The Dream of the Broken Horses by William Bayer Page A

steps out of the elevator, turns to face me, and grins. The doors close, the elevator descends. Still excited, I head down to my room for a shower.
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    W ash and I exchange polite nods in the courtroom corridor. Inside he takes a seat four down from mine. Then, lest he think he's got me outgunned, I make a point of sketching furiously.
    It's a good day for courtroom drawing. The prosecutor and defense counsel get into a snit, the judge becomes impatient, and soon the three are glaring at one another with anger and disgust. Meantime, defendant Foster shows the jury a beatific smile. Out of this conflict I create a stunning four-face portrait, which Harriet loves, and which, when broadcast on the early evening news, puts Wash's first-day efforts to shame.
    Slam-dunk for the good guy . . . which is not to say that Wash won't soon snag a few baskets himself. Still I've out-psyched him his first day and can count on holding my lead a while. He'll start becoming dangerous when he gets the players' physiognomies clear. Until then I'll rule the court.
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    D uring one of the afternoon breaks, I phone Mace Bartel and ask if I can have a photocopy of the Flamingo file.
    "The whole thing? There're thousands of pages."
    "I'll gladly pay copying charges."
    "It's not the money, David. It's the time and effort. I can't spare anyone for the job."
    "I'll do the scutwork ." Long pause. "I don't see myself as a rival investigator on this, Mace. After all, it's been twenty-six years."
    "It's not that."
    "What is it then?"
    When he goes silent, I start feeling guilty.
    "Listen, Mace, I wasn't a hundred percent straight with you out at The Elms the other day when you asked why I was so interested in the case."
    "I figured."
    "I have a very personal reason for being interested."
    "Which is?"
    "My father was Mrs. Fulraine's shrink."
    "Well," he says, "that's very interesting. I appreciate your telling me."
    "I should have told you the other day, but I didn't feel like discussing it. Dad committed suicide, and. . . ."
    "I know. One of my guys interviewed him. Couple months later I wanted to do a follow-up, but then . . . well, it was too late. I spoke to his secretary. She couldn't find his file on Mrs. Fulraine. For a while I wondered if maybe there was a connection. You'll find our notes on the interviews when you come over."
    "You're saying—?"
    "Sure, you can look at everything we got, make copies too if you like." A pause. "See, David, long as you're straight with me, I'll be straight with you."
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    P am wants to visit the scene of the crime, so tonight after dinner I drive her out to Tremont Park. As we pass through Delamere, she oohs and ahs.
    "Seems people here are very rich."
    "The Fulraines were." I slow as I pass their house. "It's an institution now. Old folks home or something."
    "I'd like to take a look."
    I tell her I'll try and set it up.
    "What I don't get," she says, as we approach the motel, "is why they chose to meet out here."
    "It was convenient for her. Less than ten minutes from her house. And it was a place they weren't likely to be seen. They started meeting secretly in the amusement park. She liked the idea of their meeting in a place so scummy and low class."
    "How do you know what she liked?"
    "Just a guess," I lie. "When I draw, I try to get inside peoples' heads. How did the actors get from here to there? How did the fateful intersections take place?"
    She asks me to describe the old Tremont Park. It's a pleasure to do so. I tell her about the sounds—hubbub, hurdy-gurdy music, swish as the toboggans went over the falls, roar of the roller coasters, pings from the shooting gallery, raucous laughter of the oversize automatons that guarded the Fun House doors. The smells too: horses, taffy, sugared popcorn balls, cotton candy, suntan lotion, perfume on summer-heated skin.
    "The Fun House was my favorite," I tell her. "It was a labyrinth filled with tricky corners, weird slanted floors, floors made of moving