Dr. Perkins’s office was across from the gas station on the main street, next to the row of shops housing both the liquor store and the grocery store. It was a handsome turn-of-the-century Victorian, not too fussy. He had walked by it a hundred times as a boy, but in those days it was just a private home, with no business of any kind that he could remember.
Lee parked on the street in front of the building, and he and Butts walked up the steps to the spacious front porch. The sign underneath the buzzer read DR. MARTIN PERKINS, L.C.S.W.—BY APPOINTMENT and listed a phone number with a 609 area code. L.C.S.W. stood for licensed clinical social worker, which meant that even if Perkins was a crank, he was at least certified by the state. Lee knew from his own experience how much study and training was involved—enough so that anyone receiving certification had to at least do all the required reading and pass the courses. You had to have at least a master’s degree to qualify. He wondered, though, what the “Dr.” was for, and whether it was a degree in psychiatry.
He rang the bell next to the double French doors, and a single chime sounded deep inside the building. He and Butts both agreed it would be better to surprise the good doctor, to gauge his unprepared reactions and prevent him from concocting a story, should he prove to be involved in Ana’s death.
There was a long pause, and they were about to turn and leave when they heard the sound of footsteps and a man’s voice calling from within the house.
“Coming—just a moment!”
The long white lace curtains on the French doors fluttered. There was the sound of a lock being unlatched, and the door was flung open. On the other side of it stood a man of singular appearance. He was tall and thin, about fifty, Lee guessed, with slicked-back, jet-black hair and a goatee to match. He wore a black three-piece suit with tiny gray pinstripes so old fashioned that it looked like a costume from a Victorian-era drama. Dangling from his vest was a gold watch fob. His immaculate shoes were soft black leather and of a style and cut similar to shoes Lee had seen in period movies—they, too, appeared to be heirlooms. Everything about his appearance was so theatrical that his arrival at the door was like the entrance of a character in a stage play.
He greeted them with a cordial but formal smile.
“Hello, I’m Dr. Perkins. And who might you be?”
The voice was British, self-consciously posh, but with a suggestion of a regionalism—West Country, perhaps? Lee’s knowledge of English dialects was fair—because of his Scottish ancestry he had traveled in the U.K. a fair amount.
“I’m Lee Campbell, and this is Detective Leonard Butts, NYPD.”
“Detective, is it? Oh dear me, to what do I owe this honor?”
Perkins looked rather pleased, and his voice held a note of suppressed excitement. Lee waited a moment before responding, half-expecting Perkins to apologize for his odd attire and give some explanation about being an actor in a local production or something. But when no explanation was forthcoming, Lee said, “Could we have a few minutes of your time? It’s about Ana Watkins.”
“Is something the matter?” Perkins’s face immediately assumed an expression of concern—so quickly that Lee didn’t trust it.
“Can we come in?” Butts said, looking over his shoulder—or rather trying to, as he was at least half a foot shorter than Dr. Perkins.
“Oh, yes, yes—of course!” Perkins said, sweeping them into a spacious and graciously furnished drawing room. A grand piano covered with a cream-colored antimacassar, upon which sat a heavy blue vase filled with white tea roses, presided over the room. He motioned them to a pair of blue and white wing chairs in front of a marble fireplace. Butts complied slowly, taking in the room with some astonishment, judging by the expression on his face. Lee guessed that as a homicide detective in the Bronx, he seldom did interviews in dwellings like this one.
“Please, sit down,” said Perkins.
“This is a very nice place you have here,” Butts said, lowering his bulk into one of the armchairs carefully, as if afraid he might crush it.
“Thank you, but I really can’t take any credit for it—it’s all my sister’s doing, you see,” Perkins replied with a flip of an immaculately manicured hand. “She’s the one with the artistic eye. I just live here.” He pulled up a straight-backed chair in between the armchairs and settled himself in it.
Even his movements were theatrical. He looked not so much like a man at home in his drawing room as an actor playing the part of a man at home in his drawing room.
“Now then,” he said, straightening his starched white cuffs, “what’s this about Ana?”
“We understand Miss Watkins was a patient of yours,” said Butts. It was a common interrogative technique to get as much information out of subjects as you could before giving them anything in return.
“You said she ‘was’ a patient,” Perkins observed. “Has something happened?”
“Was there anything in the course of her treatment that might lead you to believe she was suicidal?” Butts continued, ignoring the question. This too was standard operating procedure—never give away information to a potential suspect unless you find it necessary.
Perkins leaned back and crossed his arms. “I’m afraid that comes under doctor–patient confidentiality,” he said primly. “In fact, I can’t even confirm that Miss Watkins was—is my patient until you tell me what this is about.”
Butts glanced at Lee, who said gently, “Dr. Perkins, I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but Ana Watkins was found dead yesterday.”
Perkins sprang from his chair as though it were suddenly electrified. “Oh, dear me!” he cried, wringing his hands. “Oh, dear me—poor girl! What happened?”
“She was drowned,” Butts replied bluntly.
Perkins stared at him, took one enormous gulp of air like a stranded fish, then paced in front of the fireplace, wringing his hands and muttering, “Dear me, oh dear me!” Once again, Lee was struck by the theatricality of his gestures. It was like watching an actor in a performance rather than a real human being in distress.
“Dr. Perkins,” Butts said, “if you wouldn’t mind, we’d like to ask you a few questions.”
“Of course,” Perkins said. “I’ll do whatever I can to help—anything, I assure you.”
“Right,” Butts said, making a notation in the little notebook he always carried with him. Lee knew that sometimes the detective scribbled in it just to intimidate a suspect—often there was nothing on it but doodles. “Hey, is this an oil lamp?” Butts said, pointing to an old-fashioned-looking lantern in the foyer.
“Yes, it is,” Perkins answered irritably. “And in answer to your question about whether she displayed suicidal ideation—no, not at all. In fact, I have rarely had a patient who was more connected to life. She had everything to live for, and was in fact making rapid improvement when she—” He stopped, but not out of grief so much as embarrassment, Lee thought. “How did she—I mean, do you think she took her own—?”
“She was found in the Harlem River yesterday morning,” Butts replied. “There was evidence of foul play.”
Perkins stopped pacing and looked at them in alarm. “Surely you don’t think I—”
“No, no, it’s nothing like that,” Butts reassured him. “We’re just talking to people she came in contact with to try and piece together enough about her to, you know, try and figure out what happened.”
“Dear me,” said Perkins, looking frightened. If he had an idea who killed Ana, Lee thought, he might be worried that person would come after him.
“Miss Watkins had expressed the fear that she was being followed,” Butts continued. “Do you have any idea who might have been following her?”
Perkins put an elegant finger to his mouth and chewed on it. “I suppose it can’t do any harm, since she’s dead. I may as well tell you that she had recently had a breakthrough in her therapy, and had come to realize that she was the victim of childhood abuse.”
“Yeah?” Butts said, in a voice that said, S
o tell me what else is new.
“Yes,” Perkins went on, completely missing Butts’s sarcasm. “She had been struggling with demons in her past, until finally, under hypnosis, she recovered long-buried memories of sexual assault when she was a child.”
Butts exchanged a glance with Lee, who kept his face impassive. He didn’t want to spook Perkins. They were just closing in on the truth—assuming he would tell them the truth, of course. But Lee suspected that Perkins was as easy to read as a mediocre actor would be. If he was lying, he was sure to telegraph that to his audience.
“And who committed this sexual assault?” Butts asked him. Lee could tell he was doing his best to keep his voice even.
Perkins twisted the signet ring on his pinky finger. “Alas, I wish I could say, but we hadn’t yet reached the point in therapy where she could make out the face of her assailant.”
“Let me get this straight, Doc,” Butts said, disdain leaking into his voice. “Under hypnosis, she gets a memory of being—assaulted—as a child, but somehow she can’t see who’s doing it?”
“Well, yes,” Perkins said, his tone prickly. “These things are very complex, Detective. Sometimes the memories don’t come all at once, and sometimes they don’t ever come. We were just beginning to make progress, and I have no doubt that, after a few more sessions, poor Ana would have unlocked the door to her past and truly had a breakthrough in her therapeutic process.”
“Ah, her ‘therapeutic process'—I see,” Butts said. Lee decided it was time to rescue this interview before Butts pushed Perkins into being totally uncooperative.
“So you don’t have any idea who she thought might be following her?” he asked quickly.
Perkins raised his hands in a gesture of surrender. “I wish to God I did, truly I do. But she never actually saw anyone following her.”
“Did you think it might be connected to this ‘therapeutic breakthrough'?” Butts asked.
“Again, I can’t say,” Perkins replied. “Ana thought it was, but I think that just indicated her general level of paranoia, which was always quite high.”
“What about your other patients?” Lee said. “Do you think any one of them might be violent?”
“I’m afraid that’s confidential,” Perkins said. “Though if I did think one of my patients was an imminent danger to himself or others, it would of course be my duty to report that to the proper authorities.”
“And you made no such report?” Lee said.
“No. I don’t think I have in the whole of my career. And in any case, my patients didn’t have any contact with each other that I’m aware of.”
At that moment a woman entered the room. She was a stork of a woman with a long, solemn face and soft brown hair piled up in a chignon on top of her head. Her face was not pretty, but it was striking, with large, mournful brown eyes, high cheekbones, and a full, serious mouth. She wore no makeup. Lee’s first thought was that she didn’t need any, and his second thought was that she was Perkins’s sister.
Her attire was as old-fashioned as her brother’s. She wore a long, high-necked white dress with flowered sleeves over high, laced-up leather boots; her clothes appeared to be aimed at downplaying any suggestion of sexuality, but in fact they had the opposite effect. Her presence had a restrained sensuality that was even more intriguing because of its understatement. She exuded coolness, reserve, and—or so Lee thought—restrained passion.
Everything about these two odd siblings and their house suggested an era of a hundred years ago. Lee had the feeling that when he and Butts stepped over the front stoop of the house they entered a time warp.
“Ah, gentlemen, allow me to present my younger sister, Miss Charlotte Perkins!” Perkins said, coming forward to take her by the hand. “Charlotte, my dear, this is Detective Butts and Mr. Campbell.”
“How do you do?” said Butts, rising from his chair with a little bow. Lee was amused. He had never seen the burly detective behave like this, but he found himself bowing slightly as well. Something about Charlotte Perkins seemed to require it.
“How do you do?” she said, with the tiniest incline of her head.
“Charlotte, my dear, these gentlemen have come to see me about one of my patients. I’m afraid there’s been an unfortunate"—he paused for the right choice of words—"uh, accident.”
“I’m very sorry to hear it,” Charlotte said. She had much the same upper-class British inflection as her brother.
“Did you know the young woman in question?” Lee asked, surprised at his own old-fashioned locution.
“Her name was—” Butts began, but Charlotte Perkins interrupted him.
“I never had any dealings with Martin’s patients,” she said. “I keep to my rooms when he is conducting his sessions.”
Her choice of words made it sound like Perkins conducted séances instead of psychiatric counseling.
Charlotte turned to her brother, arms crossed in front of her thin chest.
“Martin, did you not offer these gentlemen something to eat or drink?”
“Oh, dear me, forgive me!” Perkins squeaked, bustling toward the door where his sister had just entered.
“No, really, we’re almost finished here, and we have to be getting back,” Butts said.
“It’s no trouble, really,” said Charlotte, but Lee and Butts were already backing out toward the door. For all its splendor and elegance, there was something about the house that made Lee want to leave it as soon as possible. He had a sticky sensation of being drawn into it, as though one could somehow get trapped there.
All of this flashed through his head in a fraction of a second as he and Butts sidled toward the door. Perkins and his sister took a step toward them, and it was all Lee could do to not turn around and run. He glanced at Butts to see if he was feeling the same way, but he couldn’t read the expression on the stocky detective’s face.
“Are you sure you wouldn’t like to stay for tea?” Charlotte Perkins said pleasantly.
“No, thanks—we’re expected back in the city,” Lee answered, letting her know that other people knew where he and Butts were. It was irrational, it was crazy, but the creeping dread he felt was real.
“Give us a call if you think of anything else that might be useful,” Butts said, placing a business card on the round rosewood table by the front door.
“I certainly will,” Perkins responded cheerily.
“Nice meeting you,” Lee said with another little bow. Perhaps following his lead, Butts did the same. Perkins bowed back, and his sister gave a tiny curtsy.
And then, with a push, they were out the door and standing on the front porch. The sun was sinking lower in the sky, and the town’s quiet little main street was bathed in its golden light. It was like stepping from a bad dream into a painting. There was still a sense of unreality in the bucolic beauty of the setting, but the foreboding that had enveloped Lee melted the moment they set foot outside the house.
Lee looked at Butts, who was sweating—but then, Butts often sweated.
“Did you—?” he began.
“Yeah—what was that?” Butts said, loosening his tie. “I don’t know,” Lee replied. “Something about those two—” “And that house! No wonder Santiago thought Perkins was creepy.”
Lee turned to glance behind them as they clattered noisily across the wooden porch. The lace curtains on the door fluttered, as though someone had been peering through them. Next to the door, he noticed something he had failed to see before. It was a statue of a Green Man, an ancient Celtic symbol of fertility that Lee had always found rather sinister. The image took many forms, but certain elements were always present—it was always the face of a laughing man, with vines and plants growing out of his mouth.
Green men had always struck him as grotesque and nightmarish, and this one was no exception. The eyes stared wildly over the lecherous grinning mouth, and the suppurating vines were reminiscent of the writhing snakes that sprouted from the head of the Medusa. It reminded Lee of a Gr
een Man he had seen in Rosslyn Chapel, the famed church in the tiny village of Rosslyn, just outside Edinburgh.
“Whatchya lookin’ at?” Butts asked. “It’s a Green Man.”
“Yeah? What’s that?” As they walked to the car, Lee explained the significance of the Green Man as a Celtic fertility symbol.
“You notice anything else weird about his place?” Butts said as they climbed into the Saturn.
“What?”
“There were no light switches on the walls.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. I saw some—what do you call ‘em?—sconces, but no switches. And that oil lamp I saw—I think they don’t have any electricity there.”
“You think?”
“Yep. I’m tellin’ you, there’s something weird about those two.”
But as they drove up the tiny main street, Lee was struck by how normal and familiar his boyhood town looked, and how little it had changed. There were the same rambling clapboard houses with their leafy lawns and porch swings and hanging baskets of pink begonias swinging gently from the white wicker trellises. In the gentle afternoon sun of late August, the town resembled a Norman Rockwell painting. He half-expected to see a rosy-cheeked family through white lace curtains, sitting down to a meal of turkey and gravy and mashed potatoes, their faithful little black-and-white terrier sitting patiently at their feet.
He and Butts didn’t speak as Lee drove the Saturn up the long hill leading out of the valley toward Route 202. They stayed silent as he passed the little churchyard and turned onto the long hilly road leading past Washington’s Headquarters Road and Three Bridges. As he drove down roads he had driven a hundred times before, Lee forgot about the Perkins siblings and began to think about this river valley, steeped in Revolutionary War history. As a boy, he had thrilled to the stories of the patriots battling the British troops. It was hard to imagine this softly rolling countryside in the dead of winter. Even though he had seen it every year of his life, Lee always found it hard to remember these green and inviting hillsides in the stark, stony whiteness of late December. He thought of the cold, hard winter the soldiers endured before the heroic attack on Trenton, just a few miles up river.
Silent Victim Page 9
