John Locke: Lethal Experiment

“You been there?”

“No.”

“Nothing to do in Darnell but drink, drug and fuck.”

“Excuse me?”

“Hey, no offense,” Sal said.

I thought about what he’d said, and how parents never think their kids would take the wrong path.

“Maybe you better call Teddy Boy today,” I said.

“I’m on it,” he said. “Hey, you know those midgets?”

Sal could change subjects faster than a Congressman.

“Victor and Hugo?” I said.

“The same.”

“What about them?”

“They’re coming to my party.”

“I’d heard that,” I said.

“In the flesh.”

“I’ll try to shake off that image,” I said. “You better tell your boys not to make fun of them. They’re pretty formidable.”

“Hey, they been warned. Those midgets brought down Joe DeMeo.”

“They prefer the term little people,” I said.

“I prefer big envelopes.”

Sal was referring to the contribution envelopes his underbosses and special guests were expected to bring to his party.

“I been good for you,” he said. “And this here, with your daughter, that’s another example. Charity—whatcha call—begins at home.”

“In this case, your home.”

“That’s what I’m sayin’. So surprise me,” he said. “In a good way.”

Sal’s world is a rough one, where loyalty is measured in cash or body count. I make it a habit to kick back more than my share of both.

“Surprise you?” I said. “Sal, I’m going to amaze you!”

“All I’m askin’,” he said.

Chapter 7

The office of Ms. N. Crouch, MD, was located in Newark, New Jersey, corner of Summer and Seventh, off Interstate 280. Ms. Crouch shared an office condo with a pediatric psychologist named Agnes Battle. Agnes was working the reception desk when I walked in. She pointed me to Ms. Crouch’s office, and I went in.

Ms. N. Crouch stood and extended her hand to greet me. We identified ourselves and she gestured in the general direction of her seating area and said, “Please make yourself comfortable.”

I did a quick survey of the office. Deep plum was the dominant color, except for the far wall, which was faux-finished in light brown with delicate black threading, to resemble cork. On this wall hung several professional certificates, including a diploma from the University Of Pittsburgh School Of Medicine. Everything felt crisp and modern, save for the antique wooden coat rack in the entryway corner.

I chose a plush, high-backed leather throne chair and settled in.

Ms. N. Crouch said, “Dr. Hedgepeth mentioned a possible psychosomatic pain?”

If Darwin, my government facilitator, knew I was seeing a psychiatrist, he’d put an assassin on me. With that in mind, I was reticent about jumping right into things. I sat quietly and stared at her.

She had on a layered skirt, navy, with a matching jacket she wore opened. Her blouse was cream-colored silk, with a round neckline. A cable-wrapped, white gold necklace dangled in two strands and rested modestly at the center of her chest.

“Mr. Creed, you can remain silent if you wish. But just so you know, I get paid either way.”

With that, she went quiet and stared back at me. It has been my experience with women that they don’t like to remain quiet for long periods of time. Which is why I was surprised that she allowed us to sit there in total silence, staring at each other, for the next twenty minutes.

Finally, I said, “I believe I like you, Ms. Crouch.”

“I’m glad to hear it, Mr. Creed.”

“Call me Donovan.”

She nodded, and we remained silent until she realized it was her turn to speak.

“Donovan, in one way my profession is similar to that of a dentist.”

“How’s that?”

“Like your dentist, I can’t begin helping you until you open your mouth.”

I nodded.

She continued, “There are several chairs here, from which a patient can choose. I purposely stay out of the selection process because the chair choice tells me something about the patient.”

“Uh huh.”

“For example, the chair you selected tells me you’re accustomed to being in control, which often indicates trust issues. You’re obviously finding it diffi cult to let your guard down enough to discuss your personal life with a complete stranger.”

“Good point,” I said. “So tell me a little about yourself, and then we won’t be strangers.”

She smiled. “With all due respect, Donovan, this session is about you. It would be highly unprofessional of me to discuss my personal life with you. More importantly, the less you know about me, the easier it will be for you to share your feelings.”

“Fine,” I said. “Don’t tell me. I can find out anything I need to know about you by looking around the room.”

“Really, you’re that perceptive?” she said.

I noted that Ms. N. Crouch was on the edge of mocking me, despite her best effort to keep all emotion out of her voice.

I stood up. “Shall I demonstrate?”

“If you feel it necessary.”

“Your face tells me you’ve been beautiful your whole life, but you’re older now, in your late fifties, and your clothes and hair style reflect your acceptance of that fact. You’ve aged gracefully, and you believe you’re smarter than your friends, even those who have surpassed you professionally. You keep but one picture on your desk, two young boys who appear to be Japanese-American. They’re your sons, but neither you nor their father is in the picture. If your husband had taken it, you’d be in the photo with your sons. If you’d taken it, he’d be in it. If your husband were dead, you’d have his picture on your desk to honor him. But there is no picture of the husband, which tells me you’re divorced. Based on your current age, and the age you had to be to give birth, these pictures are at least ten years old. You haven’t updated them because they remind you of a happier time.”

I looked at her to see if she was impressed. If she was, she was hiding it well. But no matter, I’d only just begun.

“You struggle to remain proper at all times,” I continued, pointing to her diploma. “You hide behind the name N. Crouch because you think Nadine pegs you as a hick from the sticks. You suffer from feelings of inadequacy because your contemporaries graduated from prestigious colleges while you were stuck at the University of Pittsburgh School Of Medicine. You feel you haven’t lived up to your potential.”

“Why’s that?”

“There are no books or articles on display, which means you’re unpublished. What kind of big money psychiatrist is unpublished at your age?”

N. Crouch pursed her lips. “I see,” she said. “Anything else?”

“Your sons are off in college or working and they don’t call as often as you’d like. To compensate, you keep two dogs as pets.”

“What,” she said. “Not the breed?”

I smiled. “Akitas,” I said. “Japanese dogs brought to our shores by returning American servicemen, after WW2. Twin dogs from the same litter.”

I bowed and sat back down on the leather throne chair. I may have smirked.

“That’s amazing, Mr. Creed,” she said. “Truly remarkable.”

“Why thank you, Ms. Crouch.”

She said, “You took all the evidence on display and managed to get every single fact wrong. Every fact but one.”

I smiled and said, “Bullshit.”

N. Crouch stood. “I’m in my early sixties, not fifties. I don’t think I’m smarter than my friends, though none have surpassed me professionally. The pictures on the desk are my sister’s adopted children. I’m not divorced because I’ve never been married. I’m not from the Midwest, I’m from Miami. My contemporaries didn’t graduate from prestigious colleges because psychiatrists graduate from medical schools, not colleges. Speaking of which, Pittsburgh Medical happens to be the number one medical school in the country. In 2005 alone they received one hundred and eighty NIHA’s—that’s National Institute of Health Awards—totaling more than seventy-six million dollars.