Psychology and Other Stories (29 page)

The boy detected the undertone of urgency in his father's voice, but so did Mike. They both looked at him.

Strickland hesitated only a moment. “Will you kindly keep Mike here company for a few minutes while I get dressed?”

The boy looked at Mike and shrugged. Mike shrugged back.

“I guess I could teach you about aquatic mammals.”

“Sure, and that's great actually, 'cause actually I don't know shit about aquatic mammals.”

When Strickland had left the room, Mike said, “He looks dressed to me.”

Strickland took a quick shower, shaved quickly, and quickly got dressed. While buttoning his shirt he suddenly stopped and looked around the room. He went to the window. Only Mike's car was in the driveway.

There was a note on the night table.

THANKS FOR A
WONDERFUL
NIGHT I WILL NOT SOON FORGET P.S. DOWN WITH GENITAL SUPREMACY ANYWAY XXX OOO TRACE (TED'S WIFE)

Ben had opened a book on Mike's knees and was standing beside him, turning the pages fussily.

“Some of them aren't even mammals.”

“What about that one?”

The boy shook his head. “That's an orca. Sometimes people call it killer whale but they're not supposed to.”

“Well, they breathe air, don't they?”

The boy scowled, uncertain, and his mother decided to save him.

“They call them killers because they like to eat meat. They're excellent hunters.”

The book fell to the floor as Mike stood. “Shit. Here. Thanks, kid, for the lesson.” He added, “I liked the expensive whales best.”

“Oh good,” said Strickland. “You're here.”

“You must be the Missus,” said Mike.

“You just missed a very sweet moment,” Martie told her husband.

“Yes, well. Mike and I will be in the interview room for a little while. You know what that means, Ben.”

“You're not home.”

“Good man. Mike?”

Mike shrugged and followed him from the room. Martie stared at her son for a moment, then went the opposite direction. The boy looked at his book and card game.

“All right if I smoke in here?”

“I don't mind.”

“I'm smoking all I can while I'm still in the world. To be honest I don't even like the shit that much.”

Strickland had settled himself into one of two comfortable armchairs that faced each other at a slight angle. He had in his lap a few books and a notepad. Now he picked up a pen and asked, “Still in the world? You can sit down.”

“If it's all the same to you I'd rather just …” Mike paced demonstratively before the window. “I've never been much good at sitting.”

“What did you mean by while you're still in the world?”

“Not in hoosegow. Not in the clink. Not in fucking jail, man.”

“I understand.” Strickland wrote a string of random numbers at the top of a page. “I thought today we could start out with a few simple cognitive tasks.”

“Like tests? Like mental sanity tests?”

“More like memory tests.”

“Well shit. It's what I'm here for. Fire at William.”

Strickland said, “Seven. Five, three, two, eight, seven …”

“This somebody's phone—”

Strickland held up a hand and finished, “Five, nine, zero, four. Now, how many of those can you remember?”

“Seven, five. The last one was four. I wasn't paying attention.”

“That's fine. Let's try another.” He wrote and circled a 2, then started a new row of numerals, reading them aloud as he went.
“Four, two, eight, seven, nine, six, six, one, two, five. Now give them back to me.”

“Shit, man. Four two eight, uh seven, six maybe. That's all I know. And two sixes and a five at the end there.”

Strickland wrote and circled a 4. “This time let's try it backwards. Ready?”

Mike sat down.

Strickland showed Mike a cartoon from one of the textbooks. In the foreground a disgruntled-looking man wore only one shoe, and in the background a car sped away, leaving behind a cloud of dust or exhaust.

“What happened in this picture?”

“Man, what
didn't
happen.”

“Guess.”

“Could be anything.”

“Then just make up a story.”

“Shit, I don't know. Could be this guy just got his ass kicked out of this fucking car for some reason.”

“… Why? Who's in the car?”

“Probably his wife,” Mike laughed. “She caught his dumb ass in bed with some skanky bitch and dumped him on the side of the road somewheres. Middle of fucking nowhere somewheres. Didn't even have time to put on both shoes, sorry-ass motherfucker.” Mike looked at Strickland. “Something like that, could be.”

“That's fine.”

“Yeah?”

“If I said to you, a table and a chair, what are they, what do they have in common, I think the answer would be furniture. Agreed?”

“Yeah, okay.”

“What about a pair of pants and a shirt?”

“Clothes.”

“How about a bicycle and an airplane?”

“Shit you get around in. I mean vehicles. Or not vehicles, but like—transportation. Right?”

“That's fine. How about a fly and a tree?”

“A fly and a tree? Things that got leaves—no. I don't know. I don't know that one.”

“That's fine. If I say don't cry over spilled milk, what does that mean?” On the notepad, he wrote
fly + tree = leaves
?

“It means the past's in the past and there's no use getting all het up over it.”

“How about: People in glass houses shouldn't throw stones.”

“It's when people who are involved in bad shit, they shouldn't go round accusing others of—whatever. It's like—hypocritical, right?”

“That's fine,” said Strickland, writing
vocabulary
!? “How about: If wishes were wings, pigs would fly.”

“No. Never heard that before.”

“That's why I gave it to you.”

“Ha!” Mike gave a sly grin. “Okay, well, I guess it's like if—a person can get what he wants if he wants it bad enough.”

“Not bad,” said Strickland, capping the pen and putting the notepad aside.

“That okay? I got it right?”

“It doesn't have one single interpretation. Very few people get that one. But your answer is not bad, not bad at all.”

Mike settled back in his chair with a slight smile and looked around for his cigarette.

Strickland walked Mike to his car.

“What about a fly and a tree?,” Mike asked.

“Life.”

“Life? Motherfucker.”

“See it now?”

“Yeah, I see it.”

“All right.”

“Just … weird comparison, right?”

“How so?”

“Well, not weird. But I mean they're pretty fucking vastly different.”

“Well yes, but so are a bicycle and a plane. Vastly different.”

Mike shook his head. “That's for sure.”

They reached the car. Mike stood looking down the street.

“So that means I'm okay in the head?”

Strickland pursed his lips. “That's not a very clinical way of putting it. But yes. I think you're probably okay in the head.”

“That's what you'll tell them, then?”

“Who?”

“Whoever. The jury. The lawyers. Whoever.”

“When's your trial?”

“Fuck knows. February something if they don't change it again.”

“Then let's not put the cart ahead of the horse. You know that one?”

Mike grinned and fingered his upper teeth. “Yeah, I know that one.”

“Let's meet again in four days.” Strickland glanced up at his house. “On your turf, this time.”

“My turf?”

“Your place. We still have a lot to talk about.”

Q. You are not a forensic psychologist, are you, Professor.

A. No. I admitted as much under Mr. Massick's examination.

Q. In fact this is your first time, as an expert witness.

A. That's correct. I believe I said as much.

Q. Well, you're doing just fine, Professor. You're a natural. Let me be the first to say.

A. Thank you, Ms. Lattimann.

Melanie said, “And this is the guy you leave Ben alone with?”

“Melanie,” said Martie.

“What.”

“You know what. Don't interrupt.”

“I gave him the abbreviated cognitive battery,” Strickland resumed. “Everything was within parameters—pretty normal,” he added for Melanie's benefit. “His digit span—that's his memory— was maybe a bit low for his IQ. Careful, this is hot.”

“I don't like yams,” said Ben.

“Could indicate intrusion of emotional factors,” Martie said.

“I thought of that. But the strange thing is, he didn't strike me as overcontrolled. That is, he had no problem expressing his feelings. For the most part he was polite and obliging, eager to make a good impression of course, but he also sighed and grumbled at times, openly expressed his resentment about the court system, showed some bitterness on the TAT …”

“Why is that a problem?,” Melanie asked. “That he has feelings.”

“Normally, a case like this, where a guy blows up, goes berserk, with little or no provocation—well, you expect to see a history of bottling things up.”

“So he just killed this guy for no reason? Great! So he's crazy.”

Martie said, “We don't use that word, dear. And it's a little more complicated than that.”

“According to his statement to the police,” Strickland said, “the other guy's group got seated first.”

“So your client,” said Martie, “expressed his resentment.”

Melanie guffawed. “By beating the guy to death!”

“I don't like yams,” said Ben.

“These aren't yams,” said Melanie, “they're sweet potatoes. You like sweet potatoes. Ow! Fuck!”

“We told you it was hot,” said Martie.

Ben perked up. “That kind of language …”

“Yes, Ben,” said Strickland. “It's all right at home.”

“But not at school!”

“Yes, Ben,” said Melanie, “we know, Ben.”

“Run it under cold water, Mel?,” Strickland suggested.

“Forget it. It doesn't hurt.”

“Could be an undercontrolled hostility pattern,” Martie mused, gazing through her daughter.

“I thought of that too. The problem is the delay. First there's some sort of argument, apparently, in the foyer, while they're waiting for a table. But it's broken up, his friends break it up, everybody seems to calm down, nobody needs to be kicked out. Then twenty minutes later he gets up from his dinner and … attacks the guy.”

“Beats him to a bloody pulp, you mean.”