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. Jordon 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 h
im 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 dryly 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."
"I'm on my way out, Mongo," Garth said irritably. "I've got police business."
"This is police business. Come on, Garth, Give me ten minutes."
He hesitated, then gestured impatiently for me to lead the way.
Esteban glanced up as Garth and I entered the cell. His eyes were bright with curiosity. "Esteban," I said, "I'd like the Lieutenant to hear the rest of our conversation." Out of the corner of my eye I could see that Garth had leaned his tall, gaunt frame against the bars on the opposite side of the cell and was tapping his foot rhythmically-a sure sign of impatience. "Esteban," I continued quickly, "will you tell the Lieutenant what a human 'aura' is?"
Esteban described the aura, and I followed up by describing the Kirlian photographs Janet had shown me-what they were, and what they purported to show. Garth's foot continued its relentless tapping. Once he glanced at his watch.
"Esteban," I said, "what does the Lieutenant's aura look like?"
"The Lieutenant looks fine," the old man said, puzzled.
"What about me?"
Esteban abruptly shook his head and dropped his gaze.
The foot tapping behind me had stopped. Suddenly Garth was beside me, gripping my arm. "Mongo, what the hell is this all about?"
"Just listen!" I rasped. "Esteban, can you see my aura? Damn it! If you can, say so! I may be able to help you, but you have to do as I ask!"
Esteban slowly raised his head. His brown eyes were moist, filled with compassion. "Why do you want me to say it, Mongo? You know, and I cannot help you."
Garth gripped my arm even tighter. I pulled away from him. "Tell me what it is you see, Esteban," I said in a hoarse whisper.
"You are dying, Mongo."
"You have to tell me more!" I snapped. "Be more specific!"
"Your organs are like your body, Mongo; twisted. . dwarfed. They are not normal. You have a very strong will and life force, but that is not enough. You are still dying."
"Tell me how many years I have left," I said, swallowing hard. I suddenly felt sick to my stomach. "The Lieutenant and I know; let's see if you know."
"Maybe four, five years," Esteban said resignedly. "I do not know for sure. Why do you make me say these things?"
The healer and I stared at each other, our gazes locked. I felt light-headed, even more nauseated. There was no satisfaction in the other man's face-only sorrow. Whatever Morales did, I thought, it was for real. Janet Monroe and Yvonne Mercado were right.
I tore my gaze away from Esteban and spun around to face Garth. I'd caught him at a bad moment; his face was twisted, his eyes full of pain. My brother was rather fond of me.
"Well, brother?" I asked, hoping I had my smile on straight. "It's true that anyone might know that dwarfs aren't long-lived, but how does Mr. Morales' opinion stack up against the medical authorities'?"
Garth's voice was cracked and hollow. "Your clients get a lot for their money, Mongo." He swallowed, looked away. "I'm impressed, sure; but it doesn't prove anything."
"Was an autopsy performed on Samuels?"
"I don't know," Garth said distantly. "Cause of death was obvious. If there was an autopsy, the report's probably been filed away by now."
"Well, check it out. If Esteban's right, Samuels' body was riddled with cancer. He only had a few more months to live, and Esteban knew that. Since Esteban knew Samuels was going to die anyway, why kill him? This man just doesn't have that kind of passion."
"It still doesn't prove anything, Mongo," Garth said hoarsely. "I wish it did."
"It should be enough to raise reasonable doubt that Esteban did it. Look, all I'm trying to do is light some fires under the investigation. Will you do some more checking?"
Garth looked over at Esteban. "I'll have another talk with Jordon about that list of patients." He looked back at me, smiled thinly. "You all right, brother?"
"Of course I'm all right. Hell, we're all dying, aren't we?" My laugh turned sharp and bitter. "When you've been dying as long as I have, you get used to it. Hey, I want to use your phone to make a long-distance call. I'll charge it to my home phone-okay?"
"I'll clear it with the switchboard." Garth nodded curtly, seemed to hesitate, then abruptly turned and walked out of the cell.
Esteban was still staring at me. "I am sorry, Mongo," he said quietly.
"Tell me about Dr. Jordon," I said absently, struggling to get my mind back on business. "You got on well together, didn't you?"
He hesitated a moment, then said, "Si. We got along fine. It was Dr. Jordon who persuaded Dr. Samuels to take part in the experiment."
There was something in Esteban's voice that didn't quite ring true, and I spoke to that. "Do you like Jordon personally?"
He raised his eyebrows. "Oh, I like Dr. Jordon fine. But it was hard to work with his patients. I feel sorry for him. I think he tries very hard, but not everybody should be a doctor."
"Really? Are you saying that Dr. Jordon isn't a good doctor?"
Esteban's eyes clouded. "I am not saying that, Mongo. It is not my place to say that. I think Dr. Jordon is a fine man. He has been very good to me. He tries hard to be a good doctor."
"But you don't think he is a good doctor," I persisted.
Esteban said nothing. I kept pressing, but he only sat and shook his head. Finally I left the cell and made a quick call to Washington.
Senator Younger was in his office. He had a number of questions, all of which I finessed in one way or another. The point of the call was to let him know that I was working on the case, and that the police might be a little more interested now in looking for other suspects.
After hanging up, I went outside and lighted a cigarette. It tasted bitter, but that didn't stop me from smoking it down to the end. When I finished that one, I lighted another. I stood motionless on the sidewalk, smoking and playing sponge-soaking up the minutest smells, sights and sounds of the city around me. I missed it already. Dying can be a distraction.
Chapter 10
On my way up to my apartment I reflected on the fact that the building where I lived had no 13th floor listed; the numbering in the elevator went from 12 to 14. Black cats, not walking under ladders-and religion-were, of course, part of the culture, but I was particularly struck by the 13th-floor syndrome: the occult-in the form of the magical number 13-had become institutionalized.
After a short nap, I shaved, showered and went to the hospital, where I checked with Dr. Greene. Kathy was still in a coma, and they were awaiting the results of the latest tests. I mentioned the possibility of induced coma, but without using the word "spell." Greene listened patiently, with a straight face, but I could tell he was amused. He promised to let me know if there was any change, and I went over to the Intensive Care Unit. I found April Marlowe sitting idly in a small adjacent waiting room. She was staring off into space, lost in thought. I stood in the doorway for a long time, watching her. She was dressed in boots, straight black skirt and a loose-fitting blouse that didn't quite disguise her full bosom.
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