Killer in the Street (25 page)

“Captain Lennard,” she said brightly, “good morning! The patient had a quiet night.”

Lennard was a slender man with an inner toughness that seemed to vibrate through the seams of his carefully tailored suit. He might have been a bond salesman but for a certain sharpness in his eyes that seemed instantly to take in, evaluate, and file away for future reference everything within range of vision.

“I’m glad to hear that,” he said. “I didn’t. Is it all right to go up now?”

The receptionist hesitated. “Mr. Quentin is with the patient,” she said.

“Quentin?” Lennard’s mind played wisely with the thought. “We may have a battle getting an indictment if Quentin’s in charge of the defense,” he said.

A hospital receptionist was merely a courteous, efficient face above a starched white uniform until a certain combination of words transformed her into a perfectly normal gossip-hungry woman. “Defense?” she echoed. “Then it is murder?”

Lennard scowled. “Forget that I said anything. Just call the room, please, and tell whoever answers that I’m on my way up.”

He left the desk quickly and strode to the elevator. Set in the wall was a bronze plaque inscribed: “Cypress Point General Hospital—1950.” and beneath it: “S. and J. Dodson, Architects.” It was ironical. The hospital was Sheilah Dodson’s first major commission. Sheilah, a brilliant, vital woman who was to become Cypress Point’s most illustrious citizen, had been barely thirty at the time. Jaime—the “J.” in the firm—was her brother: ten years younger and as moody and erratic as his sister was balanced and organized. All Lennard really knew about him, aside from village gossip, was a record of arrests for drunken driving stretching over the past decade. It wasn’t the record of a criminal, but of a mixed-up boy who wasn’t sure of himself or his directions. His direction seemed more definite now. Lennard stepped grimly into the elevator. He had just left Sheilah Dodson’s body at the morgue; now he was on his way to the fourth floor to issue an official invitation to Jaime Dodson to attend the inquest into her death.

The fourth-floor corridor was a wide path of light. Lennard stepped out from the elevator and walked quickly to the nurse’s desk. From long practice he mentally noted: white Caucasian; hair black; eyes brown; height 5’4”, weight 110; age 20. She was much more pleasing to the eye than the rangy man in tweeds who leaned against the desk nursing the telephone. He was middle-aged, had a sprinkling of gray in an uncontrollable mop of sandy hair, and a touch of New England in his voice.

“I don’t care what Mrs. Carpenter dreamed last night,” he said curtly, “not even if it was in Technicolor. I want all appointments canceled for the rest of the morning.”

Lennard caught the nurse’s eye and placed his badge case on the desk. “I want to see Jaime Dodson,” he said.

He had no opportunity to hear the pitch of her voice. The man in tweeds dropped the telephone back in the cradle and turned to him abruptly.

“You can’t,” he said. “Not for an hour.”

Lennard looked at him narrowly. “I’m Captain Lennard of Homicide,” he said. “I called Dr. Pitman before I came.”

“Pitman has nothing to do with this.” Full face, the man in tweeds resembled a pugnacious cherub. “I’m Dr. Curry,” he added. “Mr. Quentin retained me to examine his client.”

“Retained? Aren’t there enough doctors in the hospital?”

“I’m a psychiatrist,” Curry said. “Now, if you don’t mind, I have a patient waiting.”

Curry moved swiftly down the hall and cut through a wide center corridor where the regular traffic of the hospital was contained. He paused before a closed door. Hand on the knob, he turned to find Lennard at his side.

“Dodson’s already been examined by two psychiatrists,” Lennard protested. “Both found him sane.”

Curry opened the door. “I’m sorry, Officer,” he said. “I can’t let you in.”

“But I’m on official business.”

“That doesn’t matter. You still have to wait until I’ve finished.”

Curry stepped quickly into the room and closed the door behind him. Steve Quentin was at the bedside. He was a man of about forty—blond, quietly masculine. His face was drawn with the tensions of the past seventy-two hours; but he had found time, even in that agonizing interval, for a daily shave and change into fresh clothing. He had found no time for sleep.

In a taut voice he asked, “Who was that?”

Dr. Curry moved to the bedside. “A policeman with a bad disposition,” he answered. “Don’t worry about him.” Now he stood over the patient. Jaime’s breathing was labored, and his head stirred restlessly on the pillow. Curry looked up sharply. “How long has he been this way?” he asked.

“What do you mean?”

“Something’s upset him.”

Quentin hesitated. “It might have been the noise in the hall just now,” he suggested.

Curry’s frown was instantaneous. “It’s possible,” he said. “Sometimes a patient reacts this way. It’s always individual. We never know exactly what to expect…. Are you sure you want this interview, Quentin?”

“Of course I want it!” Steve declared. “I’ve studied the findings of the state psychiatrists, and I know that Lennard’s here to serve notice of the inquest. The circumstantial evidence against Jaime Dodson is strong. I may have to go into a courtroom and defend him against the charge of murder. How can I do that if his mind is locked? … Don’t you understand, Doctor? Jaime remembers nothing from the time Sheilah Dodson’s houseman heard him quarreling with his sister until he was found at the merry-go-round at Hanson’s Pier nearly an hour later. I want to know what happened to cause that blackout.”

Dr. Curry found a chair and placed it close to the bedside. “Would you mind drawing the drapes, Mr. Quentin?” he asked. “I don’t want the risk of any distraction or play of light. Under narcosis a patient is highly susceptible to suggestion.”

Steve Quentin stepped to the window. The armed guard still lounged lazily against the railing, his interest caught by a small boat with a red sail that leaned lazily against the sky. Quentin pulled the drapes slowly. His eyes followed the red sail until it finally disappeared, and yet never really saw it at all because, behind him, Dr. Curry was beginning to probe for a piece of lost time.

“Jaime, can you hear me? Jaime, I want to help you.”

Steve snapped the drape shut. He turned and stood with his back to the window. Jaime’s eyes were open now; he stared dazedly into space.

Dr. Curry’s voice continued in a soft monotone. “Do you remember your sister’s party?” he asked.

Jaime’s mouth worked awkwardly. “Sheilah,” he said thickly.

“Yes. Sheilah’s party.”

“Eight o’clock.”

Curry nodded. “The dinner party was for eight o’clock, but you came early. The houseman says you arrived before seven. He served drinks—”

Jaime brightened. “Martinis,” he said. “Albert Trench specials.”

“What did you and Sheilah talk about?”

Now there was resistance. Jaime’s mind was fighting the memory. His fingers scratched nervously at the sheet.

“Trench heard you quarreling,” Curry prodded. “What was it about, Jaime?”

“Greta,” Jaime said. “My girl.”

“Didn’t Sheilah like your girl?”

“She never liked any girl I liked. I warned her. I told her not to say anything to Greta. I told her—” Jaime seemed to forget his listeners. He was going back in time. The tone of his voice changed. It rose sharply in anger. “I’m going to marry Greta…. You can’t stop me…. You can’t!”

Curry glanced at Steve. He still stood with his back against the doors, his face slightly moist with perspiration. He started to speak but Curry gestured him to remain silent.

“What did Sheilah say when you told her that?” Curry prompted.

“She said, ‘I’m cutting you out, Jaime. I told Steve. I’m cutting you out without a cent.’”

“Cutting you out of what?”

“Out of the business … everything. I didn’t believe her…. I yelled at her…. I threw my drink at her. She stepped back and fell …”

Jaime’s voice stopped. His mind didn’t want to go on. He stirred fitfully, fighting some private demon. When he looked up a second time, Steve stood at the foot of the bed.

“A broken glass was found by the body,” Steve said. “A martini glass.”

Curry was puzzled. “What did he mean—’Sheilah told Steve’?”

“I’ll explain later. Dr. Curry, this is important. This is the point where Jaime’s mind hits a block: ‘Sheilah fell.’ He’s told the same story a dozen times, but that’s where it stops. ‘Sheilah fell.’”

Curry’s attention returned to the patient on the bed. Distinctly, he said: “Jaime, what happened after Sheilah fell?”

They waited. The quiet in the room was like the holding of breath. Faintly, from the corridor, came the busy noises of the nurses; but inside the room there was only the waiting and Jaime Dodson fighting a battle with his mind.

“What happened, Jaime?” Curry asked again.

“Sheilah fell … her foot slipped when I threw the glass.” The words came haltingly. Each syllable was being forced. “I reached down and picked up the poker”—Jaime waited for long seconds—”and then I killed her,” he said.

The gigantic effort he had made to bring the confession from the darkest corner of his mind left Jaime exhausted. He seemed to collapse back into the pillows.

Curry looked at Steve. The extreme tension had pocked his forehead with perspiration. His eyes were fixed anxiously on Jaime. Curry turned back to the bed.

“You picked up the poker and killed your sister?” Curry repeated quietly.

“I killed her! … I killed her!”

And then Jaime broke. He turned his face against the pillow and closed his eyes on the horror Curry had pried from his mind. His whole body was trembling when Steve, now unnoticed by the attentive Curry, turned away. He walked quickly to the glass doors, slid them open, and stepped outside. The wind had risen. Freshness and the morning sun were a balm to tension-racked nerves. He found a cigarette in his pocket and watched the guard at the rail produce a lighter.

“How is he?” the guard asked.

Steve looked up, questioningly.

“One of the nurses said you were going to try hypnosis,” the guard explained.

“Narcosis,” Steve corrected. “He’s all right.”

“I guess there’s not much they can’t do to get inside a man’s mind these days.”

Steve’s hand was steady at the lighter, but it was uncomfortable to be so close to a man whose eyes were hungry for information. He thanked the guard and walked farther down the ramp. There was no red sail on the horizon now; but from this vantage point he could see the beach and the jutting crag above it where the sun glinted on the glass-peaked roof of Sheilah’s house. Like Sheilah, it was dramatic in simplicity, defiant of conventional design. To some it might be shocking—as was Sheilah; but she never contrived to shock. The unusual, the unique, the independent were hers by nature. No man had ever really known her, least of all Steve Quentin. The cigarette, forgotten, burned to his fingers. He tossed it away angrily. This was no time for morbid remembrance.

When Dr. Curry emerged from Jaime’s room he found Steve down to his last cigarette. They couldn’t talk on the ramp; the guard was still within earshot. They returned to the room where Jaime’s bed was now concealed behind a shielding screen.

“He’s sleeping,” Curry said, “but you have a problem. When I brought the patient out of narcosis he remembered nothing of the confession.”

Steve was stunned. “Nothing?”

“It’s not unusual. I’ve seen it happen before. When the guilt-producing incident is great enough the mind refuses to acknowledge it except through hypnosis or narcosis. Once the mind is out of this state, the forbidden knowledge is pushed back into the unconscious.”

“But that’s incredible!” Steve stepped around the edge of the screen and looked down at the bed. In sleep Jaime was childlike. His face was sensitive and innocent, his mouth relaxed and sensual. There was a trace of Sheilah in him—the bone structure, the narrow, high-cut nostrils. “Dr. Curry,” Steve reflected, “do you mean that if I put Jaime Dodson on the witness stand now he could testify—under oath—that he had not killed his sister?”

“No, he couldn’t do that,” Curry answered. “He could testify to exactly what he could have testified to before I came here: that he quarreled with his sister, tossed the glass at her, and remembers nothing more.” Dr. Curry buried his hands in the pockets of his jacket and regarded Steve Quentin from under a pair of shaggy eyebrows. “And we have no transcript of the confession,” he added.

“It wouldn’t matter if we had,” Steve said. “The state doesn’t admit evidence acquired through the injection of barbiturates.”

“Then why …?”

“Why did I have you conduct this experiment? For my own benefit as Jaime’s counsel. It never occurred to me that something like this would happen—that he would confess and then lose all remembrance of the confession.”

“What are you going to do?”

Steve didn’t answer for several seconds. The draperies were still drawn, the room was in semi-darkness. He could feel Curry’s eyes watching and waiting for an answer. Finally Steve said:

“Defend him.”

“Knowing that he’s guilty?”

“But I don’t know it! There were no fingerprints on the poker, Doctor. Just bloodstains. There was no eyewitness to the murder: just one person who saw Jaime drive away from the house minutes before Sheilah’s body was found. When I defend Jaime, I intend to leave behind everything that’s happened here today…. Does that shock you?”

“I don’t shock easily,” Curry admitted, “but what about me? Where do I leave what’s happened here today?”

“You won’t be called to the stand.”

“But, Mr. Quentin, I can’t ignore murder!”

Curry was an obstinate man, probably a dedicated one. Steve appraised him now as an adversary; but the law was on Steve’s side and the law was Steve’s forte.

“Please, this is more than a legal case to me,” he insisted. “I’ve known Jaime Dodson since he was two years old. I knew his sister. She was a dominating woman and that caused friction—but Jaime isn’t a criminal!”

“Now you do shock me,” Curry said. “Isn’t murder a crime?”

“You heard the confession! It was a crime of passion and provoked anger. It was almost an accident!”