The Hole was just around the corner and David dragged out getting there to debate the questions that had peaked. Son-of-a-bitch! So, he's stepping things up? That's fine-two can play. Time for his decision scar. First off: Spritz. He's an employee here, right? Where's his file? Most likely in Foster's office. Unannounced is best, remember? No brainer, then. Break into his office later … whoa, how indelicate! Visit his office after hours. If nothing's there-simple-go right to Spritz's home. It worked at Bugles' place, right? In spades.
For a moment, he considered the alternative of simply asking Foster about Spritz's background but decided he didn't want to tip his hand because he hadn't ruled out any scenario, including collusion.
The minute David walked in, Belle held out the phone. "It's for you," she said. Her words sounded sticky. She pressed the phone against her hip and waved her pencil for him to come to the desk. She wrote on a scratch pad, "That same voice!"
"Yes, Dr. Brooks here," he said firmly as he took Belle's chair.
In falsetto, the voice said, "Time for us to get together."
"Say that again," David said.
"I think it's time for us to get together."
"Who is this?"
"That's not important right now. What is important is the news I have for you." Is he reading from a script?
David looked at his watch and scribbled the time on a piece of paper. "What news?"
"Uh-uh. In person."
"You're kidding."
"I mean business, Dr. Brooks."
"Is this about a medical problem?"
"Come now, Dr. Brooks. Don't act stupid. It's about the biggest medical problem the hospital's ever had, and you know it."
David's mind shifted into high gear. "Okay then, Mr.-Mr. Voice. I'll wait for you here at the hospital. I have a little room in the basement near … "
"Recycling Center at six tonight. Come alone."
David heard the click, yet said, "Wait." He hung up the receiver for a split second and then contacted the page operator.
"Helen," he said, "it's me. That call that just came through-did you recognize the voice?"
"Her? No, never heard it before."
"Did she ask for me, or did she give you my extension number?"
"Two-twenty-two: your extension. Everything okay?"
"Yeah, fine. Thanks." David tossed the receiver toward its cradle but missed. He picked it up and replaced it deliberately as he collected his thoughts.
"That bastard is no `she,' he said to Belle. "That's Victor Spritz, sure as I'm sitting here. Oh, sorry-here's your chair back."
"No, thanks, I'm too nervous to sit." She locked two fingers into her other hand.
He got up and swung around to the front edge of the desk. Half-sitting there, his eyes were still square to Belle's. "What do you think?"
She looked bewildered. "Sounded like a fake female … yes … definitely a fake female … God, that's spooky. But what makes you think it's Spritz."
"The cadence. And he knows my extension. But mostly the cadence."
"And he's coming here?"
"No, he said tonight at the Recycling Center."
"There? You going?" Belle gave her own answer. "David, don't. It sounds too dangerous."
"It sounds like a sucker request, Belle, but here's how I figure it. Let's assume he's the killer. Now, he's either sending me on a wild goose chase to take me away from something or someone, or …."
"Like who?"
David ran his hand down behind his ear. "Like Kathy. He knows I'm with her most evenings. Now she'd be exposed."
"To what?"
"I hate to imagine. But, the other possibility-and this from my psychology brain-is that he'll be around there somewhere, to see if I show up."
"He'll take a shot at you, David."
"I don't think so. He's no fool. What's to keep me from bringing backup-I mean circles and circles of backup. If he takes a shot and even misses …."
"Or doesn't," Belle said without missing a beat.
David raised his index finger and paused as if he had lost his train of thought.
"What I mean is-whether he missed me or not, they'd be all over him in a flash. While he's waiting, if he spots backup, what could he do? He has no leverage. There's no one kidnapped he could kill. So, my guess is he'll be well-hidden, out of shooting range, maybe with binoculars to see if I show."
"I don't get it. Why go through all that trouble?"
"As I said, psychology. Sort of a control thing. And speaking of that, sooner or later I was going to see El Shrinko Sam Corliss to check out some hunches about our killer. Now I can include this. Call and see if he can fit me in after lunch today."
"Call in advance? That's not like you."
"No, but those sofa jobs run an hour or more. I'm not about to wait around."
Belle finally sat and began twisting a paper clip. "David," she said, "why go just because he asked you to? You're asking for trouble and what's there to gain?"
"I know, I know. But look at it this way: does he expect me to back off?"
"Who cares?"
"It's important to psychopaths and don't tell me we're not dealing with one here. So, in going, I'm getting into his mind, sending back my own message."
"Which is?"
"That I mean business, too."
Before leaving for the cafeteria, David called Kathy intending to inform her of the phone call. She stated she was going to her mother's for dinner-straight from work. He convinced her to await his arrival there, hopefully at about six-thirty. "I haven't seen your mother in some time." He ended up not mentioning the phone call after all-and his likely visit to the outskirts of town.
Belle had arranged a midafternoon appointment with Dr. Samuel Corliss, Chairman of the hospital's Center for Behavioral Health.
David entered his office in Rosen Hall at precisely three. The small waiting room contained three soft chairs placed equidistant to one another around a triangular table. He avoided them, choosing instead to inspect posters of Paris highlights on each wall, moving quietly so as not to disturb an elderly woman sleeping in one of the chairs. There was no one in the reception area behind a window in one wall until Dr. Corliss, himself, appeared and slid open the glass panel.
"Why, hello!" he said, extending his hand over the counter and shaking David's as if he had returned from a war.
"Hi, Sam, how's it going? Keeping the phobias in check?"
Dr. Corliss laughed. "Come on in, David, come on in," he said.
"But what about …?" David nodded toward the woman.
"Violet? She'll be fine. Always comes an hour too early. I let her keep the compulsion."
Inside, the office was as simple as the waiting room and not much larger: basic leather couch, two recliners, maple desk and high-back chair. Its ivory sidewalls were sprinkled with diplomas, certificates and photographs of class reunions. Paintings of Sigmund Freud and Karl Menninger dominated the wall behind the desk, framing Dr. Corliss as he sat. David sunk in a recliner before the desk, but he kept it upright, feet on the floor, knees higher than his hips.
The psychiatrist looked the part: white beard, pince-nez, frumpy ashen suit that coordinated well with the fluff around his ears. Wrinkles terraced his forehead. A star key medallion dangled from his neck and David, conjecturing it was used as a metronome in hypnosis, determined he would cry foul if he saw it move.
He was still conscious of men's heights: what's going on? Did Foster only hire department chiefs as tall as he is?
"Sam, I'm not sure what Belle said but I'm not here for myself-although the way things are going, the day might come."
"All she did was set up the appointment."
"I'll get right to the point, then. We've had four killings here now …"
"Four? No. Let's see-Bugles and there's what's his-name, Everett Coughlin, from Yonderville across town." He waved contemptuously.