Wolfman - Art Bourgeau (27 page)

They sat while he read. When he was finished he said,
"It's certainly controversial. I think we can discount the
Navajo Coyote ceremonies and concentrate on the case histories from a
Freudian aspect. Although schizophrenics are not commonly the split
personalities they are popularized to be, in this case there seems to
be a split caused by a traumatic incident during childhood. That does
agree with what I suspected about the killer's background"'

"You mean a multiple personality? said Mercanto.

"No, multiple personalities are not usually
schizophrenic. They occur because of some terrible abuse, often
sexual, that began before age five, the formation of the personality.
They're a protective mechanism for the abused . . . In this case the
pattern of abuse is the same, the abused is forced into a passive
sexual position, but later in life, after the formation of the
personality. Here is where the difference shows. The abuse produces a
conflict and resultant guilt. One part of the person wants it to
continue; the other knows it’s wrong and wants it to stop. To
compensate for the helplessness of it, the part that wants it to stop
splits off and takes the personality of a predatory beast, usually,
it seems, a wolf, to protect the weaker side from more abuse."

"But all that's in childhood. We’re talking
about a grown man here. What makes it happen now?" said
Mercanto.

"There has to be a triggering incident,
something that raises up the old conflict in him again." And,
surprisingly, this talk brought his lunch with Margaret to mind, when
she told him about her patient’s shrinking episode after the
invitation to his sister's wedding. Just, come to think of it, the
sort of incident that could trigger a psychosis . . .

"
Why a damn wolf?" Mercanto said. "I
know, it goes way back, but I still don't see . . ."

"Because of spirit possession," Erin said.
"He thinks, believes, he has become a tool of a higher power,
probably the devil, that is symbolized by the wolf, the mark of the
beast. He's obviously an intelligent person, well-read too."

Dr. Foster picked up his pipe. "You apparently
think spirit possession is a reality. I’m afraid I can't go along
with that."

"You do admit there are certain things that defy
rational explanation, even by the so-called science of psychiatry."

"No, I really don’t," he said, but
wondering all the same if the answer to the killer's identity could
possibly be as simple as that — a patient of Margaret's . . . He
tried to dismiss the thought, telling himself that Margaret was an
insightful, intuitive professional. Still . . .

"Let me put it this way," said Erin. "In
my work I have come across literally hundreds of examples of spirit
possession, in one degree or another. I've seen some personally. I
would classify the lycanthropic shaman as one. I’m not saying he's
possessed or anything like that. All these examples of spirit
possession are explainable according to various disciplines, but all
the explanations are reduced to fit a particular discipline. None can
explain the total experience . . . Don't reject the concept of a
lycanthropic because it gets into the area of spirit possession . .
."

When she first agreed to come it was to please
Mercanto. But now she felt personally involved, it was important to
her. She wanted this killer caught, too, and damn well didn’t want
to be excluded from helping on account of some philosophical
disagreement between professions.

Mercanto looked from Erin to Poster. "So what do
you suggest?"

Dr. Foster looked at him, half-smiled.

"Lieutenant Sloan is at the Park Station. I
think you should go out there and tell him what you've found. I'll
follow you out because I think you’re going to need my backup to
support this theory. I'll be a few minutes behind you, though.
There's something I have to attend to first . . ."
 

CHAPTER 22

DR. CHARLES FOSTER dialed Margaret’s number. On the
fifth ring he heard the answering machine tape begin: "This is
Dr. Margaret Priest . . ."

"
Damn, she's with a patient," he muttered
as he hung up, not waiting for the tape to end. He grabbed up his hat
and coat and headed for the door. In his outer office he told his
receptionist, "Cancel my appointments for the rest of the day.
Reschedule them." He turned to the waiting patient. "I’m
sorry, but something urgent has come up. Please understand."

The patient did not understand. "Look, goddamn
it, I have important things, too . . ."

"Yes, yes, we'll discuss that at our next
session," soothed Dr. Foster, and headed out the door.

Outside he looked around for a taxi. None to be seen.
He thought about getting his car but it would take too long, he could
more quickly walk the six or eight blocks between their offices.
Pulling down his hat against the winter wind he started up Walnut
Street, passing the Forrest Theater. The whole notion was farfetched
. . . a modern-day werewolf, he thought, allowing himself the more
sensational term rather than the clinical lycanthropic. It couldn’t
be happening, it was too rare. The very idea conjured up visions of
villagers with torches and pitchforks.

At Thirteenth a young woman in a short skirt and fake
fur jacket approached him. He waved her away before she could speak,
hurrying on. At other times he found the come-on palaver of the
neighborhood prostitutes interesting, even provocative. Not today.

If what he suspected was true, which was still a big
if in his mind, he couldn’t help wondering about Margaret not being
aware of the condition of her patient. Had she been that bemused by
her own emotional attachment?

On Broad Street he turned at Robinson's toward
Locust. He remembered the literature he had just been reading,
together with Erin’s testimony and the facts of the case as laid
out by Sloan.

The wolf was a protective mechanism, true, even if to
the person suffering it also seemed like Satan's curse. Unlike a
multiple personality it would not show itself willy-nilly but would
occur only when the patient felt particularly threatened. Assuming
her patient returned Margaret's emotion, exceeded it, there would be
no reason for that part of him to show itself with her. Being with
Margaret would be like a state of grace for him. The time when he was
sure nothing bad would happen. He would have to believe Margaret was
the cause, and worship her for it.

Walking up Locust he passed a string of restaurants —
Mexican, Cajun, Italian. As for Margaret’s attachment, professional
or not, she like every therapist was human. At their lunch she had
said he was an attractive man. At a time when her self-esteem was so
shaken by the discovery of Adam's affair, along with this hardly
customary intensity of her patient's adoration . . . "Yes, many
patients can be seductive," he said aloud, thinking of his
advice to her as he entered her building. Any patient in a
transference. And this one. . .

Margaret's waiting room was empty. Like many
therapists she did not have a secretary. No choice but to interrupt
her session.

He knew what he was going to say would not endear him
to her. Their lunch had ended on a bad note, straining what he had
always counted as a most valuable and stable relationship. Since then
there had been no communication between them. Appearing now like
this, she might consider it outrageous meddling, coming between her
and her patient. Well, he would have to risk it, he decided as he
opened the door to her private office.

She looked up, shocked. Sitting in front of the desk
was a young woman who was thoroughly confused and cut herself off in
mid-sentence.

"Charles? What . . . what are you doing here?"

"Doctor, I'm terribly sorry to interrupt, but I
must speak to you."

She looked at her patient. "Will it take long?"

"Yes, I'm afraid it might."

What could she do? . . . It must be important for him
to break in this way. To her patient, she said, "Carol, this is
Dr. Foster, a colleague. Could we reschedule for eleven tomorrow?
That way I can skip lunch and give you extra time to make up for
this."

The patient agreed, what could she do . . . but
Margaret saw the anger at the interruption.

She walked the patient to the door while Charles took
off his coat and sat down. Behind her desk now, she waited for an
explanation.

Foster knew he would have to be careful. Margaret was
a fiercely protective person. If he blurted out his suspicions she
would get defensive and they would have a repeat of their lunch.

"Margaret, I'm sorry about what happened the
last time we were together. Please understand, you're very important
to me. When I said what I did it wasn't because I doubted you, it was
because I was concerned . . ."

He was like the old Charles. Control was so important
to him that you could never expect a direct response. Even in an
extreme situation like this. "Are your phones out of order,
Charles?"

He forced a smile. Obviously there was no good way to
start this. "I need to talk to you about that special patient of
yours."

Margaret bristled. "Why?"

"Because I'm more concerned than ever," he
said, instantly regretting his choice of words.

"Well, doctor, you can put your concern to rest.
I'm not his therapist any longer. He fired me."

"What happened?" he said, surprised. This
hardly followed his state-of-grace theory. He had felt sure Margaret
was the man's only link with his tolerable emotions . . . perhaps
even reality itself.

"We had an unpleasant incident, a couple of
them, to be precise."

"Tell me?"

"I didn't send my patient away just now to give
you that satisfaction."

"Come on, Margaret, you know better than that.
Give me some credit . . . it is important."

The urgency in his tone impressed her. "It
happened at a chance meeting . . . at the party for the opening of an
exhibit at the museum. Things weren’t going well between Adam and
me but we went anyway. He was there with a date."

"
He?"

"Loring, my patient." He knew damn well
who, she thought.

"Naturally I was surprised to see him, but these
things do happen." She paused. "Adam sort of vanished,
which didn’t help my mood. Loring asked me to dance. I know I
shouldn't have, but I was distracted by Adam, face-to-face with a
persistent, terribly vulnerable patient . . . Anyway, we danced.
Afterwards, I don't know exactly how it happened, but we wound up in
an office together . . . He tried to kiss me and I stopped him. But
too late." She hesitated, forced herself to go on. "It
wasn't his fault. I tried to tell him that, but it was no use.
Charles, I handled it wrong. I let my personal problems mix into my
professional. I'm afraid we're both paying for it . . ."
 
"Margaret, you're being too hard on
yourself. From what you've told me there was nothing else you could
do . . . You said a couple of incidents. What about the other one?"

She hated to relive it still another time. "Well,
when I pushed him away he ran out of the room. I looked for him to
try to repair the damage but he was gone." She left out what had
happened between her and Adam afterward. "I changed and drove
out to his house. I know that was hardly by the book, but he was
having a crisis, it couldn't wait for an office appointment. At least
that’s how I felt at the time."

"
What happened?"

"When he finally let me in I could see he had
been crying. As he talked he got more and more upset. Not tears,
anger. The most deep-seated I’ve ever experienced. The upshot was
he hit me, then in an orgy of shame, self-hate . . . who knows what
else?. . . he insisted I leave and said the therapy was over. I
guarantee you there was no convincing him otherwise . . . All right,
I’ve answered your questions, now answer mine. Why this sudden
appearance?"

"Did you see the morning paper, the story about
the murder in the park?" When she said she had, he told her he
was working with the police on it.

"
What?" And then it dawned on her. "My
God, you're telling me you think . . . no, that's not possible.
Loring couldn't be responsible for that. God and Sigmund know I may
have handled him wrong, but I'm sure I know him too well to believe
that. Charles, this man wouldn't kill anyone, let alone commit the
kind of killing I read about. What happened between us, even his
hitting me, they were my fault, my responsibility. He wouldn't hurt
anyone, it's not in his nature — "

"Margaret, you just mentioned his deep-seated
anger."

"I know . . . but he still couldn't have done
it," she said, her arms folded across her chest.

"Last night I read over everything about the
cases." She noted the plural and turned to look at him. "That’s
right," he continued. "The one in the paper was not the
first but the second. The first was a Stanley Hightower, an
optometrist."

She shook her head. "I read about his death,
too. His office is just down the street, but there was no
cannibalization like in today's report . . ."