If a Tree Falls

by Robert I. Katz

  “Really? We don’t need trouble.”

  “Trouble seems to find the guy.”

  “He’s here for another five weeks.” Drew Hastings grinned and rolled his eyes. “How much trouble can he get into in five weeks?”

  If Seamus Sullivan had ever felt a need to explain himself, which he certainly did not, he would have said that he was not a pedophile, and it was almost true. Eight-year-olds did almost nothing for him (except that he did enjoy those silky little panties rubbing against his crotch). An eight-year-old female, in Seamus Sullivan’s opinion, was just a boy with a hole between his legs.

  A ten-year-old? Well, that might be different. By twelve, pretty likely. Fourteen? Almost certainly. Seamus Sullivan had precise, even demanding tastes. There’s no accounting for taste, after all. We like what we like. We want what we want, and it is what it is. Why try to explain it?

  Seamus Sullivan liked and wanted a very specific type of female. An oval face, a pert chin, a button nose, big, dark eyes. Slim. She had to be slim, but not too slim. She had to have breasts, not large breasts, but large enough to form perfect, firm little handfuls. Seamus Sullivan had once read that champagne glasses had been made to perfectly mimic the cup-like breasts of Marie Antoinette, the Queen of France. That’s the shape he wanted. Oh, and puffy nipples. But small ones.

  She needed to have a small, rounded, firm little ass, and a thin waist. A thin waist was also a must. When she walked, he wanted to see a perfect wave-like motion of that firm little ass, gyrating from side to side.

  The hair could be blonde or brunette but it had to be long and straight, though pinned up, with maybe a couple of loose tendrils drifting down around her cheeks, absolutely turned him on. He wanted skin that was tight, unblemished, and oh-so-soft.

  Redheads, for some reason, repelled him. Red hair, in Seamus Sullivan’s opinion was just weird, almost unnatural. Black girls also didn’t turn him on, not that he was prejudiced in any way, but they just didn’t. On the other hand, he didn’t want a pale girl, either. There was something about pale skin that seemed just a little unhealthy. He wanted a girl who liked the sun, or at least looked like she did. Not too much sun, though. A nice golden color was perfect. Asian and Hispanic girls fit the bill perfectly, but then plenty of supposedly white girls did, too.

  Seamus Sullivan hated the modern custom of shaving pubic hair. He wanted a perfect, just barely fur covered little peach, just enough to tickle the tongue. Hair, but not too much hair. Ready to fuck hair, but not yet actually fucked hair. Seamus Sullivan had this conviction that once a girl had sex for the first time, her pubic hair would quickly blossom and grow, indicating womanhood in full bloom.

  He didn’t want full bloom. He wanted a bud that was just beginning to ripen.

  By sixteen, they were too old, too jaded, too…used.

  Not that many of his victims were actually unused. Hookers, even underage ones, never were. That was okay, though, so long as they had that fresh, unspoiled look.

  Actually, now that he thought about it, he was getting a definite hard-on. He glanced at his watch. And why not? It wasn’t as if he had anything better to do. He almost giggled. He emptied his cup of coffee, finished his pastry and put the cutlery in the dishwasher. Then he pulled up the trap door that opened into the basement.

  He heard a quick, tiny sob, quickly suppressed, as he turned on the lights and walked down the stairs, and he smiled. “Daddy’s coming,” he sang out. “Oh, yes, he is…”

  “Politics sucks,” Gary Kurtz said.

  “Yeah?” Kurtz looked at his father and shrugged. Kurtz had spent much of the day answering questions from curious co-workers. It was a relief to kick back, sip a glass of wine, enjoy the sun setting over the fields and the trees and not have to talk for a little while.

  “I agree,” Lenore declared. “Politics sucks.” She winked at Kurtz.

  “What are the chances?” Sharon asked. “One out of three?”

  “So, they tell me,” Gary said moodily. “It’s up to the governor.”

  “Who are the other two?”

  “No idea.”

  Kurtz smiled. “One of them is Jerry Mandell.”

  Gary stared at him. “You’re kidding.”

  “Nope.”

  “Jerry hates politics worse than I do.”

  “Also,” said Kurtz, “he’s senile.”

  Lisa, sitting in an easy chair and knitting a sweater, said, “That might be an advantage.”

  “He’s not senile,” Gary said. “He’s absent minded. He’s always been absent minded.”

  Kurtz shook his head. Absent minded, most certainly. Also, senile. In the OR, Jerry Mandell’s hands moved with metronomic certainty. He had been doing it for so many years that he barely had to think. Outside the OR?

  The nurses had noticed. They didn’t say anything but they looked at Jerry Mandell with grave concern, and they breathed a sigh of relief as each patient rolled safely out of the OR and into the recovery room.

  Kurtz had seen it before. You could call it pre-senile dementia, Alzheimer’s or whatever, but the slow slide to nowhere had begun and it couldn’t last forever. Sooner or later, Jerry Mandell was going to make a fatal mistake. Kurtz felt a burst of frustration. In five weeks, he would be gone. This wasn’t his problem. It shouldn’t have been his problem, except of course, that it was his problem. As a physician, he was responsible primarily for the care of his own patients but also for the probity and integrity of the profession, and of course, he shared the profession’s responsibility for every patient out there, for the patient population writ large.

  What was that line? We are all of us responsible. Dostoevsky: The Brothers Karamazov.

  “You’re wrong,” Kurtz said. He looked his father in the eye. “He is senile. And sooner or later, he’s going to kill somebody.”

  Lenore had initially had some doubts about this trip. The wilds of West Virginia, flyover country, had seemed like a dark and dreary destination for a sophisticated denizen of the big apple like herself, a dedicated reader of Cosmopolitan and Vogue.

  But a good woman stands by her man.

  So far, however, Lenore found herself unexpectedly enjoying the place. For one thing, West Virginia, while it didn’t have much in the way of theater or ballet (not that she was much of a devotee of theater or ballet), did have movies, cable TV, up-to-date internet service and at least a few decent restaurants.

  It also had peace and quiet, scenic beauty and the call of the wild. You could pick apples, take long walks along a rushing river and pull in a two-pound trout whenever you felt the urge. At night, the stars shone far brighter than they ever did in Manhattan. You hardly ever heard cars rushing by or machinery humming in the background. It was quiet. You could hear yourself think.

  When Richard had first proposed this trip, Lenore had told herself that it would give her the time and opportunity to paint. It had. Lenore had talent. She was good, and she knew she was good, but artists, most of them, don’t make a lot of money.

  Of course, a true artist, or so she had often been told, would never allow something so crass as filthy lucre from preventing complete devotion to one’s sacred calling but that, in Lenore’s opinion, was total, total bullshit.

  Lenore was gainfully employed as a graphic artist, by a firm whose clients were almost all advertising firms. Advertising, Lenore supposed, served a function but it wasn’t one that she regarded as having much social value. It was a job, not a calling. Many of her colleagues despised it. Not that the hours were bad or the pay particularly low (okay, the pay was pretty low) but that their god given talents were wasted on such an unworthy endeavor.

  Once, at an office party, one of them, a very young guy named Robbie Pascal, had drunkenly, bitterly said to her, “We’re whores. Nothing but whores.”

  Robbie Pascal was hardly the first person to have voiced this sentiment. Lenore had in fact heard it many times before. She had even, once or twice, said it to herself. Robbie Pascal had quit a week
later and the last she had heard, was starving. Maybe his soul was fulfilled, but Lenore preferred not to starve.

  But now, she was married to a man who made plenty of money. If Lenore wanted to quit and devote herself to her art, Richard would not have minded in the slightest. She did toy with the idea, but had so far resisted it. She was confused. She knew all about the myth of the barely sane genius, whose mind was so filled with ideas and visions and the ineffable music of the celestial spheres that he cut off his own ear.

  An awful lot of her artistic colleagues were frankly full of shit.

  What was that line? Art does not redeem the times, it only passes it.

  Lenore Kurtz did not wish to be a burden and she did not want to spend her time producing crap. So how good was she?

  Maybe it was time to find out.

  Seamus Sullivan was just a bit annoyed with himself. Usually, they lasted longer than this. He realized that he had been thrown off his stride by the discovery of at least one victim whom he had assumed to be safely buried, but still, that was no excuse for rushing things. There was so much pleasure to be gained from each and every one of his unwilling little lovelies and here, he had gone and ruined it, tightening the belt just a bit too much at the wrong time, and by the time he had spent himself, she was too far gone to be revived.

  He sighed. This one had been spunky, too. She had fought back, which always made it sweeter. Oh, well. He absently caressed the cooling cheek, pulled his pants back on and stuffed the limp body into a canvas sack.

  He brought the van around to the front of the house, loaded the body into the hidden rear compartment and headed off down the road.

  Far away, this time. Annoying, but one must make accommodations to one’s changing circumstances. This one, unlike the others, must never come to light.

  Kurtz’ newfound popularity was preferable to his previous isolation but he knew better than to let it go to his head. Sam Bartlett, the ophthalmologist, hadn’t said two words to him before today but suddenly, he wanted to chat.

  “I didn’t remember you at first,” Bartlett said. He peered at Kurtz. “I’m from Martinville.” He nodded. “You played a game against us when I was still in middle school. You beat our ass.”

  Clinton High was a pretty small school and the options for fielding a competitive team were limited, but Martinville was even smaller than Clinton. “We tried,” Kurtz said.

  Kurtz was eating red snapper with rice pilaf and something called calypso sauce. Amazing that a hospital cafeteria could produce a dish like this. It had a grapefruity tang with a hint of coconut, allspice and thyme and was supposed to be an authentic recipe from the islands. Whatever, Kurtz would have been happy to pay four times the price in any restaurant in New York.

  “What do you think of Jerry Mandell?” Bartlett asked.

  Blunt and to the point. Kurtz appreciated that. Everybody else seemed to be dancing around the issue. “He worries me,” Kurtz said.

  Bartlett glumly nodded. “Jerry’s an old-timer. Sometimes, it’s hard to let go.”

  Kurtz just looked at him. Bartlett shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “He hasn’t actually made any mistakes. None of us know what to do about it.”

  Kurtz sighed. “Peer review, or so they tell us, is the responsibility of the entire medical staff.” He shrugged. “I’m out of here in a few weeks. I barely know the guy.”

  Bartlett shook his head. “I don’t know if you know it, but this place isn’t long for the world, in any case.”

  Kurtz blinked. “How so?”

  “The population of Clark County is down nearly forty percent from thirty years ago. Young people, most of them, don’t stick around. You’re a perfect example, and this isn’t the only hospital in the area. We’re not far from Grafton City or Braxton Memorial. Also, the school in Morgantown is interested in expanding their network.” Bartlett shrugged. “It’s the wave of the future. The small places funnel into the big places that have more resources and can offer more specialized care. Little places like this…” Bartlett shook his head. “Clinton’s owned by the county. The local folks want to keep it open but it’s been losing money for years. It’s a political hot potato. The county government has talked about selling it. Supposedly, some real estate development group has been sniffing around. I understand they recently made an offer to buy the place.”

  “What would they do with it?”

  Bartlett shrugged. “Who knows?”

  Chapter 6

  “Kurtz was right,” Bill Harris said. “The bones are from two different victims, both female. They were young, no older than fifteen, and they weren’t under water for very long, less than a year for both of them.”

  “DNA?” Drew Hastings said.

  “The lab was able to get enough DNA to be able to identify them, if we had a match in the database, but we don’t.” Bill Harris shrugged. “Very few young people contribute DNA to the system.” He grinned. “However, we do think we know who one of them is. A woman in Pittsburgh named Allison Lurie was a drug addict who supported her habit by prostitution. She was found dead in a sleazy motel, about two years ago, an apparent overdose. She had two daughters, Faye and Jessica.

  “Jessica is ten years older than her sister, married to a guy named Allen Hurst, who operates a bicycle repair shop. She’s a stay at home mom with three kids. No record.

  “The DNA match to Allison Lurie is pretty close. Our skull almost certainly belongs to Faye. The dental records, if we can get them, will confirm it.”

  Drew Hastings considered this. “Was she ever reported missing?”

  “Yeah, by her sister.”

  Drew Hastings shook his head. “Sad story.”

  Bill Harris nodded. “I’m going up there tomorrow. Talk to Jessica.”

  Drew Hastings took a long swallow from his coffee cup and stolidly chewed on a Danish pastry. “Good luck,” he said.

  Lenore spent the morning painting a placid pool, with a big oak tree overhanging the stream. A boulder thrust up through the middle of the stream, with water on one side foaming green and white and on the other side, nearer the bank, placidly dark.

  She worked until nearly noon, then looked at her watch, left her easel, brushes and paints where they were and walked back to the farmhouse for something to eat. Lisa was sitting on the porch, sipping a cup of tea. Lenore fixed herself a ham sandwich and brought it out to the table.

  “How’s it going, Sugar?” Lisa asked.

  “Not bad,” Lenore said, and took a bite out of her sandwich. “It’s really beautiful around here. We should have come sooner.”

  Lisa shrugged. “I can sort of understand why you didn’t. Richard strikes me as the sort who likes to solve problems. Gary was a problem he couldn’t solve. It bothered him.”

  Lenore agreed. Kurtz had often spoken about his morose, sullen father, who barely spoke and rarely smiled. “You seem to have fixed him,” Lenore said.

  “It took awhile. My husband was Gary’s lawyer. After he died, I was pretty messed up. I guess Gary and I wound up consoling each other.”

  Lisa had a serene quality about her. She always had a small smile on her face. Lisa, Lenore thought, was one of those lucky people for whom happiness came naturally.

  Lisa looked at Lenore and gave her a grin. “Where did you pick up fly-fishing, a big-city girl like you?”

  Lenore grinned back. “It’s one of Richard’s favorite things, so I decided I should give it a try. That very first time, I caught more fish than he did. He was so impressed that he proposed, right then and there, while he was cleaning the fish.”

  Lisa blinked. “Not the most romantic proposal.”

  Lenore snickered. “He thought it was.”

  Lisa smiled. “I guess we have to take ‘em where we find ‘em.” She looked at Lenore over the rim of her tea cup. “If it’s the right guy.”

  “It was romantic, in a weird sort of way. The stars were shining overhead. The water was rippling in the moonlight, and Richard was kneeling a
t my feet.”

  “Cleaning fish,” Lisa said.

  “Hey, he was kneeling at my feet. That’s what counted.” Lenore finished her sandwich and grinned. “Actually, I liked it. I liked it a lot. There was something very primal about the whole experience, a man providing for his woman, doing the dirty work while declaring his love and devotion.” Lenore grinned. “I discovered a long time ago that I’m not into the metrosexual type.”

  “No,” Lisa said. “I can see that you’re not.”

  “Richard,” Lenore declared, “is no pretty boy. That really turns me on.”

  Lisa smiled, and glanced at Lenore’s chest. “I can see that it does.”

  Gary Kurtz shrugged. “Sure, I know about it. They’ve been sniffing around here for a couple of years, buying up land whenever they could. They tried to buy me out,”—Gary frowned—“oh, about a year ago, I’d say.”

  Kurtz and his father were sitting on the porch, later in the day, sipping bourbon and enjoying the sun setting over the tree line.

  “Why didn’t you sell?”

  Gary Kurtz peered into his glass. “Where would I go? What would I do? I’m a farmer.”

  “Buy a condo on the beach in Florida?”

  Gary snorted. “Yeah, and rot.”

  Kurtz shrugged. “Who were they?”

  “A real estate developer. What the hell was their name…? Oh, yeah: Premier Projects Development.”

  “What were they planning to do with it? The land, I mean.”

  “Not sure. There are rumors, though.” Gary finished his bourbon, grabbed the bottle sitting on the low, wooden table and carefully poured his glass one quarter full. “More?” he asked.

  “I’m good,” Kurtz said.

  “People always talk,” Gary Kurtz said. “Maybe it’s BS, but maybe it’s not. You know about the Greenbrier?”

  “I’ve never been there,” Kurtz said. The Greenbrier, in White Sulphur Springs, West Virginia, has for many years been one of America’s finest, most well-known luxury resorts, existing in one form or another since 1778. The Greenbrier has hosted twenty-six American presidents. It once housed a top secret bunker for members of Congress to shelter in the event of a nuclear war, which is now one of its many tourist attractions. It offers boating, fishing, horse-back riding, hiking, skiing, professional level golf, excellent dining and pretty much every other amenity known to mankind. “What about it?”