Knife Music

by David Carnoy

  “Well, I . . . you know . . . well, this was difficult for all of us.”

  “How’s your mother?”

  “What?”

  Bill knows exactly what he’s talking about, though he doesn’t want to admit it. The guilt skulks about his face.

  “She’s fine,” he says nearly in a whisper.

  “The advice I gave you—pretty good, wasn’t it?”

  He looks down at the ground.

  “Yeah.”

  “I didn’t hear you.”

  “Yeah,” Bill says more loudly—loud enough for those nearby to glance in their direction. “Look, Ted, it wasn’t just the directors. We had parents complain. There are kids here.”

  “Christ. Give me a friggin’ break.”

  Just then Klein comes out of the restaurant and, spotting Cogan, makes a beeline for him.

  “It’s OK, Bill,” he says. “He just came here to see me. I’ll take it from here.”

  Klein takes his arm and says in a low voice, “Come on, man. It’s not worth it. Let’s go.”

  Minutes pass. In the car, Cogan is silent. He isn’t super-pissed at Klein but he’s pissed enough not to talk, which is the worst thing you can do with Klein because he’s one of those guys who doesn’t deal well with emotional nuances, the grays. He prefers things spelled out, like so many of the women Cogan has dated. In fact, if Klein had been a woman, he would have been one of them, the kind who was always saying, “I can’t read you,” or asking, “What are you thinking right now?”

  The funny thing is that as soon as he imagines the words coming out of Klein’s mouth, Klein practically says them, though the echo has a more masculine ring: “What’s up, man?” he asks. “What are you thinking?”

  “I was thinking that you’re going to ask me what I’m thinking.”

  “No, really.”

  He keeps staring at the road. “Really.”

  A brief silence.

  “I’m sorry,” Klein says. “I thought you knew.”

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  “I was going to say something. I’m sorry, but we’ve been dealing with this new house all week. Our bid was accepted but Trish is suddenly on the fence. We’ve been going back and forth on it. She thinks prices are going to come down and that we could do better in six months or a year. Get something bigger for the same money. I don’t know. It’s all we talk about.”

  “Tough choice. I understand.”

  Klein won’t let it go, though. He has to defend himself, has to explain that he only found out a few days earlier about the freeze when another member had asked him whether he knew how Cogan was taking it.

  As he drones on, seeking his own pardon, Cogan finds himself thinking about how he’d handled the situation back at the club. He thinks he’d handled it well, he hadn’t allowed Bill to humiliate him too badly. The bastard. He’d called Bill every day when his mother was in the ICU. Now here he was, selling him out at the first opportunity to cover his own ass.

  “We went to a concert,” Klein says.

  Cogan looks over at him, not sure he’s heard right, but aware that Klein is off the whole frozen membership rift.

  “The Chemical Brothers,” he goes on. “With Rosenbaum. A couple of nights ago. He got the tickets.”

  “DocToBe. That prick.”

  “Look, he may be inept, but he’s not a bad guy.”

  “Don’t get me started.” The last guy he wants to discuss is Rosenbaum, who probably has been bad-mouthing him to anybody who will listen. He and Beckler were probably having a field day.

  “Anyway, it was one of those electronica deals,” Klein continues. “You know The Brothers, right?”

  Cogan nods. Yeah, he knows The Brothers. He played them sometimes in the OR. Where’s he going with this?

  “It was basically like being in a giant club. And we’re all pretty hammered and we’re dancing behind this group of girls and my hand keeps knocking into one of them and she doesn’t seem to mind. Then I actually put my hand on her waist. You know, nothing too advanced, but I just kept it there for a few seconds. And again, she doesn’t do anything, doesn’t turn around or anything. So I start to get a little bolder and a little bolder, and suddenly, I’ve got my hands on her stomach and she’s leaning back into me. And you know, my hands kind of slip up a little from time to time and I can feel the wire in her bra and the base of her breasts and it’s all really hot but somehow impersonal at the same time.”

  Cogan looks over at him, a little incredulous. It’s the most intriguing story Klein has told in a while.

  “And the other guys see you doing this?”

  “Yeah, sure. They’re encouraging me.”

  “So what happened?”

  “Well, that’s the weird thing. Nothing. As soon as the concert ends and the lights go on, she just says, ‘See ya,’ and walks away. You know, as if nothing had happened. It was as if we’d met at a party, talked for a few minutes, then went our separate ways.”

  “And you thought you were in.”

  “I didn’t think anything. I mean, I doubt I would have done anything. But it occurred to me that something like that might have happened to you. Where maybe you had an exchange or something with this girl, maybe you were next to her on the bed like you said, and she made it out to be more than it was. Because I was having some pretty intense thoughts myself. It’s not beyond the realm of possibility,” Klein suggests feebly. “Am I right?”

  “You think I did it, don’t you?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “You’re thinking, there she was, lying in the bed without any clothes on, why wouldn’t Cogan cop a little feel? That’s what he does. That’s what he’s good at. Getting women to take their clothes off and copping feels. So this one happened to be a little younger.”

  “A lot,” Klein interjects.

  “OK, a lot.”

  He waits for Klein to ask the inevitable, to press him for the God’s honest truth, his final testament, sworn on someone’s life sacred to him. But instead he gets something more predictable: a taste of Klein’s special brand of imperfectly timed righteousness.

  “Hey, if you’d just said something when I had you on the phone that night, we wouldn’t be having this conversation now. Instead of telling me you were with an old girlfriend and her friend, you should have told me who was really there. I would’ve knocked some sense into you. I would have told you to get them the hell out of there.”

  “I know,” he says, slowing for traffic. “I know you would have, Kleiny.”

  Cogan smiles as he drives. Sometimes, after he’s had a couple of glasses of wine at night, he’d lie back in his recliner and listen to the CD Kristen had given him. She’d burned the disc herself: it was a mix of twenty songs, most of them from movie soundtracks: The Beach, Finding Forrester, 10 Things I Hate About You, Beautiful Girls, Mean Girls, 50 First Dates, Cruel Intentions, and both Bridget Jones movies. She’d neatly listed all the songs on the CD case and even made a special label for the CD—Knife Music in bold red lettering.

  The stereo set to the perfect volume—loud, but not too loud—he’d think back to that morning and remember sitting on the edge of the bed next to her, asking her how she felt as he wrestled with a light hangover of his own. Had he held her hand? He wasn’t sure. But it wouldn’t have surprised him if he did.

  “You know, I can get into a lot of trouble if anybody finds out you were here,” he said, looking her in the eyes. “I could lose my job.”

  Perhaps he’d stared too long. He’d looked to gauge her reaction, to make sure she understood he’d broken a major rule. But something about her expression, maybe the depth of her return gaze, caught him and drew him in, and his declaration hung there, suspended, instead of crashing down. He remembered silence, then the girl asking, “Where’s Carrie?”

  “On the couch in the living room. Sleeping.”

  “What time is it?”

  He looked at a clock that was sitting on the little night
stand.

  “Seven.”

  “You know, she likes you. Carrie. She has a crush on you.”

  “I know. You told me. Like three times.”

  “I did?” She turned her head, covered her mouth, and coughed. It wasn’t a cough cough, but more the kind you let out to suppress nausea.

  “You OK?”

  “Yeah.” She forced smile. “Would it be all right if I took a shower?”

  “Sure. I’ll get you a towel.”

  Yes, it is easy to imagine, he thought. Easy to think of how when he came back, she was standing in the bathroom that adjoined the guest room. The door to the bathroom was open, and she was naked, staring at herself in the mirror. He was so surprised he just stood there dumbly with the towel in his hand. She saw him in the mirror, but made no effort to cover herself. Instead, she calmly looked at him in the mirror and said, “I don’t look so hot, do I?” When he didn’t answer, she turned around and faced him, almost challenging him to assess her condition.

  “Here,” he said, handing her the towel. “Just hang it over the shower door when you’re done. There should be some shampoo there. I don’t know about conditioner. Do you need conditioner?”

  He considers going into Blue Chalk to say hello to Reinhart, but when they can’t find a parking space right away, he decides against it. Besides, he tells Klein, he has things to do.

  “What things?” Klein asks. “Don’t tell me you’re playing video games with those kids.”

  “No games. Don’t worry.”

  A short silence. Then: “So what am I doing here, Ted? What’s this about the girl? What did you want to tell me?”

  He looks over at Klein, who’s sitting there with part of his arm hanging out his window, looking a little peeved. He can see that he’s tired of the new, unpredictably moody Ted and wants the old aloof, good-humored Ted back.

  “I did have something to tell you,” he says.

  As late as a few minutes ago, he’d considered telling him about talking to Carrie in the mall. But it strikes him that it would do no good, and would be dangerous, for Klein can’t keep a secret. He shouldn’t have called him in the first place. He can’t say that now, though. But he has to say something. So he says, “I wanted to tell you that I’ve been seeing this whole thing wrong.”

  “How so?”

  “I’ve been too focused on the friend, Carrie. You know, thinking about why she would say she saw us having sex.”

  “Why would she?”

  “Well, I think we’ll have to pull in a psychiatrist to get to the bottom of that. I have a hunch it’s some sort of weird transference. Or that she just feels terribly guilty. In either case, she seems pretty darned convinced.”

  “Wouldn’t you say that’s a big problem?”

  “Absolutely. But it’s not necessarily the root. Think about what Kristen was telling her parents.”

  He wants Klein to actually think, but he’s too impatient.

  “What was she telling them?”

  “She was saying, ‘I had consensual sex with Doctor Cogan. It was my choice to have sex with him. And yes, he was a dick for blowing me off afterward, but I’m OK with what I did. I made a decision and was willing to live with the consequences, regardless of what happened afterward. He was the guy I wanted to fuck, to lose my virginity to, and now bugger off, people, that’s the story I’m sticking with, don’t try to make me change it.’”

  “Even if it’s a lie?”

  “Well, somehow it wasn’t a lie to her. And given the choice between saying she was raped by me and saying it was consensual, she opted for consensual because, given only two choices, she was going with the one that was the closest to the truth, and that should have made everything OK.”

  “But wasn’t the closest thing to the truth that nothing happened?”

  “Yes, Doctor. But what if something did?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “What if someone else had sex with her?”

  Klein blinked, genuinely startled. “Who?”

  “I don’t know. You ever watch the extras on a DVD?”

  “Sure.”

  “You know how there are sometimes deleted scenes?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, that’s what I’m looking for. And I think I know where I can find one.”

  29/ KING KONG

  May 5, 2007—6:15 p.m.

  THERE ARE TWO FREE CLINICS WITHIN A FIFTEEN-MILE RADIUS. The first, a Planned Parenthood, is located two towns to the north in Redwood City, and the second, appropriately called the Free Clinic, is in Palo Alto. A light green-colored building, the clinic is located in a lightly trafficked, predominantly residential area a few blocks from downtown. Though it’s discreetly tucked back from the street, some visitors still choose to park a few blocks away.

  The Palo Alto clinic would have been the more convenient choice, but Cogan thinks the girl may not have wanted to risk being spotted hitting the local clinic and opted instead for the Planned Parenthood.

  After dropping off Klein, he phones Josh and asks him whether he has any photos of Kristen. He knows that he and Steve have assembled a collection of digital images for their most-popular database. But he needs good ones. Nothing grainy or even slightly out of focus.

  Naturally, Josh is curious why he wants them. “You need somebody to ID her, don’t you?”

  “Very astute, Red Leader One.”

  “You want to tell me more?”

  “Maybe later.”

  This is how they talk now. They have an understanding. Cogan tells him something, but not everything, and Josh has to live with it. The slightest hint of prodding or pleading and he gets nothing; the conversation is over.

  “Interesting,” Josh says. “How do you want them?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The format. Two per page? Four? Printed? Digital? Slide show for your handheld?”

  He hadn’t thought of that—going the more high-tech route. How will someone respond to the pictures on a handheld? It may seem more personal, but then again, it’d sure look bad if he got caught with them on the device.

  “I’ll tell you what,” Josh says before Cogan can make up his mind. “I’ll stick them on a memory card and show you what I got. When do you need them?”

  “Tomorrow,” he says. “Tomorrow morning. Early.”

  May 7, 2007—2:45

  “Pause it there,” Madden says, looking at the small video monitor. “That’s him pulling into the parking lot. That’s his car.”

  “That’s your boy alright,” says Burns, holding the remote.

  The time on the tape reads 11:32, which means he went to the Free Clinic after Planned Parenthood. When he walks into the clinic, it reads 11:33:21.

  “He’s talking to the same woman I spoke to,” Madden says to Rebecca, the clinic’s director, who’s reluctantly agreed to let them look at the security tapes. “What’s her name?”

  “That’s Heather. She was a volunteer last year but now she’s paid. Part-time, but paid.”

  “She in today?”

  “This afternoon. Should be here in about twenty minutes.”

  “You see that?” Burns asks, pointing. “He’s got a whole sheet of pictures. Looks like four different shots. That’s more than we have.”

  Madden stares at the screen, mesmerized. He’s observing Cogan’s body language: the standoffish opening, the little flashes of that charming smile. The bastard, he’s trying to seduce her—like he tries to seduce everything that crosses his path. She must be twenty, twenty-one, he says to himself, disgusted. And to think this guy was performing exams in the hospital, given carte blanche to touch young girls. It’s preposterous.

  “She shook her head,” Burns says. “There, she did it again.”

  Madden doesn’t respond, though. He’s overcome by a wave of nausea.

  “Hank, you alright?”

  “Yeah.” Feeling his partner’s stare on him, he pulls out his handkerchief and wipes his brow. “I’m
OK, don’t worry.”

  As they watch (there’s no audio), a second woman comes into the frame, and when she does, Madden starts to feel better. Heather gives her some forms. Then, she has another brief exchange with Cogan.

  “This Heather,” Madden says to the director after they’ve finished watching Cogan get in his car and drive away, “she say anything to you about this guy coming in?”

  “No, she didn’t mention it.”

  “It doesn’t look like he got anything,” Burns says.

  “Let’s see what she has to say. Twenty minutes, you said?”

  The director nods. “You said he might be dangerous?”

  “We don’t know what he’s up to. We’ll be back in a bit. Come on, Mr. Burns. I’ll buy you a latte at Peet’s.”

  May 6, 2007—11:33 a.m.

  Cogan takes one look at the girl behind the front desk of the Free Clinic and thinks, This isn’t good. Her hair is shaved close on the sides, bleached on top, and she has at least five, and probably more, earrings running along the tops of her ears, plus two through her left eyebrow. He isn’t intimidated by her style—in the hospital, he’d gotten along fine with his share of body piercing and tattoo enthusiasts. Rather, his pessimism is grounded more in her return gaze. At best, it approximates indifference; at worst, disdain. Her eyes seem to ask the question, What sort of crap are you selling?

  “Hey,” he says distantly, deciding to mirror the chilly reception. “Sorry to bother you.”

  “Hey,” she says. “What’s up?”

  As he did at the Planned Parenthood earlier, he takes out his hospital ID—an old one, not the one they’d taken away from him when he was suspended.

  “I’m a doctor over at Parkview,” he says, flashing the ID in front of him just below chest level. “And I have a patient who may or may not have come through here a few months ago. She’s in a bit of a jam now and we’re just trying to determine whether she came in or not. I know it’s been a long time, but would you mind looking at a couple of pictures?”