When Captain Kavander had exploded at a homicide detective in frustration, Ollie waited for the captain to leave, slamming the door violently behind him, before observing, “If Jack could die right now, he’d be the happiest man alive.”
Ollie’s demeanour changed dramatically when a murder case was breaking. As soon as the end was in sight, he became serious and methodical. McGuire commented on this once, and Ollie nodded and said, “Nobody needs me to break up the tension now, see? What everybody needs now is a mechanic to tighten the bolts and clean up all the spills. That’s why I joke, Joe. To keep everybody loose.”
Driving to the psychiatric hospital, knowing in his heart he was about to break the case, McGuire felt his composure relax. He had needed his former partner’s jokes and looseness. Without them, the pressure he felt had spilled out of him, onto Bernie Lipson, Kevin Deeley, Fat Eddie Vance. . . .
“That offer still open for dinner some time, Bernie?” McGuire asked.
Lipson studied him warily. “It’s open, Joe.”
“Let’s do it,” McGuire said, smiling at his partner. “First night after we get our indictments, let’s you and me and Janet—”
“Janice.”
“Yeah, Janice. The three of us, we’ll do dinner.” He banged the steering wheel with his fist. “Damn it, I feel good about this one. This one’s going to break it for us, Bernie. Getting that picture in the paper did it, huh? Didn’t it, Bernie.”
“Hell of a break, Joe,” Lipson said. “Hell of a break.”
Lynwood Institute was a low-rise brick and concrete structure bordering on open parkland. A long asphalt driveway led from the quiet residential street through manicured lawns to a small parking lot. Groups of men were trimming and feeding the trees and shrubbery that lined the driveway. There seemed to be no supervision to their work; the gardening was apparently a productive excuse to be outside and enjoy the warm spring sunshine. A few of the men looked up from their work and waved happily as McGuire and Lipson drove past. Others watched in glum silence.
“You know anything about this place?” McGuire asked as he looked for a parking spot.
“Heard about it,” Lipson answered. “It’s kind of a halfway house for fruitcakes, far as I can tell.”
“Looks like it’s for males only.” McGuire pulled into an open space, facing the car back down the driveway, where the men had resumed their work.
McGuire was wrong. As he and Lipson left the car and approached the front entrance, two middle-aged women were about to emerge from the building. One was dressed in a sweater and slacks; the other wore a loose but expensive-looking dressing gown. The woman in the dressing gown grasped her younger companion’s arm with both hands as they walked. In truth, they clung to each other like a single creature with four legs and two inclining heads, each wearing identical, fearful expressions.
At the sight of the two approaching men both women gave a small whimper and turned quickly to re-enter the building. McGuire and Lipson followed them through the front door into a closed vestibule, where the younger woman struggled to open the inner door. Looking behind her, she saw the detectives enter, and whimpering again she guided her colleague away from the door towards the safety of a corner. The older woman buried her face on the shoulder of her partner, who kept her eyes turned from the men, an agonized expression creasing her face.
“Morning, ladies,” McGuire said pleasantly as he and Lipson passed.
His words propelled the women further into the corner, pressing them against the walls.
Lipson pursed his lips and shook his head sadly, then followed McGuire into the foyer.
A heavy-set woman, her black-dyed hair pulled into a severe bun, approached them from behind a reception desk. McGuire reached into his jacket pocket for his identification, but before he could show it, the woman glanced through the two glass doors into the vestibule.
“Oh, dear,” she said, her smile fading and her expression growing anxious. She lifted a hand as though to hold the men back. “Excuse me, please.”
In the vestibule the two women, still clinging to each other, were watching McGuire and Lipson in wide-eyed fright. Their faces softened as the woman who had greeted the detectives opened the glass doors cautiously. “How are you, ladies?” the detectives heard her ask pleasantly. “Why don’t we forget about our walk this morning and come back inside? I’ll make us some tea.”
The younger woman in the vestibule whispered something, her eyes darting back and forth between the two detectives and the black-haired woman. Soon the three were engaged in animated, whispered conversation. McGuire turned away to see Lipson studying several of the cheaply framed oil paintings that covered the reception area walls.
The paintings had been executed in a myriad of styles, from primitive to proficient. Most were still lifes or landscapes. A few were awkwardly drawn portraits, which had neither the realism of a professional artist nor the originality of a surrealist.
It struck McGuire that almost all of the artists, whether working in oils, water colours or acrylics, had chosen drab earthy tones—browns, greys, blacks and deep haunting shades of midnight blue.
One painting caught his eye. Larger than the rest it had been painted on stretched canvas and mounted in a plain wooden frame. This artist, unlike the others, seemed to have discovered more colours on his palette and applied them with a striking degree of talent. The painting showed brilliant yellow sunlight flooding into a room through an open window. The artist’s portrayal of the delicate texture of dust suspended in the sunbeam looked so real that McGuire thought he might see the particles move if he watched long enough.
Behind the sunbeam, the wall of the room was rich orange, almost sensual in its depth of colour, especially when compared with the drabness of the works surrounding it. A small side table in the foreground of the painting held a blue ceramic bowl with a bright flower pattern meticulously rendered about its rim. In fact the entire composition, which had a distinctly Mediterranean mood, had been painted with remarkable detail, considering the simple subjects being portrayed.
McGuire moved closer. He studied how the artist had added the most minute details: shadow textures of the sunlight falling on the wall, chipped paint on the open windowsill, even a distinctive oak grain to the table.
But the drama of the painting was clearly centred on the figure slouched in the sunbeam, elbows on its knees. The man or woman—it was impossible to tell which—was dressed in a shapeless robe and sitting bent at the waist on a chair that matched the oak table in design and detail. The figure’s head rested on one hand in an expression of gloom. The other hand hung limply between the figure’s knees.
Squinting and leaning toward the painting, McGuire could see the ridges on the fingernails, the dull worn surface of the plain gold ring on its left hand, the realistic manner in which the fingers hung slightly curved.
He looked back up to the head of the figure. Where there should have been a face, there was nothing. The artist, who had created each limp finger as an individual element, had painted a flat, flesh-toned area where the face should have been.
It was not an unfinished painting, McGuire realized. It was a painting of a faceless, sexless person, sitting gloomily in a simple room, facing a warm and brilliant sun. And it made McGuire uneasy just to look at it.
He shivered and stepped back from the wall as the black-haired woman who had greeted them returned from the vestibule.
“I’m sorry, gentlemen,” she said in a voice that had strength behind its cheeriness. “I really did have to talk to those two girls.”
McGuire glanced past her to the two middle-aged “girls,” who stood staring through the vestibule window at the open grounds.
“What’s wrong with them?” McGuire asked.
“Oh, they’re just a little concerned about going outside,” she replied, smiling. “It takes them a while to be sure everyt
hing is safe.”
“Agoraphobia?”
“Yes.” She beamed at McGuire as though he were a grade-school pupil who had guessed the correct answer. “Verna there, the younger one, has been responding to treatment. She’s gone as far as the end of the lane by herself. I’m a little worried about Edith.” She looked back at the women, who were moving carefully towards the outer door. “She hasn’t been outside since she arrived here.” The woman looked back at McGuire. “That was almost ten years ago.”
Her face, which had grown cloudy while discussing the women, brightened. “How awful of me,” she said, and McGuire noticed a trace of British accent. “I haven’t introduced myself, have I? I’m Glennis Metcalf.” She extended her hand and raised her eyebrows. “And you are?”
McGuire took her hand and shook it, surprised at the strength of her grip. “I’m Lieutenant McGuire, this is Lieutenant Lipson.” With his left hand he reached into his jacket and extracted his identification, offering it to the woman who, while shaking Lipson’s hand, turned to study the badge and photograph in detail. “We received a call from a Dr. Taber about a story that appeared in this morning’s paper.”
“The priest desires,” Glennis Metcalf said, raising her eyes from McGuire’s ID. “Yes, I should have realized who you were.” Her eyes flicked up to the wall behind McGuire, where the painting of the forlorn and faceless figure hung. “That was Bobby’s painting you were looking at. Powerful, isn’t it? Just a moment, please.”
McGuire looked behind him at the painting again. The woman reached for a small button mounted discreetly on the counter of the reception desk and pressed it once. Somewhere in the building a bell rang. Almost instantly footsteps could be heard echoing quickly down the hall.
“I would take you to Dr. Taber myself,” she explained. “But I really should keep an eye on Verna and Edith.” She turned to regard the women, who remained standing at the outer door, gazing at the men working in the garden. “Poor things, they do panic so easily. Ah, here’s my sweetie now.”
A small, slight man in white T-shirt and loose-fitting slacks stood smiling nervously at them, his hands behind his back, his feet in sneakers.
“This is Andrew,” Glennis Metcalf said, and the man smiled and bobbed his head quickly. McGuire guessed he was perhaps forty years old. “Andrew will take you to Dr. Taber’s office, won’t you Andrew?” Without waiting for a reply, she looked back at McGuire and Lipson. “Dr. Taber is expecting you. He said to send you right down. Andrew, come back here when you’re finished. I have some boxes I want you to move for me.”
The smiling man nodded cheerfully again, turned and walked rapidly away down the hall, the two detectives following him.
He led them to the rear of the building and the open door of an office where a tall, balding man unfolded himself from behind his desk to greet them, hand outstretched. He wore a white smock coat over a tweed suit, his tie neatly knotted against a white Oxford-cloth shirt.
“Good morning,” he said solemnly. “I’m Clarence Taber. That’ll be all, Andrew.”
The soft, quick-moving steps of Andrew’s rubber-soled shoes echoed away into silence as McGuire and Lipson shook hands with the doctor, introduced themselves and sat on matching straight-backed chairs facing Taber’s desk.
Clarence Taber appeared to be in his fifties—tall, slim . . . “gangly” was the word that came to both detectives’ minds—his long arms sprouting oversized hands, and his long legs ending in a pair of extra-large brogans, which he rested on the corner of a filing cabinet when the other men were seated. With his bald head and bristling eyebrows he was almost menacing. It was a look, McGuire reflected, that a tough street cop might attempt to acquire over the years. But Taber’s flashing eyes, crinkling above a quick smile, relieved the menace. They made him seem not only approachable but appealing, strength made stronger with the temper of sympathy.
“We got a call this morning,” McGuire began. “Apparently the phrase on the blackboard in the murder of Father Sellinger meant something to you. Is that right?”
Taber nodded. “The priest desires. It’s difficult to believe, but it can’t be a coincidence. And Bobby isn’t even here today. He didn’t come back last night. It’s the first time he’s done that.”
“Bobby?” Lipson asked. He held his wire-bound notebook on his lap, his pen already scribbling on the paper.
“Bobby Griffin.” Taber reached for a file folder on the corner of his desk. He looked at the sheet stapled to the front of the folder, holding it at arm’s length to read it. “Robert Kennedy Griffin.” He placed the file folder in front of him and opened it carefully. “Everybody calls him Bobby. Likeable kid.”
Lipson lunged for Taber’s telephone and began dialing.
“Describe him to us,” McGuire snapped.
Taber shifted his chair to make room for Lipson. “About five eight, five nine,” he began. “Slim build. Maybe a hundred and fifty pounds. Fair complexion, blond hair, blue, eyes. I have a photograph of him somewhere—”
“Any distinguishing marks, characteristics?” McGuire asked. “A limp, speech impediment, anything like that?”
The doctor thrust out his bottom lip, thought for a moment, and shook his head as Lipson spoke softly, urgently, into the telephone before hanging up and nodding at McGuire.
“Where can we find him?” McGuire asked.
Taber shook his head. “I have no idea. As I said, Bobby didn’t return last evening. That’s unusual for him . . .”
“How about friends? Family?” McGuire interrupted.
Taber shook his head once more. “In all the years I’ve known him, Bobby has never discussed anyone outside of Lynwood. His mother used to visit him but—” Taber shrugged.
“What’s he like?” Lipson asked.
“Brilliant. In a sane world he’d have been a star athlete for his school, valedictorian prize-winning artist, maybe married his cheerleader girlfriend and run for Congress.”
“What do you mean, in a sane world?” McGuire asked.
“Because he’s not any of those things, even though he deserves to be. And whatever happened to him, it wasn’t his fault. I’m sure of that.”
“He did that painting of the faceless person, the big one hanging in the foyer, didn’t he?”
Taber’s face brightened. “Yes!” he said. “Isn’t that brilliant? We use painting as therapy for our patients. It’s an effective method of generating indirect self-expression. We tell them talent isn’t important, but expressing yourself is. Bobby, as you can see, has immense talent.”
“What’s it mean when somebody with that much talent leaves the face off?”
Taber shrugged. “Loss of identity. Fear of exposing true feelings. It’s not that uncommon. You may have noticed that most of the patients avoid showing faces altogether. Not because faces are difficult to draw, but because they reveal identity or interpersonal factors, which are the basic problems of most people here.” He turned to frown at his shoes. “The most fascinating thing about the painting is the use of light. Did you notice how Bobby’s painting is the only one with a brilliant, specific light source in it? I found that very significant, although I’m not sure what it means.”
“Why don’t you tell us about him?” McGuire urged.
Taber studied McGuire for a moment, as though weighing the advice before replying. “Of course, of course. But you must understand how difficult this is for me. First because I genuinely like Bobby. And second because . . .” The doctor looked back and forth between the two detectives. “Because if Bobby has committed these terrible murders, then we’ve misread him completely.”
“You misread him?” Lipson asked, looking up from his notebook.
Taber nodded. Folding his hands behind his head he sat back in his chair. “This hospital is not a mental institution as such,” he explained. “For one thing, we try desperately to avoid
the use of any psychotherapeutic medications. The last time either Dr. Metcalf or I—”
“Metcalf?” McGuire interrupted. “The receptionist?”
Taber smiled indulgently. “Glennis Metcalf is not only a highly qualified clinical psychiatrist, she is also one of the most physically intimidating people you will ever meet. When she has to be. You shake hands with her?”
McGuire nodded and raised his right hand, flexing the fingers to indicate the firmness of her handshake.
“If she ever asks you to arm wrestle, don’t put any money on it.”
“Sorry,” McGuire said. “We thought she was just someone in the vestibule greeting people.”
“That’s part of our approach here at Lynwood,” Taber replied. “I spend as little time behind this desk as I can. Dr. Metcalf and I and our staff of therapists intentionally mingle with the residents.” He brought his hands back to the desk and leaned forward again. “Too much mental-health treatment in this country, in my opinion at least, consists of warehousing people. That’s obsolete. It has to be. Our idea is to make our residents feel a part of society instead of being isolated from it. That’s why we encourage them to go out and blend in with the real world.”
“How about safety?” McGuire asked. “Don’t the sane people on the streets deserve protection from the kind of patients you’re got here?”
“We don’t have dangerous patients here,” Taber answered. He looked down at the file folder in front of him. “At least, we didn’t have, until now.” He opened the folder and withdrew a piece of paper from the top. A line of perforations along the left side indicated it had been torn from a notebook and random creases across its surface showed it had been crumpled.
But it was the writing, scrawled on every line on the page from margin to margin, that caught McGuire’s attention. Taber slipped the paper from the folder and handed it across the desk. Lipson leaned closer to his partner to study the sheet.
The Man Who Murdered God Page 14