Heaven Makers

by Herbert, Frank

  Paret already had shown his hand by calling in Thurlow’s own department chief, the Moreno State Hospital director of psychiatry, Dr. LeRoi Whelye. Whelye was known throughout the state as a hanging psychiatrist, a man who always found what the prosecution wanted. Right on schedule, Whelye had declared Murphey to be sane and “responsible for his acts.”

  Thurlow looked at his useless wristwatch. It was stopped at 2:14. He knew it must be closer to seven now. It would be dark soon. What was keeping Ruth? Why had she asked him to meet her in their old trysting place?

  He felt suddenly contaminated by this way of meeting.

  Am I ashamed to see her openly now? he asked himself.

  Thurlow had come directly from the hospital and Whelye’s unsubtle attempts to get him to step aside from this case, to forget for the moment that he was also the county’s court psychologist.

  The words had been direct: “. . . personal involvement . . . your old girlfriend . . . her father . . .” The meaning was clear, but underneath lay the awareness that Whelye, too, knew about that report on Murphey which rested now in the Probation Department’s files. And that report contradicted Whelye’s public stand.

  Whelye had come up just as they were about to go into a Ward Team conference to consider the possible discharge of a patient. Thurlow thought of that conference now, sensing how it encapsulated the chief of psychiatry.

  They’d been in the ward office with its smell of oiled floors and disinfectant—the Protestant chaplain, a small sandy-haired man whose dark suits always seemed too large and made him appear even smaller; the ward nurse, Mrs. Norman, heavy, gray-haired, busty, a drill sergeant’s rocky face with cap always set squarely on her head; Dr. Whelye, an impression of excess bulk in a tweed suit, iron gray at the temples, and in patches through his black hair, a sanitary and barber-scraped appearance to his pink cheeks, and a look of calculated reserve in his washed blue eyes.

  Lastly, almost something to overlook around the scarred oval table, there’d been a patient: a number and a first name, Peter. He was seventeen, mentally limited by lack of the right genes, lack of opportunity, lack of education, lack of proper nutrition. He was a walking lack, blonde hair slicked down, veiled blue eyes, a narrow nose and pointed chin, a pursed-up little mouth, as though everything about him had to be shelled up inside and guarded.

  Outside the room had been green lawns, sunshine and patients preparing the flower beds for Spring. Inside, Thurlow felt, there had been little more than the patient’s smell of fear with Whelye conducting the interview like a district attorney.

  “What kind of work are you going to do when you get out?” Whelye asked.

  Peter, keeping his eyes on the table, “Sell newspapers or shine shoes, something like that.”

  “Can’t make any money like that unless you have a big corner stand and then you’re in big business,” Whelye said.

  Watching this, Thurlow wondered why the psychiatrist would suppress ideas instead of trying to draw the boy out. He asked himself then what Whelye would do if he, Thurlow, should stop the proceedings and take the patient’s place to describe “. . . a thing I saw the other night, something like a flying saucer. It was interested in a murderer.”

  Mrs. Norman had Peter’s social service files on the table in front of her. She leafed through them, obviously not paying much attention to Whelye. The chaplain, Hardwicke, had taken Thurlow’s own psychometry file on Peter, but wasn’t studying it. He seemed to be interested in the play of a sprinkler visible out the window at his right.

  “Could you tell us your general attitude today, Peter?” Whelye asked. “How do you feel?”

  “Oh, I’m all right.”

  “Are you still working in the sewing room? Seems to me you’d be more interested in that kind of work outside.”

  “Yes, I’m working there. I’ve been working there ever since I came.”

  “How long have you been here?”

  “Pert’ near two years now.”

  “How do you like it here?”

  “Oh, it’s all right But I been wondering when you’re going to let me out . . . so I can get back home an’ help support my mother.”

  “Well, that’s one thing we have you in here for,” Whelye said, “so we can think it over.”

  “Well, that’s what they been telling me for six months, now,” Peter said. “Why do I have to stay here? The chaplain” (Peter shot a covert glance at Hardwicke) “told me you were going to write my mother to see if she wanted me home. An’ if she did want me home, he’d take me down there.”

  “We haven’t heard from your mother yet.”

  “Well, I got a letter from my mother an’ she says she wants me home. The chaplain said if you’d let me go he’d take me home. So I don’t see any reason why I can’t go.”

  “It’s not a simple decision, Peter. It’s not just the chaplain’s decision.”

  Hardwicke opened the psychometry file, made a pretense of studying it. Thurlow sighed, shook his head.

  What was that thing I saw? Thurlow wondered. Was it real there beside Murphey’s window? Was it illusion? The question had been plaguing him for two days.

  “Well, he said he’d take me,” Peter said.

  Whelye stared at Hardwicke, disapproval on his face. “Did you say you’d take him down to Mariposa?”

  “If he were discharged,” Hardwicke said. “I said I’d be glad to give him the trip down there.”

  Whelye faced Peter, said: “Well, we have to do some more looking into this matter, generally to find out if your mother wants you and if the chaplain’s schedule will allow him to take you down there. If all these things work out, we’ll let you go.”

  Peter was sitting very still now, no emotion on his face, his gaze intent upon his hands. “Thank you.”

  “That’s all, Peter,” Whelye said. “You can go now.”

  Mrs. Norman signaled an attendant waiting at the screened window to the Common Room. The attendant opened the door. Peter got up and hurried out.

  Thurlow sat for a moment, the realization growing in him that Peter had taken away what amounted to a promise to be released, but that because of the way he had conducted the conference, Dr. Whelye wasn’t aware of this. Whelye would be thinking that all the “ifs” involved made this a hypothetical case.

  “Well, Dr. Whelye,” Thurlow said, “you’ve made a definite commitment to this patient to discharge him—promptly.”

  “Oh, no—I didn’t promise I’d discharge him.”

  “Well, the patient certainly understood he’d be home in short order—and the only qualifications are Chaplain Hardwicke’s schedule and confirmation of the mother’s letter.”

  “Call the patient back and we’ll settle this with him right now.” Whelye said. He looked angry.

  Mrs. Norman sighed, went to the Common Room door, signaled an attendant. Peter was brought back and returned to his chair. The boy kept his eyes down, shoulders bent, unmoving.

  “You understand, don’t you, Peter,” Whelye asked, “that we haven’t made any definite promise to discharge you? We’re going to look into your home situation and see if everything is all right and if you can get a job. We’d also like to look into the possibility of you returning to school for a year or so. Perhaps you could get a better job. You understand, don’t you, that we aren’t making any definite commitment?”

  “Yeah, I understand.” Peter looked at Chaplain Hardwicke who refused to meet the boy’s gaze.

  “What’s this about school?” Thurlow asked.

  “The boy hasn’t finished high school,” Whelye said. He faced Peter. “Wouldn’t you like to go back and finish high school?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Do you like to go to school?” Whelye asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “Wouldn’t you like to finish your education and get a job where you could pay your own way and save money and get married?”

  “Yeah.”

  Whelye glanced triumphantly at Thurlow. �
��Anybody got any questions?”

  Thurlow had slowly been building up in his mind the analogy of a stud poker game. Peter was in the position of a player who didn’t believe anything happening here, nor did he disbelieve anything. He was waiting to see the rest of the cards.

  “Isn’t it true, Peter,” Thurlow asked, “that you’d rather be hungry than on a full stomach?”

  “Yeah.” The boy had turned his attention to Whelye now.

  “Isn’t it true, Peter,” Thurlow asked, “that you’d rather eat a dry crust of bread than have a nice juicy piece of meat on your dinner plate?”

  “Yeah.”

  “That’s all,” Thurlow said.

  At Mrs. Norman’s signal, the attendant took Peter once more from the room.

  “I think when we get to the next patient,” Thurlow said, “we should swear him in like they do in court.”

  Whelye remained silent for a moment. He shuffled his papers, then: “I don’t see what you’re driving at.”

  “You reminded me of a district attorney of my acquaintance,” Thurlow said.

  “Oh?” Whelye’s eyes glazed with anger.

  “By the way,” Thurlow said, “do you believe in flying saucers?”

  The heads of both Mrs. Norman and Chaplain Hardwicke snapped up. They stared at Thurlow. Whelye, however, drew back, his eyes veiled, watchful.

  “What is the meaning of that question?” Whelye demanded.

  “I’d like to know your position,” Thurlow said.

  “On flying saucers?” There was a cautious disbelief in Whelye’s tone.

  “Yes.”

  “They’re delusional material,” Whelye said. “Utter nonsense. Oh, there could be a few cases of mistaken identity, weather balloons and that sort of thing, but the people who insist they’ve seen spaceships, these people are in need of our services.”

  “A sound opinion,” Thurlow said. “I’m glad to hear it.”

  Whelye nodded. “I don’t care what you think of my methods,” he said, “but you’re not going to find my opinions based on delusional material—of any type. Is that clear?”

  “Quite clear,” Thurlow said. He saw that Whelye was convinced the question had carried a subtle intent to discredit.

  Whelye got to his feet, glanced at his watch. “I fail to see the point in all this, but doubtless you had some idea in mind.” He left the room.

  Mrs. Norman took a deep breath, bent a look of sympathy on Thurlow. “You like to play with fire, evidently,” she said.

  Thurlow stood up, smiled.

  Hardwicke, catching Thurlow’s eyes, said: “The defense rests.”

  As the scene passed through his mind, Thurlow shook his head. Again, he glanced at his wristwatch, smiled at himself as the unconscious gesture displayed the stopped hands. The air coming in the car window smelled of wet leaves.

  Why did Ruth ask me to meet her here? She’s another man’s wife now. Where is she—so damned late! Could something have happened to her?

  He looked at his pipe.

  Damn pipe’s gone out. Always going out. I smoke matches, not tobacco. Hate to burn myself with this woman again. Poor Ruth—tragedy, tragedy. She was very close to her mother.

  He tried to remember the murdered woman. Adele Murphey was photographs and descriptions in stories now, a reflection from the words of witnesses and police. The Adele Murphey he’d known refused to come out from behind the brutal new images. Her features were beginning to grow dim in the leaf whirl of things that fade. His mind held only the police pictures now—color photos in the file at the sheriff’s office—the red hair (so much like the daughter’s) fanned out on an oil-stained driveway.

  Her bloodless skin in the photo—he remembered that.

  And he remembered the words of the witness, Sarah French, the doctor’s wife from next door, words on a deposition. Through Mrs. French’s words, he could almost visualize that violent scene. Sarah French had heard shouting, a scream. She’d looked out of her second floor bedroom window onto moon-flooded night just in time to see the murder.

  “Adele . . . Mrs. Murphey came running out of her back door. She was wearing a green nightgown . . . very thin. She was barefooted. I remember thinking how odd: she’s barefooted. Then Joe was right behind her. He had that damned Malay kriss. It looked horrible, horrible. I could see his face . . . the moonlight. He looked like he always looks when he’s angry. He has such a terrible temper!”

  Sarah’s words—Sarah’s words . . . Thurlow could almost see that zigzag blade glinting in Joe Murphey’s hand, a vicious, shivering, wavering thing in the mottled shadows. It had taken Joe no more than ten steps to catch his wife. Sarah had counted the blows.

  “I just stood there counting each time he struck her. I don’t know why. I just counted. Seven times. Seven times.”

  Adele had sprawled onto the concrete, her hair spreading in that uneven splash which the cameras later recorded. Her knees had drawn up into a fetal curve, then straightened.

  And all that time, the doctor’s wife had been standing there at the upstairs window, left hand to mouth, her flesh a rigid, mortal concrete.

  “I couldn’t move. I couldn’t even speak. All I could do was just watch him.”

  Joe Murphey’s oddly thin-wristed right hand had come up, hurled the kriss in a short arc onto the lawn. Unhurriedly, he had walked around his wife’s body, avoided the spreading patch of red that trailed down the concrete. Presently, he’d merged with the shadows of trees where the driveway entered the street. Sarah had heard a car motor start. Its lights had flashed on. The car had roared away in a gritty scattering of gravel.

  Then, and only then, Sarah had found she could move. She’d called an ambulance.

  “Andy?”

  The voice brought Thurlow back from a far distance. Ruth’s voice? he wondered. He turned.

  She stood at his left just behind the car, a slender woman in a black silk suit that smoothed her full curves. Her red hair, usually worn close around her oval face, was tied in a severe coil at the back of her neck. The hair bound so tightly—Thurlow tried to put out of his mind all memory of the mother’s hair spread on the driveway.

  Ruth’s green eyes stared at him with a look of hurt expectancy. She had the appearance of a tired elf.

  Thurlow opened his door, slipped out to the wet grass beside the road.

  “I didn’t hear your car,” he said.

  “I’ve been staying with Sarah, living with her. I walked up from the house. That’s why I’m so late.”

  He could hear the tears in her voice and wondered at the inanity of their conversation.

  “Ruth . . . damn it all! I don’t know what to say.” Without thinking about it, he crossed to her, took her in his arms. He could feel her muscles resisting him. “I don’t know what to say.”

  She pulled out of his embrace. “Then . . . don’t say anything. It’s all been said anyway.” She looked up at his eyes. “Aren’t you still wearing your special glasses?”

  “To hell with my glasses. Why wouldn’t you speak to me on the phone? Was that Sarah’s number they gave me at the hospital?” Her words were coming back to him, “. . . living with her.” What did it mean?

  “Father said . . .” She bit her lower lip, shook her head. “Andy, oh, Andy, he’s insane and they’re going to execute him . . .” She looked up

  at Thurlow, her lashes wet with tears. “Andy, I don’t know how to feel about him.

  I don’t know . . .”

  Again, he took her in his arms. She came willingly this time. How familiar and right it felt for her to be there. She began to sob gently against his shoulder. Her crying felt like the spent aftermath of sorrow.

  “Oh, I wish you could take me away from here,” she whispered.

  What was she saying? he asked himself. She was no longer Ruth Murphey. She was Mrs. Neville Hudson. He wanted to push her away, start throwing questions at her. But that wouldn’t be professional, not the right psychological thing to do. He decided
it wasn’t what he wanted to do after all. Still, she was another man’s wife. Damn! Damn! Damn! What had happened? The fight. He remembered their fight—the night he’d told her about the fellowship grant. She hadn’t wanted him to take it, to be separated for a year. Denver had sounded so far away in her words. “It’s only a year.” He could hear his own voice saying it. “You think more of your damn career than you do of me!” The temper matched her hair.

  He’d left on that sour note. His letters had gone into a void—unanswered. She’d been “not home” to his telephone calls. And he’d learned he could be angry, too—and hurt. But what had really happened?

  Again, she said: “I don’t know how to feel about him.”

  “What can I do to help?” It was all he could say, but the words felt inadequate.

  She pushed away from him. “Anthony Bondelli, the attorney—we’ve hired him. He wants to talk to you. I . . . I told him about your report on . . . father—the time he turned in the false fire alarm.” Her face crumpled. “Oh, Andy—why did you go away? I needed you. We needed you. “

  “Ruth . . . your father wouldn’t take any help from me.”

  “I know. He hated you . . . because of . . . what you said. But he still needed you.”

  “Nobody listened to me, Ruth. He was too important a man for . . .”

  “Bondelli thinks you can help with the insanity plea. He asked me to see you, to . . .” She shrugged, pulled a handkerchief from her pocket, wiped her cheeks.

  So that’s it, Thurlow thought. She’s making up to me to get my help, buying my help!

  He turned away to hide his sudden anger and the pain. For a moment, his eyes didn’t focus, then he grew aware (quite slowly, it seemed) of a subtle Brownian movement at the edge of the grove. It was like a swarm of gnats, but unlike them too. His glasses. Where were his glasses? In the car! The gnats dissolved away upward. Their retreat coincided with the lifting of an odd pressure from his senses, as though a sound or something like a sound had been wearing on his nerves, but now was gone.