In a Mind's Eye

By Fred Lipschitz

Dr. Ludlow Fein, Psychoanalyst is suddenly faced with a madman targeting his family and his patients. Threats leveled at his wife Clare, strange messages left in his waiting room, meaningless night calls, and the murder of some of his patients propels him toward the realization that he will finally have to confront death
We are able to see into the minds of both the madman; what he thinks, his battle with evil voices driving him to murder, and the conflicts of the analyst as he confronts his patients, and his uncivilized rage at the threat to his life.
Steve Fein, his Brother, is a New York City Homicide Detective assigned to the search for a serial killer targeting young women who are found clutching a Queen Chess piece, and papers with a puzzling code. The nature of the murders leads Steve to consult his brother as an expert on pathology, and they find that the messages left with the dead women resemble one found in Ludlows waiting room, and point to the Queen Sacrifice, a desperate move in chess. It is not clear what this means to the madman, Simon Sawyer, but it awakens in Ludlow a memory of how he had failed a young boy many years ago.
The tension builds as the madmans calls increase. He becomes more brazen in his attacks, and Ludlow is nearly killed while following a suspect.
The conflict finally leads to a deadly meeting between the madman, and the Psychoanalyst.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Apr 8, 2013
• ISBN: 9781483611884

Fred Lipschitz

I am a Psychoanalyst, co-founder of one of the largest treatment and training institutes in New York City, who shares his time between my practice, and my curiosity about how things work, and how to fix them. An early interest in Physics, led me to minor in this subject, while also majoring in Psychology, and led to the peculiar experience of being caught between the exact nature of the Physical Sciences, and the more general, un-mathematical nature of human relations. This division of interests between the exact and the human side of things is what has led to my writing this novel IN A MIND’S EYE. The complexities of the human mind rival the complexity of the world of quantum physics, in its unpredictability, and sudden shifts in focus. The privilege of observing, and being a part of this makes life exciting, and full of the surprises, which enliven existence. IN A MIND’S EYE takes us on a trip inside the world of madness where things are not simple, accompanied by the complexity of the mind of the Psychoanalyst, also shifting in nature, and at times disconnected from his role as a respected professional. He at times flirts with death, in pursuit of the madman, and at times is beset with guilt about his enemy. Ludlow Fein is neither pure in thought and action, as is his threat, Simon Sawyer who fights the voices inside his head, and his rage at the memory of a betrayal many years ago.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

T HE CREATURE WAITED, hidden in the dark shadow cast by the blackened concrete overpass, eyes fixed upon the doorway to his destiny. Cars whizzed by overhead, sounding like gray desperate souls aimlessly searching for peace, looming in an instant of sound, and then disappearing quickly into nothingness. The sky, lit with a highway of stars, added patterns of warmth to an otherwise cold black night. His breath spewed out smoky vapors of intent passion into the cold dry air, and he waited expectantly, as he had for the past three hours, and with patience tuned to the certainty of what was about to happen. His eyes burned with the stress of unblinking focus, but he willed his gaze to remain open and clear.

Slowly the door’s edge came toward him, opening, exposing a yellow light, which hurt his eyes, but was quickly extinguished as the prey exited. His body tensed, wild thoughts and images whirling through his mind, fighting with screamed warnings and mercy-begging pleas for peace.

In his imagination, she was quickly decimated, groaning, God save me, her mouth-image opening and silently raging the night. Clasping his arms around his chest, he tried to still his violent panting, wheezing with effort.

She stopped, innocently adjusting her eyes to the darkness, checking for her keys.

He began moving. The sound of the cars on the overpass disappeared, as did the noise of his feet on the gravel. Instead, there was a sudden quietness. He was in the eye of a storm, surrounded by vague repeating violent memories playing familiarly around the edges of his sensibility. As he moved closer to her, she joined him in the silent center of his imagination. Conjuring up the warmth of their closeness, alone and separated from the rest of the world, he felt love. Now there was just the two of them, and outside their realm was the noise and cruelty of the world.

She looked up startled, and he smiled, or thought he did. She screamed as he tore into her, trying to absorb her, trying to grasp and internalize her wholeness, trying to make her one, finally and totally one with him.

He stood there looking at the lifeless body and then reached into his pocket and withdrew a chess piece. He grunted as he turned the queen piece to reflect the occasional lights of passing cars.

Now it starts! he exclaimed, tearing a crumpled professional card, obliterating the raised letters, Ludlow Fein, PhD, Psychotherapy and Psychoanalysis. He ground the torn remnants into the dirt and screamed into the night.

1

M ONDAY, 7:30 IN the morning and Ludlow Fein, a psychoanalyst, was getting the once-over from Clare, his wife. She shook her head and removed his tie, making clucking noises as she exchanged it for another. He knew the tie was right and fit in with the conservative gray suit, which she had cajoled him into buying. Watching her in the mirror tending to him, he smiled to himself, warmed by the familiar image of his woman looking at him, a proud smile on her face; the smell of fresh coffee, light spilling through the kitchen window from the Hudson River, and the sense that all was right. The Poe poem came to his mind.

I was a child and she was a child,

In this kingdom by the sea

But we loved with a love that was more than love—

I and my Annabelle Lee.

He was filled with such warmth that tears gathered behind his eyes, filled with the beauty of life and a love that simple words couldn’t describe. A last look at the Hudson before he left settled upon a tugboat pushing a cement barge towards Albany, the black smoke coming from its funnel smudging the silver pristine placidity of its waters.

Go forth and do good, she said as she pointed toward the door.

He hugged her and pinched her backside, making her yelp with surprise.

She playfully slapped his shoulder as she yelled, Ludlow Fein, you big lunk. Behave yourself.

He closed the door behind him, hesitating before giving up his hold upon the house and Clare.

Should I tell her? He once again fought with himself about sharing his new fears. That voice on the phone—evil. It’s getting worse. More calls, more threats. The weeklong threat had grown from his disregarding the calls as random pranks to the realization that he was a target of some gathering evil. He knew from the energy behind the threats that the attack wasn’t random, and that sooner or later, he would be forced to meet it head-on. He threw his attaché case into the car, thinking, Right now, it’s better off not scaring her.

There is no excuse for the criminal behavior of this man, who has hidden under the title of doctor, while disregarding the most fundamental rule in treatment, ‘First, do no harm,’ and has ruined the life of Mrs. Anthony… What am I doing here delivering a corny lecture? he asked himself, shifting uncomfortably in the witness seat, surprised by his anger at the defense attorney.

I object! the florid attorney confronting Ludlow Fein shouted, waving his arms as if dispelling foul odors. You are here to answer questions, and only that, Doctor.

Please just stick to the questions, Dr. Fein. The judge leaned over the witness box as a murmur ran through the court.

I’m sorry, Your Honor, he replied, trying to ignore the unwavering, tight-lipped hate on the face of Ezra Stone, the accused, sitting smugly next to his attorney.

Well, you should be, sir. You should be ashamed of yourself, demeaning a fellow therapist, the defense attorney railed, shaking his finger. He turned toward the crowded courtroom, pacing back and forth as he shook a sheaf of papers threatening to fly off in all directions. He slammed them down on his table, startling the crowd, and roared, You come here full of enmity toward my client, Dr. Ezra Stone, who did nothing wrong, except to try helping his patient who was overwhelmed with depression.

What is the question? The prosecutor rose in objection.

Yes, Mr. Martin. Please address the witness.

OK, Your Honor. He paused to straighten his tie, hanging in an arc over his prominent stomach. His forehead beamed with perspiration, out of keeping with the cool court temperature. Dr. Stone has a large practice, does he not?

I have heard so. But are you saying that proves he is competent? I—

Your Honor, he’s at it again.

I’m sorry, but there are reputable therapists all over New York who have had to clean up after his mistreatment…

Your Honor!

I don’t want to warn you again, Dr. Fein. You are treading near to contempt. Please, just answer Mr. Martin’s questions.

The silence in the courtroom, held like a breath waiting to be expelled, emphasized the noise of the air conditioners, the only relief from the heaviness of expectation. Again, he felt like just chucking the whole thing, just getting out of there, and resuming to the comfort of helping his patients, the familiarity of his own schedule, and the calm of his life with Clare. The malpractice trial had been going on for three weeks now; endless periods of waiting in cold hallways to be called to testify, missed therapy for his patients because too often delay and rescheduling, left him feeling like a slave to the maneuvers of Stone’s attorney. Colleagues had warned him about subjecting himself to a court trial, but he could no longer sit quietly while Stone, who had sneaked by with suspicious online degrees and a lack of the rigorous training that legitimate professionals welcomed, harmed those unfortunate enough to seek help from him.

OK, now Mrs. Anthony is now your patient? Martin waited expectantly.

Yes.

And she came to you complaining about her former therapist, Dr. Stone?

No.

What do you mean no? The reason you are here is because she is accusing Dr. Stone, with your help, of flagrant malpractice.

She didn’t come to me to complain about Dr. Stone…

What? What?

She came because her life had turned into hell as a result of the treatment by her former therapist.

A wave of sound rolled through the room, murmurs of anger, as they turned in unison to the thin tall woman sitting in the front row, head bent, arms hugging her body, shifting rhythmically as if praying.

Dr. Fein. The judge shook his head.

She came because of an overwhelming depression.

Let me ask you—Martin leaned over—had Mrs. Anthony ever been depressed before?

Not like now.

And so you assume that even though she had been depressed before, that her present depression has to be caused by Dr. Stone, a dedicated therapist, devoted to helping her deal with a depression she has had before.

He found his mind wandering, sitting back in the witness chair, staring at Martin, enjoying the fantasy of whisking his obvious toupee from his head, and sending it sailing to the rear of the courtroom. Was that a question?

Please stick with questions, Mr. Martin, the judge admonished, shaking his finger at Fein, masking a sympathetic grin.

I’m sorry, Your Honor. He paused, folding and unfolding papers. I am through with this witness.

Thank you, sir. I can’t say I regret this parting. Ludlow stood, smiling as confusion grew on Martin’s sweat-glistened brow. That last goodbye wasn’t necessary, he confided to himself. But damn it, Stone’s a weasel, and Martin’s no better.

Court is adjourned. Our next meeting will be on Wednesday because of the weekend and holiday. Prosecution, you will be ready to call your next witness?

Yes, Your Honor. I wish to call Dr. Fein back to the stand.

OK. We will then proceed on Wednesday.

You fucking arrogant punk think you are going to destroy me and my reputation? Well, you better be watching your back because I don’t take that kind of threat lightly. Stone loomed over him in the parking lot, his face stretched with malevolent rage, stabbing his index finger in Lud’s face.

The court had recessed for the day, and Lud was glad to leave, looking forward to being in the comfort and familiarity of his office, working with his patients, when he was suddenly grabbed from behind by Stone. His mouth was working, grinding his teeth like a predator. In his face, unblinking closely set eyes narrowed in tension, fought with the air of comfort and certainty which he took pains to advertise with his expensive clothing and height-raising boots.

You may get away with threatening fragile, needy patients who come to depend on you for help, but just try! You just try to threaten me and I won’t let you forget that it doesn’t work with me! he yelled back at Stone, moving closer and flicking Stone’s hand aside. This has been going on for years, your interfering with my life. He jabbed his finger at Stone. If I find out it is you interfering with my patients, and my reputation, you better watch your back!

Oh. Is the meek Ludlow Fein threatening me?

Try me! Just try me! He took a step toward Stone, who backed up, and he just as suddenly turned and left.

The pulse of the down-draft twin carburetor MG TF1500 made him forget the rage and frustration he’d just left, and he took off with a roar, his Hollywood muffler punctuating the motor’s rhythms. Could he be the one making those late-night calls? He batted the thought around in his mind. Probably not. He’s not that subtle, but who knows? He leaned into the curve around several cars, feeling elated at his freedom from the trial and proud of his standing up to Stone.

He smiled, remembering the Deadly Duo, he and Steve, his brother, dressing up as Batman and Robin, their father puzzled at their makeshift costumes, ready to go out and fight crime. Now Little Stevie was a homicide detective with a remarkable solved-case average, and he was a psychoanalyst. Who’d a thought? He smiled to himself, still warmed by memories of his Bronx upbringing.

His thoughts turned dark again, and he wished he could figure out the reasons for the sudden threats to his life. He made a promise to himself that, soon, he would get together with Steve, his brother, get their heads together about his fears.

Go forth and do good. His mind turned away from the threat, driving up the Henry Hudson Parkway toward his office. In the Dark Ages, it was easy. That’s all you had to do—put on your armor, get on your horse and slay a dragon, rescue a maiden. Now it’s more difficult because the dragon lies coiled deep inside the patient’s subconscious, and to make it more difficult, it’s the patient’s own dragon. Slaying the dragon means slaying part of the patient. The trick is to tame the dragon to make it work for you. It’s not easy. His mind turned unwillingly to recent events, casting a pall over his happiness, and he again tussled with himself about whether to share his concerns with Clare about the late-night calls.

Back at the office, he mused, Yeah, go and do good, as he felt the warmth and comfort of his home in Croton slowly seep away, replaced by the image of his first patient, waiting to vent her rage at the world.

Hi, I’ll be right with you, he said as brightly as possible to the immobile, tightly wrapped figure waiting for him in his waiting room, and he quickly moved into his inner office.

Twenty minutes later, he sat back in his ergonomic shrink’s chair, an unwelcome anticipatory gift from his patient, Mary, letting the tension seep down his body, unclenching his jaw.

I don’t know what to talk about. She stared pugnaciously at him. She sat stiffly, glaring at him, her pale gray eyes filled with hatred.

Mary O’Donnell came to psychotherapy in despair of ever having anyone to care for her. Her thin body curled into herself, wanting to be unseen, while at the same time, her eyes pleaded for a response. She always wore black, the same battered raincoat covering formless dresses with mismatched satiny frills, signaling a total disregard for fashion.

He sat, fully aware that she was watching him with her constant expectation that he would do something to prove, like all the others in her life, that he was cruel and undependable. It wasn’t easy threading the fine line between helping her see just how much her expectations of disappointment from others actually caused their unwelcome attitude toward her. Her suspicions of others led to their discomfort with her, and her response to their discomfort was to blame them for trying to hurt her.

Slow up, he constantly warned himself. She’s always looking for the sign that proves her certainty that I’m going to betray her.

He had come early to recognize that she was not entirely hopeless. The sign was in her hands; it pointed to her need for affection.

He had always been a fan of the great Sherlock Holmes, and he eagerly found that patients revealed more about themselves than they knew. He could see the level of anxiety beating in the hollow of his patients’ throats, despite their protests of calm, and they would often enact a conflict they were denying by constantly acting out the theme in the therapy room, unaware of the web they were spinning.

Mary’s hands were signals that she was pleading for understanding when they both faced openly toward him, and her frequent sense of hopelessness when they were tightly clasped, allowing for no worldly acceptance. The important event which gave him hope of her recovering from her dreadful past occurred in her usual process of beginning the session by laying a crumpled check on the ottoman between them.

What’s that? he asked, pointing to a fallen picture of a little kitten perched on the lap of someone wearing a plain colorless dress.

Oh, I’m sorry. It must have fallen out.

It looks like a pretty kitten. The coloring is unusual. Beautiful.

The beginning of her smile was cut short by her retrieving the picture, placing it back in her wallet, and coldly stating, Noodles. I found him.

That’s a great name. I guess that’s your cat. Yes?

She shifted in her chair and continued. And besides, she hesitated, staring at him. You forgot about me and scheduled someone during my time.

What?

The man sitting there in the waiting room when I came. You scheduled him during my time.

What man? There was a man in the waiting room? That can’t be.

You know there was. You put him in at my time! she yelled.

But, he began to protest, suddenly a cold feeling working its way up his spine, things coming together. It was getting worse, coming closer. The terror had begun with repetitive late-night calls. He had first attributed these to a prank caller, the rasping breathing and then a hang up, but the persistence grated on his nerves. And then there were the strange occurrences: things disappearing, the ominous feeling that he was being watched, and now the stranger in his waiting room. The kind of happiness he had worked toward for years—his life with Clare and Maudie, his granddaughter, the wonderful house over the river in Croton, and his practice—were now complicated, out of order. He hated uncertainty, and now things were falling apart.

What did he look like?

Like a patient. She smiled through gritted teeth. You know. You scheduled him.

Look, whoever he was, you are here during our scheduled time. I don’t know anything about him or scheduling him. He was surprised to recognize a developing shrillness in his voice which he did not want his patient to hear. Taking a slow breath, he calmly asked, Did he say anything? Mention why he was there?

No. What’s the difference?

OK. Just indulge me for a minute, please! What did he look like? Was he wearing boots?

Boots? No. Just like a regular person. Tall. Dark. He didn’t say anything, just got up and left. He must have realized that you made a mistake and scheduled him during my time. He did smile. Bad teeth. He was kind of creepy.

OK. He had to level his mind, focus on Mary, even though he felt gripped by an ominous tension.

Why do they have to clutter the street with those flowers? Mary continued. It’s bad enough there’s all that fuss over those buildings coming down, but you can’t even walk without bumping into them and with their signs about missing relatives—all the signs. What good does it do, except to clutter? Mary went on as if nothing had happen.

But, Mary, he protested, immediately regretting the impulse to reason with her but still preoccupied with the mysterious visitor. Planes coming out of nowhere. People throwing themselves off the buildings.

I don’t want to talk about it, she cut him off, dismissing him as she had so often done with a strangely detached hatred, suffusing her stiffened body and rigid face.

As he sat back, the pain in his neck returned. Once again, he felt taken in and overwhelmed by her inhumanity, again a victim of his expectations for her. He knew he should have let her go on without protesting. It did no good to try to steer her away from her pathology, annealed in life experiences more vicious and bizarre than could be envisioned. His mind wandered away from the queasy feeling tied to the mysterious visitor, and he reassured himself that a stray noise he heard coming from his waiting room was familiar.

O K, he sighed, looking for her body signs of the softening which always followed these violent episodes.

There would be a period of silence, her face slowly losing its tightness, as if she had just negotiated the dangerous narrows of having to risk admitting feelings, on the one hand, or completely quitting her tenuous tie with him. She alternated between a snarling attack upon those who warmed to her, followed by the deep depressive feeling that life gave her nothing and hope was gone.

The sound of the phone startled him. He