CHAPTER 2

 

Jeremy Foster leaned back in his chair and folded his legs in a composed, gentlemanly fashion, though inwardly he felt about as composed as a rabid hyena . . . on meth.  His client, Evelyn Dursten, sat across from him, jabbering nonsense with such rapid and breathless ease, it reminded him of an auctioneer speaking in Pentecostal tongues . . . on meth.

 Evelyn had been with him nearly from the beginning, after he’d left the FBI's elite behavioural unit to start up his own private practice in civilian therapy. For five years now, he’d been a “custodian of the skewed,” as a colleague in the bureau had referred to him. Sometimes he missed the company of proper madmen.

            “I just . . . I don't know. It's not that I don't love him . . . I mean, if you had a goldfish for twenty years – though that's impossible because they only live, like, what? . . . one year at the most – you would love it. But, okay, I guess that's a bad example because it's obviously not the same thing. It's like if you had the same hairdresser or, or, or, I don't know, like the same server at your favourite restaurant—”

             “Evelyn. I understand what point you're trying to make,” Jeremy interrupted. “Time has created a bond between you and your husband despite your perceived incompatibility.”

            Very discreetly he looked down at his Graham Swordfish wristwatch. His sessions with Evelyn were always an exercise in patience. Endurance might be a better word than patience. He groaned inwardly, sickened yet mesmerized by the way her lips parted and closed, barely perceptible, like hummingbird wings. Her vocal cords were struggling to keep up with the never-ending prattle spilling from her mouth. It did, however, all ultimately translate in therapist-ese to “Cha-ching!” He was operating a business, after all. That was not to say that he didn't want to help Evelyn. He really did. But he had learned a long time ago that some people just needed to dump their shit on somebody. They weren’t looking for insight, or perspective, they simply needed someone to listen to them vent. So he sat there and let her get it all out.    

            “. . . – If I was going to go through all the trouble of making a potato salad, you would think he would assume I didn't hate his sister anymore.”

            “. . . – I just don't see what the point of exercising so much is. It's not like he's single.” 

            “. . . – I don't believe we ever landed on the moon. I don't know why he can't just accept that.”

            The cacophony of syllables crashed against him like an auditory tsunami, until mercifully the session expired and he very calmly, very happily announced:

            “Unfortunately, we are out of time Evelyn. But I think we've unearthed some really important stuff here. Let's ‘dog-ear’ this for now and pick it back up again next week.”

 Once she was out of the room he allowed himself a moment to decompress. A knocking at his office door broke the sweet silence.

            “Come in,” he said and his secretary, Margret, entered, her face ashen.

            “What's wrong?”

            “It's the hospital. I think something has happened.”

            An inexplicable feeling came over him – a quiet knowing in his heart. It somehow told him that it had finally happened; his twin brother Christopher was dead. It was the strangest feeling, this knowing, without really knowing. Yet he knew it was true: Chris was gone.

            “Thank you Margret,” he said, slipping into a kind of adjacent reality. He walked to the desk, each of the nine steps precise and mechanical. He picked up the phone, watching himself do so, noticing his arm and his hand and then his finger jabbing down at the blinking light.

            He held the receiver to his chest and waited for Margret to leave.

            “This is Dr. Foster.”

            “Dr. Foster, this is Dr. Alysulvun at Good Samaritan hospital. I regret you inform you that your brother, Christopher, has passed away. We require your presence to identify and claim the body.”

            “Uh, yes. Yes, of course. At the hospital?”

            “Yes, sir. The general reception desk will be able to direct you, once you're here.”

            “Okay, I'll be right there.”

            “So sorry for you loss, Dr. Foster.”

            He didn't even have to ask; he knew it was suicide.

             Jeremy avoided particulars with Margaret and instructed her to cancel his appointments for the rest of the day. Then, like a zombie, he put one foot in front of the other until somehow he found himself in the parking lot. For the first time since he’d driven it off the lot two weeks prior, the new car smell of his BMW M6 Coupe failed to put a smile on his face. Instead it just made him feel like an asshole. The only thing his brother Christopher had ever driven was a bicycle.

How had he known he was gone?

             Jeremy turned the key and the engine purred to life. The drive down Cedar Oak and across Jefferson was carried out exclusively by rote. It wasn't until he reached Wilshire that he made the very sudden decision that he couldn't face his identical brother's dead face in his present state. He knew would have to go home first, to consolidate himself.

            Jesus, he would have to tell his son, Charlie. That could wait for the moment, too. Besides, if he called the house and spoke to his ex-wife right then, he felt as though he might cry.

           

            Jeremy's condo was a tasteful pastel and hardwood habitat for one, situated within the very exclusive condominium complex of the Shoreham Villas, in West Hollywood, a vainglorious community where the ‘haves’ seemed compelled to congregate like moths to a light bulb, fluttering around the most dazzling point they could find, never really going anywhere. He felt the buildings were charmless and ironically uninspired, and in a resolved sort of way, suitable.

            He entered the perfectly chilled atmosphere of his home, calmly removed his shoes and gently placed his keys on the marble countertop of the kitchen island, just as he would have any other day. He went to the cream-coloured leather sofa to sit but something told him he should stay on his feet. So instead he proceeded to his bedroom’s en-suite bathroom and began to remove his clothes. He delicately removed his tie and hung it back up in his closet and proceeded to unbutton his shirt. There was a hanger he kept on the back of the bathroom door for when he got home, and he utilized it.

            Shirtless, he stood in front of the mirror over the ironically double-sink counter and lamented, albeit in a casual sort of way, the fact that he had nobody to share this present grief with. How long had he been an island?  How long had he remained the sole citizen of his precise, hyper-felicitous world?

            He looked in the mirror at the face, which until this afternoon, had not been solely his. He was tall and broad-chested and handsome and alone. Where a life led with a little more – what? vulnerability? – would have secured him a wife, he had only an ex-wife. No girlfriend either, but there were plenty of those in the ‘ex’ column. Not even a cat.

It was never too difficult for him to find a date. But his needs for companionship, of course   were never – could never be – met on an emotional level. As he inspected his lean, gym-sculpted body in the mirror, he realized that it was possible he had broken the heart of every single woman who had ever cared for him.

            It was starting to become clear, though, that time would humble him yet. Time would eat away at his self-reliance until, as an old and decrepit man, he would finally be forced to acknowledge that he was not an island, or at least that he shouldn't be one.

            He leaned in close and inspected the grey which had started to crop up sporadically on his head, and at the hairline itself which was slowly, grudgingly, retreating from the un-winnable war.

            And now his brother was dead. Again he wondered how he’d known. Was it a twin thing? Had he been secretly hoping for it? He splashed water on his face and tried to wash the thought from his mind. No. He would not hope for that. Wouldn’t that make him the sick one?

            Staring in the mirror he reached up to the light switch on the wall and flicked it off. He could still make out the contours of the reflection of his brother's face.

            He flicked the light back on. Far from the first time, he wondered what cosmic flip of the coin had made him the chosen one. Why had he been born whole and blessed, while his brother had been cursed and lost?

            He flicked the light off.

            He flicked the light on.

            He flicked the light off.

            He flicked the light on.

            Off.

            On.

            Light.

            Dark.

            Off.

            On.

            Off.

            A shower, shave, and a good cry later, and he was back on the road, heading to his ex-wife’s house to break the news to his son.  

 

           

CHAPTER 3

 

The constant commotion of the newsroom was strangely comforting to Richard Lansdown. After forty years in broadcasting, he had come to rely on the chaos associated with covering the happenings of a turbulent world.

            By his calculations, he had paid his dues twice over. Had climbed the ranks to now sit as the network’s lead anchor. While he had realized all his professional goals, he had long ago begun to feel more like a mascot than a real newsman.

            As the lead anchor of the world’s leading news organization, he presided over a vast kingdom of resources and streams of information that flowed into the Los Angeles headquarters from all corners of the earth. But in the end, he was just the puppet monarch, who spoke only the words the shadow government of the network put in his mouth. Richard Lansdown, the broadcasting legend, was nothing more than a spokesman, reading a script written by an army of reporters, journalists, associated contributors, producers and executives. And even then, the words he was only given were only those that didn’t conflict in any way with the many and varied interests of the multinational conglomerate which owned them.

            He couldn’t even remember the last time he’d gotten his hands dirty and done some real reporting. His job was to stay abreast of virtually everything. He had to – at all times, as best he could  – get up to speed on whatever was happening on planet Earth that was of reasonable import to the masses . . . and many things that weren't. Pop culture was Frankenstein’s monster, assimilating the youth of the world, and marginalizing the old and out of touch via passive annexation, to the point where one was forced to acknowledge the memes of the day, or be considered irrelevant. Why else would someone like him know who Snookie was or have any idea about “Gangnam style”? 

            Sitting, trying not to get impatient as the hair and make-up artist prepped him for camera, Richard watched the young woman as she obsessively flicked at the wave of his meticulously sculpted, silver head of hair. A single strand in the front was not complying. He chuckled realizing their jobs were not so different.

            “Sorry, Mr. Lansdown. Just trying to make it perfect,” she said, misunderstanding his amusement.

            “No, no. It’s quite alright,” he assured her. “You know, I wanted to dye my hair when it started greying?”

            “Oh?” she asked, too preoccupied with the rebellious hair to sound truly curious.

            “Oh, yes. It was very controversial. The network felt very strongly that the grey added a certain . . . oh I don’t know . . . ‘credibility’ to my look. They even suggested that a man my age dyeing his hair might seem somewhat . . . undignified!”

            “I don’t even remember what my real hair colour is,” she said dismissively, finally defeating the stray hair.

            A production assistant giraffed his neck into the dressing room.

            “Five minutes to camera.”

            The young lady removed the paper bib from around Richard's neck and began to pack up her stuff. He tried to get a glimpse at the roots of her hair. It was a very good dye job, he decided. He wondered if she had bleached it white, first. He had heard that was how it was done, but he wasn’t entirely sure.

            “Thank you,” he said, smoothing out his tie and pulling himself to his feet.

           

            The ‘newsroom’ set was as bright and sterile as an operating room. There had always been something clinical about it that made it feel impersonal to Richard. The days of jittery nerves right before going live were long gone.  Even as the teleprompter flashed to life and the cameras switched on, Richard’s thoughts were elsewhere: had Debra cooked diner? . . . who was on Conan tonight? . . . would he get home in time to watch it? Maybe she’d made her shaved pork. It’s probably just when you dye your hair completely blond that you have to use peroxide, he thought. A shaved pork sandwich, while watching Conan, would be a nice way to end the day… That’s right, it was Ryan Reynolds on tonight. He really enjoyed his sarcastic humour. Was that Canadian humour? Was there such a brand?

            “Five, four, three,” the line producer counted down then switched to a 'hand count' for the remaining three numbers and the camera's ‘go hot'.

            “Good evening, and welcome to News Hour. I’m Richard Lansdown.”

            Richard pivoted smoothly over to camera two and took his serious baritone voice down two notches to ‘sombre’.

            “He has struck again. The serial killer known as “Mister,” who has confounded police and terrorized the state of California since he first became active over five years ago, has claimed new victims, adding three more lives to the growing death toll and has abducted another. Late last night the Los Angeles Police Department received an anonymous phone call believed to be from the killer himself, alerting them to the murder scene in Pico County, Santa Monica.  The police were directed to the home of Gregory and Sarah Whinner and their two children.”

            “At the scene were the bodies of Sarah Whinner and those of her two children, ages five and six. They had been murdered and their bodies mutilated. The specific nature of their injuries is too graphic to relay in detail here. A special press conference was held this morning to address the public’s unabated concerns regarding the murders perpetrated by the individual whom some are calling 'the Jack the Ripper of the twenty-first century.' During the news conference, Chief Randel, of the Los Angeles Police Department, referred to these most recent incident as ‘a horrific and inhuman act of unspeakable violence.' He later went on to cite the Mister killings as a prime example of why the death penalty is still implemented in the state of California and even suggested that other states which have overturned the death penalty should perhaps reconsider that decision. Chief Randel seemed visibly shaken over his department’s inability to apprehend the serial killer.”

            The teleprompter flashed to coverage of the news conference, indicating to Richard that he was off camera. He reached below the desk and grabbed his water. Maybe it wasn’t Ryan Reynolds after all, he thought. It could be Ryan Gosling. But he was Canadian too, wasn’t he? Which was the funny one?

            The line producer counted back down to hot camera.

            “Our thoughts and prayers go out to the friends and family affected by this horrible crime. Special hotlines have been set up by the Los Angeles Police Department and the FBI who are urging you to contact them if you have any information regarding the crimes or the whereabouts of the husband and father of the victims, Gregory Whinner. As per his usual methods authorities are expecting Mister to upload a video of the killings to peer-to-peer sites. The police and the FBI would like to remind you that the downloading and possession of such videos is a criminal offence and subject to prosecution.”

            Richard turned back to camera two. “More disturbing news from Wall Street today. Could America be headed for yet another national credit score downgrade?”

 

CHAPTER 4

 

Christopher’s apartment was exactly as Jeremy had expected it to be – not only messy, but dirty. The floor looked as though it had never been touched with a mop or a broom. The sink was crammed full of dishes which, by the look of the detritus of food crusted on them like barnacles, had been there for a very, very long time. Next to the sink was a stack of empty TV dinner trays. Jeremy was sure that once all the dishes were dirty, instead of washing them Chris had just started eating straight from the packages. He knew if he looked he would find a box of disposable plastic forks – and he had to open only two kitchen drawers before he found them. The whole place stunk of body odour and cigarettes.

            In the living room next to the old rear projection television was the ever-present, ever-growing, stack of video games. Christopher had virtually every video game console ever made. His library of games was astonishing. Hundreds of discs and old school cartridges teetered in towers, like proud little monuments to anti-socialism. 

            The spot where Chris had sat on the couch to play, was obviously sagged in. Next to the couch was a two-litre Coke bottle full of urine. Jeremy knew Chris would do this during his all-night vid binges, days when he would play these fucking video games for eighteen hours or more, stopping only when he couldn’t fight the sleep off any longer. He would eat in front of the screen, sleep in front of it, and apparently piss in front of it.

            There was a time when he had tried to get his brother to break this understandable but counterproductive habit but as Chris’s condition worsened over the years Jeremy came to understand his need for escape. It was an opiate for his soul. He’d even started buying games for Chris. It had seemed like distraction was the best strategy, in lieu of a cure.

            It had been two days since he’d learned of his brother’s death, and he hadn’t been able to sleep more than a couple minutes at a time since. Wearily he let himself crash down into the crater in the couch that had been created by his brother’s weight. He could almost feel the springs poking beneath him, the fabric and cushion having been squeezed down so far. Why hadn’t Chris started sitting on the perfectly plump and seemingly unused cushion beside it?

            He thought about going through Chris’s drawers and personal items, but he knew there would be no point. There would be no clues, no evidence, no reasons why his brother killed himself, other than the fact that there was basically no reason for him not to; nothing ever changed. No matter how much concern, or help, or anger, or love was spent, nothing ever changed. Even his apartment stayed, frustratingly, agonizingly, the same. Then he realized that he was wrong. Things had changed – they had gotten worse. Much worse. As bad as they could get, he supposed. Once the will to live is gone, what more could be lost?

            He felt the urge to cry start to slowly tickle the back of his throat, and the pressure of the coming tears, behind his nose and eyes. But he was afraid that if he started, he wouldn’t be able to stop. He had to be strong. If he just got through the funeral and the wake, he would be okay. After all, he’d always known this day would come. Chris’s schizophrenia had grown steadily since he’d been a child. He suspected even Chris knew it would get the better of him. Sooner or later.

            He decided he could use some coffee. Or gin. Or both. And a shave, he realized, rubbing the stubble on his face. He still had to go and buy a suit for Chris to be buried in.

He got up and walked to the bathroom. He stood outside the door, which was mercifully closed, placed his hand on it and wondered if it had been messy.  He was almost impressed that Chris had had the balls to go through with it. Having grown up knowing their father had committed suicide was something Jeremy had thought about often, as Chris must also have. It had always been a mystery to him, how one could willingly take that leap. Wasn’t something, anything, better then nothing? Didn’t hope for a better tomorrow exist, as long as there was a tomorrow? Or was it hope of what awaited us in the afterlife that encouraged them to go? Then again, if there was a benevolent God, or being, or whatever, waiting to welcome us into paradise, why was the world He insisted we live in, first, so . . . fucked up?

             No matter what his poor, sick brother believed, suicide took a type of wilfulness he hadn’t thought Chris capable of. If he had just shown as much determination and conviction for anything else in his life . . .

            He couldn’t let himself think about it. He had to just get through the funeral and the wake and the next week or two, and eventually he would be fine . . . he would be fine. Everything will be okay.

            The apartment was so quiet he could hear water running in the pipes from somewhere in the building. He placed his hand against the cold surface of the bathroom door. Had they cleaned up the mess? Probably not. Of course he would have to do it himself. Metaphorically speaking that seemed about right.

            He gripped the door knob, but couldn’t turn it. He just couldn’t. He needed coffee.

           

A half hour later, he was in the parking lot of Mcdonald’s drinking a large black coffee, thankful that they had replaced that old swill they used to serve. It was actually good now.

            He had the windows rolled down but cranked the AC anyway, because it relaxed him.

            Some black kids in an Impala on the other side of the parking lot were blaring a Kanye West song. It was a good song. He thought maybe it was about a person not being able to find love because he was obsessed with his career. That sounded familiar. It had been somewhat of a big deal when he went ahead and cancelled the remainder of his appointments for the week. Even Margret seemed surprised. Is that what it’s come to?  His own brother dies, and people expect him to . . . what? Just keep on living and working like nothing happened?

He looked down at his watch and contemplated calling it day.  He had to pick up Charlie at 6 a.m. in order to get to the funeral home before everyone else, but wanted to wait for the song to end first.

            The black kids in the car were all in their teens or early twenties. They seemed like good kids. Homies of all colours, it appeared, seemed more friendly and happy these days. The unprovoked cold stares and aggressiveness of the nineties and early millennium seemed to be tapering off. Rap, he thought, also seemed to be on a positive upswing. He was sure the two were connected.

            And the wheel turns. He felt his stomach knot up again. That was something his brother had said to him once, in one of his rare moments of baffling maturity.

            It was in ‘05 or ‘06. He’d been visiting Christopher, as he often did back then.

            “Have you heard from Aileen?” Chris had asked, casually, from where he was sipping his tea at the dining room table.

            Aileen was a woman Jeremy had dated for a few months after his divorce. One day she had just severed contact without explanation. 

            “Strange that you ask, actually.”

            “Oh, yeah? Why?”

            “I heard from her just last week. She called me out of the blue. Said she was sorry. That she made a mistake and never should have left me.”

            “Did she say why she just disappeared?” Chris asked.

            “Not really, no.”

            “So what did you say?”

            “I told her it was too late and that if she’d just explained herself to me, perhaps we could’ve picked things back up again but she hadn't even shown me that respect, so I had no time for her.” 

            Chris put down his tea, and smiled slyly at him from across the table.

            “And the wheel turns,” he’d said.

            The words struck Jeremy. So succinct. So true. Indeed, the wheel turns. After that, whenever Jeremy was able to discern karma making its long gradual rotations through all things, he would say these wise, wise words to himself: And the wheel turns.

            It was always disturbing when he could glimpse past the mask of madness that obscured his brother’s true face. How alike would they have been if not for the mental illness? Throughout his whole life he’d wondered if one day he too might fall ill.

            He felt something cold on his cheek and realized he had begun to cry. Wiping the tears away with the back of his hand, he realized he couldn’t hear the music in the parking lot anymore. The car full of kids was gone, his coffee cold. 

            He started the car and pulled out of the parking lot, unaware that the wheel really had, in fact, begun to turn.