Private Eyes

by Jonathan Kellerman

“How long have you worked for the Dickinson family?”

  “Twenty years.”

  “Long before the trial, then.”

  He nodded and raised his cup again but didn’t put it to his lips. “Being assigned to the jury was a stroke of fate— not one that I welcomed, at first. I wanted to apply for exemption, but Mr. Dickinson preferred I serve. Said it was my civic duty. He was a civic-minded man.” His lip trembled.

  “When did he die?”

  “Seven and a half years ago.”

  Surprised, I said, “Before Melissa was born?”

  “Mrs. Dickinson was expecting Melissa when it—” He looked up, startled, and swung his head to the right. The waiter was approaching from that direction, bearing the blackboard. Imperious and well-spoken and black as coal; Dutchy’s African cousin.

  I chose the T-bone steak, bloody rare. Dutchy asked if the shrimp was fresh that day and when informed that it certainly was, ordered shrimp salad.

  When the waiter left I said, “How old was Mr. Dickinson when he died?”

  “Sixty-two.”

  “How did he die?”

  “On the tennis court.”

  The lip trembled some more but the rest of his face remained impassive. He fumbled with his teacup and tightened his mouth.

  “Did your serving on the jury have anything to do with getting them together, Mr. Dutchy?”

  Nod. “That’s what I meant by a stroke of fate. Mr. Dickinson came with me to court. Sat in during the trial and was . . . entranced by her. He’d followed the case in the papers before I was impaneled. Had commented several times— over his morning paper— on the profoundness of the tragedy.”

  “Had he known Mrs. Dickinson before the attack?”

  “No, not in the least. His concern, in the beginning, was . . . thematic. And he was a kind man.”

  I said, “I’m not sure I understand what you mean by thematic.”

  “Grief for beauty lost,” he said, like a teacher announcing an essay theme. “Mr. Dickinson was a great aesthete. A conservationist and a preservationist. He’d spent much of his life dedicated to beautifying his world, and was terribly hurt by the degradation of beauty. However, he never allowed his concern to cross ethical bounds. When I was selected for the jury he said he’d be accompanying me to court but that both of us needed to be quite scrupulous about not discussing the case. He was also an honest man, Dr. Delaware. Diogenes would have rejoiced.”

  “An aesthete,” I said. “What kind of business was he in?”

  He looked down his nose at me. “I’m referring to Mr. Arthur Dickinson, sir.”

  Once more, no bells. This guy had a way of making me feel like a D student. Rather than come across a complete philistine, I said, “Of course. The philanthropist.”

  He continued to stare at me.

  I said, “So how did the two of them finally meet?”

  “The trial intensified Mr. Dickinson’s concern— hearing her testimony, seeing her face bandaged. He visited her in the hospital. As chance had it, he’d been a benefactor of the very surgical wing in which she’d been placed. He conferred with the doctors and made sure she was receiving the very best care. Brought in the top man in the plastics field— Professor Albano Montecino from Brazil, a true genius. The man had done pioneering work in facial construction. Mr. Dickinson arranged for him to obtain medical privileges and exclusive use of an operating room.”

  Sweat had glossed Dutchy’s brow. He pulled out a handkerchief and patted.

  “Such pain,” he said, facing me squarely. “Seventeen separate surgeries, Doctor. Someone with your background can appreciate what that means. Seventeen invasions— each one excruciating. Months of recuperation, long stretches of immobility. You can understand why she’s taken to solitude.”

  I nodded and said, “Were the operations successful?”

  “Professor Montecino was pleased, pronounced her one of his grand triumphs.”

  “Does she agree with him?”

  Disapproving look. “I’m not privy to her opinions, Doctor.”

  “Over how long a period was she operated on?”

  “Five years.”

  I did some mental calculations. “So she was pregnant during part of it.”

  “Yes, well . . . the pregnancy interrupted the surgical process— tissue changes brought about by hormones, physical risks. Professor Montecino said she’d have to wait and be monitored closely. He even suggested. . . termination. But she refused.”

  “Was the pregnancy planned?”

  Dutchy blinked hard and drew back his head— the turtle once more— as if unable to believe what he’d heard. “Good Lord, sir, I don’t pry into the motivations of my employers.”

  I said, “Excuse me if I wander into uncharted territory from time to time, Mr. Dutchy. I’m just trying to get as full a background as possible. For Melissa’s sake.”

  He harrumphed. “Shall we talk about Melissa, then?”

  “All right. She’s told me quite a bit about her fears. Why don’t you give me your impressions.”

  “My impressions?”

  “Your observations.”

  “My observations are that she’s a terribly frightened little girl. Everything frightens her.”

  “Such as?”

  He thought for a moment. “Loud noises, for one. They can literally make her jump. Even those that aren’t very loud— at times it seems to be the suddenness of it that sets her off. A tree rustling or footsteps— or even music— has the ability to put her in a crying fit. The doorbell. It seems to occur when she’s been in a period of unusual calm.”

  “Sitting by herself, daydreaming?”

  “Yes. She daydreams a lot. Talks to herself.” Closing his mouth, wanting a comment from me.

  I said, “What about bright lights? Have they ever scared her?”

  “Yes,” he said, surprised. “Yes, they have. I can recall a specific incident, several months ago. One of the maids purchased a camera with a flashbulb and was traipsing around the house trying it out.” Another disapproving look. “She surprised Melissa as the child ate breakfast and snapped a picture. The sound and sight of the bulb going off distressed Melissa greatly.”

  “Distressed her in what way?”

  “Tears, screaming, breakfast rejected. She even started hyperventilating. I had her breathe into a paper bag until her respiration returned to normal.”

  “Shift in arousal,” I said, more to myself than to him.

  “Pardon me, Doctor?”

  “Sudden changes in arousal— in her psychophysiologic level of consciousness— seem to bother her.”

  “Yes, I suppose they do. What can be done about that?”

  I held out my hand in a restraining gesture. “She told me she has bad dreams every night.”

  “That’s true,” he said. “Often more than once a night.”

  “Describe what she does while she’s having them.”

  “I can’t say, Doctor. When they occur she’s with her moth—”

  I frowned.

  He caught himself. “However, I do recall observing a few incidents. She cries a lot. Cries and screams. Thrashes around and fights comfort, refusing to go back to sleep.”

  “Thrashes around,” I said. “Does she ever talk about what she saw in the dream?”

  “At times.”

  “But not always?”

  “No.”

  “When she does, are there any consistent themes?”

  “Monsters, ghosts, that kind of thing. I don’t really pay much mind. My efforts are concentrated on getting her settled.”

  “One thing you can do in the future,” I said, “is pay close mind. Keep a written record of what she says during these incidents and bring it in to me.” I realized I sounded imperious. Wanting to make him the D student. Power struggle with a butler?

  But he was comfortable with the subservient role, said “Very well, sir,” and raised his teacup to his lips.

  I said, “Does she seem comple
tely awake after having a nightmare?”

  “No, she doesn’t,” he said. “Not always. Sometimes she sits up with a horrid, frozen look on her little face, screaming inconsolably and waving her hands. We— I try to wake her but it’s impossible. She’s even gotten out of her bed and walked around, still screaming, impossible to wake. We just wait until it subsides, then return her to bed.”

  “To her own bed?”

  “No. Her mother’s.”

  “She never sleeps in her own bed?”

  Shake of the head. “No, she sleeps with her mother.”

  “Okay,” I said. “Let’s get back to those times when she can’t be awakened. Does she scream about anything in particular?”

  “No, there are no words. Just a terrible . . . howling.” Wince. “It’s really quite disturbing.”

  “You’re describing something called night terrors,” I said. “They’re not nightmares, which take place— as do all dreams— during light sleep. Night terrors occur when the sleeper arouses too quickly from deep sleep. Rudely awakened, so to speak. It’s a disorder of arousal, related to sleepwalking and bed-wetting. Does she wet the bed?”

  “Occasionally.”

  “How often?”

  “Four or five times a week. Sometimes less, sometimes more.”

  “Have you done anything about it?”

  Shake of the head.

  “Does it bother her that she wets the bed?”

  “On the contrary,” he said. “She seems rather casual about it.”

  “So you have talked to her about it.”

  “Only to tell her— once or twice— that young ladies need to be careful about their personal hygiene. She ignored me and I didn’t pursue it.”

  “How does her mother feel? How does her mother react to the wetting?”

  “She has the sheets changed.”

  “It’s her bed being wet. That doesn’t bother her?”

  “Apparently not. Doctor, what do these attacks— these terrors— mean? Medically speaking?”

  “There’s probably a genetic component involved,” I said. “Night terrors run in families. So do bed-wetting and sleepwalking. All of it probably has something to do with brain chemistry.”

  He looked worried.

  I said, “But they aren’t dangerous, just disruptive. And they usually go away by themselves, without treatment, by adolescence.”

  “Ah,” he said. “So time is on our side.”

  “Yes, it is. But that doesn’t mean we should ignore them. They can be treated. And they’re also a warning sign— there’s more than just pure biology involved. Stress often increases the number of attacks and prolongs them. She’s telling us she’s troubled, Mr. Dutchy. Telling us with her other symptoms, as well.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  The waiter arrived with the food. We ate in silence, and though Dutchy had said he didn’t take lunch, he consumed his shrimp with genteel fervor.

  When we finished I ordered a double espresso and he had his teapot refilled.

  After finishing my coffee, I said, “Getting back to the genetic issue, are there any other children— from a previous marriage?”

  “No. Though there was a previous marriage. For Mr. Dickinson. But no children.”

  “What happened to the first Mrs. Dickinson?”

  He looked annoyed. “She died of leukemia— a fine young woman. The marriage had only lasted two years. It was very difficult for Mr. Dickinson. That’s when he plunged himself more deeply into his art collection.”

  “What did he collect?”

  “Paintings, drawings and etchings, antiquities, tapestries. He had an exceptional eye for composition and color, sought out damaged masterpieces and had them restored. Some he restored himself— he’d learned the craft as a student. That was his true passion— restoration.”

  I thought of him restoring his second wife. As if he’d read my mind, Dutchy gave me a sharp look.

  “What else,” I said, “besides loud noises and bright lights, is Melissa afraid of?”

  “The darkness. Being alone. And at times, nothing at all.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “She’ll throw a fit with no provocation.”

  “What does “a fit’ look like?”

  “Very similar to what I’ve already described. Crying, rapid breathing, running around screaming. Sometimes she’ll simply lie on the floor and kick her feet. Or clutch the nearest adult and hold on like a . . . a limpet.”

  “Do these fits generally occur after she’s been refused something?”

  “Not typically— there is that, of course. She doesn’t take kindly to being restricted. What child does?”

  “So she has tantrums, but these fits go beyond that.”

  “I’m referring to genuine fear, Doctor. Panic. It seems to come out of nowhere.”

  “Does she ever say what’s scaring her?”

  “Monsters. “Bad things.’ Sometimes she claims to hear noises. Or see and hear things.”

  “Things no one else hears or sees?”

  “Yes.” Tremble in his voice.

  I said, “Does that bother you? More than the other symptoms?”

  “One does wonder,” he said softly.

  “If you’re worried about psychosis or some sort of thought disorder, don’t. Unless there’s something else going on that you haven’t told me. Like self-destructive behavior, or bizarre speech.”

  “No, no, nothing like that,” he said. “I suppose it’s all part of her imagination?”

  “That’s exactly what it is. She’s got a good one, but from what I’ve seen, she’s very much in touch with reality. Children her age typically see and hear things that adults don’t.”

  He looked doubtful.

  I said, “It’s all part of play. Play is fantasy. The theater of childhood. Kids compose dramas in their heads, talk to imaginary playmates. It’s a kind of self-hypnosis that’s necessary for healthy growth.”

  He remained noncommittal, but was listening.

  I said, “Fantasy can be therapeutic, Mr. Dutchy. Can actually reduce fears by giving children a sense of control over their lives. But for certain children— those who are high-strung, introverted, those living in stressful environments— that same ability to paint mental pictures can lead to anxiety. The pictures simply become too vivid. Once again, there may be a constitutional factor. You said her father was an excellent art restorer. Did he show any other sort of creativity?”

  “Most definitely. He was an architect by trade and a gifted painter in his own right— when he was younger.”

  “Why’d he stop?”

  “He convinced himself he wasn’t good enough to justify devoting much time to it, destroyed all his work, never painted again, and began collecting. Traveling the world. His architecture degree was from the Sorbonne— he loved Europe. He built some lovely buildings before he invented the strut.”

  “The strut?”

  “Yes,” he said, as if explaining the ABC’s. “The Dickinson strut. It’s a process for strengthening steel, used extensively in construction.”

  “What about Mrs. Dickinson?” I said. “She was an actress. Any other creative outlets there?”

  “I have no idea, Doctor.”

  “How long has she been agoraphobic— afraid to leave the house?”

  “She leaves the house,” he said.

  “Oh?”

  “Yes, sir. She strolls the grounds.”

  “Does she ever leave the grounds?”

  “No.”

  “How large are the grounds?”

  “Six and three-quarter acres. Approximately.”

  “Does she stroll them extensively— from corner to corner?”

  Throat clear. Cheek chew. “She prefers to remain fairly close to the house. Is there anything else, Doctor?”

  My initial question remained unanswered; he’d nit-picked his way out of giving a direct reply. “How long has she been that way— not leaving the grounds?”
>
  “From the . . . beginning.”

  “From the time of the attack?”

  “Yes, yes. It’s quite logical, really, when one understands the chain of events. When Mr. Dickinson brought her home right after the wedding, she was in the midst of the surgical process. In great agony, still very frightened— traumatized by the . . . by what had been done to her. She never left her room, on Professor Montecino’s orders— she was ordered to lie still for hours at a time. The new flesh had to be kept extremely supple and clean. Special air filters were brought in to remove particles that might pollute her. Nurses hovered around the clock with treatments and injections and lotions and baths that made her cry out in terrible pain. She couldn’t have left even if she’d wanted to. Then, the pregnancy. She was restricted to total bed rest, bandaged and unbandaged constantly. Four months into the pregnancy, Mr. Dickinson . . . passed on, and she . . . It was a safe place for her. She couldn’t leave. Surely that’s obvious. So in a sense it’s completely logical, isn’t it? The way she is. She’s gravitated to her safe place. You see that, don’t you, Doctor?”