Psychopath by Keith Ablow Read Free Book Online Page A

oncologist consulting on the case."
    "A neuroradiologist would be best," Jonah said.  "Gamma knife radiosurgery is the best route to go with a glioblastoma in that location.  It’s a fairly vascular part of the brain.  They’ll need to get Benjamin to an academic medical center.  Johns Hopkins would be ideal.  Baylor in Houston would be my second choice."
    Jenkins nodded.  "I’ll mention it to Paul."  She paused.  "What happened at case conference wasn’t beginner’s luck, Jonah.  You’re extraordinary.  You have a gift."  She turned and walked out.
    Jonah watched the door close behind Jenkins.  He stood up, stepped to the side of his desk, and reached down for his briefcase.  Then he carried it to the small closet in the office and gently placed it behind his coat.

f o u r
     
    Afternoon, February 20, 2003
    Chelsea, Massachusetts
     
    Frank Clevenger’s feet were on his desk, his gaze directed out the window of his Chelsea waterfront office at three Coast Guard cutters as they zipped around a fleet of tugboats pushing and pulling an oil tanker to its docking station on the Mystic River.  Chelsea was all about oil and grime, a tiny, fierce port city in the shadow of the Tobin Bridge, its steel skeleton arching into Boston, its giant concrete feet set deep into the Chelsea jumble of triple deckers, greasy spoons, keno joints, and meat factories.  Oil floated on the river and seeped into the ground.  You could smell it in the air.  It literally made the streets flammable, and twice, in 1908 and 1973, dozens of blocks burned.
    Clevenger loved the place.  It was a city without pretense, two crazily overbuilt hills kissing a chaotic valley where people were struggling simply to live, not obsessing over how to live well.
    The tankers used to drift in, be drained of their black blood, and drift away without a show of force, without drawing any more notice than the smokestacks that silently spewed soot onto Chelsea’s neighborhoods or the soft-soled sneakers of the drug dealers padding along Broadway.  But that was before the world changed on September 11.  Now anything that could be blown up seemed as though it might get blown up.  The whole country had come down with a bad case of posttraumatic stress disorder.  Bad for us.  Good for Eli Lilly and Pfizer and Merck.  Eventually, they’d put Prozac and Zoloft and Paxil in the drinking water, see whether that kept the anxiety at bay.  Because nobody really wanted to figure out anything anymore, not when the knots in the world’s psyche had gotten so tight that untying them might mean unraveling a preconception or two.  Better to keep the serotonin flowing, bathe our brains in the calm water of denial.
    These were some of the thoughts in Clevenger’s mind when his phone began to ring.  It rang five times before he reached for it.  "Frank Clevenger," he said, as if to remind himself.
    "Dr. Clevenger, this is Agent Kane Warner," a raspy voice on the line said.  He said it as though it were a question, the end of the sentence rising:  ... this is Agent Kane Warner?
    People from L.A. spoke that way, like they never wanted to commit to anything.  Clevenger glanced at the Caller ID screen.  703.  Virginia.  The FBI was headquartered in Quantico.  "What can I do for you?" he asked.
    "I’m the director of the Behavioral Sciences Unit at the Bureau. FBI.  I’d like to speak with you about helping us with an investigation."  Warner finished with that interrogatory flourish of his again:  ... an investigation?
    "What case?" Clevenger asked.
    "I’d prefer we talk in person?"
    "I’m in the office most of the day tomorrow," Clevenger said.
    "Actually," Warner said. "I was going to suggest my office."
    "Afraid to fly?" Clevenger said.
    Warner didn’t laugh.
    "It was a joke," Clevenger said.
    "Okay," Warner said stiffly.
    "Before I could meet with you," Clevenger said, "I would have to know..."
    "I really would rather wait until we sit down,"