The Man Who Murdered God (14 page)

“So he didn't have any money worries?”

“Not really. He could have gone to college. We talked about that a good deal. He began taking tennis lessons last fall and played all winter at an indoor club over in Brookline. He bought himself the best racquets, the best shoes, and really got into it. To the point where you always saw him carrying this big gym bag, a big black thing, with his racquets and his tennis outfits inside. The last couple of weeks you'd never see him without it. Heard he played well, too, considering he'd only taken up the game recently.” Taber shook his head. “Bobby is amazing. He can do just about anything he puts his mind to.”

“And he could come and go as he pleased?”

“Sure. Some mornings he'd be up and gone long before breakfast—”

“And back after dark?” McGuire said pointedly.

Taber blinked. “One of those priests was killed early in the morning, wasn't he?”

McGuire nodded.

“And two others at dusk?”

McGuire nodded again.

Taber wiped his forehead with his hand. “It's still so very difficult to believe.”

“Dr. Taber, we'd like to see Bobby's room,” McGuire said. “Then we want to seal it off and have it checked for Bobby's prints.”

“Would you have a photograph of him?” Lipson added.

“I anticipated that, too,” Taber said, swivelling around to his credenza again. When he turned to face them, he held a snap shot in his hand. “This was taken at Christmas. I think it was the happiest period I can recall in Bobby's life.”

The photograph showed two people standing next to a decorated Christmas tree. McGuire recognized Dr. Metcalf, wearing a long formal gown. Beside her a slim attractive blond man leaned on her shoulder, his eyes squeezed shut either in laughter or in anticipation of the camera's flash. He looked nothing like the composite drawing made under Harvey Jaycock's direction.

“This is the best you've got?” McGuire asked, and Taber said he was afraid so. McGuire passed the photograph to Lipson, who studied it, then slipped it into his jacket pocket. “Let's see the kid's room,” McGuire said rising from his chair.

Bobby Griffin's room was a plain, square cubicle with one window facing the front gardens. A neatly made bed, wicker night table and easy chair were the only furnishings. A small black-and-white television set had been placed on a wall-mounted bookshelf beside the easy chair. McGuire scanned the books on the shelf. Most of the titles were classics: Dickens, Thackeray, Proust, Hemingway, Faulkner. The only non-fiction books were two figure-drawing guides for artists, and three instruction manuals on tennis.

A faded photograph in a brass frame sat on the night table, a picture of a smiling, tall man, Hollywood-handsome and wearing an air force uniform. He was standing next to a jet fighter, resting his arm on its wing with the casual aggressiveness of a warrior enjoying a respite from his labours.

“Joe, look at this,” Lipson called from the closet.

McGuire walked over, glanced up at the shelf in the top of the closet. “Bobby got his big black athletic bag with him?” he asked Taber, who was standing in the doorway.

“I assume he has,” Taber answered. “The last time I saw him, yesterday morning, he had it. He was off to a tennis match.” Taber nodded vigorously at the memory. “Yes, because I remember seeing him walking down the pathway to the subway station.”

“Funny,” McGuire said in a voice that said it was anything but humorous. “He left all his tennis equipment in his closet.”

McGuire used the telephone in Taber's office to instruct Ralph Innes and a team to take statements from each member of the institute staff and bring a squad of uniformed officers to seal off Bobby's room and provide round-the-clock surveillance of the building. Norm Cooper was to sweep Bobby's room for prints and compare them with those found at the scene of the Lynch and Sellinger murders.

“How about the priest, Deeley?” Lipson asked when McGuire had hung up.

“What about him?”

“This kid's mother is as crackers as the shrink says, we might be able to use him. Why not arrange for him to meet us there?”

McGuire thought about it for a moment, then nodded and called Berkeley Street again. This time he spoke to Janet Parsons, telling her to contact Deeley and ask him to meet the detectives in Lexington. “You better alert Lexington cops, too,” he added. “Have them send a patrol car around to meet us at the house. Remind them the kid is armed and dangerous.”

“Got it,” Janet answered. A nice voice on the telephone, McGuire noticed. Low and purring. “I've got some messages here for you—”

“Don't want 'em,” he answered. “Gotta go.”

“Not even one from Kavander?”

“Especially one from Kavander.”

In the foyer he and Lipson thanked Taber for his co-operation. “We're off to see Bobby's mother,” McGuire said, “but we'll be coming back to talk to you, I'm sure. Obviously if you hear from him or about him, call us immediately.” He handed Taber his card, turned to leave, then looked back at the psychiatrist again. “Two questions,” he said.

“What are they?”

“Are the patients allowed to have crucifixes in their room?”

“Of course. Anything that helps them fit back into normal society is encouraged.”

“Why wasn't there one in Bobby's room, if he's such a devoted Catholic?”

“He wouldn't have one. That's what the fight with his mother was about as a matter of fact. When he ceased being catatonic, she brought him a crucifix to hang over his bed, and he became violent.” Taber allowed himself a quick smile. “Threw the crucifix out the window.”

“Okay, second question. How the hell can you treat a patient for four years and not know he's liable to commit a murder?”

Taber stiffened. “You still haven't proved he did it, Lieutenant,” he said coldly. “No matter what it looks like, until someone shows me a connection between Bobby's illness and these horrible murders, I can't accept it.”

“But you don't even know what made him catatonic in the first place, right?”

“You're right. I fully expected the reason to emerge, especially when the catatonia passed. But with his steady progress, the appearance of an outgoing personality, and his total absence of any hostile or self-destructive tendencies, I considered it a relatively minor concern.”

“Except for the crucifix. That he threw out the window.”

Taber smiled. “Lieutenant,” he said in a low voice, “I suggest you hold your opinion of Bobby's actions until you meet his mother. That was an isolated incident. And it's my opinion that his mother was the inescapable catalyst.”

As they left, Lipson and McGuire passed the two agoraphobic ladies huddled in a corner near the window still undecided about the prospect of venturing outdoors.

Jenkins Real Estate was located in a converted salt-box house at the intersection of the state highway and a residential side road. On the outside the old home retained its original clapboard siding and shake shingle roof. The interior, however, had been sectioned into several glass-enclosed cubicles finished in mar-resistant decorator colours and lit with energy-efficient recessed fluorescent fixtures. To the passing world the Jenkins office was colonial charm; to the employees it was hard-edged glitz.

In one of the modern cubicles, a half-empty cup of coffee cooled to room temperature at her elbow, Mattie slumped morosely, her chin in her hand. Shirley Finkle, Mattie's best friend at the real estate office, sat listening to Mattie's tale, wearing a sympathetic expression.

“
He
liked it,” Mattie grumbled. “
Loved
it. Kept saying how, with a little work, rebuilding the coach house, new landscaping, decorating, no more than two or three hundred grand, the place would be perfect.”

“Sure, that's all it would take,” Shirley nodded.

“It was that little bitch with him who's going to screw the deal.” Mattie's voice rose in a nasal howl, more sarcastic than imitative. “‘Oh, I don't know, Chuckie. I mean, it gets so
cold
up here in the winter time, doesn't it? And Daddy always says you never know what's inside these old houses until you buy one and try to fix it up.'” Mattie shook her head, and her voice dropped to its normal husky range. “I mean, first of all it's not her money, it's his. He's the one who's running in the cocaine that pays for the Ferrari they're driving. And second they're not even
married
for Christ's sake. They're just shacked up together. A year from now he'll have some other bimbo to walk his dog, and she'll be back table dancing in Fort Lauderdale.”

Shirley shook her head in unison with Mattie, appalled at the injustice of it all. “So you think she queered the deal, huh?”

Mattie took a sip of her coffee and scowled at it. “What the hell's it mean when the guy says ‘We'll have to think about it'?”

“It means they want to go look at something else.”

“You got it. This little braless twit just has to blink her eyes, and you need a horse blanket to wipe the drool from the guy's mouth. Crazy the way some men can be led around by their dicks, isn't it?”

“Ain't it the truth?” Shirley Finkle stood up to her full five-foot, one-inch height and removed her glasses. “Would you look at this?” she asked, holding the frames up for Mattie to inspect. “Had them, what? Two weeks? Cost me over a hundred bucks, and I've lost a rhinestone already.”

“Aw shit, Shirley!” Mattie exploded.

Shirley looked at her friend, wide-eyed and surprised. “What?” she asked innocently.

“I've just lost a fifty-thousand dollar commission, and you're pissed because a rhinestone falls out of your glasses!”

“Gee, I was just making conversation,” Shirley said in a hurt, little-girl voice. “If you're so upset about losing one sale—”

“
One sale
?”
Shirley edged for the door of the cubicle as Mattie's voice jumped in tone and volume. Both women looked indignantly at each other. Before they could speak, Mattie's telephone rang, and Shirley used the opportunity to slip back to her desk.

Mattie watched her leave before answering the telephone. Empty-headed boob, she said to herself. God, who thought I'd wind up spending my day talking with women who think a sale at K-mart is a major social event? “Mattie O'Brien,” she said into the receiver.

It was a man's voice. “Hi, Mattie. It's me. Frank.”

Frank? Oh yeah. Frank. “Hello, Frank,” she said, trying her best to be polite. “Listen, you wouldn't have a couple of million to spend on the Delisle estate, would you?”

“Gee, no, I haven't, Mattie,” Frank replied seriously. “If I had that kind of money, I wouldn't be tending bar, that's for sure.”

Frank, you're so damn slow, Mattie said silently, her eyes closed in exasperation. “Just kidding. What's up?”

“I was wondering how you were,” he said softly. “You were a little, uh, high last night, and I wanted to make sure you got home safely. Chris, he was pretty upset after you left. I mean, he laughed about it with the other guys. They thought it was funny, him getting caught like that. But I could tell he was upset, you know?”

“I don't give a sweet damn what Chris felt or did last night,” Mattie said angrily, “or even if he woke up this morning with his balls nailed to the bed. Which, incidentally, would be too good for him.”

“Mattie, you shouldn't talk that way. That's not like you.”

“Today it is. Today, that's as good as I get.”

“I'm sorry you're having a bad day.”

“Bad doesn't cut it. Try disastrous, obnoxious, pathetic, atrocious. Wait a minute. Shitty. Yeah, that sums it up. Shitty's it.”

Frank tried to lighten the tone of his voice. “Gee, Mattie, if things are that bad, maybe you could use some company tonight. I could cook dinner for you again.”

Mattie closed her eyes and asked silently for patience. “Frank, I'm sorry. The last time I ate one of your meals, my stomach felt like I'd swallowed a bicycle chain. With the bicycle still attached.” She opened her eyes suddenly, remembering. “Besides, I've got company at home.”

Frank was silent for a moment. “Company?” he asked finally. Then, his voice full of hope, “Relatives? Your mother dropped in?”

“I said my day was shitty. Not terminally fucked up. No, on the way home last night I picked up a guy. Nice-looking kid. About twenty years old. Blond hair, blue eyes. Body of an athlete. And sensitive too. Kid like that, makes an old broad my age come alive again, you know?” Christ, I sound convincing, she said to herself.

“You took him home with you?” Frank sounded dismayed.

What the hell, Mattie figured. “Sure did. Moved right in. Look, Frank, I've got to figure out a way to sell some property this month, or I can kiss this job goodbye. So if you'll excuse me—”

“Do you think that's a good idea? I mean, bringing some young guy home you don't know?”

“It was a good idea at the time, and it's not a bad idea yet. When it gets bad, I'll come around and let you buy me a drink, okay?”

“Sure,” Frank said. “Sure, you come around any time, and I'll buy you a drink. You know that.”

Oh, for Christ's sake, Mattie thought. Now I've got guilt laid on me. Failure isn't enough, is it? The hell. “Goodbye, Frank,” she said, and hung up without waiting for his reply.

For the rest of the morning she reviewed property listings, made unproductive telephone calls and tried to avoid thinking what the sensitive young man might be doing at her house.

Maybe he's going through my lingerie right now, she speculated. Or my photographs. Or he could have a shoe fetish. Damn it, and I've got those new Italian pumps sitting right out there in the open.

By eleven-thirty she persuaded herself to look at a new property listing on Mill Road, a mile from her home. As long as she was out that way, Mattie decided, it would be silly not to drop by and check the mail, make a sandwich for lunch, see what Bobby was up to.

At noon she pulled into the driveway and walked casually to the side entrance leading into the kitchen.

“Hello?” she called out, dropping her purse on the table. “Anybody here?”

Bobby appeared, entering from the living room. “Hi,” he said shyly. “I didn't think you would be home so soon.” He was holding a large white pad in front of him, a yellow pencil in one hand. “I hope you don't mind,” he said. “I found this pad of paper in your den and . . . well, look.” He turned the drawing pad to show her. “It's not quite finished. I want to do some more with your hair.”

Mattie's eyes widened, and her mouth dropped open. Looking back at her from the sheet of paper was a skillfully rendered pencil drawing of herself. She recognized the pose, the dated hairstyle, the look in her eyes, which had been there ten years earlier. But there was something else in the rendering, something she hadn't seen before.

Whatever it was, it reminded her of an incident from her college days. She had taken a fine-arts course that included a visit to a touring exhibition of Renaissance art, much of it consisting of charcoal and ink sketches by old Italian masters. She had been struck by the way the very best of them, such as da Vinci, had been able to make their subjects seem alive with only a few loosely drawn lines. “The genius of these masters is the way they make you realize these people actually lived and breathed and spoke,” her professor had stressed. Seeing the original sketches at a touring exhibition, she had understood and agreed.

Now, looking at herself in Bobby's sketch based on an old photograph, she recognized the same kind of talent. There were no wasted lines anywhere on the paper; the drawing of her was more alive than the photograph it had been based upon.

“Do you like it?” Bobby asked quietly.

She turned to him, her jaw still hanging slackly. “Did you . . . did you do this?”

Bobby nodded. “I drew it from that picture of you in the living room,” he said. “You were very beautiful then. I mean, you're very pretty now, too,” he added hastily.

She touched him on the shoulder. “Forget it. I know what you mean. I used to be a model. I dropped out of college to go to New York. Spent over a year there doing the agency bit. That summer my face was on Times Square for the whole season. A billboard, pushing cosmetics.” She looked down at the sketch again. “But this . . . this is
incredible
. Where'd you go to art school?”

“I didn't. I took art classes in high school. Then about a year ago I started all over again. I read a few books, learned some techniques and spent a lot of time working on them.”

Mattie sat down at the kitchen table, her eyes still on the sketch. “How did you do it?” she asked. “How did you put more of me into a drawing than was in the photograph?” She pointed to the living room. “Do you know who took that picture?
Avedon
. Richard Avedon. I mean, he's only a legend in the business. But you did something more with it.”

Bobby sat down at the table with her. “I put you into it,” he said. “The camera was photographing your beauty. But it missed part of you that's inside.”

“You mean my soul? Is that how artists describe it? You went after the soul?”

Bobby frowned. “I don't know what a soul looks like,” he said. “No, that's not what I mean. I guess I mean the way you are when you're not posing. You were posing for the camera. Something happens to people's faces when they pose. Something goes up in front of their face to protect them. I just tried to remove it in my sketch.” He smiled. “I'm glad you like it.”

“Like it? It's fantastic! I'm taking it back to the office with me and show—”

“No. No, please,” he said, reaching across the table for the pad. “It's not finished. I really want to do something more with it.”

“What's to do?” Mattie asked. She pulled the sketch away from him. “It's perfect.”

“Please,” he said. “I'm . . . I'm just not happy with it yet. Let me work on it some more this afternoon.”

Mattie relented. “All right,” she said, letting him take away the pad. “I just want you to know that whatever you do with your life, keep up this art thing. Otherwise you're wasting an incredible gift.” She stood up and walked to the cupboard. “You like ravioli? How about I open the can, and you make some toast?”

After lunch Bobby insisted on clearing the table and washing the dishes. Mattie watched him carefully. The kid's angelic, she decided. Positively angelic. “I'll be at the office until about six,” she said, rising from the table. “What do you plan to do this afternoon? Paint
The Last Supper
?”

“I thought I would make dinner for us,” he answered solemnly. “Would you mind?”

“You mean you cook, too?” Mattie gasped. “My God, Bobby. You got any warts?”

He looked at her, confused. “Warts?” he repeated.

“I'm just trying to find a flaw,” she laughed. “Sure, I'd love it if you cooked dinner. But we don't have a heck of a lot to eat here. I think there's a dozen eggs in the fridge. . . .”

“I'll make a soufflé,” Bobby suggested. “Do you like soufflés?”

Mattie's eyes widened, and she shook her head in wonder, then nodded in agreement. “Yeah, Bobby. I love soufflés. You
make
soufflés?”

Bobby ran hot water on the dishes and squirted some liquid detergent in the sink. “I like being creative,” he said. “I enjoy doing things that please people.”

“You're pleasing me, Bobby. Trust me. You're doing a great job pleasing me.”

As Mattie was leaving, she turned to look back at Bobby's face, his eyes as blue as sapphires in the afternoon sun. “My God, I forgot all about your leg! How is it?”

“It's okay,” he said. “It feels a little stiff, and the bruise is turning different colours. But it's all right. Thank you for asking.”

She drove back to the office, still shaking her head and smiling. God, what a prince, she told herself. What an absolute angel. She remembered his lithe, youthful frame, his unlined face, his shy and awkward grace. The kid seems so uncorrupted, she mused. What would happen if an experienced woman like me taught him a few things? She smiled and bit her lip at the thought. You horny old broad, she thought. You're actually fantasizing about it.

And getting a little excited too, she admitted.