Bradshaw. I called to see if you're willing to follow through on ourconversation this afternoon."

"I'm afraid I couldn't possibly, notwithout Roy's consent. He handles the money in the family, you know. Now I'mgoing to ask you to cut this short, Mr. Archer. I'm expecting to hear from Royat any moment."

She hung up on me. I seemed to be losingmy touch with little old ladies. I went into the washroom and looked at my facein the mirror above the row of basins. Someone had written in pencil on thewall: Support Mental Health or I'll kill you.

A small brown newsboy came into thewashroom and caught me grinning at my reflection. I pretended to be examiningmy teeth. He looked about ten years old, and conducted himself like a miniatureadult.

"Read all about the murder," hesuggested.

I bought a local paper from him. The leadstory was headlined: "PPC Teacher Shot," with the subhead:"Mystery Student to be Questioned." In effect, it tried and convictedDolly. She had "registered fradulently, using an alias." Herfriendship with Helen was described as "a strange relationship." TheS and W thirty-eight found in her bed was "the murder weapon." Shehad "a dark secret in her past"—the McGee killing—and was"avoiding questioning by the police."

No other possible suspect was mentioned.The man from Reno didn't appear in the story.

In lieu of doing something constructive Itore the paper to pieces and dropped the pieces in the trash basket. Then Iwent back to the telephone booths. Dr. Godwin's answering service wanted toknow if it was an emergency.

"Yes. It has to do with a patient of Dr.Godwin's."

"Are you the patient, sir?"

"Yes," I lied, wondering if this meant Ineeded help.

The switchboard girl said in a gentler voice:"The last time the doctor called in he was at home."

She recited his number but I didn't useit. I wanted to talk to Godwin face to face. I got his address out of thedirectory and drove across town to his house.

It was one of a number of large houses seton the edge of a mesa which normally overlooked the harbor and the city.Tonight it was islanded by the fog.

Behind the Arizona fieldstone front of thehouse a tenor and a soprano were singing a heartbreaking duet from La Bohe'me.

The door was answered by a handsome womanwearing a red silk brocade coat and the semi-professional smile that doctors'wives acquire. She seemed to recognize my name.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Archer. My husbandwas here until just a few minutes ago. We were actually listening to music fora change. Then a young man called—the husband of one of his patients—and heagreed to meet him at the nursing home."

"It wasn't Alex Kincaid whocalled?"

"I believe it was. Mr. Archer?"She stepped outside, a brilliant and very feminine figure in her red coat."My husband has spoken of you. I understand you're working on thiscriminal case he's involved with."

"Yes."

Her hand touched my arm. "I'm worriedabout him. He's taking this thing so seriously. He seems to think that he letthe girl down when she was his patient before, and that it makes himresponsible for everything that's happened." Her fine long eyes looked upat me, asking for reassurance.

"He isn't," I said.

"Will you tell him so? He won'tlisten to me. There are very few people he will listen to. But he seems to havesome respect for you, Mr. Archer."

"It's mutual. I doubt that he'd wantmy opinion on the subject of his responsibility, though. He's a very powerfuland temperamental man, easy to cross."

"You're telling me," she said."I suppose I had no right to ask you to speak to him. But the way he pourshis life away into those patients of his—" Her hand moved from her breastin an outward gesture.

"He seems to thrive on it."

"I don't." She made a wry face."Physician's wife, heal thyself, eh?"

"You're thriving by all appearances," Isaid. "That's a nice coat, by the way."

"Thank you. Jim bought it for me in Paris lastsummer."

I left her smiling less professionally,and went to the nursing home. Alex's red Porsche was standing at the curb infront of the big plain stucco building. I felt my heartbeat pounding in myears. Something good could still happen.

A Spanish American nurse's aide in a blueand white uniform unlocked the door and let me into the front room to wait forDr. Godwin. Nell and several other bathrobed patients were watching atelevision drama about a pair of lawyers, father and son. They paid noattention to me. I was only a reallife detective, unemployed at the moment. Butnot, I hoped, for long.

I sat in an empty chair to one side. Thedrama was well directed and well played but I couldn't keep my mind on it. Ibegan to watch the four people who were watching it. Nell the somnambulist, herblack hair hanging like tangled sorrows down her back, held cupped in her handsthe blue ceramic ashtray she had made. A young man with an untrimmed beard andrebellious eyes looked like a conscientious objector to everything. Athin-haired man, who was trembling with excitement, went on trembling rightthrough the commercial. An old woman had a translucent face through which herlife burned like a guttering candle. Step back a little and you could almostimagine that they were three generations of one family, grandmother, parents,and son, at home on a Saturday night.

Dr. Godwin appeared in the inner doorwayand crooked his finger at me. I followed him down the hallway through athickening hospital odor, into a small cramped office. He switched on a lampover the desk and sat behind it. I took the only other chair.

© Alexander Sviyash, 2009