An Affair of Sorcerers

by George C. Chesbro

  Daniel slowly turned his head in my direction, and I caught a glimmer of surprise in his steel-gray eyes before they once again assumed their usual inscrutability. “How did you find out I was here, Frederickson?”

  “The police lieutenant the hospital security guard turned you over to happens to be my brother. He’s in charge of the city’s wacko detail, and it’s a lucky thing for you he is. If they’d taken you to any other precinct in this city, you’d be sitting in a padded cell in Bellevue right now. I saw your robe and the other paraphernalia out on the desk. You must have really looked smashing in that outfit. Got any pictures?”

  “I have to get out of here, Frederickson.”

  I laughed. “By keeping your mouth shut? You’re not going to wish your way out of here.” I sat down on the floor across from him, bracing my back against the wall. “There may be something I can do; but first, you and I are going to talk a little turkey—or frog’s legs.”

  “I won’t bargain with you,” he said stiffly, staring at the section of wall just above my head. “If you want to help Kathy, you have to help me.”

  “That’s what you say. We’re both thinking of Kathy—and so is my brother. Up to this point, I’d say we’ve been dealing in a hell of a lot better faith than you have.”

  “Talk to my sister,” he said in the same flat, unemotional tone. “Convince her that she has to go back to Philadelphia. I believe her life could be in danger if she stays here.”

  “I’ve given that problem some thought, Crandall. Even if you’re right, your sister’s not going to leave Kathy’s bedside. But I’m not sure she is in danger. Marlowe took Kathy to your sister’s house the weekend he was murdered; he left some stuff there.”

  Daniel blinked rapidly, stared at me hard for a moment, then returned his gaze to the wall. I’d just told him something he hadn’t known.

  “Whoever did this thing to your niece and her father knew a great deal about Marlowe’s personal habits,” I continued. “They wanted to get Kathy and her father, and they sure as hell did. If they’d wanted to get your sister, there’s no doubt in my mind that they would have; they’d have taken all three of them while they were together in Philadelphia. So your sister doesn’t seem to be in their plans.

  “There has to be a reason for the complicated way they did things. Everything has the earmarks of a ritual. Obviously, they were snuffing Marlowe for something he’d done. But why do a number on Kathy? It could be a warning to someone else—or punishment—for something he’d done.” I took a deep breath, prolonged the silence until the ceremonial magician looked at me, then said: “Would that person be you, Daniel? Is Kathy dying for your sins?”

  His gaze didn’t waver, but I saw his jaw clench and the muscles in his stomach contract and expand under his tight vest.

  “Tell me, for Christ’s sake!” I said. “Tell the cops and me what’s going on so we can help!”

  “No one can help,” Daniel said tightly. “I told you before this is an affair of sorcerers. You couldn’t understand then, and you can’t understand now.”

  “Try me again. Tell me why you’re the only one who can help Kathy.”

  “I’m the only one who knows whom to talk to.”

  “If you’ll tell my brother and me, then we’ll know whom to talk to.”

  He shook his head. “No. Nobody who matters will talk to you. You’ll never be able to find the right people in time, and you’ll make it impossible for me to find them.” He paused, and his eyes suddenly shifted focus as he looked into my face. I felt a curious, empty sensation in the pit of my stomach. It was as though a screen had been rolled away from his eyes, leaving them naked. In that moment he allowed me a brief glimpse into a soul filled with pain, compassion and anxiety.

  “April understands,” he continued. “I don’t have to explain anything to her. For some reason, I feel a tremendous need to assure you—a stranger—that I would do nothing to hurt Kathy, not by omission or commission. It’s a terrible weakness for me even to have to say that to you. You’re a good person; people like you generate their own special power.”

  “Flattery won’t get you shit with me, Crandall. Why don’t you just tell me what’s going on?” The screens in his eyes slammed down immediately, and he went back to staring at the wall over my head. “Let’s talk about spells, Daniel. I had an interesting conversation with someone whose views I respect. That person tells me it’s possible Kathy’s condition could be the result of suggestion or trauma—a ‘spell,’ if you like. What do you think?”

  Silence. Crandall had already given his answer during the night.

  “Come on,” I said. “If this thing is trauma, the psychiatrists at the hospital may be able to help her; but they’ll need some idea of what was done or said to her.”

  There was still nothing but silence from the man across the cell from me. This time I hadn’t even made him blink. “I told Garth that you’re the girl’s uncle,” I continued resignedly. “You’re still going to have to deal with the hospital on trespassing charges, but they’ll probably drop those. Until they do, you’re out on bail.”

  “You mean I’m free to go?”

  “You’ve got it, pal. The cell door’s open. I talked to a bail bondsman before I came in here. I did that because I like your niece, your sister and your nerve. But you owe me, and I’m collecting. I want you to tell me what’s going on.”

  “I owe you nothing, Frederickson,” Daniel said, rising, “You do what you have to do, and I’ll do what I have to do.”

  He made a curiously human gesture of polishing his shoes on the jail blanket, then straightened his tie and headed for the door.

  “Daniel!” I shouted. “Who’s Esobus?”

  He slowly turned. Once more, his eyes were pools of intense feeling. At that moment I thought he had the most expressive eyes I’d ever seen; his ability to express or disguise emotion in them at will was unnerving to me. “I don’t know, Frederickson,” the ceremonial magician said quietly. “I’m trying to find out; as I told you, I’m the only one who can find out.” He paused, drew in a deep breath. “Perhaps you’re a Christian, Moslem or Jew. There’s still power in those ways, despite all their priests have done to suck them dry. If you want to help Kathy, pray for her; from your own deep mind, pray.”

  My nontalk with Daniel had upset me, and I went to the squad room for coffee and a cigarette. When I felt reasonably calm, I went to find Garth. He took me to see Esteban Morales. I was lucky Morales was still there; the healer was already overdue to be moved to a more permanent holding cell on Rikers Island.

  Esteban Morales looked like an abandoned extra from Viva Zapata! From under the battered fedora on top of his head, long gray hair streaked with black hung out. Despite his relatively long stay in the cramped holding cell, he looked very clean. He wore shapeless black corduroy pants and a bulky, patched red sweater. There was a tension in his thin, angular, aged body that gave the impression of considerable physical strength. Sitting Indian fashion on the jail cot, his back braced against the wall, he looked forlorn and lonely. He glanced across the cell as I entered, and I found myself looking into a pair of limpid, dark brown eyes. Something moved in their depths as he looked at me. Whatever it was—curiosity, or perhaps amusement—quickly faded. He nodded once in greeting, and his smile was guileless, almost childlike.

  “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. Jordan 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 drily 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?”

  Esteban had been staring at the floor. Now he looked up into my eyes. It was a moment of unexpected and excruciating intimacy. “I can see yours, Mongo,” he whispered.

  We stared at each other for a few moments. “Wait a minute,” I said at last. “I’ll be right back.”

  Garth was in the squad room having coffee. He saw me at the door, got up and came over. “What’s up, brother?” he asked. “You look pale.”

  “How’s the Morales investigation going?”

  He shrugged. “It’s … going,” he said, sounding puzzled. “What can I tell you? I said we were looking into it. Believe it or not, I have a few
other cases on my hands.”

  “You still think he’s guilty, don’t you?”

  “Why should I have changed my opinion?”

  “Have you seriously considered any other suspects?”

  “Who would you suggest? The man was kneeling there with blood all over his hands and the front of his shirt.”

  “You mean Esteban slashed Samuels’ throat, walked away to drop the knife in a vial of acid, then came back to kneel beside the body?”

  “Why not? He may have been sorry he did it, or maybe he was just checking to make sure he’d done the job right. Who else besides Morales and Jordon knew that Samuels was going to be in the office complex that night?”

  “I don’t know, and neither do you. Maybe Jordon did it.”

  “Jordon? Come on, Mongo. It was Samuels’ practice that Jordon bought into. Would he be likely to kill the goose that laid the golden proverbial?”

  “What about the patients that Esteban shared with the two doctors? Maybe one of them had a motive for killing Samuels. If you had that list, you could at least verify whether or not Morales ever gave drugs to any of the people on it.”

  “I can’t get the names of those patients, Mongo, and you know it. It’s privileged information.”

  “Well, you could at least ask Jordon to give the names to you.”

  “I did ask, and he won’t. He’s afraid the people would be embarrassed, and there’d be lawsuits. He’s probably right.”

  It meant I was going to be forced to do something I abhorred; but I was rapidly running out of time and options. Besides, the most important thing was that Garth would know what I was doing was abhorrent—and it was essential that I make Garth a believer.

  “Will you come back with me to Esteban’s cell for a few minutes?” I asked. “I want to try a little experiment, and I need a witness.”