Night-World (5 page)

Barringer was leaning forward. “What’s her name?”

“Dorothy. Dorothy Anderson.”

Sergeant Cole was already scribbling on his note pad.

“Any idea where she lives?”

“I’m not sure.” Karen hesitated. “But I think I remember her saying something about moving a few months ago. That’s right—she was moving into an apartment in Sherman Oaks.”

CHAPTER 7

I
t is a matter of historical record that William Tecumseh Sherman never set foot in Sherman Oaks. He was much too busy marching through Georgia.

Dorothy Anderson envied him.

From what she remembered reading in school, the march through Georgia wasn’t exactly a picnic; it had probably been hot as hell, but it couldn’t have been anywhere near the temperature of her one-bedroom apartment on the first floor. And the noise the soldiers endured was surely no worse than she suffered every weekend when those two airline stewardesses held open house for their own private army of volunteers recruited from the Swinging Singles bar down on Magnolia.

Dorothy had never seen any magnolias on Magnolia Boulevard. Come to think of it, she hadn’t seen many oaks in Sherman Oaks.

The sole reason she had taken the apartment was convenience. It was two blocks from the Freeway, and less than half an hour from the sanatorium, and she figured that every evening by six-thirty she’d be home free.

Only, a hundred and fifty a month doesn’t buy much of a home nowadays. Take tonight for example. In spite of the air-conditioning unit wheezing on the wall, the place was like an oven, if you can imagine an oven furnished in early Sears.

As for freedom, what did it amount to? It meant Dorothy was at liberty to shop at the supermarket, haul her groceries home, unpack them, cook her own meal over the ancient stove and sit down to a frozen food dinner, with yummy natural gravy brought to a simmering delight through the miracle of natural gas. That’s what the commercials said, anyway. Just for the hell of it Dorothy wondered what it would be like to enjoy a meal with some unnatural gravy, heated with unnatural gas.

She put the thought away; if she wasn’t careful she’d start sounding like those poor dingalings at the san.

Dorothy cleared the table, washed the dishes. That was more than the dingalings had to do, because they really weren’t poor. They were rich, or their families were rich; had to be, at the prices old Griswold charged. But in return for the money, they got the red-carpet treatment. Run of the house, run of those lovely grounds behind the san. Sure, there was a fence around the place, but there was a fence around everybody now. And if you don’t believe it, just try to go somewhere without an I.D., take a trip outside the country without a passport, or turn right on a one-way street routed left. See how far you can march through Georgia today before some redneck sheriff busts you for vagrancy. For that matter, you don’t even have to go anywhere to run smack up against a fence—carefully woven of city, county, state and federal tax blanks, insurance premium statements and notices of payments due from the credit card companies.

The poor dingalings didn’t have
that
to worry about; they didn’t have to cook and eat frozen dinners, or wash plastic plates afterwards.

So maybe they weren’t even dingalings; maybe they knew something she didn’t know. Something about letting it all hang out, and not giving a damn who saw. Maybe
she
was the dingaling, spending her own life looking after them.
You don’t have to be crazy to work here, but it helps.

Dorothy stacked the plastic dishes on the plastic liner of the cupboard, then walked six paces into the living room and fiddled with the plastic knobs on the portable television set.

It wasn’t that she wanted to watch a particular program, but the noise would help; at least it would serve as a counter-irritant to the sound of the neighbors’ stereo booming through the wall.

She could go out, of course, but where? The local movie house was showing a revival of two classic comedies—one dealing with an angry young man who ran around wearing a gorilla costume, and the other dealing with a placid young man who enjoyed sexual intercourse with a pet pig. Artistic and meaningful as these two critic-acclaimed epics might be, Dorothy knew they would only serve to remind her of her patients.

There was, as an alternative, the Swinging Singles bar patronized by the fly girls upstairs. But it was, Dorothy reminded herself, no place for a woman of thirty-nine
(all right, forty-four!).
She’d been there or to similar spots too many times, and always she ended up with a charmer.

The world—at least the
Entertainment Nitely
world of local taverns—was full of charmers. Witty, well-dressed, suntanned men of thirty-nine
(forty-four?)
with just a touch of gray at the temples and a touch of dye or a toupée on top, all driving secondhand sports cars on which they were behind two payments. They were also behind on their alimony, but you didn’t hear about that until after you discovered that the handsome suntan ended just below the collar line of their necks, and the trim waistline vanished once the too-tight trousers were removed.

Charm.
Funny how few people seemed to know what the word really meant. A formula, a spell created to cast illusion. Something used by magicians, for deception. Dorothy had learned to beware of charmers, learned the hard way about what was hidden underneath the easy smile and the facile flattery. And not just from one-night stands, either; she’d learned it in her day-to-day duties. Far too many of those who ended up at Griswold’s sanatorium were charmers. Glib talkers, specializing in sincerity and sentimentality, quickening to remorse and self-reproach and promises of penitence for every misdeed. And beneath the artfully acquired ability to manipulate others, beneath the carefully calculated con, there was the little boy who never grew up, because he never
had
to grow up; who had Mommy and Daddy to tell him how cute he was and to take care of the messes for him. Then, later on, there was always some Dorothy or her equivalent; some dumb klutz ready to listen, to pay up the installments, put up with the lies and the delusions of grandeur. Until, of course, the little boy ran into a problem which charm wouldn’t solve. Then he fell apart and ended up, kicking and screaming, locked in a closet—or a prison cell. Or, if somebody could afford it, Dr. Griswold’s sanatorium.

Dorothy didn’t want any more charmers because she could always see the little boy underneath—the little boy who was incapable of really loving anything or anyone but himself, and who foiled frustration by cutting up cats with a butcher knife.

So she turned on the television and watched professional charmers enact a charade about an ever-so-clever and sophisticated private detective whose skills as a scientific criminologist were deftly demonstrated when he smashed the villain in the jaw and dropped him with a karate cut.

Two more equally superficial shows, and the late news came on.
That
wasn’t quite as charming, so Dorothy turned it down. Down, but not off. She still wanted to hear the sound of voices, wanted audible reassurance that she wasn’t entirely alone. At thirty-nine—or forty-four—nobody really wants to be alone, come midnight.

Dorothy went into the bedroom and removed the bedspread. She got her nightie out of the closet and hung it in the bathroom. From this point on, her movements were entirely automatic, conditioned by long habit.

The newscaster said something she didn’t quite catch about the situation in Asia as she undressed. The account of the demonstration and riot in Washington was muffled by the sound of the spray when she showered. Drying herself with a towel, and slipping on her nightie, Dorothy glanced out through the bathroom doorway; on the television screen an incredibly ugly middle-aged couple were mugging in feigned delight over a jar of instant coffee.

It was almost time for the weather report which would help determine what clothing she’d lay out for the morning. She opened the window in the steamy bathroom and went into the living room so as not to miss it.

The commentator was saying something about a late bulletin. “Patients escaped tonight from a private rest home in Topanga Canyon, leaving four dead.”

Dorothy gasped and hastily turned up the volume.

“—victims of what was apparently a suprise murder attack have been identified as Dr. Leonard Griswold, 51, owner and operator of the sanatorium, Mrs. Myrtle Freeling and Herbert Thomas, members of the staff—”

“Oh, my God!” said Dorothy.

Then the phone rang.

She ran into the bedroom and picked up the receiver.

“Miss Anderson? This is Lieutenant Barringer, Los Angeles Police Department.”

It was hard to hear over the television set. The Lieutenant was saying something about discovering the bodies.

“I know,” Dorothy told him. “I was just listening to it on the news.”

The breeze from the bathroom window couldn’t reach her but Dorothy was cold all over—cold and trembling. She missed the Lieutenant’s next few words and strained to hear.

“—apparently one of the patients, and we need your help in identifying her. An elderly woman, about sixty-five, short, quite thin, wearing rimless glasses—”

“Mrs. Polacheck,” said Dorothy. “Frances Polacheck. P-O-L-A-C-H-E-C-K. No, I don’t. She was a widow. I think she lived in Huntington Park, she has a sister there.”

“How many other patients were staying at the sanatorium?”

“Five.” There was no draft, but Dorothy was shivering. “For God’s sake, tell me what happened—”

“Can you give me their names, please?”

“Yes.” Dorothy took a deep breath. She could feel a hint of an air current. She turned and saw that the door of the bedroom closet behind her was opening.

Dorothy started to scream, but it was too late.

In a moment there were four things open in the apartment. The bathroom window. The door of the closet. The kitchen drawer where the butcher knife was kept. And the jugular vein in Dorothy’s throat.

On the television set in the living room, the announcer promised her that tomorrow would be fair and warmer.

CHAPTER 8

T
he morning sunlight streamed through the window behind Dr. Vicente, haloing his bald head.

Karen, seated across the desk from him, blinked in the brightness. Her sleep-starved eyes were gritty, and she leaned back to avoid the glare. But there was no way of avoiding the direct gaze of the police psychiatrist. Or his direct questions.

“Why was your husband in the sanatorium?”

“Please.” Karen shook her head. “I explained everything to Lieutenant Barringer last night. Couldn’t you get all this from his notes?”

“I have a transcript of your statement here.” Dr. Vicente glanced briefly at the typed sheets on the desk before him. “But it would help if you could give us a little more information.” He smiled at her. “For example, you mentioned your husband’s nervous condition. That’s not very specific. Could you describe his behavior?”

Karen shifted her chair to the left, trying to get the sun out of her eyes. “There’s not much to describe, really. It’s only that he seemed very quiet. Too quiet.”

“Withdrawn?”

“I suppose you might call it that. He spent a lot of time just sitting around. Not reading or watching television—just sitting. He didn’t seem interested in seeing our friends, or even going out to dinner or a show. And he got into this habit of sleeping until noon.”

“Did he complain of fatigue?”

“No. Bruce never complained. He never talked about how he felt.”

“What
did
he talk about?”

“Well—at first he said he was going to send out some resumés, try to set up interviews with people in the industry. He’d been in computer-data work before he went into service. But I don’t think he ever actually followed through.”

“You never questioned him about it?”

“No. Because I could see there was something wrong, even though he refused to say what was bothering him.”

“But you must have discussed it, before you decided to put him in the sanatorium.”

Karen forced herself to meet Dr. Vicente’s gaze. “Bruce was the only one who decided, really. He knew he had a problem, and he wanted help.”

“I see.” Dr. Vicente leaned back. “But from what I understand, the sanatorium was rather expensive. Surely you realized therapy was available without charge through the Veterans Administration.”

“No—he hated the thought of a veterans’ hospital—”

“Why?”

“He said the mental wards were like a prison, only worse. He couldn’t stand the thought of being penned in like some animal—”

Dr. Vicente spoke softly. “Had your husband ever been in the mental ward of a veterans’ hospital, Mrs. Raymond?”

The grittiness disappeared from Karen’s eyes, inundated by sudden tears. “Don’t talk about Bruce that way! I told you he committed himself voluntarily, and Dr. Griswold said he was ready for release. He isn’t crazy—he never was!”

It wasn’t until she thought about it later than Karen realized Lieutenant Barringer must have been monitoring the interview from another room. But now, as he came through the doorway, all she could see was a tired man who badly needed a shave.

“Not interrupting, am I?” he said.

Dr. Vicente shook his head. Karen blotted her eyes with a handkerchief from her purse.

Barringer moved toward the desk. “Just wanted you to know we’re broadcasting the appeal. All radio and television newscasts will carry it throughout the day. We’re asking the families of the missing sanatorium patients to get in touch—identify their relatives and give any information they have concerning their whereabouts.”

Dr. Vicente sighed. “If I were you, I wouldn’t count on them for help.”

“Why not?”

“I’m afraid those families probably feel the way Mrs. Raymond does—they don’t want to run the risk of possibly incriminating a husband, a wife, a son or daughter. You’ve got to remember those patients were placed in the sanatorium for the express purpose of keeping their condition a private matter. These murders will only intensify the families’ desire to protect their loved ones from possible accusation.”