He liked Dr. Snow’s observations. He’d heard about the Butterfield Institute but he hadn’t been there yet. In his search for the right doctor to help him, the institute had been next on his list. Maybe it was time to go there. He had reason enough with his personal problems. He could make a convincing case that the purpose of his visit was other than to discover just what Young had shown Dr. Snow, and what she really believed about the motivation of the killer. He was desperate to hear someone describe the photographs to him in person. To listen to the soft and hard sounds of the words that would detail the malevolent restraints and the defiled bodies. To actually have someone talk to him about the black-and-blue marks and what they suggested about how painful and humiliating the abuse was that these men had suffered before they had been killed.
Walking back into the kitchen, Paul heated the water once more. The next cup of tea was even weaker than the last. Too much caffeine too early wasn’t a good idea. He hadn’t taken his medication yet. He had another fifteen minutes before he would open the amber pill bottle and spill the poison into his palm. The calm would be welcome, the dullness would not. Every day he teetered on the edge of not taking the pills. Occasionally he didn’t. Those days he was not himself. Or he was more himself than on the other days. His dick could get hard again if he didn’t take the pills. It would swell and rise up and remind him of what it felt like to be in control of his own body. But his mind would rebel. His head would explode. He would want to lie on the pavement on the sidewalk and have women walk all over him with their high heels. He would want to wipe out every other man who got in the way of him and those women. He would be on fire with wanting and hurting. And then he would crash. The depression would overwhelm him. Rob him of any desire to eat or sleep or stand or walk or go to the bathroom or make an effort to dress himself.
It was all too much. It was all enough.
Abandoning the inadequate tea, he opened a cabinet and pulled out the thick New York City phone book. Flipping through the thin pages, he found what he was looking for, and using the bright red marker that he took from his bathrobe pocket, he copied down the address and phone number of the Butterfield Institute.
Fifty-One
Despite the soft, late afternoon sunlight Paul Lessor had not taken off his black wraparound sunglasses.
“I have been to quite a few therapists,” he answered as he crossed his right leg over his left knee. The perfect crease in his pants broke.
I wanted to see his eyes. “Is the light too bright, Paul? Do you want me to lower the blinds?”
“Yes. That would be better.”
I got up and walked to the window. In its reflection I could see that his head did not turn to follow me, but rather he looked over at the door as if checking to see that it was closed. His movements were slightly slower than normal. I recognized the lethargy and guessed that he was on an antipsychotic drug.
We’d get to that.
After returning to my seat, I expected he’d take off his glasses and was disappointed when he didn’t. “I closed the drapes. You can take off your sunglasses,” I suggested.
He made a move to do what I asked but his arm stopped midair and hung there momentarily before he lowered it again. “I need to leave my current therapist,” he said. “Leave him. Sooner than later.”
“Tell me about him and why you don’t want to stay. You don’t have to give me his name if you don’t want to, but I’d appreciate knowing it.”
“Why do we need to talk about him?”
“I’d like to understand why you are looking for someone new before I refer you to someone in the institute. I want to choose the right doctor.”
“You’re going to give me a referral?”
“Yes. This is a consultation.”
“I know that. But I thought it was a consultation with you. So you could be my therapist.”
“I might be, but that’s not how we work here. First we have to do an evaluation. I might not be the right doctor for you.”
He shook his head, and the well-styled sandy hair fell into his eyes. “I really came here to see you. To be with you.”
The sexual undertone was barely there, but I heard it. The way his voice had lowered to another register on the last few words. The sly way his lips formed the words and then ended in a half smile.
“I’m flattered. But may I ask why?”
“I’ve read about you in the paper. I did my homework. I think we belong together.”
He was connecting to me too quickly. We had not yet formed any kind of bond. Paul Lessor had projected a relationship prematurely.
“Are you currently on any medication?”
He hesitated before he said, “No.”
I assumed he was lying. He’d waited too long to answer me. I’d know for sure if I could see his eyes, but the dark lenses prevented me from reading him.
“Have you ever been on medication?”
“Dr. Snow, I have to ask you something. It’s very important.”
I nodded.
“Do you know the reporter who is writing about those murders? The ones where the victims have those red numbers drawn on the bottoms of their feet?”
“Can you tell me why that matters?”
“I’m concerned about the situation.”
“Yes, it’s very serious.”
“Do you know anything about those killings? Has the reporter shown you the photographs? Do you know something that isn’t in the papers? It’s why I picked you, because the reporter interviewed you specifically.”
I hoped that my face remained placid, I didn’t give anything away, but a tiny flicker of fear shot through me. I leaned forward, trying to lock eyes with the man who sat across from me, but only guessing where I was looking.
“Can you tell me why?”
“Because I am very concerned. I told you that.”
Instinct warned me that he was connected in some way to the killings.
“But why are you concerned? Did you know any of those men?”
“No.”
“Why are you concerned?”
“Do you really think it’s a good idea to help that reporter?” he asked, ignoring my question.
“Why wouldn’t it be?”
“You might get hurt. It really could be dangerous for you to get involved.”
“It’s kind of you to be concerned for me, but why do you think that I might get hurt when all I did was talk to a reporter over the phone?”
I studied him while he thought about how to answer. Was he wearing a hairpiece? His sunglasses were too big, too wide. Was it to hide from me? Was he here in disguise?
He rubbed his hands together almost obsessively.
“Maybe we could talk about you and how you are feeling right now,” I said, changing the subject on purpose, stalling, trying to assess the situation and figure out what to do.
“I’m much happier than I’ve been in a while,” he said.
“That’s good. How long have you been happy?”
“For the past two weeks.”
“Can you tell me what it was like before you were happy?”
He didn’t answer. In fact, he seemed to forget where he was as his hand went up to his chest and slipped inside the blazer he was wearing. He frowned. Felt his chest for another minute.
“Maybe I should go,” he said suddenly. “I think I need to go.”
“Why?”
He shook his head back and forth several times. “I just wanted to warn you about getting any more involved with that reporter.”
“I thought you were here to find a new therapist.”
“No.”
“You just came here to warn me?”
He nodded. He was still holding his hand on his chest in a pose reminiscent of Napoléon. “You could get yourself in a lot of trouble, Dr. Snow.”
“How?”
“By trying to interfere. That’s what therapists do. You interfere. But none of you really knows what you’re doing. You just guess. I know that. I’ve been part of your guessing game. I keep trying one of you after another and all you do is suck my strength.”