AUTHOR’S NOTE: My first effort at publishing, Loose Ends, included a tale revolving around a reclusive couple and the neighborhood’s efforts to learn more about them. I based the story, titled “Witness Protection,” on the behavior of a man and woman who lived across the street from me as I wrote the book. The fictionalized tale did not end well for the duo. A short time after its publication, the real-life husband found his wife, the model for the unsociable female, deceased in their home from an undetermined cause. Two weeks later, authorities discovered the guy dead in his house. His demise resulted from two gunshot wounds to the head. Yes, two. But because a nondescript handgun lay near the body, the death was conveniently ruled a suicide. Many questions remained unanswered, especially for the neighbors who had observed their strange activities. I’ve written the following using those and other facts.
The Deadly Author
Two pairs of eyes peered through the small observation port of the outwardly ordinary-looking door. The owners of each tried to gain a measure of understanding of the lone figure on the other side. One set, the woman’s, held a gaze reflecting love, concern, and heartbreak. The other, belonging to an older, tall, bulb-nosed man in a white medical smock covering a shirt and tie, showed only detached curiosity. The object of their surveillance sat quiet and motionless, his back toward the padded portal. He stared uncomprehendingly at the landscape beyond the wire-reinforced window. The blaze of bright autumn colors on the trees occupying a distant hillside meant nothing to him.
Finally, the tunic-clad man, Dr. Keith Rutland, director of the Andover Clinic, heaved a soft sigh and pulled away from the small opening. He reached to close it. But, realizing the woman at his side was still standing on her tiptoes at the observation port, watching her husband intently, he hesitated. He looked at her closely. The doctor saw her wide, deep-blue eyes had saddened significantly since they’d first met a half hour earlier. Even her bouncy auburn hair appeared somehow more subdued now and drooped around her pretty face. Her doleful expression gave the impression of adding several years to what he assumed to be her approximate age.
After a time, the woman suddenly noticed the doctor’s absence from the observation port. Slightly embarrassed, Ashley Vanderleif glanced in his direction. She lowered herself from her tiptoed position, then diverted her eyes to the hallway’s highly polished tile floor. When she looked up into Dr. Rutland’s face, she couldn’t hide the tears of despair and uncertainty. She spoke, but the words died in her throat. Her companion closed the small door and grasped Mrs. Vanderleif’s elbow, gently but firmly guiding her down the hall.
As they entered his office, he steered the forlorn figure to a chair across the desk from his. The psychiatrist sat and studied the documents relating to Mr. Vanderleif, as the patient’s wife crushed a dilapidated tissue to her eyes. Dr. Rutland wanted to give the woman time to compose herself before discussing the situation further. Finally, as her hands fell away from her face, she took a deep, quivering breath and looked at the doctor. “Can you help him?”
“Well, I feel certain we will, Mrs. Vanderleif. But, while the paperwork I have here gives me a starting foundation, I need more information to know better how to approach your husband’s problem. Whatever you can tell me may assist a great deal when I talk with him and analyze his case more closely. Can you give me more of the background that brought you to the point of voluntary civil commitment? Start with facts such as when you got married, your relationship, when you first noticed issues with Mr. Vanderleif’s behavior that gave you pause, and so on. And take your time. Do you care for a cup of coffee, a water, or something else to drink?”
Ms. Vanderleif sobbed quietly, then composed herself before responding, “Could I have a glass of water, if it’s not too much trouble? And please call me Ashley.”
Keith nodded absentmindedly and turned to retrieve a bottled water from the compact office refrigerator on the floor behind his desk. Meanwhile, Mrs. Vanderleif began. “Art and I married twelve years ago this month. We met on a blind date and hit it off immediately. After dating for a year and a half–” Ashley stopped her narrative when she realized the doctor was preoccupied elsewhere. With water in hand, he was searching his work area, desperately trying to make a glass materialize for her. With a weak smile, she told him, “I don’t need a glass. The bottle will be fine, thank you.”
Somewhat relieved, Keith handed it to her. “I’m terribly sorry for the interruption,” he said, with a hand extended in invitation. “Please continue.”
Ashley opened the container. But because Dr. Rutland was distracted, she restated part of her narrative before sipping any of its contents. “Well, we married after dating for around eighteen months. And happily married since, I might add. We don’t have—”
The fellow looked up from the notes he was taking. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but you’re saying there were no signs of any emotional or psychological issues with your husband until recently? Not any you may have suspected during those twelve years?”
“No. Not any,” Ashley assured him, leaning forward and gently placing her fingertips on the edge of his desk.
“Any history of such concerns in his family of which you are aware?”
“No. None I know of.” While the doctor reviewed his notes, she eased back in her chair and examined her hands briefly. They looked up simultaneously, and she continued, “Oh, he might get a little depressed now and then, what with his job and everything. Who doesn’t? But not the way you mean, not like this.” With this, Ashley paused and glanced in the direction she thought Art to be. Her eyes filled with tears. After a moment, she returned her attention to Dr. Rutland. “Not until he published his first book. It was then that—”
“Your husband is an author, Mrs. Vanderleif? I’d read in his admission papers that he is or was an architect.”
“He is an architect, but he’s always written short stories as a hobby, as an escape from the pressures of his job. And I believe, before we met, it was to break away from the unhappiness of his family life. It was–”
“So, he had an unhappy childhood, then?”
“Well, I’m unable to describe it. He admitted to me that he had never felt truly loved by his parents. My husband once said he was convinced they had inadvertently conceived him before their marriage. Because of the pregnancy, they had to get married. It was something for which his father apparently never forgave him. Forgave him! They made him feel stupid and useless. When he was eleven years old, Art expressed the desire to become a doctor. His father told him he ‘wouldn’t make a pimple on a doctor’s ass.’ Sorry, but that was the quote. Of course, I guess a normal mother loves any child she gives birth to, but his mother’s love was a sort of neurotic kind.”
“I see. This is helpful, Mrs. Vanderleif. Please go on.”
“His writing was a thing he kept to himself mostly, and something he did for his enjoyment. When I found the stories he’d tucked away, I was frankly a little stunned at that aspect of his personality. When I asked him about them, he explained it to me just as I’ve told you. Even those few members of his family who knew of his pursuit never, ever gave him any encouragement. After we met, he stopped writing. I’d like to think it was because he was now very happy and didn’t need the ‘escape.’”
Ashley paused as a faint smile crossed her lips. This was the first indication of anything but the anguish lining her face Doctor Rutland had seen since they’d met. “He’s no Hemingway or Mark Twain, but I really liked his writing. He has a way with words and a vivid imagination–in the good sense of the term. So, I persuaded him to take it up again. Then, as the tales continued to flow, I urged him to publish his work. Finally, he did just that. He produced a collection of short stories. The thing did moderately well for an unknown author, and people enjoyed it. There were several nice reviews on Amazon. Art even had a successful launch–a book signing event at a bookstore in our area. He was happy for a while.”
“Yes.” Dr. Rutland set his pen down again and lounged back in his chair. “I imagine that might have been satisfying. Yet you seem to relate his current state to the book’s having been published. Do you have any idea exactly what caused the change in his feelings, his mental condition?”
“It began with the deaths of the people who lived across the street from us.”
“You mean friends you and Mr. Vanderleif were close to?”
Ashley wrung her hands, suppressing a slight level of frustration. “No, doctor, not at all. In fact, we’d never met them. We didn’t know their names until after their deaths. Few of the neighbors did.” As Dr. Rutland leaned back over his desk and retrieved his pen, his face showed a momentary disconnect.
Rutland’s visitor explained further, “You see, this couple was extremely strange in their habits. For example, the man dressed in heavy layers of clothing, a hat, and something covering his mouth and nose when he mowed his lawn. And that was in the stifling heat and humidity of the Georgia summer. Art called the thing on his face a safety respirator. It looked to me to be a World War I gas mask. Whatever it was, he was prepared for Armageddon. Added to that, they ran inside their home every time someone tried to approach them in their yard or at their mailbox. They were always that way, too.
“Shortly after they moved in sometime back, one neighbor walked over and knocked on their door to welcome them to the neighborhood. After hearing the greeting, the newcomer said in no uncertain terms that he wasn’t there to make friends and slammed his door in the visitor’s face. End of story. They were antisocial in the extreme. They never socialized with anyone we knew.
“Only one neighbor ever saw either of the standoffish pair outside their yard. The guy who lived beside us drove to a nearby twenty-four-hour supermarket to get medicine for a sick child once at two o’clock in the morning. The strange man was there doing his marketing as if it were an ordinary time of day. And whenever they arrived home, they never got out of their car until their garage door had closed behind them. Weird was the only word to describe them. Art started joking that they must have been in the Federal Witness Protection Program. He referred to them as ‘Witness Protection,’ and the rest of the neighborhood took up the nickname, too, because no one seemed to know their names. Odd people,” her voice trailed off.
“That is strange,” Dr. Rutland agreed. He removed his glasses and wearily rubbed the bridge of his large nose. “But I still don’t get the link.”
“When Art was writing stories for what later became his book, he wrote one called ‘Witness Protection.’ In it, he described the couple, nameless, of course, and their odd habits in all their ‘glory.’ Although he used them as the central characters in the plot, he fictionalized most of the story’s events. Three months after they published it, the husband found his wife deceased in their home. The authorities subsequently listed her death as being from unknown causes. Unknown causes! In this day and age! Two weeks after she died, the police discovered her husband–at least we think he was her spouse–in the house, dead from gunshot wounds to his temple. Because they located a gun nearby, the coroner ruled his death a suicide.”
Keith shook his head. “Pardon me, Mrs. Vanderleif, but I’m uncertain I understand the connection between that series of events and Mr. Vanderleif’s current circumstances. Especially if, as you say, there was no emotional tie between the two of you and the couple.”
By this time, Ashley realized Dr. Rutland would not use her first name. As much as she wanted to repeat her request, she abandoned the idea and continued her explanation. “Well, there’s no single example I could give you of a change in Art’s outward demeanor. I remember the day, though, our next-door neighbor told us what had happened to the couple across the street. We’d just returned from a cruise, a congratulatory gift I’d given Art in honor of his book being published. So we’d been out of town when the excitement occurred. He seemed especially shocked by the news. And I recall he was quiet the rest of the afternoon and through the entire week. I assumed he was still recovering from the trip.”
“And could that not have been the reason for his placid demeanor? I mean, your explanation of travel fatigue seems quite rational.”
“Well, except for what happened next.” Ashley held back the tears forming in her eyes and sipped the water before going on, “My daddy passed away only two months later. Afterward, Art grew even more withdrawn, more morose. He’d never been that way in the entire time I’d known him. Just the opposite, in fact. One thing which attracted me to him to begin with was his funny, outgoing nature. That suddenly changed. He became subdued. Never wanted to go anywhere or do anything. I had to drag him to his scheduled book signings. And he had enjoyed those so before the deaths.”
The lead clinician was still having difficulty formulating any nexus to his patient’s current despondency, possibly even schizophrenia. Before he might vocalize his next idea, his telephone rang. As he answered it, he said, “Pardon me a moment.” After a minute of listening intently, the doctor eyed Ashley and responded to his caller. “No. No. As long as he’s quiet and resting comfortably, I don’t want him administered any pharmaceuticals just yet. Let’s observe him without the miasma of medication. Yes, if he has trouble sleeping, give him something mild to help him. But check with me first if there is a change necessitating pharmacological therapy. We’ll assess the need for a drug strategy for him then. Thank you, Mrs. Helms.” Replacing the receiver in its cradle, Dr. Rutland returned his attention to his visitor. “I apologize for that. So, where were we? Oh, yes, you had mentioned your father’s death. Then Mr. Vanderleif was close to your father?”
“Yes. He really loved him. But it was one of Art’s stories, which included a character based on my daddy, that caused his withdrawal and personality change. Daddy made the third person Art had used as a basis for an individual in his writings who perished shortly after they printed his book. He told me at that point there was a curse on him. My husband believed he doomed anyone he featured in a story. He was responsible for their deaths.” Ashley’s voice cracked with emotion as she finished her statement.
“How old was your father? And what was the nature of his death?”
“He was eighty-two when he died. I must add I was his ‘bonus baby,’ which is why he was older than you might have guessed, based on my age.” After a pause, Ashley added, “Daddy just wore down suddenly.”
Dr. Rutland’s eyebrows arched in mild surprise. “But he had a long life. Death at eighty-two is not to be unexpected. Surely, this was merely an odd, albeit extraordinary, coincidence. Certainly, Mr. Vanderleif could understand that. Or should come to recognize it.” After a pause, the doctor elaborated, “Feelings of guilt may take strange forms and result from nonsensical issues. We need only make him comprehend that the deaths of three people, who provided random characters in his book, have nothing to do with him or his writing.” Ashley sat strangely quiet as she appeared to study her hands in her lap. Her lack of response struck Dr. Rutland as somewhat unusual, so he continued, “You can appreciate that. Can’t you, Mrs. Vanderleif?”
“Then there was the guy Art worked with ….”
“What?” Dr. Rutland was stunned at the involvement of yet another person. He felt he’d failed at attempting not to show it. Perhaps his outburst had more of an edge to it than he intended. He smiled at the distraught lady to soften the effect.
“There was another unexpected death.” Ashley paused and took a large sip of water as the psychiatrist again leaned back in his chair, trying to understand this web. “You see, Dr. Rutland, Art struck up a close friendship with a guy he worked with. He was an architect, too, named Jason Shealy. Aside from the work they did, they found they had similar backgrounds. Both had been in the military. Shealy had been in the Marine Corps, and Art had been a Navy medic stationed with the Marines. My husband loves the Marine Corps and is proud to have served with them.”
Her eyes gazed intently at the face of the man opposite her. “Art always said he chose to be a medic when he joined to show his dad, at least in a small way, he was wrong about him being able to handle a medical vocation. Anyway, he and Jason had gone into the military as soon as they were of age to get away from their home lives. They were great friends, frequently talking and joking with each other and going to baseball games together. The two of them kidded people in the office who had served in the other branches of the service.
His friend was such an amiable guy that Art asked him whether he could base a character in one of his new stories on him. His friend laughed at the idea that he was someone that anyone might be interested in reading about, but agreed to the notion. So, he wrote a story with a main character based on Jason.
“Art’s company is fairly sizable. And many of of his co-workers, if not most, bought his book. Then word of the deaths of the pair across the street from us went around the office. People he worked with made several remarks in jest to Art, begging him not to put them in any of his writing. It seemed in good fun to them, but it affected my husband. I could tell.
“Then my daddy passed away. Folks knew Dad had been the source of one of Art’s characters. Suddenly, the ‘jokes’ regarding not being included in his next book took on a more serious tone. Four months after my dad’s death, Jason died in an automobile accident. That was a month ago. Art slid deeper into his belief he, his writing is cursed. He withdrew and became more and more morose. I figured it would pass, and he’d gradually come back to being himself. But it never happened. It’s as if he has some sort of brain fever.”
As Ashley suddenly drew her hands over her face, shoulders shaking, Dr. Rutland stopped himself from snorting contemptuously at the term “brain fever.” His florid complexion turned a deeper red at the mention of something he considered a concoction of cheap novelists and playwrights. Rutland mustered patience and gave the matter consideration. This might be more of a challenge to deal with than he’d initially reckoned. It seemed the person most likely to be a pillar of strength for Mr. Vanderleif was buying into the connection as well. It’s absurd, Keith thought. “Anything else, Mrs. Vanderleif?” he sighed, trying not to sound too exasperated.
“No, doctor. Help my husband. Please. I want Art back … the way he was. We were so happy and–.” Tears finished her somber plea as she sobbed mournfully into the frayed tissue.
Recognizing that the woman could easily sit in his office the entire afternoon and cry, the doctor chose that moment to bring their meeting to a conclusion. He rose from his desk and walked around it to where Ashley sat. He placed a comforting hand on her shoulder and offered, “Now, Mrs. Vanderleif, you run along and leave your husband to us. I’m certain we can have him home again in no time and as happy as you knew him before the onset of this issue.”
* * *
Initially, Dr. Rutland held private sessions with Art to make a proper diagnosis and to determine the depth of his problem. After two weeks of working his way through the maze of Art’s possible mental difficulties, the psychiatrist believed he recognized the issues in the case. Simultaneously, the doctor had had several meetings with Ashley to help her understand her husband’s condition and the progress he was making. Mrs. Vanderleif’s positive attitude toward his recovery pleased Rutland. The frequency of her visits increased. The schizophrenic delusions and other symptoms the patient had been experiencing ebbed during that period. They had made sufficient headway Rutland put Vanderleif into group therapy.
Following one such session, Art appeared at Dr. Rutland’s office with a question. He asked the director whether it might be possible for him to have his computer to write in his spare time. The clinic’s director agreed because the staff would check the device for inappropriate material and Art couldn’t have access to the internet. Rutland considered it to be a big step forward for Vanderleif to want to take up something he’d sworn off, the thing which had brought on his mental issues. They planned for Ashley to drop the laptop at Andover. After a thorough going-over by the hospital administration’s IT guru, the doctor gave the instrument to Art.
During his rounds several days later, Dr. Rutland stopped by Vanderleif’s room while he was in group therapy. Keith saw a document on the computer monitor. Overcome by curiosity, he walked to the desk and glanced at the screen. The story concerned the author being seen by a psychiatrist named Rutland. He smiled at the idea of his patient writing again. This is a huge step forward. He’s bettered his fear of causing a death by portraying someone in a composition, the clinician thought.
The doctor approved a subsequent request for Art to print the story on one of the facilities’ machines. A few days later, the author asked to meet with Rutland. They scheduled an appointment.
At the designated time, Art Vanderleif arrived at Rutland’s office, carrying several sheets of paper. Once seated, the author explained to his doctor that he’d completed a story featuring the two of them. The account was his way of proving, he told the psychiatrist, once and for all, his delusions had been just that.
“May I read it?” Rutland took the pages and carefully read them, smiling and nodding as he went. At one point, he chuckled, “I like how you refer to serotonin as ‘happy juices.’” When he’d finished reading, he smiled and looked at his patient. “And nobody has died. So now you know the things that occurred were merely what I labeled them: coincidences. You see, Mr. Vanderleif,” he continued as he stood, “the mind can play–”
Suddenly, Dr. Rutland retched. His eyes grew larger, and his face contorted wildly. The man’s tongue protruded from his twisted mouth. Then, he dropped behind his desk and didn’t move.
Art sat dumbfounded by what was happening before him. Terror shook his being.
Before Vanderleif could say or do anything, a smiling Dr. Rutland rose. He burst into laughter. “Now that’s what I call shock therapy. You see how preposterous the whole idea is?” Art didn’t stir or speak. He simply stared in astonished disbelief. “Yes, Mr. Vanderleif, you can go home in two days. I’ll arrange to have your wife come and get you on Thursday.”
White-hot rage raced through Art Vanderleif’s brain. An anger he’d never known overcame him. In an instant, he grabbed a letter opener from the doctor’s desk. He quickly rounded the table and plunged it into Rutland’s chest. The stunned psychiatrist was dead before he hit the floor. ©
