Manner of Death

by Stephen White

  Lauren began to employ her devil's-advocate voice. I knew she didn't believe the protest she was making. I doubted that Simes or Custer would be able to tell, though, she said. "And so far, if I follow that trail along with you, your formulation of this case, of the danger my husband is in, is based solely on coincidence and conjecture. You hear hoofbeats, and by my reckoning you're thinking zebras, not horses."

  Custer said. "No, ma'am, no, that's not exactly right. Like you're suggesting, we started off following the hoofbeats, and we did it with a healthy degree of skepticism. But what we found, as we proceeded, is we found zebra shit, and that's why we're thinking zebras."

  Suddenly; I recognized what I was watching. Lauren had managed to get these two cops to take on the role of having to convince a prosecutor about the quality of their evidence, the FBI types had done it a thousand times with federal prosecutors. Lauren had done it a thousand times with various local cops.

  The mutual suspicion left everything slightly constipated.

  Lauren said. "I assume vouVe taken your suppositions back to your old employer, a series of homicides that cross state lines certainly falls under the jurisdiction of the FBI. What do they say?"

  Simes said. "We have discussed it informally with the Bureau. One of my old colleagues has expressed professional curiosity, he's asked us to develop this some more and get back to him. So that's what we're attempting to do. Proof in these cases is almost always elusive."

  "Is there a specific reason why the FBI is reluctant?"

  Simes cleared her throat. "Cases like these are the toughest serial crimes to recognize, and they are even harder to solve. Ms. Crowder. Identifying a link between

  two or more murders is usually accomplished through either physical evidence or eyewitness identification. In the absence of those things, we depend on pinpointing similarities in circumstances, similarities in victims, or similarity in MO. I'm sure you know all this."

  Lauren countered, "And in these cases, you have none of those things, all you have is the fact that these victims— if indeed they are victims— worked together for a few months, what, fifteen years ago?"

  "That's right. If Special Agent Custer and I are correct, we are looking at a murderer who has maintained a roster of intended victims for fifteen years, he carefully plots the murder of one victim at a time, he carries out those homicides in such a way as to make the deaths seem to fit in the context of the victim's life, he varies his method each time so that his hand is unrecognizable from case to case, and devises the murders so that the deaths appear accidental, or incidental, he leaves no calling card and takes no trophies. So far, he is demonstrating more patience than Job, and with the exception of the recent murder of Dr. amy Masters in the tanning bed, from a law-enforcement point of view, he has operated almost invisibly." She paused. "He is going from doctor to doctor, one at a time, he is, in his own ironic way, making rounds."

  Lauren softened her voice. I think she wanted Simes to admit how frail this construction was, she asked. "But despite all the hypothesizing in your scenario, you're confident enough of your appraisal that you've come to Colorado to warn Alan that he is a likely next target?"

  Custer shrugged and said," 'Likely' may be a bit strong, ma'am. Fifty-fifty's more accurate."

  I wondered if Simes was going to correct him, adjust the odds a little. Eighty-twenty?

  Simes caught my eye in the mirror and quickly added. "We are here to warn you. Dr. Gregory, that's true, and I hope you pay heed to how clever your adversary is. But we're also here to enlist your help. I've come to believe that to stop this man, to keep him from killing two more people, the first task is, obviously: to identify him and to find him so that we can bring him to the attention of federal and local law enforcement, and there are only two people who can help us identify possible candidates from the Orange Team on Eight East in the autumn of ‘982. One is you, the other is Dr. Faire."

  My breathing was shallow as I said. "Help you how?"

  I turned on my seat to face her, although I still couldn't feel any confidence that I was seeing the subtle problems with her eye musculature and couldn't discern any oddity in her speech construction. I could see something else. In Simes's face I saw the familiar visage of the visit of the afternoon ghost of fatigue, she looked just as tired as Lauren did.

  Maybe she does have multiple sclerosis.

  Stifling a yawn, Simes said. "We need to identify possible suspects."

  "Who are you thinking?"

  She turned her head and yawned into her fist. I saw frustration creep into her expression and wondered whether it was with me or with the appearance of the afternoon lethargy, she said. "Who would you guess might be responsible? Who might have the motivation and the patience to plan the murders of the entire professional staff of a specific psychiatric inpatient unit? A group of professionals who were working together for only six months?"

  I knew, of course, where she was going. "You're thinking that an ex-patient is doing it."

  Simes shrugged, and I detected a shadow of a smile in her thin face, she had managed to get me to say it, as though that could make it my idea. I reminded myself to be careful, that she was probably very good at what she did.

  I said. "Why would a patient want us all dead? That doesn't make any sense, and anyway, no patient would have had contact with all of the doctors, maybe two of us, maybe three. But no way all the docs. Each patient was treated by one resident or one intern, that's all."

  "There was no group therapy for patients on tha unit? That's hard to believe. Dr. Gregory."

  "Okay, you're right, he could have had another contact in group."

  "Just one other contact? Not co-therapists running the group?"

  She already knew the structure of the team. "Okay, two, there were two group leaders."

  "And— correct me if I'm wrong— if a patient was being seen by a psychology intern, that patient would also be seen by a psychiatric resident for medical backup and medication consultation?"

  I nodded.

  "And in group therapy, a patient could have had contact with the other intern and the other resident? That's possible?"

  "Yes."

  "And the residents sometimes ordered psychological testing of their own patients, a psychology intern would do that psychological testing, right? Face to face with the resident's patient, that's correct as well?"

  The residents certainly did order psych tests. Too many, I thought. I often suspected that the orders were purely hostile, a way of increasing the psychology interns' workload. "Yes, the psychology interns occasionally did psych testing on the psychiatric residents' patients."

  "So there are ways that all the residents and interns could be involved with a single patient."

  "I suppose it's possible. But what about the two supervisors? What about Dr. Masters and Dr. Oliphant?"

  Simes scratched her neck with the fingernails of her left hand and let me answer my own question.

  Lauren had been busy doing math. "Wait,” she said. "What about the other psychology intern? Nobody's talking about him."

  "Her," I said. "Her name was Alix Noel, she died of leukemia a few years after the internship." I snapped my head to face Simes. "You don't suspect... ?"

  "No; we don't. Not at this time."

  I said. "I can't help you with this. Dr. Simes. I can't provide you with patients' names."

  "Why is that?"

  "You know why that is. It was a long time ago, and the identity of the patients who were on the unit then is protected by privilege."

  She sighed through pursed lips to indicate her disappointment. "You and Dr. Faire are potential victims. Likely victims, and you are going to let protocol interfere with helping me identify a killer who may have already killed five of your colleagues."

  "Protocol? Confidentiality isn't protocol, and you're talking a purported killer. I'll grant you this: you and Milt have spun a fascinating web here today. But that doesn't mean the spiders are all black wid
ows." As the words exited my mouth I realized I had no idea what they meant. I tried to cover my inanity by making a follow-up statement that I didn't believe. "There's no evidence of a single killer that ties all of this together. Is there?"

  She shrugged. "Want to bet your life on that?"

  I shrugged.

  "Want to bet Dr. Faire's life on that?"

  No, I don't, thank you.

  I asked. "Why don't you go directly to the hospital? Get the patient records from them?"

  She raised her chin a smidgen and admitted. "The hospital has already refused to let us see them."

  "What about the nursing staff?"

  "They don't have the detailed patient knowledge that the interns and residents had. You know that."

  "There was a social worker on the unit, too, To assist with the families, her name was—"

  "We're looking for Ms. Pope, weVe been unable to locate her, she may be of some help. This could, of course, be a patient's family member we're looking for. You and Sawyer Faire are more likely sources of assistance. You would know the families as well as the patients themselves."

  "I assume you're about to make a Tarasoff argument to me. Did you make one to the records people at tha hospital?"

  "Of course we tried, the director of medical records brought in the university attorney, who quickly pointed out the defects in my argument, as far as we know, no threat has been made to either you or Ms. Faire, therefore, no potential victim has been identified. Tarasoff, therefore, doesn't apply."

  Tarasoff, California was a landmark California supreme court decision that mandated that mental health professionals have a "duty to warn" potential victims of violence after a patient has made an "overt threat" against an "identifiable individual."

  For some reason I felt a need to win a pyrrhic victory. I pointed out. "Probably doesn't meet the 'overt threat' criterion either." Simes didn't respond, so I continued. "But you think that, unlike the administrators at the hospital. I'll ignore the fact that Tarasoff criteria haven't been reached?"

  "To be frank. Dr. Gregory, we think you have a little more motivation to cooperate than they do."

  "Staying alive?"

  Her eyes were half closed when she said. "Mm-hmm. Staying alive. Top-notch motivation, that's what my doctorate is in, by the way. Motivational psychology."

  "Have you a motive in mind for the killer, Dr. Simes?"

  "Sure. You guys ruined his life. So he's ruining yours. Or ending yours, to be more specific. I don't know how you screwed up his life. I don't know why he blames you. But when you're pondering possible motives for an ex-patient to commit these murders, please keep in mind that by definition, this group of possible suspects was not judged to be particularly well adjusted."

  I swiveled on my seat and faced Lauren. I was trying to bind my terror but I was certain she could see it in my eyes. I said. "I'd like to go home. I'll think about all this a little better there."

  "Hey," Milt said, trying to lighten the mood. "What more could we ask? Let's all sleep on it and talk some more tomorrow."

  Simes glared at him. But she looked like she wanted a nap.

  FIVE

  Lauren grazed my thigh with her fingers twice as we descended the steep hill out of Silver Plume, she used a comforting tone as she said. "You know, if I were dreaming this, or if this were a movie. Simes would look like Gwyneth Paltrow and Milt would be a hunk. You know, like Harrison Ford or Michael Douglas, and we wouldn't be scared to death." I glanced over and half smiled. It was the best I could do. For a mile or so we nestled our hands together on top of the gearshift lever and didn't talk, we were insulated in our own spaces as we contemplated the unsettling news we'd received from Custer and Simes. I pulled off the highway at Georgetown and stopped at the Total station, where we used the rest rooms and picked out some junk to eat in the car to try to compensate for the burritos we'd never had a chance to touch at lunch.

  Lauren was asleep before we reached the cutoff to Winter Park, as I guessed she would be. It was a rare day for Lauren when MS didn't necessitate a nap, and an afternoon as stressful as this one had been was sure to aggravate her fatigue. I wondered if Dr. a. J. Simes was asleep next to Milton Custer in the front seat of their rented Ford Taurus.

  I don't recall seeing any more golden leaves as the last of the day's light leaked away in the steep canyons west of Idaho Springs along ‘-70, at Golden I cut off the freeway and took Highway 93 north toward Boulder, the day was over and the night was moonless and dark as I pushed impatiently past the Rocky Flats Nuclear Weapons Facility, ignoring both the speed limit and the plutonium.

  It was only a little more than an hour after leaving Georgetown when I turned onto the dirt lane that led to our Spanish Hills home on the eastern slopes of the Boulder Valley. Nothing had changed, the city sparkled below and stars dotted the sky like glitter, faintly silhouetting the cutting peaks of the Front Range, the turn onto the lane where we lived felt ordinary, the view to the west was as spectacular as ever.

  Our house was still too small and it still needed a coat of paint and a new roof, the windows still needed to be replaced or, at the very least, washed. Emily, our Bouvier, was bounding around in her dog run the way she always did after Lauren and I had been gone for more than an hour, especially when our sojourn took place over the dog's dinner hour.

  As I parked the car. I focused all my attention on these constants, reassuring myself that the pattern of stars in the sky above still formed the same reliable constellations they always did. But a shining bright comet, as brilliant as Hale-Bopp, had entered my night sky; too. It took all my effort not to stare and be blinded by its menace.

  Emily had been alone since breakfast so I played with her and gave her some dinner and fresh ice water while Lauren went downstairs to take a bath. Once back inside the house. I flicked on the CD player and punched up some old Bonnie Raitt, raising the volume high enough so that Freebo's bass shook the loose pane of glass on the north side of the dining room. I turned the little black-and-white TV in the kitchen to mute so I could monitor the larger world for further intrusions into my peace at the same time I was caramelizing some onions for a frittata.

  It appeared that Channel 4 was doing a piece about the autumn leaves, the story lost a lot of its luster in black-and-white.

  Incongruously, I managed to get distracted. Things would feel fine for a few unfettered moments and then I would remember the events of the day and let myself consider the very strong possibility that someone with great cunning and patience wanted to kill me.

  Across the small room, an architect's latest renderings for renovating our funky little house were spread out on the kitchen table. One side of the blueprints was held in place by a brass pepper mill, the other by an unopened jar of peanut butter.

  The plans as drawn were much more extensive than Lauren and I had originally envisioned when we decided to embark on the often postponed remodeling. Our initial idea had been to enlarge the kitchen by adding a room to the north, and to tuck in a new study and master bath below it. But Lauren's recent history with MS reinforced the need to allow her full mobility on one level of the house, which meant, at the very least, adding a master bedroom and bath on the main, upper, floor, the current house was eight hundred square feet up and four hundred down, the architect's vision almost doubled the main level to accommodate the new spaces.

  The whole prospect of turning my house over to a contractor had been overwhelming to me twelve hours earlier. Now, it felt unimaginable. I stepped over to the table, lifted the peanut butter jar and the pepper mill, and watched as the pages rolled together and tumbled to the floor.

  It was a meaningless gesture but I derived some satisfaction from it.

  I opened a bottle of Riesling and poured two glasses, the frittata was browning up nicely in the oven. I went downstairs to find Lauren, she was curled up on the bed, still in her cherry-red bathrobe, her black hair in short damp ropes, her breathing shallow and peaceful. I carefully laid a d
own comforter over her, kissed her wet hair, and turned off the light.

  Her being asleep, it was okay.

  I needed to think this through.

  • • •

  The German wine was crisp and I drank too much, or perhaps ate too little of the frittata, which wasn't anywhere near as good as it had looked while it was cooking. Regardless. I was a little buzzed by the time I carried the portable phone into the living room and punched in the speed dial number for my friend Diane.

  I was busy convincing myself that Diane would understand, she'd been on the internship with me, she knew what it was like back then.

  She knew Sawyer, she knew me. Diane and I had shared an office suite for years.

  I listened to an annoying buzz in my ear for almost ten seconds before it dawned on me that her line was busy.

  Years ago. I did a lot of court testimony as a forensics expert. Custody and abuse issues mostly, but I also evaluated accused criminals for some defense attorneys and for a few of the district attorney's offices in the counties surrounding Boulder. During depositions, or in the first few minutes of my cross-examination. I came to quick judgments about the nature of the adversarial attorneys. Occasionally I blew it, but more often than not I was able to make accurate determinations about the strengths that the opposition was bringing to the table.

  Unconsciously, I had already gone through the same process with Custer and Simes. My appraisal was that Custer was the slipperier of the two. But Simes would, in the end, be a more difficult adversary.

  Custer had spent a long time on the street without many scars from the road, that, in itself, was impressive, he was part good old boy; part small-town minister, and underneath, probably all cop, he deferred easily and naturally to Simes, but I sensed that it was a deference that was voluntary for him and was granted without granting any underlying status.

  Simes was chippy, she knew that Custer was granting her latitude, and that irked her, she didn't want latitude; she wanted status, maybe Lauren was right and Simes did have MS or a similar malady and that's why she'd been forced out of the Bureau on a medical disability, maybe it had left her bitter. I wasn't sure. But I was leaning toward a conclusion that she had an overdetermined intellectual and professional arrogance that had been cemented by some monumental insecurity that she was struggling to tame as a lion tamer controls a big cat. Perhaps she could get her insecurity to sit down and stop growling, but she knew that at any time it might jump up off its perch and bite her head off.