John D. MacDonald
A Criminal Mind
Argen checked in just before lunch and they told him he was wanted back at the hospital. At first he thought the girl had died and then he realized that if she had, they would have told him and would have assigned somebody to work with him on the case. He was glad she hadn’t died. They had acted pretty gloomy about her chances but Argen knew that when they were young like this girl, like this Helen Matthews, the longer they hung on the better the chances were.
He stopped at the hospital desk and told the girl his name and she said a Mr. Matthews wanted to see him. That was Mr. Matthews over there.
Matthews was in one of the small alcoves off the main waiting room. He looked up as Argen walked toward him and then stood up quickly. He was a trim man in his fifties with a silver-hair look of importance and expensive, conservative clothes. He looked both nervous and belligerent.
“You’re Argen?”
“Detective Sergeant Paul Argen,” he said, and sat down. Matthews stood for a few seconds, then sat down on the edge of the chair facing Argen.
“They let me look at her but they won’t let me stay in the room with her. I wanted her moved to a better room but they won’t move her. I want to know about this. I want to know how such a thing can happen.”
He’s used to pushing people around, Argen thought. People like me. “I can tell you all we know. It isn’t much. An old guy was walking his dog. The dog found her and started whining and sniffing and the old guy lighted a match and made sure it wasn’t just another drunk. They get drunk and crawl off in those little parks up there and pass out. Precinct got the call at three minutes after ten last night.”
“Last night!” Matthews said. “Why wasn’t I notified? Why the delay?”
Argen sat stolid and expressionless in the chair and let the questions hang in the air. He was a big man, thick-waisted, heavy-footed, meaty. He sat there in his baggy blue suit and felt stubborn. When he felt stubborn there was nothing on earth that could move him.
“Why don’t you answer me?”
“You want to listen or you want to ask questions?”
Matthews made a helpless gesture and said, with exasperation, “All right. All right. I’ll listen.”
“The prowl car was there in three minutes. The old guy showed them the body. When he’d lighted the match he’d seen the blood on her hair, so the ambulance call was already in. She was face down, her head turned to and left, and she’d been hit over the left ear and a little bit in back, so it looks like she was hit from behind, so the guy who hit her was maybe left-handed. From the marks she’d been dragged from where he hit her, dragged maybe twenty feet by the wrists. He probably hit her while she was on the sidewalk. It’s dark and quiet there and maybe he was following her, waiting for the right spot. There wasn’t a purse or identification of any sort. I got to the hospital after they’d taken her up for the emergency operation. They let me look her clothes over. I saw the Boston label in her suit and I saw her clothes were good stuff.
“Precinct detailed some men to the area. I went back to help. Usually you find the purse after the guy strips it. We figured it was straight robbery because he didn’t mess with her at all. We didn’t have any luck. We quit and I went back at daylight and I found the purse. He’d thrown it into a clump of brush and the strap had caught and it was maybe seven feet in the air. We’d been putting the lights on the ground and missed it. The purse didn’t hold a print. There was no money in it. He’d left her identification, so when I got back they put in a call to you.”
“I got the first flight I could.”
“Now I’ve got some questions. Where was she living here?”
“She was just down on a shopping trip. She’d been here three days. She was going to stay a week or ten days. My office made her reservation for her. At the Patterson. Helen needed a change. She and the man she was going to marry broke up. It was pretty unpleasant all the way around. She was restless and depressed.”
“Any chance he followed her down here?”
“Here? Oh, no. He was on leave. He’s with the State Department. He flew back to Paris three weeks ago.”
“I guess it’s just what it looks like. He followed her because she looked like money and then he rapped her so she wouldn’t yell. He maybe used a spring sap. And he’s no expert. They’re tricky. You build up a hell of a blow with just a quick flick.”
“This man that operated, this Doctor Schatz — is he competent?”
“This is a good hospital. He’s a resident surgeon, and he specializes in brain surgery.”
“He looks too young to be good. He can’t have had much experience.”
“You want to get experience fast, I guess you get it in a place like this, Mr. Matthews. I better go pick up her stuff from the hotel. Where do you want I should send it?”
“Check it right there in my name. I’ll register later. My office made a reservation for me.”
Argen promised to keep in touch with Matthews. By showing his credentials he got up to the third floor. The private nurse hired by Matthews came to the door of the room and said that Dr. Schatz was with the patient. Argen could see into the room. It was a two-bed room. The other bed was empty. He saw the girl’s face for the first time. The features were delicate. Her complexion was a dirty gray in contrast with the white gleam of the bandage that entirely covered her head. Schatz was thumbing up her eyelid and shining a light into her eye. He turned and saw Argen, then gave the nurse instructions and came out.
Down the corridor they walked, side by side. Schatz was young and blond and tall and he looked weary.
“How’s she doing?”
“All right so far. Sergeant.”
“You want to make a guess about the odds?”
Schatz shrugged. “Give her one in five. It was a hell of a blow. And a hard place to work.” He stopped and touched Argen with his finger, touched him above and behind the left ear. “Right here. The hone is thick there. But it was smashed. Splinters driven through the dura into the brain tissue. I had to saw out a piece bigger than a silver dollar, stop the bleeding, find the splinters, pin a plate over the hole. Four-hour job.”
“If she makes it, will she be okay?”
“Hard to tell. I’d say yes. Whoever hit her was trying to kill her.”
“That doesn’t make sense.”
“I can’t help that.” They had paused by the elevators. Schatz smiled tiredly and said. “Mr. Matthews is getting some top people in to look her over. I don’t have a goatee and glasses on a string, and the only accent I’ve got is Indiana. So he’s unhappy.”
“When can she talk?”
“Not for forty-eight hours anyway.”
The Patterson Hotel was an enormous, glossy building, a favorite spot for businessmen to hold their conventions. Argen arrived at one-thirty after a quick lunch. The lobby was busy. Argen found one of the assistant managers, a tall man with nervous mannerisms and the superficial good looks of a floorwalker. He showed his credentials and explained his mission. The assistant manager wore a strained and wary expression until he found out that the hotel did not seem to be involved. He went behind the registration desk and Argen waited.
He came back in five minutes and said, “That was Miss Helen Matthews, spelled with a double t. She made a reservation for ten days. Her father has stayed with us for years. She checked out yesterday, Sergeant.”
Argen stared at him blankly for a moment. “Can you find out what time?”
“I looked at our copy of the receipt. She paid in cash. She checked out at nine o’clock yesterday evening. So I’m afraid we can’t help you any further than that.”