Through the sparkly beads, I could see a couple on the bed to my right. They were laughing, the woman trying not to spill her martini. Beyond her, through another set of beads, four or five women were strewn on a further bed, drinks in their hands. They didn’t pay us any attention. Even the bouncer had stepped back, blending into his post by the edge of the pool.
I sat. My feet were still on the ground, but my body swivelled towards the middle, towards Maria. Her coat slipped off one shoulder. She fanned her emerald skirt over her legs, deep green falling over the polar snow.
“So. You are glad I rescued you from that reception? You have had fun?”
“Totally.” I could feel a brief wave of heat from the fire in the pool, and the bed buzzed, just slightly, with the bass from inside the club. I picked my feet off the ground, turned my hips to mirror Maria’s pose, and let my coat fall off my shoulders too.
“I am glad. I have made up for making you take the train to Čachtice alone?” Maria tousled her hair, dark red waves falling against her lightly freckled arm. Her wrists and earlobes glittered crystal and silver, almost as bright as the curtains, the white-white beds, the fire-lit ice. My body vibrated from dancing, from the lemon drop, and I couldn’t remember the last time I’d had as much fun as tonight.
“Distant memory.” I said.
She smiled. “Well. I am glad. And you liked my friends?”
“Yeah, they’re really nice. Interesting. How do you know them? Do they all live here?”
“Oh, I have many friends. You know, I travel frequently. We will all have to meet up again sometime.”
I took this last sentence as a throwaway, the polite “I’ll call you” that never happens. After tomorrow it was back to Halifax, the lab, my dissertation.
She sat up, leaned forward slightly. “Is Carl taking you to the conference in Prague in the summer?”
“The CEACPS conference? Why, are you going?” Maybe she really did mean for us to meet again.
“No, no. My archival work is not
that
interdisciplinary. I have some acquaintances that spoke about it, that is all.”
“Oh,” I said. “He hasn’t decided if he’s taking me or Shannon, his other grad student. But one of us will have to go, to make sure his PowerPoint works, and all that stuff.”
“Perhaps there are some benefits to having such a needy supervisor?” she said. “If he picks you, maybe you could arrange a few days afterwards to visit me in Budapest? It is a short plane ride, or you could even take the train, if you want some scenery.”
“Really?”
“Budapest is such a beautiful city, right on the Danube, you know. You would stay with me. There are many things to see. I would show you.”
A few days in Budapest, in Maria’s world, would make a week of running after Carl tolerable. “I’ll see if I can talk him into taking me,” I said.
She looked over my shoulder, then back towards the bar. “Dani, it looks like this place is closing soon.”
“What? It’s past two already?” I had to be up at six, to meet Carl at seven and make sure the computer and projector were set up to his exact specifications in the conference room for his eight o’clock presentation.
“You do not have an early morning?”
“I do. I have things to do for Carl. And if I want him to take me to Prague, I better be on top of things tomorrow morning.” I sat up.
“It is a pity,” said Maria, running her hand down my arm. “We have not had enough time together. We have not traded stories about our research. What are your plans when you finish at Halifax next year? You are still interested in Báthory, in the English murder?”
“Well, yes, but...” I didn’t want to tell her the dull truth that lately I’d only been working on my dissertation and trying to keep up with Carl’s demands. “It’s nice to take a break from thinking about research, actually.” I leaned towards her, touched the fur of her jacket sleeve.
“Of course. The girls, Milo, we will all be going to Milo’s loft. You cannot join us?”
I was pretty sure that Milo’s loft would be much more fun than going back to the Econolodge and getting up at the crack of dawn to attend to Carl. But I had seen Carl extremely angry once or twice, and even a glamorous after-party wasn’t worth it.
“Then it will keep until Budapest. But before you go, I must not forget—”
She put her arms around me, slid them up my back, under my hair, to the nape of my neck. She leaned in, and her halter grazed the black cotton of my tank top. I wasn’t sure what she was about to do, and I sat very still, barely breathing.
Her fingers found the clasp of the necklace. She kissed my cheek, warm, slowly, as she unfastened the silver catch. I felt the stones fall away from my throat; until then, I hadn’t been aware of their weight on my skin.
“My diamonds,” she said, pulling away. Light spun off the gems as she held them between us. “They looked stunning on you.”
It’s finally Friday, the day of my third interview with Foster. Kelly only slotted me in for a half-hour—I think Sloane denied me the hour because she wants the room at three—but I’ll work those thirty minutes, I’ll get him talking again. My desk is strewn with all of my notes from his file. I read over my report from the last interview, even though I know it by heart; I’ve gone over it dozens of times, before and after I filed a copy with Abbas. I spent days writing it, agonizing over everything: which words to use, how to come across as professional and detached for my audience of Sloane and Abbas, how at the same time to capture every detail Foster gave me.
I put the report down and turn to my other papers. I’ve made some charts. One is a timeline: I went through Foster’s entire file from the moment he was admitted into Stowmoor and noted when Báthory was mentioned in his therapy or assessment reports. I made a red star if the clinician brought her up, a blue star if he brought her up. Two years, eight blue stars, six red. Almost all of them within the first year and a half. Then nothing until now. One red star. Me.
I also have a pie chart that breaks down the themes of Foster’s therapies and assessments. Focus on understanding that his crime was antisocial: yellow. On the realization that he has caused harm to others: pink. On the importance of feelings of remorse: orange. On the reduction of violent tendencies: purple. On obsessive actions or tendencies: green. On level of positive engagement with staff and fellow patients: blue.
The pie is largely pink and orange and yellow. A bit of blue. Relatively small slivers of green and purple. He’s had the greatest exposure to therapies concerning his responsibility for and remorse for the crime. Granted, these are two major tenets of rehabilitation therapies. But it also means he’s had a great deal of opportunity to learn what the clinicians want to hear on this subject, what we interpret as “positive” answers that reflect progress. We’ve taught him how to lie to us.
I begin work on a bar chart to track Foster’s references to outside friends, support groups or influential individuals (besides his obsession with Báthory). Aside from my interview with him last week, he hasn’t made a single reference of this kind since he came to Stowmoor, but if I start from when he was arrested, and if I use newspaper and magazine articles as sources, I’ve got some material to work with. I can hear Sloane’s tirade about the dangers of hearsay and imagine her horror that I’d even consider those reports as sources. And she’s right. It’s complete speculation. I have a hunch, informed by my own fixation on Báthory and her diaries, largely unsubstantiated media reports and Foster’s ambiguous mention of people who share his interests. It’s poor clinical practice.
There are footsteps down the hall. I shuffle the charts under some paper just as Sloane walks within view of my fishbowl window. She’s smiling, the corners of her brown eyes tilted up, a bit crinkled. The smile looks genuine. A tall blond man in a suit walks beside her.
“Of course, we have things set up so you can see him straight away,” she says to the man.
“Excellent. I’m glad to see things run efficiently here. And with such discretion. Important with a client who has the potential to attract much public interest.”
I stare at my computer screen, pretend I’m reading email. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Sloane glance towards my fishbowl, then turn her focus back to the man.
“Yes. Well,” she tucks a stray wisp of hair behind her ear. “I can see we’re both committed to providing Mr. Foster with the very best psychological and legal care.”
It’s a struggle to keep my eyes on the screen. They’re just past my window when an email comes through from Dr. Abbas. It’s to all staff working on Foster’s case. We’re advised that Foster has retained new legal counsel, a Mr. B. Lewison. In the coming weeks, Mr. Lewison may request to meet with personnel working with Foster. Abbas also reiterates Stowmoor’s confidentiality guidelines for clinicians and other hospital staff.
I fight the desire to follow Sloane, press my ear to her office door while she speaks to Lewison, while he meets with Foster.
I’ve got three hours before my interview with Foster. I pull out my charts, go over my notes repeatedly. I try to write up another assessment that’s late, but I can’t focus. I check my email every two minutes, hoping for a distraction. Hoping for a message from Maria. There’s nothing. I haven’t heard from her since the opening. No more diaries, no suggestion of lunch. My fingers twitch over the keyboard; I want to write her a message that hints at my interview; I want her to know I’ll soon be in the same room as him. Instead, I log out of my email and struggle with the late report.
I slide into the chair across from Foster, set my file and pens down on the stainless steel table between us. “Good afternoon, Mr. Foster,” I say, as I open my notepad.
“Dr. Win-ston,” he says slowly. “I’ve been expecting you.”
I ignore his attempt at a joke. “I trust you’ve been well. I have a few—”
“Questions for me?” He smiles. “Somehow I expected that. I hope they’re sufficiently interesting today. And yes, I’ve been well, thanks for asking. Very well.”
“Good to hear. I want to pick up on some themes that came up in our last interview.”
“Oh?” He raises his eyebrows. “Well, by all means.”
“You said that you still think about Báthory. Do you think about her often?”
“Define often.” He digs some dirt from under his fingernail, flicks the speck to the floor.
“I mean, do you currently have any thoughts about Báthory, or maybe about another person, event or idea, thoughts that take up a lot of your time.” My tone is calm, measured.
“So, you’re asking me if I think about things throughout the day?” Another dig, flick from his fingernail.
“Do you think about a specific person, event or idea to the extent that you are fixated on a particular thought? And if so, does this fixation pervade and perhaps influence your day-to-day routine?”
“My day-to-day routine? Jam-packed as it is. I can hardly keep up.”
“Mr. Foster, we’re conducting this interview to complete your assessment. It would be to your benefit to take my questions seriously.”
“Hmm, yes, but I do. So, do I have fixated thoughts?” He drops his hands into his lap. For the first time since I’ve sat down, he looks straight at me. I think he’s almost smiling. “It’s a good question,” he continues. “And what about you? Have you spent any time thinking about Báthory since our last meeting, Dr. Winston?”
I pause. But I ignore the question and keep going. “You mentioned, in our last meeting, that you missed speaking about her to others. Am I paraphrasing your statements accurately?”
“As best I can remember. You’ve probably kept a better record of what I said, doctor.”
Again, I ignore his comment. “Do you still feel this way, right now?”
“I think about her, yes. Though you’re the second person today to ask me about her. So I do in theory miss speaking about her to others, but you’re helping to alleviate that lack.”
“Who else did you speak to about her today?”
“Oh, I’m not sure...the client-lawyer confidentiality thing, I’m not sure how much I can say.”
“So, you discussed her with your lawyer.”
“Oops. Cat’s out of the bag.”
“What does talking about her do for you? How does it satisfy you?”
“Dr. Winston. You know how beautiful she was, don’t you? How pure? She was focused. She didn’t shirk what she was; she took her privilege as an opportunity to bloom.”
“To bloom? Into what?”
“Dr. Winston,” he says, as if I’m a child who’s failed to grasp an equation on a blackboard. “Into the perfect manifestation of what she was.”
I can feel him waiting for me to ask what she was, exactly. Instead, I say, “Before you came here, did you have anyone in particular with whom you discussed her?”
“
With whom
I discussed her? Why so formal, Danica? We’re beyond all that stuffiness, aren’t we?”
How does he know my first name? He must have overheard Abbas or Sloane.
“I got it from the article,” he says. “Your name. That’s what you were wondering, right?”
I tap my pen on my notebook. “Please answer the question.”
“I had friends. That’s a healthy thing, right, to have friends? You psychologists encourage it?”
“Who were these friends?”
“They were peers
with whom
I spent time.” He smiles. “Isn’t that who friends usually are?”
“How did you meet them?”
“We had interests in common. These are very predictable questions.” He fake-yawns.
“Did these friends know about the murder?”
“Did they know? The whole of England knew.”
“Did they know of your intent?”
He turns his palms up towards me. “My intent was their intent.”
Is this another joke, or is he admitting something? “Can you elaborate? These people also want to commit, or have committed, similar acts?”
“No. They’re more...they’re...”
I realize I’m leaning forward, elbows on the table. I’m chewing on my lip. “They’re, uh, they are what?” I sit up straight, jot a few words in my notebook.
“It’s complicated. I miss them. They understood.” He looks down, holds the sides of his head with his hands.