Opposite Days: A Mike Dodge Mystery

“So when I was 16, I visited Broadway for the first time with my high school drama club,” Dr. Carol Brandauer began.

It seemed like an odd departure point. But if I’d learned anything in the course of 30 years interviewing agronomists, economists, and political scientists, it was that academics enjoy a leisurely stroll to the point.

“Of course, we saw ‘Rent’ -- Mr. Ricci even got us an audience with Jesse L. Martin – Ed Green on Law and Order or Barry’s dad on The Flash, if you never saw the musical or the movie…”

No law a globally renowned sociocultural anthopologist can’t enjoy a little guilty TNT or CW after a rough day of epistemology. I sipped the decaf iced macchiato that had made me 15 minutes late to the Millington Public Library Meeting Center.

“Second day of our trip, Mr. Ricci took us to Eagle Street Rooftop Farm, one of those urban gardens where they raise food for the poor and such.” Poor and such? “About 6,000 square feet of green leafies with this killer view of Manhattan.

“So we’re wandering around this Eden when I take a peek off the roof. I remember feeling a little disoriented peering down at the street, imagined what might happen to a frail teenaged body when it hit the concrete. And then, there it is -- one singular, compelling, persistent thought.”

It even sounded a little like a Broadway lyric. Which made sense, because the prof was taking somewhere around five hundred twenty-five thousand, six hundred minutes to get to the evening’s topic. I was beginning to lose hope of making CSI: Vegas.

“What if I jumped? Of course, there were barriers and safeguards all around the roof, but that only strengthened the impulse. I calculated the ways I could slip through or climb over, how I could just take a dive or step off into space. What might my last thought be?

“I stepped back, got on the shuttle, and accompanied my classmates to Mamma Mia at The Winter Garden. I’m not sure I heard one lyric – all I could think about was that intrusive voice in my brain. It was a month later -- after I fantasized for the third time about throwing myself in front of a city bus -- that I told Mr. Ricci what I’d contemplated that day on the garden roof.

“I felt I was a genuinely happy girl – my parents were wonderful; I had a supportive group of friends and teachers, and I was on track to Marquette or Northwestern. Why would I even entertain this self-destructive impulse? Was I suicidal?”

I slipped the iPhone from my jacket and, as discreetly as I could from the second row, popped Safari up.

“I knew I’d always been a perfectionist, something of a worry wart – it was a source of gentle humor at home, among some of my teachers. I’d been unusually fussy in my Girl Scout troop, in class, on the soccer team. I was academically driven – if I had a project or a paper, I was like a dog with a bone, and anything less than a 4.0 GPA was unacceptable My school counselor helped me understand that what I’d viewed as a drive toward perfection had actually become a serious compulsion – a form of obsessive compulsive disorder. What seemed like a recurring suicidal impulse was my brain’s way of telling me something was wrong. These are what we call OCD-Related Intrusive Thoughts.”

“Shit,” I whispered. The woman two seats over frowned without looking away from the speaker, who now displayed the book she’d been clasping -- decidedly NOT American Racism: Dissonance, Dissidence, and Incident by Dr. Carolyn Brandauer, four-time National Book Award recipient. This imposter was one Teresa Bufford, author of Opposite Days: Keeping the Intruders at Bay. Or, more accurately, I should have studied the flyer, as well as the signage in the hallway, a little more scrupulously.

“We all have momentary thoughts or temptations that defy convention, our most deeply held beliefs, our own moral or ethical principles, even reason,” Bufford assured the group. I edged toward the aisle. “But these impulses can become obsessive, lead to compulsions that interfere with daily functions. We may be able to keep these intrusive thoughts at bay, until the stress reaches a boiling point or our confidence or beliefs waver. We may surrender to these thoughts as inevitable, as our ‘fate’ or personal punishment.” I made the aisle, moved in an “invisible” half-crouch up the rows. “Or we may simply deny these intrusive thoughts or impulses, run away from them.” I stepped up my pace and slipped through the double doors.

The corridor was clear, and I confirmed that indeed, some volunteer had fallen down on the non-job. I beelined for Room 2 at the end of the hall. I tugged delicately at the door to find another Brandauer imposter unwrapping a Subway at the table next to the AV console.

“Um,” I said. “Is this the room for the racism talk?”

The fashionably gaunt young woman started to brush her sandwich into an outsized hempy-looking canvas bag. “Dr. Whatever got jammed up at Detroit, so they had to cancel. Plus, you’re like real late.” That seemed gratuitous.

“They screwed up the signs – I was in the wrong place.”

“For 15 minutes?” She glanced at the bulletin board behind her, studied the flyers for tonight’s programs, and turned back with an arch of the eyebrow. “Ah, I see,” she murmured coolly, as if a few pointers on cognitive dissonance might indeed be in order.

“Well…” I nodded, backing for the doors.

At least CSI was back on the books. Then I spotted the bearded, thirtysomething dude I’d recognized as the misidentified speaker’s front man/publicist/assistant, by the door to Room 1. He was making thoughtful noises at his smartphone, but caught my eye as I again willed visibility. I feigned confusion, then ducked into the men’s room.

He was waiting as I came out five minutes later. “Hey, I’m Derek. You are…?”

 “Mike.” I could shoulder Derek into the wall and make the opening credits.

“Hey, Mike, we’ve all been there. I used to listen to my own breathing at night. I was convinced that if I didn’t, I might stop. Breathing. Then it got into my head that obsessing about it might cause it to stop. Bro, there’s no pressure or judgment in there. And you might just leave tonight with a little peace of mind. What do you think?”

“I—” What the hell, I finally decided. I could always skate during the Q&A.

**

Bufford launched right into the Q&A.

“Did everybody fill out their cards before we started?” she asked her eight intrusive thinkers and the dimwit Derek had ushered back into the fold. I willed my comment card to burst into flame. “Great; let’s get to it.” She plucked one of the index cards Derek had distributed from the table. “‘I CONSTANTLY SUSPECT MY WIFE OF CHEATING, THOUGH I KNOW SHE POSITIVELY NEVER WOULD.’ This is a common intrusive Relationship thought – fear of being cheated on, or of unintentionally cheating on a spouse or partner. These eventually can destroy a marriage, if we fail to communicate.”

Bufford pulled another card – the edge was stained with coffee, and she looked at it for a couple of seconds. She shuffled the note to the bottom of the pile with a smile and selected one of two bottles next to her bag. Taking a long swig of water, she jumped back in.

“Here’s a great example of ‘magical thinking’: ‘I FANTASIZE ABOUT MY BOSS BREAKING HIS NECK ON THE LOADING DOCK OR GETTING RUN OVER.’ We all wish harm on someone from time to time. But causing it through wishing is beyond any human paygrade. Though if these thoughts are a reaction to an abusive workplace situation, I’d strongly urge you to discuss the issue with your HR manager.”

The OCD guru moved on to the next card, and, again, she reshuffled it back into the deck. She rattled through hypochondria, embezzlement fantasies, blasphemy, and various violations of the social contract. It was about the time we began to plumb impure thoughts about a network anchor that Teresa Bufford began choking and slid to the floor, perpetually ending the discussion. 

**

I WANT TO FORCE PPL JUST TO SAY WTF THEY’RE THINKING

I FANTASIZE ABOUT MY BOSS BREAKING HIS NECK ON THE LOADING DOCK OR GETTING RUN OVER.

I CONSTANTLY SUSPECT MY WIFE OF CHEATING, THOUGH I KNOW SHE POSITIVELY NEVER WOULD.

I LOVE MY JOB, BUT I THINK ABOUT RUNNING OFF SOMEWHERE WITH THE NIGHT’S DEPOSITS.

I CUSS OUT GOD DURING COMMUNION PRAYER

I’M AN IMPOSTER.

I HAVE EROTIC THOUGHTS ABOUT LESTER HOLT

NOT A RACIST BUT I KEEP THINKING THE WOMEN AT THE NAIL PLACE WANT TO HURT ME.

PEEING IN CUSTOMER SOUP

DAD DIED OF STOMACH CANCER. SOMETIMES FEEL A LUMP GROWING IN MY GUT. DOC SAYS NO, BUT I SWEAR I FEEL IT.

HOW CAN LAW ENFORCEMENT RESPOND AND ADAPT TO BLACK CITIZENS ACCUSTOMED TO VIEWING POLICE AS A PALPABLE THREAT TO THEIR SAFETY?

“I’d feel insulted, if I wasn’t embarrassed for you.” Detective Curtis Mead flapped the last of the 12 cards. “‘I HATE KILLING, BUT IT’S BEEN SO LONG AND I DON’T KNOW IF I CAN FIGHT IT MUCH LONGER.’ Shit.”

“No wonder she set it aside,” I breathed. “You think she was going to do anything about it?”

“Used up all my psychic powers at this morning’s performance review. It’s a thought about an impulse.”

“An impulse the killer apparently indulged at least once. Maybe they were afraid Bufford was going to report this to, well, you guys, and you might uncover the previous murder.”

“Might?” Curtis huffed. “And who knows it was a premeditated killing? Maybe he or she ran down some drunk frat boy, or coaxed Little Billy to skate across that not-so-frozen pond when he was nine. Or helped nudge Grandma ever so slightly through Death’s door. And’s been sitting on it, letting it fester.”

“Another possibility is the killer was pissed specifically BECAUSE Bufford DIDN’T read their card. I understand her correctly, the fantasy of murdering somebody may reflect a self-perceived lack of power or courage. Bufford cut them off at the pass.”

“Probably worried he or she might get violent. Maybe Bufford figured out who this was and hoped to, I dunno, counsel our guy or gal afterwards.”

“How would she figure out who—?” I frowned.

“What? You having an episode?”

“Can I see those cards again? C’mon, spread them out – no touchies, I promise. Okeeee… Yep, yep.”

“You know, it’s all about your process.”

“Uh huh. OK – these three. What do you see?”

 “Well, the coffee stains.” He glanced around the room. “So who all had coffee? I only see the one cup.”

I shrugged. “Just me. I had an urge for a macchiato, but I wasn’t sure it was OK in the library. So I checked out the crowd. Nada java.”

Curtis strolled to the wastebaskets at the back of the room and next to the front whiteboard. “Nothing here, either.”

“Look deeper. The one in the back. Run your hand inside it.”

He made a face, but stooped and dipped a gloved hand into its clear liner bag. Curtis quickly pulled it out, and brown liquid dripped from his index finger.

“I’m going to guess this room doesn’t get a lot of use during the day. If there’s only a single cup in the garbage, are you going to replace the whole bag? The answer’s no, for the purpose of my theory.”

“So the card was in the trash? Somebody fished it out?”

“Like a steel trap. Now, look at the others.”

Curtis tilted to read the remaining cards. “‘I WANT TO JUST FORCE PPL JUST TO SAY WHAT THEY’RE THINKING.’ ‘I HATE KILLING, yadayadayada…’ Wait, hold up. It’s the same handwriting, isn’t it?”

“There were nine of us in the audience, but there are 12 cards. Now, the writing on the garbage card doesn’t match any of the others. But after the writer reconsidered and tossed it, somebody put it back in the mix. Maybe it was an intrusive compulsion, like the one on this card. And if these two cards were written by the same person, I think I know who it is. Let’s go talk to our double-dipper.”

**

“I wish you’d stuck around, but I guess I understand,” I said. “It was just too compelling, wasn’t it?”

“It was in my bag the whole time,” she said, patting the canvas tote at her feet and breaking her wary silence for the first time since Curtis and I’d found her contemplating in Room 2. “I could feel everybody watching, judging. I had to get out of there before…”

I nodded. “It’s scary when we feel like we’re going to give in to those inner voices. But you have to know you’re not a killer, right? Think just WHY your intrusive thoughts are so intrusive. You’re a compassionate person. Not a killer. With respect, you never were.”

“Janice” started to protest, then slumped in her chair. I got it: Though her choices weren’t mine, they were noble ones. Things get politicized, and suddenly you’re getting it from both sides. Hard to determine these days which intruders sneak in around the synapses and which bust in through a battered crack in the wall.  

“I wondered why you tried to hide your sandwich. Then you got kinda antagonistic, a little defensive, which tripped my own intrusive triggers. You got the sandwich on the way over here, like I did my Starbucks. BMT?”

“Turkey club with bacon,” Janice whispered. “My dad raised hogs, and I spent a lot of time with him through, you know, the whole thing. When I came to the university, I went total vegan. I figured I was free to be me here. But, Jesus, so many of my profs and friends are as judgmental as my carnivore family. I get a piece of cheese or some egg in my salad or pad thai, I’m an enemy of the planet, a killer. Then I get this urge to just, well, say fuck it all. I was hoping this tonight might help, but just listening to the whole thing, the voices started getting louder.”

“I got there late, after you collected the Q and A cards for Bufford, right? Did you see that card in the wastebasket and think, why do I have to bare my soul and they don’t?”

“Kinda. I don’t know why I felt so mad, but I fished the card out and handed it in with the rest. Then felt so disgusted with myself I just had to escape, eat my misery. Sorry I got shitty with you.”

“You have nothing to be sorry for.”

Almost nothing, I thought intrusively. 

**

“Derek?” I called. He was in the corridor again, once again on his iPhone. Without so much as a goodbye, his phone arm dropped to his side.

Curtis held the coffee-blotched index card before Derek’s face, which drained to gray. And then transitioned to a strangled pink. He made a sound, gulped the ambient library air like a landed catfish (a long-ago image that still gave me Janice-like qualms), and shifted to a cyanotic blue.

“Shit!” I gasped as he dropped to his knees, then to his palms. “Curtis, call fucking 9-1-1. He can’t breathe!” Curtis whipped out his own phone. I dropped with a jab of pain to my own knee. “Hey, Derek. C’mon. It was her, not you. Breathe. Take it in.”

“Coming!” Curtis snapped.

“Wasn’t the first time, was it, Derek?” I coached, rubbing his back like that might do anything. “C’mon, that’s it. Slow it down… Were you along on the tour to talk her down, for the publisher? Or as a friend?”

Derek looked straight at me and nodded at the latter. “What I figured. Relax, now. Think you can sit up?” Bufford’s assistant nodded again, and he plopped onto his ass.

“Good.” I grabbed the bagged index card from Curtis’ free hand. “Was she, Derek? An imposter? Was the garden roof just some juicy PR ploy?”

“The story’s real,” Derek rasped. “She’s helped so many people. But Terry’s been killing herself on the road, neglecting herself. I think she convinced herself she WAS an imposter, hawking books and signing autographs and using her struggle to get famous. The first time she wanted to ‘come clean’ to a group – a whole ballroom of clinical psychologists – I got her calmed down. But twice, she almost used the Q and A gimmick to ‘confess.’ Terry actually had the card ready tonight, in her bag. I reminded her why she was here, and she threw it away.”

“Imagine when it magically reappeared in Terry’s hand. What’d she call it? A magical intrusive thought? Strike you strange she had two bottles of water on the table tonight, for an hour talk? One red pill, one blue?”

Derek looked up, stricken. “God. I didn’t think—“

“You COULDN’T. Now, chill.”

**

It was at Main and Metzger when the light went green and the gleaming black missile hurtled past, nearly taking my fender, glass-pack crackling maliciously as a trio of shoppers in the Kroger lot gaped.

I grasped the wheel, yanked around the corner, and stomped the gas. An incantation flashed through my brain, something black and full of dire and final consequences. I calculated the gap I’d have to close to make the yellow and keep up into the shadows beyond the main drag.

I jerked my leg from the pedal, and very carefully steered the Tucson into the nearly-empty grocery lot. Soon, a wrinkled, concerned face appeared at my window. “Hey, Buddy, you OK?”

Loaded question.