GRAVE PROGNOSIS: A NOVEL
By Daniel Kalla

Chapter Fifteen

Monica carefully sliced two even pieces from the still-warm cake, then packed them in a Tupperware container after licking the icing off her fingers. She loved to bake. It reminded her of her childhood. During those times, she would endure the carping she had come to expect from her mother, but somehow the criticisms back then were gentler. Those were the few times she remembered feeling loved as a child, and even though she didn’t particularly like sweet things, she wouldn’t have traded those days for anything.

Washing her hands, she left the kitchen, put on a jacket, and grabbed her knapsack. Then she thought, Screw it! She took off her jacket and left the knapsack by the door. Monica knew she should take her thesis work with her, but it was a beautiful day and she couldn’t face any more of Allen Ginsberg’s morbid late-eighties poetry. She went to the bedroom and found the romance novel hidden in her sock drawer. Armed with only the book and the Tupperware, she left the condominium.

As Monica approached the unmarked police car, the window was rolled down. Ron Johnson waved at her, while Tim Garton leaned forward from the passenger seat and said, "Six o’clock on the dot. I could set my watch by you."

"Can’t help it, Tim. I’m an obsessive-compulsive steamed-milk junkie. I wish there were a support group for people like me." As she passed the Tupperware container to Ron, she added, "Come to think of it, there probably is."

Ron made a smacking sound. "What have you got for us tonight?"

"Carrot cake."

"My favorite!" Tim cried. "But you’ve got to bring me some new pants with all these goodies. My old ones don’t fit anymore."

Monica laughed. "Do you want me to stop baking for you?"

"Never!" Tim exclaimed. Then he waved his hand dismissively. "Pants! Who needs them?"

Five minutes later Monica was sitting on a stool at Bean World with her steamed milk in front of her. She tried to read, but couldn’t concentrate. Eventually she gave up and stared out the large bay window at the beach and ocean. She thought of her phone conversation with her sister earlier in the afternoon. Anna had explained how Trevor and Mike were keenly interested in Monica’s past, something Monica tried not to think about.

Why, she wondered, did they care about poor Suzy? Monica had relived that morning in Japan a thousand times, and she couldn’t help but think about it now. Try as she might, she couldn’t rid herself of the image of Suzy sprawled on her bed in their Tokyo apartment, her T-shirt pulled up, exposing her naked body from the waist down.

She had tried to wake Suzy up, but then had noticed her roommate’s waxen skin, the empty syringe, and the crusted blood on her outstretched arm. She would never forget the iciness of Suzy‘s forehead when she had touched it. She had known then that her roommate was dead.

A loud horn and a near accident outside the coffee shop’s window interrupted Monica’s reverie. She was thankful for the disruption. Standing, she threw her cup into a wastebasket, went outside, and considered walking along the beach. In the end, though, she decided it was time to get back to her thesis.

Mike lay in his bed, what little of it Cassy left for him, and studied Monica’s card. A hand-painted picture adorned the cover. Its color and detail surprised Mike, who had an interest in fine art. He was equally impressed by the picture’s theme. A Rubinesque angel floated in the upper part. The bottom half depicted a sea of flames out of which a solitary arm extended. The angel’s hand clasped the other hand, as if the angel were trying to pull the person to whom it belonged from the fire. Mike opened the card and once again read the note inside:

Dear Mike:

It’s as if I had been deaf and blind to the world of opportunities that lay at my feet. Cliché it may be, but it’s only in the face of loss that I recognized my many blessings. I have never felt so alive, nor been so contented.

I know I stood little chance of being here to write this had you not been present that fateful night. I feel profoundly indebted to you. I would like to thank you with all my heart and soul.

Monica Nordson

On a separate piece of paper, she had scribbled a note, which read: "If I can be of any assistance for anything, my phone number is 555-3151. I’d love to hear from you."

Mike thought about Nicole’s argument. True, technically he had no professional relationship with Monica. However, he had an emotional advantage that was the equivalent of such a relationship. He had taken a few ethics courses after medical school. As he understood it, all romances borne from the doctor-patient relationships were morally corrupt. Even if only at the subconscious level, the doctor always had an unfair influence over the patient.

Besides, Mike wondered why he would bother getting involved in yet another relationship that was doomed to failure. Maybe Andrea was right about his inability to commit. Their relationship had merely been the most recent in his ever-mounting pile of failed liaisons. Even Mike recognized the pattern in his dating history: a series of "ideal" relationships that went sour anywhere from three months to three years after they began. Never any fights. Never any betrayals. Just somewhere along the way, Mike withdrew. Usually it would fall upon his partner to pronounce the final death knell, but the source could always be traced back to him.

For Mike, this probing of his own psyche was as welcome as a prostate exam, so he was relieved when the phone rang. Picking up the receiver, he heard a voice say, "Mike, it’s Trevor."

"What’s up?"

"I thought you might be interested to hear that the policemen watching Ms. Nordson’s place just arrested someone they found loitering outside."

"Let me guess. Wayne Atkinson?"

"I’m impressed. We thought we’d hold him overnight and get a search warrant for his place in the morning. Care to join us?"

Around mid-morning, the next day, Trevor, Mike, and Sandy arrived at Atkinson’s typically dilapidated Downtown Eastside hotel on Pender Street. Most of the monthly tenants in the area’s hotels suffered from some kind of psychiatric or substance-abuse problem. Mike couldn’t imagine the paranoid Atkinson living comfortably among the dysfunctional tenants who wandered the hallways of his building.

They found someone who claimed to be the manager. Trevor showed him the signed search warrant and asked him to open Atkinson’s door. "I’ll get my big key ring," the superintendent sarcastically remarked, filling the stale air with the smell of whiskey. When they reached the door, they understood what he had meant. It took three keys to open three separate locks.

The dirty carpets and stained walls of the hallway gave way to a remarkably clean but austerely decorated one-bedroom apartment. The poorly lit and sparsely furnished suite with its barren walls were truly oppressive, though.

Sandy searched the few belongings in the living room, while Mike and Trevor went into the bedroom. There was a mattress, tidily made up with bedspread and pillows, beside which stood a small nightstand. A small desk, bookshelf, and chair stood in one corner of the room. In the closet they found a few clothes neatly folded on shelves or hanging from hooks.

On the desk rested an old computer and printer. The bookshelf above the desk contained an assortment of reference books on poetry and literature, along with numerous books by Thomas Mann, Joseph Conrad, Fyodor Dostoyevsky, Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, Thomas Hardy, and Edgar Allan Poe.

"I’m surprised this place hasn’t been photographed for one of those interior-design magazines," Trevor said.

"I think it made the cover of the special issue of Western Living’s ‘Designs for the Penniless, Suicidal Artist,’" Mike quipped.

They found a scrapbook in the top drawer of the desk. Trevor, who was wearing gloves, leafed through the scrapbook. The pictures were all of Monica. They looked as if they had been carefully cut from fashion magazines.

"Odd how he never mentioned his scrapbook to us at the BeatRoom when he denied noticing Monica," Trevor said.

"You know how it is," Mike said, indicating the barren surroundings with a flip of his hand. "With all the clutter, you forget you have these insane stalking-photo albums lying around your home."

Sandy joined them in the bedroom. "No wonder this kid weighs about a hundred pounds. From the looks of it, he lives off orange juice and crackers."

"I bet you didn’t find a TV out there," Mike predicted.

"I didn’t find anything out there. I’ve seen coffins with more accessories."

"Sandy, take a look at this." Trevor showed him the scrapbook.

Sandy whistled. "This guy’s screws could use a little tightening."

They searched for something that linked Atkinson to Katie Turco, but found nothing. Then they looked in the bathroom and other cupboards, but didn’t find any syringes or needles. When they finally left, Trevor brought the scrapbook and a couple of computer disks with him.

After lunch, Trevor, Mike, and Sandy found Paul Samson in his office and gave him the disks. Paul worked in the Fraud Squad of the VPD. Unfortunately for Paul, it was well-known by the entire police force that he was a computer genius. One of his specialties was decoding confiscated computer material.

"Any luck?" Sandy asked impatiently shortly after Paul inserted one of the disks.

"You’re kidding, right? A retarded monkey could decode these files. Anyway, it’s pretty tame stuff. Some mild porn. As far as I can see, it’s all badly stitched together pictures of the same girl."

He clicked his mouse and the computer screen filled with pictures of Monica. In many of them she posed naked in various lewd positions. In some she was dressed in leather or chains. In a number of them she was bound or shackled. It took Mike a few seconds to realize the pictures had been altered; Monica’s face was crudely superimposed onto various bodies. From the hairstyles she wore, Mike recognized a few of the faces from Atkinson’s scrapbook.

Sandy frowned. "How did he do this?"

"Terribly. Anybody with a $50 scanner and a $10 mouse could do a better job of modifying these pictures," Paul replied.

A little later, Mike watched from behind a two-way mirror as uniformed officers led Atkinson into the interrogation room, where Sandy and Trevor sat waiting. Atkinson’s facial expressions fluctuated between abject terror and absolute defiance. He sat at the end of the table, but fidgeted feverishly.

Affecting an effeminate inflection, Sandy winked at Atkinson and said, "Love what you did with your place. It’s so Cape Cod in the summer!"

"What were you doing there?"

"Mr. Atkinson, we had a legal search warrant," Trevor cut in. "Maybe you could explain a few things for us."

"I don’t have to explain anything."

"Actually, you do," Sandy said.

"I want a lawyer."

"You haven’t been charged with a crime yet," Trevor said.

"Then I want to go home."

"Okay, but once you leave, we’re going to charge you with a few crimes," Sandy threatened.

Atkinson snorted nervously. "This is straight out of Kafka. I don’t need a lawyer because I’m not charged with anything, but if I try to leave, then I’m under arrest."

Sandy raised his voice slightly. "Listen to me! We’ve seen your pathetic collection of homemade porn. We’ve got you on harassment, obstruction of justice, invasion of privacy, possession of illicit pornography—the list goes on and on. Wayne, do you know anything about prison? This may come as a surprise, but eighty-pound sexual deviants don’t usually rise to the top of the food chain there."

Atkinson’s eyes fluttered wildly like caged birds, and he slumped back in the chair. The smell of his sweat hung in the air. "I can explain it all."

"Please do," Trevor urged.

"Look, Monica’s beautiful and all, but it’s not what you think. I mean, it’s not like she’s some kind of sexual Muse for me."

"Then what?"

"The stuff on the computer is art." When Sandy chuckled, Atkinson‘s manic eyes did another dance around the room. "Look, it’s not conventional, but you haven’t seen the final product. I’m planning to juxtapose the modeling photographs with those other pictures. Can’t you see the message in that?"

"You mean the sexual degradation of women in fashion photography is just one step removed from submissive pornography?" Trevor ventured.

"Exactly, Inspector!"

"It’s funny," Sandy almost snarled. "I once sat in this same room and listened to a child pornographer explain how the four-year-old in his photos insisted he take all the pictures of her naked because she felt so warm in her clothes."

Atkinson flinched, then Trevor asked, "Do you mind explaining why you were following Monica Nordson home?"

"She’s my Mona Lisa," he cried. "She’s the most incredible woman I’ve ever seen. I know it’s not right, but I’m compelled to study her. I never bother her or anything. I just watch her sometimes. It’s not a crime."

"Yeah, Wayne, it is," Sandy said. "Do you follow her all the time?"

"No! Just sometimes, like the odd Tuesday after the BeatRoom."

"Do you know a woman named Katie Turco?" Trevor asked.

Atkinson glanced quickly at the floor. No."

"Never heard of her?" Sandy pressed.

"I said no, didn’t I?"

"You don’t happen to remember what you were doing the evening of March 9?" Trevor asked.

"What is this? What are you accusing me of?"

"Monday, March 9?" Sandy prompted.

"I work every Monday evening. I want to know what’s going on here."

"Where do you work?" Trevor asked.

"I work at Cashback at East Hastings and Main, just around the corner from here. It’s one of those check-cashing places for welfare bums."

"Can someone confirm that?"

"My boss. Why are you doing this to me?"

"I know what you mean," Sandy said. "It’s getting to the point where it’s just not worth stalking someone these days."

"I’m not stalking her! Why aren’t you talking to that other guy I saw following Monica?"

Trevor leaned forward. "What other guy?"

"It was a few weeks ago. I saw this guy waiting in front of the BeatRoom. Then later, outside Monica’s place, I saw him sitting in a car."

"Describe him!" Sandy demanded.

"I could barely make him out in the shadows."

"Did you say ‘make him out’ or ‘make him up’?"

"I’m telling the truth, damn it! He sat in this black car, one of those yuppie station-wagon things."

"You mean a sport-utility vehicle? Like a Jeep or Pathfinder?"

"Yeah, that’s right. Anyway, I could barely see him. At the BeatRoom I saw him get out of the car, but I didn’t get a good look at him then, either."

Sandy slapped the table with his hand, and Atkinson jumped. "Was he short or tall? Fat or thin? Bald? Two legs or one? You must have been able to tell that."

Atkinson licked his lips as his hands gripped the table spasmodically. "I guess he was medium height. He wore a baseball cap. He wasn’t fat. He wasn’t disfigured or anything. I can’t say much more than that."

"Did he have a beard?"

"No."

"How many times did you see him following her?"

"Just the once."

"Could you recognize him from a photo or lineup?"

"I don’t know. I doubt it."

"Mr. Atkinson," Trevor cajoled, "please think carefully. Did you notice any distinguishing features about him or his car?"

Atkinson pummeled the floor with his feet. "The car had sort of gold lettering on the side."

"You mean like advertising?"

"No. It said something about ‘special’ and ‘limited.’"

"‘Grand Cherokee Special Limited Edition?"

"Yeah, that could’ve been it."

Trevor and Sandy looked at each other. Without speaking, they agreed Atkinson would have little more to offer for the time being.

"Mr. Atkinson, we’ll need you to look through some pictures and identify the car in question," Trevor said. "We may ask you to look at some pictures or drawings of suspects at a later date. We’re not going to press charges against you at the moment, but that might change. Don’t leave the city without notifying us first." Relief appeared on Atkinson’s face, and for the first time his body relaxed.

"Wayne, I don’t buy a quarter of what you just told us," Sandy added. "But I’ll tell you this. Your days of following Monica Nordson are over. You’ll never again go to her place or follow her anywhere. What’s more, you’re not going to the BeatRoom again. Do you understand me?"

Atkinson tried to stick his weak chin out. "You can’t stop me going to the BeatRoom."

Sandy reached across the table and grabbed Atkinson’s shirtfront. "Wayne, please ignore my warning. I beg you. That way you’ll become my pet project. And I’ll give you a whole new perspective on your miserable childhood. I’m going to make it look like a bed of fucking roses. You see, Wayne, I don’t like stalkers. I don’t like phony martyrs. And I especially don’t like you!"

When Atkinson was gone, Mike joined Trevor and Sandy in Trevor’s office. "I really enjoyed that, guys."

"Maybe one day Trevor’ll let me play the good cop," Sandy said, grinning.

"What did you think of him, Mike?" Trevor asked.

"I’m sure he’s lying about the whole artist angle with Monica. The rest is hard to tell. Personally I believed the bit about the guy in the other car."

"I agree," Sandy said. "Problem is, now we’ve got two stalkers, and neither looks anything like the suspect seen at both bars."

"I’m pretty sure we can rule Wayne out as a suspect," Trevor said. "First of all, it sounds like he’s got an airtight alibi on the night of the first poisoning. What’s more, I think if he was our perp, his hand would have been shaking so much he would have stuck himself with the needle of poison. Once he’s confirmed the actual type of car, we should try to get some corroboration from other people at the BeatRoom and Shaken Not Stirred. Who knows? Maybe the same car was seen on the night of Katie’s murder. Or even better, maybe he got a parking ticket in the neighborhood."

"Seems pretty unlikely," Mike said.

"That’s how they caught David Berkowitz," Trevor countered. "You know, Son of Sam."

"Christ!" Sandy growled. "Didn’t Berkowitz have some nutty idea that his neighbor’s black lab was forcing him to shoot people? Shit, that’s all we need—a chihuahua going around telling someone to poison women."

To Be Continued . . .

Daniel Kalla practices emergency room medicine in Vancouver, Canada. He co-wrote the film script To Love and To Perish for Highwire Entertainment (now in pre-production). His forthcoming novel is entitled Lethal Assistance. He can be reached via e-mail at [email protected].