Dangerous Behavior (Revised Edition) Page 11

  Uh-oh. What if...what if someone tries to destroy me some other way...by attacking my character? Digging into my past and...

  Whatever. I have a job to do. Let the chips fall.

  I sat down at my computer. Carefully I wrote out what Victor Janko had just told me, doing my best to put it in Victor’s own words. It took over an hour; I had to get it right.

  Afterwards, I scrolled back through my notes and read everything I'd written about Victor since day one. I reviewed each session, looking for inconsistencies, contradictions, and most importantly, lies.

  Then I started typing again:

  Victor’s explanation of why he confessed his crime to the priest is believable — Father Toussenel could certainly have pressured him into it.

  The shoe-shining incident confirms Victor’s statement that Karp would do anything to keep him from getting out.

  Now the most critical issue — Victor’s claim of innocence. Is it born out by the story he told me?

  The details do match the police report. Victor’s reaction to "The Cat in the Hat" and his reason for having the book the night of the murder make total sense. And the struggle with the knife-wielding man, wearing the "Life is a Beach" sweatshirt, has the ring of truth. Even Victor’s paintings confirm the subconscious repression of the trauma surrounding the murder.

  He couldn’t remember the name of the victim, but that’s understandable; the woman’s name had no significance to him. It makes Victor’s story less than perfect, but that only makes the story more plausible. If he had total recall, it would seem contrived.

  Everything seems to point to one conclusion — Victor’s been entirely truthful. And yet...how can I be certain?

  My role has changed since I began working with Victor. At first I was to predict whether he’d behave dangerously if released. It was to be a psychiatric evaluation. Now the question is guilt or innocence. It’s a mystery — not a Whodunit, a Did He Do It. As my dad said, since when did I become a detective?

  It’s true...I’ve gone from Shrink to Shamus in little over a week.

  But every psychiatrist is a detective, because every patient is a mystery. Each patient has a psyche, which can’t easily be known or understood or explained. Each patient keeps secrets. Each patient presents evidence and yields clues. The psychiatrist must solve that mystery, sorting through the ambiguities, the complexities, the hidden agendas, to have any chance of easing the patient’s pain.

  That night I dreamed of the huge, hulking, long-haired man that Victor had described, with his boxer's nose and war-painted forehead, raising his knife and stabbing his victim, again and again. I saw the little girl in her stroller, crying in terror, as she witnessed the unimaginable: the murder of her own mother by a knife-flailing monster.

  The final image was Agnes Rivera's bloody face, her last words coming out in desperate gasps. She was calling her daughter’s name, "Margarita...Margarita...Margarita..."

  Then she was still.

  CHAPTER 21

  In the morning Ninja looked bad and I got really worried. I Googled Veterinarians, Vanderkill, New York, and found one in nearby Peekskill. Then I called Ben and told him I’d be late for work.

  Ninja sat on the car seat next to me, in a Baggie with holes poked in it. After a half-hour drive, we pulled up in front of the My Pet Veterinary Clinic — Dr. Lee Wang, DVM.

  We entered a tan art deco bungalow, with glass blocks across its front.

  We sat in the waiting room, with an English bulldog, clearly there for a drool problem, and a parrot who only seemed to know how to say rock. Dr. Wang came out and to my surprise he wasn’t Chinese. I figured then he must be Jewish, because the only other Wang I knew was Wolfie Wang, a kosher butcher, who said it was a fairly common German name — from the word wange meaning cheek.

  After twenty minutes the vet saw us. I described Ninja’s symptoms and set her on the steel examining table. Dr. Wang picked her up with latex-gloved hands. He took out a magnifying lens and examined Ninja as if she were a diamond under a jeweler’s loupe. He scrutinized her carapace and head, then turned her over and checked out her plastron, legs, and tail.

  “I was wondering, Doctor,” I said. “Could she possibly be egg-bound.”

  “No. This turtle is a male.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “No.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh, wow.”

  He looked at my surprised face. “What’s his name?” he asked.

  “Ninja.”

  “Oh, that’s lucky. You won’t have to change it.”

  “How can you tell he’s male?”

  He put Ninja down on the table. “A box turtle’s genitals are internal so you have to go by secondary sex characteristics. Mature males have red eyes, and this greenish color here on top of the head. There’s more, but you may not want to know...”

  “I want to know.”

  “Well,” he said, “In turtles the anus is in the tail, and in males it’s a bit further out. Here, look at his anus...”

  “You’re right. That’s more than I want to know.”

  It was a joke, but humor wasn’t Wang’s thang.

  “Has he been exposed to any chemicals? Solvents?” he asked.

  “Not that I know of.”

  “He won’t eat?”

  “No. And she, I mean he’s been breathing like that, with his mouth open.”

  “Any bubbles?”

  “Where?”

  “Coming from his mouth.”

  Dr. Wang looked thoughtful. “It may be a respiratory illness,” he said. “You need to leave him here for a couple days. We’ll put him on a round of antibiotics, see how he responds. I’ll call you day after tomorrow.”

  “You think...he’s gonna be all right.”

  “Turtles are tricky. They’re so susceptible to change in their environment it’s hard to figure out what’s bothering them. We’ll hope for the best.”

  Is he being negative or just cautious? I don’t like this.

  “Oh,“ Wang said, looking at my registration form, “I see you’re an MD. What’s your specialty?”

  “Psychiatry.”

  “You’re lucky.”

  “Why?”

  “Your patients can talk to you. They can tell you what’s wrong with them.”

  I wish.

  I reached over and scratched Ninja on the shell.

  “See ya later, old girl,” I said.

  I don’t care. She’ll always be a lady to me.

  After work I went to Ben’s office for our meeting. When I opened the door, Ben was sitting at his desk, smoking a real cigarette.

  "I thought you quit," I said.

  "I tried."

  "No willpower?"

  "I had plenty of will," Ben replied, "Just not enough power."

  “But it’s against prison rules to smoke.”

  “Don’t rat me out.”

  "I ain’t no snitch,” I said. “What about the nicotine patch? Didn’t it help?"

  "Not really. By the second night I’d developed a three-patch-a-day habit."

  I laughed. “Well, you can always try again.”

  "I intend to," Ben said. "My wife usually yells at me when I slip back. This time...she cried.”

  He frowned, clearly upset with himself. He snuffed out the cigarette in a saucer. "Oh, by the way — Sally told me she may have a line on an apartment for you. She’ll know in a few days."

  "Thanks. Tell her I appreciate it."

  Ben nodded. "So," he said, "Where do you stand with Victor Janko."

  “Well,” I said. “I’ve got a pretty good sense of what’s going on with him. But I need more time.”

  “More time? The hearing’s Friday.”

  “Then I’ve still got tonight and tomorrow.”

  “David...”

  “I want to get this right. And I’d be irresponsible if I didn’t use all the time available. I’m going over to see Victor now.”


  "All right," Ben said with some annoyance. "We’ll meet tomorrow night."

  "Same time, same station?”

  "Fine."

  As I walked out the door Ben called after me.

  “David,” he said. “Objectivity. Remember, you lose your objectivity, your judgment goes right out the window.”

  I wanted to make some crack about his smoking addiction. I thought better of it and walked down the hall.

  Kim was at the nurses’ station. She waved as I approached.

  “Hi.”

  “Hiya.”

  She’s wearing eye-liner.

  She reached under the counter. “I found something you might like. Do you know about the Checker Cab Club of America?”

  “Um...no.”

  “I found this on the Internet and printed it out. It tells all about them. The local clubs are called Cab Stands, they have a theme song, “Mellow Yellow”...and the national meetings are in Kalamazoo, Michigan, which is where Checkers were made.”

  “I’d love to read it.”

  “If you want to join, there’s an application form.”

  “Thanks. That’s very nice of you. Listen, I’m on my way to see Victor Janko, so I can’t talk. But I’ll read this when I get home.”

  “Enjoy.”

  “Thanks.” I put the papers in my shoulder bag and left.

  She’s a doll. What’s my problem?

  "Rivera," Victor said to me excitedly. "That was the lady's name — Miss Rivera."

  I pulled my chair closer to his cot. "What made you remember?"

  "It was funny. This morning when I woke up...well, when I was half asleep and half awake, in my mind I could see this painting I once saw in an art book. It showed these Indians, with long black hair, doing like cooking and stuff. At first I figured I was thinking about the guy who, y'know, attacked me that night. But then I realized that these were Mexican Indians, and the painting was a mural by this famous Mexican artist, Diego Rivera. Then it hit me — the lady had the same exact last name — Rivera. Miss Rivera. Boy, I'll tell ya, your mind sure works funny sometimes, don’t it?”

  "Do you remember her first name?"

  "No, but maybe I will..." he said, "When I wake up tomorrow morning."

  He gave me a smile. He'd never done that before.

  "Victor, I'd like you to tell me again what happened the night of the murder...with all the details. Can you do that?"

  "Sure," he said. He went through it all again. Unlike the night before, he recounted the events calmly, without emotion. There were no discrepancies.

  "Describe the killer again for me," I said.

  "Like I told you," he said. "The guy was huge...he reminded me of an Apache from the movies. He had long black hair...and like war paint."

  "Anything else?"

  "No," he said. "Oh, sorry. I forgot about his nose. It was...like you said, like he mighta been a prizefighter."

  Everything seemed to jibe. I could think of nothing else to ask. As I unlocked the cell door, he spoke to me.

  "Doctor Rothberg," he said. "I want to apologize."

  "For what?"

  "Well, see, when my girlfriend Daisy told me you and her...got together, I got kinda jealous. Actually, I sorta freaked — I didn't want to even talk to you. But...I was wrong. That was really stupid on my part. So...I’m real sorry."

  "No need to apologize."

  "Doctor. I was wondering if you could do me a favor. I only get two phone calls a week, and I've already used 'em up. So Daisy doesn't know anything about...y'know, what I remembered last night. It would make her real happy if she knew I remembered. So...maybe you could tell her. If you've got a little time tomorrow, maybe you could go over to the library where she works?"

  "I can’t, Victor. I've got a really busy schedule. But I will come here and see you."

  "Okay," he said. "Just asking."

  As I descended the iron stairway, I thought about what Victor had told me.

  He gave me no new information about the night of the murder — which is good.

  But — wait a minute, actually he gave me an important new clue, one that might let me check out his story. The clue is one simple word...HUGE.

  As I walked out to the parking lot, my phone rang.

  “Hello?”

  “Don't let Janko out. If he walks, you won't.”

  “Who the hell is this?”

  Click. Silence.

  This was a more specific threat than the previous ones.

  So now someone’s going break my legs, shatter my knee-caps. Terrific.

  CHAPTER 22

  Next morning I stopped at the library. I didn’t want to have any further contact with Daisy, but now I couldn’t avoid it.

  Daisy greeted me with a warm smile. She was wearing a baseball cap, and her unruly blonde hair flowed out from the gap in back.

  "Dr. Rothberg," she said. "It’s so nice to see you again."

  "Hello, Daisy."

  "Is everything okay? I mean with Victor?"

  "Everything’s fine."

  Daisy’s expression turned fearful. "You...you don’t sound very positive."

  "Daisy, I need your help with something.”

  "Name it."

  "You told me the library has newspaper coverage of Victor’s case on microfilm. I’d like to look at it."

  "Yes. Yes," Daisy said eagerly. "The viewer’s back there in the research room. Why don’t you go on in, and I’ll dig up the film."

  She indicated a small chamber to the left of her desk. I nodded and walked towards it.

  "Doctor," she said, stopping me. "Would you mind my asking what this is all about?"

  "I really can’t discuss it."

  "But...this is to help Victor isn’t it?"

  "Look, if you don’t mind, I’m kind of pressed for time."

  She stared at me with a worried expression. Then she turned and went into a large walk-in closet behind her desk.

  I sat down at the large, clunky-looking viewing machine, and thought about what I hoped to find. Each time Victor described his assailant, he’d used the same word — huge. And Daisy had used the same word to describe the victim's boyfriend, whose picture appeared in the New York Post. She’d said he was "Huge...really scary..."

  Daisy was standing behind me, and she reached over my shoulder to flick a toggle switch on top of the machine. The screen glowed, and a bright light bulb went on beneath it.

  "You need any help running this?" she asked.

  "No. No. I used one at college..."

  "Well, in case you've forgotten," Daisy said, "You press this green button here to unlock the threading mechanism. Then you thread the film through the slot over the lens, till it catches..."

  "Right..."

  "Oh, heck. Let me do it for you."

  She took the microfilm out of its box, and deftly threaded it through the machine. I leaned out of the way so she wouldn’t touch me, but I was aware of her scent. It was a floral fragrance, possibly jasmine. Her fingernails were now painted silver.

  "All set," she said. "Oh, this lever here is to scan the film, the small knob is to rotate it, and the big knob is to scroll back and forth."

  "What if I want to print a copy?"

  "Just swipe your credit card through the copying machine on top, and press Print".

  "Thanks a lot. I’ll let you know when I’m done."

  "Okey Dokey," she said, then she was gone.

  I scrolled through the editions of the NY Post for the month of March, until I saw the tabloid’s front page headline: "BABY CARRIAGE KILLER — Fiend Slays Young Mom in Front of Toddler". Then I scrolled forward a few more issues, until, with a rush of excitement, I spotted exactly what I was looking for.

  There, under a caption reading, "Services for Baby Carriage Victim", was a photograph of three mourners on the steps of a church. One of the mourners was a powerfully built man in his late twenties — definitely huge — with the battered nose of a boxer. It was hard to see if he had
long, black hair because he was wearing a do-rag that hid most of his hair. The bandanna was worn unusually low — almost covering his eyebrows — and after a moment I guessed why. Victor had said there were three red stripes on the killer’s forehead, like war paint. But maybe they had nothing to do with Indians on the warpath. The red stripes could have been scratch marks, inflicted by the victim’s fingernails as she fought to save her life. And the do-rag was concealing those scratches. Then I saw what was clearly a Band-aid on his chin. Victor had said he slashed the killer on his chin during their struggle.

  The picture’s caption gave the names of the female mourners (neighbors of the victim), and of the huge man, described as the dead woman’s former boyfriend. His name was Leo Hagopian.

  I printed the page with the picture and stuck it in my bag. Then I left the library, giving Daisy a perfunctory thank you as I passed the Return Desk. She looked upset when I wouldn’t talk to her, but I said I was in a hurry.

  Driving by the high school, I remembered I’d let the whole jogging thing go these past few days. But when did I have time?

  Then my mind jumped to Kim Cavanagh. I hadn’t read the Checker Car Club stuff last night. And I didn’t give any more thought to my ambivalence about her.

  But...when did I have time?

  At the prison gate, I saw the anti-parole demonstrators. Their numbers had grown; now there were about fifty of them, parading in front of the entrance. In addition to the women, there was now a phalanx of men, some with bullhorns. They were down to a single chant, "No Parole Tomorrow. No Parole Tomorrow."

  The satellite uplink trucks were still parked, their antenna dishes broadcasting news of this hot-button issue to the entire universe.

  As I drove through the surly, shouting crowd, my heart was hammering in my chest.

  Maybe I’m wrong about the threatening phone calls. Maybe it’s not someone I know. It could be one of these wild-eyed demonstrators, on some demented mission to save society from violent felons, by perpetrating a violent felony...on me.

  The pressure was ratcheting up. I gripped the steering wheel so tightly it hurt my fingers.