Dead Cold Mysteries Box Set #3: Books 9-12 (A Dead Cold Box Set) Blake Banner (best books to read ever txt) đ
- Author: Blake Banner
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âI see. That makes perfect sense.â He gave a small sigh. âBe prepared. Simon is more or less coherent most of the time. He has made some progress over the years, he isâŠâ He frowned at his desk like he felt there was something wrong with it, but he wasnât sure what. âHe is attempting to feel remorse for what he did, but he doesnât know how to. He is a deeply troubled man, who suffered a great deal as a child.â He frowned at us. âYou may ask him about one thing, and he will answer something that to you may seem completely unrelated and irrelevant, but to him it will make perfect sense. This is to be expected in schizophrenics. I donât know if you will find what you came looking for, but I hope you do.â
âThank you. Weâll bear it in mind, but itâs pretty much what we expected.â I hesitated a moment, then asked, âDoctor, were you his psychiatrist? Was it you who made the move to have him sectioned?â
He studied me for a moment. âDetective, I authorized this visit on the strict understanding that the secret nature of the file would be respected absolutely. Anything I tell you remains strictly between we three.â
Chiddester hadnât told me that, but I saw no point arguing, so I said, âThat is understood, Doctor.â
He nodded a few times, then seemed to examine Dehanâs face. âYes, I was his psychiatrist. I donât know if you realize this, but it is extremely unusual for a schizophrenic to seek the help of a professional. So when Simon came to me, I at first thought that he was simply fantasizing. He had seen the murders in the papers, or on television, and projected himself into them, to make himself feel important. But with the last murderâŠâ He gazed away to his left, trying to remember the name.
I said, âKathleen Dodge.â
âKathleen, Kathleen Dodge, he told me about her before the police found the body. The whole thing was plagued with problems: confidentiality, his statusâwas he fit to stand trialâwitnesses; I would be the only witness and my testimony might be ruled as hearsayâŠâ He shook his head. âAnd then there was the issue of trust. If I reported him to the police, he would feel betrayed and the only person in the world who had access to him, me, would be lost, he would never talk to me again. It seemed to me that the most sensible thing to do was to have him quietly sectioned, a procedure I was able to make him understand was for his own good.â
He made to stand and said, âWhy donât I take you to him? I assure you he is medicated and he is not dangerous. Talk to him for a while, see what you get, and then come and see me again.â
âYeah.â I nodded. âThatâs good. Thank you.â
And we rose and went to see Simon Clarence.
FOURTEEN
He was sitting at a table on a stone terrace at the back of the house. A broad lawn swept away toward hedgerows, about a quarter of a mile away, and people, some of them in brilliant white coats and dresses, wandered this way and that, or just sat and stared.
Simon Clarence was dressed in white: white deck shoes, white pants and a white shirt. He looked up at us as we came out. He was thin, with immensely long limbs, and seated in the chair, he reminded me of a bent wire hanger. I figured he must be at least six foot six, with a large, bony face, high cheekbones and a strong nose. He could have been good-looking, but there was something unsettling about his stare, like his eyes were searching for something, and didnât care what they had to do to find it.
Fenshaw pulled up a chair and sat opposite him. Then he smiled at us and said, âSit, sit. This is Simon. Simon, these are some friends of mine who have come to visit you. They have some questions they would like to ask you. I told them youâd be happy to help them. Remember we talked about how good it is to help people?â
He nodded. After what Bernie had told me, I had expected a dull, simple voice. The voice of a stereotypic inbred. Instead, when he spoke, his voice was clear and articulate.
âYes, I remember that. Iâll try to be helpful, Doctor.â
Fenshaw patted him on the arm. âGood man. Give me a shout if you need anything.â
He got up and left. Simon watched him go and then looked at us in turn with oddly incurious eyes. His voice had a hint of an American accent, but not much.
âAre you cops? You look like cops from the U.S.A.â
Dehan answered, âYup. We came over from New York, but itâs the sheriff of Washington County who asked us to come and see you.â
âI donât really understand why theyâre mad at me. For leaving. They didnât like me there.â
Dehan frowned. âWhat makes you think that?â
âSamuel.â
âSamuel?â
âSamuel makes me think that.â
âWho is Samuel?â
âSamuel is dead. He was married to my mother. She said he was my daddy. But Iâm not sure. He might have been. Sometime he is. But toward the end, he wasnât.â He frowned. âIâm still trying to sort that one out. Dr. Fenshaw is helping me on that one.â
I said, âWhat about the girls?â
He took a deep breath and shifted in his chair. âI am really trying to be cooperative with Dr. Fenshaw on that one, too. But, thing is, I donât know if anybody understands me, that there werenât no girls.â He
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