Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 92, No. 3. Whole No. 547, September 1988

A Slightly Less Dangerous Insanity by Carl Martin

© 1988 by Carl Martin.

“I don’t know what you did,” one of Jean’s co-workers commented, “but you’ve certainly got that man’s attention...”

Jean Brophy couldn’t say exactly when Steve Collins had begun to frighten her. She only knew that he did, and her fear increased with every passing day, hour, and minute. What had started as an innocent flirtation, followed by a couple of pleasant dates, had quickly escalated into a nightmare.

He had seemed nice enough at first, even charming. He made a great first impression. After they had gone out together once, he had sent her flowers every day at work. Each evening when she got home from the office, the phone would be ringing. He kept her on the line as long as she was willing to talk.

Handsome professional men who were also single were scarce in Bradleyville. It was unusual to have one relocate in Bradleyville from Pittsburg, as he had done. She had been flattered by his attention and the open envy many of her friends expressed.

“I don’t know what you did, but you’ve certainly got that man’s attention,” one of her co-workers commented.

Jean didn’t know what she had done, either, but she was enjoying being pursued.

As they stood at the entrance to her apartment building at the end of their second date, he asked her to marry him. She laughed and gave him a playful push. She thought he was joking, but she should have realized he was serious. There was something a bit too intense about him even then.

The flowers continued to arrive, and he started to call her during working hours, too. He wanted to hear her voice. He said he wanted to take her to lunch. He told her he loved her and repeated his marriage proposal. Jean began to find this sudden ardor a bit disconcerting, so she didn’t encourage him. However, she did nothing to discourage him, either.

A couple of days after their second date, she had to work late. One of the men in the office drove her home and dropped her off in front of her apartment building. Steve was sitting on the steps waiting for her.

Speaking past clenched teeth, he demanded to know where she had been. And who was the man who had just driven away? Who was she seeing behind his back?

Jean told him she had been working.

He called her a liar. “When I couldn’t reach you at home, I tried you at the office. No one answered.”

Patiently, Jean explained that the switchboard was closed after five-thirty. No one was there to take incoming calls.

He listened, but for all the effect it had she might have been speaking Chinese. When she finished, he swore, called her a string of vile names, and again accused her of cheating on him. He paced back and forth, swinging his arms in short, choppy motions, but his voice never rose above a conversational level. To anyone watching from a distance, they might have been discussing sports or the weather. His anger seemed cold and controlled, not the product of hot-blooded, emotional irrationality, and this made it all the more terrifying.

Jean had the key to the outside door in her hand. When his back was turned momentarily, she used it, shutting the door firmly behind her. He rushed forward, yanked on the handle, then stood glaring at her through the heavy glass panel. She ran to the elevator without looking back.

When she reached her apartment, Jean took the phone off the hook. She went to bed, but sleep eluded her for hours. She kept playing the horrible scene over in her mind. He must be crazy, she thought, but it gave her no comfort.

The next morning he called her at work, full of apology and remorse. He didn’t know what had gotten into him. He begged her forgiveness. “It’ll never happen again,” he promised.

Jean let him talk, then told him she didn’t want to see him again. She was polite but firm.

When he called back, she rejected the call. When his flowers arrived, she refused delivery. And when he tried to reach her at home, she hung up on him. He would eventually get the message, she figured. But she was wrong. Even after the switchboard operator at work learned to recognize his voice and stopped putting his calls through, he continued to call her at home. Sometimes he seemed rational. Other times his voice was high and shrill. She always hung up on him.

Finally, after an evening when he called every half hour all night long, she had her number changed. The lull lasted only three days. Then he somehow obtained her new number and began calling again. Only now he didn’t talk. He listened. It was as though he was satisfied to merely hear the agitation in her voice when she answered.

One evening she noticed his car parked across the street when she left work. He followed her home. When she looked out her window hours later, he was still parked down the block.

After that, she watched for him and seemed to see him at every turn. He followed her everywhere. He was outside her building when she left in the morning. When she went to a restaurant or supermarket, he often followed her inside. If she visited a friend, he waited until she came out and fell in behind her again. He didn’t approach her or try to talk to her, but he made certain she knew he was there.

Jean couldn’t stand being followed. In desperation, she finally called the police. Maybe he would listen to them and be convinced she really didn’t want to see him again.

Steve was parked down the block from her front door when the squad car arrived. He was still there when the two officers left after hearing her story. Jean watched from her window as the policemen invited Steve out of his car to question him.

They stood talking for a long time. At first the officers’ bearing was stiff and erect, but after a while their posture relaxed and they looked like three old friends chatting. Then the two cops walked back to her building.

She pushed the buzzer to let them in.

“He doesn’t seem like a bad guy,” one of the men said.

“He just wants you to give him a chance,” the other added.

“That’s right — he won’t hurt you. The poor guy’s in love.”

“He hasn’t broken any laws, and I don’t think he will. After all, the man’s a lawyer. He’s even donated some of his time to the Police Benevolent Association.”

It was clear that Steve’s genius for making good first impressions had worked again and they viewed her as the irrational one. The only question in their minds was what a nice guy like Steve saw in her. When they left, Jean felt completely discouraged. The only course open to her was to try to talk to him again, though she doubted it would do any good. He had already refused to listen to reason and what he was doing defied logic.

The next time she saw him behind her on the street, she turned around and walked toward him. If she was going to confront him, she wanted to do it with other people around.

Steve looked at her in surprise, then crossed to the other side of the street. He had told the police he was in love, but that didn’t seem like the act of a man who wanted to patch things up. Whatever this had been in the beginning, it had evolved into something quite different.

Jean reminded herself that he had broken no laws and hadn’t tried to hurt her. It was small comfort, but all she had. That evening when she returned to her apartment, even that little consolation disappeared.

Her tiny apartment was a shambles. Someone had vandalized it so thoroughly that everything she owned had been destroyed. Someone had sprayed acid on everything — walls, floors, furniture. Her TV and VCR both had had acid poured into them and were beyond repair. Holes had been eaten through all her clothing. Nothing had survived.

She had no doubt who that someone was. She called the police again, but all she received was sympathy. She had no proof.

She had to help herself, she knew that now. His actions had become increasingly more outrageous. If she didn’t do something to stop him, there was no telling what he might do the next time. He was out of control and she doubted whether even he knew where this was going.

She moved to an inexpensive hotel, but she didn’t get much sleep. She went over everything she knew about the man, which wasn’t much. He had come to Bradleyville from Pittsburg. He had no close friends or relatives in Bradleyville. That was it.

She didn’t know why he had left Pittsburg, but it didn’t matter. She could guess. He had probably decided to leave after doing something so scandalous that he had shattered the false image he projected. His image and reputation were important to him, otherwise he wouldn’t work so hard at maintaining them. The significant thing was that he had left Pittsburg and would leave Bradleyville, too, once he was found out.

But could she afford to wait? Did she want to risk whatever new outrage might occur to him?

She thought of buying a pistol for protection, but rejected the idea. That would be really crazy. But maybe, just maybe, some slightly less dangerous insanity was needed.

Steve Collins hurried toward his car. He was sure this was going to be a good day. He had learned where Jean had moved to after he had trashed her apartment. He wanted to see the expression on her face when she saw him waiting outside.

As he neared his car, he saw a sheet of white paper under the windshield wiper on the driver’s side. Then he noticed similar sheets were on most of the other cars on the street. It must be an advertisement of some kind, he thought as he removed it. Then he saw that the top half of the page was filled with a picture of himself. He read:

Steve Collins forgot all about Jean Brophy. He had another problem on his mind. How long would it take him to pack up his things and leave Bradleyville?