Jonathan Kellerman - The Conspiracy Club

“I never implied, Doc, I was-”

“Fine, Detective, let’s not quibble. I’ve got a question for you. Did the murders bear any signs of surgical skill? Was there any dissection?”

Doresh didn’t answer.

“Detective-”

“I heard you, Doc. Now, why would you be asking that?”

“An egg,” Jeremy lied. “It breaks in clean pieces. Straight edges, there’s a certain precision to the destruction. Is that what you meant when you used the term ‘Humpty-Dumpty,’ or were you speaking in general terms?”

“Doc, I don’t think I’m going to get into what I meant.” Doresh’s voice had grown soft and threatening.

Nervous, Jeremy had definitely made him nervous. As far as he was concerned, that was answer enough. “All right, then. Sorry for bothering you.”

“No bother,” said Doresh. “We always like to hear from concerned citizens. Which is how you see yourself, right?”

“No, Detective. I’m more than that. I loved Jocelyn.”

“So you told me when we first met.”

“Did I?” Jeremy harbored only fuzzy memories of the initial encounter at the station. Small room, big men, bright lights, everything moving at a methedrine pace.

“Sure,” said Doresh. “In fact it was the first thing you said. ‘I love her.’ ”

“Okay,” said Jeremy.

“I thought that was interesting. That that’s the first thing you’d say.”

“Why’s that?”

“It’s just not something I’ve heard before. In that situation.”

“There you go,” said Jeremy. “New experiences every day.”

“Like a person with Alzheimer’s,” said Doresh. “That’s the good part of the disease, right- you get to meet new people every day.”

Several moments passed.

Doresh said, “You’re not laughing.”

“Tell me something funny, and I will.”

“Yeah, you’re right, Doc. Tasteless. We tend to get that way- dealing with the so-called dark side of life. To alleviate the stress, I’m sure you understand.”

“I do,” said Jeremy. “Thanks for your-”

“Ms. Banks,” said Doresh. “She worked with Alzheimer’s patients. All kinds of patients with… whadyacallit- cognitive problems?”

“That’s right.”

“I hear some folks at the hospital make jokes about that. Call it ‘the vegetable garden.’ Sounds like you guys aren’t that different than us. People need to cope.”

“They do-”

“How’re you coping, Doc? You doing okay, otherwise?”

“Otherwise?”

“Other than wondering about the evidence.”

“Oh, sure,” said Jeremy. “Life’s a blast.”

He hung up, sat there trembling, was still unsteady when he walked to the box down the hall and collected his mail.

Totally irrational, calling Doresh. What could he have hoped to accomplish?

The second article had spooked him. Made it impossible for him to brush it off as a mail screwup. But what if he was wrong, and some fool had simply made the same mistake twice?

Dissection… even if someone was playing with his head, there couldn’t be any real connection to Jocelyn.

Could it be Arthur?

Jeremy entertained visions of the old man stockpiling interoffice envelopes and other hospital supplies in his musty old Victorian house.

Retired, but hanging on.

Hoarding was consistent with Arthur’s clothing, his car, his excessive reminiscences. Holding on to old things.

Living in the past. An inability to let go.

Jeremy vowed to forget about him and the envelopes, once and for all. Time to keep going on his book chapter, which miraculously seemed to be falling into place. Since receiving the first laser article and realizing how poorly written it was- how clunky and pompous most medical writing was- he’d decided he could do better.

He’d written twenty good pages, done a redraft, felt satisfied he was on his way.

Onward: the book and Angela.

They’d seen each other only twice during the last eight days, made love on both occasions, drunk wine, talked for hours, seemed to be moving toward that comfort two people experience when the chemistry quiets but doesn’t vanish.

Shoptalk with Angela had cleared one thing up: It was she who’d given his name to Dr. Ted Dirgrove.

“I was rotating through cardiothoracic, and he gave us a terrific lecture on transmyocardial revascularization. Then he brought up the topic of anxiety as a surgical risk factor, and I thought that was admirable, for a cutter.”

“Being concerned about anxiety?”

“Most of those guys, you can’t get them to see beyond their scalpels. Dirgrove actually seems to realize there’s a human being at the other end. I mentioned the work you did- the strides you’d made relaxing anxious patients. I gave the example of Marian Boehmer- my lupus patient. Who, incidentally, is doing fine. Whatever that blood dysgrasia was, it self-limited. Anyway, Dirgrove seemed very interested. I hope you don’t mind.”

“Not at all,” said Jeremy. “Unfortunately, I didn’t help his patient much.”

“Really?” said Angela. “He said you did.”

“I think he’s being kind.”

“Maybe you had more of an effect than you figured.”

Jeremy thought about the brief encounter with the hostile Merilee Saunders and doubted he’d accomplished anything other than to convert her anxiety to anger.

On the other hand, that could sometimes be therapeutic- if anger made the patient feel in charge, reduced the panic that came from crushing vulnerability.

Still, it was hard to see the Saunders girl as anything more than failed rapport. How long had he been with her? Five, ten minutes?

Angela said, “Dirgrove sounded pretty pleased.”

He supposed she could be right. There’d been instances when patients got in touch years after treatment, to thank him. Some were specific about what had helped.

Things he’d said. Or hadn’t. Word choices and phraseologies that had proved crucial in tipping them over the therapeutic brink.

In every case, the “cure” had been unintentional. He’d had no idea he’d shot the magic bullet.

Then there were the cases where he’d drawn upon every technique in his shrink’s arsenal and fallen flat on his face.

What did that say? That he was a pawn, not a king?

What a strange way to make a living.

“I think,” said Angela, “that you sometimes sell yourself short.”

“Do you?” He kissed her nose.

“I do.” She ran her fingers through his hair.

“You’re a nice woman.”

“Sometimes.”

“I haven’t seen otherwise.”

“Ha,” she said.

“Are you trying to scare me?”

“No,” she said, suddenly serious. She pressed her cheek close to his. Her breath was warm, light, alcoholically sweet. “I’d never do that. I’d never do anything to put space between us.”

Tumor board was canceled for the week. The following session, Arthur was back at the lectern, running the show.

Jeremy arrived late and had to sit at the rear. The room was dark- slides, always slides- and it stayed that way for most of the hour. The old man’s sonorous baritone rhapsodizing about mediastinal teratomas.

But when the lights went on, Arthur was gone, and Dr. Singh had taken his place, explaining, “Dr. Chess had to leave early for a prior engagement. Let us proceed.”

The final ten minutes were taken up by a spirited debate about cell permeability. Jeremy had trouble staying awake, managed to do so by scolding himself:

At least this is science, not some randomized process where the so-called expert doesn’t have a clue.

The next day, the third envelope arrived. Jeremy had nearly finished a rough draft of his chapter and was feeling pretty flush. The sight of “Otolaryngology” in the sender slot froze his fingers on the keyboard.