Joel Goldman - The Dead Man

"Are you sure you want to put yourself on the line like that?" I asked her when she showed me a draft and asked for my comments.

"This is who I am. What else would I write about?"

"Something that doesn't label you as high risk."

She laughed. "Are you serious, Dad? High risk is tattooed all over me. I can't run away from that. Tell you what, I'll write, you edit."

"Works for me," I told Lucy.

She made her way around the room, using different color markers for different topics: black for victims, blue for witnesses, green for evidence, red for the crime scene, though she labeled it THE DEAD MAN in all caps, winking at me over her shoulder as she wrote. Her handwriting was hurried, her shoulder and neck muscles bundled and flexed as she worked.

She didn't look like Wendy. She was taller and her hair was shorter and darker. She was cocky while Wendy was leery. In spite of their differences, I sensed in her the same urgency about life Wendy had shown, as if they knew that they'd closed more doors than they'd opened and that they were running out of doors. There were no words for how much I missed my daughter. There were only memories Lucy was bringing to life, making me realize that this could be the land of second chances for both of us.

Kate rang the doorbell while Lucy was still hanging the new wallpaper. When I introduced them, Lucy leaned into Kate, whispering something in her ear that made them both giggle like schoolgirls, look at me, and laugh again.

"What?" I demanded.

"Oh, nothing," Kate said.

She was holding two bags of carryout from Bo Ling's. She handed one bag to Lucy as they locked arms and headed for the kitchen.

When Simon arrived a few minutes later, he stared at Lucy's handiwork, then looked at me, his mouth open.

"Everything will be illuminated," I said. "After we eat."

I spread out dinner in the kitchen while Simon set up an office in the dining room. The dogs, exhausted from the parade of people, slept under the kitchen table, waking long enough to scavenge for crumbs. When we finished our fortune cookies, I laid everything out for Kate and Simon.

Simon pushed back from the table, his eyebrows raised. "Lucid dreaming sounds like junk science to me."

"Maybe, maybe not," Kate said. "The work I do is all about what's going on beneath the surface. Dreams are part of that so I stay current with the research, which is all over the place. Freud thought dreams were the way we fulfilled our forbidden aggressive and sexual wishes. Later, people thought that dreams were the cognitive echoes of our efforts to work out conflicting emotions. Now some researchers will tell you that dreams are just epiphenomena."

"Translation, please," Simon said.

"Sorry," Kate said. "They think that dreams don't mean anything at all, that dreams are just the mind's attempt to make sense of random neural firings while the body restores itself during sleep."

"So, dreams are noise the brain makes while it's doing its homework?" Lucy asked.

"That's exactly how one researcher at Harvard explains it. But there's other research that suggests that dreams are a training ground where people rehearse survival behaviors. I read a report by one psychologist who said he helped a patient reframe his nightmare by rehearsing alternatives to the most frightening part while he was awake. Eventually, the nightmare went away. That doesn't sound so different from what Anthony Corliss is trying to do."

"Except for one thing," I said. "Instead of helping his subjects reframe their nightmares, he may be helping to turn them into reality."

"Why would he do that?" Lucy asked.

"It's the rule of unintended consequences. It's not what he's trying to do but it's what happens," I said, repeating Maggie Brennan's explanation that lucid dreaming may help people overcome their inhibitions, causing them to do things they would otherwise never do.

"Do we know if anyone else is doing this kind of research?" Kate asked. "Maybe they've had similar experiences."

"I don't know about that, but this has happened before with Corliss," I said, telling them about the girl at Wisconsin who drowned.

"If Milo Harper knew about that, how could he have hired Corliss?" Kate asked.

"Corliss told him all about it and Harper's lawyers talked to the lawyers for Corliss and the university. They say Corliss got hosed."

"Of course that's what they would say," Kate said. "They didn't talk to the lawyer for the girl's family. They made their mind up after hearing only one side of the story. Harper wanted to hire Corliss. His lawyers knew that and they made sure their client got what he wanted."

"You don't know that," I said.

"I know Harper and I know lawyers. That's enough for me," she said.

"I'm a software guy," Simon said. "I can program a computer but I don't believe you can program someone to kill themselves. Besides, you said the mailman was murdered."

"Jack, Simon's right," Kate said, "and assuming you are not a mad dog killer and thief and that Anthony Corliss and Milo Harper aren't crazy, what's going on?"

"Let me take a crack at it," Simon said. "The way I see it, there are a few possibilities. First, Delaney and Blair weren't murdered but Enoch was, making for one crime. Second, Delaney and or Blair were murdered, making for two or three crimes that are potentially connected. Third, all three were murdered, which, given their participation in the dream project, increases the likelihood the murders are connected."

"Which is a nice way of saying that they were committed by the same person. And, if they were, the killer may not be finished," Lucy said.

"Are you talking about a serial killer?" Kate asked.

"It's possible," Lucy said. "By definition, a serial killer has at least three victims and they usually share things in common. These victims were all volunteers in the dream project. And, they died-or were killed-over a short span of time with a shorter time between the second and third murders than the first and second, which is typical of a serial killer on a spree."

"What's the timeline?" Simon asked.

"Blair died on December tenth, Delaney on January ninth, and Enoch died last week on the twenty-third. The interval between Delaney and Blair was thirty days. It was fourteen between Blair and Enoch. If I'm right, another victim will turn up in the next few days."

"So the killer must be someone involved in the dream project," Kate said.

"Whoa. Slow down, CSI," I said. Though I'd raised the same prospect with Maggie Brennan, I didn't want my makeshift team running wild. "We're a long way from profiling a serial killer. They usually commit ritualized murders with a heavy sexual component. The murders look alike from how the victims were killed, to the letters spelled with words cut out of magazines and sent to the local newspaper. Apart from Delaney's, Blair's, and Enoch's participation in the dream project, we don't have any of that here. Plus, a serial killer doesn't account for Wendy's envelope."

"The thing about the letters to the newspaper," Kate said, "that's just an example, right. You don't mean every serial killer does that."

"No," I said. "My point is that serial killers operate in a pattern. They keep body parts as souvenirs. They like to taunt the police, maybe even insert themselves in the investigation because they think they're too clever to be caught. There's no evidence of a sexual component in any of these deaths. None of the bodies was mutilated and there have been no communications from the killer."

"It's not like baking a cake. Just because it doesn't fit the pattern so far, you can't rule it out," Lucy said.

"Agreed," I said. "But that doesn't mean we only focus on single white men in their twenties and thirties who live alone and are sexually dysfunctional."