"Because of Springer and departmental politics and PR?"
"All that and something else. The killer is murdering more frequently, more violently. Even the computer noticed. The time span between Jenine Boyington and Grace Valpone was two weeks, but between Grace Valpone and Susan Merriweather, only days. He's getting more careless, more frenzied, more dangerous. This killing won't keep him satisfied and inactive for long. You clue us in on what you're doing, huh? You still using the Boyington girl to make dates over the nightlines?"
Nudger nodded.
"Anything come of it?"
Nudger shook his head no.
"Reticence can get you killed or unemployed," Hammersmith said, irritated. Irritated enough to disregard Nudger's delicate stomach and unwrap one of his greenish fat cigars. He struck a match, puffed like the little engine that could. "Shwoo… loyalty to a shwoo… client has its shwoo… limits, Nudge."
"Legal limits," Nudger corrected. His stomach was going on carnival rides; bile rose in his throat. "Can I go now, or am I under arrest?"
Hammersmith showed mercy, withdrawing the cigar from his mouth and holding it out over the railing. Smoke drifted away over the backyard as if there had been an explosion. "The kind of case it's become, Nudge, if we can't collar anyone else, maybe we'll settle for you."
"Maybe I did it."
"You only think you're joking. This case can get out of control in ways you wouldn't believe. And other than the killer, nobody is more in the middle of it than you."
"You have a point."
"Think of our Chief of Police and the special problems of his office; think of Captain Massey and his Major Case Squad; think of Leo Springer and his maladjusted libido. Reputations must be protected."
"But not mine."
"No, not yours. Not as far as the powers that be are concerned. It'll be a bounty of luck if you come out of this without wearing some kind of goat's bell around your neck. Maybe they won't break the electric chair out of storage just for you, but there's your investigator's license to consider, your ability to work in this Baghdad on the Mississippi. You could be a stopgap suspect and a big loser."
"You always understood these things, Jack." Nudger stood up and tucked in his shirt. "I appreciate the wise words. Really."
"Do take care, Nudge."
Nudger went down the porch steps and cut through the narrow, cool gangway so he wouldn't have to walk back through the murder scene. He wondered if Hammersmith had been completely serious about the department's possibly being pressured into manufacturing a suspect to tide them over until the real killer was found. It had happened before and would happen again, so why not to Nudger? There were those who would smilingly attest to his bad character.
He reached the sidewalk at the same time as the assistant ME, who had left through the front door. The man recognized Nudger from Grace Valpone's apartment and nodded to him. "Deja vu," he said. French was in the air.
Suddenly remembering that he didn't have his car here, Nudger decided that he didn't want to be driven back to his office by the same two blue uniforms. He hitched a ride with the ME to a sandwich shop on Grand, where he phoned for a cab and sat brooding over a diet cola, waiting, thinking about a maniacal killer who was like a time bomb with multiple warheads, each exploding closer and with more force than the last. Deja vu! Deja vu! Deja vu!
XX
Still feeling shaky and nauseated, Nudger didn't bother going back up to his office when the cab eased to a stop in front of Danny's Donuts. He paid off the cabbie, watched the dented yellow taxi leave a haze of exhaust fumes down Manchester, then crossed the street to where the Volkswagen was squatted patiently at the curb.
He drove around for a while without a destination, until most of his queasiness had left him, winding through the park, past the Jefferson Memorial and the Art Museum, finally exiting from the park on Hampton, near the Zoo. Then he stopped at a phone booth and used the directory.
Dr. Oliver wasn't difficult to find. Edwin was his first name. Only an answering machine replied at his office, but at his home number a woman, possibly his wife, told Nudger that he was on staff at Malcolm Bliss Hospital and would be there until eight o'clock tonight. Nudger called Oliver at the hospital and explained what he wanted. Oliver agreed to give him fifteen minutes that he couldn't spare but would anyway. The implication was that Nudger should be extremely grateful. Nudger understood; the golf season didn't last forever.
But it took him only seconds to decide he'd been wrong about Oliver. Being on staff at Malcolm Bliss was no fiesta. Nudger had been there before, as a patrolman. This was where the police brought the violent criminally insane and dumped them in the laps of people like Oliver. People who really didn't have fifteen minutes to spare. Nudger had forgotten what it was like here.
"Please sit down, Mr. Nudger," Dr. Oliver said. He was a youngish-looking man, though probably in his forties, large, yet with a kind of leprechaun air about him.
Nudger sat in a small vinyl-upholstered chair near the door. Oliver sat behind a plain gray metal desk. The doctor's office wasn't much bigger than a closet-it might even have once been a large linen closet-and was painted a restful pale green that was probably supposed to soothe the patients. It had a window, but no view worth looking at. There was metal mesh over the glass anyway.
"You said you wanted to talk about one of my former patients, Claudia Bettencourt," the doctor said, hurrying Nudger along. "What's your interest in her?"
To the point: "I love her."
Oliver studied Nudger. Then he shrugged and his leprechaun features lifted in a grin. "I can understand why. Claudia is a very fine person. You do know I can't divulge any details of our doctor-patient relationship."
"Of course," Nudger said. "I'll speak in generalities. Is she cured?"
"Of what?"
"The tendency to abuse her children."
"Some generality," Oliver said. He thought for a moment. Claudia's conviction was a matter of public record; no need for Hippocratic secrecy here. "Yes, I think she could be described as cured. Her problems now are her own and don't affect others, at least not physically. Child abuse is a curse that runs in a lot of families, Mr. Nudger. It's passed on down the generations, a chain of violence that needs something traumatic sometimes to break it. Claudia is an intelligent woman; she understands that aspect of herself now, and so has greatly reduced, if not eliminated, her impulse to deal with people through violence. Unfortunately, understanding came too late to avert a tragedy in her life."
"I know," Nudger said. "I've been told about her daughter's death, the trial, and conviction."
"Who told you?"
"Other people who care about her."
Dr. Oliver ran a thumb along the edge of the desk, as if testing for sharpness. "I told her to leave town," he said.
"What?"
"I could have fixed it up with the Probation Board. She should get out of St. Louis, away from her former husband."
"I've met Ralph," Nudger said. "He's worthy of getting away from, all right."
"He's still a part of her problem. He's the key link in the chain that can't be broken, because he won't let go of the past; he won't forgive Claudia. He's punishing her."
"Is that why she attempted suicide?"
Oliver leaned back and played some kind of touch game with the fingertips of one hand against the other. "That's a tricky question. I don't think I'd better answer it."
"Okay. Do you think she might try suicide again?"
"For all I know, you might try suicide, Mr. Nudger. We're getting into speculation. I'm a doctor, not an odds- maker. And remember, it's been over a year since I've seen Claudia."