Poltergeist

CHAPTER 21

Thursday morning I went back to research. Carlos had put words to the niggling idea in my own head: controlling and using Celia as a weapon required a psychopathic mind, and according to Frankie and Terry, the project was ripe to breed some. Only one of the participants controlled Celia and that one had to be truly unhinged. Given what I had seen at Wednesday's séance—the way the energy had divided itself over Ian, Ana, Cara, and Ken—I was betting on one of them, but I had to figure out which one and I couldn't take it for granted that Wayne, Patricia, and Dale had nothing to do with it. Dale had the classic excuse of the cuckolded spouse. And I wanted to know more about what Tuck-man was up to as well. He didn't have any apparent Grey connection to Celia, but he was up to something at PNU's expense.

The deeper I went, the more awful the whole picture looked. Wayne Hopke was the most stable of the lot and his tendency to assume command—and to drink—provided a point of irritation for others and a dice-throw chance of sudden instability. Dale Stahlqvist didn't care for it and the records showed a continuous, low-level battle between them for control of the sessions. I'd seen that in action at the most recent event. The rest—including Terry and Frankie—were in a constant boil of interpersonal tension: fears, desires, ambitions, and imagined slights.

Tuckman's notes indicated he'd picked the members himself. I could only conclude he'd put this group together because of the potential strife, not in spite of it. But the records were thin. They gave ideas and hints, records of psychological tests I didn't understand, and lists of the oddities of the subject's personality, but there was no deep psychological analysis of any of them—as if Tuckman hadn't wanted to bother digging any further once he'd found what he wanted. He'd wanted drama and now rejected the results. Tuckman didn't seem much more reasonable or stable than his subjects. It was only his lack of connection to Celia that ruled him out as the killer, from my perspective, though I imagined he didn't look so much of an outside chance to Solis, who would consider the possibility of Mark's exposing Tuckman's financial hijinks as more than adequate motive for murder.

Ben called while I was staring at the pile of inadequate files.

"Hi, Harper. Sorry I didn't call you back earlier—things have been a little crazy here.”

"That's OK. I just wanted to ask you a couple of questions about Tuckman. His former grad assistant told me he'd been let go from UW during cutbacks to avoid having to fire him. Does that sound likely to you?”

"Yes, actually.”

"What cause would they have had?”

"Didn't the assistant say?”

"Yes, but she has a grudge, so I'm interested in someone else's ideas about it. What do you think?”

He made thinking noises for a moment. "I told you I think Tuck's a bit of a jerk, didn't I? So I'm not the most objective person, either. But when I worked with him I thought he was rigging his financial reports. It was small and subtle—he'd find ways of getting things free or cheap but report them as if he'd had to pay for them. He was always doing better financially than the rest of us at the same salary grade, even without a family to support.”

"OK. What about the projects themselves? Would they be cause to unload him, even if they were successful?”

Ben clicked his tongue. "Oh. You heard about that. Umm. . yeah. Tuckman has a documented bad habit of setting up his experiments to push his subjects to the limits. He doesn't just study, he manipulates. One of his subjects was hospitalized a couple of years ago, but it was another subject who caused the accident. Still, he's continued to do studies in stress reactions and justification that lead to some ugly territory.”

"Would he be looking for that in this experiment? This group has a lot of sexual tension and control issues.”

I could hear him shuffling papers. "I wouldn't have thought of it until you mentioned it last time, but, yeah. The original Philip experimenters mentioned that they got more phenomena when the group had some level of internal tension. I had wondered why Tuckman was interested in this, so I looked into it a bit more and I'm thinking that Tuck's real interest is in the stress reactions and how the subjects rationalize and justify their own behavior or the phenomena. If he's on his usual course, the subjects could justify all kinds of nasty things by blaming the poltergeist.”

"What kind of nasty things?”

He blew out a breath, hesitating. "Well. . almost anything. Temper tantrums, assault, theft certainly—if they get high-level PK phenomena, they would claim the poltergeist took the objects, or hurt the person, or broke things, and no one person would bear any guilt for it. It's a collective phenomena, but they would soon reach the stage of separation—where they think of it as separate from them and therefore acting on its own. It's unconscious. So long as the subjects don't acknowledge their own desires as the poltergeist's motive, they let themselves off the hook. If any of them did recognize their motive, they would have to acknowledge control of the poltergeist and, in theory, the phenomena only works when it's an unconscious consensus, so the poltergeist would break down.”

"I can't believe it's so fragile that if one person stops believing in it, it falls apart.”

"No, that's not it. If the group itself stops believing in the collective quality of it, then it breaks down. If they all give up belief, it falls apart. Or if they believe it's no longer collective—that one person controls it.”

"Do they all have to believe that? Or just one of them?”

"I'm not sure. The collective has to break down, though. That's the key.”

"What if the poltergeist didn't break down?”

"Theoretically impossible. But you know more about the impossible than most people, so what do you think?”

"I think I shouldn't say. But I'm not a psychologist and I noticed this, so… I can't imagine what Tuckman is thinking he can get away with here.”

"Probably that's all he's thinking. It's almost grant-review time, so he may just be trying to cover himself. He never had a high opinion of PNU—I was surprised he took the job—so maybe he thinks he can get away with something if he has other things to distract the committee with. He's the kind of guy who doesn't do the right thing because it's the right thing. He does the right thing because he can't find a way to get away with not doing it. He's been skirting the edges of professional censure for a while and if he gets caught with his hands dirty, he'll be out on his butt this time.”

"I see." I ground my teeth on my anger and cursed Tuckman in silence.

"Harper?”

"What?”

"Are you OK?”

"Yeah. Thanks, Ben. I have to go.”

"Um… all right. Hey. We really enjoyed having you to dinner.”

"It was nice.”

"Except for the flying pudding part, right at the end.”

I laughed. "Well, he is just a kid.”

"I blame the company he keeps. God knows he doesn't learn that stuff from us. I hope you won't stay away because of Albert and Brian's bad behavior.”

"Don't worry. I'll be around, I'm sure. Now I really have to get back to work. Thanks for the help, Ben." I hung up before I lost my temper.

Damn Tuckman. I had to think that when he'd asked Ben for the name of an open-minded investigator, what he'd meant was someone gullible. I'd thought it when he hired me, but I'd let my own knowledge—and smugness—get in front of better judgment. I was as angry with myself as with him. He appeared to be setting me and Quinton up for his misdeeds and that made me furious. He'd abused my professional trust, lied to his committees, probably defrauded PNU of money on the equipment swap, and engineered an experiment that had gotten someone killed. That was far more important than my pride.

As attractive as ruining the arrogant shrink was, it wouldn't do anything to solve Mark Lupoldi's murder or stop Celia, no matter how much I'd like to see Tuckman hoisted by his own petard. But perhaps I could use all that as leverage. . If he shut the project down, Celia might dissipate before more damage was done, though I didn't have much hope on that score; this poltergeist defied so many of the Philip experiment's conclusions and theories and I wasn't certain what would happen, but I was sure that the project had to end. Now I just had to find Tuckman and push him to do it.

I poked about some more, made more calls, and checked a lot of papers; then I went looking for Gartner Tuckman in earnest.

It took several hours to track Tuckman to a regional psychological association dinner in a downtown hotel. They were still in the cocktails and chitchat phase of the meal, so I had some chance of getting Tuckman—who had turned off his cell phone—into a discreet corner for our conversation. I had a little trouble with the dining room staff, but I raised a ruckus until one of the organizers deigned to take my card in to Tuckman and ask him to see me. I cooled my heels in the lobby for about fifteen minutes before Tuckman came out.

He was wearing a suit and looking spiffy and a little pissed off. I made him come to me. When he stopped and glared at me I flicked up the folder full of reports I'd typed, holding it between us where he couldn't ignore it. He gave it a disdainful glance, then transferred the look to me.

"What did you call me out here for?" he demanded.

I felt cold with my disgust. "The sooner I give you this, the sooner I'm shut of you," I replied. "You lied to me, Tuckman. I thought I'd been pretty clear about the fact that I don't like to be made a scapegoat or played for a sucker.”

"I have no idea what—”

"Save it. You don't have a saboteur, you never did, and you know it. You used the heightened phenomena as an excuse to call me in and create cover for your financial misconduct and the way you've lied about your experimental goals.”

"We do have a saboteur!”

I was very calm on the outside. If I bit off my words a little, it was only to stop myself from screaming at him. "No, you don't. The people with the opportunity don't have the skills or the motive. Those with the skills and motive don't have the opportunity. Your own protocols guaranteed that and your recordings prove it. I have checked and double-checked every physical possibility and there is none. Your phenomena are real. What's faked is your books, so you don't want the grant committee breathing down your neck and checking the financial statements too closely. Reviews are, what, next month?”

He tried to brazen it out. "Ms. Blaine, you seem to have a prejudice that is making you unable to complete your assignment as required. I'm afraid I'll have to fire you.”

"Go ahead. I'll march in that room and tell your professional colleagues all about your current experiment, the manipulations, the inadequate screening of participants, the equipment swaps and sell-offs. Your reputation can't stand another hit and enough of your associates know about your previous experiments and your interesting bookkeeping to take the accusation seriously. I doubt there are many people in that room who don't know the real reasons you were laid off from the University of Washington. Tell me—what happens to a psychologist who falls from professional grace? Do they disbar you? Tar and feather you? Or do they send you to jail?”

I fixed his gaze in mine, unblinking, and let him stew. He was uncomfortable but tough and stared back at me.

"You pushed things too far this time, Tuckman. One of your incipient psychos bloomed into a full-blown killer.”

"No," he answered, but his voice was soft and unsure, his eyes shifting.

"Yes. You've created a breeding ground for psychopaths with your permission and empowerment scenario—you selected them personally. You told them they could make ghosts and move things with the power of their minds and then you proved it to them and let them see what they could do. One of them made a ghost, all right. You never thought one of them was going to go that far, did you? Or maybe it was you. You came pretty close once before. A couple of years ago you put a subject in the hospital—”

"It wasn't me! It was one of them." The ghostly green snakes that seemed to dance around Tuckman's head in the Grey had turned inward, squeezing around him like tentacles and turning a sickening yellow green. Was that panic? I pushed on.

"So you said last time. And I suppose you'll say the same thing this time when one of your current subjects gets arrested for murder and says the ghost did it. You are an accomplice to that. You made a little pressure cooker with your handpicked group of unhappy, messed-up people, and one of them turned out to be a psychopath just waiting to happen. And you introduced him or her to a whole pool of potential victims with a handy excuse for whatever he or she wanted to do to them. I've been hip-deep in these people's lives for ten days—closer than you, I'd bet—and everything I see tells me one of them killed Mark Lupoldi. And used your damned poltergeist to do it.”

Tuckman went white, his dark villain's eyes widening with shock.

"You gave them permission and you put the weapon in their hands. One of them used it. There's nothing else that could have done it. One of them used the same power that levitated that table through the observation room window to throw Mark against a wall hard enough to crush his skull—”

He shook his head. "No. No, no, no. .”

I pulled him down into a chair and sat next to him, putting my face close to his and glaring at him until he met my eyes. I talked fast and low.

"Shut it down, Tuckman. Even if you don't believe Celia killed Mark, this damned thing is off the rails. I called around—Ken's lucky his legs weren't broken. Ian's got two cracked ribs and Cara one, plus the stitches from last week. It took a couple of sutures to put Patty's ear back together, too, and everyone else has cuts and burns from the lights that exploded. No one picked up that table and threw it. No one shorted the wires in the light board. No one made the temperature in the room drop and no one touched the stereo. You gave them permission and power to hurt one another and they did. But you have the power to pull the plug. So pull it.”

"No. I won't do it. This won't happen again—it can't.”

"It will! It will get worse as it's kept on getting worse. It started with petty theft and pinches and throwing things. Now you have broken windows and people in the hospital. Can't you see where this is headed? Are you going to wait until one of them is a red smear on the damned observation—”

"That's enough!" He stood up and stared down at me. He was breathing too fast, swaying, white-faced, and the people at the table outside the dining room turned to look at us. I got up and stood still in front of him, as still and quiet as I could manage, letting my face go neutral and my voice slide back to normal.

"It's a flawed experiment, Dr. Tuckman. It was a mistake. A miscalculation. If you shut it down now and clear off the paperwork that makes me and my contractor look like thieves, you can return some of the grant money and no one will look too hard at what you've done. So long as no one gives them a reason to.”

He turned a hopeful frown on me, licking his dry lips. He sank back into the chair and I sat down beside him again. It gave me the chills to do it, but I put my hand on his nearest forearm. Glutinous chill oozed up my arm and I stifled a shudder.

"I won't give them a reason to look if you shut this down now. If you do what I'm telling you, I won't have to defend myself from charges of theft and I won't need to give these reports to the police or your department chair. Just shut it down. Say there was a flaw in the protocol—write one in if you have to. Say it was a mistake. I know it'll be embarrassing, but a little pride isn't worth someone's life. It's just a mistake.”

I saw him swallow it. His posture straightened and the glaze of fear left his eyes. "It's flawed. I'll shut it down. I'll take care of it—the papers, the team. I'll call them and tell them we're done.”

I took my first decent breath in hours. Nodding, I said, "Good." I stood up one more time and put the envelope of reports in his hand.

"These are your reports—they're confidential and no one else has seen them. Just write a check for my fee and we can call this done.”

He looked at the bill, then glanced up, frowning as if he were confused. "I'm not going to pay this. You didn't do the job I hired you for.”

My mouth fell open in sheer surprise. "You have the biggest brass ones. . Tuckman—do you understand any of what I just told you? You're a thief and a liar and I can prove it. Do you think that's the only copy of my report? We have a contract for the investigation of a possible saboteur. I've proved there is no saboteur but you. Contract satisfied. If I need to call my lawyer, I'll have to tell her the whole truth about this—that's covered in the contract, too. You want to hear that in court?" I jerked my head back toward the dining room. "You want them to hear it?”

He glared. Old villain eyes again.

I sighed. "Don't even try, Tuckman. I have the cards. You don't. Shut it down, now.”

He dropped his gaze and pulled his checkbook from his pocket.

I left with his check in my purse. Tuckman was still looking at the reports. "A flaw. An oversight. .," he muttered, trying to convince himself it really was just a mistake.