Chapter 9

All day, I have been consciously aware of the fact that it is Tuesday and Fraternity Row will be on TV tonight. I hear two employees in the stairwell discussing it. I catch a snatch of conversation on the radio before I change the station.

As I go about my workday, taking particular care to be efficient in my duties, compliant with my supervisor, pleasant with my co-workers, I tell myself that I will not watch the show tonight. I know that it upsets me. I know that it fuels my urges.

And yet here I am, watching the fraternity brothers of Phi Kappa Alpha and Theta Chi play tag football in a field behind the gymnasium that has been hosed down until it is a quagmire of mud. Students from the campus line both sides of the field and they are laughing and clapping, egging them on. I study the crowd of onlookers carefully, the remote control squeezed tightly in my hand.

I know how some of those watching must feel. I know what it is like to be outside, wanting so desperately to be inside. The camera catches the image of a young woman in a long-sleeved Phi Kappa Alpha t-shirt and shorts. Someone has thrown mud on her and it runs down the front of her pink shirt There is a plump girl in unattractive glasses standing beside her, laughing as if she thinks it is funny, but I know that inside she is not laughing. She behaves the way that others expect her to behave. She is what they want her to be, and yet she will never be that. Never be one of them, and I know it eats at her. I know that over the years it will eat at her until she cannot sleep, cannot eat and then she will look back at the young men playing football right now, the girl in the too-tight pink t-shirt cheering, and she will know that this is all their fault. That they are responsible for who she has become... a person foreign to her. A person she does not like.

Our host, Axel, appears in the corner of the screen, raising a plastic cup of beer in a toast. Mud streaks one side of his handsome cheek. He is signing off until next week when we will learn if Bruce really is failing biology, if Doug's girlfriend back home is pregnant, and if the brothers at Phi Kappa Alpha will oust the pledge, Ricki, for telling a friend in his English class what he did with the brothers during a secret meeting Saturday afternoon.

I am glad when the television screen flickers and Axel is gone because I am sick of him. I am sick of his handsome face and his falsehoods.

I lift the remote to change channels. I like to listen to the light rock station while I put the finishing touches on my paper-work for the day, but the screen flickers again and a young woman appears, standing on the front porch of Bart Johnson's house. I am immediately mesmerized. The clip was obviously recorded Saturday. I can see the crowd on the street, the news van in the driveway next door. The picture is a little grainy, the sound not as sharp as network TV's. I hold my breath, listening.

"Ashview police released a statement stating the young man died in an accident involving a large piece of lawn-maintenance equipment" Liza Jane is saying. She pauses, looking right at me. "The question students are asking is, what's happening here?" she continues. "Six students don't just die accidentally in seven weeks' time on a campus of only three thousand students."

I stare at her lovely face, not certain what I am to think. Not certain how I feel about her.

"This is Liza Jane Thomas on Porter Street in Ashview. We'll keep you up-to-date."

The last camera shot is jerky, and my first thought is that if she is going to be a news reporter, if this station is truly going to make something of itself, it must get better equipment.

Liza Jane appears again, this time in the studio in the Media Broadcasting building on campus. My mouth is dry. I move forward in my chair to draw closer to her.

"We had hoped to bring you an update on the death of Bart Johnson," Liza Jane says, looking directly at me.

She is not wearing what most news reporters would wear, but instead, a tight pink t-shirt advertising a company that makes surfboards. She is not wearing her trademark bandana, so I can see her blond hair that has been twisted into little knots. I do not like it. The hairstyle seems beneath her.

"But we have been unable to uncover any more information than what has been in the local papers," she continues. "The autopsy is still pending, but apparently Bart Johnson died when his arms were amputated in a chipper-shredder, a large machine used to cut up small trees and branches. The quarterback died at the scene of blood loss."

She continues to look directly at me, not even needing the notes in front of her. "Local Police Chief Buck Seipp has been unavailable for comment, so the cause of death at this time is still believed to be accidental. However..."

Again she pauses. For dramatic effect, no doubt. It is an excellent technique. She has my attention.

"Students on campus are anxious. Parents are calling dorms, concerned. At least two students have applied for transfers to other colleges this week as a result of these accidents. Six accidental deaths of Chesapeake students in seven weeks? Prior to the automobile accident in August, there have only been seven deaths of students in the fifty years this college has been in existence. Need there be further investigation into these deaths? This reporter believes so."

The camera angles shift and she is no longer looking right at me.

"This is Liza Thomas for CCAS News. Good night."

The screen flickers and then goes black. The college station has gone off the air. I change the channel to a light rock music station and slide back in my chair. I loosen my grip on the remote, realizing that my fingers hurt from holding it so tightly.

I am concerned by what Liza Jane has said, the suspicions she might generate with the authorities. At the same time, I cannot help but be impressed. All six deaths were obviously accidents, but she looks beyond what is obvious. She looks beyond the deceit, the untruth of society, of humanity, without fear of reproach.

I wish that I could be Liza Jane.

* * *

"Here we are again," Adam said, plopping himself down in front of Dr. Wood's desk.

It was only ten-thirty in the morning, and M.K. was already annoyed with Adam. He didn't seem terribly interested in the Bart Johnson investigation, hadn't really even agreed that they needed to follow through. Crackhow, however, had heard about Liza Jane's broadcast the previous night after Fraternity Row. Apparently his wife or mother or someone had watched it. M.K. had seen it, too. She agreed with Adam that while her technique was perhaps not the best, she had to give the teen one thing—she was sincere.

"Here we are again," Dr. Wood said, chuckling. She had the same playful tone in her voice as Adam.

Nothing like a little workplace flirtation to get through hump day.

M.K. ignored them both. It wasn't her business if Adam was interested in the coroner, or she in him. They were both single, consenting adults. She shifted in her chair, reaching for the preliminary autopsy report in its now-familiar manila folder. The envelope beneath it, she knew, contained autopsy photos. She had a matching envelope in her briefcase on the floor beside her containing eight-by-tens from the scene of the accident that had worried her all night.

"The report is self-explanatory," Dr. Wood said, leaning back in her leather executive chair. "Excuse the typos. Don't worry, I'll spell check the final one."

She smiled; she had perfect white teeth. M.K.'s parents hadn't been able to afford braces for any of the Shaughnessy girls, or bleaching. Surely teeth that white had to be bleached.

"I'm not a great typist." She cut her dark eyes at Adam. "The county keeps talking about getting me some help with all this paperwork required by them and the state. I'd even take someone part-time, but they just repeat their mantra. The budget is tight."

M.K. skimmed the report.

"So what, Doc?" Adam asked lazily, as if inquiring about the weather. "He bled to death, right?"

"Exactly. The amputations were so severe that he bled out in a minute or two. Not enough blood to circulate, heart stops."

M.K. set the report down and reached for the envelope. "Is there any possibility, Dr. Wood, that foul play could have been involved?"

She and Adam both laughed at the same time. M.K. didn't appreciate it from either of them.

"Death by homicidal wood chipper?" Dr. Wood said, tucking a lock of her blond hair behind one ear to reveal a sparkling diamond stud. "Not hardly. Death by six-pack-induced stupidity is more like it."

M.K. offered a quick, perfunctory smile. "The body still here?"

"Sure is. You want to see it?" Dr. Wood started to get out of her chair.

"That won't be necessary," Adam said. "I think we have all we need. This is just another wild-goose chase the boss is sending us on."

"Actually, I would like to see the body." M.K. stood up, glancing at Adam, then the M.E., ignoring the jars of body parts lining the shelves on the walls. She reached for her briefcase. "If it's not too much trouble."

"No trouble at all." Dr. Wood walked around her desk. "If you'll follow me this way."

M.K. turned in the doorway. Adam was still in his chair. "You can go bring the car around, if you want. I just want to have a quick look."

"So now I'm your chauffeur?"

She shrugged, handing him her briefcase with the photos and reports stuck in the outside pocket. "Suit yourself." She followed Dr. Wood through the tiled exam room into a smaller room with a wall of what appeared to be large file cabinets, only the drawers were flush to the wall. They were stacked four on four.

"My only customer today," Dr. Wood said, grasping the handle of a drawer and giving it a jerk. "Which is a good thing because I'm up to my eyeballs in death certificates that need to be issued. I just can't seem to get caught up these days."

M.K. winced as the drawer glided open to reveal the pale, nude body of the young man who had been Bart Johnson. Beside the usual Y autopsy incision that had been stitched with black thread, there were lines of black stitches on what was left of his left arm.

M.K.'s stomach did a flip-flop. She breathed through her nose, exhaling from her mouth. His arms were barely recognizable, misshapen and waxen, with rows of black stitching in every direction. "Really did a number on him, didn't it?"

"Power tools are dangerous in the wrong hands." Dr. Wood tilted her head, considering her work. "We were actually fortunate that we got as many large pieces as we did. Nothing left of the right arm but I was able to put quite a bit of the left arm back together. Bone from the right arm caught in the blades, so it shredded the left less efficiently."

M.K. glanced at the place where the young man's right arm should have been attached, then at the body again. Dr. Wood had done a good job of cleaning him up; there were no bloodstains and the stitches were neat and orderly considering the grisly task. She looked at the left arm, which was missing chunks of flesh, but at least still looked like an arm. As her gaze reached his hand, she noticed at once that his entire index finger was missing.

"Missing digit," M.K. mused aloud.

"Yeah." Dr. Wood grimaced. "I didn't realize it until I had most of the pieces put back together."

M.K. looked across the gruesome drawer at the coroner. "Just ground up, you think?"

"Very possible. Or the dimwits with the Ashview police didn't find it in the chipper-shredder when they dismantled it." She rolled her eyes. "I don't mean to disparage your profession, Agent Shaughnessy, but those guys on the Ashview police force are not the brightest bulbs in the pack, if you know what I mean."

"No offense taken." M.K. took one last look at Bart Johnson and then looked away. "Thank you for your time. Once again, you've been very helpful."

The doctor pushed the drawer closed and M.K. turned away, getting a flash of what it would be like to be inside that drawer, sliding into the cool darkness. It made the hair stand up on the back of her neck. As a kid growing up, she'd never been afraid of heights, or dogs, or even bugs or snakes, but close quarters... She even avoided elevators, taking the stairs whenever it was feasible.

"Let me know if you need anything else," Dr. Wood called as M.K. saw herself out of the morgue. "Tell Agent Thomas to feel free to call me. I gave him my personal cell number... just in case."

M.K. didn't miss the implication. The doctor wanted to go out with him, probably wanted to sleep with him. She pushed through the swinging door, into the hallway, glad to be out of the morgue, away from the medical examiner and her perfect white teeth.

Adam was waiting for her in the car that had been permanently assigned to them. It was a light blue Crown Victoria and, as he had warned, screamed feds. She climbed into the passenger side and lowered her briefcase behind the seat before fastening her seat belt.

"Dr. Wood said you should feel free to call her." She reached for her sunglasses on the dashboard. "Apparently she gave you her personal cell phone number."

"I think we've got all we need to satisfy Crackhow, even if my daughter isn't satisfied." He pulled out of the parking lot and onto the street. "Don't you?"

M.K. couldn't help but laugh.

He glanced at her. "What?"

She couldn't help thinking how good-looking he was in the wraparound sunglasses, his blond hair slightly shaggy. "Didn't you hear me? She was hitting on you, Adam. She wants you to ask her out."

He made a face. "Nah."

"Yes." M.K. looked at him, then away, shaking her head. Men could be so clueless sometimes, especially when it came to women. "She gave you her personal phone number, Adam."

"In case we had any questions on the autopsies." Taking his hand off the wheel, he gestured. "She knows we're still getting heat from the senator's office, and apparently the chief coroner in Baltimore called her after his office got a call from the governor and the president of the college."

"That may be true, but she was still hitting on you."

"Nah," he scoffed. "She's not my type."

"Not your type? You were flirting with her!"

"I was not." He hit his brake and the horn as a huge SUV cut in front of him on the ramp to get on Route 301/50, headed west.

"You most certainly were. Right there in her office. Laughing, making eye contact."

This time he looked at her. "I always do that. I'm just a friendly guy."

M.K. laughed, telling herself she shouldn't care who he flirted with. "Hey," she said, changing the subject entirely. "Did you notice in the autopsy report that the guy's finger was missing? Left index."

"I didn't really read it. Hell, I could have written that report It was pretty obvious from the scene what happened and how he died. Liza Jane's gone right off the deep end with this whole investigative reporter thing."

M.K. tried to consciously ignore his swearing. She knew her reaction annoyed him and that her feeling on the matter prevented her from being one of the boys. It was just that in James Shaughnessy's house, growing up, the use of swear words had been strictly forbidden and resulted in a squirt of liquid dish detergent in the mouth. She'd gone through a time in her life when she was fourteen that her mother should have owned stock in Dawn dish detergent. To this day, every time she heard a word that was not acceptable in the Shaughnessy home, she tasted the soap on her tongue.

"What do you think happened to Bart's finger?" M.K. pushed.

"I don't know. Ground up in the machine, I guess. What did Dr. Wood say?"

"Same thing. She wondered if maybe the finger got lodged inside, and the guys who took apart the chipper-shredder missed it."

"Possible, I guess."

She took a quick look at him through the dark lenses of her sunglasses. "You mind if I give them a ring—before we turn the report into Crackhow?"

"Mind? No? Do as much extra work as you like, Manuela Karen." Again, he looked her way, this time grinning. "Am I getting close?"

M.K. crossed her arms over her chest and looked out at the highway and cars in front of them. "Nope."

* * *

Jerome studied the patient in the chair across from his. Blue was restless today. Not as communicative as in the past two sessions. He made note of that in the margin.

"Can you tell me about the week since we last met?"

The patient's legs crossed, uncrossed, and crossed again. "Work has been busy. Stressful. I feel great demands on my time and energy."

Jerome nodded. No one had to tell him about stress and how it could affect one's work. "Do you find that stressful situations lead you to thoughts, behaviors you find unacceptable?"

The patient glanced down. "Sometimes."

Jerome let a moment or two pass. "Did you experience any of these thoughts or actions you've expressed that you wish to avoid this week?"

This time the patient's gaze shifted to the bookcases that lined the wall behind his desk. "You have a lot of books."

Jerome smiled patiently. "My wife and I are avid readers."

"Have you been married a long time?"

"Since we were in medical school together," Jerome said proudly.

"And that's her. The photo on the desk? She's very pretty."

"She is," Jerome said, not unkindly, "but you're not here to discuss me or my wife. You came to me of your own free will with some concerns that obviously are worrying you a great deal." He kept his gaze focused on the face in front of him. "You didn't say if you felt any of these urges this week."

"No, I didn't."

Jerome smiled. He liked intelligent patients. He liked the idea that he might possibly be able to help someone so bright and able to contribute to the world. "I can't help you if you're unwilling to provide what I need, to offer my help."

"I went to a bar the other night. One very close to home."

The patient's gaze lost focus, and Jerome sensed they were moving back in time.

"I had the chicken sandwich. It was very good. The College Park Bar and Grill. Have you been there, Doctor?"

"I believe my wife and I have."

"After my meal, I considered going to the bar. Having a seat... trolling."

"An interesting term." Jerome checked the small brass clock on the coffee table in front of him, left in plain view of him and his patients. It always seemed as if just when he was beginning to reach a certain level with a patient, time was up. But he had learned from trial and error that appointments of more than an hour could actually be counterproductive. He had to be patient. "What do you think you meant when you said trolling?"

"I don't fish, if that's what you're asking." Blue chuckled. Sighed. "I suppose I see them, on some level, as prey."

"And you find that disturbing?"

Blue's gaze met Jerome's. "Don't you, Doctor?"

There was something about the tone of the patient's voice, the reflection in the eyes, that Jerome found unsettling. He shifted in his chair, hoping it wasn't obvious. "Blue," he said, deciding to take a different tack. "Did something happen this week? Something you'd like to talk about?"

Again, the patient looked away. Eyes glazed over. "There was this guy who made fun of me."

"This week?"

"No. A long time ago. I just met someone who reminded me of him."

"If those feelings are not resolved, they come back to us, sometimes at the most inopportune times." Jerome set his notebook on his lap and tented his fingers, sensing he needed to tread carefully here. "Did you have these feelings, these urges, at the time that you knew this person?"

"I think I've always had them." Blue's voice was eerie, almost chilling. "In the past, I could control them, though. Usually."

Jerome glanced at the clock again. Time was up, but he was tempted to let the patient go on.

No, there were reasons for these rules, as Sela liked to remind him.

"Blue, our time today is up, but I'd like to pick up our conversation next week here where we're leaving off."

"My past."

Jerome rose. "Yes. Please feel free this week to note any recollections of the past that seem to upset you, or possibly trigger these urges you're fighting."

Blue rose. "I'll do that Thank you, Dr. Fisher."

Jerome watched the patient go out the door, still sensing the oddest feeling of unrest. Almost doom. Logically, he knew this feeling had no place in a psychiatrist's office, and yet he was having a difficult time dismissing it. He, too, like the patient had had a stressful week. Sela had been feeling poorly since the weekend, and he knew the blood tests taken today would not return optimistic results. Maybe it was just the stress of the last few days, his wife's worsening condition. He knew it was time he began dealing with the idea that she would not live another year. With that thought how could he look forward without the feeling of impending doom?