The Venus Fix

Monday Four days remaining
Fifty-Seven

Alan Leightman was sitting on the couch holding a large cup of coffee. I was still having trouble not calling him Bob. He kept wrapping his fingers, first of the right hand, then the left, around the cup as if he were warming himself. But by now, surely the coffee had grown cold. It was the idea of warmth he was in search of.

“She kept stirring the damn spoon around and around.”

“That bothered you?”

“Everything bothered me. My wife-the brilliant woman I’ve lived with for all these years-has turned into a drugged-out zombie who hates my guts.”

“What happened in the kitchen?” I asked, getting him to refocus.

“She said her coffee was cold and turned the heat on under the kettle. Once the water was boiling and the kettle was whistling, she did the strangest thing…she reached out and touched it.”

“What do you mean touched it-to see if it was hot?”

“Yes, but she had to know it was hot, it was whistling. She was burning her fingers on purpose. Twice. Why would she do that? And then she said she knew something that could help me with the police.” He rubbed his face. “But whatever it was, she said it wouldn’t matter, and she’s right-no one would believe her, she’s my wife. Everyone would assume she’d lie for me.” He shook his head. “She’s punishing me for what I’ve done to her. I deserve it, too.”

“Deserve it?”

He nodded. There was anguish in his eyes.

“Alan, if you want I can talk to-”

“No.” He was on his feet. “You can’t talk to the police. Do you understand? You can’t talk to anyone.”

“I wasn’t suggesting I go to the police. Sit down. I was going to say that if you want me to talk to you and Kira together, in therapy, I would.”

He collapsed back on the couch. “I didn’t write to those women. I certainly didn’t kill those women.”

“I have no doubt of that. None at all.”

And I didn’t.

“Dr. Snow, why was she burning her fingers?”

“Maybe she wanted to punish herself. Or sometimes inflicting pain distracts a person from a deeper pain.”

He nodded, twisted his hands in his lap. Crossed one leg over the other. Then uncrossed it. His eyes were darting around the room as if he was going to find answers hiding in the corners and behind the books.

“She blames herself for my addiction, doesn’t she?”

“It’s certainly possible.”

He nodded, nodded again. He was thinking. A moment went by.

“She takes responsibility for everything. Damn. She takes responsibility for the First Amendment.”

I was watching him put himself through some kind of difficult process. The pain intensified in his eyes and then he closed them. When he opened them a few seconds later, he seemed as if he’d resolved something, was almost elated.

“Alan? What is it?”

“Do you think her moods and erratic behavior could have something to do with her meds?” he asked.

“Technically, yes. It is not unheard of for medication to have the opposite of its intended effect. Patients being treated for depression can become more depressed. Or more paranoid. Would she allow you to call her doctor and-”

“Can they become violent? Seriously violent? Delusional?” He interrupted me.

“Yes.”

He looked down at his hands. His wedding ring glinted. He covered it with his right hand.

“She takes those pills because of me.”

“No. No, she doesn’t.”

He wasn’t hearing me. I could see that.

“Alan, are you all right?” I asked.

He was looking through me, oblivious of where he was or what was going on around him. I waited. One minute passed. And then another. He started to speak and then stopped. Shook his head as if he was having a silent conversation with himself.

“I’ve made a decision.”

I waited.

He didn’t say anything. Then he cleared his throat. I nodded, encouraging.

“When I leave here I’m turning myself in to the police.”

“For what?”

“I lied to you. To you and to Kira and to the police. I killed those girls, those Web cam girls, and I think… I think it will be better for everyone if I admit it now and prevent an investigation.”

I might not have known his name until a few days before, but I knew this man’s psyche. “Alan, you didn’t kill anyone.”

His face was devoid of any emotion except resolve. “Yes, I did. I’m confessing. And I am asking you not to discuss me with the police. Not to tell them whether you think I am or am not capable of murder when they ask.”

“They won’t ask me. We’ve talked about this. I can’t discuss your therapy with anyone unless you want me to.”

“Even if you believe that I am a threat to society, you can’t go to the police?”

“I’m confused. Are you confessing to me so that I will go to the police and help you do this?”

“No. God, no. You can’t talk to them. Do you understand? I’m turning myself in. You don’t have to protect anyone. The only one who knows I was in therapy with you was Kira. No one else. I don’t want you to tell anyone else. All right?”

“Alan, why are you doing this?”

“Dr. Snow, the best thing you can do is to stop asking questions and stop looking for answers. Do you understand?”

He was staring intently at me and, for a second, I felt a jolt of fear.

“Yes.”

His eyes were unflinching, unrelenting. “You won’t discuss anything I’ve told you with anyone?” His jaw muscles tightened and a cord stood out on his neck.

“No. No, I won’t. But I think we should talk about this before you make a mistake you can’t undo.”

“I have to go now. Will you call my wife’s doctor? Will you ask him to go to our apartment? To give her whatever she needs? Will you go see her? If you can’t find him, will you go? I don’t want her to be alone when the story breaks on the news.” He was speaking clearly, but he’d begun to disassociate.

“Alan, listen to me. You are paying me for forty-five minutes, let’s use them. Let me help you. I know you didn’t kill anyone. I don’t even think you are capable of killing yourself. Your ego is too strong. No matter what you’re doing online, sexually, you care about your career. About your wife. You don’t want to do this to Kira, do you?”

His eyes blinked three times in succession.

“I am not doing this to Kira.”

“No. You’re not, are you? You’re doing this to protect her.”

He looked surprised that I’d guessed.

“Alan, is that what you’re doing?”

He smiled just a little and then it disappeared. “What do you mean protect her? I don’t understand, Dr. Snow. What do I have to protect her from?”

“Alan, please. Tell me what is going on.”

“I wish I could have completed my therapy with you, Morgan. I think you would have gotten me to a better place.”

It was the first time he’d ever called me by my first name.

He stood.

I wanted to lock him in my office and make him talk to me, explain why he was taking this drastic step. “If you need me, I’ll come. Wherever you are. Do you understand? In prison, you’ll be allowed to see your therapist. They’ll let me see you.”

He nodded, reached out and shook my hand. His skin was dry and cold but the handshake was strong.

Judge Alan Leightman could not have killed anyone. I was right about that. But I was wrong about him being able to commit suicide. Because he was doing that, in front of my eyes. And there was nothing I could do to stop him.

He turned, walked to the door, opened it and left my office. I watched him march down the sweeping staircase. It was the first time he’d left the Butterfield Institute through the front door.