Authors: John Katzenbach
Help him enjoy your killing. Draw it out and draw him out. Buy yourself time.
That’s your only chance.
Of course, he had not decided what he might do with the time he purchased.
And so, he’d taken a few steps to ready himself for the second call. Modest steps—but they gave him a sense of
doing
rather than sitting around patiently while someone planned his death. He made a quick trip to a nearby electronics store to obtain an attachment to his phone, so he could record conversations. This was followed by a second trip to an office supply outlet to acquire several legal tablets of yellow lined paper and a box of Number 2 pencils. He would tape. He would take notes.
The recording device was a stick-on suction cup that picked up both voices in a telephone conversation. It attached to a microcassette recorder. The advantage to the setup was simple: It would not make the ubiquitous beeping sound that legal recordings made.
He wasn’t sure what purpose would be served by making a recording. But it seemed like it might be a wise move, and in the absence of any other forms of protection, it seemed to make sense.
Perhaps he’ll make some overt, obvious threat and I can go to the police …
Jeremy doubted he would be so fortunate. He assumed the caller would be too smart.
And anyway—what could the cops do to protect me? Park a cruiser outside? For how long? Tell me to get a gun and a pit bull?
He knew he had great ability to extract information from a subject. This capability had always come easily to him. But he also knew that his examinations had been after the fact—crimes had been committed, arrests made.
He understood crimes from the past. This was the promise of a crime in the future.
Predictions? Impossible.
Regardless, when he sat down at his small desk in his upstairs office, he had a feeling of confidence as he worked out some questions for that inev
itable second call. This was frustrating, slow-paced work. He knew he had to do some rudimentary psychological assessments—he had to ask some questions that would ascertain that the caller was oriented to time, place, and circumstances in order to make sure he wasn’t schizophrenic and getting homicidal command hallucinations. He already knew the answer to that particular question was
no,
but the scientist in him demanded that he still make certain.
Rule out as many mental illnesses as you can.
But what dragged out his preparation was the realization that he was in uncharted psychological territory.
Danger assessment
tools were really designed to help social service systems assist threatened wives to avoid abusive husbands.
Situational context
was crucial—but he also knew that he could comprehend only half of this equation:
mine
. The part that he needed to know was:
his
.
Jeremy Hogan sat in the near dark, surrounded by papers, academic studies, journal copies, textbooks that he hadn’t opened in years, and computer printouts of various web pages devoted to risk understanding.
It was night. A single desktop light and his computer screen were the only illumination in the room. He glanced outside his window to take in the sweep of inky isolation that surrounded his old farmhouse. He could not recall whether he’d left any lights on downstairs in the kitchen or living room.
He thought:
I have become an old man. The steady gray fog of aging turns to deep night darkness.
This was far more poetic than he usually was.
Jeremy returned to his research. At the top of a blank sheet on one of his legal pads he listed:
Appearance
Attitude
Behavior
Mood and Affect
Speech
Thought Process
Thought Content
Perceptions
Cognition
Insight
Judgment
Under ordinary circumstances, these were the emotional domains he would probe before returning a psychological profile.
Of the accused,
he told himself.
But now it’s me who stands accused.
There would be no way to assess
appearance
or anything else that required him to observe the caller in the flesh. So he would be limited to what he could detect from the caller’s tone, the specific words he used, and the way he constructed his message.
Language is key. Every word must tell you something.
Thought process is next. How does he construct his desire to kill me? Look for signals that will underscore the meaning of murder to him. When does he laugh? When does he lower his voice? When does he speed it up?
He thought of his assessment as a triangle. If language and thought were two lines, he would need to find a third. That would give him a chance.
Once you know
what
he is, then you can start to figure out
who
he is.
This is a game,
Jeremy Hogan told himself.
I damn well better win it.
He rocked back in his chair, twiddled a pencil in his hand, looked down at his notes, reminded himself to constantly be the part scientist, part artist he believed he was, and found that he wasn’t exactly frightened.
Curiously, he felt challenged.
This made him smile.
All right. You’ve made the first move, Mister Who’s at Fault?: a short, cryptic phone call that instantly made me panic like any damn fool who was suddenly threatened. White Pawn to e4. The Spanish Game. Probably the most powerful opening available.
But I can play, too.
Counter with: Black Pawn to c5. The Sicilian Defense.
And I’m no longer panicked.
Even if you do mean to eventually kill me.
When the phone did ring, he was deep in the mixed fog and electric dreams of sleep. It took him several seconds to drag himself from unsettled netherworld into unsettled reality. The ringing insistence of the phone seemed like it should be part of a nightmare rather than wakefulness.
Jeremy took several sharp breaths as he pivoted his feet to the side of the bed. It was cold, but it shouldn’t have been.
He inwardly screamed
Composure!
although he knew this was a difficult state to attain. He reached out with one hand for the phone and with the other punched a switch to “record.”
The caller ID had read “Unknown Number
.
” A quick glance at a bedside clock told him it was a few minutes after 5 a.m.
Smart,
he thought.
He will have been preparing himself for hours, building himself up, knowing he was awakening me and taking me unawares.
Another deep breath.
Sound dull, befuddled. But be alert, ready.
He made his voice slow, thick with night. He coughed once as he answered. He wanted to give the impression of age and uncertainty. He needed to sound unsteady and afraid—even decrepit and weak. But he wanted to reply in the same way that he would have years earlier, a physician called in the middle of the night for an emergency. “Yes, yes, this is Doctor Hogan. Who is this?”
Momentary silence.
“Whose fault is it, Doctor?”
Jeremy shivered. He paused several seconds before replying. “I know you believe it is my fault, whatever it is. I should hang up on you. Who are you?”
A snort. As if this question was somehow contemptuous. “You already know who I am. How’s that for an answer?”
“Not very satisfying. I don’t understand. I don’t understand anything, and especially I don’t understand why you want to kill me. How long have you been—”
He was interrupted.
“I have been thinking about you, Doctor, for many years.”
The reply made him jump.
“How many years is that?”
Damn,
Jeremy Hogan berated himself.
Don’t be so goddamned obvious.
He listened to the voice on the end of the line. It seemed rough—as if carved out of some frightening memory and sharpened to a point with a dull, rusty knife. He felt nearly certain now that the caller-killer was using some electronic voice-obscuring hardware.
So rule out: accent, inflection, and tone. They won’t help you.
“If I have to die for something I allegedly did …”
He restored his own voice to something between irritation and lecture. But as he asked his questions, he listened for the responses.
“
Allegedly
is a great word. It has a nice, lawyerly ring to it …”
Jeremy made a note on his legal pad.
Educated.
Then he underlined it twice.
He made a second note:
Not prison-educated. Not street-educated.
He took a chance. “So, you’re either a former student or a former subject. What, did I flunk you? Or maybe I wrote some assessment for the court that you think put you away …”
Come on. Say something that will help me.
The caller did not.
“What? Doctor, you believe those are the only two categories of people that might harbor ill feelings toward you?”
The caller laughed.
“You must feel you’ve led an exemplary life. A life without mistakes. Guilt-free and saintlike.”
Jeremy didn’t have time to reply before the caller added, “I don’t think so.”
“Why me?” Jeremy blurted out. “And why am I last on some list?”
“Because you were only part of the equation that ruined my life.”
“You don’t sound like it’s ruined.”
“That is because I have been successful at restoring it. One death at a time.”
“The man who died in Miami, he was a suicide …”
“So they said.”
“But you’re suggesting something different.”
“Clearly.”
“Murder.”
“A reasonable inference.”
“Maybe I don’t believe you. You sound paranoid, a fantasist. Maybe that death was something you’re imagining you had something to do with. I think I should hang up now.”
“Your choice, Doctor. Not a wise one, for someone who has spent their life collecting information, but still, if that’s what you think will help you …”
Jeremy did not hang up. He felt outmaneuvered. He glanced down at his list of psychological domains.
Useless,
he thought.
“And my murder, that will make it complete?”
“That’s an inference you are drawing, Doctor.”
Jeremy wrote:
Not paranoid. A sociopath?
He thought:
Not like any sociopath I’ve ever known. At least—I don’t think so.
“I’ve called the police. They’re all over this …”
“Doctor, why would you lie to me? Why don’t you make it a better story:
There’s cops here now, listening in, tracing this call, and they’re going to be surrounding me at any second …
Isn’t that better?”
Jeremy felt stupid. He wondered:
How does he know? Is he watching me?
A shaft of cold fear dropped through him, and he looked wildly around the room, almost panicked. The caller’s steady mocking tones bought him back to the conversation.
“Perhaps you should talk to the police. It will give you a sense of security. Foolish, but maybe it will make you feel better. How long do you suspect that sense will last?”
“You’re patient.”
“People who hurry to collect their debts invariably settle for less on the dollar than they deserve, don’t you think, Doctor?”
Jeremy wrote down:
No fear of authorities.
He thought he should follow up on that.
“The cops—suppose they catch you …”
Another laugh. “I don’t think so, Doctor. You don’t give me enough credit. You should.”
Jeremy hesitated as he wrote
Conceited
. He shut his eyes briefly, thinking hard. He decided to take another chance, and to add a slight mocking tone in his own voice.
“So, Mister Who’s at Fault, just how much time do I have left?”
A pause.
“I like that name. It’s appropriate.”
“How much time?”
“Days. Weeks. Months. Maybe, maybe, maybe. How much time does anyone have?”
A hesitation, coupled with that same humorless laugh.
“What makes you think, Doctor, that I’m not outside your door right now?”
And then the line went dead.
There was irritating Muzak playing in the elevator as Moth and Andy Candy rode up to the eleventh floor. Both were nervous and the background noise rubbed their thoughts the wrong way. It was an orchestral reinterpretation of some ancient popular rock tune, and both of them hummed along briefly, neither putting a title to the sound.
“Beatles?” Andy Candy asked abruptly. She was on edge, wondering whether she might be tumbling toward obsession along with Moth. When she stole glances in his direction, it seemed as if he wore the look of a mountain climber hanging dangerously from a cliff: desperate not to fall and determined to find a way to lift himself to safety, no matter how frayed his ropes were and how loose the knots holding him in place might be. She could sense wind currents sweeping her along and wasn’t sure she should trust them.