The Meeting

“I’m surprised. After all, they would have you believe I killed your best friend.”
“We were old school friends, that’s all.”
“That’s not what it says in the book.”
“The book?”
“Yes, the book that your friend James had. The book that I now guard.”
“I wouldn’t have thought they would allow you to keep it.”
“They! Like they have a choice.”
“I guess my first question would be…”
“Why did I do it? Yes, I know what you are going to ask before you ask it. Your dialog is in the book.”
“I believe that you’re going off of experience. You know the sorts of questions you, yourself, would have asked.”
“Could be, but to answer your question, I didn’t kill him. He did.”
“He?”
“Yes, the one who wrote the book.”
“Ah, I see.”
“No you don’t and neither did I the first time I met James.”
“The first time? I thought you only saw him once.”
“I did, but now I see him often. Each time I reread what happened.”
“May I see the book?”
“No, not yet. He doesn’t want you to.”
“Oh, I see. And if I just grab it from you, would that change the story?”
“No, because I know you won’t take it. You thought about it just now, but you can’t.”
“John, please work with me here. Your life is hanging by a thread.”
“Don’t you think I know that? And yes, I do know how it ends. But I can’t tell you.”
“And why would that be? If the story of our time together has already been written, why not just show me how it ends?”
“Because you never ruin a book or movie for someone by telling them the ending first. It’s just not polite.”

The Meeting

We never spoke about that night ever again, Now don’t get me wrong, James came out alright. He became an aerodynamic engineer. We kept in touch like most friends do, losing each other after a few years, and then finding each other again. The last time I talked to James, he had embarked on a comparative study of religions. It was a shock when I heard that Doctor John Feldman had put a bullet through James’ head. According to the official reports, someone had sent James a book with only blank pages and he checked himself into the state hospital. He was having a normal eval when he became the object of Dr. John Feldman’s anger. And that’s how I got appointed as the head psychiatrist of the state mental hospital, taking Dr. Feldman’s place. And who would be my first client? Dr. John Feldman. Ironic, wouldn’t you say? Ironic even under normal circumstances, but what makes this especially hard is that John Feldman was my mentor in college, a brilliant man in his own right, and now it is my job to decide if he is sane enough to be tried for my friend’s murder. When they brought him in, he was in handcuffs and the tailored three piece suit he normally wore had been replaced by an orange jumpsuit. It was strange to hear his familiar walk muted by rubber-soled white tennis shoes instead of the share click-click of black patent leather shoes as he walked into the room.
“Ah Doctor Boxer, it is a pleasure to see you again.” His voice wore a cheerful veneer, but I could sense his stain in its undertones.
“Doctor Feldman.”
“Please, it’s Mr. Feldman now. No license, remember?”
“Please, John, have a seat. Gentlemen, you can remove the handcuffs.”
“No…I prefer to have them on.”
“If say so, John. But really, I don’t feel that you pose a danger to me.”