Dangerous Behavior (Revised Edition) Page 5

  "But the evidence against Victor was overwhelming."

  "Maybe he was set up...framed," Daisy said. "I don't know. But I do know they sure as heck didn't investigate any other suspect. And there was no trial. Victor never got his day in court."

  "But why do you think Victor never responded to the police when they questioned him?"

  "Because he was confused," Daisy answered with assuredness. "And afraid...because he couldn't remember anything."

  I decided to push her a little more, see how she'd react.

  "Okay. But the fact that he didn't remember anything doesn't mean he’s innocent," I said. "What if he was blocking it out because it was too disturbing to remember? And there's another possibility. Maybe Victor did know he killed the woman, but pretended to have amnesia because he had no other defense. Maybe he's still pretending."

  Daisy became very agitated. "Please don't say that. You have no right to say that. You don't even know Victor."

  She stopped and fought to regain self-control. She blew out a whooshing breath. "I'm sorry, Doctor.“

  "That's all right," I said. "I understand how you feel."

  Daisy sniffled, then managed a smile. "Doctor," she said, "Do you mind if I ask you something?

  "What is it?"

  "What do you think Victor's chances are for parole?"

  "I don't know."

  "But you do have a say in the matter, right?"

  "Somewhat."

  Daisy looked across the table, gazing into my eyes. "Doctor," she said, "please, please help Victor get his parole. He's a good man. And I truly love him."

  I looked away, signaled the waitress for the check, and told Daisy I had to get going.

  As I was paying the cashier, I saw Father Emile Toussenel having coffee at the counter. He was reading a book with a yellow and black cover — "Gin Rummy for Dummies." The priest looked up and saw us. He smiled, winked, and then turned his attention back to the Good Book.

  Suddenly I felt Daisy's hand on mine. "Thanks for the coffee," she whispered. Her fingers felt very warm and soft. I looked down and noticed she was wearing blue nail polish.

  CHAPTER 9

  The next morning on the way to work, I stopped off at Big Bob's Sporting Goods. The night before I’d come across a JAMA article on migraine. According to an Australian study, subjects who engaged in a program of regular aerobic exercise reduced the frequency, duration, and intensity of their headaches. Those who chose jogging had the best success rates.

  I'd read the piece while sitting at the Formica table in my motel room. I became aware of a slight belly-lap over my belt. When I leaned to either side, I could feel incipient love-handles. All too soon they'd be fusing with my abdominal fat to form the dreaded spare tire.

  I’ve never thought of myself as handsome, but enough women have said I was cute (why is cute fem-speak for good looking?) that I must at least be in the ballpark. What I’ve got going for me is the curly red hair, dark brown eyes, a warm smile, and the fact that I'm over six feet tall. As for my nose; some might call it beaky. I prefer aquiline.

  Cute or not, at age thirty-one I could feel myself starting a downhill slide. I had to take steps.

  I decided to get analytical. Okay, I’m maybe ten pounds overweight. Do the math: Running 1 mile burns 100 calories. Running 3.5 miles a day, 5 times a week (a modest goal) burns 1750 calories a week, or 7000 calories a month. Since 3500 calories = 1 lb. of fat, I'll burn off 2 lbs. of fat per month. In 5 months I’ll be a lean, mean machine. No diet alterations. No giving up McDonald’s. Why didn’t I think this before? Plus — the aerobic exercise might help my migraines. It’s a done deal. Tomorrow I buy running shoes.

  In the shoe department, the haggard, anorexic looking salesman, obviously a marathon man, recommended Reeboks.

  “They have a lively road feel,” he said. “And they’ve got moving air cushioning.”

  I gave him the shrink nod.

  “It reacts to your individual stride pattern. Let’s get you into ‘em.”

  He laced them up squatting on the little stool at my feet. I wonder if he feels subservient? And why do shoe salesmen always tug the laces tighter than I do?

  “Can I take a test run?”

  “You can walk around the store.”

  I did a couple laps. I loved the firm grip of the cleated soles, the cushy feel of the padding, the pale orange and black colored insets.

  “Wrap ‘em up.”

  Driving to the prison, I thought about Victor Janko.

  Judging his potential for dangerous behavior is complicated by one question — is he in fact the Baby Carriage Killer? Victor says he doesn’t know, he has no memory of the murder. Stevie Karp says Victor admitted he did it, plus there’s possible corroboration from the priest. And Daisy maintains he’s innocent.

  Then I asked myself an ironic question: Where does the truth lie?

  I was alone in the cell with Victor.

  He sat on his cot, scraping the dried paint off his palette with his palette knife. The blade's shiny surface gleamed as it caught the light. Last night's nightmare of Victor attacking me flashed in my mind.

  Ignoring the fear, I spoke in a soothing voice.

  "Victor. I know you're worried about saying the wrong thing. But actually, talking to me can only work in your favor."

  He showed no sign of hearing me.

  "Let me tell you how things stand with your parole."

  This grabbed his attention.

  "Here’s the deal,” I said. “The way they usually decide on parole is — they reduce you to a bunch of statistics, and feed you into a computer. If that happens, you lose. But I’ve arranged to do it another way — person-to-person, just you and me. Now, I can't promise this’ll give you a better shot at parole. But I guarantee if you're not totally honest me, there's no way you're getting out."

  I looked directly at Victor. "You do want to get out of here, don't you?"

  Victor's eyes darted. “You’re not kiddin’.”

  "Then let's get to work. Last time you told me you had no memory of killing that woman. Was that the truth?"

  "Yes."

  "Remember what I said about being honest."

  "Yes. I know."

  "After our first meeting," I said, "I talked to Stevie Karp. He told me you were lying. He said you told him all about the murder."

  "Stevie said that?"

  "Yes."

  "It's not true."

  I watched him closely. "You're saying Stevie was lying?"

  Victor hesitated, then nodded.

  "Why would he do that?" I asked.

  Victor didn't answer. He was starting to play defense again.

  "Come on, Victor. Talk to me."

  Victor got up and paced back and forth. "You think just because you say talk to me I'll be able to do it? It's not that easy."

  This time I refused to respond. Victor stopped and looked at me anxiously. "Look," he said, "I know if you decide I'm...not, y’know, right, you're not gonna let me out of here. And I'm afraid if I tell you why Stevie lied, that's just what you're gonna think."

  "You'd better tell me anyway."

  Another pause. Victor started making his odd, whistling sounds again.

  "Come on, Victor."

  He sat back down on the cot and put his hands over his face. With his palms covering his mouth, his breathing had a stifled sound.

  "Okay. Okay," Victor finally said. "Stevie told you I remembered the murder ‘cause he wants to keep me in here. He figures if you think I lied to you, you won't trust me. And then you won't let me get paroled. He...he'd do anything to keep me from getting out."

  "Why is that?"

  "Because he hates me. He's had it in for me for years."

  "He wants to keep you in here because he hates you?"

  "Yes," Victor said. "And because he enjoys hating me. If I leave, he...won't have the pleasure of hating me anymore."

  I looked at him, puzzled.

  "Y'see? Y'see?" Victor we
nt on. "You think I'm whatdyacallit?...paranoid. Like I think people are against me."

  "What about Father Toussenel?" I said sharply.

  "Huh?"

  "Your priest. Is he against you, too?"

  Victor looked confused. "No," he whispered.

  I had to be careful here. I couldn't suggest Father Toussenel had violated the sanctity of confession.

  "I'm puzzled about something," I said. "See, I also talked to Father Toussenel. And I got the impression —— he didn't actually say this, of course...but I got the impression you confessed to him, about the murder."

  Victor looked panicky.

  "Did you confess to him?"

  "Pardon me?"

  "Did you confess to your priest? Did you admit you killed that woman?"

  Victor looked down at the floor. There was a long pause. Finally he spoke without looking up. "I...talked about it."

  "During confession?"

  "Okay. Yes."

  "What did you tell your priest?"

  "I told him...I was guilty."

  "Guilty of what?"

  He answered so softly I could hardly hear him. "Murder."

  “What?”

  “Murder.”

  "Then you lied to me."

  "No. No. No. I didn't lie to you," Victor said, staring at the floor. Then he looked up and spoke in a shame filled voice. "I...I lied to Father Emile."

  "You lied in confession?"

  "I know I shouldn't have. I know it's a sin. But..." He broke off. "Are you Catholic?"

  "No."

  "Then you probably won't understand this," Victor said. "But see, priests...some priests, they work on you all the time. It's like brainwashing. And Father Emile, he's like that. He's been at me for years, telling me over and over how I had to confess...how Jesus Christ would absolve me from my sin, but only if I did penance. And finally, I dunno, maybe he just wore me down. I started thinking even if I don't remember the murder, I guess I did it anyway, so I better confess or else I'll be damned forever. So I did, God help me. I confessed to killing the lady. I confessed to...doing...something I don't remember doing."

  Victor stopped and searched my face for a reaction. "Do you understand?" Victor said. "It's the truth. You believe me, don't you?'

  Tough call. His words had an undeniable sense of veracity, suggesting two possibilities; either he was being honest, or else he had a psychopathological ability to concoct stories that rang true in every detail, yet were complete fabrications...like his paintings.

  I’d gotten Victor to talk freely, so I pushed him further, saying it would help if he filled me in about his early life.

  Victor said he was an only child who grew up in Washington Heights. His father deserted the family when he was born, and he was raised by his mother. He told me his childhood, was "Okay, I guess," and that he got along well till he got to high school, where he became interested in painting. The other kids started tormenting him about being "an art-class fart-ass" and a faggot — “which I’m definitely not”. He kept getting beaten up, and his mom had to make him sandwiches because his classmates kept stealing his lunch money. Finally, after his junior year, he dropped out. His mother approved, saying she loved having him home and he could paint all he wanted in his room. He took part-time jobs, and when he could afford it, he rode the subway downtown to the Art Students' League for classes in painting, life drawing, and art history.

  I asked him how he felt about his mother, and he answered like a child boasting.

  "My Mom?" he said. "Oh, she was the best mom you could ever have. She really loved me. And she believed in me. You know why she named me Victor? Because victor means winner. I bet you never thought of that. Most people don’t."

  "Does your mother come to visit you?"

  Victor’s lips trembled. "My mom is dead. She passed away about a year before all this stuff happened. Heart trouble."

  "I'm sorry."

  "I just wish..." he said wistfully, "I just wish she coulda seen my painting in the Newsweek magazine."

  "I'm curious about your paintings," I said. "How come they're always beach scenes? Tropical beach scenes?"

  "No particular reason."

  "Have you ever been to a beach like that?"

  "No."

  "Then why do you keep painting them?"

  Victor shook his head back and forth as though I'd asked an unanswerable question. "Because..." he said, "A beach is life."

  "A beach is life?"

  "Yes."

  "How do you mean that?"

  No reply.

  “I will not take no answer for an answer,” I said.

  "Look," Victor said, agitated. "The beach is just a subject matter — okay? Why did Cezanne paint apples?” He pronounced it Cee-zane. “Why did Rembrandt paint...people? It was a subject matter. That's all. It didn't have any other meaning. Why does everything I do have to have another meaning?"

  "I didn't say it did."

  "You didn't have to say it," Victor said loudly. He was about to lose control. "I know what you're trying to do... You're trying to push me. You're trying to see if I'm cra...”

  He didn’t want to say the C word.

  "Look," he went on, "My lawyer told me he could get me off — not guilty by reasons of insanity. But I told him no, because there's nothing wrong with me in that department. Nothing."

  Suddenly Victor turned dead calm, as if by his own command. He sat head down, still and silent.

  "Victor,” I said, “I understand what you're going through. There's so much at stake you're bound to feel pressure. If I were in your position I'm sure I'd feel the same."

  My words had a soothing effect. His face showed relief.

  "Doctor," Victor said, "I'd like to tell you something...”

  We heard the sound of keys jingling. Stevie Karp entered the cell, carrying a food tray. He kicked the cell door shut with his foot and it clanged against the steel doorframe. "Suppertime," he bellowed.

  "Stevie," I said, "We're not finished yet."

  "Sorry," he said, setting the tray on a chair. "He has to be fed at six.”

  "Okay. But leave us alone, huh?"

  Stevie leaned against the wall. "Rules," he said, “Guard has to be present. He’s got pork chops tonight, gotta use a knife to cut his meat."

  "Goddamn it,” I shouted, ”You have no right to..."

  Chill, David.

  "All right.” I said calmly. “Victor, I'll come back tomorrow. Okay?"

  "Okay."

  I smiled and walked out the door. Karp locked it. Instead of leaving, I hung back and watched them.

  Karp was wearing his sunglasses. He always wore them, even indoors. Guess he thought they looked cool.

  Stevie brought the food tray over to Victor and set it on his lap. He crossed to the wall and leaned against it. Victor unwrapped a napkin containing a knife and fork. He began to polish the utensils, inspecting for the slightest bit of dirt or grease. Then he ran his finger across the edge of the knife blade, testing its sharpness. He looked up and glared at the guard. Stevie returned his gaze steadily, while his hand slid up his side and settled on his nightstick. "Eat yer supper."

  Victor began to eat.

  "If you behave yourself, Vicky-boy, I might even let you have dessert."

  Victor swallowed, then began his soft whistling, eyes fixed on the guard. From where I stood, I wasn't sure whether Victor was expressing fear or fury.

  I decided to leave before they noticed me.

  CHAPTER 10

  When the alarm went off the next morning, I woke with a sense of resolve. I'd noticed a high school running track as I drove home the night before; a great place to begin my jogging program. I was pumped.

  I walked to the bathroom. Yeah, I'll drop by on my way to work, do a few laps ‑ nice 'n' easy, enough to get my blood pumping. My endorphins will kick in, I'll start the day with a runner's high.

  I looked out the bathroom window. It was pouring rain. Running was completely out of the ques
tion. Thank you, Lord.

  I got in the shower and thought about my ambivalence. It’s funny — growing up I was a jock. I played soccer in high school and varsity lacrosse in college. But once I hit med school, work took over my life. There was no time for exercise. I devoted my spare moments to shut-eye.

  Maybe I’m just plain scared to start again — and face the fact that I’ve become a world-class wuss.

  I boiled water for coffee on the electric hot plate, which, along with the small refrigerator and puny sink, constituted the Hospitality Inn’s “cooking facilities”.

  From the fridge I took some shredded lettuce I’d saved from a Big Mac, chopped it up, and served it to Ninja.

  “Come ‘n’git it.”

  She emerged from her hide box and made a beeline for the food.

  Then I changed her water and turned on the basking light so she’d know it was daytime.

  After a breakfast of instant espresso and Hostess Twinkies, I put my laptop in my shoulder bag, grabbed an umbrella, and made a dash through the downpour to my car.

  When I entered my newly painted office, I felt like I was in lock-down. The walls were Post Office green. There had once been a window but it was cemented over, leaving only the outline of iron bars; a grim reminder of what the room once was. The desk was steel, battleship gray with one bent leg. For seating there were two rickety bridge chairs. There was no A/C, just an oscillating floor fan which moved the hot air around.

  Ben appeared at my doorway.

  He had good news. He said he was going to start shifting over some of the patients to my exclusive care. “You don’t need me looking over your shoulder any more.”