The Baba Yaga, a Dr. Adam Karl Mystery

By Leon Shure

A young doctor, Adam Karl, who has perceptual problems, and his “seeing eye woman,” Kayko Brasen, are asked by a Chicago Police Detective, Michael Dunne, to get testimony from an autistic child who is the only witness to his mother’s murder. Stalked, Dr Karl discovers frightening secrets about his own family.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Leon Shure
• Release date: Mar 28, 2011
• ISBN: 9781452431895

Leon Shure

I am currently writing five mystery series: (1) the Tommy Spevak and Kate Wehring mysteries, about an impaired veteran and an investigative reporter; (2), the Vanek mysteries, about a crusty and devious Chicago Police Detective; (3) the Dr. Adam Karl mysteries, about a medical doctor fighting against his fate; (4) the Cal Hodges mysteries, about a law firm investigator who is haunted by his past, and (5) the City of Brunswik mysteries, which are tales of political skullduggery. My characters vary in age and ethnic backgrounds and each series has its own continuing cast of characters. They run the gamut from good to murderous. My main characters are not extraordinary geniuses and, sometimes, are even bad detectives. They are just people caught up in mysteries they can't avoid. Whatever happens to my main character, he or she must really use all their resources, while trying to keep their objectivity, not to mention their sanity. Each has an unusual and unique way of looking at life. They all have a sense of humor and irony. Sometimes romance is possible, but that is not my main concern. Probably my most unique character is Dr. Adam Karl, a neurologist who struggles against perceptual problems and a difficult family history. His mysteries have received the best reviews, earning five stars. Also, I write in another genre, humor. My tweet collections "#Conversationstoppers: Puns, Non Sequiturs and Impossible Scenarios" have been the most popular of my books. I don't really see my books of puns as being separate from my other work. All my books have a significant amount of word play, and my book titles sometimes are puns, as in the book, "Deep Lucy" which is "deep blue sea." I am a life-long resident of the Chicago area, and have lived both in the city and in the North and Northwest suburbs. A bachelors and masters graduate of Northwestern University's Medill School of Journalism, I worked for the Lerner Newspapers (a chain of weeklies in the city); the Day Newspapers, a suburban daily newspaper chain owned by Field Enterprises, now the Chicago Sun-Times;, and Paddock Publications, a chain of daily newspapers in the Northwest suburbs. I received the Jacob Sher Award for Outstanding Investigative Reporting. Shure also served as an attorney for a Federal Agency and has held elective office in local governments. He is married and has two children.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

I could not see the malevolence in his face.

My seeing eye woman flung her body against my side, knocking both of us to the cold airport terminal floor. I instinctively struggled to rise. Kayko recovered faster, fell off me, sat up and, straight armed, used all the weight she could leverage to push me back down. Just stay there! she whispered.

An explosive discharge echoed off the sides of the airport walls. I heard robotic outbursts I could not interpret.

The gunman turned and ran, pushed hard against a non-automatic door, exited into daylight and kept running. Men in blue shirts, running just as hard, banged the door against its casings as they rushed to follow.

I looked behind me to see if anyone was hurt. I saw only blank faces, but no one was on the ground. Security guards from the nearby gates surrounded us, lifted us to our feet, held us by our elbows and pulled us towards an office about 50 feet away. Stay here until you are debriefed, one guard said and closed the door.

I looked at Kayko’s blank face. All faces are blank to me. I have a form of autism that prevents me from seeing human expression. My disability extends to voices. I cannot hear the emotion in voices either.

Explain. My own voice sounds robotic to me as well. Kayko drew a breath. I did not sense if she was upset but assumed intellectually she was.

My uncle, the closest person to me in the world besides my mother, of course, hired Kayko a month before to help me as I completed my residency as a neurologist and started my private practice.

I did not know if Kayko liked me or hated me. She was my employee and I assumed she was acting in my best interests when she knocked me off my feet.

I knew little about her. She never offered to fill me in on her background. Ethnic facial characteristics are lost on me. From her name, Kayko Brasen, I guessed her parents were Asian and something else. She spoke with no accent I could detect so I assumed she was American born. Accents are even harder for me to interpret.

I only knew what was relevant about her ability to fulfill her job. She was an aspiring actress, between parts.

My uncle hired her on a short term basis to read expressions for me until I felt more confident in dealing with patients. I could see neurological impairments—the tongue that fell to the side, the pupils that reacted strangely to light. The mood of the patient was beyond my investigative ability, using my sight and hearing. My uncle worried about my bedside manner, that my peculiarities would upset patients. We hoped Kayko could teach me to be less robotic.

I was not optimistic. So far, her most successful innovation was that she would unobtrusively grab my arm when she wanted me to smile. My control over my own expression was less than complete, and I sometimes had to touch my face to see whether I was smiling or frowning. I also tended to stare too long, beyond the socially acceptable, Kayko said. Also, when I spoke, I might get too close, violating personal space. She advised me to take a step back when not actually touching a patient to elicit symptoms.

Our plane landed and we were just passing out of the secured area, Kayko said. Others were waiting with signs in their hands to greet passengers who were being picked up. A man stood among them and seemed upset. His face was contorted.

Of this, I intellectually understood the word contorted as having a dictionary meaning of being twisted out of shape. Since I didn’t know what normal expression looked like, I, of course, didn’t understand the nature of a twisted expression. I did recognize that such an expression would tell others that something was wrong.

He drew a gun from his coat. Perhaps he was avoiding examination at a security gate by sneaking into the exit from the secured area.

I understood and was becoming impatient. A sneak doesn’t announce himself by firing a gun. Did he appear to be focused on me?

I thought so at the time. I thought his eyes were focused on you. But there were others not far from us. I could have been wrong.

Her initial perceptions, first impressions, were usually correct and I didn’t doubt what she said, but I had no idea why the unknown man would want to harm me in particular. I doubted I’d been the target.

The incident at the gate was only the latest of the problems during our trip to Chicago. Our limo to the airport was rear-ended when another limo couldn’t stop fast enough on the ice. The plane ride to Chicago was bumpy and the airplane shook from frequent turbulence. I could tell the stewardess misunderstood me when she reached for a soft drink instead of the coffee I’d requested I did not try to stop her from pouring the drink because I feared she’d interpret my facial expression and robotic tone as being hostile. That she’d call for help and I’d get arrested. Typical of a life of uncertainty and odd surprises.

I endeavor to present a cheerful, cooperative attitude to the world. I hoped I smiled at the stewardess.

A man came through the door without introducing himself. He sat down on an unpadded plastic chair with no arms. The chair had little hooks on both sides so it could be anchored to other chairs to form a row. The man was opposite us on the user’s side of a totally utilitarian and impersonal grey metal desk.

He did not speak for three slaps. One of my therapists provided the helpful suggestion that I count slaps after a stranger stopped talking. A slap was the time I would take to bring my flattened hand down on a table. After we practiced the technique for a while, I could mentally duplicate the time of one slap to a table. One slap meant it was my turn to speak. Two slaps meant the speaker had turned his attention to someone else in the room or to something in front of him. Three or more slaps meant I was being observed.

I was being observed. Apparently satisfied that I presented no immediate threat, the man spoke. My name is Michael Dunne. I am a Chicago police detective. I can show you my badge.

I did not respond, hoping my lack of insistence on verification would be a positive beginning to our conversation. I try not to speak before spoken to. I am not shy. I just don’t want to disturb the illusion of normality until I must.

What is your name and destination? A man used to asking questions, I thought, cutting through the crap.

My name is Dr. Adam Karl. According to Kayko I talk slowly but very succinctly. In about two words, a listener knows I speak in an abnormally flat tone, emphasis on abnormal. I imagined a look of surprise on the faces of those who spoke to me for the first time but could not see the surprise.

Kayko leaned over and whispered in my ear. She knew, even on the first day with me, that describing the way someone else reacted was like feeding a starving man, like vibrating a tuning fork to get a sympathetic vibration. He is surprised and confused. He thinks you are retarded, but can’t understand how you can be a doctor.

My assumption of surprise was correct. I turned to the detective and began my memorized litany of explanation. I am not retarded. I have autism. My brain is just wired differently. I understand what you say but I can’t hear how you say it. If you describe in words how you feel I can understand you better. I am confused by sarcasm. Sarcasm, saying one thing but signaling that the opposite is meant, is a problem for me because I take what is said to me very literally.

Three slaps passed. OK. I don’t mind if you confer with your friend here, but I need to get some basic facts.

Thank you. My associate’s name is Kayko Brasen.

I leaned towards her and she immediately whispered into my ear, cupping her hand over her lips. In this instance, she was acting the way my thoughts would act if I didn’t have a problem, my thoughts whispering inside my head.

Tall, must be nearing retirement age, slightly bent, a thin man finally putting on some weight. Moustache. Whitening hair. Tough. Smart. A no nonsense guy.

Was your destination Chicago? Detective Dunne asked, after concluding that Kayko was done.

Yes. I’m from Chicago. North Shore.

Detective Dunne and I both knew what the location of my birth meant: money.

Coming from where?

A suburb of Minneapolis. I finished my residency at a hospital for the blind.

His attention turned to Kayko. And you?

I’m assisting Dr. Karl while he begins his practice.

Are you a therapist?

I’m a thespian, a wandering player.

Detective Dunne did not speak for quite a while. Observing us. Was he satisfied with our answers, or annoyed, bored, impatient? All possibilities at once?

Dunne began his own memorized litany. Doctor, have you any enemies, does anyone have a grudge against you, have you been threatened? Do you have any reason to think someone wishes to do you harm? Have you done anything to give someone a motive to harm you?

Had they already ruled out that the gunman was a terrorist? If I alone was the target, why would the gunman want to shoot me in a public place? Why not wait for me in a place where he could hide from detection and capture?

Motive, a reason to want to shoot me? My voice doesn’t rise at the end of a question. Some people become annoyed, as if I’m making fun of them, trying to confuse them. I asked few questions except in the course of my work as a physician.

Detective Dunne is nodding yes. Kayko whispered.

I agree that a motive was present. I don’t believe that people act without reason. Even madness has a reason.

Nodding, Kayko whispered.

Going on, I said, Envy, greed, revenge. I thought about someone being envious or jealous or me and realized the absurdity. But I don’t do self-pity. Takes too much energy, and people stop listening. As for revenge, I could not imagine what I’d done to anyone to cause them to retaliate with a bullet. As a general rule, I do not make my murder the best solution to someone’s problem.

Thinks you’re very strange but is amused, Kayko whispered. I gave Kayko’s report a re-translation in my mind, removing the kindness: He thinks you’re nuts but harmless and will try to humor you.

Have you, Dunne asked, continuing the questions he had for any victim, been involved in any crime or criminal prosecution or have you been a party to any lawsuit, either as the one complaining or as the subject of a complaint?

I didn’t want to answer and he must have noticed my hesitation. I’m a junior, Adam Karl, Jr. My father attained some fame and some notoriety. Useless to lie to Detective Dunne. He’d remember soon where he’d heard my name. My father was murdered.

You’ve caught his interest, Kayko whispered.

* * * * *

CHAPTER TWO

A bloody story, my father’s death.

I had no intention of dredging up 18-year old memories about my late father.

I needed to gain the advantage to end the interview. I won’t talk about my father’s death without a lawyer present.

Dunne was silent for a long time. The Detective was an intelligent man and a cautious civil servant. He knew the interview was over and he’d learn nothing more from me. Whatever suspicions or theories Dunne had about my late father’s death based upon his memory of the case, he couldn’t risk the accusation that he browbeat a cripple.

I was angry with myself. Hiding behind my disability made me feel I cheated. We sat in silence. Dunne tested me. A nervous or guilty suspect will speak just to avoid the silence. He was correct that the silence and lack of resolution upset me. But I said nothing.

I could imagine no link between my father’s death and the attack today. But I did not wish to imagine a link.

I could only imagine what emotion showed on Kayko’s face. She leaned over, cupped her hands over my ear. I’m stunned about your father, but as your non-attorney, I think you should just remain silent until the Detective gives up. Good advice from Kayko.

Dunne gave up when he realized I could object to even his silence.

You may go, he said.

I knew I’d see Detective Dunne again.

We found our luggage placed to the side of a revolving baggage cart. Kayko called for a limo on her cell. We dragged our luggage on wheels over to the middle section of the arrival pick-up zones and shivered in the December Chicago cold.

Kayko didn’t try to find out more about my father’s death. Probably felt that as an employee she had no business asking. She was correct.

I’m so excited to be in Chicago! she said. I visualize sentences. From the context of her statement, I knew her sentence ended in an exclamation mark. I have lots of friends in Chicago.

Kayko planned to initially stay at an old grand hotel in downtown Brunswik, near the university until she decided whether she should get an apartment or accept my invitation to live on the estate. I didn’t know Kayko’s age but based upon her past statements I assumed she was the same age as a graduate student. Her desire to be near the university further confirmed my guess.

I wondered about her friends.

I had friends, but only old friends. Years needed to pass before someone grew accustomed to my peculiarities. I trained roommates and others who needed to be around me how to talk to me so I’d understand. I comprehended best when the friend described how he or she felt. I told them they should talk to me like a nineteenth century novel that describes everything. The English majors especially enjoyed talking to me, I thought.

As part of my autism, I recognized faces only on the basis of long experience. In the beginning of a friendship, the person had to identify himself. Later I gained some ability to remember a friend as a more distinct individual. The example I gave to set people at ease was that I was familiar with Washington’s face on the $1 bill and Lincoln’s on the $5 bill, but I did not recognize who was on the $100 bill.

Kayko’s plan was to take a taxi to her hotel. If you need me, you know where I am. You have my cell number, she said as she closed the door of the limo that would take me home. The episode at the airport must have made Kayko solicitous, overly concerned. Did she feel she needed to protect me? I didn’t like the implication that someone had to help me.

I enjoyed the drive. Each little town along the lakefront had its own personality. I noted which stores had new names, which storefronts were empty in the commercial sections near each train station.

The limo driver pulled into the driveway and sped up the incline towards the front door. I saw no other cars so assumed my Uncle was not home. Late afternoon, he’d still be at work. So far as I knew, my mother and stepfather were in Europe. Baba, my grandmother, could be anywhere on earth.

The estate is never empty, but I saw no one working around the main building. No snow on the driveway or on any paved paths. Keith, our chauffer, was in charge of our snow plow. He was about my age and my friend. I didn’t see him around the garage either.

No welcoming committee, I thought. I fished in my pocket for my key, found it, and turned the tumblers. A push and the door swung open. No sound from within. I hung up my coat in the expansive closet as I had so many times before. Good to be home. Comforting, something solid after a long journey.

I saw one of the maids. Oh, my goodness, Adam! We gave up on waiting for you. Grace was our maid for as long as I could remember. Keith’s mother. She came and gave me a huge hug. Welcome home, sweet boy!

I basked in the warmth of her embrace. How have you been? I asked. I knew the usual next line should have been You look great, but I didn’t know how she looked.

Grace guessed what I was thinking. I haven’t aged a day and neither have you. You’re still my little boy. I’d always be her little boy. Another hug, then she pushed me away so she could take a good look at me.

Anyone else around? Lewis or Marsha? In another era, Lewis’ title would’ve been Butler, and his wife’s title, Head Housekeeper. They referred to themselves as Estate Supervisors. They proudly showed me articles listing the colleges now offering degrees in their profession.

Both very busy, I’m sure. They loaned Keith and his snow plow to a trapped neighbor, then I lost track of them. Always some problem to attend to!

Do you know if Uncle Wallace will be here for dinner? He told me he’d been very busy but would do all he could to get home.

Not sure, sweetie. He’s been keeping unhealthy hours. Some crisis of two at the Corporation. We all called our family business, the one founded by Baba, the Corporation.

How’s things here at home?

Fine, just fine. She paused. Some things have gone missing. That’s all. Nothing to worry about. A piece of jewelry here, a statuette there. Lewis is very disturbed about the thefts. Marsha believes someone on the staff is pilfering.

Disturbing to think that someone we all trusted, someone within the family, so to speak, had betrayed our trust. I’d look into this situation as soon as possible and see what I could find.

I went to my room, sat at my old desk with the new computer, and read medical reports from the website of my new senior partner, Dr. Anton Bradley. I had the passwords to get into the site. Dr. Bradley wanted me to take over some cases immediately: the ones he admitted were better handled with newer techniques.

Uncle didn’t call and I assumed he was too busy to have dinner with me. The Corporation that fed us all came first, Baba, my grandmother, always said.

I asked Marsha, the proudly titled Estate Supervisor, to have dinner with me. She said she’d be delighted.

Grace served dinner gracefully. We sat at the round dinette table, surrounded on three sides by windows. Only a few lights were visible outside. In the morning, the dinette had a view of the entire Estate, especially the stables and the corral.

Marsha waited until we were alone, then took my hands in hers. "I’m so glad you’re finally home. I’m so proud of you, my doctor boy."

I felt a gust of warmth from her as her words crossed the screen in my mind. There is an extra pause before an emphasized word. The soes she used to emphasize her words lit up like Christmas trees. I felt finally at home and finally welcomed.

Dinner was delicious, a favorite of mine we called Mystery Stew, since I never could figure out what kind of meat it contained. An old joke from my childhood.

I told her I was starting my practice tomorrow. She said she was so thrilled for me and felt she was beginning with me. She knew Dr. Bradley well. He was the family neurologist, the one who made my initial diagnosis. He followed my progress from therapist to therapist. He called us when he found a helpful new medication. He treated Lewis’ wrist problem last fall. He’s getting a little old, Adam. Just as smart as ever, but getting a little impatient. The word impatient crossed my mind, and I had a mind’s eye image of a patient waiting patiently to be a patient.

I asked Marsha about the pilfering problem. She probably made a face. Someone should keep her gossip to herself. I knew she’d have a few choice words for Grace. I didn’t want to bother you with this right as you walked through the door.

I asked if anyone was new on the staff. No one since I was last home, about a year ago. I guessed right that each new item stolen was more expensive than the one before. That indicated the thief was suffering increasing financial stress. Or possibly, we had a serial kleptomaniac who needed a bigger thrill each time he or she pilfered.

I promised to look into the problem, and Marsha changed the subject to something more cheerful.

Ever efficient, she told me Baba ordered her to throw me a birthday/welcome home/congratulations party before Christmas. Marsha stressed the word ordered. Not a suggestion but a directive. Baba specified that invitations be sent to my childhood friends, any college friends in the area, and anyone around my age in our social set.

Marsha ordered me, under the authority vested in her by Baba, to provide a list of any qualifying friends. The completed list was to be delivered to her by a date certain. My stepfather Paul and my mother would attend the party. According to their itinerary, scrupulously updated by the efficient Marsha, they’d arrive home from Belgium on December 8th. The party would be the first Saturday after they returned.

Good news! Marsha said. The best of news! Jessie will be home too and able to attend your party! Jessica was Marsha’s only child. A much fussed over child, golden curled until her hair darkened. Still fussed over. So far as Marsha knew, I hadn’t seen Jessica since she left for Paris to study dress design. However, I had in fact flown to Paris two months before to provide her with support when she presented her first fashion show.

I also knew