Jonathan Kellerman: The Conspiracy Club

Arthur Chess.

Was this the Lepidoptery section? Jeremy had never studied the fat man’s guide, had never been interested in expanding.

Funnel vision. Sometimes it helped keep life manageable.

He watched Arthur open the book, lick his thumb, turn a page.

Arthur kept his head down. Began walking up the aisle as he read.

Reversing direction, head still down, coming straight at Jeremy.

To greet the pathologist would open the worm-can of obligatory conversation. If Jeremy left now, quickly, stealthily, perhaps the old man wouldn’t notice.

But if he did notice, Jeremy would earn the worst of both worlds: forced to socialize and robbed of browsing time.

He decided to greet Arthur, hoping that the pathologist would be so engrossed in his butterfly book that the ensuing chat would be brief.

Arthur gazed up before Jeremy reached him. The book in his arms was huge, bound in cracked, camel leather. No winged creatures graced the densely printed pages. Jeremy read the title.

Crimean Battle Strategy: A Compendium.

The tag on the nearest shelf said, MILITARY HISTORY.

Arthur smiled. “Jeremy.”

“Afternoon, Arthur. No lunch today?”

“Large breakfast,” said the pathologist, patting his vest. “Busy afternoon, a bit of diversion seemed in order.”

With what you do all day, it’s a wonder you ever have an appetite.

“Lovely place, this,” said the old man.

“Do you come here often?”

“From time to time. Mr. Renfrew’s quite the crosspatch, but he leaves one alone, and his prices are more than fair.”

For all his purchases, Jeremy had never learned the proprietor’s name. Had never cared. Arthur had obtained the information because, like most gregarious people, he was excessively curious.

Yet, for all his sociability, the old man had chosen to work among the dead.

Jeremy said, “Very fair prices. Nice seeing you, Arthur. Happy hunting.” He turned to leave.

“Would you have time for a drink?” said Arthur. “Alcoholic or otherwise?”

“Sorry,” said Jeremy, tapping the coat cuff that concealed his wristwatch. “Busy afternoon, as well.” His next patient was in an hour and a half.

“Ah, of course. Sorry, then. Another time.”

“Absolutely,” said Jeremy.

Later, that evening, walking to his car, he noticed Arthur in the doctors’ parking lot.

This is too much. I’m being stalked.

But, as with the bookstore encounter, Arthur had arrived first, so that was ridiculous. Jeremy chided himself for self-importance- paranoia’s first cousin. Had he slipped that far?

He ducked behind a pylon and watched Arthur unlock his car, a black Lincoln, at least fifteen years old. Glossy paint, shiny chrome, kept up nicely. Like Arthur’s suit: well used, but quality. Jeremy envisioned Arthur’s home, guessed the pathologist would inhabit one of the gracious old homes in Queen’s Arms, on the North Side, a shabby-elegant stretch with harbor views.

Yes, Q.A. was definitely Arthur. The house would be a Victorian or a neo-Georgian, fusty and comfortable, chocked with overstuffed sofas in faded fabrics, stolid, centenarian mahogany furniture, layers of antimacassars, doilies, gimcracks, a nice wet bar stocked with premium liquors.

Pinned butterflies in ornate frames.

Was the pathologist married? Had to be. All that cheer bespoke a comfortable, comforting routine.

Definitely married, Jeremy decided. Happily, for decades. He conjured a soft-busted, bird-voiced, blue-haired wife to dote on Dear Arthur.

He watched as the old man lowered his long frame into the Lincoln. When the big sedan started up with a sonorous rumble, Jeremy hurried to his own dusty Nova.

He sat behind the wheel, thinking of the comforts that awaited Arthur. Home-cooked food, simple but filling. A stiff drink to dilate the blood vessels and warm the imagination.

Feet up, warm smiles nurtured by routine.

Jeremy’s gut knotted as the black car glided away.

Two weeks to the day after the bookstore encounter, a second-year medical resident, an adorable brunette named Angela Rios, came on to Jeremy. He was rotating through the acute children’s ward, accompanying the attending physician and house staff on pediatric rounds. Dr. Rios, with whom he’d exchanged pleasantries in the past, hovered by his side, and he smelled the shampoo in her long, dark hair. She had eyes the color of bittersweet chocolate, a swan neck, a delicate, pointy chin under a soft, wide mouth.

Four cases were scheduled for discussion that morning: an eight-year-old girl with dermatomyositis, a brittle adolescent diabetic, a failure to thrive infant- that one was probably child abuse- and a precocious, angry twelve-year-old boy with a miniscule body shriveled by osteogenesis imperfecta.

The attending, a soft-spoken man named Miller, summarized the basics on the crippled boy, then arched an eyebrow toward Jeremy. Jeremy talked to a sea of young baffled faces, trying to humanize the boy- his intellectual reach, his rage, the pain that would only intensify. Trying to get these new physicians to see the child as something other than a diagnosis. But keeping it low-key, careful to avoid the holier-than-thou virus that too often afflicted the mental health army.

Despite his best efforts, half the residents seemed bored. The rest were feverishly attentive, including Angela Rios, who hadn’t taken her eyes off Jeremy. When rounds ended she hung around and asked questions about the crippled boy. Simple things that Jeremy was certain didn’t puzzle her at all.

He answered her patiently. Her long, dark hair was wavy and silky, her complexion creamy, those gorgeous eyes as warm as eyes could get. Only her voice detracted: a bit chirpy, too generous with final syllables. Maybe it was anxiety. Jeremy was in no mood for the mating game. He complimented her questions, flashed a professorial smile, and walked away.

Three hours later, Arthur Chess showed up in his office.

“I hope I’m not disturbing you.”

Oh you are, you are. Jeremy had been working on the draft of a book chapter. Three years before, he’d been the behavioral researcher on a study of “bubble children”: kids with advanced cancers treated in germ-free, plastic rooms to see if their weakened immune systems could be protected against infection. The isolation posed a threat to young psyches, and Jeremy’s job had been to prevent and treat emotional breakdown.

At that he’d been successful, and several of the children had survived and thrived. The principal researcher, now the head of oncology, had been after him to publish the data in book form, and a medical publisher had expressed enthusiasm.

Jeremy worked on the outline for seventeen months, then sat down to draft an introduction. Over a year’s time, he produced two pages.

Now he pushed that pathetic output aside, cleared charts and journals onto the chair that abutted his desk, and said, “Not at all, Arthur. Make yourself comfortable.”

Arthur’s color was high, and his white coat was buttoned up, revealing an inch of pink shirt and a brown bow tie specked with tiny pink bumblebees. “So this is your lair.”

“Such as it is.” Jeremy’s designated space was a corner cutout at the end of a long, dark corridor on a floor that housed nonclinicians- biochemists, biophysicists. Bio-everything, except him. The rest of Psychiatry was a story above.

A single window looked out to an ash-colored air shaft. This was an older part of the hospital, and the walls were thick and clammy. The bio-folk kept to themselves. Footsteps in the hallways were infrequent.

His lair.

He’d ended up there four months ago, after a group of surgeons came by to measure Psychiatry’s space on the penthouse floor of the main hospital building. Less glamorous than it sounded, the upper floor looked out to a heliport, where emergency landings sometimes rendered therapy impossible. Any view of the city was blocked by massive heating and air-conditioning units, and pigeons enjoyed crapping on the windows. From time to time, Jeremy had seen rats scampering along the roof gutters.