Free Dante's Dilemma by Lynne Raimondo Page A

heard. Westlake’s butchering had occurred after he was no longer in a position to threaten his wife. Why? And why had Lazarus risked exposure by transferring the body to a public place where it was sure to be found the next morning and cause a huge commotion? And then there was the fact of the castration itself. Was it simply the enraged act of a disturbed personality? Or was it supposed to symbolize something?
    Like all psychiatrists over a certain age, I’d been well-schooled in various theories about the penis. To Sigmund Freud, it wasn’t simply a pleasurable piece of anatomy but the fundamental cause of all neuroses. Women wanted a penis and couldn’t have one. Men lived in constant fear of losing theirs. Freud also posited that in dreams, elongated objects—such as sticks, poles, and umbrellas—and most weapons were a stand-in for the male organ. Coming a little later, Carl Jung disagreed, finding Freud’s focus on the penis too narrow to explain most human behavior. Jung also thought Freud’s dream theories were too complicated, famously quipping that the penis itself was a phallic symbol.
    Whatever belief you subscribed to, it was hard not to read significance into Westlake’s castration. In a world where men still dominated virtually every sphere of public life—from politics to business, academia, and just about every profession—the penis stood as a potent reminder of male authority. Was Westlake’s mutilation intended to send the message that men are more vulnerable than they think? Or was it tied to the penis’s other symbolic association—as an instrument of male aggression? Westlake had reportedly demeaned, threatened, and beaten his wife. Had he also raped her? And if so, was Lazarus taking out her revenge on the very organ used to force her into submission?
    The train came then, and I followed the other commuters on board, tapping skillfully across the gap between the platform and the car before finding a place to stand in the crowd.
    â€œYou’re doing great,” one of the passengers near me said.
    Somehow, I didn’t think so.

EIGHT
    I got back to my office a little before noon to find my entry barred again, this time by a pile of banker’s boxes. Yelena was yakking at her desk ten yards away, so I leaned my cane against the wall and went over to inquire about the cause of the latest barricade. I had to cool my heels for several minutes while she finished a telephone call, finally ringing off with an effusive “ Tseluyu! ”
    â€œKisses no less,” I said. “Was that Boris?”
    â€œPlease,” Yelena said.
    I was right. They were back to bickering again.
    â€œIs there some significance to the latest Mt. Everest outside my door? I’d like to be able to reclaim my office one of these days.”
    â€œThe files, you mean?”
    â€œIs that what they are? I thought I’d stumbled across your Christmas present to me. Where’d they come from, if I may be so bold to ask?”
    â€œA person from the State’s Attorney’s office. Her name is on the receipt.” I surmised this was Michelle Rogers and made a mental note to thank her for acting so quickly. It was good to know I had at least one ally on the case.
    â€œAnd you thought they’d be at home where they are right now?” I said.
    â€œI wanted to bring them inside, but I sprained my back when we were in San Juan. Boris insisted on going parasailing even though I told him it would ruin my hair. And you should have seen the hotel he picked out. Practically miles from the outlet stores.”
    I needed her help with the boxes, so I asked how her holiday shopping was going.
    â€œTerrible. The lines at the Water Tower were as bad as anything back in Moscow. I had to wait hours to return the scarf I bought for Boris—Hermès was too good for him after Puerto Rico—and they were all out of the cologne I wanted—”