Jonathan Kellerman - The Conspiracy Club

Back in his office, he failed to conjure anything to do with Angela, past or future.

The word caromed around his head: Disorder .

Not mine; the city’s. The world’s.

Mine.

The old bastard was right. What better description of a time when women were stalked and hunted and brought down like prey simply because they were women. Where men with low resting heart rates chose their victims with all the gravitas of grocery shoppers squeezing melons.

Men who craved blood gas and terror-struck eyes, the confiscation of body juice, the ultimate power.

Monster-men who needed all that to get their own blood rushing.

Disorder was the perfect description of a world where Jocelyn’s death enlisted her in the same sorority as Tyrene Mazursky.

He hadn’t been able to conjure Angela, but now Jocelyn’s face flew into his head. Her laughter, even at his lamest jokes, the way she cared for her hopeless patients. Her pixie face when it flushed and compressed in the throes of pleasure.

When it had been really good for her, the flush that rose from her pelvis to her chin.

Then, another kind of face. Also compressed. No pleasure.

Nausea coiled around Jeremy’s gut. He felt the urge to vomit, grabbed his wastebasket, and plunged his face into it. All that came were dry heaves. He sat low, dangling the basket, his head between his hands, sweating, panting.

Monster-men, creating human dross. Then other men- coarse civil servants like Hoker and Doresh- fashioned careers from the waste.

He managed to expunge a plug of mucus from his throat and throp it into the trash. Removing the plastic bag from the basket, he took it to the men’s room, tossed it, returned to his office, locked the door, and thumbed through his address book.

He found the number and punched it.

Detective Doresh answered, “Homicide,” and Jeremy said, “I was wondering why a black woman would have a name like Mazursky.”

“Who’s- Dr. Carrier? What’s going on?”

“It just struck me as odd,” said Jeremy. It struck me as profoundly disordered. “Then I thought: Maybe she used an alias. Because prostitutes do that. I’ve seen it- we treat them here at the hospital, they come in for their STDs- sexually transmitted diseases- and their nonspecific urinary tract infections, malnutrition, dental problems, hepatitis C. One woman will have five different charts. We don’t expect much in the way of reimbursement, but we do try to bill the state because the administrators order us to. But with prostitutes it’s mostly futile, because of how rapidly they switch names. They do it to fool the courts- to conceal evidence of prior arrests. So maybe that’s what she did. Tyrene Mazursky. Maybe there’s more to her than one identity.”

“An alias,” said Doresh, enunciating slowly. “You don’t think we thought of that.”

“I- I’m sure you did. It just occurred to me.”

“Anything else occur to you, Doc?”

“Just that.”

Silence. “Anything else you want to tell me, Doc?”

“No, that’s it.”

“Because I’m listening,” said the detective.

“Sorry if I bothered you,” said Jeremy.

“Tyrene Mazursky,” said Doresh. “It’s funny you should mention her because I just got back her final autopsy report and have it here in front of me. Not pretty, Doc. Another extremely not-pretty. Kind of a Humpty-Dumpty situation.”

The detective let the message sink in. No way to put her back together again… another … the same had happened to Jocelyn.

It was the closest, since the murder, that he’d come to being informed.

He nearly screamed out loud. Took a breath, said, “That’s horrible.”

“Tyrene Mazursky,” said Doresh. “Turns out, she was married to a Polish guy, years ago. Commercial fisherman, one of those guys who goes out on the lakes and seines and hauls in whatever comes up. Also, he was part of those crews that go looking for submerged logs- hundred-year-old logs that fell off the barges. Fancy maple wood, they use ’em for violins. Anyway, this guy was a big drunk. He died in a capsize a few winters ago, left her with nothing. Even before that, she was whoring a little, what with him being gone all the time, drinking away his wages. After he died, she got serious. About her profession, that is.”

Hearing Tyrene Mazursky’s life reduced like that froze Jeremy’s heart and his mouth. His hands began to tremble.

He said, “Poor woman.”

“Sad story,” Doresh agreed. “Guess we both know about that, huh? Have a nice day, Doc.”

Jeremy placed the phone in its cradle. Imagined Tyrene Mazursky working the docks. Waiting for her ship to come in.

Jocelyn. Working the wards, waiting to see Jeremy that night.

Men do it to women. That’s what it is.

He sat there bathed in sweat, sour-mouthed, watching as evening darkened the air shaft outside his window.

Finally, he picked up the phone again and punched an extension.

“Chess,” boomed a familiar voice.

“It’s me, Arthur. Turns out Friday’s fine.”

Late Thursday, Jeremy found a handwritten message in his box, forward-slanted script, black ink on substantial blue rag paper, the liquid elegance of a fountain pen.

Dr. C:

Friday, 9:30 p.m. I’ll call with details. AC

On Friday, serious rain arrived, frigid, unannounced, relentless as a military assault. Overtaxed storm drains backed up, and some regions of the city were assailed by filth. Auto collisions played a drumbeat on tight urban skin. The air smelled like mercurochrome. The docks at the harbor grew slick with accumulated slaps of oily lake water, boats rocked and sank, and unshaven men in knit caps and waders retired to dark bars to drink themselves senseless.

Jeremy’s car fishtailed all the way to the hospital. Angela phoned him at shift’s end, sounded exhausted.

“Rough day?”

“A bit rougher than usual,” she said. “But I’ll try to be sociable. If I fall asleep, you can prop me up.”

“I’m sorry,” Jeremy told her. “Something came up. An evening with Dr. Chess.”

“Dr. Chess? Well, then go, of course. He’s brilliant. What’s the topic?”

Jeremy had hoped for disappointment. “Something erudite. He wasn’t clear about the details.”

“Have fun.”

“I’ll give it a shot.”

“Why don’t you call me when it’s over?”

“It could be late,” said Jeremy. “Dinner doesn’t begin until half past nine.”

“I see… how about Saturday, then? I’m not back on until Sunday morning.”

“Okay,” said Jeremy. “I’ll call you.”

“Great.”

Jeremy saw his patients and filled the rest of the day with futile attempts at writing. Two hours were wasted in the hospital library, running searches of behavioral and medical databases, as he looked for backup articles he knew didn’t exist. Rationalizing his folly by telling himself that scientific research moved at a quirky pace, you could wake up one day and find out everything you’d believed in was wrong. But the facts hadn’t altered in six months: If he wanted to produce a book- even a chapter- he’d have to go it alone.

When he returned to his office it was 8:40 P.M., and his box was stuffed with mail. He sifted through it, found a handwritten note in the middle of the stack: the same black cursive on blue paper.

Dr. C:

It’s best if I drive tonight. A.C.

He phoned Arthur’s office, got no answer, tramped over to the main building and down to the basement, where the path lab was housed, found the entire department locked up, halls dim and silent, but for the mechanical whine of arthritic elevators.