There was a slight hesitation over the phone line, then an equally slight laugh.
“If I were to say, Yes there’s a chance, how would you respond, Doctor?”
Jeremy could feel his entire body quivering. His fear was profound. It was almost as if he could feel the presence of his murderer in the room with him. The darkness in the man’s voice overcame all the mid-morning sunlight streaming through the windows, the benign blue sky above. Talking to this man intent on killing him was a little like descending into a shadow that enveloped him.
Do not let terror creep into your voice.
Provoke him. Maybe he will slip.
“Well,” he said cautiously, as if he’d had time to think about his reply, “I suppose then we could have a reasonable conversation about what you would want me to do. Charities we could consider for donations. Actions I could take to try to balance this wrong you imagine I’ve done to you.”
Jeremy paused, then added, “Of course, this conversation could only be defined as reasonable if you aren’t some fantasy-obsessed near psychotic and all your talk and threats aren’t merely a product of your overwrought imagination. If that’s the case, I can easily prescribe some medications that will help you, and certainly recommend a good therapist you can see to work through these issues.”
He said all this in a clipped, not amused doctor voice.
Let’s see how you react to that, he thought.
Another pause. A short laugh. A bemused question:
“Do you think I’m psychotic, Doctor?”
“You might be. Probably on an edge-even if you do manage to conceal it in your voice. I’d like to be able to help you.”
He won’t expect that tack, Jeremy believed.
“You know, Doctor, you sound a little like those white-collar criminals you see on the news, who stand all contrite before a judge, all eager to serve up soup to homeless folks in a shelter instead of going to prison for the millions they stole and the lives they wrecked.”
Jeremy licked his lips. He wondered why they were so dry.
“I’m not them,” he replied.
Weak. Weak. Weak. He berated himself inwardly.
“Really? It’s an interesting question, Doctor. Tell me this: What is the right punishment for someone who ruined another person’s life? What does one do with the person who stole every hope and dream, every ambition and every opportunity? What’s the proper penalty?”
“There are degrees of guilt. Even the law recognizes that.”
Impotent. Mealy-mouthed. Crippled.
“But we are not in a court, are we, Doctor?”
Jeremy suddenly thought he saw an opportunity.
“Did I put you in prison with an assessment? Did I testify against you in a trial? Do you think I misdiagnosed you?”
He regretted his bluntness. Ordinarily he would try to elicit answers more subtly. But the caller made that difficult.
“No. That would be too simple. And anyway, even a psychotic would probably recognize that you were merely doing your job.”
“No they wouldn’t,” Jeremy responded. He was thinking hard, trying to add each word the caller made into a picture. It wasn’t in court. What else might it be? He saw an answer: Teaching.
But before he could act on this idea, the caller responded with another laugh. “Well then, Doctor, I guess we have the answer to your inquiries about whether I’m a psychotic.”
Outmaneuvered. Come on, think!
Again the caller paused. “It’s interesting talking with you, Doctor. Curious, isn’t it? Relationships: father and son, mother and child, lovers, coworkers, old friends. New friends. Each connection has its own special qualities. But here, we’re in very significant territory, aren’t we? The relationship between a killer and his victim. Puts weight on every word.”
He sounds like me, Jeremy thought.
Then abruptly: Follow that.
“Your other victims-if there really are any; I can’t be sure, you know-did you create a connection with each?”
“Astute, Doctor. You challenge me to prove that I’ve killed before. That might help you figure out who I am. No such luck. Sorry. But this is what I would say: I think in any killing there are at least two levels of conjunction. There’s the level that exists that caused the need for killing. Then there is the moment of death. I would think those were arenas that you probed in your career.”
Jeremy found himself nodding.
“Have you spoken to your other victims before you killed them?”
“Some yes. Some no.”
Okay. That’s something, Jeremy thought. In some situations Mister Who’s at Fault needs direct confrontation. In others, who knows? He kept probing.
“Which situation gave you more satisfaction?”
A snort. “They were equally satisfying. Just in different ways. You would know that, Doctor.”
“Do you kill us all in the same way?”
“Good question, Doctor. Police, prosecutors, professors of criminal justice, they all like patterns. They like seeing obvious connections, being able to add details together. They favor crimes that are a little like those paint-by-numbers kits that you might give a child. Fill in blue in number 10. Red in 13. Yellow and green in 2 and 12. And suddenly what you’re painting becomes clear. I’d think you’d have figured that I’m smarter than that.”
Smarter than most of the killers I’ve met. What does that tell me?
A hesitation, then the caller added, “Keep trying, Doctor. I like a challenge. One has to think clearly if one intends to be both oblique and specific at the same time.”
Jeremy imagined a grin on the caller’s face.
“So everyone has died in a different way?”
“Yes.”
He realized that he’d gripped the phone so tightly his fingers were white against the black plastic surface. He guessed the conversation was like steering an out-of-control car down an icy hill. He was careening, sliding, trying to will the tires to regain purchase on the slick road, at the same time that hundreds, perhaps thousands of small inputs were being processed by his brain. Reason battled panic within him.
“Were all of us equally at fault?”
The caller had clearly anticipated this, because he answered without hesitation, “Yes.”
But then, after a pause, he added, his voice slipping into an almost conversational, friendly tone, “Let me ask you a question, Doctor: Suppose you agree to help rob a convenience or a liquor store with your two buddies. Gonna be an easy job. You know, wave around a handgun, collect everything from the register, and get away scot-free. No big deal. Happens every night somewhere in America. You’re sitting outside, behind the wheel, engine running, picturing what you’re going to do with your share of the cash, when you hear gunshots, and your two buddies come racing out. They tell you that they panicked and blew the store owner away. Your nice little easygoing robbery just became felony murder. You drive fast, because that’s your job, but not fast enough, because you look up and see cops behind you…”
Again a small laugh. “Now, Doctor, are you as guilty as your two buddies?”
Jeremy could feel his throat go dry. But he worked hard to process what he heard.
“No,” he said.
“Are you sure? In most states, the law makes no distinction between you in the car and your friend pulling the trigger.”
“Yes,” Jeremy said. “But…”
He stopped. He could see the point. It stifled him.
He felt frozen, as if all his knowledge and understanding and years of experience were just beyond his reach.
He felt old. He looked over at his weapons. Who am I kidding?