"Heartstone" - читать интересную книгу автора (Margolin Phillip)

2

“She left the baby in front of the neighbor’s door,” Stout said.

“No kidding?” said the middle-aged nurse who had heard the story before in a dozen different forms and was only trying to make conversation.

“She’s lucky she isn’t dead,” the policeman said.

The nurse agreed, even though she did not really care. Dr. Tucker was coming down the hall. The policeman was going on. Something about a note the girl had left before taking all those pills. She smiled at Dr. Tucker when he passed by.

Dr. Tucker nodded at the nurse. He was at the tail end of a hard day. One last patient and then home.

“The neighbor says the husband left her when she got pregnant. Then she was depressed after the baby came. They thought she’d gotten over it this summer.”

“Maybe it was the change of seasons. I read someplace…”

Dr. Tucker missed the nurse’s theory. I’ll have to ask her someday, he thought. Change of seasons. As good as any theory about why humans try to destroy themselves. What was this one anyway? Caucasian, female, 22. He shook his head. What could be so bad that young? Well, it didn’t matter now. She would be all right. Maybe they shouldn’t try so hard to save some of them. It was their choice. Maybe this one would have been better off.

The door opened and Dr. Tucker looked over his shoulder. A tall, sad-looking man in a heavy overcoat had entered the room.

“Can I help you?” Dr. Tucker said, annoyed at the intrusion.

“I’m Detective Shindler, Portsmouth Police. I wanted to know how she is.”

Dr. Tucker was about to reply when the girl moaned and opened her eyes. They were still glassy and she was having trouble holding her eyelids open. Shindler moved closer so that he could see her.

“How are you feeling?” the doctor asked in a voice he hoped sounded cheerful.

She was trying to work her lips. Dampening them with her tongue. It took effort to talk and she closed her eyes for a moment to gain strength. When she finally spoke, it came out slurred and barely audible and it sounded like “Is dead?” but Shindler couldn’t be sure.

The doctor leaned forward and tried, “Your baby is fine,” but she just stared at him with a confused look. Then she began to weep.

“He had no face,” she cried. Her tears streamed onto her pillow. Shindler felt a cold finger touch the base of his spine. Dr. Tucker was exhausted, but he summoned his reserves and tried to comfort her.

“They wouldn’t let him go. They just hit him.”

“No one struck your son, Mrs. Pegalosi. Your baby is fine. He is perfectly okay.”

She was confused again. She stopped crying and shook her head from side to side.

“No baby. Dead. They hit…didn’t he? Died. Oh, God.”

She was off again. Dr. Tucker sighed. Shindler moved to the edge of the bed.

“Esther, was it Richie?” he whispered.

The doctor swung around. He had forgotten about the detective.

“You’ll have to leave.”

“Was it Richie?”

“Hey,” Tucker said sharply, “you’re out.”

“So much blood,” Esther sobbed.

“Doctor, I…” Shindler began.

“I said out. This girl is in serious condition.”

Shindler looked down at the girl. Her head lolled to one side and she was asleep. The doctor pushed him through the door.

“I don’t know what you think you’re doing here, but…”

“I’m sorry,” Shindler interrupted.

“You should know better than to carry on like that.”

“Doctor, I said I was sorry and I meant it. Now, I have to talk to you. That girl may have important information concerning a homicide. Could we talk for a few minutes?”

Mark Shaeffer opened the door to misdemeanor arraignment court and found a seat in the back of a crowded courtroom presided over by a young judge who was in the process of reading an elderly black man his rights.

“Do you understand that you have a right to have a lawyer appointed if you cannot afford to hire one, Mr. Dykes?”

“What I need a lawyer fo’ if I didn’t do nothin’? I been tellin’ you, I’m innocent.”

“Mr. Dykes, this isn’t a trial court. The only purpose in having you in court today is to tell you what you are accused of, to ask you if you have a lawyer and to find out if you want to plead guilty or not guilty. You are charged with assault and that is a serious crime. You should have a lawyer to represent you in court.”

“But see, that’s what I been tellin’ you. I ain’t done no assault. It was my bottle of wine and when I wouldn’t give that no good skunk some he grabbed me. So I natchally hit him. But it was my wine.”

“Mr. Dykes, I don’t want to hear the facts of your case now. I am going to appoint a lawyer to represent you.”

The judge turned to a policeman who was standing in front of a door that led out of the courtroom and into the courthouse jail.

“Officer Waites, is this man in custody?”

“Yes, sir.”

Mr. Dykes was standing in front of one of two tables that were set before the raised bench where the judge sat. A young man sat behind the second table, which was covered with files. The judge turned to him.

“Mr. Caproni, what is the position of the District Attorney’s office on letting this man out of jail on his promise to return?”

Caproni searched his files and pulled one out.

“Your honor, the recog. officer interviewed Mr. Dykes last night and he recommended that he not be released on his own recognizance, because he could not provide him with a residence address.”

“Mr. Dykes, where are you living?”

“Now I’m at the Mission, but I wants to get to the DuMont Hotel. Only I ain’t got the money now.”

“Your Honor, in light of the seriousness of the charge and Mr. Dykes’s transient status I would request that Mr. Dykes not be granted recog. According to the police report, William Thomas, the victim, required twelve stitches.”

The judge’s brow furrowed and he thought for a moment. Then he sighed.

“I suppose you are right, Mr. Caproni. Mr. Dykes, I will appoint a lawyer for you and continue your case until tomorrow morning.”

“You mean I got to stay in jail?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“But I ain’t done nothin’ and that skunk Willie Thomas knows it.”

“We will take this up with your lawyer in the morning.

“Bailiff?”

An elderly man sitting at a table to the judge’s right called a new case as Mr. Dykes was escorted back to jail.

“State versus Rasmussen.”

Mark stood up and approached the table where Mr. Dykes had stood. The door to the jail opened and a grubby-looking man in his middle twenties, dressed in a tee shirt and jeans, was being led out. He had a stubble of light blond hair and he gave off the unwashed, urine smell that all new arrestees who have spent the night in the drunk tank exude.

“Your Honor, I am Mark Shaeffer. I was just appointed to represent Mr. Rasmussen this morning. I wonder if I could talk to him for a few minutes before entering a plea.”

“Certainly. There is an interview room in the jail. We’ll call another case while you talk.”

“State versus Marsha LaDue,” the bailiff said. The jailer led Rasmussen back to jail and Mark followed. A well-dressed young woman and an equally well-dressed older man with a briefcase were approaching the table.

The jailer put them in a small room with a table and two bridge chairs and locked the metal door behind him. Mark opened his attaché case and took out the case file.

“Mr. Rasmussen, my name is Mark Shaeffer and I have been appointed to represent you.”

Rasmussen’s hand was damp when they shook. He grinned sheepishly and ran his hand through his hair.

“I guess they got me good. I thought for sure that I could make it home. That damn cop got me a block from my house.”

“Before you discuss the facts of the case with me, I should tell you the legal definition of “Driving Under the Influence of Intoxicating Liquor.” You may think that you have violated the law, but…”

“Think? Hell,” he laughed, “I was shitfaced. Look, I appreciate your help. I really do. But I did it and I just want to get this over with and get home to my wife. She doesn’t even know where I am.”

“All right,” Mark said reluctantly, “but why don’t you tell me a little about yourself. Drunk driving is a serious charge. Maybe I can work a deal with the D.A. and get you a light sentence or a plea to a reduced charge. Now how old are you?”

“I’m twenty-four.”

“Any kids?”

“One. A boy. Four.”

“Employed?”

“I’m going to college. This is my second semester. I got out of the army about six months ago.”

Court was in recess and Albert Caproni was talking to Judge Mercante’s secretary, a sexy blond who was laughing at something the young D.A. had just said. Mark waited until Caproni had finished. Then he cleared his throat.

“Excuse me. I’m Mark Shaeffer. I wonder if I could talk to you about the Rasmussen case?”

“Sure. I’m Al Caproni. What’s the charge?” He asked as he rifled through his files.

“He has a drunk driving charge. I was curious about what kind of deal we could work out if, uh, well, if he pleads now.”

Caproni found the file and took out the police report and a printout of Rasmussen’s criminal record.

“His rap sheet shows that he’s clean except for a speeding ticket a few years ago. Let’s see. The report says that he failed to signal when he made a right turn. Officer followed. Weaving. Pulled him over.”

Caproni skipped around, mumbling now and then.

“He was polite. No accident. Listen, he sounds okay. What does he do?”

“He’s a college student. Just out of the army.”

“Tell ya what. I’ll let him plead to “Reckless Driving.” Mercante will be easy on him and he’ll probably just get a fine.”

“Your Honor, I have talked with Mr. Caproni. He has agreed to substitute a charge of “Reckless Driving” for the drunk driving charge against Mr. Rasmussen. I have talked with my client and he has agreed to plead to the reduced charge.”

“Is that your wish, Mr. Rasmussen?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Is that agreeable to the District Attorney’s Office, Mr. Caproni?”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

“Mr. Rasmussen, are you aware that I could sentence you to six months in jail or fine you $500 or both if you plead guilty to this charge?”

“My lawyer explained that.”

“And you still wish to enter a plea of guilty?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Very well. Your plea will be accepted. Mr. Caproni, what are the facts of this case?”

Caproni handed the judge the police report. When he had finished reading it, he asked Mark if there was anything he wished to say on behalf of his client.

“Yes, Your Honor. Mr. Rasmussen is a college student. He just got out of the army and is married and has a child. This is his first scrape with the law except for a speeding ticket in 1962. I think probation would be appropriate here. If the court is considering a fine, I hope you will take into account the fact that I am court-appointed and Mr. Rasmussen and his family are living off what his wife makes as a secretary.”

“Thank you, counsel. Do you have anything to suggest with regard to sentencing, Mr. Caproni?”

“Your Honor, I agree with Mr. Shaeffer. Probation sounds appropriate in this case.”

“Thank you. You know, Mr. Rasmussen, you are going to get off easy this time, because your record is excellent. Your insurance would have gone sky high and you would have lost your license for a month if you had been convicted of “Driving Under the Influence.” Your lawyer did an excellent job getting this charge reduced. Next time you may not be lucky enough to have Mr. Shaeffer representing you.

“Even more important. Next time you might kill somebody. Think about that the next time you have too much to drink and decide to drive.

“I am going to sentence you to thirty days in jail and give you credit for time served. I am going to suspend the imposition of that sentence and put you on probation for one year. If you are arrested for drunk driving again, you will have to serve your time. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“There will be no fine.”

Shaeffer thanked the judge and walked Rasmussen back to jail.

“I want to thank you,” Rasmussen said.

“I’m glad I could help.”

“I mean it. I would have just pleaded to the other charge and lost my license. I didn’t realize that I could get a reduced charge.”

Mark smiled.

“That’s why they appoint a lawyer for you.”

“Say, do you have a business card? If I ever get in trouble again, you’re the guy I’ll call.”

Mark laughed and gave him several of his cards. They talked for a few minutes and Mark returned to his office.

Eddie Toller stood outside his office door and looked over the early customers who were starting to fill up the dark red interior of the Satin Slipper Lounge. Eddie was thirty-nine years old and five feet nine-and-a-half inches tall. He was skinny and, at one hundred and forty pounds, he was considerably under what he had once read was the proper weight for someone his size. Eddie stayed thin by not eating. He just did not have an appetite and, besides, he had an allergy to dairy products.

The early crowd was mostly businessmen stopping for a quick one before heading home to the suburbs. The people who came later in the evening were a different type. More working people and singles. Eddie smiled. He had a nice smile that went well with his features, which were often described as “kindly.” The first time Joyce saw his sad eyes and the droopy salt and pepper mustache that he had cultivated in prison she thought immediately of Shep, a terrier that had lived its life with her family. In his later years, the dog lost his spark and loafed around the house all day, relaxed and content. Eddie looked like someone who had passed by youth and its illusions. He was tired and not inclined to race.

Eddie wandered over to the bar and said hello to the bartender, Sammy White. Sammy was an ex-boxer who had worked for Carl for years. He was friendly and he had given Eddie a few worthwhile tips when Eddie started as assistant manager a few weeks before.

Eddie looked at his watch and glanced toward the door. Joyce should be arriving any minute. He couldn’t wait to see her. During the last few years he had been in and out of jail a lot. Never anything real serious. Mostly burglaries and one auto theft. Anyhow, he had spent a lot of time in the joint and the one thing he never got used to was that there weren’t any women.

Eddie was a guy who needed women. Wait, that was not right. Eddie was no ladies man or womanizer. What Eddie needed was one woman. Someone to take care of him and tell him what to do. Not that he admitted this to himself, but it was a fact, borne out by thirty-nine years of history, that Eddie could not take care of himself.

When Eddie was young, his mother had looked after him so much that he never learned how to do it himself. Then the army had looked after him. It was after the army that Eddie started trying to think for himself. That, by coincidence, was when he started getting in trouble.

Joyce walked in and Eddie waved at her. Eddie met Joyce his second day as assistant manager. She was a cocktail waitress in the bar. She wasn’t exactly a beauty, but she wasn’t a dog either. Eddie liked her figure right off. He didn’t go for those busty girls that were always throwing their tits around. He liked them skinny, but with long legs. That was Joyce. He didn’t mind that she was taller than he was. He liked looking up at her blue eyes and touching her long blond hair.

Eddie was sure that he was falling in love with Joyce. He had never had anyone who cared about him the way Joyce did. Oh, he’d had girlfriends, but they were temporary things. With Joyce he found himself thinking about something permanent. And why not? He wasn’t getting any younger and things were starting to go right for him, for once. Here he was only a month and a half out of the joint and he had a steady job. His first since he could not remember when. And a girl, too.

“You’re late,” Eddie kidded, looking at his watch.

“Whatta ya gonna do, Eddie, fire me?” Joyce asked.

“I just might,” he said and kissed her on the cheek.

“You ain’t got the heart, you big lunk. I got your number.”

He looked at her real serious and said, “You do and you know it.”

She blushed and he did too. Then she looked troubled and unsure.

“What’s the matter?” he asked.

“Eddie, let’s go to the office and talk.”

“Sure,” he said, uncertain, because of her sudden change of mood. They walked over to the office. The main office belonged to Carl, who owned the Satin Slipper and managed it. Eddie had a small office down the hall. It was the first office he had ever had, except for a desk he had had in the army when he was a supply sergeant. The office was not much. An old wooden desk, a filing cabinet and some hard wooden chairs. But he was proud of it.

“Eddie, I’ve been thinking a lot about us.”

Oh, Jesus, was his first thought, she wants to stop seeing me.

“I like you a lot, Eddie. And I know you like me. Don’t you?”

“Well…Yes. I…I like you.”

He stuttered and looked down at the desk. She touched his cheek.

“Eddie, I want you to quit working for Carl.”

Eddie looked up, shocked.

“Quit? Are you nuts?”

“Eddie, I’m worried. Carl is taking advantage of you and you are going to get in a lot of trouble.”

“Carl! Taking advantage! Honey, Carl gave me this job. I owe him. What other guy is gonna take a chance on a guy with my record. Besides, I ain’t done anything I could get in trouble for.”

“You know that’s not true. There’s a lot of dirty money that comes through this bar. There’s numbers and don’t think I don’t know about the drugs.”

Eddie sat up at the mention of drugs.

“Honest, Joyce, I ain’t foolin’ around with drugs. I’m through with that stuff.”

“I didn’t say you were using drugs, Eddie,” Joyce said, laying her hand gently on his forearm. “I’m close enough to you to know that.”

She said the last in a low voice and they both felt suddenly shy and very close.

“It’s just that there is selling going on here all the time and someday Carl is going to get busted and they’ll take you along with him, because you got a record.”

Eddie knew that he was in love with her then. He held her hand hard.

“Look, Joyce, you have to have faith in me. I just know I’m gonna stay clean this time. I’ve been feelin’ it ever since I got paroled. I can handle anything that comes up here and now that I met you-well, that’s the biggest reason why I ain’t goin’ back to the joint.”

Joyce could not think of anything to say. They just looked at each other. Then they were holding each other and kissing. Eddie realized that Joyce was crying.

“Hey,” he said, wiping away the tears.

Joyce sniffed and blew her nose. She looked at her watch.

“I gotta change. My shift starts in ten minutes.”

“That’s okay. Take an extra five.”

“I can’t, Eddie. Carl will get mad and I’ll get in trouble.”

Eddie laughed and puffed out his chest.

“You take that five. Carl is out of town for a few days and I’m the boss.”

The waiting room at the State Penitentiary was tiled in green and lined with cheap, leather-covered couches that were made in the prison as part of its rehabilitation program. Bobby did not know it, but he was sitting on the handiwork of a timid bookkeeper who had solved his marital problems by roasting his wife and her lover alive.

Two guards stood behind a circular counter in the center of the room, answering inquiries. Bobby glanced at the clock on the far wall. The visiting hour would start in two minutes. He wriggled nervously in his seat and looked at an attractive Negro woman who was talking quietly to a small boy, explaining that he would have to stay with grandma while she saw daddy, because little boys were not allowed inside the prison.

One of the guards left the counter and moved to the side of a doorway that led down a ramp to the prison area. A line formed and the guard searched purses and made everyone empty their pockets.

There was a gate with bars at the end of the ramp. The guard signaled to another guard who sat at a desk in a celllike room and the gate rolled aside with a metallic groan. The visitors walked down another hallway and were shown into a large visiting room. There were more prison-made sofas and several chairs. They were set up facing each other across wooden coffee tables. Automatic soft drink, coffee and candy vending machines stood watch from a corner of the room. The color scheme was the same antiseptic green that was used where cream was not throughout the prison.

Bobby found a pair of chairs in a corner and watched the doorway nervously. A prisoner stood at the entrance and looked around. It took Bobby a few seconds before he realized that the prisoner was his brother. He had put on weight and he seemed thicker, especially in the face. He wondered how he looked to his brother.

Billy spotted him and waved. When he strode across the visiting room, it was with a swagger. His handshake was firm and he showed no embarrassment at the prison clothes he was wearing.

“You’re still as ugly as ever,” he said, a grin spreading across his still handsome features.

“I should be. I look like you,” Bobby said, but the levity in his answer was forced and Billy sensed it.

“Momma didn’t tell you, huh?”

“She wasn’t much of a correspondent.”

“Well, it wasn’t her fault. I told her not to. I figured you’d have enough to worry about in Nam and I didn’t want you worrying about something you couldn’t do anything about.”

“What, uh, what happened? I mean, I only got hazy details from Mom.”

Billy shrugged his shoulders.

“Things just didn’t work out. I had a job that paid peanuts and no prospects. Johnny Laturno said, ‘Let’s hit a liquor store’ and I went along. The clerk was an old guy. We didn’t think he’d give us any trouble, but he decided to play hero and I hurt him pretty bad.”

“What did you do?” Bobby asked. The question was almost rhetorical. He had been with Billy during enough rumbles to know what had happened.

“I stabbed him.” He shrugged. “It was his fault. I told him to be cool and nothing would happen. He just didn’t look like much so we forgot about him for a minute. Next thing, he tries to hit Johnny with a bottle. What else could I do?”

“Yeah, well…”

“Look, I don’t want you worrying about me. It ain’t so bad here. I’ll be out in a few years. And I got enough friends in here so I’m not messed with. But look. Tell me about you. Mom said something about college. What’s that all about?”

“I’m starting next week. It’s something I thought about toward the end of my hitch. I never really gave school a chance and I want to better myself. I don’t want to pump gas my whole life. When I was in the army, I started thinking about things. Not anything in particular. Just a lot of things. I realized that there was so much I didn’t know, so I decided to give college a try.”

Billy slapped Bobby on the back and grinned again.

“I’m proud of you. Really. You always had the brains in the family. I know you’ll do great. Hey, maybe you’ll be a lawyer and you can get me outta this dump.”

They laughed and Bobby could feel himself relaxing. It was the same old Billy after all.

“What are you gonna study?”

“I don’t know. I’ll just take general studies until I figure it out.”

“I hear business is good. That’s where the money is.”

“Yeah, well I’ll see.”

They sat back again and Bobby tried to think of something to say. Billy looked around. The other people in the room were huddled together, talking in low tones. Trying to preserve their rationed moments of intimacy.

“Say, do you want a Coke or something?” Billy asked. “I can get it from the machines.”

“No thanks. I ate before I drove down.”

“Yeah. Uh, well, how was the ride?”

“Okay. Boring. It’s just the Interstate.”

They looked at each other again. There did not seem to be anything left to talk about.

“How was the army?”

“Not good. I’m glad it’s over.”

“You see much action?”

“A little. I really don’t like to talk about it. Do you ever hear from any of the guys?” Bobby asked to change the subject.

“A few visited me when I first was sent down, but I haven’t seen any of them in a while. Most of the guys wandered off after high school.”

Bobby glanced at his watch and Billy saw him.

“Say, if I’m keeping you, let me know.”

“No, it isn’t that,” Bobby said guiltily. “I have to be back, that’s all. I promised to help Mom around the house and I wanted to buy some stuff for my apartment.”

“You’re not staying at the house?”

“After the army, I wanted some privacy.”

Billy smiled and motioned around with his hand.

“I can understand that.”

Bobby stood up.

“Look, I’ll be down to see you again next week. I’ll bring Mom.”

Billy stood up too. They shook hands.

“That’d be great. So…Take it easy. And let me know how you do in school, huh?”

“Sure. I’ll let you know. Take care.”

The hour was up, anyway, but he felt guilty when he left. Scared, too. It was a cliché, but it could have been him. He knew it. So did Billy, and Bobby wondered if his brother resented his freedom and his new life.

The walk from the visitor’s area to the parking lot was tree-lined. The autumn winds were working changes on the yellow-brown leaves. It was beautiful enough to depress Bobby.

“Esther, I brought someone to talk to you.”

Esther looked over Dr. Tucker’s shoulder at the tall man who was standing by the door to her hospital room. Something about him frightened her. Why should she be afraid of him? She was too tired to think about it, so she lowered her head on the pillow.

“Esther, do you remember me?” the tall man asked.

She must have shut her eyes, because the tall man was towering over her bed instead of standing by the door. She could not remember him moving.

“She is still a bit sedated,” Dr. Tucker said. His voice was a faint echo.

“My name is Roy Shindler. I talked to you a few years ago when I was investigating the deaths of Richie Walters and Elaine Murray. Do you remember that?”

She was remembering now. Very slowly. He was older and his hair had thinned, but it was that detective. The one who…And suddenly she was afraid.

“I remember you,” she said in a small voice.

Dr. Tucker saw the fear on his patient’s face and looked quizzically at Shindler. Shindler ignored him.

“There isn’t any reason to worry, Esther. I know that I upset you the last time we talked, but it was unintentional. I really mean that.”

“What do you want?” Esther asked warily. She was holding tight to the sheet that was drawn up around her neck and memories, mirrored in her wide eyes, were pressing her deep into the bed, like an animal seeking protection in the shelter of its cave.

There it was again, thought Shindler. He did not think of her as human. He remembered his impressions of her on the two prior occasions they had met. It was always the feeling of the hunter when he traps his quarry. To him, she would always be an animal.

“When Dr. Tucker saw you yesterday, you had a little talk with him. Do you remember what you talked about?”

She looked at Dr. Tucker, then back to Shindler. She seemed confused.

“I don’t remember talking to Dr. Tucker yesterday.”

Shindler looked at Dr. Tucker.

“It’s possible,” Dr. Tucker said. “She’s had a very traumatic experience. The effects of the medication may have contributed.”

“Esther, yesterday, you told Dr. Tucker you saw someone hit someone until they killed him. Do you remember that?”

She opened her mouth and her eyes widened again.

“I saw…Oh, no. I never…”

“You did say that, Esther. I was there.”

She looked pleadingly at Dr. Tucker.

“Please. I couldn’t have said that. I never saw anyone killed. I told you that. You know I didn’t have anything to do with Richie’s death.”

“No one says you did, Esther. But, if you did see this terrible thing happen, it might have frightened you so much that you don’t remember.”

“No. I never saw it. Please, Dr. Tucker.”

She was crying and pleading. Dr. Tucker hurried to her bedside.

“I’m afraid you’ll have to leave now. She’s too upset. Wait for me in the hall, please.”

Shindler closed the door behind him and took a cigarette out of his pocket. The door opened and he turned around.

“Sorry I had to push you out, but she was starting to become hysterical.”

Shindler brushed the comment aside with his free hand.

“It was my fault. I should have realized that she was getting upset.”

They started walking down the corridor toward the doctor’s office.

“This business about not remembering. Do you believe her?”

The doctor looked at Shindler with surprise.

“Oh, yes. Quite possible. Mrs. Pegalosi could be suffering from amnesia. Certain types of people will repress a very threatening experience that they wish not to be identified with or not to have as a part of their life. The conscious mind is not even aware that the material is repressed in some cases. If she witnessed…Well, you know what it would have been like for anyone, let alone a girl as insecure as this one, to see that murder.”

They walked in silence for a few moments. Shindler puffed erratically on his cigarette.

“Damn it, she knows, Doctor. She knows. And I have got to find a way to make her talk.”

“I’m afraid that might be difficult.”

“Why? She remembered yesterday.”

“Yes, under very unusual circumstances. She was exhausted, medicated and she had just tried to commit suicide. In her weakened state, her ability to repress would be weakened. Her subconscious would be less on guard. It’s much like being drunk. Most drunks become garrulous and talk about things they might not under ordinary circumstances.”

“Is there any way to bring her back again? Some medical method?”

Dr. Tucker was silent for a moment.

“Memory is an interesting area that is receiving a great deal of attention. We really don’t know how it works.

“There are two types of memory: long-term and short-term. Short-term is probably an electrical event within the brain and it may not be long-lasting. It’s the sort of thing that happens when you drive to the beach and pass many things along the way. You see trees and farmhouses and so forth, and you can remember them for a short time, but it’s unlikely that your brain will record these permanently since they don’t have any emotional connotation.

“Long-term memory is probably a basic chemical or anatomical change which may persist as long as the brain cells function, that is for as long as you live. It seems to be more greatly impressed in the mind if it is associated with some emotional stimulus. Long-term memory is stored like books in a library, so, if Esther saw the murder, the memory is probably there. The question is how to get rid of the subconscious guardians that are suppressing the memory.

“I would like to give you the name of a friend of mine who might be able to help you. He is a psychiatrist and an expert in the use of hypnosis. That is a technique that is often used in the treatment of amnesia. Why don’t you get in touch with him and see what he can do for you?”