John Katzenbach - The Analyst

A friendly receptionist pointed Ricky to the bank manager’s glass-enclosed cubicle about ten feet away. The First Cape Bank was a small building, with shingle siding like so many of the older homes in the area. But the inside was as modern as any, so that the offices combined the worn with the new. Some architect had thought this to be a good idea, but the result, Ricky thought, was the creation of a place that belonged nowhere. Still, he was glad it was there, and still open.

The manager was a short, outgoing fellow, paunchy, with a bald spot on his head that had obviously been sunburned too often that summer. He shook Ricky’s hand vigorously. Then stepped back, eyeing Ricky with an appraiser’s glance.

“Are you okay, doctor? Have you been ill?”

Ricky paused, then replied, “I’m fine. Why do you ask?”

The manager seemed embarrassed, waving his hand in the air dismissively, as if he could erase the question he’d uttered. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.”

Ricky thought his appearance must show the stress of the past days. “I’ve had one of those summer colds. Really knocked me for a loop…,” he lied.

The manager nodded. “They can be difficult. I trust you had yourself tested for Lyme disease. Up here, someone looks a bit under the weather, that’s the first thing we think about.”

“I’m fine,” Ricky lied again.

“Well, we’ve been expecting you, Doctor Starks. I believe you’ll find everything is in order, but I must say, this is the most unusual account closing I’ve ever attended.”

“Why is that?”

“Well, first there was that unauthorized attempt to access your account. That was odd enough for a place like this. Then today, a courier delivered a package here addressed to you, care of the bank.”

“A package?”

The manager handed over an overnight mail envelope. It had Ricky’s name and the bank manager’s name. It had been sent from New York. In the box for a return, there was a post office box number and the name: R. S. Skin. Ricky took it, but did not open it. “Thank you,” he said. “I apologize for the irregularities.”

The bank manager produced a smaller envelope from his desk drawer. “Cashier’s check,” he said. “In the amount of ten thousand seven hundred and seventy-two dollars. We are sorry to lose your account, doctor. I hope you are not taking this to one of our competitors.”

“No.” Ricky eyed the check.

“Are you selling your home here, doctor? We could be of assistance in that transaction…”

“No. Not selling.”

The manager looked surprised. “Then why close the account? Most times, when long-standing accounts close, it’s because some great change has taken place in the household. A death or divorce. Bankruptcy sometimes. Something tragic or very difficult, that causes people to reinvent themselves. Start over again somewhere new. But this case…”

The manager was probing.

Ricky would not rise to answer. He stared at the check. “I wonder, if it’s not too inconvenient, could I have the amount in cash?”

The manager rolled his eyes slightly. “It might be dangerous to carry that much cash around, doctor. Perhaps traveler’s checks?”

“No thank you, but you are kind to be concerned. Cash is better.”

The manager nodded. “I’ll just get it, then. Be right back. Hundreds?”

“That would be fine.”

Ricky sat alone for a few moments. Death, divorce, bankruptcy. Illness, despair, depression, blackmail, extortion. He thought any one or perhaps all of the words could apply to him.

The manager returned and handed Ricky another envelope, containing the cash. “Would you care to count it?” he asked.

“No, I trust you,” Ricky said, pocketing the money.

“Well, please, Doctor Starks, if we can ever be of service again, here’s my card…”

Ricky took this as well, muttering his thanks. He turned to leave, then stopped suddenly, looking back at the manager.

“You said people usually close accounts because?”

“Well, usually something very hard has happened to them. They need to move to a new location, begin a new career. Create a new life for themselves and their families. We get many closings, the vast majority, I’d say, because elderly, longtime customers pass away, and their estates, which we’ve handled, get sucked up and tossed into the more aggressive money markets or Wall Street by the children who do the inheriting. I would say that almost ninety percent of our account closings are related to a death. Maybe even a higher percentage. That’s why I wondered about yours, doctor. It just doesn’t fit the pattern that we’re accustomed to.”

“How interesting,” Ricky said. “I don’t know about that. Well, please rest assured that if I need a bank in the future, this will be the one I use.”

This placated the manager somewhat. “We will be at your service,” he said, as Ricky, suddenly chewing on what the bank manager had told him, turned and exited into the last of the day of his last day but one.

The weightless dark of early evening had descended by the time Ricky returned to the farmhouse. In the summer, he thought, the truly thick and heavy night holds off until midnight or later. In the fields adjacent to his home, crickets chirped, and above him, the first stars of night dotted the sky. It all seems so benign, he thought. A night when one should have no cares and no worries.

He half expected Merlin or Virgil to be waiting for him inside the house, but the interior was silent and empty. He flicked on the lights and then went to the kitchen and made himself a cup of coffee. Then he sat at the wooden table where he’d shared so many meals over the years with his wife, and opened the package he’d received at the bank. Inside the overnight courier bag was a single envelope with his name printed on the outside.

Ricky tore open the envelope and removed a single folded sheet of paper. There was a letterhead at the top of the page, giving the letter the appearance of a more or less routine business transaction. The letterhead read:

R. S. Skin

Private Investigations

“All transactions strictly confidential”

P.O. Box 66-66

Church Street Station

New York, N.Y. 10008

Beneath the letterhead was the following brief letter, written in a routine and clipped business tone:

Dear Dr. Starks:

Regarding your recent inquiry to this office, we are pleased to inform you that our operatives have confirmed that your assumptions are correct. We are unable, however, at this time, to provide any further details about the individuals in question. We understand that you are operating under significant time constraints. Consequently, barring any requests from you in the future, we will not be able to provide any additional information. Should your circumstances change, please feel free to contact our office with any additional inquiries.

Bill for services to follow within twenty-four hours.

Very truly yours,

R. S. Skin, President

R. S. Skin Private Investigations

Ricky read through the letter three times, before setting it down on the table.

It was, he thought, a truly remarkable document. He shook his head, almost in admiration, certainly in despair. The address and the bogus private investigation firm were surely complete fictions. That wasn’t the genius in the letter, though. The genius lay in how insignificant the letter would seem to anyone except Ricky. Every other connection with Rumplestiltskin had been erased from Ricky’s life. The little poems, the first letter, the clues and directions, all had been either destroyed or stolen back from him. And this letter told Ricky what he needed to know, but in such a manner that if someone else were to come upon it, it wouldn’t attract attention. And, it would almost directly lead anyone who might be curious to an immediate and impenetrable brick wall. A trail that went nowhere instantly.