Tight Lines

by William G. Tapply

  “He think she might’ve been murdered?”

  Horowitz flapped his hands. “I don’t really know what he thinks. What I understand, there’s no particular reason to think that. Suicide, maybe. Murder? Could be, I guess. Most likely an accident, and he just wants to eliminate the others. Murder, suicide, those’re the null hypotheses. Try to prove one of ’em. If you can’t, you’re left with an accident.”

  “So who’s he want to talk to?”

  “I don’t know. They’ve got no witnesses except the kids who found the body. Hoped you could give us a hand. I remember you saying she had a shrink.”

  “Yes. Dr. Warren McAllister. He’s in Brookline. And there are people in the building where she lives. I haven’t talked to any of her neighbors there, but there are some security men and the superintendent of the building who could maybe help. Oh, and there’s a man, guy named Dave Finn, a cop who I ran into, said he was going to marry her. He was looking for her, too.”

  “Marry her, huh?”

  I nodded. “That’s what he told me.”

  Horowitz had pulled a notebook out of his jacket pocket and was scribbling into it. He looked up at me. “And this Finn guy, he’s a cop?”

  “A detective, yes. So he told me.”

  “What about the mother?”

  “Boy, I hope nobody feels they have to talk to her. She hasn’t seen Mary Ellen in about eleven years.”

  “No?”

  I frowned. “Well, that’s what she told me. Look, she’s dying of cancer. I mean…”

  Horowitz waved his hand. “Don’t worry. This is a pretty routine thing. I don’t really know if they’re going to talk to anybody. I’m just cooperating. They wanted names, I figured you could give me some names.”

  “Well, a couple others for you. Guy named Sherif Rahmanan, a professor at the Fletcher School. And another, name of Sid Raiford, works at a bookstore called Head Start Books, near Central Square.”

  Horowitz wrote for a minute, then looked up and smiled. “Okay. Great. I did you a favor, and what do I get? I get you doing me one. You’re probably gonna say I owe you again now.”

  “You do,” I said. “One more. Keep Susan Ames out of it, if you can. She’s next of kin. I’ll talk to her, break the news to her. She hasn’t seen her daughter in eleven years. She knows nothing. The last thing she needs is a cop—even a pleasant fellow like you—quizzing her.”

  “I can’t promise,” he said. “It’s up to the ME in New Hampshire.”

  “So try.”

  “I’ll try. You can tell her this, anyway.”

  I walked Horowitz out. Julie had arrived while we were in my office. She was sitting at her desk watching us. After he left, she said, “I don’t like the looks of this.”

  I went over to the coffee machine and filled two mugs. I took them to Julie’s desk and put one in front of her. “They’ve identified Mary Ellen Ames’s body,” I told her.

  “Oh, boy.”

  “They figure she accidentally drowned.”

  “Just a young woman.”

  I nodded. “About your age.”

  “And her mother…”

  “Yeah,” I said, sipping my coffee. “I’ve got to tell Susan.”

  Julie reached over and put her hand on my wrist. “Oh, Brady.”

  For once, no flippant remark occurred to me.

  I went back into my office. I sat behind my desk and lit a cigarette. I smoked and sipped my coffee and stared at my telephone. I tried it out in my head.

  “Susan, I have some terrible news.”

  “Susan, are you sitting down?”

  “It’s about Mary Ellen, Susan.”

  “Your only daughter’s dead, Susan.”

  How the hell had those officers in their crisp uniforms managed to march up to front doors with news from Vietnam? They must have been professionals, especially trained for the singular task of informing parents and wives that their sons and husbands had been killed. It was their job, their livelihood. I wondered if they learned how to do it without feeling.

  In the World War, I thought I remembered they used telegrams. Quick, efficient, impersonal, and painless, at least for those with the responsibility for conveying tragic news. I doubted if the recipients of those telegrams handled it any worse than those who a generation later had to answer a doorbell and see a Marine uniform standing on the doorstep.

  There was no good way to do it.

  I crushed my cigarette and pecked out Susan’s phone number. Terri answered.

  “Thank God it’s you,” I said.

  “Brady?”

  “Right. Is Susan with you now?”

  “No, she’s still upstairs.”

  “Good. I’ve got to come see her.”

  There was a long pause. “Bad news, right?”

  “The worst, Terri.”

  “Mary Ellen, huh?”

  “Yes. She drowned.”

  “Susan’s been waiting for this. I think she expected it.”

  “Well, if she’s prepared, that’s good. But I’ve got to see her. I want to talk to her in person.”

  “Of course. Today?”

  “This morning, if you think it’s all right.”

  “She’s been sleeping a lot lately. Sometimes spending most of the day in bed. I’ll make sure she’s up and around before you get here.”

  “I’ll be there before noon.”

  “Should I tell why her you’re coming?”

  “She’ll know why.”

  “Yes,” she said. “She’ll know. I’ll tell her.”

  “That will be hard for you.”

  She laughed ironically. “It’s what we factotums are for.”

  I paused, then said, “Hey, General, sir?”

  “The answer is yes.”

  “Saturday?”

  “Yes. If you still want to.”

  “I do.”

  “How about the Rusty Scupper around six?”

  “Sure. I know where it is.”

  “It’ll be an early night. Melissa conks out by nine.”

  “That’s fine. It’ll be fun.”

  “I guess we can both use a little fun, huh?”

  “I guess so. Anyway, tell Susan I’ll be there around noon.”

  I hung up and lit another cigarette. I stared out my window while I smoked it. Sooty clouds hung low over the city. It looked like rain, one of our New England line storms that would suck a cold front in behind it. The rain and the wind would strip the foliage from the trees, and when the storm had passed it would leave winter in its wake.

  A good day for telling a mother that her daughter was dead.

  By the time I pulled into Susan’s driveway, small raindrops were beginning to sprinkle my windshield. Terri answered the door. A yellow ribbon was tied up in her short black hair, and her blouse matched the ribbon. Her gray tailored slacks fit her trimly. She was quite beautiful.

  I had the urge to hug her. Her body language told me not to.

  I guess I was staring at her, because she said, “Is something wrong, Brady?”

  “No. Sorry. You look nice, that’s all.”

  “Well, shucks, thanks.” She smiled quickly and stepped back from the door. “Come on in. Susan’s in the library. I’m sure she knows why you’re here.”

  I went in. “Any change in her health?”

  “She has good days and bad days. In the last week or so, more bad ones. No pain, at least not that she complains of. She’s lethargic, no appetite.” She shrugged. “I’m no nurse. She’s dying. That’s all I know.”

  “It can’t be easy for you.”

  “It’s not. Sometimes she’s bitchy as hell. That’s on her good days. But I like her. I feel that I’m helping her. She seems to appreciate my company. It’s all I can do.”

  Susan was sitting on the sofa in the big library, where the walls were lined floor to ceiling with bookshelves crammed with old volumes. She had dressed up for the occasion. She was wearing a blue dress, stockings, and heels. Her gray h
air was wound into an intricate braided crown atop her head. Her face was pale and pasty. There was a touch of gloss on her lips and liner around her eyes. She looked elegant and composed as she sat there with a magazine open on her lap.

  I went over to her. “Hello, Susan.”

  She smiled up at me. “Brady, you’re a dear to come out here to convey tragic news to me. I expect you’ve been rehearsing speeches to yourself. You can relax. I know why you’re here.”

  I nodded. “I’m very sorry.”

  She patted the sofa beside her. “Do sit with me and hold my hand.”

  I sat and took her bony hand.

  “What can you tell me?”

  “It looks like a canoeing accident. A place called Teal Pond near Keene, New Hampshire, where Mary Ellen apparently owned a cottage. It happened about three weeks ago, according to…” I let my voice trail off.

  “The coroner? Come on, Counselor. You can speak candidly with me.”

  “Yes. The medical examiner. They hadn’t identified her body until I spoke to the police about her. The dental records were what they needed.”

  Susan squeezed my hand. “Well, this is just bullshit,” she said.

  “Susan, dental records are very—”

  “Oh, I’m not saying they’ve misidentified her. But there is simply no way Mary Ellen would drown. She was a magnificent swimmer from the time she could walk. She was a regular fish in the water.”

  “There could have been a storm,” I said. “She might’ve gotten a cramp.”

  “Nonsense. If they’re trying to make an accident out of it, they’re simply wrong.”

  “Susan—”

  “Now don’t you try to patronize me, Brady Coyne. I am very saddened by this news. I had my heart set on seeing my daughter one time before I died. But it has been a long time, and she is just a memory for me. That’s as plain as I can say it. I’m not doing a denial thing. I’m simply saying that she did not drown in an accident. Or do they say she hit her head or something?”

  “No. Apparently they’ve discounted anything like that. There were no bruises or contusions or anything. She just—drowned.”

  She cocked her head at me. “Suicide?”

  “Oh, Susan…”

  “I want to know, Brady.”

  “I don’t know about suicide.”

  “You told me she was seeing a psychiatrist.”

  I nodded. “He doesn’t think she was suicidal. I imagine the police will talk with him. He might help.”

  “The other possibility,” said Susan, her voice firm, “is murder.”

  I shrugged. “All I can tell you is what I’ve been told. There’s no evidence of either suicide or murder. But they are looking into it.”

  Her hand loosened in mine. She let herself slump back against the sofa. She closed her eyes. “Well,” she said quietly, “now it doesn’t matter.”

  I patted her hand and said nothing.

  “Willard Ellington,” she murmured, “will be thrilled.”

  “Who?”

  “I mentioned him to you.” She opened her eyes and turned her head to me. “The man from the Concord Historic Places Commission. You passed him in the driveway when you were here before. My daughter has predeceased me. The commission will have the Ames estate any day now. Willard will dance a jig when he hears.”

  I found myself disliking Willard Ellington, whom I had never met, intensely.

  18

  WARREN MCALLISTER CALLED ME at the office Friday morning. “I just heard,” he said. “My God.”

  “I should’ve told you,” I said. “I’m sorry. I guess Susan—Mary Ellen’s mother—has been on my mind.”

  “I can’t believe it.” He sounded genuinely shaken.

  “How did you hear?” I said.

  “That’s why I’m calling you. I had a call last evening from a state policeman. He wants to interrogate me.”

  “Interrogate?”

  “Interview was the word he used, I think. Evidently the circumstances of her death…”

  “She drowned,” I said. “There were no witnesses. It’s an unattended death. Therefore a medical examiner’s case. It’s routine.”

  “Anyway,” he said, “this policeman is coming over this evening.” He hesitated. “I want to have an attorney with me.”

  “Why?”

  “I’ve never been interrogated—interviewed—by the police. In my profession, confidentiality is everything. I don’t know what the law says about privilege after the client has died, but I know how I feel about it.”

  “The law is vague, as it usually is. The Massachusetts Supreme Judicial Court has held that for lawyers, at least, privilege continues after the death of the client. Remember the Stuart case? For doctors, it’s safe to assume the same rules would apply. Obviously whatever a client tells you in confidence about other people is privileged. Or at least it’s obvious to me. Otherwise, I would assume one would want to be of help. It could be tricky.”

  “Exactly,” said McAllister.

  I waited.

  “So,” he said, “I wondered if you’d help me.”

  “Don’t you have a lawyer?”

  “I’ve got friends who are lawyers. One of them has helped me and Robin with financial things. Taxes, investments, real estate. He did our will for us. I’ve got the impression that you’re more familiar with situations like this one.”

  “I’m sure any lawyer could do the job,” I said.

  “Well, this guy is more of a family friend than a family attorney. Anyway, I think you told me that, um, discretion, I think was the word you used, is more or less your forte.”

  “It’s true. It is.” I paused. I could think of no reason not to help him out. “Sure, okay. I’d be happy to be there for you, Warren.”

  “Boy, that’s terrific. This policeman said he’d be here at eight tonight. Is that okay?”

  “I’ll be there.”

  I pulled my car in front of his Victorian in Brookline on the dot of eight. Warren answered the doorbell out back and led me upstairs to his office. He was wearing a blue flannel shirt, tan corduroy pants, and boat shoes. He looked more like a clerk at the corner hardware store than a psychiatrist. He sat me down in one of the chairs by the wood stove, but he continued standing. He offered me coffee, which I refused. He moved around the room touching things and glancing out the window.

  Finally I said, “Warren, relax. This is a routine thing.”

  “They’ll want to know if Mary Ellen could’ve committed suicide, won’t they?”

  I nodded. “I imagine so. That’s a question you should try to answer.”

  “Well, I guess that doesn’t bother me, although somehow the very idea of it seems like an accusation. But listen. I know about her lovers, her parents, her friends and enemies. I don’t feel comfortable with any of that.”

  “Tell the police that, then. If you’re uncertain, consult me.”

  He nodded. “Okay. It sounds easy.”

  He sat down across from me. “Mainly,” he said, “I’m very upset by this thing. One gets to know one’s patients very well. Professional distance and everything, sure, but still, you care very much about them. Mary Ellen was…”

  He stopped. I said, “Was what?”

  “So—so vital. So alive and enthusiastic. Oh, she was quite neurotic. But her depression was well controlled by the medication. I just can’t believe she’s dead.”

  “I understand,” I said.

  “But you never knew her.”

  “True. It’s different, I know.”

  Warren jumped to his feet at the buzz of the doorbell. He left and returned a minute later.

  Horowitz was behind him. He looked at me and grinned. “Well, well,” he said.

  “Hi.” I lifted my hand in greeting.

  Horowitz turned to Warren. “You don’t need a lawyer, you know, Doctor. We’re just trying to get some information. You’re not being accused of anything. If you needed counsel, it’s my job to remind you of that.
”

  Warren nodded. “I know that. I feel more comfortable.”

  Horowitz shrugged. “Your privilege. Why don’t we get started. It shouldn’t take long.”

  The three of us sat by the cold wood stove. Horowitz took out a notebook. “Okay,” he said, looking at Warren. “Mary Ellen Ames was your patient, correct?”

  “That’s right.”

  “For how long?”

  “She came to me nearly four years ago.”

  “Why?”

  “Pardon me?”

  “Why did she come to you? What was her complaint?”

  Warren glanced at me. I nodded. He turned back to Horowitz. “She was depressed. She had problems with relationships. She’d never held an important job or done anything that she felt was worthwhile. She’d had a basically unhappy childhood. She was trying to mourn her father’s death, something that had happened several years earlier.” He shrugged. “These are typical of the reasons why people seek psychiatric help, really.”

  “You said she was depressed,” said Horowitz.

  Warren nodded.

  “Was she suicidal?”

  He hesitated and glanced at me before answering. “I was concerned at first, yes. But as we proceeded with our work I no longer was concerned. Her depression was mild and well controlled.”

  “Controlled how?”

  “I prescribed Pertofrane for her. It’s a very good drug, widely used now. And she was doing well with our work together.”

  “Doctor,” said Horowitz, “Miz Ames’s death appears to be accidental. We would like to be able to rule out suicide. Can you say that at the time of her death she was healthy and well balanced?”

  Warren shrugged. “She was as healthy and well balanced as most people. I’m quite confident that she did not kill herself.”

  “No crises in her life? No recent breakups with lovers, financial worries?”

  “There was nothing,” he said carefully, “that would lead me to believe Mary Ellen Ames was suicidal.”

  “Okay.” Horowitz paused. “Now, then. The other possibility, Doctor, is that she was murdered.”

  Warren said nothing.

  “There’s no evidence of it,” said Horowitz after a moment. “But it would help us to know of anybody who might’ve had reason to kill her. Spurned lovers, for example.”