I was in such a hurry to finish that I flew right past it, and only realized what I had seen when I was halfway down the next page.
Turning back, I stared at it for a long time, wondering why I had not put it all together before.
I had worked straight through lunch and far into the afternoon and had lost all track of time.
“Call Court Records and ask them to order up from the archives the court file from State v. Elliott Winston,” I said to Helen on my way out the door. “It’s an old case-about twelve years ago-
Quincy Griswald was the judge. I don’t have a case number. Then call the state hospital and tell Dr. Friedman I’d like to see him as soon as possible.”
Twenty
When I told Flynn what I had found, and what I thought, he looked at me as if I were the one who should be in the state hospital. “What are you suggesting: that Elliott Winston killed Jeffries and then Griswald?”
“No,” I objected. “I’m not suggesting that at all. I’m saying that the two murders seem to be connected somehow. All I know for sure is that Jeffries managed to drive Elliott over the brink, and Griswald was the judge who sent him away.”
“To the state hospital,” Flynn reminded me. “Not to prison.
The guy tried to kill you. Griswald did him a favor.”
“Did he?” I wondered aloud. “Elliott didn’t have a criminal record. He thought I was having an affair with his wife, and I would have testified that he only meant to scare me. The gun went off during a struggle. Even if he had been sentenced to prison-instead of probation-he would have been out years ago.”
Unconvinced, Flynn shook his head. “Griswald was just doing his job. He didn’t have any choice. When someone gets sent to the state hospital, it’s all according to the statute.”
We were standing in front of the county jail, a few minutes past four in the afternoon, waiting to see John Smith. The trees in the park across the street cast their shadows on the sidewalk as the sun slipped down the western sky. With a purse slung over her shoulder and a child clutching each hand, a stocky young woman, her legs stuffed into her jeans, hurried down the steps.
“Doesn’t matter anyway,” Flynn went on, narrowing his eyes.
“We already know who murdered Jeffries.” I was not sure we knew that, or anything else. “All right,” he said, beginning to get ex-asperated, “let’s say we don’t know who killed Jeffries; let’s say we ignore the confession, the suicide, everything. Elliott Winston is locked up tight in the forensic ward of the state hospital. It sounds like a pretty good alibi to me.”
“I told you,” I said more sharply than I intended, “I’m not suggesting Elliott killed anyone. I’m not suggesting he had anything to do with it.”
He stared at me, a puzzled expression on his face. “Then what are you suggesting?”
I was not quite sure. I had that helpless feeling of grasping at something vague and indefinable, something you thought for a moment you understood, but that suddenly, as soon as you have to explain it, vanishes from view.
“I don’t know,” I admitted, still trying to think of what it was.
“You’re right. Elliott couldn’t have done it, but it doesn’t seem possible that it’s all just a coincidence.”
Flynn peered down at his shoes and stroked his chin. “What else could it be?” he asked, raising his eyes until our gazes met.
“The one who confessed to killing Jeffries-the one who killed himself-was a mental patient.”
“And?”
“And it would be interesting to know if Elliott knew him.”
“The hospital has hundreds of patients. But even if he knew him, so what?”
“Then we have another coincidence, don’t we?”
Flynn put his hand on my shoulder as we began to walk toward the front entrance. “All you have then is that a mental patient who once knew someone who got killed happened to know another mental patient who happened to kill him. Go to the hospital; talk to the doctor-talk to Elliott: Find out everything you can about Jacob Whittaker. Maybe there is a connection between the death of Jeffries and the death of Griswald; maybe there is a connection between the two killers… But Elliott Winston? If you didn’t know what Jeffries had done to him-if you didn’t know what his wife had done to him-you wouldn’t even be thinking about it.”
He was right of course, and at least on a conscious level I knew it. I put aside all my vague imaginings and dim suspicions and tried instead to concentrate on the reason we were there.
“Did the psychologist agree to see Smith?” I asked as we got to the door.
“He will,” Flynn replied confidently. “I haven’t called him yet.
I wanted to see what we could do first.”
We could not do much. John Smith was brought into the small, windowless conference room. His head hung down between his shoulders and swayed from side to side, while his eyes, glazed over, remained fixed on the same point. The jailer walked him to the table where Flynn and I sat waiting, helped him into the chair, then knelt down beside him and removed the handcuffs. Powerfully built, with a square jaw and broad straight shoulders, the deputy gently patted him on the back.
“You’ll be all right here,” he said in a soft voice. “This is your lawyer, Mr. Antonelli. He was in court with you today. Remember?”
The head stopped moving. A shy smile started onto his mouth and then floated away. He looked at me a moment longer and then, as he lowered his eyes, his head drooped down and began to sway slowly first to one side, then the other.
I spoke to him in the tone of voice I would have used with a child. “John, this is Mr. Flynn. He’s going to help us with your case. Would you like to say hello?”
If he heard, he gave no sign of it. His head swung like a pen-dulum, a long, looping motion that when it reached full extension at one end, hesitated for just an instant, and then fell away, speeding backward through the same trajectory until, at the other end, it stopped again.
Flynn seemed to grow nervous. Though it was against the rules, the guard had gone. He pulled a cigarette out of his pocket and with his thumb flipped open the cover of a matchbook. It was barely audible, but at the sound of it, John Smith’s head froze. I turned to Flynn, but it was too late. He struck the match, and as it burst into flame, John Smith jumped away, knocking over the metal folding chair. “No!” he cried. “No! No fire! Don’t hurt!
Don’t hurt!” he screamed. He sank down in the far corner of the room, as far away as he could get, his arms crossed in front of his face, cowering with fear.
Flynn was on his feet, the unlit cigarette stuck in his mouth, the burning match still held in his hand. “I’m sorry,” he said, trying to appear calm. He took the cigarette out of his mouth. “See?
I was just going to light this. I wasn’t going to hurt you.” Cautiously, he took a step forward. The boy-and he was only that-
drew his knees farther up and tightened his arms around them.
Flynn took another step forward and went down on one knee.
He held the match in front of him. “Look,” he said. “I’ll put it out.”
Words meant nothing. At the sight of that match, he screamed,
“No, please no!”
Flynn held it there, the flame grown larger, and then slowly closed his thumb and forefinger around it and crushed it out. It must have hurt, but you could not tell it from the expression on Flynn’s face. The boy’s eyes widened in amazement and the shaking began to stop.
“I’m sorry,” Flynn repeated. He got to his feet and reached down to help him up. The boy watched him but kept gripping his knees.