Innocent Bystander (5 page)

She stumbled to the window and shoved aside several vertical blinds. Bright sunlight forced her to squint. Across the street, children rocked back and forth on seesaws, climbed rope spider webs, and constructed castles of sand inside a square wooden box. Their mothers stood guard, no doubt gossiping about who was cheating on whom.

A teenage girl darted through the park on rollerblades. With her medium brown hair and slight build, she resembled Audrey. The impulse to race downstairs collided with her rational mind. No matter how desperate or disturbed Audrey turned out to be, she wouldn’t be foolish enough to rollerblade through the park a day after driving a man to suicide. Whatever her faults, she didn’t strike Emma as stupid.

She set about cleaning the room. Two photo albums returned to their home on a dark maple shelf above her TV. Ten seconds later a third one joined its cousins.

Two photo albums remained on the floor, both open. Three pictures lined the left side of each page. A brief caption, scribbled on the right side, provided the date and location of each photograph.

She approached the first album, determined to avert her gaze. Emotionally exhausted, she lacked the strength to relive any memories.

But like struggling not to peek as your car creeps past a horrific accident, the flashing lights and twisted wreckage demanding your attention, her gaze fell on the top picture of the right page. The conflicting emotions it produced unsettled her rather than eliciting tears.

Theirs had been far from a perfect relationship. The photograph of the two of them at her sister’s high school graduation offered the quintessential reminder of that. A blissful evening had been sabotaged by a nasty fight after dinner. What they had fought about, she could not recall. But about one thing she felt certain. The fight had been over something trivial. She and Henri had become masters of many couples biggest cliché—building mountains out of molehills.

The doorbell chimed. In no mood to speak with anyone, she slogged to the door. Through the peephole she spotted two men. The first, who appeared to have randomly grabbed a pair of pants and a shirt from the floor of Henri’s closet, was perhaps fifty. The second, well dressed and probably in his mid-thirties, leaned against the wall. Badges hung from their belts.

The chain still secured, she opened the door a crack. “Can I help you?”

The older man stepped forward, a tweed jacket slung over his shoulder. “Ma’am, I’m Detective Wilford Farrow. This is Detective Mayweather. We need to speak to you regarding the death of Henri Laroche.”

Where did it all go wrong?
Burnett remembered Henri’s final question before they’d left Charlie’s Place.

He sat on the edge of a burgundy-colored sofa in Dr. Rosenstein’s office, a stunning lake view beyond the lone window. The white noise sound machine in the waiting room, designed to promote relaxation, had failed to accomplish its objective.

Burnett didn’t know the answer to Henri’s question, but he knew part of it. One of the great things about college was the sense of limitless potential. Though it was his second time around, and he shouldered a decade’s worth of cynicism to offset his optimism, the future looked sunny. Returning to school to pursue a degree in the field of his choice had infused him with a fervor he’d never before felt. Meeting Henri midway through the first year had only strengthened his conviction in the endless possibilities.

Despite their age difference, they’d hit it off immediately. Henri, with his wild and seemingly impossible ideas, and Burnett, his soles firmly planted on terra firma, had complemented each other perfectly. Together, they
would
change the world.

Then reality intruded.

Henri’s eccentric behavior interfered with his schoolwork, dragging down his grades. Burnett struggled to find a specific path to follow once he finished school.

Yet never could he have predicted he would find himself in a psychiatrist’s office under such circumstances.

He’d made the appointment as much for himself as to discuss Henri. For the fourth consecutive night, his friend’s nightmare had awoken him less than an hour after he’d fallen asleep. He needed insight into the dream. Never had he heard of a nightmare that repeated so precisely each night with a single exception—the location.

Dr. Rosenstein entered. His long, confident strides stirred Burnett’s envy. The youthful-looking psychiatrist couldn’t have been thirty.

Dr. Rosenstein extended a hand with long, bony fingers. Burnett rose and shook it. The doctor had a firm grip.

“Thank you for seeing me,” Burnett said.

“Please tell me what happened. You mentioned on the phone you were there.”

“It’s complicated.”

“Simplify it for me.”

“I can’t. Not if I want it to make any sense.”

Rosenstein motioned for Burnett to sit, and he did. The doctor settled into a plush recliner across from the sofa.

“I hope it wasn’t something he did deliberately,” Rosenstein said.

“I’m afraid it was.”

The doctor grimaced in what Burnett assumed to be physical as well as emotional pain. After he’d composed himself, he slipped off wire-rimmed glasses and rubbed each lens with his tan silk shirt.

“I know you can’t reveal any details of your sessions,” Burnett said, “but can you tell me when the last time you saw him was?”

“A little over three weeks ago.”

Burnett frowned. That was before the dreams started.

“Five days later,” Dr. Rosenstein said, “he called and cancelled his next visit. Then I didn’t hear anything more from him.”

A reflective silence filled the room.

“He’d been doing so well,” Dr. Rosenstein said. “We’d found just the right combination of medications. Or so I’d thought.”

“Henri’d been having nightmares the past few weeks.”

“Some medications can cause them.”

“Not these nightmares,” Burnett said.

“How do you know?”

Burnett thumped his fingers on the arm of the sofa. Saliva evaporated from his mouth. “Because I’ve been having the same ones. I should say the same one.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Neither do I. That’s one of the reasons I wanted to see you today.”

Dr. Rosenstein leaned in, an expectant look in his eyes.

“A little over two weeks ago, Henri completed the first draft of a paper for our physics class. From what he said, the dreams started right after he finished it.”

“He mentioned a number of times how concerned he was about his grades. Stress can certainly cause nightmares.”

“Five days ago I read the paper. When I finished it, I felt what can only be described as an electric shock. Like I’d stuck my finger in an outlet. The past four nights I’ve had the same dream.”

The doctor offered no response, save the bewilderment erasing curiosity from his face.

“Each night,” Burnett said, “I’m visiting a large city, somewhere in Europe or the U.S. I go from one tourist attraction to another. Everything’s fine until I hear a high-pitched whistle overhead. I look up and see an ICBM. Seconds later the entire city is obliterated. Everyone’s dead. Except me.”

Dr. Rosenstein edged forward in his seat, eyes wide.

“Then every dead soul asks me why I did it. Blaming me as if I were responsible for their deaths. Their voices get louder and louder in my head until I can’t stand it anymore.” Burnett stopped and wondered whether the doctor was trying to recall the hotline for Bellevue.

Dr. Rosenstein shook his head, as if shaking himself out of a trance. “You say you’ve had this dream four consecutive nights? And Henri had been having it for several weeks?”

The quizzical look now pasted across Dr. Rosenstein’s face unsettled Burnett. “You think I’m crazy.”

“I’ve never used that word in my life.” The doctor slid his glasses back on. “I’ve just never heard of such a thing. And you say it started after you read this paper?”

“And for him, the night after he finished the first draft.”

“I don’t know what to make of the shock you describe. Something about the paper must have stunned you. But it’s certainly possible his recurring nightmare was the result of stress combined with one or more of the medications he was taking. I don’t know why you would be having the same dream. Are you certain it’s exactly the same? Perhaps they’re just similar.”

“Exactly the same.”

“I don’t think that’s possible,” Dr. Rosenstein said. “Nevertheless, I’d very much like to read this paper.”

“I’m sure the police have his computer now. I don’t think Henri printed any copies.”

Dr. Rosenstein grunted.

Burnett reflected on how truly extraordinary a paper Henri had conceived. “Several of the equations were over my head. Then the one at the end. Never in my life have I seen anything like it. He used mathematical symbols I couldn’t find in any textbook. I don’t know what he discovered, but it had an effect on me. And him.”

“Henri Laroche was a unique and gifted individual.”

Burnett smiled and squeezed back a tear. “You believe the old story that we use only ten percent of our brainpower?”

“No. I think we all use a healthy portion.”

“‘A healthy portion?’”

Dr. Rosenstein offered a meditative smile. “More than half. However, I do believe some people use their brains far more effectively than others. Especially in certain areas, like music, art, mathematics.”

“Henri was a troubled genius,” Burnett said without thinking.

Dr. Rosenstein sat in silence for half a minute. Burnett assumed his remark had been inappropriate.

“I shouldn’t tell you this,” Dr. Rosenstein said. “And if you repeat it, I’ll deny it. But Henri spoke of you often. He considered you the closest friend he ever had.” He removed his glasses once again and meticulously wiped both sides of each lens with his shirt before placing them in his lap. “In my opinion, Henri Laroche likely had savant syndrome.”

Burnett nearly slid off the sofa.

“I won’t go into the specifics of my diagnosis; suffice it to say the challenges he faced were not as severe as most, and those he did have were kept under control with medication.”

Burnett sat in stunned silence.

The expression on Dr. Rosenstein’s face clearly indicated he wished he hadn’t revealed that piece of information. “I have a patient waiting. But I’d like to hear more about this dream. If you have some time Friday morning, I believe I have an opening. You can check with the receptionist.”

“Thanks. I’ll think about it.”

Later that same afternoon, Burnett stood in the doorway to Desmond’s office. He’d forgotten how compact an office the professor had. Though neatly arranged with a large computer monitor on a mahogany desk and two lateral filing cabinets side by side, the room felt far more cramped than any other office he’d visited.

Much to his surprise, Desmond sprang from his chair, bounded over, and enclosed him in a bear hug. After the professor released him and stepped back, Burnett heard him sniffle.

“I am so sorry about Henri,” Desmond said. “In addition to being a great guy, he was the most brilliant student I had ever taught.”

Burnett nodded, solemn, and considered Desmond’s statement. “Brilliant” was a word that had followed Henri since grade school. It had been used to describe him so often it had become a cliché. But few, aside from his closest friends, had ever described him as “a great guy.” People who didn’t know him well preferred more colorful labels such as “eccentric,” “volatile,” or the always dependable “obnoxious.”

“It’s a terrible tragedy,” Burnett said.

“I heard you were with him.”

He nodded. “Can I ask you something personal about him?”

“You knew him far better than I.”

“Was he going to fail your class?”

“That may be a little too personal.”

While it was, of course, true, Desmond could have nodded without a word.

“Did he mention he’d been having nightmares the past few weeks?” Burnett asked.

The question appeared to startle Desmond. He immediately recovered. “He did. He’d been working on a paper to earn extra credit. Apparently they started shortly after he’d finished an early draft.”

Now it was Burnett’s turn to be startled. He’d convinced himself Desmond would deny any knowledge of Henri’s dream. “Did he say anything else?”

“No. I suggested he speak with a professional if they continued to bother him.”

“He didn’t say anything about not turning the paper in?”

Desmond shook his head, then glanced at the clock. “Class begins in five minutes. Walk with me.”

Burnett accompanied his physics professor out of the office and down the hallway.

“Do you know what the subject of his paper was?” Burnett asked.

“He was so concerned about the nightmares,” Desmond said without hesitation, “he never got around to telling me.”

The professor responded too fast, as if his answer had been rehearsed. Burnett decided to push a little. His tone sharpened. “You’re telling me he came to talk to you about his dreams, but never mentioned the subject of his paper? Didn’t show you a draft? Seems strange.”

“I wish he had,” Desmond said, the tenor of his voice unaffected by Burnett’s accusation. “Knowing Henri, I’m sure it was something astonishing.”

Burnett wondered whether or not the intensity of his stare had revealed his suspicion. Even if it had, he knew it wouldn’t have affected the professor’s demeanor.

They arrived inside the lecture hall. Burnett climbed the steps and took a seat in the last row.

Professor Desmond addressed the class, grim-faced. “I have the unfortunate duty to inform all of you that one of your classmates has died. Last night Henri Laroche accidentally fell from his balcony.”

A sad, collective sigh emanated from the students.

An accident?
Is that what the cops really believed or was it just the story they’d released? He didn’t mind it being reported as an accident. The thought of everyone knowing Henri had committed suicide didn’t sit well with him. In fact, the whole situation didn’t sit well. He felt certain Desmond knew more than he’d let on, yet still could not imagine any connection between Audrey and his teacher.

Find her
.
But how?
Googling her name was his first thought. Not exactly Sherlock Holmes, he knew, but a place to start—if, in fact, Audrey Lansing proved to be her real name. It sounded like a fairly common name. But if he added her age and a few other details like different cities and towns in the area, something might hit. Perhaps she was an honor student or an athlete who’d made the local paper.

Or, maybe she’d told the
… but he cut himself off. He refused to entertain the possibility that she might have spoken the truth. “It just couldn’t be,” as his grandfather used to say, “no way, no how.”

Again and again his mind reran the events of the previous evening. Something she’d said or done or worn had to offer a clue to her identity. He tried to recall whether she’d worn any jewelry. To the best of his recollection, she didn’t; this alone struck him as odd. For a girl her age not to wear any rings or have any piercings was unusual.

He didn’t remember any pictures or writing on her T-shirt. She didn’t speak with an accent, at least none he could detect. Emma had correctly noted that she didn’t talk like an average fifteen-year-old.

The confident way she provided an immediate and precise answer for each question they hurled at her unnerved him. Not only had she entered Henri’s apartment well prepared, but she’d played her part flawlessly. It wouldn’t surprise him if she turned out to be a drama student.

No matter how many times he replayed it, he could think of nothing remarkable about her, except her story. The realization set in that finding her would not be simple.

A student in front of him shuffled across the aisle and trotted down the steps. Others followed suit. He checked the clock. Rarely had an hour and ten minutes sped by so fast.

He waited, as always, until the majority of students filed out, then hurried down the stairs. A man in a tweed jacket, with mismatched pants and shirt, blocked the exit. His thinning, yellow-white hair had been matted down on his head.

“Mr. Burnett,” he said. “I’m Detective Farrow. My partner, Detective Mayweather, and I need to ask you a few questions.”