Two bullets left...
She began to laugh softly to herself, as softly as birds steal breadcrumbs from a forest path, obscuring the way home.
A Trail of Mirrors
Tracy Knight
“Certainty is the mind’s salve, quelling life’s pervasive anxiety,” Dr. Maxwell Deguise wrote in his bestselling book Embrace Stress Like a Lover. “Regrettably, it is also altogether illusory.”
When the graves came into view, Dr. Maxwell Deguise hoisted a trembling index finger. “There are crystalline moments when one must boldly act in order to successfully revise one’s life story...” he croaked, quoting from his Paths to Editing Your Life, “...and one must always—always!— design and pursue goals that forcefully embody the central theme of one’s existential magnum opus.”
It was astounding enough to hear an elderly psychologist with failing mental faculties quoting himself so precisely, especially since I’d come to suspect that recently he might have begun having difficulty remembering to consistently don his underwear before his pants. What made this moment even eerier was that, as he quoted those lines, we—seventy-eight-year-old Dr. Maxwell Deguise and I, Dr. Elliot Albert, his colleague, biographer, and trustworthy caretaker of ten years—were lying on our bellies in the moist grass outside the Konner County Veterinary Clinic, noses pressed against the grimy basement window as we peered at rows of at least twenty tiny graves uniformly spaced across the sodden floor.
Other than an indolent midnight breeze, only a chorus of crickets and frogs kept us company. The mercury vapor pole light outside the clinic rendered Max’s face and bald pate a chalky purple. I marveled at how his appearance had changed during the decade I’d known him. Once he’d looked like a leviathan among his fellow men, standing straight and tall. Now, he resembled nothing more than a melting statue of a gnome.
I sniffed the night air, and I swore I smelled madness coming off him in sour, sultry layers.
I turned toward him and whispered, “I’m not sure it’s a good idea for us to be here.”
He harumphed like he was going to choke up something thick and bold, then raised his eyebrows, twin tangled nests that flitted stiffly in the dim light. “Elliot, with the data before our eyes, there can be no question about the direction I must travel.” Then he began quoting himself again, this time from his bestseller Suturing Life’s Open Wounds: “‘Our perception is all. It, more than biology or instrumental conditioning or cognitive schema, determines our behavior. We must ensure, however, that the map we draw of life as we live it is not mistaken for the territory itself.’ You see? With these data, I know my territory, Elliot. It’s as clear as a sunrise. Now it’s just a matter of dispatching justice in a decisive, final fashion. It’s time, my friend, to write the end of this particular story.”
It was at that very moment I knew for certain that my world-renowned mentor was intent on murdering a veterinarian.
How to explain a psychological transformation such as the one I witnessed in Dr. Maxwell Deguise, a metamorphosis from kindly, brilliant psychologist to tongue-lolling assassin?
His transmutation, I was certain, began only ten hours earlier...
“I was seventeen years old. My initial meeting with Dr. Maxwell Deguise after a sold-out lecture at Coe College evermore molded my future. Perhaps noticing the openness and empathy I’d brought to our encounter, he soon exposed his soul to me as perhaps he had to no one before. He described the tragic loss of his wife to cancer only three months before, as well as the deaths of their four beloved cats over a two-year period, the last of which had succumbed to diabetes a mere week before I introduced myself to him.
“He was lost alone in the world. He needed me.
“Though at the time I didn’t know it. Dr. Deguise was to become my mentor, and I his surrogate son. He graciously paid for my doctoral education and then took me under his wing for my post-doc internship, eventually making me a full partner, intending to pass along his wisdom and, eventually, his practice...”
“So? What do you think of it?” I asked, resting the typed draft of A Trail of Mirrors in my lap. “It’s just a section of my Introduction. I figured since I’m nearing the end of the manuscript, I’d give the opening a try.”
Max was leaning back in his chair, gazing at the ceiling as though life’s secrets were darting about in the corners of the room. “Why, I think that’s fine, Elliot, just fine,” he said in his calm, even voice, scratching his bald head as though he were subjugating a rash.
I smiled and sat a little taller in my chair. “That’s great to hear. I’ve never written a book before, much less a biography. Do you think it’s okay that I bring myself into the story and mention that personal stuff? After all, this is your story.”
He sat bolt upright and pointed his rheumy eyes my direction. “Aha, you are part of my story, a central part, my boy. And I think the more that personal facets of my life are revealed, the more readers will understand my career and the fortunate path it’s taken.”
I cleared my throat and pressed a finger against my lips, uncertain whether or not this was the appropriate moment to bring up the Candy Lorber case. After a few seconds of reflection, I resolved to forge ahead.
His eyes had become momentarily unfocused, so I tapped my foot sharply against the floor to secure his attention before proceeding. “Max, I’m sorry but...well, we need to have a section about Candy Lorber in the manuscript. It can be brief.”
His eyes widened. “For heaven’s sake, why?”
I shrugged. “Omitting it would rob readers of an important, instructive drama in your career. Anyway, most of them probably read about the case in the National Enquirer or the Star.”
“But that was thirteen years ago.” His face rumpled like a washcloth.
“Doesn’t matter,” I said. “People already know about it, and I’m sure that if we don’t address it, the readers—not to mention the critics—will only focus upon what’s missing in your story, not what’s there.”
He grunted, then jiggled his hand as if preparing to shoo an oncoming gnat. “You know, Elliot, I believe it was Jung who once said that many people come to therapy not to eliminate their neurosis, but to perfect it. Such was the case of Candy Lorber.”
I pulled my legal pad to the top of the stack and prepared to take notes.
He paused briefly, then said, “I’m convinced that far from coming to me for assistance in casting out her personal demons, she ultimately came to therapy in order to make a horrendous personal statement against all therapy, all therapists. She was the most sadly hateful and pathological human being I’ve ever encountered. Beyond that, I’m saying nothing. If that doesn’t satisfy the readers and critics, well, to Hades with them.”
I raised my hand. “Hold on, just a second. Let me look through my other notes.”
I flipped through several sheets and began reading.
Candy Lorber was forty-seven years old, twice divorced, 350 pounds, and seemed to carry the full weight of the world on her bowed shoulders. Her graying, stringy hair hung down, partially obscuring her face. She wept throughout the first hour of her therapy with Dr. Deguise, and was so distraught that he remained with her, though her fifty-minute session was clearly over.
“I don’t want to live,” she wailed, eyes streaming tears. “Don’t you understand?”
“I don’t believe you,” Dr. Deguise replied, his voice as flat as the prairie.
She reached into her purse and pulled out a straight razor, flicked it open.
Then, with Dr. Deguise watching impassively. Candy Lorber carefully drew the razor across one wrist, then the other. She dropped the razor as blood began slowly dripping onto her shoes and pooling on the carpet
Dr. Deguise said nothing. Not a word.
Facial features stretched like a balloon ready to burst, she said, “I just want to walk out of here. There’s a blizzard outside. I just want to walk and bleed until I’m no more. Until I die. Unless you can help me.”
&nb
sp; “Can you find your way out?” Dr. Deguise said. Then he got up and left the room. Just like that
Candy Lorber remained seated for a few harrowing moments. Then, overtaken by despair and abandonment, she walked out of the office.
She trudged through a blinding snowstorm, came upon a nearby community college, pulled out a pistol she’d hidden in her purse that night, and shot three students and four security guards before police gunned her down.
She lived for three days before dying...
Max interrupted, “Can’t you examine your notes later? Ask me something else. Is that all you’re wanting to talk about? That unfortunate Lorber woman?”
“No, one other thing,” I said, laying the stack of notes and typewritten pages at my feet, then grabbing a nearby file. “I had a client yesterday I wanted to ask you about. Not for the book; just a brief consultation, if you don’t mind.” He brightened. Nothing innervated him more than a challenge to unravel a clinical mystery.
I opened the file folder and said, “I have a new client who’s a veterinarian, fifty-three years old, married. Over the past several years he’s developed the most unfortunate and severe compulsion I’ve encountered since joining the practice.” I paused, then continued slowly enough for him to construct the images in his mind. “He tortures animals—cats, specifically—that are left in his care, and then buries them in tiny graves in his clinic’s basement. He tells the owners that they died unexpectedly. He can’t stop himself, as hard as he tries. He’s lost count of how many cats he’s tortured to death. Until psychotherapy can help him, what can I do, ethically? I can’t just sit back and listen anymore.” “Who is this vet?”
“Dr. Randall Jones.”
Abrupt tears shimmered in his eyes. “Elliot, he was my vet. He’s the one who—’’
I clapped my hand over my mouth. “Oh, my God. He took care of your cats?”
Leaning his forehead against his hand, he said, “So that’s why they all died. All of them. Excuse me a moment, son.”
He pulled a handkerchief from his front pocket and wiped each eye in hasty, flicking succession.
I reached over and patted his hand. “I’m sorry, Max. I’m sorry to hit you with this. But really, I’m stumped. What can I do?”
“Call the authorities,” he said with a flap of his hand.
I shook my head. “I can’t. Violation of confidentiality. He hasn’t threatened himself or others.”
He sighed. “Then persuade him to turn himself in.”
I held out my hands, palms up, highlighting my helplessness. “He won’t do it, Max, not in a million years. He’d be throwing away his career.”
He went silent for what must have been two minutes. Then, slowly and deliberately, he nodded. “A conclusion has taken form in my brain,” he said. “Come back to me at the end of the day. I’ll give you your answer.”
Dr. Maxwell Deguise was universally esteemed for his unique and insightful interventions for any type of human psychological problem, being able to transfigure his insights into effective clinical action.
Perhaps this is why, in a 1999 survey of psychologists, he was voted one of the ten most influential psychologists in the world.
Ranking highest among the adjectives that could be used to describe his therapeutic approach is “astonishing.”
But to listen to him, the formula was a simple one: “First, throw a monkey wrench into the pathology machine in whatever way you can; then, present a door to beneficial resolution. People will always walk through that door.”
He bounded into my office a little before 5 p.m., exuding a level of energy I hadn’t witnessed since meeting him. A smile spread across his face as thin and flat as a steak knife. His sideburns angled backward like gills.
“I have reached my conclusion,” he said. “Elliot, you know me as an innovator. Well, this time I’m going to surprise even you.”
I set aside the manuscript and leaned toward him. “You sure seem elated.”
“I am, my son.” He sat down and reclined, maintaining his smile as he let his eyelids go to half-mast. “Certainty does that. Elliot, you know the one frustration that goes with being a psychologist?”
“Well, I’d say—”
“It’s that so often, in the drama of life, we therapists, in essence, do nothing. Nothing. I’ve personally beheld every manner of human pain and foible and, typically, my clinical instincts have allowed me to help the clients examine their life-maps, chart a new course, and blaze a fresh trail with my support.”
“True. That’s a direct quote from Secrets of a Clinical Master, isn’t it?”
“Indeed. But don’t you see, Elliot? That restrictive viewpoint shackles us from what might be more effective facilitation of healing. There have been so many cases in which I’ve wished, fantasized that I could really do something, play a more active role in my clients’ lives. Hear me out: Haven’t you ever worked with an abused wife and wished you could sneak into the house one night and bludgeon her bastard husband into a tattered pile of flesh? Haven’t you worked with a child who’s been psychologically beaten down to the point of emptiness by uncaring, neglectful parents who think of no one but themselves? And haven’t you wanted to take out a contract on the monsters and simply take the child home and raise him yourself? Haven’t you ever seen a client who’s so forlorn and lost in life that you’ve wanted to put your arm around her shoulders and take a nice long walk in the woods, just to comfort her, instead of just saying, ‘You seem to be feeling pretty hopeless today’?”
“Well, I guess we all have those fantasies. It’s part of the profession. But how does that relate to the case I presented?”
He clenched his fists in front of him and gritted his teeth so forcibly I heard them creak. Then he said, “We’re talking about defenseless animals here, Elliot. Cats...’’ He paused. His head dropped and he wiped his eyes free of unexpected teardrops. “My cats.”
“I still don’t understand. You’re not making sense—”
“That’s all you need to understand, Elliot, because I won’t have you involved. I probably shouldn’t have said a word to you about this. Remember, Elliot: Your only job is to remain the supportive therapist for Dr. Jones. Just know, in your heart, that after tonight your client’s difficulties shall disappear completely. I am so certain of what I must do.’’
“But…
He clapped his hands once, rose, and left the room moving lightly, like a dancing ghost.
I picked up my pen and began to write.
Years of constant contact with another human being induces what might as well be termed ESP. Having witnessed and heard the twists and turns of their reasonings, the modes by which they fashion their perceptions of and approaches to life, soon their thinking becomes second nature to us, whether or not we realize it
Although I knew that my ethical obligation was to prevent Dr. Deguise from doing something foolish and dangerous, not to mention to warn his intended victim, what can I say? Sometimes one finds one’s most meaningful life paths amid unexpected territory and I knew my destiny was to be with Dr. Maxwell Deguise.
I needed to be there.
I waited until well after sundown, then drove to a country road that ran parallel to the vet clinic’s road, parked, then crept through an adjacent cornfield to the outer perimeter of the clinic property. Even with only the illuminating bruise of the single pole light outside the clinic, I could make out the crouching figure of Dr. Maxwell Deguise amid a cluster of bushes.
Parked in the lot out front was a muddied Ford pickup truck displaying the license plate ANML DR.
So the vet was there, and already, Max was present and ready for action, whatever action it was he had ultimately designed.
Bent over like a damaged marionette, he skulked across the yard to a window from which golden light shone. I ran, tiptoes barely skimming the earth, timing my arrival so I’d intersect Max’s trajectory.
He heard me coming, turning until I saw that he was holding b
oth a flashlight and a pistol in his gloved hands. His eyes widened, and he quickly pushed the pistol into his suit coat pocket.
“Elliot?” he said as I approached. “What in the devil are you doing here?”
Panting, I answered, “I came...because I needed to... You’ve always been there for me...I want to be here for you.”
He scowled and shook his head. “If you must. But no matter what you see, please let this night run its course—”
Hearing no disagreement from me, he gestured for me to follow him to the basement window.
We lay on our stomachs and then, our heads only inches apart, we peered through the window and saw the rows of tiny graves, swellings of piled dirt, each no larger than a watermelon.
“I’m going to do it,” he muttered, and then lay there mutely, his flashlight beam playing back and forth across the graves like a honeyed pendulum.
Minutes later, we stood up and moved to yet another window, where a light had switched on.
Simultaneously, we crouched down when Dr. Jones walked into the room. Dressed in blue jeans painted with some manner of dung, and wearing a T-shirt from the University of Missouri, he carried in his hand something I thought, at first, was a cattle prod. It was a long, thin rod and out of its end protruded a slim four-inch needle. The device contained a long, thin transparent tube filled with violet fluid.
‘‘What’s that thing?” I asked.
“I’m not sure,” Max replied, “but I think it’s what vets use in order to inject caged animals with the euthanizing solution without their having to get close. A coward’s tool, if you ask me.”
Sure enough, that was true, since the next thing we saw was Dr. Jones setting aside the rod-like syringe, then wheeling two large cages into the room. One contained a mother dog and several puppies who lay suckling. The other cage was crammed full of cats of all shapes, ages, and sizes, perpetually moving like a writhing rug.
Blood on Their Hands (Mystery Writers of America Presents: MWA Classics) Page 8