Neblin thought for a moment before speaking. "That's why you read so much about serial killers," he said. "You don't feel right and wrong the way other people do, so you read about it to find out what you're supposed to avoid."
I nodded. "And of course, it helps that they're pretty cool to read about."
He made some notes on his pad.
"So which rule did you break today?" he asked.
"I went to the place where they found Jeb Jolley's body," I said.
"I wondered why you hadn't mentioned him yet," he said. "Do you have a rule to stay away from violent crime scenes?"
"Not specifically," I said. "That's why I was able to justify it to myself. I wasn't really breaking a specific rule, even if I was breaking the spirit of them."
"And why did you go?"
"Because someone was killed there," I said. " I . . . had to see it."
"Were you a slave to your compulsion?" he asked.
"You're not supposed to turn that around on me."
"I kind of am," said Neblin. "I'm a therapist."
"I see dead bodies all the time in the mortuary," I said, "and I think that that's fine—Mom and Margaret have worked there for years, and they're not serial killers. So I see lots of live people, and I see lots of dead people, but I've never actually seen a live person turn into a dead one. I'm . . . curious."
"And the scene of a crime is the closest you can get without committing a crime yourself."
"Yes," I said.
"Listen, John," said Neblin, leaning forward. "You have a lot of predictors for serial-killer behavior, I know—in fact, I think you have more predictors than I've ever seen in one person. But you have to remember that predictors are just that— they predict what might happen, they don't prophesy what will happen. Ninety-five percent of serial killers wet their beds and light fires and hurt animals, but that doesn't mean that ninety-five percent of kids who do those things will become serial killers. You are always in control of your own destiny, and you are always the one who makes your own choices—no one else. The fact that you have those rules, and that you follow them so carefully, says a lot about you and your character. You're a good person, John."
"I'm a good person," I said, "because I know what good people are supposed to act like, and I copy them."
"If you're as thorough as you say you are," said Neblin, "nobody will ever know the difference."
"But if I'm not thorough enough," I said, looking out the window, "who knows what could happen?"
3
Mom and I lived in a single-story apartment above the mortuary; our living room windows looked out over the front entrance, and our only door led down a set of enclosed steps to the side driveway. People always think it's creepy to live over a mortuary, but it's really just like any other house. Sure, we have dead bodies in the basement, but we also have a chapel, so it .all balances out.
Right?
By Saturday night we still didn't have Jeb's body.
Mom and I ate dinner quietly, letting the shared pizza and the noise of the TV substitute for the companionship and conversation of a real relationship. The Simpsons was on, but I wasn't really watching—I wanted that body. If the police kept it much longer, we wouldn't be able to embalm it at all, just seal it in a bag and hold a closed-casket funeral.
Mom and I always disagreed on what kind of pizza to get, so we had the pizza place split it in half for us: my side had sausage and mushrooms, and her side had pepperoni. Even The Simpsons was a compromise—it came on after the news, and since changing the channel meant risking a fight, we just left it on.
During the first commercial break Mom put her hand on the remote, which usually meant she was going to mute the TV and talk about something, which usually meant we would get into an argument. She rested her finger on the mute button and waited, not pressing down. If she hesitated this long, whatever she wanted to talk about was probably pretty bad. After a moment she pulled back her hand, grabbed another piece of pizza, and took a bite.
We sat tensely through the next segment of the show, knowing what was coming and planning our moves. I thought about getting up and leaving, escaping before the next commercial break, but that would just antagonize her. I chewed slowly, watching numbly as Homer jumped and screamed and raced around on the screen.
Another commercial came on, and Mom's hand hovered over the remote again—just briefly this time—before punching the mute button. She chewed, swallowed, and spoke.
"I talked to Dr. Neblin today," she said.
I thought that might have something to do with this.
"He said that. .. well, .he said some very interesting things, John." She kept her eyes on the TV, and the wall, and the ceiling. Anywhere but me. "Do you have anything to say for yourself?"
"Thank you for sending me to a therapist, and I'm sorry that I actually need a therapist?"
"Don't start snippy, John. We have a long way to go and I'd like to get through as much of it as we can before we get snippy."