up and into my eyes. His social skills training was very good. He did not hold out his hand to shake, which indicated to me that he still had a serious aversion to being touched. I was, as Ms. Washburn would say, fine with that.

  “I’m Jim O’Malley,” he said. “I’m very glad to meet you, Samuel.”

  He probably was not all that glad, but I understood he’d been taught to react that way to a new acquaintance. I nodded without proffering my own hand. “Thank you. What can you tell me about Tyler Clayton?”

  Jim, having completed the prescribed ritual, reverted to his previous behavior. He was taking a very long time to eat the pound cake. “I’m not sure I want to tell you anything. Are you working to help Tyler, or to send him to jail for life?”

  “Neither. I am working to answer the question. The correct answer might help him or hurt him, but it is still the correct answer. I am not able to change that, and I am not attempting to color the research in order to acquire one outcome or the other.”

  I crossed one leg over the other. This was meant as a gesture of relaxation, to indicate to Jim that I was comfortable in his presence (although I was not, as I did not know him well enough at all for that) and to signal that he should drop his guard and give me the information I required. This approach does not always yield accurate results, but it can be helpful at times.

  Jim accepted the information I had given him without an outward reaction. “Interesting,” he said. “So you would prefer that I keep my opinions out of my answers?” It was a legitimate question.

  “Except when I specifically ask for opinion, yes. For example: Do you think, based on your acquaintance with Tyler, that he could be a violent person?”

  Jim took a sip from his water, set the bottle on the table, and replaced the cap carefully. “I think anyone could be a violent person under the proper circumstances.”

  “True. But do you think Tyler is more apt to resort to violence than most people?”

  Jim took a deep breath, probably to give himself time to think. It is something I do when presented with a situation or question I had not previously considered. “I don’t have the proper data on how many people act violently overall,” he said. “But I think what you’re asking is whether I have seen Tyler behave violently or threaten to do so. I have not.”

  “Excellent,” I said. It is advisable to praise the subject whenever possible, to provide positive feedback in an effort to encourage the person you interview to offer more such information. “Has Tyler mentioned Richard Handy in therapy?”

  Jim’s eyebrows lowered. “I don’t think it would be ethical to discuss anything that was said in a therapy session, Samuel,” he said.

  “No. I suppose not. May I ask if you have heard the name Richard Handy before today without specifying context?”

  He nodded. “Yes. You may ask.”

  It was an answer I would have given to a question worded that way. Perhaps the best way to approach Jim was to assume he would react similarly to the way I would under similar circumstances. “Have you heard the name Richard Handy before this conversation?” I asked. It was necessary to change the wording of the question because it was possible Jim had heard the name today, but before I had mentioned it.

  Again there was a pause. He collected the last of the pound cake crumbs from his plate with intense concentration using a fork and ate them. “Yes, I have.”

  “Was Tyler the one who mentioned him?” I asked. If Jim had seen a newspaper or television news account of the murder, he would have heard Richard’s name but it would have no particular significance to my research.

  Jim nodded.

  “Very good indeed. When Tyler mentioned Richard’s name, what was his mood? I am asking for your assessment: Did Tyler seem angry at Richard, or did he have some other reason to talk about him?”

  “I wasn’t paying much attention,” Jim said. “I was trying to think of the next thing I would say.” Again, I understood that impulse completely.

  “One last thing,” I said. “Jim, do you have any idea where Tyler would have gotten enough money to tip a convenience store clerk one hundred dollars at least five times a week?”

  There was no sign of surprise or concern from Jim. In fact, he snorted a small laugh. “I have no clue. You’d have to ask Molly.”

  “Molly Brandt?” I asked. “The young woman in your therapy group?”

  Jim nodded again and raised his eyes to meet mine, which I assumed signified some importance. “She is Tyler’s girlfriend,” he said.

  Twenty-One

  “Tyler has a girlfriend?” Mason Clayton seemed both surprised and oddly pleased at the suggestion. “Are you sure?”

  We sat in the living room of Mason’s house, a relatively small four-bedroom Cape Cod that had been furnished years before from the look of the pieces on display. I could assume only that much of the contents of the house, along with the building itself, had been inherited from Mason, Sandy, and Tyler’s parents.

  “No, I am not sure,” I said. Ms. Washburn winced a tiny bit. Perhaps I should have taken into account Mason’s pleasure at hearing what Jim had told me and softened the blow. “I am merely reporting what I have been told without having had time to research the point to an objective conclusion.”

  “Samuel means we haven’t been able to ask Molly about it yet,” Ms. Washburn said. “Can we ask Tyler?”

  After Jim O’Malley had left the Starbucks following a brief conclusion to our conversation, Ms. Washburn had met me there and we had agreed it was best to talk to Mason and Tyler again, if that was possible. Ms. Washburn had called Mason, who reported they were free and suggested we
drive to their home in Franklin Township and discuss what we had found out so far.

  In the car, I had to admit to Ms. Washburn that this wasn’t very much.

  “This question has been a very confusing one,” I said. “We began with the idea that Richard either was or was not Tyler’s friend, since that was what we had been commissioned to answer. And I still believe we rushed to an answer. We did not have definitive proof to give to Tyler.”

  “Does that matter at this point?” she asked, watching the road. “We’ve determined that Tyler didn’t shoot Richard, so does the answer to Tyler’s question really have any impact on what we’re doing now?”

  I am usually fairly adept at committing my thoughts to words, but even that was becoming elusive now. “I think it might be, but I don’t know why,” I said. “Are you going to stop the divorce proceedings?”

  Ms. Washburn’s eyes widened and her grip on the steering wheel visibly tightened. “Samuel!” she barked. “Where did that come from?”

  Clearly, she was not asking where my words had originated; as with all such things, they were the verbalization of a thought. What Ms. Washburn must have meant, I decided, was that I had changed topics of conversation too quickly. It would not be the first time.

  “Please excuse me,” I said. “The thought has been claiming my attention for some time and I thought it best to express it so we could go back to concentrating on the question. I did not mean to offend you, Ms. Washburn.”

  She relaxed noticeably, loosening her grip and trying to smile. “There are times I really wish you would call me Janet,” she said.

  “If it is important to you, I will try to change my pattern.”

  Ms. Washburn laughed lightly and shook her head a little. “It’s not necessary. I know you’re more comfortable this way. In answer to your question, Samuel, I don’t know what’s going on with my marriage right now. Simon and I have been talking without yelling at each other and that’s good, but we’re still the same people we were before and I don’t know if that’s going to change.”