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Authors: Andras Totisz
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anyway. Names, some of them without faces, but there are a few I could attach to somebody. The bouncer of the Rumball. The club's owner, a few regulars, courtesy of the computer. Another name, that of a well-known madam, given to me by a friend. I wanted a lead on Frost's women, the ones Gladys mentioned, and I was sure they must be pros. My logic urged a simple course of investigation. I could make progress and remain discreet. But the violent anger inside, the feeling just under the surface that torments me more and more frequently, wanted to follow quite another tactic. I wanted to find one of the people belonging to these names, I wanted to grab the son-of-a-bitch and beat the truth out of him.
     Should I tell this to Celia?
     I'd asked her to explain these attacks to me. She had looked embarrassed, like she wanted to give me some bad news but she couldn't quite make herself do it. Then she composed herself. It's a normal reaction to the shock, she had explained. Remorse had been torturing me after Carl's death and I was reacting with anger. This explanation sounded comforting and I bought it. For a while anyway. But this morning I was attacked by doubts and not satisfied with easy explanations. I took a bite from my bagel, and chewed it while I walked over to the bookshelf.
     On the other side of the novels are my old textbooks: criminology, anatomy, psychology â¦I took down a few volumes and put them on the table, next to my breakfast and the notebook. I opened one and ran my eyes down the table of contents. Then a thought occurred to me and I flipped to the back, to the bibliography.
     In the second volume I tried, Criminal Psychology, I found Celia's name. There's a reference to her study called, "The Psychology of Violence," which was published in the American Journal of Psychology. But what I found really surprising was that I came across Martin Baruch's name twice. The first time because of some animal experiments, the second mention referred to a study called "The Theory of Natural Cycles."
     I chewed the bagel mechanically, without really tasting it. I made notes while I ate, like I did in college a few years ago. The phone brought me back to reality. I glanced at my watch. It was almost ten already. Names flashed across my mind as I started toward the phone mounted on the wall. Ericsson, a few friends, some girl â¦
     It was Celia. I recognized her voice before she introduced herself. There was a knot in my stomach and my heart was pounding like it did before in the basement, after workout with the bags. Her voice was apologetic. If I didn't mind, she didn't want to hold today's session at her office. She wanted me to meet her at the Edgar Institute, where her husband works. She wanted to make a few tests, blood and so on â¦she didn't like those attacks of mine. What if I dropped in before my shift?
     I said OK. Just then, I would have agreed to anything she wanted me to do. But before leaving I went back to the table for a few more minutes and I flipped the notebook to the page where I keep my "to-do" list. Edgar Institute, I wrote with a big question mark after it. I was still assigned to a desk job and I hoped I'd have time to look into it during the relatively peaceful hours of the afternoon lull. I found it a little strange that I'd never heard of the place.
CHAPTER 12
It's 4 p.m. Captain Ericsson stands at the window, pushing his forehead against the glass, like he used to do almost half a century ago. As a child he dreamed of adventures on the distant ocean. From the window of his boyhood home, he used to see sand blown lots, stunted withering trees. And if he stood on the left side of the window, he could see a gas station, and beyond that, a piece of the ocean. His father had told him that he must be mistakenâthe ocean was twenty miles from their place
     Should I tell this to Celia?
     I'd asked her to explain these attacks to me. She had looked embarrassed, like she wanted to give me some bad news but she couldn't quite make herself do it. Then she composed herself. It's a normal reaction to the shock, she had explained. Remorse had been torturing me after Carl's death and I was reacting with anger. This explanation sounded comforting and I bought it. For a while anyway. But this morning I was attacked by doubts and not satisfied with easy explanations. I took a bite from my bagel, and chewed it while I walked over to the bookshelf.
     On the other side of the novels are my old textbooks: criminology, anatomy, psychology â¦I took down a few volumes and put them on the table, next to my breakfast and the notebook. I opened one and ran my eyes down the table of contents. Then a thought occurred to me and I flipped to the back, to the bibliography.
     In the second volume I tried, Criminal Psychology, I found Celia's name. There's a reference to her study called, "The Psychology of Violence," which was published in the American Journal of Psychology. But what I found really surprising was that I came across Martin Baruch's name twice. The first time because of some animal experiments, the second mention referred to a study called "The Theory of Natural Cycles."
     I chewed the bagel mechanically, without really tasting it. I made notes while I ate, like I did in college a few years ago. The phone brought me back to reality. I glanced at my watch. It was almost ten already. Names flashed across my mind as I started toward the phone mounted on the wall. Ericsson, a few friends, some girl â¦
     It was Celia. I recognized her voice before she introduced herself. There was a knot in my stomach and my heart was pounding like it did before in the basement, after workout with the bags. Her voice was apologetic. If I didn't mind, she didn't want to hold today's session at her office. She wanted me to meet her at the Edgar Institute, where her husband works. She wanted to make a few tests, blood and so on â¦she didn't like those attacks of mine. What if I dropped in before my shift?
     I said OK. Just then, I would have agreed to anything she wanted me to do. But before leaving I went back to the table for a few more minutes and I flipped the notebook to the page where I keep my "to-do" list. Edgar Institute, I wrote with a big question mark after it. I was still assigned to a desk job and I hoped I'd have time to look into it during the relatively peaceful hours of the afternoon lull. I found it a little strange that I'd never heard of the place.
CHAPTER 12
It's 4 p.m. Captain Ericsson stands at the window, pushing his forehead against the glass, like he used to do almost half a century ago. As a child he dreamed of adventures on the distant ocean. From the window of his boyhood home, he used to see sand blown lots, stunted withering trees. And if he stood on the left side of the window, he could see a gas station, and beyond that, a piece of the ocean. His father had told him that he must be mistakenâthe ocean was twenty miles from their place
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