Obsessed (16 page)

“Can Shands?” I asked.

She gave me an odd look. “Sometimes.”

She wiped dust from the monitor screen with the back of her hand.

“I think Lenny spent more time right here in the lab than he did just about anywhere else in the world.” Emily spread the fingers of one hand and ran them lightly over the keyboard like it was a Ouija board. She took a long inhale and sat back.

“Do you think it would be okay to pull up other scans?” I asked. “Another normal? I'm just curious—”

“Sure.” She pressed some keys and a new window came up, a dark background with a list of files. “A bunch of mine are in here.” She scrolled through the list. The file names were all combinations of letters and numbers. “Question is, where.”

She stood and went over to a shelf. There were software manuals and three-ring binders.

“The file names are coded to protect patients' privacy. Lenny kept a little black notebook…” She bent over and opened up a cabinet under the counter, then another. “He kept it out during the day. Which reminds me, when I find it I need to add you to the list.”

I pulled open the drawer in the table where we were sitting and where Philbrick liked to work.

“This it?” I asked, indicating a black pad with a spiral binding across the top.

“The very thing,” Emily said. She reached in and took it out. “Here we go.” Emily had turned her attention to the keyboard and begun to type. “Here's one of me…”

But I wasn't listening. Folded up in the bottom of the drawer was a magazine clipping. It was a page from a girlie magazine. I took it out and opened it. Typical
Playboy
spread—there were pictures of young women in various states of undress. The settings were a bit unusual. One looked out coyly from a sedate office lined with books, another lay seductively on what looked like a bed in a dormitory room with a Dartmouth pennant on the wall behind her. The article was titled “University Playmates,” and the issue was dated three years earlier.

“Here we go,” Emily said. She was opening a new window on the screen with another brain floating in it.

I was about to put the clipping back when I noticed the woman in one of the photos was Emily. She'd posed up on her haunches with her chest thrust forward and behind thrust back, wearing nothing but a lab coat. So this was the “stupid thing” Emily said she'd done in college because she needed the money.

“We can run them side by side and—” Emily's voice died out. She stood there frozen when she saw what I was holding.

The sidebar next to the picture quoted her: “‘I think it's important that women not be seen as sex objects but as sexual beings. Nudity is normal. If a woman wants to show her body off, what's the harm?' says coed Emily Ryan, who is completing her degree in psychology at Harvard.”

But there she'd been wrong. When the magazine had hit the stands, she'd undoubtedly had to fend off unwelcome advances from men who saw her posing for
Playboy
as a welcome mat. It explained how she'd achieved the kind of celebrity—in this case, notoriety—that it took to win the obsessive attentions of a stranger. No wonder she'd needed Kyle to protect her.

“Lenny?” Emily said, staring into the still-open drawer. There were about a half-dozen chewed-on pencils still in the drawer. From the back she pulled out a small piece of white fabric in the shape of a heart. “Lenny.” This time the name came out as a moan. She sat and put her head in her hands.

I like to think I'm a pretty perceptive observer, a good judge of people. But I was batting zero with Philbrick. First I'd written him off as completely lacking in bedside manner. Now I was having a hard time casting him as a stalker. Odd, yes. Repressed geek, for sure. But a sexual predator? I looked at the heart, at the
Playboy
layout. Maybe he was.

“You didn't suspect it was him?” I asked.

“Lenny?” Emily gazed at me wide-eyed. “I knew he liked me. He used to walk me to my car. We went out for a beer across the street after work. But it never occurred to me that—”

“That he might be interested in you?” I couldn't keep the incredulity out of my voice.

Emily must have heard it, because she said, “He was lonely. Lots of guys are interested. Doesn't mean we couldn't be friends.”

“So you had drinks a few times?”

“Well…more than that, I guess. It became a kind of regular thing. We'd go every Thursday after work, sometimes grab a bite.”

“So you were dating him.”

“No, no.” She looked horrified. “I made it very clear to Lenny that I really admired his intellect and drive, and that I wanted to learn all I could from him. But I wasn't interested in him, not in that way.”

“You didn't take him seriously.”

“I did. I just didn't want to hurt his feelings.”

I know men can be myopic about certain things, but this was the quintessential woman's blind spot. I wondered what awkward, geeky Leonard Philbrick had made of this bright, vivacious young woman who was sending him all those mixed signals. One minute she tells him she enjoys his company and adores his intellect. The next, she rejects his manhood. I could picture Philbrick prolonging the contact with Emily, savoring their “dates,” enjoying what it felt like to be seen in public with an attractive woman. Self-esteem by association.

Then he discovers she's posed naked. Maybe his view of her changes—now she's nothing but a slut. He fantasizes about her, follows her. Infatuation turns to obsession. Not so farfetched.

I looked at the fabric heart. Sweet, really, like an elementary-school valentine—but sinister all the same.

“We were friends. At least that's what I thought we were,” Emily said.

“The police will have to be told.”

“The police? You think this has something to do with—?” It was hard to believe she could be so obtuse.

“Maybe nothing. Maybe everything. I'm not a homicide detective, but I do know that understanding the victim is the key to solving a crime.”

“Crime,” Emily echoed the word. She pressed her lips together. “I keep hoping they're going to tell us it was an accident. We'll figure out who brought in the tank. How it got delivered by mistake.”

“Maybe,” I said, “but Lenny's wallet and credit cards were in his pocket when he died.”

Emily sagged at the news. “He'd never have gone near the scanner with his wallet in his pocket.”

I agreed.

“So someone put him in the scanner? Staged the accident?” she said.

“That would be one explanation.”

“But why? Why would anyone want to kill him?”

“That's why the police need to know about this stuff in his desk. If he was stalking you, that suggests all sorts of avenues to explore. Maybe you weren't his only victim.” When had Amanda the receptionist left, I wondered, and what reason had she given?

“You think I…or one of them could have done it?” Emily bit her lower lip. “Do the police have to know everything?”

I picked up the phone. When I got through to the police, MacRae wasn't there. I'd just begun to leave him a message when I heard the door behind me open and felt a little breeze. I glanced over my shoulder. There was Shands.

“If you have a few minutes—” he was saying as he strode in.

“The police were called here a few weeks ago,” I told MacRae's voicemail. “Someone had been following Dr. Ryan, vandalizing her car. The officers came and took some evidence, underwear of Dr. Ryan's with pieces cut out. We may have just found one of those pieces in Dr. Leonard Philbrick's desk. He's the man who was killed in the scanner here.” I repeated the lab name and address twice. Gave him the phone number and extension. Then I hung up.

“What's this all about?” Shands demanded.

The
Playboy
picture had disappeared and Emily had her hand behind her back.

“We just found some evidence that suggests that Dr. Philbrick was stalking Emily.” I explained, and showed him the piece of fabric.

Shands went pale. “Where did you find that?”

“Right here,” Emily said indicating the drawer.

“Leonard?” He sounded even more incredulous than Emily had been. He reached into the drawer and took out one of the pencils. He ran his thumb up and down the bitten shaft. “Poor devil. Of course he was in love with you.”

That was a quick turnabout. First reaction, Shands couldn't believe was Philbrick was a stalker. Now suddenly it made perfect sense.

“Sure he liked me. But in love?”

“I've known Leonard for years. From time to time, he became besotted. Always with someone young, pretty. Unattainable…for him.” Shands said. Emily winced. “Oh yes, he adored you. Used to watch you when you worked. We all knew.” The unsaid question hung in the air: How could you
not
know? “Of course I never thought he'd do anything like”—his gaze fell on the white fabric heart. He picked it up delicately between thumb and forefinger—“this.” He closed his fist around it and turned to leave.

“Jim,” I said.

“Not now, Peter. I need time to review your scan. Run a few statistical analyses.” He was heading toward the door. “Then let's talk. Yes, we
will
need to talk. I'll call you.” He pulled the door open.

“Sorry,” I said, pressing the door shut. “You shouldn't be taking that.”

He turned red. He wasn't used to confrontation, never mind being told what he could and couldn't do.

“Maybe it's nothing,” I said, shrugging it off like this was no big deal, but I held my ground. “On the other hand, it could be important. I know the police will be concerned about chain of custody.”

“Chain of custody?” The words exploded. “You think this is evidence of a crime?”

“Stalking is a crime,” I said. “So is murder.”

“I hardly think…” Shands started. He looked down at his clenched fist, then up at me. “Is this really necessary? Why tarnish Leonard's reputation? For God's sake, hasn't he suffered enough already?” He glared past me at Emily.

I held out my hand. Reluctantly he gave me the piece of cloth and then stormed out.

“I've never seen him come unglued like that,” Emily said after Shands had left. She seemed shaken herself. “He's usually so sure of himself.”

I would have said so well defended. Maybe the loss of Philbrick had weakened his armor, temporarily at least.

Emily seemed pretty unglued herself. Her hand trembled as she brushed a strand of hair from her face. “Thanks,” she said, “for not showing him the
Playboy
picture. I'd die if he found out.”

“You know the police are going to have to be told about it. Now, more than ever, you need a lawyer. Someone experienced with criminal cases to protect you from saying or doing anything that's not in your own best interest. Call this guy,” I said, and wrote out Chip Ferguson's name and number on a slip of paper and gave it to her. She didn't argue.

The phone rang. I picked up. It was MacRae, and he was on his way over.

I went to tell Shands that the police were coming. I found him charging out of the door marked
PRIVATE
like he was late to an important meeting. When he saw me he jerked to a halt.

He just nodded when I told him a detective was on the way over. Then he made a U-turn and went back inside, leaving a wake of frigid, formalin-scented air dissipating in the hallway. Here was the stereotypical scientist. With shoes dropping left and right around him, the rest of us would have circled the wagons and huddled with coworkers. Shands apparently preferred to bury his head in his lab.

“Y
OU MIGHT
at least have had the decency to inform me before taking matters into your own hands,” Dr. Pullaski said to me, steely voiced. She'd found me and Emily in the control room waiting for MacRae to arrive. “I would have handled it.”

I muttered something that I hoped sounded like an apology. I hadn't gone looking for her because I was afraid she might have taken matters into
her
own hands, as Shands had tried to do. Whatever else their relationship had become, they were partners in protecting the lab's reputation.

I showed her what had turned up in Philbrick's desk. “I should have known there'd be something like this,” Dr. Pullaski said when she saw the
Playboy
picture. “I warned him.” Emily wilted under her disapproving stare. “Just what we need to keep the press yapping at our heels.” She smoothed her skirt and adjusted her pearls.

When MacRae arrived Dr. Pullaski was oozing helpfulness. “Let me know what you need,” she said with a tight smile.

“You must hang out here a lot,” MacRae said to me.

“Actually, no. I was here to have my brain scanned.”

“You were what?”

“I had an MRI,” I explained. He was looking at me like I had a screw loose. “I'm a ‘normal.'”

“Sure you are,” MacRae said, smiling and shaking his head. “And Ted Bundy was a misunderstood kid from a broken home.”

Quickly he got to work. After questioning Emily and me, he moved on to Shands and other staff members. MacRae was still there when Gloria beeped me. Turned out Uncle Jack had worsened overnight. He was in toxic shock and on life support in the ICU. As soon as MacRae said it was okay to leave, I headed over there.

I picked up the intercom phone at the door to the ICU. A nurse picked up on the other side and buzzed me in.

The sound of an ICU is unique—the occasional hushed voice, the squeak of rubber-soled shoes, and the steady hiss of ventilators and beeping of monitors. I'd only been in an ICU a couple of times, but I was reminded once again how much it felt like the eye of a hurricane.

Annie was sitting in a chair alongside Uncle Jack's bed. Uncle Jack looked frail and gray, his eyes closed. The bed was propped up and an assortment of tubes and cables snaked off his body. Annie was reading aloud to him from the
Boston Globe
.

I took his chart from the end of the bed and read. Uncle Jack was running a fever of 100.5, and his white count was still up. He was getting antibiotics intravenously. They'd discontinued the experimental protocol. I wished I had Kwan with me to decipher the rest of the scrawls.

When Annie paused in her reading and looked over at me, Uncle Jack shifted slightly toward her. That he noticed the change was a good sign. Her eyes spoke volumes—equal parts anxiety and sadness.

I sat with them until the nurse made us leave.

“Your father needs his rest,” she said. Annie didn't bother to correct her.

Annie put her hand on Uncle Jack's arm and leaned close.

“I'm going to have to go now. I'll be back tomorrow afternoon.”

Annie bent closer and kissed his cheek. Then she turned to go. Uncle Jack's hand hovered as he tried to say something.

“Oh yeah, sorry,” Annie said, tucking the newspaper into the cabinet by Uncle Jack's bed. “For later.”

A shadow of a smile flickered on Uncle Jack's face.

We took the elevator down to the lobby in silence and sat in a corner on a turquoise vinyl sofa.

“Acute bacterial pneumonia,” Annie said. “That's what they say he's got. He's incredibly weak, but at least he's more comfortable than when they first moved him into the ICU.” Annie looked exhausted, her eyes bloodshot. “They tell me the next few days are critical.”

I took Annie's hand and held it between mine. “I'm sorry. I was so sure I knew what the right thing was for your uncle.”

“It's not your fault,” Annie said. She rolled her shoulders around and rubbed the back of her neck. “You couldn't have known.”

I went around to give her a proper shoulder rub.

“You sleep last night?” Her shoulders and upper back were in knots.

“Some.” She turned her head and looked up at me, smiling. “Not as well as the night before.” Then her brow creased and her eyebrows drew together. “Hey, you don't look so great yourself. What happened?”

“Nothing really. I got my head examined.”

Annie laughed. “So you finally took Kwan's advice?”

I worked my thumbs up Annie's neck. That was exactly why I hadn't told him—I knew he'd rag me endlessly about getting my brain scanned.

“I had an MRI.”

Annie jumped up. “At
that
place?” She put her hand on my forehead. “Watch you don't come down with something.” I knew she was only half joking. “I appreciate your not telling tell me until it was over.”

“I seem to be no worse for the wear,” I said. “Though my arm's a little sore from where they injected the dye.”

“They put dye in your arm to light up your head?”

“Weird, I know. But that's how it works.”

“And was everyone suitably impressed?”

Now wasn't the time to tell her I was worried about what Shands had seen in my brain scan.

“Knocked their socks off,” I said. “While I was over there, I discovered something that suggests Dr. Philbrick was Emily Ryan's stalker.”

“You're kidding,” Annie said. “Philbrick?”

I told her what we'd found.

“She posed for
Playboy
?” Annie laughed. “Bet she wishes she could take that one off her CV.” Annie shook her head. “I ever tell you I once mooned a cop on my way through some little town between Las Vegas and Death Valley? Who knew youth and stupidity were synonyms?” Annie's look turned sober. “And who exactly made this discovery?”

I told her. “Emily seemed completely surprised. Stunned, in fact.”

“I'll bet she did,” Annie said. Her gray eyes searched my face.

“I gave her Chip's number. I just hope she calls him.”

“Peter, have you noticed how much that girl enjoys being the center of attention? First she's stalked. Then she finds the body. Later she makes sure you find the evidence that suggests the dead guy stalked her.” Annie stood. “You're sure she didn't make it all up—being stalked, I mean?”

It was true, I hadn't actually seen Emily's stalker. It would have been possible for her to have made it all up, planted the evidence herself. “But why would she do that?”

Annie had an answer ready. “Look, you're the shrink. But if you're wearing blinders for some reason, the answer is simple. To get attention. Your attention.” Maybe she was right, and I had been blindsided. I was supposed to be able to call myself on that kind of thing. “Of course now she's gotten herself in quite a pickle. She had motive, opportunity. And you're sure as hell paying attention. So are the police. I suppose if there's a lesson in all this it's be careful what you wish for.”

I sat in the observation room the next day, watching Emily and Mr. Black. I was more than a little troubled. A person who'd allow herself to be photographed by
Playboy
, even ostensibly for the money, had to be something of an exhibitionist. Emily did seem to crave center spotlight. It was exactly what she was doing in her sessions with Mr. Black, subtly shifting the focus of the therapeutic relationship to herself. It was a personality style that probably had its roots in Emily's childhood, when she'd sought and never managed to sustain the attentions of a father who abandoned the family but kept returning every few years just long enough to impregnate her mother. But would she go so far as to create her own stalker? That seemed a reach.

“It's damned uncomfortable,” said Mr. Black. “The tape itches, and my arm gets numb. But when I've had the operation, I won't have to deal with that. Beyond that, it's just a lot of inconveniences. Minor, really.”

“Like what?” Emily asked. Today she had on a discreet, dark pantsuit with a pink turtleneck.

“Like it takes twice as many trips to the car to unload my groceries. And it's a pain in the ass using my computer one-handed. Buttons are hard. Zippers are harder. Handling money—getting dollar bills into my wallet? It's all stuff I can learn to deal with.”

“Anything else?”

“Yeah. People look at me.” He paused. “They really seem to connect with me now. It's like I jump off the radar. That part I like.”

“How do they look at you?”

“Well, they look at the arm, of course. The one that's not there. Then the other arm. Then they look at my face.”

“So it's a way of connecting.”

“At least they're not ignoring me.”

“What do you imagine they're thinking?”

“Maybe they're wondering if I was born this way. Or did I lose it in an accident? Did I fight in the military? Maybe it makes some of them uncomfortable. I'm sure some of them get off on it. There was this one guy who followed me. I'm in Walgreens and he's half an aisle away from me the whole time.”

“Did that bother you?”

“Why should it? It's his problem.”

Emily looked at him without saying anything.

“You mean like, do I get off on it?” he asked. “I guess I kind of do. Do you think that's what this is about? Wanting to be looked at? Like a flasher?”

“Does it make you feel like a flasher?”

“You mean, do I get some sexual charge out of being an amputee?
I do not.
” The words came out like an oath. “I certainly don't want to be made into a dirty joke. That's not what this is about.”

“What is it about?”

“It's about feeling normal.”

That was interesting—equating “normal” with being stared at as opposed to being ignored, dismissed as inconsequential. Self-esteem did seem to be at the root of his issues, and maybe Emily's issues as well.

“But there are inconveniences. True?” Emily asked.

“Some. Like I said, it's itchy.”

“If your phantom limb itches, you won't be able to untape it and scratch yourself.”

Mr. Black put his hand over his mouth and looked away from her. “What else am I supposed to do?” I wondered if Emily saw the same yellow lights flashing that I did. Mr. Black was asking her to save him. Would she take the bait?

“We've discussed medication before—” Emily began.

He stiffened. “Would you want to take a pill that erased part of who you are?”

“Think about it. You're afraid to take a pill to erase part of who you are, but you're willing to have a piece of yourself cut off, erasing part of yourself surgically?”

It was painful to listen to her—being confrontational like that was only inviting a pissing contest.

He reared back. “You condemn me for being self-destructive. Take a look around before you pass judgment. People do all kinds of things that are self-destructive. Smoking. Drinking. Driving a motorcycle. Owning a pit bull. You don't medicate those poor slobs. Though I don't know why not. Seems like we've got pills for everything. You want to be thin? Here's a pill. You want to be happy? Have another. More virile?”

He gave Emily a sideways look. He was attracted to her. But now his attentions didn't cast a sinister shadow. He wasn't the stalker and the attraction wasn't obsessive—this was part of transference, one of the inevitables of therapy.

“What happened to an individual's right to choose?” he asked.

“So what do you wish for, right now?”

“To be taken seriously,” he shot back at her.

“And I'll take you more seriously if you cut off your arm?”

“No. That's not what I mean. What I mean is that I want people like you to take me seriously when I say this arm doesn't belong here. And that I'm not acting out some adolescent sexual fantasy. And that I don't need medication to anesthetize myself and turn into another kind of zombie.”