The Man Who Understood Cats

by Michael Allen Dymmoch

  Mike said, “Wife’s outta town,” as if that explained everything. He handed Thinnes the bill.

  Thinnes looked it over. Mike had charged him fifteen dollars to refill and readjust the brakes. If he’d been more sure of his ground, he would’ve charged twice that. Thinnes didn’t argue though. Even taking into account that one questionable item, the price was very reasonable. As he pulled out his wallet, Mike said, “Russo.”

  Thinnes shook his head. “He’s in Menard. Anyway, if he didn’t go after the cop that busted him, why would he bother with me?”

  The mechanic shook his head, pulled the bill out of Thinnes’s hand, and scribbled over the fifteen-dollar charge, adding NC in the column above it and deducting fifteen dollars from the total. He handed the paper back to Thinnes.

  “I wasn’t arguing,” Thinnes said. He extracted bills to cover the new total and waved a don’t-bother when Mike reached in his pocket for change. Mike shrugged and gestured toward the Chevy. The newly painted door made the rest of the car look shabby.

  Mike must’ve been thinking the same thing. “Bring it back when you got time. We’ll paint it.”

  “Thanks, I’ll do that.”

  Mike nodded and stood watching critically as Thinnes backed the car out of the shop.

  No charge. That was as close as Mike would get to admitting one of his guys had made a mistake. Funny thing about coincidence—you couldn’t buy it in a movie, but in reality, it happened all the time. If he hadn’t been suckered into driving to that Maine East game, sophomore year of high school, he wouldn’t have met Rhonda, who’d never gone to a basketball game before in her life. And the one time one of Mike’s guys screwed up a brake job, it had to be a cop’s car.

  Twelve

  Caleb’s silver-blue Jaguar pulled out of the underground garage and down the street. As it turned the corner, Thinnes eased his Chevy away from the curb in front of the building.

  Traffic was light—standard for early Sunday. Caleb took the Drive north. He drove a constant sixty-five, signaling to change lanes and changing smoothly and often to maintain his speed. Thinnes figured he must be driving a half mile ahead. He was impressed; most owners of yuppie cars couldn’t plan as far ahead as the next light.

  So maybe this Dr. Caleb had something going for him. Maybe he had enough upstairs to kill Finley. But why would he? It didn’t take any brains to be a murderer. And to get away with it, all you needed to do—most of the time—was keep your mouth shut. Something—Thinnes was grateful—most killers didn’t think of.

  He kept Caleb’s Jag in sight reflexively. Tailing was something he had done so long he could do it on autopilot—like walking. It left him free to think.

  He wondered what it would be like to consult a psychiatrist. Like an annual physical? Did they stretch you out on the couch and say, “Where does it hurt?” Did they do something like blood and urine tests, or a kind of “chest x-ray” for your skull? Karsch had offered his services on occasion, and Thinnes had been tempted—just to go in and talk—but something held him back. Just a hunch, like the hunch that Finley had been murdered. Some instinct of self-preservation. After all, talking to a shrink about your personal problems was an admission of losing it—the beginning of the end of your active-duty days. Nobody trusts his life to a frayed rope. And he was fairly certain only another cop would understand the problems. Karsch wasn’t a real cop.

  Caleb got off the Drive at Irving Park. Traffic was heavier, and Thinnes had to work at keeping him in sight on Irving Park without being seen. At Clark Street he signaled a right and, to Thinnes’s surprise, turned into Graceland, the cemetery that stretches like a park from Irving to Montrose between the Howard-North El line and Clark Street.

  Thinnes swore. The cemetery covers more than twenty blocks and is a maze of interconnecting roads. Caleb must’ve spotted the tail. A red light gave Thinnes a minute to think, but apart from recalling that Graceland had only one entrance, he drew a blank. The light changed. The cars at the front of the line took off, and those behind Thinnes started to honk as he sat making up his mind. He shrugged and turned through the gates. Caleb’s Jaguar had disappeared; the only vehicle in sight was a security agency’s car. Thinnes pulled into the lot next to the memorial chapel office and got out.

  A security guard in a white uniform shirt and dark pants got out of the car and came to meet him in the center of the entrance drive. He eyed Thinnes the way a cop would and asked, “Help you?” in a cautious tone.

  Thinnes flashed his star and said, “You notice a silver-blue Jaguar come in here?”

  The guard nodded, leering. “He rob a bank?”

  Thinnes hid his annoyance. “He’s a material witness in a murder investigation.”

  The leer disappeared. “No shit!”

  “You could be of assistance in this investigation.” The guard nodded eagerly. “Stall him a bit when he leaves. Don’t let him know he’s being followed, just ask if he spotted any dogs in here. Or tell him you’ve had a problem with graffiti and ask if he’s seen any kids.”

  “Sure thing. By the way, he took the fork to the right.” The guard pointed.

  Thinnes said, “Thanks,” and went back to his car.

  As he snaked around the winding access road, the cemetery seemed like one of the city’s parks, peaceful and green, and almost wild in the few places where the landscapers hadn’t gotten to the grass. It was a historical treasure, too. A list of its residents read like a Chicago directory—most having streets named after them. And there was the elevator Otis, Pullman of railroad fame, and J. P. Getty. This early in the morning, it was nearly empty of living souls. Another time Thinnes would have liked to get out and read the headstones and look into the crypts, many of which had elaborate carvings or unusual architecture and stained glass windows. He spotted Caleb’s car parked in the shade on the east side. He pulled past it and parked. He fished his binoculars out of the glove box before getting out for a better look.

  In the distance, he could see Caleb, dressed as for church, standing in front of the black granite bulk of Lorado Taft’s statue, The Crusader, that marks the resting place of Victor Lawson. Caleb gazed at the statue before stepping south of it and stooping to free a marker from the long grass there. He straightened up and stared long and reverently at the stone, then looked around—not searching for a tail, Thinnes would have bet—just taking in the scenery. He seemed to study each tree around the grave as if trying to remember what kind it was or commit it to memory. He stared at nearby monuments the same way. Then he went slowly back to his car and drove off.

  Thinnes hurried over to the Lawson monument, which he’d seen before in pictures, and was brought up short by its inscription:

  ABOVE ALL THINGS TRUTH BEARETH AWAY THE VICTORY

  He walked around the statue to read the headstone Caleb’d freed from the grass. The legend, CHRISTOPHER MARGOLIS 1963–1988, was not what he’d expected.

  The silver-blue Jag was fairly easy to keep tabs on as it spun back onto the Drive, northbound, and continued up Sheridan Road. Thinnes dropped back in the sparse traffic to avoid being seen and followed the doctor past the art deco facade of Mundelein College and the south entrance of Loyola University’s north campus, around Calvary Cemetery and north through Evanston and the Northwestern campus, and past Dyche Stadium on Central Street. At Green Bay Road he turned north again and eventually into the parking lot of Walker Brothers Original Pancake House in south Wilmette.

  Thinnes stayed in the car, munching the sandwich he’d brought for lunch, recalling the times he’d been there with Rhonda.

  As teenagers, they’d often gone with their friends to concerts at Ravinia, had sat on the lawn and passed a joint around while they listened to Zappa and Joplin and B.B. King. Sometimes they’d stop at Walker Brothers beforehand. Every once in a while he’d taken Rhonda there for breakfast on a Sunday. They’d talked for hours, taking their time over the rich apple pancakes that were a meal for two. They’d been able, in those days, t
o talk about anything. Before he’d joined the force. Before his job had come between them. Before he’d retreated into the silence of his own counsel. Over the years, their conversations had floated to the surface of their life together. Somewhere along the line, she’d stopped trying to reach him. The thought made Thinnes shudder.

  He tapped one of the four large coffees, long cold, that he’d bought at McDonald’s before setting out and wondered if Caleb, too, was given to long conversations over apple pancakes. He hoped not and rather doubted that the management would allow it, with the waiting line winding around the building.

  Thinnes was right. Caleb came out shortly afterward with a yuppie couple, whose license plate Thinnes noted. He got into his car without looking around and made good time back to the city.

  When he left his apartment again Thinnes almost missed him. He was wearing a nondescript sports jacket and ordinary slacks. He came out the front door and walked over to Michigan Avenue, where he boarded a 151 bus.

  There is no inconspicuous way to tail a bus. Thinnes was certain he’d been made. Nevertheless, he got in line behind it and searched the sidewalk crowds for the doctor’s tall form after each stop.

  Caleb got off in Lincoln Park and walked west, along Dickens. He stopped in front of a three-flat to shake hands with another man, and they went into the building together. Thinnes parked and walked up to read the sign on the door: VIETNAM SUPPORT GROUP, 2ND FLOOR, VETERANS WELCOME.

  Thirteen

  The caption on the chalkboard spelled out POST TRAUMATIC STRESS DISORDER—PTSD, and underneath it was a list of symptoms: anxiety, nightmares, instant replays, emotional anesthesia, insomnia, decreased libido, depression, irritability, extreme sensitivity to noise, decreased tolerance for frustration, paranoia.

  The group leader, the therapist, was short and heavyset with straight, thinning blond hair and a curly red beard. Arthur. He wore wire-rimmed glasses that made him look wimpy, but he had forearms like Popeye’s and biceps half a yard around. He wore Levi’s and a casual shirt open at the neck, and with sleeves rolled to the elbows.

  His clients were an odd lot: Ragman, the lone black, had been laying the grounds for a plea of insanity all his life. Nam hadn’t improved his condition. He was currently on probation after a stretch in Joliet for assault: he’d chased a motorist who’d cut him off in traffic half a mile down the Stevenson with a hunting knife. At times during the sessions he held on to the arms of his chair as if to prevent himself from repeating the offense.

  Ed, the soft-spoken, balding accountant, didn’t suffer from PTSD, but he felt that he should and he suffered ineffable guilt because he didn’t.

  Maharis had been discharged on a section eight. Most of his life—like most reactive schizophrenics—he’d been a little unsure of his boundaries. In Nam, he’d lost them altogether.

  Erik retold his story, of having to commit atrocities, in a voice so soft they had to strain to hear it. Caleb dispassionately noted his flattened affect and his restlessness, the signs of sleep loss, the paranoia. Erik insisted that his actions were inevitable and that everyone who’d seen combat had done the same. They had all heard the argument before.

  “That’s not how it was!” Ragman insisted. Their discussion was also a rerun, and it was getting old.

  “Maybe that’s how it was for him,” Ed said mildly.

  “You tell ’em, Jack. Tell ’em that’s not the way it was.”

  “I can’t speak for him,” Caleb said. “That’s not the way it was for my unit, but it may have been that way for his.”

  “Bullshit!”

  Maharis, who was enjoying a period of relative lucidity thanks to the miracles of modern pharmacology, said, “Just how was it for you, Jack? You sit there, week after week, like some big happy Buddha, not saying’ nothing’. What’re you doin’ here?”

  What indeed. Caleb took several deep breaths. This was, after all, a group therapy session, and he was a participant. And he had sat immobile, session after session, closed like a secret. Like a cat whose small size made it vulnerable and whose vulnerability made it timid. Caleb was aware of his vulnerability. He’d left Nam with few scars and no new hangups. The old ones were enough. He constantly checked himself to be sure he wasn’t projecting the aggression of which he knew he was capable. It was a professional habit. But it was more than habit. He was obsessed, even with the possibility of losing control again. He knew that repression made the id monsters ever more powerful and fearsome, but he couldn’t take the chance of loosing them again, or rather of loosing the monster. He knew the name of his enemy, though he couldn’t face it. His nemesis was Rage.

  They were not about to let him off the hot seat today. Arthur said, “Well, Jack?” and waited. They all waited. They had all been outwaited by the group in sessions past. They all knew that their silence would force the story from him.

  “I lost my temper once,” he began as if making a confession. “And killed a man. In Nam.”

  They waited. Arthur said, “Tell us the details.”

  “That’s it?” Ragman demanded. “That’s your big secret? You went to war and killed a guy?” Ragman started to laugh.

  “You don’t understand,” Caleb told him. “I was a CO. I don’t kill people. It was wrong!”

  They were all laughing except Arthur. Arthur was watching like a big orange tabby, like a psychiatrist. He said, “What were you feeling when you killed him?”

  How very like a shrink! Ragman’s questions were more to the point, though. “You were a CO; that mean you didn’t carry a gun? What’d you kill him with, your bare hands?”

  “I killed him with a gun. I grabbed an M-sixteen and blew him away.” He looked at Arthur. “I was feeling overpowering rage.”

  Perhaps they could relate to uncontrollable anger, perhaps it was something in Caleb’s tone of voice. The others didn’t laugh.

  Arthur nodded as if he understood. “You ever felt that way since Nam?”

  “No.”

  “You ever have flashbacks?”

  “No.”

  “Nightmares?”

  Caleb hesitated. “Not that I recall.” He could see that Arthur wasn’t convinced. The others were like kids watching a new video game.

  “Let’s have some details, Jack,” Maharis said. “Was he one of ours?”

  Caleb felt his shock showing. “One of ours?”

  “Yeah, you know—an officer or something.”

  “He was a sniper. NVA, I think.” He thought of the permanence of it. The loss. The waste! The sniper had been very young. Chris had been as young! He looked around and saw Erik and Ragman and Maharis slavering for details, and he felt his annoyance swelling, taking a murderous shape. He said, “What’s the difference? He’s dead. I killed him.” He made himself count to fifteen and breathe deeply. He tried to make himself feel small and innocuous. He tried to think lovely, wonderful thoughts.

  “So what are you crybabying about? They ought to give you a medal.”

  “You’re still feeling guilty,” Arthur said gently.

  Caleb shrugged.

  “You’re not going to forgive yourself?”

  “It’s not that. It scares me that I could be so crazy.”

  “Out of control?”

  Caleb nodded.

  “You always control everything?”

  “Only my own behavior.”

  “Just your behavior?”

  Caleb smiled wryly. No wonder I was able to help Allan, he thought. We were so alike in ways. Then he remembered how it was with Allan and his smile faded. He said, “No.”

  “Let me see if I have this straight,” Arthur said. “You lost control and killed a man once, and now you’re afraid it might happen again?”

  “Yes.”

  “What would you tell a client in your situation?”

  The others all pricked up their ears. Caleb had never told them his profession.

  “But I don’t know how to get just a little angry.”

  “You ne
ver get irritated or annoyed?”

  “I’ve convinced myself there’s nothing worth getting really angry about.”

  “You deal with AIDS patients.”

  “Professionally.”

  They were talking to each other now; the others had been left behind. Arthur said, “Didn’t you tell me you’d lost a close friend a few years ago?” Caleb nodded. “How did you deal with your rage?”

  “Conversion reaction.”

  Arthur tilted his head quizzically.

  “A year and a half of migraines.”

  “What’s conversion reaction?” Ragman demanded.

  Arthur said, “Jack?”

  “A physical illness or impairment that the mind creates to distract itself from a reality that’s too horrible to contemplate, something too awful or frightening to face or remember.”

  “You a doctor?” Maharis asked.

  “Yes.”

  “And you know the prescription, don’t you?” Arthur persisted.

  “Yes. I have to let myself get angry and accept what happens next.”

  Fourteen

  Thinnes almost missed Caleb again when he came out of the meeting. A short blond fat man gave the psychiatrist a lift back to his apartment in an ancient Nova. The guy drove like a maniac, but he was still easier to tail than a bus.

  Caleb emerged from his garage about a half hour later, in his Jaguar and in good clothes. He took the Drive north to Addison. As he followed the car through the Sunday afternoon traffic, Thinnes was grateful that the Cubs were out of town. Caleb eventually turned north on Wayne and took the only empty space on the street. The building he went into was familiar. Thinnes pulled past the door and parked next to a hydrant, where he could watch his quarry in the rearview, and he checked the address in his notebook to be sure. After Caleb disappeared through the inner, security door, Thinnes walked up and peered with disgust through the glass door into the now empty lobby of Alicia Baynes’s building.