John Katzenbach - The Analyst

“No, you can’t be sure,” Merlin said. “But we can be certain of one thing: that you felt that whatever you had to do was more important than ascertaining whether someone needed help. You might keep that observation in mind, doctor.”

Ricky tried to swivel in the seat to be able to look Merlin in the eye. This was difficult. Merlin continued to smile, the irritating appearance of someone in utter control. “Perhaps you should try to telephone the person you went to visit?” He waved his hand at the cell phone. “Make certain they are okay?”

Ricky quickly punched in Dr. Lewis’s telephone number. The phone rang repeatedly, but there was no answer.

Surprise clouded his face, which Merlin registered. Before Ricky could say anything, the lawyer was speaking again.

“What makes you so sure that that house truly was Doctor Lewis’s place of residence?” Merlin asked with a slightly stiff formality. “What did you see that connected the good doctor directly to that place? Were there family pictures on the walls? Did you see any signs of other folks? What papers, knickknacks, what we would call the furniture of life-what was there that persuaded you that you were actually in the good doctor’s house? Other than his presence, of course.”

Ricky concentrated, but could see nothing in his memory. The study where they’d sat most of the night was a typical study. Books on the walls. Chairs. Lamps. Carpets. Some papers on the desk surface, but none that he’d inspected. But nothing that was unique and stood out in his recollection. The kitchen was simply a kitchen. The hallways connected the rooms. The guest room where he’d stayed the night was noticeably sterile.

Again, he remained silent, but he knew that his silence was as good a response as the attorney needed.

Merlin took a deep breath, his eyebrows lifted in anticipation of an answer, then lowering, relaxed, becoming part of the knowing smile he wore. Ricky had a brief memory of being in college and staring across a poker table at another student and knowing that whatever cards he held, they weren’t adequate to beat his opponent.

“Let me summarize briefly, doctor,” Merlin said. “I find that it is always wise to periodically take a moment to assess, tote up the score, and then proceed. This might be one of those moments. The only thing that you can be sure of is that you spent some hours in the presence of a physician that you knew from years ago. You don’t know now whether that was indeed his home, or not, or perhaps whether he has been in an accident, or not. You don’t know for certain that your onetime analyst is alive, or not, do you?”

Ricky started to reply, then stopped.

Merlin continued, lowering his voice just slightly, so that it had a conspiratorial quality to it, “Where was the first lie? Where was the critical lie? What did you see? All these questions…”

He suddenly held up his hand. Then he shook his head, as one might when trying to correct a wayward child. “Ricky, Ricky, Ricky, let me ask you this: Was there a car accident this morning?”

“No.”

“You’re sure?”

“I just spoke to the state police. That guy said…”

“How do you know it was the state police you spoke with?”

Ricky hesitated. Merlin grinned. “I dialed the number and handed you the phone. You pressed send , right? Now, I could have dialed just about any number, where just about anyone was waiting for the phone call. Maybe that’s the lie, Ricky. Maybe your friend Doctor Lewis is on a slab in the Dutchess County Morgue awaiting some relative to come identify him right now.”

“But…”

“You’re missing the point, Ricky.”

“All right,” Ricky said, snapping sharply, “what is the point?”

The attorney’s eyes narrowed just slightly, as if irritated by Ricky’s brisk reply. He indicated the waterproof gym bag at his feet. “Maybe he wasn’t in an accident at all, doctor, but instead, in that bag right now I’ve got his severed head. Is that possible, Ricky?”

Ricky recoiled sharply in surprise.

“Is it possible, Ricky?” the lawyer probed, his voice now hissing.

Ricky’s eyes fell to the bag. It was a simple duffel shape, without any external characteristics that might indicate what it contained. It was big enough to carry a person’s head, and waterproof, so that it would be without stains or leakage. But as Ricky assessed these elements, he felt his throat go dry, and he was not sure what terrified him more, the idea that there was a head of a man he knew at his feet, or the idea that he didn’t know.

He raised his eyes toward Merlin. “It’s possible,” he whispered.

“It is important that you understand anything is possible, Ricky. An auto accident can be faked. A sexual harassment complaint sent to your psychoanalytic governing body. Your bank accounts can be trashed and eviscerated. Your relatives or your friends or even just your acquaintances can be murdered. You need to act, Ricky. Act!”

There was a quaver in Ricky’s next question. “Don’t you have any limits?”

Merlin shook his head. “None whatsoever. That’s what makes all this so intriguing for us participants. The system of the game established by my employer is one where anything can be a part of the activity. The same is true for your profession, I daresay, Doctor Starks, is it not?”

Ricky shifted in his seat. “Suppose,” he said softly, hoarsely, “I were to walk away right now. Leave you sitting with whatever is in that bag…”

Again Merlin smiled. He reached down and just turned the top of the bag slightly, revealing the letters f.a.s. embossed on the top. Ricky stared at his initials. “Don’t you think that there’s something in that bag alongside the head that links you to it, Ricky? Don’t you think that the bag was purchased with one of your credit cards, before they were canceled. And don’t you think that the cabdriver who picked you up this morning and took you to the station will remember that the only thing you carried was a medium-sized blue gym bag? And that he will tell this to whatever homicide detective bothers to ask him?”

Ricky tried to lick his lips, find some moisture in his world.

“Of course,” Merlin continued, “I can always take the bag with me. And you can behave as if you’ve never seen it before.”

“How-”

“Ask your second question, Ricky. Call the Times right now.”

“I don’t know that I…”

“Now, Ricky. We’re approaching Penn Station and when we head underground the phone won’t work and this conversation will end. Make a choice, now!” To underscore his words, Merlin started to dial a number on the cell phone. “There,” he said, with brisk efficiency. “I’ve dialed the Times classified for you. Ask the question, Ricky!”

Ricky took the phone and pressed the send button. In a moment he was connected to the same woman who’d taken his call the prior week.

“This is Doctor Starks,” he said slowly, “I’d like to place another front-page classified ad.” As he spoke, his mind churned swiftly, trying to formulate words.

“Of course, doctor. How’s the scavenger hunt game going?” the woman asked.

“I’m losing,” Ricky replied. Then he said, “This is what I want the ad to say…”

He paused, took as deep a breath as he could muster, and said:

Twenty years, it was no joke,

At a hospital I treated poor folk.

For a better job, some people I left.

Is that why you are bereft?

Because I went to treat some other,

did that cause the death of your mother?

The ad lady repeated the words to Ricky, and said, “That seems like a pretty unusual clue for a scavenger hunt.”