Michael Gray Novels
Page 68
Karen put her face in her hands and moaned a little. “No,” she said. “No.”
Gray said firmly, “Go on. Who else?”
She shook her head. “No. I don’t remember. No.”
“Was there one more?” Gray said.
The word burst from her behind the shielding hands. “Judy, Judy—no!” She straightened convulsively in the chair and her eyelids flickered. She opened them and looked dazedly around the room.
Gray said quickly, “All right, Karen. All right. We won’t talk about that any more. Lean back, close your eyes, listen to me—”
He spoke quietly, reassuring her, deepening the trance state from which she had so nearly awakened in her efforts to escape the memory she could not bear to face.
What could he ask her that would lead him to the answers they needed? What could she bring herself to speak of? For some reason the killer’s silhouette linked with past terrors, each reinforcing the other, until she hallucinated rather than fill it in. And she couldn’t face the memory of Judy, either.
What could she face? He thought about it. The complex knot of problems seemed to involve Judy, the fear of falling, the compulsive lies, the need to fill in blankness somehow. Judy she wouldn’t approach. The falling he thought was a little too close to terror to evoke now. Try the lies. Try an easy one first. See what really happened in—say—the department store episode. The time when she had claimed she took part in a fashion show that hadn’t been held.
In a calm, even voice he reminded her of that episode.
“I want you to tell me about it,” he said. “You’re standing in front of the store. You’re going in. What are you doing now?”
“I’m passing the hosiery counter. The cosmetics. The—I’m going to the escalator. I’m on it, going down.” She caught her breath. “Somebody’s pushing me—a woman—I’m falling!” She gripped the chair arms. “No, she’s caught me. I’m all right. But the escalator—it’s going faster and faster—I—I feel as if I’m still falling….”
“What happens now?” Gray asked. “What really happens?”
“A fashion show?” Karen asked tentatively. “They asked me to be in the fashion show?”
“Did they, really? Are you sure?” Gray watched her shake her head, her face puzzled. “Then what really did happen? Look, Karen. Tell me what you see.”
She let go the chair with one hand and covered her face.
“Nothing—I can’t see anything—there’s nothing but blackness. A deep, dark—nothingness—I’m falling! Stop me from falling! Please!”
Gray said quickly, “You’re past the empty place. It’s all over now. Where are you?”
She relaxed in the chair with a little shudder. “In my car, driving home. I’m on Powell Street. But I’ve got to fill in that hole!”
Gray said quietly, “All right. Fill it in.”
She breathed a long sigh. “I must have been trying on dresses. Yes, that was it. I have to tell some kind of story, don’t I? Dresses—yes. And then the salesgirl said I looked so wonderful in a dress they wanted me to model in the fashion show. That’s what could have happened. There isn’t any hole now. It’s all filled in.”
“Yes, it is,” Gray said. “Now we’re going back again.” There had been another of her lies Ettinger had told him about. The supposed kidnaping attempt in an alley. He reminded her of it.
“Yes, I remember,” she said. “I’m walking along a street. By an alley. Now a little boy’s running out of the alley. He doesn’t see me. He runs right into me. We both fall down. …”
“Then?”
“No—it’s empty! I’m dizzy! Everything’s dark and I’m going to fall into—into nothingness….”
Gray looked at her compassionately. So that was it. No wonder she couldn’t bear to discuss her compulsive lies in her waking state. No wonder she drew back in terror from the very thought of them.
Amnesia. It had to be some form of amnesia.
That was the only answer that completely fitted. The mechanism seemed clear enough now. Each time she told one of her lies, she had just experienced an unexpected attack or collision, and the fear of falling seemed to follow immediately after it. And each time she felt this fear, her mind blanked out completely. She seemed to have no memory of what had actually happened afterward, for a period of perhaps half an hour or more. Her mind was shutting itself tight to keep out some memory too painful to look at. It simply went blank in self-defense.
But she had to hide the memory lapses even from herself. Why wasn’t clear yet. She had to fill in the gaps with some plausible tale, hoping that no one would notice she didn’t really know the truth herself. Clinically, such lies are called confabulation. Not even she was fully aware the stories she told were false. She only knew she felt terrified when she had to think about them.
And no wonder. Gray thought how horrifying it must be to face the possibility at any moment that the abyss might open up before her. What lay in the abyss would be his job to discover. But how?
He gazed at her relaxed face, her closed eyelids. Now and then little ripples of distress passed over her features. Perhaps her own mind was leading her along some path that could serve to guide him.
“Where are you now, Karen?” he asked quietly.
“At Tahoe,” she said in a voice of anxiety. “In the snow. Dennis is going to—to push me off the—” She hesitated. “Off the house?” she asked herself, puzzled.
“Does he push you?” Gray asked.
“I thought he might,” she offered tentatively.
“But did he?”
She shook her head. “Not Dennis. Dennis wouldn’t push me. But—it’s snowy and cold, and it reminds me of that time—that time—”
“What time, Karen?”
“That time I can’t remember.” She stirred restlessly.
“Tell me about that time.” Gray hesitated. “Are you on the roof? On top of the—the house? In the snow?”
She said, “No, no!” and her eyelids flickered again; she started to sit up. Again she was about to wake of her own volition in a final, desperate effort to escape remembering.
Gray said, “It’s all right. Nothing can hurt you. Lean back, Karen. You’re going to sleep a while. You won’t think of anything. You won’t have to remember anything until I clap my hands. Then you’ll remember whatever I ask you to. All right?”
She stirred fitfully, her face troubled. Then she relaxed.
“All right,” she said.
He gave her five minutes of peace. Then he said, “I’m going to clap my hands. And you’re going to remember what it was that happened in the snow and the cold, when you Were frightened. It won’t hurt you. Nothing can hurt you now. Are you ready?”
She said, “Yes—” but in a doubtful voice.
Gray clapped his hands.
Karen began to breathe fast. “No,” she said. “No—I can’t—Judy, no! I can’t remember anything!”
“All right,” Gray said quickly. “Let’s go farther back than that, then. There must have been a time when Judy didn’t frighten you at all. You won’t mind thinking about that time, will you? When I clap my hands, I want you to think of Judy the way she used to be. A time when you and Judy had a happy time together. Are you ready? Now!”
Karen turned her head restlessly from side to side. She lifted one hand and took hold of something unseen beside her cheek. After a moment Gray realized it was a braid of hair as she must have worn it once, long ago.
In a thin, high voice, like a child’s, she said, “It’s my birthday and Judy made me a pen-wiper. We’re going to have chocolate cake and ice cream. Judy’s bigger than me—she says she can eat more cake. But it’s my birthday.”
Gray said, “That’s very good. Now, when I clap my hands again we’ll go forward to your next birthday. Tell me where Judy is then.”
He clapped his hands.
Karen breathed unevenly. “Judy—she isn’t here. She’s sick. She’s in the hospital now.”
Karen’s face crumpled like a child about to cry. “She’s home. I wish she weren’t home. I wish they’d left her at the hospital. I’m afraid of Judy.”
“Why are you afraid of Judy? Tell me.”
She put a hand to her face, “No—no….”
“When I clap my hands,” Gray said, “you’ll tell me why you’re afraid of Judy. Now!”
“We’re alone in the house,” Karen said in a little whimper. She slid down in the chair, trying to make herself small. “She says she hates me. She’s going to kill me…. I’m running. I have to hide! Her face—it’s horrible!”
Karen was panting heavily. “Now I’m hiding. I’m hiding behind the sofa. She’s calling me. I dropped my doll when I ran—she’s stamping on it. She’s stamping its head in.”
Gray said as she paused, “What happens then?”
Karen’s voice was a whisper. “Don’t let her hear me! She’s calling me. She can’t find me. She says—she says—she’ll hurt the puppy if I don’t come out….”
Gray breathed the words softly, “And then?”
“She’s got the puppy … oh, listen! Don’t listen!” She put her hands to her ears. “I have to stop her! Judy, Judy—here I am! Let the puppy alone! Judy, come here!”
She was silent except for her panting breath for a long moment.
“What’s happening now?” Gray asked very softly.
“Running. I’m running. Up in the attic—she couldn’t find me in the attic, if I can only—Judy, go back! Get away from me! I’ll go onto the roof. I have to go onto the roof. There’s nowhere else to run now. She’s behind me on the ladder—I have to hurry….”
“What now?” Gray breathed.
“I’m on the roof. In the snow. It’s slippery. I’m so dizzy—and Judy’s coming at me. Her face—she’s … wild. She looks like Spot—oh, she’s crazy, she’s crazy. Don’t let her kill me. She’s going to push me off—”
“Don’t be afraid,” Gray said, keeping the anxiety out of his voice with great effort. “She can’t hurt you. Don’t be afraid. Tell me where you are now.”
“I’m hanging on … she’s crawling along the top of the roof after me. Don’t touch me! Judy, I’ll kick you! I’ll kick you!”
Karen made a strangled sound, tried to draw her whole body up into the chair. She was panting with terror. Suddenly her foot lashed out.
She sat frozen, staring.
Then, horribly, hanging onto the arms of the chair, she leaned slowly forward to look down. A long way down. Gray felt a chill.
“What do you see?” he asked very quietly.
“Judy. Down there on the snow. It’s getting all red around her hair. Judy’s dead. Judy fell off the top of the house. Judy was crazy.”
There was a long, trembling pause. Then Karen, tugging at the invisible braid, said in her thin, childish voice, “I killed her. I’m crazy too. I know, because there are big holes, empty places, and that’s what happens when you’re crazy. Only nobody must ever know because they’ll think I’m like Judy. And I am, too.”
Gray drew a deep breath. “How old is Judy?”
“Ten. Ten years old. Always ten years old.”
“How old are you?”
“I’m seven,” she said.
Gray rubbed his forehead. He had a violent headache. But there was still work to do.
He said, “Now listen carefully. You’re getting less afraid now. It’s all over. It was a long time ago and it’s over for good. When I tell you to wake, you won’t remember any of it. Not until you’re sure you understand it thoroughly and are sure it’s true. You aren’t a little girl any more. You’ve grown up. You’re Karen Champion, and you’re sitting here talking to me. Isn’t that right, Karen?”
She straightened in the chair, put her feet back on the floor. Her panicky breathing quieted. In her normal voice she said, “Oh yes, that’s right.”
“We’re going to do something else now,” Gray said. “We’re going back again to that Wednesday night when the man first came into your bedroom. You’re just waking. You hear a noise. Do you hear it?”
She nodded.
“Do you see him?”
“Yes. Against the window. Just an outline.”
“Who is he?”
She shivered. “It’s empty—empty—”
“That doesn’t frighten you any more, Karen.” Gray’s voice was firm. “This is a man, not an empty outline. Do you know the man?”
She shook her head quickly. “A dog’s face—that’s what I’d see if he turned around. Old Spot’s face—”
“Karen.” Gray’s voice was commanding. “A man can’t have a dog’s face. You know all about what really happened. It doesn’t frighten you now. You don’t have to fill in the blank with a lie. You know the truth. I want you to look at the man and tell me if you know who he is.”
“I—I think I know him.” She faltered a little. “Oh, yes, now I do. I’d know that outline anywhere.”
“What outline?” Gray asked.
“His ear. He told me once it got that way when he was playing football, at school. See how it sticks out, the left ear?”
“Who is he?” Gray asked, very softly.
Karen hardly seemed to hear him. She was looking at empty air and surprise was in her voice.
“Why, now I can see him,” she said. “There’s nothing to be afraid of, is there? I thought—I thought he was Judy, and it was all going to happen again. But it’s only Roger. It’s only Roger Quigley.”
27
Captain Zucker said wearily, “Oh, for God’s sake, Mike, this time you’ve really flipped. The Champion woman has some kind of dream, so right away you want us to arrest Quigley. Is that it?”
Gray slammed his fist on the desk. “God damn it, Harry, shut up and listen for once. My head aches and I feel like hell. I sat up all last night putting a noose around Champion’s neck for you. Is this the Gestapo all of a sudden? Don’t you even want to know the truth?”
Zucker looked startled. It wasn’t often that Gray lost his temper. He said more mildly, “Okay, okay. I’m listening. Let’s have it.”
“The fact is, you were the first one to suspect Quigley,” Gray reminded him. “Now let me try to convince you you were right at the start and wrong now. Making it Quigley explains a lot of odd things there’s no other answer for, too. To start with, I think Quigley—not Champion—was the one who broke into Karen’s bedroom and scared her half to death. He never touched her, remember. At the end he just laughed a little and went out. His whole object was to scare the girl. And to make her think her husband was the attacker. He was framing Champion right from the start.”
“Why?” Zucker asked skeptically.
“To break up the partnership in just about the only way he could. If a partner’s declared incompetent he can be kicked out even against his will. And I think Quigley’s convinced Champion really is right on the verge of psychosis. But a suit brought by the man’s wife herself would probably have a lot better chance than one brought by a partner with an obvious ulterior motive. Besides, Quigley just isn’t the kind of guy who sticks his neck out if he can help it. He likes to operate through a third party. But this time, nothing was happening. Quigley wanted action. So he put on glasses and a moustache and deliberately woke Karen by throwing glass lamps around. When he was good and sure she’d recognized him as her husband, he went out chuckling.
“He overlooked several things. One was that you can recognize a person by the shape of his head sometimes even if his face is disguised. Another was that Karen’s such a notorious liar that even when she told the truth, nobody would believe her. So Quigley had to try again.”
“So he killed his wife’s lover?” Zucker said. “There was a smart move. The first person we suspected was Quigley himself.”
“Do you reme
mber his reaction when he found out Joyce and Albano had had an affair?” Gray asked. “Nobody could fake that kind of surprise. I think he honestly didn’t know until we told him. Karen met Albano through Joyce, after the Joyce affair was over. But Quigley, I think, never suspected the truth once until we sprang it on him.”
“Then why kill the guy? It’s going pretty damned far to commit murder just to frame your partner as a nut.”
“He didn’t mean to kill Albano. Remember we were wondering why a man would arm himself with a length of pipe and then jump an armed gunman? I think he was probably dressed up in his Champion glasses and moustache again, hiding in Karen’s apartment ready to stage another fake attack as Champion—but this time before a witness the police would believe. Champion was openly jealous of the Karen-Albano friendship anyhow. It made a convincing story. But Albano pulled a gun, and Quigley didn’t dare stop hitting him until he’d killed him.
“And after that everything went wrong. He’d thought Champion was on the road to Santa Barbara and couldn’t prove an alibi. But Champion got his ticket for speeding, and that let him out. And then we came up with a ready-made motive why Quigley himself would want to kill Albano. It must have given him a hell of a jolt. He wasn’t faking that!”
Zucker grunted. “Okay, so who killed Fenn?”
Gray shook his head. “I don’t know—yet. But if the same man did it, then the man’s Quigley. That alibi the Quigleys give each other could be a pretty shaky thing if you started digging.”
Zucker slapped his desk loudly.
“All right. I’ve listened. Now I’ll tell you what really happened. Champion’s our man on both counts. His alibi on the Santa Barbara road was a phony. I think he hired Fenn to put on glasses and a moustache and drive fast enough in his car to get a ticket that would alibi Champion.
“But Champion at the same time was busy beating Albano’s head in. And Fenn got to thinking. He must have figured he hadn’t been paid enough to cover for a murder. He wanted more. Here, wait a minute.” Zucker shuffled through papers on his desk.
“Got a statement from the elevator man in Fenn’s building. Just before Fenn was killed he told the elevator man he’d been re-hired by an ex-employer. Who but Champion, eh? He said he’d just come into money from a ‘rich uncle,’ and winked. Meaning, as I see it, he’d found a blackmail victim. And incidentally, Fenn had been blackmailing that fellow Brand, too. We had a pretty good idea Fenn was a blackmailer—though he never took a rap for it. Things Started to add up—and that nurse of Brand’s said a few things that started me wondering. So I leaned on her.”