"Hello, Mr. Morales," I said, going over to the Mexican and offering him my hand. "My name is Bob Frederickson, but most people call me Mongo."
"Hello, Mongo," Esteban said, grinning broadly. "My lawyer said somebody wanted to see me, but he did not say why. Are you the man who wanted to see me?"
"That's me. Dr. Monroe-"
"Who is Dr. Monroe?"
"Sister Janet?"
"Si," he said. "Sister Janet is my friend." He uncoiled his legs and moved forward to the edge of the cot, planting his feet firmly on the floor.
"Sister Janet told Senator Younger about me. I'm a private investigator, and I'd like to help you. Senator Younger believes his daughter needs you to stay alive, so I'm going to try to get you out of here."
Morales gripped his knees with his gnarled hands. I remembered Janet Monroe's Kirlian photographs and wondered just what mysterious force, if any, was in those hands-and what its source might be. "I will be very happy to help Linda if I can get to see her," the healer said quietly. "If you can come to see me, why can't the Senator bring Linda here?"
"I don't think he's quite ready to do that yet, Mr. Morales. If I'm going to help you, I have to know the truth. Did you kill Dr. Samuels?"
Esteban squeezed his knees so hard that his knuckles turned white under his permanently sunburned skin. "I did not kill anybody, Mongo."
"Okay; I believe you. I've heard Dr. Jordon's version of events. He says he found you next to Dr. Samuels' body. Is that true?"
Esteban nodded slowly, sadly. "I was kneeling next to Dr. Samuels. I wanted to see if I could help. I was trying to stop the bleeding; I did not know he was already dead."
"You know he was stabbed, and that the police found the murder weapon in a bottle of acid. Did you see the knife at all?"
"No, Mongo," Esteban said forcefully. "I did not kill Dr. Samuels, and I did not see any knife." He removed his fedora from his head and ran his fingers through his thick hair. "Terrible, terrible thing," he murmured.
"Dr. Jordon claims that you and Samuels didn't get along. Is that true, Mr. Morales?"
"Call me Esteban, please." He paused, and his eyes took on a distant look, as though he were peering back into the past. "I liked Dr. Samuels all right, but he did not like me. I could tell that. He thought I was a big phony." Esteban nodded quickly and smiled. "Still, he let me help his patients, and I was grateful to him for that."
"Do you think you actually helped any of the patients the doctors sent to you?"
The healer smiled disarmingly. "I know I did. And the patients-they know. They told me so, and they told the doctors."
"Esteban, did you ever give drugs to anybody? Any kind of foreign substance-herbs, potions, plants?"
"No!" the old man said, shaking his head vigorously. He lifted his hands, then turned the palms outward to me. "My power is here, in my hands. All drugs are bad for the body."
"If you didn't give drugs to anybody, why do you suppose Dr. Samuels said you did?"
Esteban made a broad, shrugging gesture of bewilderment. "One day the police picked me up at the university. They told me I was under arrest for pretending to be a doctor. It was Dr. Samuels who made the charge; he claimed I gave drugs to patients. I did not understand; I never pretended to be a doctor. Dr. Samuels and Dr. Jordon knew all about what I was trying to do." He sighed and pressed the tips of his long fingers together. "Sister Janet got me out on bail. Then I got a message the same day-"
"That would be last Thursday?"
"Si. Last Thursday. The message said that Dr. Samuels wanted to see me that night at seven thirty. I wanted to know why Dr. Samuels lied about me, so I decided to go. When I got to the office, I found him dead. Somebody had cut his throat. Then Dr. Jordon came into the office and saw me by the body. He thought I did it, so he called the police …" Esteban's voice trailed off, punctuated by a curiously elegant sweep of his hand that included the cell and the unseen world outside.
"How did you get into the office, Esteban?"
"The lights were on, and the door was open. When nobody answered my knock, I just walked in."
I nodded. Esteban Morales was either a monumental acting talent, or an innocent man; it was impossible not to believe him. "What exactly did Dr. Samuels say when he called you?"
"I only talked to Sister Janet's secretary. Dr. Samuels called and left a message." "So you don't have any idea what Samuels wanted to talk to you about?"
"No, Mongo. I thought maybe he wanted to say he was sorry he lied about me."
"Esteban, how do you do what you do?"
He smiled crookedly. "Do you think I play tricks? Do you think I'm a phony, like the psychosurgeons?"
"What I think doesn't matter," I said evenly.
"Then why do you ask?"
"I'm curious."
"Then I will answer." He again lifted his hands; he looked at them absently, as though they might belong to someone else. "The body makes music, Mongo," Esteban continued. "Not many people can hear, but it does. I hear the music through my hands. A healthy body makes good music; a sick body makes bad music. With my hands and my thoughts, I can make the music better when it is bad; I can make it sound like it should." He dropped his hands into his lap, shrugged. "It is not easy to explain."
"Why were you upset toward the end of Sister Janet's project?"
Esteban blinked rapidly, and for the first time since I'd walked in, his tone seemed guarded. "What makes you think I was upset?"
"Sister Janet told me you were losing your ability to affect the enzymes. She thought you were distracted by something else."
The old man took a few moments to think about his answer. "I don't think it is right to talk about it," he said at last, avoiding my eyes.
"Talk about what, Esteban? If I'm going to help you, you have to be completely open with me."
"I know many things about people, Mongo. I see their music. . but I don't talk about it." He hesitated, then added quietly: "What bothered me had nothing to do with this trouble."
"Why don't you let me decide that?"
Once again it took him a long time to answer. "I suppose it does not make any difference now."
"What doesn't make any difference, Esteban?"
He looked at me a long time before he finally spoke. "Dr. Samuels' body made very bad music. He was dying; I think he had cancer."
"Dr. Samuels told you this?"
"No. Dr. Samuels did not tell anyone; he did not want anyone to know. But I knew."
"How, Esteban? How did you know? You talk about seeing and hearing 'music,' but I don't understand what you mean."
"I do see the music, Mongo," Esteban said, pointing to his eyes. "Other people sometimes call it an 'aura.' Dr. Samuels' aura was a brownish black. It flickered; it was not strong. That is what I usually see in people who are dying of cancer. I knew he had five, maybe six more months to live." The healer wrung his hands, lowered his voice. "I told him I knew; I told him I wanted to help. I told him I could not cure him, but I might be able to ease his pain. Dr. Samuels got very mad at me. He denied he was dying or in pain, and he told me to mind my own business. It upset me; it always upsets me to be around people who are in pain and not be able to help."
My mouth was suddenly very dry. I swallowed hard. "Did you tell this story to your lawyer?"
"No. What would be the point?"
I again thought of the Kirlian photographs I'd seen, and I felt a fluttering sensation in the pit of my stomach. "Esteban," I said, coughing dryly as my throat constricted, "can you see anybody's music? Can you see their aura?" Esteban slowly nodded, avoiding my gaze as though he anticipated my next question. I asked it. "Can you see mine?"