Andrew Vachss - Down in the Zero

"I see. About suicide, then?"

"About youth suicide in particular. What would make them do it? How come they seem to do it in clusters? Like that."

He leaned back in his chair, flicking one hand against the white turtleneck he wore under a camel's hair sport coat. "Tell me what your take on it is," he said. "It might be more helpful if I tried to fill in the blanks."

"Seems to me it's real hard being a kid. Not a baby, like a teenager, young adult, whatever. Hormones, peer pressure, uncertainty about the future, all kinds of messages about the environment, war, religion, society…tough to process. Kids are impatient, that's part of being one. They work hard at being cool, but they feel things real strong. And they don't get it… that death is forever."

"What do you mean?"

"It's like…they can experiment with dying. See if they like it. Try it on the way they do clothes. Kids don't see the future real well…mostly because they don't look. It's all right now for them."

"That's true enough. But most suicides have their root in depression."

"Lots of people get depressed."

"There are different forms of depression, Mr. Burke. Reactive depression … like being sad over some personal tragedy…cancer, flunking out of school, a death in the family. And there's a depression of the spirit too. A profound sadness, very deep. But some youth suicide is anomic."

"Anomic?"

"Simply put, it means having no special reason to live. Anomic suicides don't feel the same sense of loss the others do. It's more like an emptiness at the core. You see it a lot in borderline personality disorder…a sense of a void within yourself."

"Don't some of them just want to check out of the hotel?"

"I'm not sure I understand you."

"Life can be intolerable, all by itself. It's not so much that there's a better place, just that this one's no good. You see it in prison, sometimes."

"You worked in a prison?"

"I was in one. More than one."

"Oh. Did you ever think about suicide?"

"Not then. Not for those reasons. But there's a…Zero, you know what I mean? A deep black hole you can dive into. Where people all go when they die."

"People don't go anywhere when they die. A person's spirit lives past death. That's as close to them as you can get…you can't join them."

"I know."

"But you've…thought about it."

"Yeah."

"Do you want to tell me about it?"

I felt a twig snap in the jungle of my mind— the enemy flirting with the perimeter, closing in. "No," I said. "I'll deal with it— it'll pass."

"It always does?" he asked, leaning forward.

I nodded, holding his eyes, wondering how he knew. I moved to deflect the probe, going on the oblique offensive. "The kids who killed themselves, they were all treated here?"

"I guess it's no secret," he said. "But literally hundreds of young people have been treated here. We've already pulled their records and I can assure you of this much…there is no common denominator among them psychiatrically, none. They presented with different behaviors, their diagnoses were not similar… although depression was a factor in most. Therapeutic modalities varied according to their individual needs. Some were drug or alcohol abusers, others abstained. Some had gender identity problems, sexual or romantic issues. Others did not. Some were discharged to individual treatment, some to a group, some with a pharmacological regimen. Some had supportive, caring parents. Some had parents I would characterize as downright abusive. Emotionally abusive, certainly. There was no similarity in EEG …" He paused, looking to see if I was following him. I nodded, encouragingly.

"Some had apparently good peer relationships," he continued. "Some were quite isolated. And there's no question but that patients with almost precisely similar profiles were discharged without incident."

It had the air of a prepared speech, but he delivered it as though he was doing the work as he went along. "I guess you're way ahead of me, Doctor," I said.

"I don't think it's a question of that, Mr. Burke. Suicide prevention is like all other forms of viable therapy— it requires participation for its success. The patient has to engage in treatment, not just passively accept it. Mechanical compliance never works. The problem is, unlike any other form of mental illness, we don't have the opportunity to interview the patient once they've made their decision."

"Don't some make suicidal gestures?"

"Yes, and some have suicidal ideation we can pick up early. But the truth is, if they decide to kill themselves, there is literally no way to stop them."

"I know," I said, thinking of all the dead prisoners who defeated a suicide watch, how easy it was. "How long did it take?"

"Take?"

"From the time they were discharged."

He nodded thoughtfully, tapping his long, slender fingers on the desk top. "That's the wild card," he said. "They all killed themselves within ninety days of being discharged."

"Every one?"

"Yes. Every one. I've gone back over our screening mechanisms, especially our pre–discharge summaries. If they were carrying that virus, it seems we should have seen it. I'm telling you this in confidence. It disturbs me, but we're no closer to an answer."

"Maybe there isn't any," I said.

"Maybe not," he replied. "But we're not going to stop looking."

I hate the idea of "vibes." The only time I saw an aura in my life was around the face of an intern as I was coming out of a concussion. Turned out it was the broken blood vessels in my eyes. But…

I know freaks. I know how they hunt. I can track their spoor through the best camouflage, the heaviest perfume. I'd been prepared for Barrymore to be…something like that. And he was slick, all right. Sharp, on the job, focusing in. He had the best psychologist's mind— telling you he didn't exactly know your secrets, but, whatever they were, he'd work something out. They can't teach that. Top professional interrogators all have it— they can open a vein with their soft voices, probing around until they find the carotid, pinching it just enough to let you know what they could do.

Maybe I was slowing down. Getting old. Maybe the Zero was pulling me, tunneling my vision. But…

Barrymore didn't seem as though he was lying. He didn't waste time with layering a glop of thick–troweled "concern" on me. Kids killed themselves— he didn't deny it, didn't minimize it. It seemed like some piece of him really wanted to know. But…

That clock in his office bothered me. Maybe Cherry gave them as gifts to her friends. Maybe that was part of her patronage.

But why would the digital window be set the same way hers was… to three hours ahead? That would be the middle of the Atlantic Ocean.

Soon as I got back, I pulled the pistol out of the Plymouth. Not to switch it to the Lexus again— I wanted it close at hand.

It wasn't until I heard some radio announcer blathering about how it was a beautiful summer Saturday that I paid attention to what day it was. I steered the car toward Fancy's.

She wasn't home. I turned to leave just as her black Acura sailed into the drive and nose–dived to a skidding stop. She bounded out, running toward me.

"Burke! Wait!"

I stood where I was. She started to run to me, stopped suddenly, charged back to her car. She opened the door, reached behind the back seat, and came out with a big white box in her hands.

"Come on inside," she said, as soon as she got close. "I got it."

I followed her inside. She was wearing her tennis outfit, a white sweatband around her forehead. "Take a look," she said, handing me the box.

red knitted waistband and matching collar. The back was blank, a broad expanse of white, just waiting for a billboard. On the front, right over the heart, a name in red script.