“Then maybe you can enlighten me, Doctor.”
“Schizophrenia is a chronic recurring psychotic illness that begins in early adulthood, as a rule, and lasts until death. We don’t even know if it’s a single disease or a syndrome. Myself, I prefer to call it SSD, or schizophrenia spectrum disorder, though I’m in the minority on this. Now, the defining symptoms of schizophrenia are thought disorder, a failure of logic, reality distortion, and hallucinations.”
“And paranoia?”
“Often, yes. And a psychosocial disability. So let me ask you something, Detective. You see a good deal of violence in your work, I’m sure.”
“Yes, I do.”
“Is most of it inflicted by schizophrenics?”
“No.”
“My point. Most violent crimes are not committed by persons with schizophrenia, and most persons with schizophrenia don’t commit violent crimes.”
“But there’s a—”
“Let me finish, please. The vast majority of patients with schizophrenia have never been violent. They’re a hundred times more likely to commit suicide than homicide.”
“So are you saying that Andrew Stadler was not a violent man?”
“Detective, I admire your persistence, but the backdoor approach won’t work either. I will not discuss the particulars of his case. But let me tell you what the real correlation is between schizophrenia and violence: schizophrenia increases the likelihood of being the victim of a crime.”
“Exactly. Mr. Stadler was the victim of a terrible crime. Which is why I need to know whether he might have provoked his own death by killing an animal, a family pet.”
“If I knew that, I wouldn’t tell you.”
“I’m asking whether he was capable of such an act.”
“I won’t tell you that either.”
“Are you saying that schizophrenics are never violent?”
After a long pause, he said: “Obviously there are the exceptions.”
“Was Andrew Stadler one of those exceptions, Doctor?”
“Please, Detective. I won’t discuss the particulars of Mr. Stadler’s medical records. I don’t know how much more clear I can be.”
Audrey sighed in exasperation. “Then let me ask you a purely hypothetical question, all right?”
“Purely hypothetical,” Dr. Landis repeated.
“Let’s take a…hypothetical case in which an individual repeatedly breaks into a family’s house in order to write threatening graffiti. Is able to do so, cleverly and without leaving any evidence, despite the security provided by the gated community in which this family lives. And has even slaughtered the family’s pet. What sort of person might do this, would you say?”
“What sort of hypothetical individual?” He attempted a smile, which twisted unpleasantly. “Someone, I would say, who’s extremely intelligent, high-functioning, capable of higher-order thinking and goal-governed behavior, and yet has pervasive impulse-control problems, marked mood swings, and is highly sensitive to rejection. There may be, say, a great fear of abandonment, derived from difficulties in childhood feeling connected to important persons in one’s life. He might have absolutely black-and-white views of others—might tend to idealize people and then suddenly despise them.”
“And then?”
“And then he might be subject to sudden and unpredictable rages, brief psychotic episodes, with suicidal impulses.”
“What might set him off?”
“A situation of great stress. The loss of someone or something important to him.”
“Or the loss of a job?”
“Certainly.”
“Can a schizophrenic exhibit this pattern of behavior you’re describing?”
Dr. Landis paused for a long moment. “Conceivably. It’s not impossible.” Then he gave a creepy sort of smile. “But what does all this have to do with Andrew Stadler?”
47
“Grover Herrick,” Marjorie said over the intercom the next morning.
Grover Herrick was a senior procurement manager at the U.S. General Services Administration, which did purchasing for federal agencies. He was also the point man for an enormous contract Stratton had negotiated for the Department of Homeland Security. DHS now encompassed the Coast Guard, Customs, Immigration and Naturalization Service, and the Transportation Security Administration—thousands of offices, a hundred and eighty thousand employees, and a major infusion of federal cash. The contract was second in value only to the Atlas McKenzie deal, and had been in the works almost as long.
You didn’t keep a GSA procurement manager on hold for long. That was one rule. Another was that anytime Grover Herrick wanted to talk to the CEO, Grover Herrick talked to the CEO. On half a dozen occasions in the past year, Nick fulfilled his duties as Stratton’s chief executive by feigning interest as Grover talked about the sailboat he was going to buy as soon as he retired, and pretending to care about the difference between a ketch and a yawl. If Herrick had wanted to talk about hemorrhoids, Nick would have boned up on that topic too.
This time, though, there were no preliminaries.
“Nick,” the GSA man said, “Gotta tell you, it looks like we’re going with Haworth.”
Nick felt gut-punched. It was all he could do not to double over. “You’re kidding.”
“I think you know by now when I’m kidding.” There was a pause. “Remember when I told you the story about dropping the Thanksgiving turkey in front of all the guests, and how my wife had the presence of mind to say, ‘Never mind, just bring out the other bird’? That I was kidding about.”
“Fucking Haworth?”
“Well, what the hell did you think would happen?” Herrick’s voice was a squawk of indignation. “You were going to have us ink the deal, move the company to Shenzhen, and then what? Have us outfit Homeland Security offices with desks from China?”
“What—?” Nick managed to choke out.
“When were you planning on telling us? I can think of some Senators who’d have a ball with that—but politics aside, it’s completely against GSA procurement guidelines. Can’t happen. Don’t pretend you’ve forgotten about 41 USC 10. You guys oughta have the Buy American Act tattooed on your forehead.”
“Wait a minute—who told you Stratton’s going offshore?”
“What does it matter? Where there’s smoke, there’s fire. We liked Stratton. Great American company. I can see the temptation to cash in, put everything on a fast boat to China. Still think it’s a mistake, though. My personal opinion.”
“What you’re saying doesn’t make any sense. We’re not going anywhere. I don’t care what you’ve heard.”
Herrick ignored him. “What was the game plan—inflate revenues with a hefty GSA prepayment, jack up the purchase price, figure the Heathen Chinese wouldn’t figure out the game? Strategic vision, huh? I guess that’s why you get the big bucks.”
“No, Grover. This is bullshit.”
“I told you before. We really liked you guys. We liked Haworth, too, but the Stratton price points looked better, all in. We just didn’t realize your price points came courtesy of cheap Chinese labor.”
“Listen to me, Grover.” Nick tried to cut him off, to no avail.
“Thing that chafes my ass is, you guys wasted a hell of a lot of my time. Got half a mind to bill you for it.”
“Grover, no.”
“Happy sailing, Nick,” the GSA man said, and he hung up.
Nick cursed loudly. He wanted to fling the phone across the room—across a room—but the Ambience system didn’t really lend itself to boss-man theatrics.
Marjorie came over. “Something going on that I should know about?”
“That’s pretty much my question, Marge,” Nick said, struggling to regain his composure.
He walked across the executive floor to Scott’s area, taking a back way in order to bypass Gloria, Scott’s admin. As he approached, he heard Scott talking on the phone.
“Well, sure,” Scott was saying. “We’ll give i
t a try, Todd man, why not?”
Nick advanced until he was in Scott’s line of sight.
Scott noticed him now, seemed to flinch just a bit, but instantly recovered: widening his eyes and smiling, raising his chin by way of greeting. “Right,” he said, more loudly. “Sounds like a great trip. Gotta go.” He hung up and said to Nick, “Hey, my liege, welcome to the low-rent district.”
“How’s Todd?” Nick said.
“Ah, he’s trying to set up a golf trip to Hilton Head.”
“I didn’t know you golf.”
“I don’t.” He laughed uncomfortably. “Well, badly. But that’s why they love having me around. Makes them look like Tiger Woods.”
“‘They’ being Todd and the other Fairfield boys?”
“Todd and his wife and Eden and another couple. Anyway.”
“I had an interesting talk with MacFarland at Atlas McKenzie.”
“Oh, yeah?” Scott’s expression seemed wary.
“Yeah. Learn something new every day. You know why they decided not to go with us?”
“Gotta be price, what else? Not quality, that’s for sure. But you get what you pay for.”
“MacFarland seems to think we’re on the block. Now, why would he think that?”
Scott spread out his palms.
“Atlas McKenzie uses the same Hong Kong law firm as Fairfield, which is how they heard.”
“That’s crazy.”
“Funny thing is, I heard something sort of similar from the guy at GSA just now.”
“GSA?” Scott said, swallowing.
“The Homeland Security deal? That just fell apart too.”
“Shit.”
“And you know why? They need Made-in-America, and they heard a rumor we’re going to be offshoring our manufacturing to China. Isn’t that the craziest thing?”
Scott, picking up on Nick’s bitter sarcasm, sat up straight in his chair and said solemnly, “If Todd and those guys were planning a move like that, don’t you think they’d at least mention it to me?”
“Yeah, I do, actually. Have they?”
“Obviously not—I would have told you right away.”
“Would you?”
“Of course—Jesus, Nick, I can’t believe people listen to stupid rumors like that. I mean, it’s no different from those idiotic rumors about the deep-fried chicken head in the box of Chicken McNuggets, or the bonsai kittens, or how the moon walk was a fraud—”
“Scott.”
“Look, I’ll make some calls, look into it for you, okay? But I’m sure there’s nothing to it.”
“I hope you’re right,” Nick said. “I really hope you’re right.”
48
Eddie didn’t stand up when Nick came to his office that afternoon. Just gave him a mock salute, as he leaned back in his Symbiosis chair with his feet on his desk. On the silver-mesh fabric wall behind him was a poster with the words “MEDIOCRITY. It Takes a Lot Less Time and Most People Won’t Notice the Difference Until It’s Too Late.” Above the slogan was a photograph of the Leaning Tower of Pisa. It was one of those wiseass spoofs of corporate workplace propaganda, but Nick sometimes wondered how much irony Eddie really meant.
“I get a promotion?” Eddie asked. “I mean, with you coming down here instead of making me come up.”
Nick pulled up a small, wheeled stool. “They call it Management by Walking Around. MBWA.”
“Lot to be said for MBSOYA. Management by Sitting on Your Ass.”
Nick forced a smile, and told him about what MacFarland and Grover Herrick had said, skipping the incidentals.
“Fuck me,” Eddie said. “Gotta be bullshit, right? You talk to Scott McNally about this?”
“He says there’s nothing to it. But he knows more than he’s telling me. I’m sure of it.”
Eddie nodded slowly. “If you’re out, I’m out, right?”
“Who said anything about my being out? I just want you to see what Scott’s up to, that’s all.”
Eddie grinned slowly. “You want an assist, I’ll fire you the puck and cross-check the assholes. I’ll even break the fucking stick over their heads.”
“A little e-mail surveillance should do it, Eddie.”
“I’ll get one of the techs to pull his e-mail records off the server, right? Just get me a few keywords.”
“That sounds like a start.”
“Oh, sure. Phone records, all that stuff. Easy peasy. But boy, you sure do have a knack for stepping in the shit.” Eddie’s skin formed webbing around his eyes as he smiled. “Good thing you got a friend who doesn’t mind cleaning your shoes.”
“You’ll let me know if you find anything.”
“That’s what friends are for.”
Nick didn’t meet his eyes. “And not a word to anyone.”
“Back at ya, buddy.”
Nick hesitated for a moment, then wheeled the stool close to Eddie’s desk. “Eddie, did you tell the cops you went over to my house after we found my dog?”
Eddie peered at him for a while. “They didn’t ask me. I don’t volunteer information. That’s cop interview lesson number one.”
Nick nodded. “They didn’t ask me either. Not yet. But in case it comes up, I want to make sure we have a consistent story, okay? I asked you to come over, and you did. Only natural that I’d give you a call. You’re my security director.”
“Only natural,” Eddie repeated. “Makes sense. But you got to calm down, buddy. You worry too much.”
49
When he returned to the executive floor, Marjorie stopped him and handed him a slip of paper, a concerned look in her face. “I think you need to return this call right away,” she said.
Principal J. Sundquist, she had written in her clear, elegant script, and then the telephone number.
Jerome Sundquist. Twenty-five years ago, he’d been Nick’s high school math teacher. Nick remembered him as a rangy guy—a former tennis pro—who bounced around the classroom and was pretty good at keeping up the Math Is Fun act. To his students, he was Mr. Sundquist, not “Jerome” or “Jerry,” and though he was reasonably laid back, he didn’t pretend to be pals with the kids in their chair desks. Nick half-smiled as he remembered those chair desks, with the little steel basket for books under the seat, and a “tablet arm” supported by a continuous piece of steel tube that ran from the back supports to the crossover legs. They were manufactured, back then as they were now, right in town, at Stratton’s chair plant, a few miles down the road. Nick hadn’t seen the numbers recently, but they listed for about a hundred and fifty, on a unit cost of maybe forty. Basically, it was the same design today.
Jerome Sundquist hadn’t changed that much, either. Now he was the school principal, not a young teacher, and allowed himself a little more sententiousness than he used to, but if you were a high school principal, that was pretty much part of the job description.
“Nick, glad you called,” Jerome Sundquist said, in a tone that was both cordial and distant. “It’s about your son.”
Fenwick Regional High was a big brick-and-glass complex with a long traffic oval and the kind of juniper-and-mulch landscaping you found at shopping centers and office parks—nothing fancy, but somebody had to keep it up. Nick remembered when he came home after his first semester at Michigan State, remembered how small everything seemed. That’s how it should have felt when he visited his old high school, but it didn’t. The place was bigger—lots of add-ons, new structures, new brick facings on the old ones—and somehow plusher than it was in the old days. Plenty of it had to do with how Stratton had grown over the past couple of decades, with a valuation that broke two billion dollars three years ago. Then again, the higher you got, the longer the fall to the bottom. If Stratton collapsed, it would bring a lot of things down with it.
He stepped through the glass double doors and inhaled. As much as the place had changed, it somehow smelled the same. That grapefruit-scented disinfectant they still used: maybe they’d ordered a vat in 1970 and were stil
l working through it. Some sort of faint burnt-pea-soup odor wafting from the cafeteria, as ineradicable as cat piss. It was the kind of thing you only noticed when you were away from it. Like the first day of homeroom after summer vacation, when you realized that the air was heavy with hair-styling products and eggy breakfasts and cinnamon Dentyne and underarm deodorant and farts—the smell of Fenwick’s future.
But the place had changed dramatically. In the old days everyone came to school on the bus; now the kids were either dropped off in vans or SUVs or drove to school themselves. The old Fenwick Regional had no blacks, or maybe one or two a year; now the social leaders of the school seemed to be black kids who looked like rappers and the white kids who tried to. They’d added a sleek new wing that looked like something out of a private school. In the old days there used to be a smoking area, where longhaired kids in Black Sabbath T-shirts hung out and puffed and jeered at the jocks like Nick. Now smoking was outlawed and the Black Sabbath kids had become Goths with nose rings.
Nick hadn’t spent much time in the principal’s office when he was a student, but the oatmeal curtains and carpeting looked new, and the multicultural photographs of tennis champs on the court—the Williams sisters, Sania Mirza, Martina Hingis, Boris Becker—was very Jerome Sundquist.
Sundquist stepped around from his desk and shook Nick’s hand somberly. They sat down together on two camel-colored chairs. Sundquist glanced at a manila file he had left on his desk, but he already knew what was in it.
“Love what you’ve done with the place,” Nick said.
“My office, or the school?”
“Both.”
Sundquist smiled. “You’d be surprised how many two-generation families the school has now, which is a nice thing. And obviously the district has been very lucky in a lot of ways. When the parents prosper, the schools prosper. We’re all hoping the downturn isn’t permanent. I appreciate you’ve got a lot on your shoulders right now.”
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