She laughed lightly. “Spectacular. Irradiated—‘injured’—enzymes break down at specific rates in certain chemical solutions. The less damaged they are, the slower their rate of breakdown. What we did was to take test tubes full of enzymes—supplied by a commercial lab—and irradiate them. Then we gave Esteban half of the samples to handle. The samples he handled broke down at a statistically significant lesser rate then the ones he didn’t handle.” She paused again, then said, “Ninety-nine and nine-tenths percent of the population can’t affect the enzymes one way or the other. On the other hand, a very few people can make the enzymes break down faster.”
“‘Negative’ healers?”
“Right. Pretty hairy, huh?”
I laughed. “It’s incredible. Why haven’t I heard anything about it? I mean, here’s a man who may be able to heal people with his hands, and nobody’s heard of him. I would think Morales would make headlines in every newspaper in the country.”
Janet gave me the kind of smile I suspected she normally reserved for some particularly naive student. “It’s next to impossible just to get funding for this kind of research, what’s more publicity. Psychic healing is thought of as, well, occult.”
“You mean like acupuncture?”
It was Janet’s turn to laugh. “You make my point. You know how long it took Western scientists and doctors to get around to taking acupuncture seriously. Psychic healing just doesn’t fit into the currently accepted pattern of scientific thinking. When you do get a study done, none of the journals want to publish it.”
“I understand that Dr. Edmonston filed a complaint against Morales. Is that true?”
“That’s what the police said. I have no reason to doubt it. Edmonston was never happy about his part in the project. Now I’m beginning to wonder about Dr. Johnson. I’m still waiting for his anecdotal reports.”
“What project? What reports? What Dr. Johnson?”
Janet looked surprised. “You don’t know about that?”
“I got all my information from my client. Obviously, he didn’t know. Was there some kind of tie-in between Morales and Edmonston?”
“I would say so.” She replaced the Kirlian photographs in her desk drawer. “We actually needed Esteban only about an hour or so a day, when he handled samples. The rest of the time we were involved in computer analysis. We decided it might be interesting to see what Esteban could do with some real patients, under medical supervision. We wanted to get a physician’s point of view. We put some feelers out into the medical community and got a cold shoulder—except for Dr. Johnson, who incidentally happened to be Robert Edmonston’s partner. I get the impression the two of them had a big argument over using Esteban, and Rolfe Johnson eventually won. We worked out a plan where Esteban would go to their offices after finishing here. They would refer certain patients—who volunteered—to him. These particular patients were in no immediate danger, but they would eventually require hospitalization. These patients would report how they felt to Edmonston and Johnson after their sessions with Esteban. The two doctors would then make up anecdotal reports. Not very scientific, but we thought it might make an interesting footnote to the main study.”
“And you haven’t seen these reports?”
“No. I think Dr. Johnson is stalling.”
“Why would he do that after he agreed to participate in the project?”
“I don’t know. Maybe he’s had second thoughts after the murder. Or maybe he’s simply afraid his colleagues will laugh at him.”
I wondered. It still seemed a curious shift in attitude. It also occurred to me that I would like to see the list of patients that had been referred to Morales. It just might contain the name of someone with a motive to kill Edmonston—and try to pin it on Esteban Morales. “Tell me some more about Edmonston and Johnson,” I said. “You mentioned the fact they were partners.”
Janet took a cigarette from her purse, and I supplied a match. She studied me through a cloud of smoke. “Is this confidential?”
“If you say so.”
“Johnson and Edmonston were very much into the modern big-business aspect of medicine. It’s what a lot of doctors are doing these days: labs, ancillary patient centers, private, profit-making hospitals. Dr. Johnson’s skills seemed to be more in the area of administration of their enterprises. As a matter of fact, he’d be about the last person I’d expect to be interested in psychic healing. There were rumors to the effect they were going public in a few months.”
“Doctors go public?”
“Sure. They build up a network of the types of facilities I mentioned, incorporate, then sell stocks.”
“How’d they get along?”
“Who knows? I assume they got along as well as any other business partners. They were different, though.”
“How so?”
“Edmonston was the older of the two men. I suspect he was attracted to Johnson because of Johnson’s ideas in the areas I mentioned. Edmonston was rumored to be a good doctor, but he was brooding. No sense of humor. Johnson had a lighter, happy-go-lucky side. Obviously, he was also the more adventurous of the two.”
“What was the basis of Edmonston’s complaint?”
“Dr. Edmonston claimed that Esteban was giving his patients drugs.”
I thought about that. It certainly didn’t fit in with what the senator had told me. “Janet, doesn’t it strike you as odd that two doctors like Johnson and Edmonston would agree to work with a psychic healer? Aside from philosophic differences, they sound like busy men.”
“Oh, yes. I really can’t explain Dr. Johnson’s enthusiasm. As I told you, Dr. Edmonston was against the project from the beginning. He didn’t want to waste his time on what he considered to be superstitious nonsense.” She paused, then added, “He must have given off some bad vibrations.”
“Why do you say that?”
“I’m not sure. Toward the end of the experiment something was affecting Esteban’s concentration. He wasn’t getting the same results he had earlier. And before you ask, I don’t know why he was upset. I broached the subject once and he made it clear he didn’t want to discuss it.”
“Do you think he killed Edmonston?”
She laughed shortly, without humor. “Uh-uh, Mongo. That’s your department. I deal in enzymes; they’re much simpler than people.”
“C’mon, Janet. You spent an entire summer working with him. He must have left some kind of impression. Do you think Esteban Morales is the kind of man who would slit somebody’s throat?”
She looked at me a long time. Finally she said, “Esteban Morales is probably the gentlest, most loving person I’ve ever met. And that’s all you’re going to get from me. Except that I wish you luck.”
I nodded my thanks, then rose and started for the door.
“Mongo?”
I turned with my hand on the doorknob. Janet was now sitting on the edge of her desk, exposing a generous portion of her very shapely legs. They were the best looking fifty-year-old legs I’d ever seen—and on a very pretty woman.
“You have to come and see me more often,” she continued evenly. “I don’t have that many dwarf colleagues.”
I winked broadly. “See you, kid.”
“Of course I was curious,” Dr. Rolfe Johnson said. “That’s why I was so anxious to participate in the project in the first place. I like to consider myself open-minded.”
I studied Johnson. He was a boyish thirty-seven, outrageously good-looking, with Nordic blue eyes and a full head of blond hair. I was impressed by his enthusiasm, somewhat puzzled by his agreeing to see me within twenty minutes of my phone call. For a busy doctor-businessman he seemed very free with his time—or very anxious to nail the lid on Esteban Morales. He was just a little too eager to please me.
“Dr. Edmonston wasn’t?”
Johnson cleared his throat. “Well, I didn’t mean that. Robert was a … traditionalist. You will find that most doctors are just not that curious. He considered working with Mr. Morales an unnecessary d
rain on our time. I thought it was worth it.”
“Why? What was in it for you?”
He looked slightly hurt. “I considered it a purely scientific inquiry. After all, no doctor ever actually heals anyone. Nor does any medicine. The body heals itself, and all any doctor can do is to try to stimulate the body to do its job. From his advance publicity, Esteban Morales was a man who could do that without benefit of drugs or scalpels. I wanted to see if it was true.”
“Was it?”
Johnson snorted. “Of course not. It was all mumbo jumbo. Oh, he certainly had a psychosomatic effect on some people—but they had to believe in him. From what I could see, the effects of what he was doing were at most ephemeral, and extremely short-lived. I suppose that’s why he panicked.”
“Panicked?”
Johnson’s eyebrows lifted. “The police haven’t told you?”
“I’m running ahead of myself. I haven’t talked to the police yet. I assume you’re talking about the drugs Morales is supposed to have administered.”
“Oh, not supposed to. I saw him, and it was reported to me by the patient.”
“What patient?”
He clucked his tongue. “Surely you can appreciate the fact that I can’t give out patients’ names.”
“Sure. You told Edmonston?”
“It was his patient. And he insisted on filing the complaint himself.” He shook his head. “Dr. Mason would have been doing everyone a favor if she hadn’t insisted on having the university bail him out.”
“Uh-huh. Can you tell me what happened the night Dr. Edmonston died? What you know.”
He thought about it for a while. At least he looked like he was thinking about it. “Dr. Edmonston and I always met on Thursday nights. There were records to be kept, decisions to be made, and there just wasn’t enough time during the week. On that night I was a few minutes late.” He shook his head. “Those few minutes may have cost Robert his life.”
“Maybe. What was Morales doing there?”
“I’m sure I don’t know. Obviously, he was enraged with Robert. He must have found out about the Thursday night meetings while he was working with us, and decided that would be a good time to kill Dr. Edmonston.”
“But if he knew about the meetings, he’d know you’d be there.”
Johnson glanced impatiently at his watch. “I am not privy to what went on in Esteban Morales’ mind. After all, as you must know, he is almost completely illiterate. A stupid man. Perhaps he simply wasn’t thinking straight … if he ever does.” He rose abruptly. “I’m afraid I’ve given you all the time I can afford. I’ve talked to you in the interests of obtaining justice for Dr. Edmonston. I’d hoped you would see that you were wasting your time investigating the matter.”
The interview was obviously over.
Johnson’s story stunk. The problem was how to get someone else to sniff around it. With a prime suspect like Morales in the net, the New York police weren’t about to complicate matters for themselves before they had to, meaning before the senator either got Morales a good lawyer or laid his own career on the line. My job was to prevent that necessity, which meant, at the least, getting Morales out on bail. To do that I was going to have to start raising some doubts.
It was time to talk to Morales.
I stopped off at a drive-in for dinner, took out three hamburgers and a chocolate milk shake intended as a bribe for my outrageously oversized brother. The food wasn’t enough. A half hour later, after threats, shouts and appeals to familial loyalty, I was transformed from a dwarf private detective to a dwarf lawyer and taken to see Esteban Morales. The guard assigned to me thought it was funny as hell.
Esteban Morales looked like an abandoned extra from Viva Zapata. He wore a battered, broad-brimmed straw hat to cover a full head of long, matted gray hair. He wore shapeless corduroy pants and a bulky, torn red sweater. Squatting down on the cell’s dirty cot, his back to the wall, he looked forlorn and lonely. He looked up as I entered. His eyes were a deep, wet brown. Something moved in their depths as he looked at me. Whatever it was—curiosity, perhaps—quickly passed.
I went over to him and held out my hand. “Hello, Mr. Morales. My name is Robert Frederickson. My friends call me Mongo.”
Morales shook for my hand. For an old man, his grip was surprisingly firm. “Glad to meet you, Mr. Mongo,” he said in a thickly accented voice. “You lawyer?”
“No. A private detective. I’d like to try to help you.”
“Who hire you?”
“A friend of yours.” I mouthed the word “senator” so the guard wouldn’t hear me. Morales’ eyes lit up. “Your friend feels that his daughter needs you. I’m going to try to get you out, at least on bail.”
Morales lifted his large hands slowly and studied the palms. I remembered Janet Mason’s Kirlian photographs; I wondered what mysterious force was in those hands, and what its source was. “I help Linda if I can get to see her,” he said quietly. “I must touch.” He suddenly looked up. “I no kill anybody, Mr. Mongo. I never hurt anybody.”
“What happened that night?”
The hands pressed together, dropped between his knees. “Dr. Edmonston no like me. I can tell that. He think I phony. Still he let me help his patients, and I grateful to him for that.”
“Do you think you actually helped any of them?”
Morales smiled disarmingly, like a child who has done something of which he is proud. “I know I did. And the patients, they know. They tell me, and they tell Dr. Edmonston and Dr. Johnson.”
“Did you give drugs to anybody?”
“No, Mr. Mongo.” He lifted his hands. “My power is here, in my hands. All drugs bad for body.”
“Why do you think Dr. Edmonston said you did?”
He shook his head in obvious bewilderment. “One day the police pick me up at university. They say I under arrest for pretending to be doctor. I no understand. Dr. Mason get me out. Then I get message same day—”
“A Thursday?”
“I think so. The message say that Dr. Edmonston want to see me that night at seven-thirty. I want to know why he mad at me, so I decide to go. I come in and find him dead. Somebody cut throat. Dr. Johnson come in a few minutes later. He think I do it. He call police …” His voice trailed off, punctuated by a gesture that included the cell and the unseen world outside. It was an elegant gesture.
“How did you get into the office, Esteban?”
“The lights are on and door open. When nobody answer knock, I walk in.”
I nodded. Esteban Morales was either a monumental acting talent or a man impossible not to believe. “Do you have any idea why Dr. Edmonston wanted to talk to you?”
“No, Mr. Mongo. I thought maybe he sorry he call police.”
“How do you do what you do, Esteban?” The question was meant to surprise him. It didn’t. He simply smiled.
“You think I play tricks, Mr. Mongo?”
“What I think doesn’t matter.”
“They why you ask?”
“I’m curious.”
“Then I answer.” Again he lifted his hands, stared at them. “The body make music, Mr. Mongo. A healthy body make good music. I can hear through my hands. A sick body make bad music. My hands … I can make music good, make it sound like I know it should.” He paused, shook his head. “Not easy to explain, Mr. Mongo.”
“Why were you upset near the end of the project, Esteban?”
“Who told you I upset?”
“Dr. Mason. She said you were having a difficult time affecting the enzymes.”
He took a long time to answer. “I don’t think it right to talk about it.”
“Talk about what, Esteban? How can I help you if you won’t level with me?”
“I know many things about people, but I don’t speak about them,” he said almost to himself. “What make me unhappy have nothing to do with my trouble.”
“Why don’t you let me decide that?”
Again, it took him a long time to ans
wer. “I guess it no make difference any longer.”
“What doesn’t make a difference any longer, Esteban?”
He looked up at me. “Dr. Edmonston was dying. Of cancer.”
“Dr. Edmonston told you that?”
“Oh, no. Dr. Edmonston no tell anyone. He not want anyone to know. But I know.”
“How, Esteban? How did you know?”
He pointed to his eyes. “I see, Mr. Mongo. I see the aura. Dr. Edmonston’s aura brown-black. Flicker. He dying of cancer. I know he have five, maybe six more months to live.” He lowered his eyes and shook his head. “I tell him I know. I tell him I want to help. He get very mad at me. He tell me to mind my own business. That upset me. It upset me to be around people in pain who no want my help.”
My mouth was suddenly very dry. I swallowed hard. “You say you saw this aura?” I remembered the Kirlian photographs Janet Mason had shown me and I could feel a prickling at the back of my neck.
“Yes,” Morales said simply. “I see aura.”
“Can you see anybody’s aura?” I had raised my voice a few notches so that the guard could hear. I shot a quick glance in his direction. He was smirking, which meant we were coming in loud and clear. That was good … maybe.
“Usually. Mostly I see sick people’s aura, because that what I look for.”
“Can you see mine?” I asked.
His eyes slowly came up and met mine. They held. It was a moment of unexpected, embarrassing intimacy, and I knew what he was going to say before he said it.
Esteban Morales didn’t smile. “I can see yours, Mr. Mongo,” he said softly.
He was going to say something else but I cut him off. I was feeling a little light-headed and I wanted to get the next part of the production over as quickly as possible. I could sympathize with Dr. Edmonston.
I pressed the guard and he reluctantly admitted he’d overheard the last part of our conversation. Then I asked him to get Garth.
Garth arrived looking suspicious. Garth always looks suspicious when I send for him. He nodded briefly at Esteban, then looked at me. “What’s up, Mongo?”
“I just want you to sit here for a minute and listen to something.”
In the House of Secret Enemies Page 16
