The Naked Face (3 page)

“You’re not being very cooperative, Doctor, are you?” asked McGreavy.

“Don’t you think I want to see you find whoever did this?” Judd snapped. “If there was anything in my files that would help, I would tell you. I know my patients. There isn’t any one among them who could have killed her. This was done by an outsider.”

“How do you know it wasn’t someone after your files?”

“My files weren’t touched.”

McGreavy looked at him with quickened interest. “How do you know that?” he asked. “You haven’t even looked.”

Judd walked over to the far wall. As the two men watched, he pressed the lower section of the paneling and the wall slid open, revealing racks of built-in shelves. They were filled with tapes. “I record every session with my patients,” Judd said. “I keep the tapes here.”

“Couldn’t they have tortured Carol to try to force her to tell where those tapes were?”

“There is nothing in any of these tapes worth anything to anyone. There was some other motive for her murder.”

Judd looked at Carol’s scarred body again, and he was filled with helpless, blind rage. “You’ve got to find whoever did this!”

“I intend to,” McGreavy said. He was looking at Judd.

On the windy, deserted street in front of Judd’s office building, McGreavy told Angeli to drive Judd home. “I’ve got an errand to do,” McGreavy said. He turned to Judd. “Good night, Doctor.”

Judd watched the huge, lumbering figure move down the street.

“Let’s go,” Angeli said. “I’m freezing.”

Judd slid into the front seat beside Angeli, and the car pulled away from the curb.

“I’ve got to go tell Carol’s family,” Judd said.

“We’ve already been over there.”

Judd nodded wearily. He still wanted to see them himself, but it could wait.

There was a silence. Judd wondered what errand Lieutenant McGreavy could have at this hour of the morning.

As though reading his thoughts, Angeli said, “McGreavy’s a good cop. He thought Ziffren should have gotten the electric chair for killing his partner.”

“Ziffren was insane.”

Angeli shrugged. “I’ll take your word for it, Doctor.”

But McGreavy hadn’t, Judd thought. He turned his mind to Carol and remembered her brightness and her affection and her deep pride in what she was doing, and Angeli was speaking to him and he saw that they had arrived at his apartment building.

Five minutes later Judd was in his apartment. There was no question of sleep. He fixed himself a brandy and carried it into the den. He remembered the night Carol had strolled in here, naked and beautiful, rubbing her warm, lithe body against his. He had acted cool and aloof because he had known that that was the only chance he had of helping her. But she had never known what willpower it had taken for him to keep from making love to her. Or had she? He raised his brandy glass and drained it.

The city morgue looked like all city morgues at three o’clock in the morning, except that someone had placed a wreath of mistletoe over the door. Someone, thought McGreavy, who had either an overabundance of holiday spirit or a macabre sense of humor.

McGreavy had waited impatiently in the corridor until the autopsy was completed. When the coroner waved to him, he walked into the sickly-white autopsy room. The coroner was scrubbing his hands at the large white sink. He was a small, birdlike man with a high, chirping voice and quick, nervous movements. He answered all of McGreavy’s questions in a rapid, staccato manner, then fled. McGreavy remained there a few minutes, absorbed in what he had just learned. Then he walked out into the freezing night air to find a taxi. There was no sign of one. The sons of bitches were all vacationing in Bermuda. He could stand out here until his ass froze off. He spotted a police cruiser, flagged it down, showed his identification to the young rookie behind the wheel, and ordered him to drive him to the Nineteenth Precinct. It was
against regulations, but what the hell. It was going to be a long night.

When McGreavy walked into the precinct, Angeli was waiting for him. “They just finished the autopsy on Carol Roberts,” McGreavy said.

“And?”

“She was pregnant.”

Angeli looked at him in surprise.

“She was three months gone. A little late to have a safe abortion, and a little early to show.”

“Do you think that had anything to do with her murder?”

“That’s a good question,” McGreavy said. “If Carol’s boyfriend knocked her up and they were going to get married anyway—what’s the big deal? So they get married and have the kid a few months later. It happens every day of the week. On the other hand, if he knocked her up and he
didn’t
want to marry her—that’s no big deal, either. So she has the baby and no husband. That happens
twice
every day of the week.”

“We talked to Chick. He wanted to marry her.”

“I know,” replied McGreavy. “So we have to ask ourselves where that leaves us. It leaves us with a colored girl who’s pregnant. She goes to the father and tells him about it, and he murders her.”

“He’d have to be insane.”

“Or very foxy. I vote for foxy. Look at it this way: supposing Carol went to the father and broke the bad news and told him she wasn’t going to have an abortion; she was going to have his baby. Maybe she used it to try to blackmail him into marrying her. But supposing he couldn’t marry her because he was married already. Or maybe he was a white man. Let’s say a well-known doctor with a fancy practice. If a thing like this ever got out, it would ruin him. Who the hell would go to a headshrinker who knocked up his colored receptionist and had to marry her?”

“Stevens is a doctor,” said Angeli. “There are a dozen ways he could have killed her without arousing suspicion.”

“Maybe,” McGreavy said. “Maybe not. If there was any suspicion and it could be traced back to him, he’d have a hard time getting out of it. He buys poison—someone has a record of it. He buys a rope or a knife—they can be traced. But look at this cute little setup. Some maniac comes in for no reason and murders his receptionist and he’s the grief-stricken employer demanding that the police find the killer.”

“It sounds like a pretty flimsy case.”

“I’m not finished. Let’s take his patient, John Hanson. Another senseless killing by this unknown maniac. I’ll tell you something, Angeli. I don’t believe in coincidences. And two coincidences like that in one day make me nervous. So I asked myself what connection there could be between the death of John Hanson and Carol Roberts, and suddenly it didn’t seem so coincidental, after all. Suppose Carol walked into his office and broke the bad news that he was going to be a daddy. They had a big fight and she tried to blackmail him. She said he had to marry her, give her money—whatever. John Hanson was waiting in the outer office, listening. Maybe Stevens wasn’t sure he had heard anything until he got on the couch. Then Hanson threatened him with exposure. Or tried to get him to sleep with him.”

“That’s a lot of guesswork.”

“But it fits. When Hanson left, the doctor slipped out and fixed him so he couldn’t talk. Then he had to come back and get rid of Carol. He made it look like some maniac did the job, then he stopped by to see Mrs. Hanson, and took a ride to Connecticut. Now his problems are solved. He’s sitting pretty and the police are running their asses off searching for some unknown nut.”

“I can’t buy it,” Angeli said. “You’re trying to build a murder case without a shred of concrete evidence.”

“What do you call ‘concrete’?” McGreavy asked. “We’ve
got two corpses. One of them is a pregnant lady who worked for Stevens. The other is one of his patients, murdered a block from his office. He’s coming to him for treatment because he’s a homosexual. When I asked to listen to his tapes, he wouldn’t let me. Why? Who is Dr. Stevens protecting? I asked him if anyone could have broken into his office looking for something. Then maybe we could have cooked up a nice theory that Carol caught them and they tortured her to try to find out where this mysterious something was. But guess what? There is no mysterious something. His tapes aren’t worth a tinker’s damn to anybody. He had no drugs in the office. No money. So we’re looking for some goddam maniac. Right? Except that I won’t buy it. I think we’re looking for Dr. Judd Stevens.”

“I think you’re out to nail him,” said Angeli quietly.

McGreavy’s face flushed with anger. “Because he’s as guilty as hell.”

“Are you going to arrest him?”

“I’m going to give Dr. Stevens some rope,” McGreavy said. “And while he’s hanging himself, I’m going to be digging into every little skeleton in his closet. When I nail him, he’s going to stay nailed.” McGreavy turned and walked out.

Angeli looked after him thoughtfully. If he did nothing, there was a good chance that McGreavy would try to railroad Dr. Stevens. He could not let that happen. He made a mental note to speak to Captain Bertelli in the morning.

THE MORNING NEWSPAPERS headlined the sensational torture murder of Carol Roberts. Judd was tempted to have his telephone exchange call his patients and cancel his appointments for the day. He had not gone to bed, and his eyes felt heavy and gritty. But when he reviewed the list of patients, he decided that two of them would be desperate if he canceled; three of them would be badly upset; the others could be handled. He decided it was better to continue with his normal routine, partly for his patients’ sake, and partly because it was good therapy for him to try to keep his mind off what had happened.

Judd arrived at his office early, but already the corridor was crowded with newspaper and television reporters and photographers. He refused to let them in or to make a statement, and finally managed to get rid of them. He opened the door to his inner office slowly, filled with trepidation. But the blood-stained rug had been removed and everything else had been put back in place. The office looked normal. Except that Carol would never walk in here again, smiling and full of life.

Judd heard the outer door open. His first patient had arrived.

Harrison Burke was a distinguished-looking silver-haired man who looked like the prototype of a big business executive, which he was: a vice-president of the International Steel Corporation. When Judd had first seen Burke, he had wondered whether the executive had created his stereotyped image, or whether the image had created the executive. Some day he would write a book on face values; a doctor’s bedside manner, a lawyer’s flamboyance in a courtroom, an actress’ face and figure—these were the universal currencies of acceptance: the surface image rather than the basic values.

Burke lay down on the couch, and Judd turned his attention to him. Burke had been sent to Judd by Dr. Peter Hadley two months ago. It had taken Judd ten minutes to ascertain that Harrison Burke was a paranoiac with tendencies toward homicide. The morning headlines had been full of a murder that had taken place in this office the night before, but Burke never mentioned it. That was typical of his condition. He was totally immersed in himself.

“You didn’t believe me before,” Burke said, “but now I’ve got proof that they’re after me.”

“I thought we had decided to keep an open mind about that, Harrison,” Judd replied carefully. “Remember yesterday we agreed that the imagination could play—”

“It isn’t my imagination,” shouted Burke. He sat up, his fists clenched. “They’re trying to kill me!”

“Why don’t you lie down and try to relax?” Judd suggested soothingly.

Burke got to his feet. “Is that all you’ve got to say? You don’t even want to hear my proof!” His eyes narrowed. “How do I know you’re not one of them?”

“You know I’m not one of them,” Judd said. “I’m your friend. I’m trying to help you.” He felt a stab of disappointment.
The progress he had thought they were making over the past month had completely eroded away. He was looking now at the same terrified paranoiac who had first walked into his office two months ago.

Burke had started with International Steel as a mail boy. In twenty-five years his distinguished good looks and his affable personality had taken him almost to the top of the corporate ladder. He had been next in line for the presidency. Then, four years ago, his wife and three children had perished in a fire at their summer home in Southampton. Burke had been in the Bahamas with his mistress. He had taken the tragedy harder than anyone realized. Reared as a devout Catholic, he was unable to shake off his burden of guilt. He began to brood, and he saw less of his friends. He stayed home evenings, reliving the agonies of his wife and children burning to death while, in another part of his mind, he lay in bed with his mistress. It was like a motion picture that he ran over and over in his mind. He blamed himself completely for the death of his family. If only he had been there, he could have saved them. The thought became an obsession. He was a monster. He knew it and God knew it. Surely others could see it! They must hate him as he hated himself. People smiled at him and pretended sympathy, but all the while they were waiting for him to expose himself, waiting to trap him. But he was too cunning for them. He stopped going to the executive dining room and began to have lunch in the privacy of his office. He avoided everyone as much as possible.

Two years ago, when the company had needed a new president, they had passed over Harrison Burke and had hired an outsider. A year later the post of executive vice-president had opened up, and a man was given the job over Burke’s head. Now he had all the proof he needed that there was a conspiracy against him. He began to spy on the people around him.
At night he hid tape recorders in the offices of other executives. Six months ago he had been caught. It was only because of his long seniority and position that he was not fired.

Trying to help him and relieve some of the pressure on him, the president of the company began to cut down on Burke’s responsibilities. Instead of helping, it convinced Burke more than ever that
they
were out to get him.
They
were afraid of him because he was smarter than they were. If he became president,
they
would all lose their jobs because
they
were stupid fools. He began to make more and more mistakes. When these errors were called to his attention, he indignantly denied having made them. Someone was deliberately changing his reports, altering the figures and statistics, trying to discredit him. Soon he realized that it was not only the people in the company who were after him. There were spies outside. He was constantly followed in the streets. They tapped his telephone line, read his mail. He was afraid to eat, lest they poison his food. His weight began to drop alarmingly. The worried president of the company arranged an appointment for him with Dr. Peter Hadley and insisted that Burke keep it. After spending half an hour with him, Dr. Hadley had phoned Judd. Judd’s appointment book was full, but when Peter had told him how urgent it was, Judd reluctantly agreed to take him on.

Now Harrison Burke lay supine on the damask-covered contour couch, his fists clenched tightly at his sides.

“Tell me about your proof.”

“They broke into my house last night. They came to kill me. But I was too clever for them. I sleep in my den now and I have extra locks on all the doors so they can’t get to me.”

“Did you report the break-in to the police?” Judd asked.

“Of course not! The police are in it with them. They have orders to shoot me. But they wouldn’t dare do it while there are people around, so I stay in crowds.”

“I’m glad you gave me this information,” Judd said.

“What are you going to do with it?” Burke asked eagerly.

“I’m listening very carefully to everything you say,” Judd said. He indicated the tape recorder. “I’ve got it all down on tape so if they do kill you, we’ll have a record of the conspiracy.”

Burke’s face lit up. “By God, that’s good! Tape! That’ll really fix them!”

“Why don’t you lie down again?” Judd suggested.

Burke nodded and slid onto the couch. He closed his eyes. “I’m tired. I haven’t slept in months. I don’t dare close my eyes. You don’t know what it’s like, having everybody after you.”

Don’t I?
He thought of McGreavy.

“Didn’t your houseboy hear anyone break in?” Judd asked.

“Didn’t I tell you?” Burke replied. “I fired him two weeks ago.”

Judd quickly went over in his mind his recent sessions with Harrison Burke. Only three days ago Burke had described a fight he had had that day with his houseboy. So his sense of time had become disoriented. “I don’t believe you mentioned it,” Judd said casually. “Are you sure it was two weeks ago that you let him go?”

“I don’t make mistakes,” snapped Burke. “How the hell do you think I got to be vice-president of one of the biggest corporations in the world? Because I’ve got a brilliant mind, Doctor, and don’t forget it.”

“Why did you fire him?”

“He tried to poison me.”

“How?”

“With a plate of ham and eggs. Loaded with arsenic.”

“Did you taste it?” Judd asked.

“Of course not,” Burke snorted.

“How did you know it was poisoned?”

“I could smell the poison.”

“What did you say to him?”

A look of satisfaction came over Burke’s face. “I didn’t say anything. I beat the shit out of him.”

A feeling of frustration swept over Judd. Given time, he was sure he could have helped Harrison Burke. But time had run out. There was always the danger in psychoanalysis that under the venting of free-flow association, the thin veneer of the id could blow wide open, letting escape all the primitive passions and emotions that huddled together in the mind like terrified wild beasts in the night. The free verbalizing was the first step in treatment. In Burke’s case, it had boomeranged. These sessions had released all the latent hostilities that had been locked in his mind. Burke had seemed to improve with each session, agreeing with Judd that there was no conspiracy, that he was only overworked and emotionally exhausted. Judd had felt that he was guiding Burke to a point where they could begin deep analysis and start to attack the root of the problem. But Burke had been cunningly lying all along. He had been testing Judd, leading him on to try to trap him and find out whether he was one of
them.
Harrison Burke was a walking time bomb that could explode at any second. There was no next of kin to notify. Should Judd call the president of the company and tell him what he felt? If he did, it would instantly destroy Burke’s future. He would have to be put away in an institution. Was he right in his diagnosis that Burke was a potentially homicidal paranoiac? He would like to get another opinion before he called, but Burke would never consent. Judd knew he would have to make the decision alone.

“Harrison, I want you to make me a promise,” Judd said.

“What kind of promise?” Burke asked warily.

“If they are trying to trick you, then they want you to do
something violent so they can have you locked up… But you’re too smart for that. No matter how they provoke you, I want you to promise me that you won’t do anything to them. That way, they can’t touch you.”

Burke’s eyes lit up. “By God, you’re right,” he said. “So that’s their plan! Well, we’re too clever for them, aren’t we?”

Outside, Judd heard the sound of the reception room door open and close. He looked at his watch. His next patient was here.

Judd quietly snapped off the tape recorder. “I think that’s enough for today,” he said.

“You got all this down on the tape recorder?” Burke asked eagerly.

“Every word,” Judd said. “No one’s going to hurt you.” He hesitated. “I don’t think you should go to the office today. Why don’t you go home and get some rest?”

“I can’t,” Burke whispered, his voice filled with despair. “If I’m not in my office, they’ll take my name off the door and put someone else’s name on it.” He leaned toward Judd. “Be careful. If they know you’re my friend, they’ll try to get you, too.” Burke walked over to the door leading to the corridor. He opened it a crack and peered up and down the corridor. Then he swiftly sidled out.

Judd looked after him, his mind filled with the pain of what he would have to do to Harrison Burke’s life. Perhaps if Burke had come to him six months earlier…And then a sudden thought sent a chill through him. Was Harrison Burke
already
a murderer? Was it possible that he had been involved in the deaths of John Hanson and Carol Roberts? Both Burke and Hanson were patients. And they could have easily met. Several times in the past few months Burke’s appointments had followed Hanson’s. And Burke had been late more than once. He could have run into Hanson in the corridor. And seeing him several times could easily have triggered
his paranoia, made him feel that Hanson was following him, threatening him. As for Carol, Burke had seen her every time he came to the office. Had his sick mind conceived some menace from her that could only be removed by her death? How long had Burke really been mentally ill? His wife and three children had died in an accidental fire. Accidental? Somehow, he had to find out.

He went to the door leading to the reception office and opened it. “Come in,” he said.

Anne Blake rose gracefully to her feet and moved toward him, a warm smile lighting her face. Judd felt again the same heart-turning feeling that had hit him when he had first seen her. It was the first time that he had felt any deep emotional response toward any woman since Elizabeth.

In no way did they look alike. Elizabeth had been blond and small and blue-eyed. Anne Blake had black hair and unbelievable violet eyes framed by long, dark lashes. She was tall, with a lovely, full-curved figure. She had an air of lively intelligence and a classic, patrician beauty that would have made her seem inaccessible, except for the warmth in her eyes. Her voice was low and soft, with a faint, husky quality.

Anne was in her middle twenties. She was, without question, the most beautiful woman Judd had ever seen. But it was something beyond her beauty that caught at Judd. There was an almost palpable force that pulled him to her, some unexplainable reaction that made him feel as though he had known her forever. Feelings that he had thought long since dead had suddenly surfaced again, surprising him by their intensity.

She had appeared in Judd’s office three weeks earlier, without an appointment. Carol had explained that his schedule was full and he could not possibly take on any new patient. But Anne had quietly asked if she could wait. She had sat in the outer office for two hours, and Carol had finally taken pity on her and brought her in to Judd.

He had felt such an instant powerful emotional reaction to Anne that he had no idea what she said during the first few minutes. He remembered he had asked her to sit down and she had told him her name, Anne Blake. She was a house-wife. Judd had asked her what her problem was. She had hesitated and said that she was not certain. She was not even sure she had a problem. A doctor friend of hers had mentioned that Judd was one of the most brilliant analysts in the country, but when Judd had asked her who the doctor was, Anne had demurred. For all Judd knew, she could have gotten his name out of the telephone directory.