stalking KC?” I said. “Knowing KC,” he said, “she probably made him up. Have fun.”
I nodded.
“Fun’s what it’s all about,” I said.
“And the winner dies broke,” he said.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Susan and I were walking back to Linnaean Street from the Charles Hotel where we had lunched with her friends Chuck and Janet Olson at Henrietta’s Table.
“Your friends are nice,” I said.
“Yes, they are.”
“As nice as my friends?” I said.
“Like Hawk, say? Or Vinnie Morris?”
“Well, yes.”
“Please!” Susan said.
We were on Garden Street walking past the Harvard Police Station. I decided to move the conversation forward, and told her about my encounter with Louis Vincent at Hall, Peary.
“Kleenex?” Susan said. “Women are like Kleenex?”
“Un huh. Use and discard. There’s plenty more.”
I watched her ears closely to see if any steam escaped. But she was controlled.
“The man is an absolute fucking pig,” she said.
“There’s that,” I said.
“I want him to be the stalker.”
“Because he’s a pig?”
“Yes.”
“Does he fit the profile?”
Susan glared at me for a moment, before she said, “No.”
“He appears to be one of the masters of the universe,” I said. “Good-looking, well married, good job, lots of dough, endless poon tang on the side. Stalkers are usually losers.”
“I know.”
“It’s usually about control,” I said. “Isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“I’d guess this guy is in control.”
“Not of his libido,” Susan said.
“No, maybe not,” I said. “On the other hand KC wasn’t bopping him under duress.”
Susan gave a long sigh.
“No,” Susan said, “she wasn’t.”
“And she didn’t dump him, did she?”
Susan thought about that.
“In one sense,” she said, “maybe not. She left her husband to marry him. He said, ‘I won’t marry you.’ But who said, ‘Therefore it’s over’?”
I raised both eyebrows. I could raise one eyebrow, like Brian Donlevy, but I didn’t very often, because most people didn’t know who Brian Donlevy was, or what I was doing with my face.
“I don’t know,” I said. “I’ll ask.”
Susan looked pleased.
“Maybe he could still be the stalker.”
“We can always hope,” I said.
We reached Linnaean Street and turned right toward Susan’s place.
“How about that thing you’re doing for Hawk?”
“Well, it is, I believe, turning into a hair ball.”
“Oh?”
“I don’t think the Lamont kid killed himself.”
“Why not?”
I told her how his friends said he was happy and how they were scornful of the possibility that he was having an affair with Robinson Nevins and how the window was hard to open and how Lamont was said to be approximately the size of a dandelion, but not as strong.
“Suicides often appear happy prior to the suicide,” Susan said. “They’ve decided to do it.”
“Thus solving all their problems.”
“And getting even with whomever they are getting even.”
“Which is usually why people do it?”
“Yes,” Susan said. “The pathology is often similar, oddly enough, to the pathology which causes stalking – see what you’ve made me do is a kind of back door control. It forces emotion from the object of your ambivalence.”
“I don’t think he could have opened the window,” I said.
“Maybe it was conveniently open when the time came. Maybe its openness was the presenting moment, so to speak.”
“I checked,” I said. “It was thirty-six degrees, raining hard, with a strong wind on the day he went out.”
Susan smiled at me.
“So much for psychoanalytic hypothesis,” she said.
“It’s very helpful,” I said. “Especially when you asked about who actually ended KC’s affair. But it isn’t intended to replace the truth, is it?”
“No. It’s intended to get at it.”
We went into Susan’s office. Her office and waiting room and what she called her library (it looked remarkably like a spare room with a bath to
I nodded.
“Fun’s what it’s all about,” I said.
“And the winner dies broke,” he said.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Susan and I were walking back to Linnaean Street from the Charles Hotel where we had lunched with her friends Chuck and Janet Olson at Henrietta’s Table.
“Your friends are nice,” I said.
“Yes, they are.”
“As nice as my friends?” I said.
“Like Hawk, say? Or Vinnie Morris?”
“Well, yes.”
“Please!” Susan said.
We were on Garden Street walking past the Harvard Police Station. I decided to move the conversation forward, and told her about my encounter with Louis Vincent at Hall, Peary.
“Kleenex?” Susan said. “Women are like Kleenex?”
“Un huh. Use and discard. There’s plenty more.”
I watched her ears closely to see if any steam escaped. But she was controlled.
“The man is an absolute fucking pig,” she said.
“There’s that,” I said.
“I want him to be the stalker.”
“Because he’s a pig?”
“Yes.”
“Does he fit the profile?”
Susan glared at me for a moment, before she said, “No.”
“He appears to be one of the masters of the universe,” I said. “Good-looking, well married, good job, lots of dough, endless poon tang on the side. Stalkers are usually losers.”
“I know.”
“It’s usually about control,” I said. “Isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“I’d guess this guy is in control.”
“Not of his libido,” Susan said.
“No, maybe not,” I said. “On the other hand KC wasn’t bopping him under duress.”
Susan gave a long sigh.
“No,” Susan said, “she wasn’t.”
“And she didn’t dump him, did she?”
Susan thought about that.
“In one sense,” she said, “maybe not. She left her husband to marry him. He said, ‘I won’t marry you.’ But who said, ‘Therefore it’s over’?”
I raised both eyebrows. I could raise one eyebrow, like Brian Donlevy, but I didn’t very often, because most people didn’t know who Brian Donlevy was, or what I was doing with my face.
“I don’t know,” I said. “I’ll ask.”
Susan looked pleased.
“Maybe he could still be the stalker.”
“We can always hope,” I said.
We reached Linnaean Street and turned right toward Susan’s place.
“How about that thing you’re doing for Hawk?”
“Well, it is, I believe, turning into a hair ball.”
“Oh?”
“I don’t think the Lamont kid killed himself.”
“Why not?”
I told her how his friends said he was happy and how they were scornful of the possibility that he was having an affair with Robinson Nevins and how the window was hard to open and how Lamont was said to be approximately the size of a dandelion, but not as strong.
“Suicides often appear happy prior to the suicide,” Susan said. “They’ve decided to do it.”
“Thus solving all their problems.”
“And getting even with whomever they are getting even.”
“Which is usually why people do it?”
“Yes,” Susan said. “The pathology is often similar, oddly enough, to the pathology which causes stalking – see what you’ve made me do is a kind of back door control. It forces emotion from the object of your ambivalence.”
“I don’t think he could have opened the window,” I said.
“Maybe it was conveniently open when the time came. Maybe its openness was the presenting moment, so to speak.”
“I checked,” I said. “It was thirty-six degrees, raining hard, with a strong wind on the day he went out.”
Susan smiled at me.
“So much for psychoanalytic hypothesis,” she said.
“It’s very helpful,” I said. “Especially when you asked about who actually ended KC’s affair. But it isn’t intended to replace the truth, is it?”
“No. It’s intended to get at it.”
We went into Susan’s office. Her office and waiting room and what she called her library (it looked remarkably like a spare room with a bath to
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