The Doomsters Page 15

  Just to have something burning for me, I lit a cigarette of my own. Miss Parish jumped at the snap of the lighter; she had nerves, too. She turned on the stool to look up at me:

  “I know I identify with my patients. Especially Carl. I can’t help it.”

  “Isn’t that doing it the hard way? If I went through the wringer every time one of my clients does—” I lost interest in the sentence, and let it drop. I had my own identification with the hunted man.

  “I don’t care about myself.” Miss Parish crushed out her cigarette rather savagely, and moved to the doorway. “Carl is in serious jeopardy, isn’t he?”

  “It could be worse.”

  “It may be worse than you think. I talked to several people at the courthouse. They’re raking up those other deaths in his family. He did a lot of talking, you know, at the time he was committed. Completely irrational talking. You don’t take what a disturbed person says at its face value. But a lot of men in law enforcement don’t understand that.”

  “Did the sheriff tell you about Carl’s alleged confession?”

  “He hinted around about it. I’m afraid he gives it a lot of weight. As if it proved anything.”

  “You sound as if you’ve heard it all before.”

  “Of course I have. When Carl was admitted six months ago he had himself convinced that he was the criminal of the century. He accused himself of killing both his parents.”

  “His mother, too?”

  “I think his guilt-feelings originated with her suicide. She drowned herself several years ago.”

  “I knew that. But I don’t understand why he’d blame himself.”

  “It’s a typical reaction in depressed patients to blame themselves for everything bad that happens. Particularly the death of people they love. Carl was devoted to his mother, deeply dependent on her. At the same time he was trying to break away and have a life of his own. She probably killed herself for reasons that had no connection with Carl. But he saw her death as a direct result of his disloyalty to her, what he thought of as disloyalty. He felt as though his efforts to cut the umbilical cord had actually killed her. From there it was only a step to thinking that he was a murderer.”

  It was tempting doctrine, that Carl’s guilt was compounded of words and fantasies, the stuff of childhood nightmares. It promised to solve so many problems that I was suspicious of it.

  “Would a theory like that stand up in court?”

  “It isn’t theory, it’s fact. Whether or not it was accepted as fact would depend on the human element: the judge, the jury, the quality of the expert witnesses. But there’s no reason why it should ever come to court.” Her eyes were watchful, ready to be angry with me.

  “I’d still like to get my hands on firm evidence that he didn’t do these crimes, that somebody else did. It’s the only certain way to prove that his confession was a phony.”

  “But it definitely was. We know his mother was a suicide. His father died of natural causes, or possibly by accident. The story Carl told about that was pure fantasy, right out of the textbook.”

  “I haven’t read the textbook.”

  “He said that he broke into his father’s bathroom when the old man was in the tub, knocked him unconscious, and held him under water until he was dead.”

  “Do you know for a fact that it didn’t happen that way?”

  “Yes,” she said. “I do. I have the word of the best possible witness, Carl himself. He knows now that he had no direct connection with his father’s death. He told me that several weeks ago. He’s developed remarkable insight into his guilt-feelings, and his reasons for confessing something he didn’t do. He knows now that he wanted to punish himself for his father-killing fantasies. Every boy has the Oedipus fantasies, but they seldom come out so strongly, except in psychotic breakthrough.

  “Carl had a breakthrough the morning he and his brother found their father in the bathtub. The night before, he’d had a serious argument with his father. Carl was very angry, murderously angry. When his father actually did die, he felt like a murderer. The guilt of his mother’s death came up from the unconscious and reinforced this new guilt. His mind invented a story to explain his terrible guilt-feelings, and somehow deal with them.”

  “Carl told you all this?” It sounded very complicated and tenuous.

  “We worked it out together,” she said softly and gravely. “I don’t mean to take credit to myself. Dr. Brockley directed the therapy. Carl simply happened to do his talking-out to me.”

  Her face was warm and bright again, with the pride a woman can take in being a woman, exerting peaceful power. It was hard to hold on to my skepticism, which seemed almost like an insult to her calm assurance.

  “How can you tell the difference between true confessions and fantasies?”

  “That’s where training and experience come in. You get a feeling for unreality. It’s partly in the tone, and partly in the content. Often you can tell by the very enormity of the fantasy, the patient’s complete insistence on his guilt. You wouldn’t believe the crimes I’ve had confessed to me. I’ve talked to a Jack the Ripper, a man who claimed he shot Lincoln, several who killed Christ himself. All these people feel they’ve done evil—we all do in some degree—and unconsciously they want to punish themselves for the worst possible crimes. As the patient gets better, and can face his actual problems, the need for punishment and the guilty fantasies disappear together. Carl’s faded out that way.”

  “And you never make a mistake about these fantasies?”

  “I don’t claim that. There’s no mistake about Carl’s. He got over them, and that’s proof positive that they were illusory.”

  “I hope he got over them. This morning when I talked to him, he was still hung up on his father’s death. In fact, he wanted to hire me to prove that somebody else murdered his father. I guess that’s some improvement over thinking he did it himself.”

  Miss Parish shook her head. She brushed past me and moved to the window, stood there with her thumbnail between her teeth. Her shadow on the blind was like an enlarged image of a worried child. I sensed the doubts and fears that had kept her single and turned her love toward the sick.

  “He’s had a setback,” she said bitterly. “He should never have left the hospital so soon. He wasn’t ready to face these dreadful things.”

  I laid my hand on one of her bowed shoulders. “Don’t let it get you down. He’s depending on people like you to help him out of it.” Whether or not he’s guilty, the words ran on unspoken in my head.

  I looked out past the edge of the blind. The Mercury was still in the street. I could hear the squawk of its radio faintly through the glass.

  “I’d do anything for Carl,” Miss Parish said close to my ear. “I suppose that’s no secret to you.”

  I didn’t answer her. I was reluctant to encourage her intimacy. Miss Parish alternated between being too personal and too official. And Mildred was a long time coming down.

  I went to the piano and picked out a one-finger tune. I quit when I recognized it: “Sentimental Journey.” I took the conch shell and set it to my ear. Its susurrus sounded less like the sea than the labored breathing of a tiring runner. No doubt I heard what I was listening for.

  chapter 25

  I SAW the reason for Mildred’s delay when she appeared finally. She’d brushed her hair shining, changed to a black jersey dress which molded her figure and challenged comparison with it, changed to heels which added three inches to her height. She stood in the doorway, holding out both her hands. Her smile was forced and brilliant:

  “I’m so glad to see you, Miss Parish. Forgive me for keeping you waiting. I know how precious your time must be, with all your nursing duties.”

  “I’m not a nurse.” Miss Parish was upset. For a moment she looked quite ugly, with her black brows pulled down and her lower lip pushed out.

  “I’m sorry, did I make a mistake? I thought Carl mentioned you as one of his nurses. He has mentioned you, you k
now.”

  Miss Parish rose rather awkwardly to the occasion. I gathered that the two young women had crossed swords or needles before. “It doesn’t matter, dear. I know you’ve had a bad day.”

  “You’re so sympathetic, Rose. Carl thinks so, too. You don’t mind if I call you Rose? I’ve felt so close to you, through Carl.”

  “I want you to call me Rose. I’d love nothing better than for you to regard me as a big sister, somebody you can lean on.”

  Like other forthright people, Miss Parish got very phony when she got phony at all. I guessed that she’d come with some notion of mothering Mildred, the next best thing to mothering Mildred’s husband. Clumsily, she tried to embrace the smaller woman. Mildred evaded her:

  “Won’t you sit down? I’ll make you a cup of tea.”

  “Oh, no thanks.”

  “You must take something. You’ve come such a long way. Let me get you something to eat.”

  “Oh, no.”

  “Why not?” Mildred stared frankly at the other woman’s body. “Are you dieting?”

  “No. Perhaps I ought to.” Large and outwitted and rebuffed, Miss Parish sank into a chair. Its springs creaked satirically under her weight. She tried to look small. “Perhaps, if I could have a drink?”

  “I’m sorry.” Mildred glanced at the bottle on the piano, and met the issue head-on. “There’s nothing in the house. My mother happens to drink too much. I try to keep it unavailable. I don’t always succeed, as you doubtless know. You hospital workers keep close tabs on the patients’ relatives, don’t you?”

  “Oh, no,” Miss Parish said. “We don’t have the staff—”

  “What a pity. But I can’t complain. You’ve made an exception for me. I think it’s marvelous of you. It makes me feel so looked-after.”

  “I’m sorry you feel that way. I just came by to help in any way I could.”

  “How thoughtful of you. I hate to disappoint you. My husband is not here.”

  Miss Parish was being badly mauled. Although in a way she’d asked for it, I felt sorry for her.

  “About that drink,” I said with faked cheerfulness. “I could use a drink, too. What do you say we surge out and find one, Rose?”

  She looked up gratefully, from the detailed study she had been making of her fingernails. I noticed that they had been bitten short. Mildred said:

  “Please don’t rush away. I could have a bottle sent in from the liquor store. Perhaps my mother will join you. We could have a party.”

  “Lay off,” I said to her under my breath.

  She answered with her brilliant smile: “I hate to appear inhospitable.”

  The situation was getting nowhere except on my nerves. It was terminated abruptly by a scuffle of feet on the porch, a knock on the door. The two women followed me to the door. It was Carmichael, the sheriff’s deputy. Behind him in the street, the sheriff’s car was pulling away from the curb.

  “What is it?” Mildred said.

  “We just got a radio report from the Highway Patrol. A man answering your husband’s description was sighted at the Red Barn drive-in. Sheriff Ostervelt thought you ought to be warned. Apparently he’s headed in this direction.”

  “I’m glad if he is,” Mildred said.

  Carmichael gave her an astonished look. “Just the same, I’ll keep guard on the house. Inside if you want.”

  “It isn’t necessary. I’m not afraid of my husband.”

  “Neither am I,” Miss Parish said behind her. “I know the man thoroughly. He isn’t dangerous.”

  “A lot of people think different, ma’am.”

  “I know Sheriff Ostervelt thinks different. What orders did he give you, concerning the use of your gun?”

  “I use my own discretion if Hallman shows. Naturally I’m not going to shoot him if I don’t have to.”

  “You’d be wise to stick to that, Mr. Carmichael.” Miss Parish’s voice had regained its authority. “Mr. Hallman is a suspect, not a convict. You don’t want to do something that you’ll regret to the end of your days.”

  “She’s right,” I said. “Take him without gunfire if you can. He’s a sick man, remember.”

  Carmichael’s mouth set stubbornly. I’d seen that expression on his face before, in the Hallman greenhouse. “His brother Jerry is sicker. We don’t want any more killings.”

  “That’s my point exactly.”

  Carmichael turned away, refusing to argue further. “Anyway,” he said from the steps, “I’m keeping guard on the house. Even if you don’t see me, I’ll be within call.”

  The low augh of a distant siren rose to an ee. Mildred shut the door on the sound, the voice of the treacherous night. Behind her freshly painted mask her face was haggard.

  “They want to kill him, don’t they?”

  “Nonsense,” Miss Parish said in her heartiest voice.

  “I think we should try to get to him first,” I said.

  Mildred leaned on the door. “I wonder—it’s barely possible he’s trying to reach Mrs. Hutchinson’s house. She lives directly across the highway from the Red Barn.”

  “Who on earth is Mrs. Hutchinson?” Miss Parish said.

  “My sister-in-law’s housekeeper. She has Zinnie’s little girl with her.”

  “Why don’t you phone Mrs. Hutchinson?”

  “She has no phone, or I’d have been in touch long ago. I’ve been worried about Martha. Mrs. Hutchinson means well, but she’s an old woman.”

  Miss Parish gave her a swift, dark look. “You don’t seriously think there’s any danger to the child?”

  “I don’t know.”

  None of us knew. On a deeper level than I’d been willing to recognize till now, I experienced fear. Fear of the treacherous darkness around us and inside of us, fear of the blind destruction that had wiped out most of a family and threatened the rest.

  “We could easily check on Martha,” I said, “or have the police check.”

  “Let’s keep them out of it for now,” Miss Parish said. “What’s this Mrs. Hutchinson’s address?”

  “Fourteen Chestnut Street. It’s a little white frame cottage between Elmwood and the highway.” Mildred opened the door and pointed down the street. “I can easily show you.”

  “No. You better stay here, dear.”

  Rose Parish’s face was dismal. She was afraid, too.

  chapter 26

  MRS. HUTCHINSON’S cottage was the third of three similar houses built on narrow lots between Elmwood and the highway. Only one side of the short block was built up. The other side was vacant ground overgrown with scrub oaks. A dry creek, brimming with darkness, cut along the back of the empty lots. Beyond the continuous chain-lightning of the highway headlights, I could see the neon outline of the Red Barn, with cars clustered around it.

  A softer light shone through lace curtains in Mrs. Hutchinson’s front window. When I knocked on the door, a heavy shadow moved across the light. The old woman spoke through the closed door:

  “Who is that?”

  “Archer. We talked this morning at the Hallman ranch.”

  She opened the door cautiously and peered out. “What do you want?”

  “Is Martha with you?”

  “Sure she is. I put her to bed in my room. It looks like she’s spending the night.”

  “Has anyone else been here?”

  “The child’s mother was in and out. She didn’t waste much time on us, I can tell you. Mrs. Hallman has more important things on her mind than her little orphan daughter. But don’t let me get started on that or I’ll keep you standing on the steps all night.” She glanced inquiringly at Rose Parish. With the excessive respect for privacy of her class, she had avoided noticing her till now.

  “This is Miss Parish, from the state hospital.”

  “Pleased to meet you, I’m sure. You folks come inside, if you want. I’ll ask you to be as quiet as you can. Martha isn’t asleep yet. The poor child’s all keyed up.”

  The door opened directly into the fron
t room. The room was small and neat, warmed by rag rugs on the floor, an afghan on the couch. Embroidered mottoes on the plasterboard walls went with the character lines in the old woman’s face. A piece of wool with knitting needles in it lay on the arm of a chair. She picked it up and hid it in a drawer, as if it was evidence of criminal negligence in her housekeeping.

  “Sit down, if you can find a place to sit. Did you say you were from the state hospital? They offered me a job there once, but I always liked private work better.”

  Rose Parish sat beside me on the couch. “Are you a nurse, Mrs. Hutchinson?”

  “A special nurse. I started to train for an R.N. but I never got my cap. Hutchinson wouldn’t wait. Would you be an R.N., Miss?”

  “I’m a psychiatric social worker. I suppose that makes me a sort of nurse. Carl Hallman was one of my patients.”

  “You wanted to ask me about him? Is that it? I say it’s a crying shame what happened to that boy. He used to be as nice as you could want. There in that house, I watched him change right in front of my eyes. I could see his mother’s trouble coming out in him like a family curse, and not one of them made a move to help him until it was too late.”

  “Did you know his mother?” I said.

  “Know her? I nursed her for over a year. Waited on her hand and foot, day and night. I should say I did know her. She was the saddest woman you ever want to see, specially toward the end there. She got the idea in her head that nobody loved her, nobody ever did love her. Her husband didn’t love her, her family didn’t love her, even her poor dead parents didn’t love her when they were alive. It became worse when Carl went away to school. He was always her special darling, and she depended on him. After he left home, she acted like there was nothing for her in life except those pills she took.”

  “What kind of pills?” Rose Parish said. “Barbiturates?”

  “Them, or anything else she could get her hands on. She was addicted for many years. I guess she ran through every doctor in town, the old ones and then the new ones, ending up with Dr. Grantland. It isn’t for me to second-guess a doctor, but I used to think those pills he let her have were her main trouble. I got up my nerve and told him so, one day toward the end. He said that he was trying to limit her, but Mrs. Hallman would be worse off without them.”