A Mind Within Page 4

  Dan was simply being protective of his sister, and Nick knew that he had to earn back his trust, along with Dulcie’s. “Looks like you’re done here. Do you have a minute? Could I talk with you?” Nick desperately wanted to clear the air.

  Dan’s initial glare gradually changed to a resigned look. He jerked his head toward the yacht’s cabin. “C’mon in,” he said. “We might as well sit down and we can’t here,” he motioned toward the wet bench beside him. “It’ll take a while for all this to dry.”

  Scuffing off as much dirt from his shoes on the dock as he could, Nick stepped on board. He followed Dan into the sunny cabin. Dan gestured toward a bench by a table and opened the refrigerator. “Suppose you wouldn’t turn down a beer,” he said without looking up. “And don’t tell me you’re on duty.”

  “I’m not and I wouldn’t,” Nick said. He took the bottle and screwed off the cap.

  “So,” Dan said sitting opposite him. He was expressionless. Unlike his sister, he was an excellent poker player. “What can I do for you?” he repeated.

  Nick took a long drink. “First of all, I’m sorry. I should have told you, and Dulcie, all about my situation. I didn’t and it was stupid.”

  “Yeah it was,” interjected Dan quietly.

  “I’ve already apologized to Dulcie, but I wanted to apologize to you, too.” He swirled the beer around and looked down into the bottle as though all of the answers were hidden inside. “I like Dulcie a lot,” he said quietly.

  Dan understood Nick’s dilemma. He wanted to relent and tell the guy that he would put in a good word, but his loyalty to his sister was steadfast. “Look,” he said. “I can’t go to bat for you. Dulcie is pretty strong-willed, as you may have noticed, and you broke her trust. Mine too, for that matter, but I think I can probably forgive you a lot sooner than she can. You’re gonna have to handle this one on your own. But I can tell you that I won’t say anything negative about you. I know you got yourself into a pretty rotten situation and probably no one handles things like that perfectly. So I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt. But that’s about as far as I can go at this point.”

  Nick was surprised by the long speech. He nodded. “That’s all I’m asking for. I appreciate it.” He gazed out the window for a few moments. The wind was getting stronger, making dark rippled patches across the water’s surface. “How is she?” he asked.

  “Busy, as always,” Dan replied. “She’s got some new project called outside art…no, that’s not it. Outsider art. Not art outdoors, but people who aren’t actually artists. Well they are, but they’re not. OK, she can explain it a lot better.”

  “I think I get the picture,” said Nick, taking another long drink.

  Dan was a talker. He couldn’t help it. His mind was on a new subject and with Nick a willing listener, Dan had to keep going until he had exhausted the topic. Or until Nick looked bored. That was usually what happened first. Fortunately for him, Dan had learned at a young age to notice the signs of a listener getting bored.

  “She’s got this thing in her office right now. It’s the Statue of Liberty, made by some homeless guy out of bottle caps and gum! Like, chewing gum! It’s as tall as I am! Kind of gross, but still, a lot of work.”

  “Now that I have to see,” said Nick.

  “Yeah, she also just showed me a portrait that some kid had done of her. He saw her for about a minute, then painted this amazing portrait, incredibly accurate, with her standing behind him. She couldn’t believe it.” Dan stopped and looked over at Nick. “Hey, you might know about him. He’s that kid whose dad went to prison for pushing the kid’s grandfather out of a window.”

  The Bernstein case. Nick hadn’t worked on it, but he knew all about it. He wished that he had been assigned to it, because he had never liked the outcome. The confession of Lawrence Bellamy never made any sense to him, but the man had insisted he had done it.

  “Xander Bellamy?” Nick asked, trying to look less interested than he was.

  Dan nodded, swallowing the last of his beer. “Yup, that’s the name. Dulcie’s going to put some of his work in the exhibit, but not the one of her. I think she should, but she’d never do that. She hates attention.”

  Nick had known that. Dulcie had told him as much. She didn’t like the social gatherings and their inherent fundraising that were such an integral part of her job. They put the spotlight squarely on her, and that was contrary to her nature. Nick had attended far too many of those gatherings in his former life, which was yet another reason why he had left it all behind. His ex-wife, he still shuddered thinking of her, had loved them.

  Nick finished his own drink, stood up, and put the bottle by the sink. “Thanks,” he said nodding toward the empty bottle. “And thanks for being honest. I’ll do my best to put things right,” he said.

  Dan stuck out his hand, and Nick shook it quickly. “Like I said,” Dan repeated, “You didn’t exactly handle the situation well, but I won’t stand in your way. I’ll warn you though, you’ve got a lot of work to do.”

  Nick simply grimaced, nodded, and made his way back up onto the dock.

  The September wind had been threatening a chill in the air. The days were warm, but the wind was an omen. Winter was coming. Nick had a love-hate relationship with winter. He loved the longer nights. He would reserve thick books, or entire series, for the winter when he could settle in for an evening. All year he fortified his wine collection so that in the winter, he could simply come home, open a bottle of something good, make dinner, and let himself become lost in a good story.

  Yet, his job didn’t stop in the winter. With less daylight, he often had to cram in as much as possible if he was working on a case. And he was nearly always working on a case. He had risen to the status of detective quickly after joining the Portland Police force as an officer. Originally the job had been an escape, taking him away from his seemingly predestined life. His family was Boston Brahmin on both sides, and it had been the expectation from the start that he would marry the person that they chose and become a lawyer to continue the family legacy in the firm that his grandfather had founded.

  In the end, Nick could do neither. He did not rebel; he simply walked away. His parents would not forgive him. He hadn’t spoken with them in several years. Nick had made ends meet living in a tiny studio apartment above a bar in Portland.

  Although he liked to believe that he didn’t need it, Nick had at last received a tidy inheritance from his grandparents. Within the past month it had allowed him to move out of the studio and into one of the condos that perched out on the wharf overlooking the harbor. He also bought a new car, just in time as it turned out since the previous rust-bucket had been breaking down throughout the summer. Nick told himself that the money would not change his life. It simply made him a bit more comfortable.

  It certainly didn’t change his work ethic. He had found his calling. Somehow, it was in his blood. Nick had a strong sense of right and wrong; he believed in rules and treating others fairly, with kindness and dignity, wherever it was warranted. His work made him privy to the depths of many peoples’ characters. He had seen how selfish and mean people could be. He had also seen how desperate.

  Nick walked along Commercial Street toward his home thinking about the Bernstein case. Lawrence Bellamy had confessed out of desperation. Nick knew that. Although it hadn’t been assigned to him, Nick couldn’t help but read all of the reports as they came in. The whole thing was unsettling. Something about it wasn’t right.

  The man who had been killed, Oscar Bernstein, was by all accounts a difficult man. He had outlived his wife by many years. His step-daughter was once considered quite beautiful, but toward the end of her short life was referred to as “sickly.” Nick realized that the sickness was most likely alcoholism. She had married Lawrence Bellamy, and their son was Xander.

  According to the reports that Nick remembered, Oscar had never been pleasant toward any of them. He allowed his step-daughter’s family to live at his mansion but ot
herwise was never kind. Quite the reverse, in fact. Nick could only imagine the daily turmoil within the household.

  For that reason, perhaps Xander’s condition was in some ways a blessing. He couldn’t know of the unhappiness surrounding him. Then Nick considered what he himself knew about autism, which was very little. He slowed his pace. Perhaps Xander did know of the unhappiness. Perhaps he knew far more than anyone realized.

  There was little Nick could do about any of it now, however. The case was closed. Still, he could see if it was possible to wheedle an invitation to the art museum’s opening of the new exhibit. If Xander’s work was being shown, it might give Nick some insights. Not that any reason other than interest in the Oscar Bernstein case would compel him to attend….

  #

  Dr. Raymond Armand sat at the desk of his stylishly sparse office peering through his reading glasses at his computer screen. He needed the glasses only slightly, but he liked to use them more than necessary as he felt they gave him a certain air of intellectualism. He had decorated his office in shades of ivory and pewter gray, complimented by stainless steel and glass. He felt it was tranquil. Others, the ones who didn't come back, referred to it as industrial. Not in a good way.

  Throughout the previous decade he had worked very hard to carefully cultivate his aura. Originally born Raymond Armand Brown he had dropped the surname after receiving his doctorate and always used the full name of “Raymond.” Somehow, ‘Ray Brown’ did not fit the image that he wanted to convey. Technically, he could use the title of doctor although it was not of the medical type. His degree was in psychology, not psychiatry. He had never attended medical school. His alma mater was a tiny college in northern California that happened to award doctorates in a small number of subjects with comparatively low graduation requirements. He had certainly earned his PhD., yet it was not of the lofty status that he would have others believe. It wasn’t a lie, even if it wasn’t entirely the truth. He was comfortable charging high rates for his time because he believed that his time was worth a great deal of money. Whether or not this was actually the case was beside the point. When one sets a high price and believes in it, others begin to believe it, too. It was a beautiful cycle of self-justification.

  Raymond had chosen to move to Portland for its size and proximity to Boston. In Portland he would have far less competition than he would have in other more major cities. Yet being near Boston, he could attend conferences and social events easily that would elevate his status. So far, it had worked. He had been able to align himself with a few research projects from more prominent universities and had his name on several publications, albeit further down on the author lists.

  After ten years, however, he had yet to be the primary name on any published professional papers. This fact had irked him for some time. He had never encountered a patient with suitable concerns that could warrant any kind of case study. Xander Bellamy had been the closest he had come.

  When Xander’s father had sought his counsel regarding Xander, Raymond had at first been skeptical. What use could a shut-away boy with autism be to his own career? Perusing the recent research on the condition, however, Raymond quickly realized that it was the latest hot topic in the world of psychology and indeed amongst the general public. The popularity would make it that much easier for him to get a written case study published. The selfish fact that he would be using Xander to advance his own career never crossed his mind. The additional fact that he probably would not be helping Xander in the least, or anyone else like him, was of no concern to Raymond.

  Everything had gone quite well until he made the mistake of discussing his intentions to use Xander as a case study with Oscar Bernstein. Xander’s father knew of Raymond’s plan and did not disapprove. Oscar, however, would not allow it. And since Oscar paid the bills, Oscar was in charge. Raymond had been promptly dismissed.

  After Oscar was killed, and suspicion had implicated Xander, Raymond had given psychological testimony in court regarding Xander’s condition. It had quickly been established that the boy was incapable of standing trial. Raymond had suggested that Xander be placed in a facility for the mentally ill. That was when Xander’s father, Lawrence Bellamy, had confessed.

  Raymond sat back from the computer and took off his glasses, twirling them around in his hand absentmindedly. This art museum project could certainly prove interesting. Not only did it involve Xander, the autistic savant, but it had the advantage of the family being in the news during the murder trial. Built-in publicity, even if it was of the scandalous sort. Raymond simply could pick up where he left off with his case study, this time with the added bonus of notoriety. He had to make the most of it.

  Making the most of it could certainly include a bit of personal enjoyment, he thought as he remembered his meeting with Dulcie Chambers. She was decidedly attractive and, if he was not mistaken, which he never was, she had found him so as well. He smiled. Yes, that could be an enjoyable side benefit. “In fact,” he said aloud, “why not start now?”

  He looked up her number and was about to dial, then thought better of it. A trip to the museum would be much more effective. True, he did run the risk of her not being there, but if she was, he could catch her off guard. He put on his jacket then pulled a mirror from his desk drawer to check his hair. Perfect, as always.

  Moments later he sauntered down the street feeling quite confident. She had, after all, requested his services. This could be most beneficial in so many ways.

  As he approached the museum, he was briefly caught off guard as Dulcie stepped out of the front door.

  “Dr. Armand! Oh, sorry, I mean Raymond of course,” she smiled at him.

  “Yes, it’s always just Raymond for you, please!” he said with a self-deprecating gesture. “I was just coming in to speak with you, but I see you’re off somewhere important.”

  “Yes, very important,” Dulcie replied. “I’m going to get a cappuccino around the corner. Would you like to join me? We can talk there.”

  “Absolutely,” he said. As they turned, he touched the small of her back, leading her forward.

  “Hmmm. A tad intimate,” thought Dulcie. But then again, as a psychologist, perhaps it was just his nature to make people feel more connected and calm? “So tell me what brings you down to see me,” Dulcie asked aloud.

  “I’ve been thinking about Xander, of course,” Raymond said. “After we discussed him in your office, I began remembering certain specifics. For example, after examining him, watching his behavior, I quickly realized that he only draws or paints what he sees. It is never from his imagination.”

  “Are you saying that he has no imagination? That would mean that he isn’t creative, that he only records his surroundings.”

  “Ah, that’s an interesting extension of the concept. And I suppose that you’re concerned that he is not a true artist if he is not creative.”

  “It is something to consider,” she said. They had reached the café and he held the door for her. Dulcie was feeling as though he was being a bit too presumptuous so she quickly marched toward the counter and ordered her coffee. Then she turned to him and said, “This is my treat. I insist since you’re providing all of this insight. What would you like?”

  “Very good!” he thought. “She is not easily manipulated. And she reads people well. I’ll have to be more subtle with her.” He glanced briefly at the menu of drinks on the wall and ordered a latte.

  They turned to the nearest table and sat as the barista began making the espresso machine hiss. Dulcie took off her jacket and draped it on the chair beside her. “So, he may not be creative. He may simply be kind of a human photographer.”

  Armand chuckled. “That’s one way of putting it. But consider this, Dulcie. Are all photographs simply a record? Are none creative? Many photographs are considered art because the photographer sees what we cannot. Isn’t this true?”

  Why hadn’t Dulcie thought of that? She was annoyed with herself. Given half a second more, she would have. He
was unnerving. She didn’t like the feeling.

  “Very true, but is this what Xander is doing? Does he see what we don’t? Does he see the world differently?”

  “What do you think?” Armand asked. He smiled winningly at the young woman now placing their steaming cups on the table. “Molto bene,” he murmured in Italian. “Grazie.”

  Dulcie looked away and firmly held her mouth closed. She did not want to acknowledge his attempt at sounding urbane. She sipped her cappuccino tentatively to mask her annoyance. “What do I think?” she said aloud at last and paused. “What I think, is that I need to see Xander, and his work, a great deal more before I can pass judgment.”

  Armand was instantly concerned. “Does this mean you may not include him in the exhibit?” His plan to promote himself could be unraveling. He had to convince her that it was still a good idea.

  “I’m not certain,” said Dulcie, sensing his concern but not sure of why it was apparent. Perhaps he didn’t want to lose the project? It would certainly enable him to charge a relatively hefty consultation fee. She decided to string him along. “Xander has a talent, obviously, and it does fall under the heading of art brut.” She did not bother to define this for him. “If he’s so witty with languages, he can figure it out,” she thought.

  Raymond had no idea what art brut was. He realized, however, that to succeed with Dulcie he would have to change tactics. She did not respond to borderline patronization. He decided to try a more straightforward approach. “I’m afraid I don’t know that term. What does it mean?” he asked looking at her directly.

  Now Dulcie was momentarily unnerved. She hadn’t expected him to admit any sort of weakness. Perhaps he had decided to remove the façade? Good. She preferred the direct approach. “It’s also known as Outsider Art. It’s a term that refers to works of art made by people that we would not consider to be professional artists. They are compelled to create simply for the process. Tramp art falls under the category, as well as art compulsively created by those who are insane.”