James Siegel - Deceit

“Now it’s my problem.”

“Why?”

“Don’t act stupid. I’ve just told you why.”

“I don’t see it that way. I didn’t shoot anybody . I didn’t cut out Dennis’s tongue. And here’s the wonderful thing-you can ask him. He’s right here. Give him a pencil. Ask him who attacked him in that bathroom. It’s the same person who killed Mr. Patjy. And yeah, I’m 99 percent sure it’s the same person who shot my intern in Littleton. He’s been following us.”

“Thanks for telling me. Maybe you forgot that withholding information in a homicide is a crime. Anyway, we still have a little problem.”

“What’s that?”

“ What’s that ? Your friend here-no offense-is a fucking mental case . Which means whatever he says means 100 percent shit . He goes in and out-your words, not mine. Swats bugs that aren’t there. Which makes him just a little, only a tiny bit, less reliable than you are.”

That seemed to jar the other man out of his reverie. He trained both eyes on me.

“Aren’t you in the wrong ward, doctor?” I asked him.

He smiled. “Was my Freudian slip showing?”

“Kind of.”

I turned to the detective.

“You know, if you wanted to have me psychoanalyzed, you should’ve asked.”

“Really? What if I wanted to put my fist down your throat? Should I ask you that too?”

“Okay,” the doctor said, looking slightly alarmed. “We’re just talking here.”

“You’re just talking, doctor,” Wolfe said. “I’ve got a dead body and a vet who can’t speak anymore. You’re not a vet, are you, Tom?”

“Not unless ROTC counts.”

“Didn’t think so. I fucking hate it when I have to take in a vet.”

“Are you taking me in?”

“I don’t know. Should I?”

“I wouldn’t recommend it. I didn’t do anything.”

“Right. But you speak with forked tongue . Maybe you’re just off your rocker. Is he off his rocker, doctor?”

“I’m not familiar with that diagnostic term,” the doctor said.

“Okay, use another term. Is he sociopathic, schizoid, delusional, paranoid? Doctor, doctor, give me the news .”

“I’ve listened to him for less than five minutes-I wouldn’t know. Sorry for talking about you as if you aren’t in the room, Mr. Valle.”

“For crying out loud-how long does a diagnosis take , doctor? Haven’t you ever watched an expert psych on the stand? Two minutes with the defendant and they just know he wasn’t responsible for his actions.”

“I’m afraid expert testimony isn’t my forte.”

“You’ve got to have a forte, doctor. You don’t go anywhere without a forte these days. Take mine, for instance.”

“Which is?” the doctor asked.

“Closing cases. It’s the marine in me. Don’t leave anybody on the ground. Nobody. Not ever. I’ve got one on the ground and one in a hospital. And I’ve got this world famous bullshit artist over here telling me he didn’t do anything.”

“You want my opinion?” the doctor said.

“Sure.”

“He didn’t do anything.”

“What happened to ‘I’ve listened to him for less than five minutes’?”

“Call it a first impression.”

It was decidedly odd being talked about as if I weren’t there. I was back in the New York City courtroom-my lawyer against theirs, debating my fate as I sat there and mostly kept my mouth shut.

“ He was in that store, doctor . I’ll bet you one hundred dollars his prints are all over the Doritos,” Detective Wolfe said. “Otherwise he would’ve gone in and told the Indian to call an ambulance after he found Mr. Flaherty with his tongue cut out. But he didn’t go in. So either he was in that store first and saw the dead Indian, or he was in the store first and he killed the Indian.”

“And then cut out Mr. Flaherty’s tongue? The man he was escorting back to a hospital for treatment?” the psychiatrist asked. “Forgive me, but I think both events are twinned. He did both or he did neither.”

“Okay, fine, he did both.”

Major DeCola walked in and said that he needed to examine Dennis and would we please clear the room.

Now.

Court recessed.

I’ve forgotten to mention something.

I told you right at the start. I’m a little shaky on the time line-on specificity. What happened when. When what became known or just suspected.

I called that laboratory-Dearborne Labs. In Flint, Michigan.

Remember?

That letter from Dearborne Labs in Wren’s cabin. To Mr. Wren: Preliminary results of your specimens have confirmed your concerns. Please see attached lab workup.

But the attached workup wasn’t attached.

So I called them.

I wanted to know if Wren’s medical problem had anything to do with him fleeing town.

“Hello,” said a young-sounding woman’s voice.

“Hello,” I said. “Hello, this is John Wren. I sent you some specimens a while ago and I never got the results back. Naturally I’m concerned about my health and would like to get an answer one way or another.”

“Your health?”

“Yes. You tested some specimens and I’m waiting for the results.”

“Right. You mentioned your health ?”

“That’s right.”

Silence.

“We test soil specimens here, Mr. Wren.”

“Soil specimens.” I echoed stupidly. “Right. That’s why I’m concerned. Because I haven’t been feeling good and I thought there might be something in the soil.”

She asked my name again; she told me to hold. Then she came back on the phone and told me the results had been sent to me more than three years ago. Why was I calling now?

“I forgot,” I said.

As it turned out, there was something in the soil.

“You were right,” she said.

“Okay. Great. Remind me what I was right about.”

“It’s hot.”

“ Hot ? What do you mean?”

“You might want to get yourself a Geiger counter, Mr. Wren. The soil you sent us-it’s radioactive . Can I ask where you got it from?”

She could ask, but I didn’t have to answer.

I hung up.

I was still concerned about Wren’s health .

Back in Wren’s cabin, when he’d called me from Fishbein.

When I attempted to take the edge off and chat about fishing rods.

I told you. I’d done a story on a professional fishing contest up in Vermont. I’d sat around with men whose arms resembled twisted cord, who liked kicking back at night sucking on filterless Camels and swapping fish stories.

I fit right in.

I took notes for the article. I picked things up.

That’s what journalists do. We learn a little about everything, just enough to be wrong.

The men talked about their rods as if they were old girlfriends. Debating the merits of one over another with a nostalgic and loving eye.

I asked Wren about the rods leaning up against his wall. What kind they were.

He’d hesitated and said: trout rods.

There are all kinds of fishing rods.

Freshwater and saltwater, fiberglass and graphite, casting and fly.

There are twelve-foot rods, four-foot rods, and every size in between.

There aren’t any trout rods. Or flounder, tuna, or swordfish rods, either. That’s not how fishing rods are categorized-by the fish. Anyone who took fishing seriously, who’d retired to a deserted fishing camp to spend his days pulling lake trout of the water, would’ve known that.

One other thing.

Everyone has cleared out. I used to see them in the parking lot when I peered out the windows. Salesmen, RV-ers, families caught between point A and point B, even the semipermanent residents like myself who took their motel rooms by the week.