right?” said Dr. Vicente.
“Not necessarily.” Barringer poured himself a cup of coffee. “You’ve gone over this stuff. I want your opinion.”
“In other words, an educated guess.” Vicente reached for the coffee urn and refilled his own cup. “To begin with, could one man possibly commit all of these murders within the space of about four hours? Under certain conditions, the answer is a qualified yes.”
“What are the conditions?”
“That he had the names and addresses of the victims—which he could have obtained, either from them directly, or from Griswold’s files before he burned them. That he had the means of transportation—and we know from the tire-marks at the house he was driving Tony Rodell’s car, or at least a car which had occupied Rodell’s garage. Lastly, that he had some reasonable assurance these people would be turning up at their homes or places of business at various times yesterday evening—”
“Edna Drexel told her parents they scattered in all directions out in Sherman Oaks.”
“She also said she felt someone was following her.”
“You forgot—only two hours earlier, Jack Lorch was killed in Culver City.”
“From Culver City to Bel Air is only a half hour’s drive.”
“But how did he know Edna Drexel would be going home?”
“For the same reason he knew he’d find Jack Lorch at his office. These people had nowhere else to go. No money, no food.”
“Sounds as if he was pushing his luck.”
“He didn’t have any choice in the matter. I think originally he planned to dispose of them en masse, that night when he had them all together in Griswold’s car. Again, according to the Drexel woman’s story, Tony Rodell was holding them all at gun-point. He might have intended to drive the whole group up to Rodell’s house and finish them off there, with Rodell’s help. But when they made a break for it, he had to track them down individually and take his chances.”
“You keep saying ‘he.’ Don’t forget, there’s two men still at large.”
“I know. But one of them was part of the group that ran off. And he’s still hiding somewhere, unless our man got to him, too, and we haven’t heard about it yet.”
“We don’t know a damned thing, except that two men are loose somewhere, and one of them is named Bruce Raymond. He’s either the killer or a potential victim. Take your choice.”
Vicente gulped coffee, then set his mug down on the desk top. “From what we know about Raymond, he could be either. I read that report from the VA. Marked instability, but cooperative, responsive to therapy—a lot of cautious phrases, all of which adds up to a lame excuse for releasing him and giving his bed to another patient. No definite prognosis, just something to protect the doctor making the decision.”
“Who handled his case out there?”
“A Major Fairchild. I tried to contact him yesterday, but he’s long gone. They had an address in Seattle—something called the Trade Clinic—but when I phoned, I was told he’d left for a vacation in Japan. You could probably reach him through—”
“No time.” Barringer shook his head. “And even if we did, how the hell is some army medico in Japan going to tell us if one of his former patients might have gone berserk here?”
“He can’t, and neither can I.” Dr. Vicente pushed his chair back. “But I can tell you something about the type of man who did commit these killings.”
“Another educated guess?”
“Not entirely. We’ve got certain facts to go on. Number One, as I told you, he’s undoubtedly a sociopath—”
“Can you give it to me without the psychiatric jargon?”
“Okay, no cautious phrases.” Vicente smiled, then sobered. “To repeat what we already know, our man isn’t recognizable as a nut. He looks and behaves like a rational human being. It’s an act, of course, but a convincing one—we know that because he managed to organize his whole break from the sanatorium
“Not necessarily.” Barringer poured himself a cup of coffee. “You’ve gone over this stuff. I want your opinion.”
“In other words, an educated guess.” Vicente reached for the coffee urn and refilled his own cup. “To begin with, could one man possibly commit all of these murders within the space of about four hours? Under certain conditions, the answer is a qualified yes.”
“What are the conditions?”
“That he had the names and addresses of the victims—which he could have obtained, either from them directly, or from Griswold’s files before he burned them. That he had the means of transportation—and we know from the tire-marks at the house he was driving Tony Rodell’s car, or at least a car which had occupied Rodell’s garage. Lastly, that he had some reasonable assurance these people would be turning up at their homes or places of business at various times yesterday evening—”
“Edna Drexel told her parents they scattered in all directions out in Sherman Oaks.”
“She also said she felt someone was following her.”
“You forgot—only two hours earlier, Jack Lorch was killed in Culver City.”
“From Culver City to Bel Air is only a half hour’s drive.”
“But how did he know Edna Drexel would be going home?”
“For the same reason he knew he’d find Jack Lorch at his office. These people had nowhere else to go. No money, no food.”
“Sounds as if he was pushing his luck.”
“He didn’t have any choice in the matter. I think originally he planned to dispose of them en masse, that night when he had them all together in Griswold’s car. Again, according to the Drexel woman’s story, Tony Rodell was holding them all at gun-point. He might have intended to drive the whole group up to Rodell’s house and finish them off there, with Rodell’s help. But when they made a break for it, he had to track them down individually and take his chances.”
“You keep saying ‘he.’ Don’t forget, there’s two men still at large.”
“I know. But one of them was part of the group that ran off. And he’s still hiding somewhere, unless our man got to him, too, and we haven’t heard about it yet.”
“We don’t know a damned thing, except that two men are loose somewhere, and one of them is named Bruce Raymond. He’s either the killer or a potential victim. Take your choice.”
Vicente gulped coffee, then set his mug down on the desk top. “From what we know about Raymond, he could be either. I read that report from the VA. Marked instability, but cooperative, responsive to therapy—a lot of cautious phrases, all of which adds up to a lame excuse for releasing him and giving his bed to another patient. No definite prognosis, just something to protect the doctor making the decision.”
“Who handled his case out there?”
“A Major Fairchild. I tried to contact him yesterday, but he’s long gone. They had an address in Seattle—something called the Trade Clinic—but when I phoned, I was told he’d left for a vacation in Japan. You could probably reach him through—”
“No time.” Barringer shook his head. “And even if we did, how the hell is some army medico in Japan going to tell us if one of his former patients might have gone berserk here?”
“He can’t, and neither can I.” Dr. Vicente pushed his chair back. “But I can tell you something about the type of man who did commit these killings.”
“Another educated guess?”
“Not entirely. We’ve got certain facts to go on. Number One, as I told you, he’s undoubtedly a sociopath—”
“Can you give it to me without the psychiatric jargon?”
“Okay, no cautious phrases.” Vicente smiled, then sobered. “To repeat what we already know, our man isn’t recognizable as a nut. He looks and behaves like a rational human being. It’s an act, of course, but a convincing one—we know that because he managed to organize his whole break from the sanatorium
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