Ed McBain - Doll

Art Cutler had called and proposed the St Thomas assignment, and the idea of sun and sand had appealed to her immensely. By coincidence, her friend from California called that same night, and when she told him where she was going he said that he’d pack a bag and meet her down there.

I asked her exactly what her connection is with this ‘friend from California,’ who now seems responsible for two lapses in her treatment. What lapse? she asked, and then swore she had not touched anything while she was away. This friend was simply that, a good friend.

But you told me he is an addict, I said.

Yes, he’s an addict, she answered. But he didn’t even suggest drugs while we were away. As a matter of fact, I think I’ve kicked it completely. That’s really the only reason I came here, to tell you that it’s not necessary to continue treatment any longer. I haven’t had anything, heroin or morphine or anything, all the while I was away. I’m cured.

You’re lying, I said.

All right, she said. If I wanted the truth, it was her California friend who’d kept her out of prison those many years ago. He had told the arresting officers that he was a pusher, a noble and dangerous admission to make, and that he had forced a shot on Tinka. She had got off with the suspended sentence while he’d gone to prison; so naturally she was indebted to him. Besides, she saw no reason why she shouldn’t spend some time with him on a modeling assignment, instead of running around with a lot of faggot designers and photographers, not to mention the Lesbian editor of the magazine. Who the hell did I think I was, her keeper?

I asked if this ‘friend from California’ had suddenly struck it rich.

What do you mean? she said.

Well, isn’t it true that he was in need of money and a place to stay when he first came to the city?

Yes, that’s true.

Then how can he afford to support a drug habit and also manage to take a vacation in the Virgin Islands? I asked.

She admitted that she paid for the trip. If the man had saved her from a prison sentence, what was so wrong about paying his fare and his hotel bill?

I would not let it go.

Finally, she told me the complete story. She had been sending him money over the years, not because he asked her for it, but simply because she felt she owed something to him. His lie had enabled her to come here and start a new life. The least she could do was send him a little money every now and then. Yes, she had been supporting him ever since he arrived here. Yes, yes, it was she who’d invited him along on the trip; there had been no coincidental phone call from him that night. Moreover, she had not only paid for his plane fare and hotel bill, but also for that of his companion, whom she described as ‘an extremely lovely young woman’.

And no heroin all that while, right?

Tears, anger, defense.

Yes, there had been heroin! There had been enough heroin to sink the island, and she had paid for every drop of it. There had been heroin morning, noon, and night. It was amazing that she had been able to face the cameras at all, she had blamed her drowsiness on the sun. That needle had been stuck in her thigh constantly, like a glittering glass cock! Yes, there had been heroin, and she had loved every minute of it! What the hell did I want from her?

I want to cure you, I said.

March 23

She accused me today of trying to kill her. She said that I had been trying to kill her since the first day we met, that I know she is not strong enough to withstand the pains of withdrawal, and that the treatment will eventually result in her death.

Her lawyer has been preparing a will, she said, and she would sign it tomorrow. She would begin treatment after that, but she knew it would lead to her ultimate death.

I told her she was talking nonsense.

March 24

Tinka signed her will today.

She brought me a fragment of a poem she wrote last night:

I asked her why she hadn’t finished the poem. She said she couldn’t finish it until she knew the outcome herself. What outcome do you want? I asked her.

I want to be cured, she said.

You will be cured, I told her.

March 25

We began treatment once more.

March 27

Dennis Sachs called from Arizona again to inquire about his wife. I told him she had suffered a relapse but that she had begun treatment anew, and that we were hoping for complete withdrawal by April 15th at the very latest. He asked if there was anything he could do for Tinka. I told him that the only person who could do anything for Tinka was Tinka.

March 28

Treatment continues.

¼ grain morphine twice daily.

⅛ grain morphine twice daily.

March 30

⅛ grain morphine four times daily.

Prognosis good.

March 31

⅛ grain morphine twice daily.

One grain codeine twice daily.

April 1

Tinka confessed today that she had begun buying heroin on the sly, smuggling it in, and has been taking it whenever the nurse isn’t watching. I flew into a rage. She shouted ‘April Fool!’ and began laughing.

I think there is a chance this time.

April 2

One grain codeine four times daily.

April 3

One grain codeine twice daily.

½ grain codeine twice daily.

April 4

½ grain codeine four times daily.

April 5

½ grain codeine twice daily, thiamine twice daily.

April 6

Thiamine four times daily. Nurse was discharged today.

April 7

Thiamine three times daily.

We are going to make it!

April 8

Thiamine twice daily.

April 9

She told me today that she is certain the habit is almost kicked. This is my feeling as well. The weaning from hypodermics is virtually complete. There is only the promise of a new and rewarding life ahead.

That was where the doctor’s casebook ended because that was when Tinka Sachs was murdered.

Meyer glanced up to see if Kling had finished the page. Kling nodded, and Meyer closed the book.

‘He took two lives from her,’ Meyer said. The one she was ending, and the one she was beginning.’

That afternoon Paul Blaney earned his salary for the second time in four days. He called to say he had completed the post-mortem examination of Tinka Sachs and had discovered a multitude of scars on both upper front thighs. It seemed positive that the scars had been caused by repeated intravenous injections, and it was Blaney’s opinion that the dead girl had been a drug addict.

She had handcuffed both hands behind his back during one of his periods of unconsciousness, and then had used a leather belt to lash his feet together. He lay naked on the floor now and waited for her arrival, trying to tell himself he did not need her, and knowing that he needed her desperately.

It was very warm in the room, but he was shivering. His skin was beginning to itch but he could not scratch himself because his hands were manacled behind his back. He could smell his own body odors — he had not been bathed or shaved in three days — but he did not care about his smell or his beard, he only cared that she was not here yet, what was keeping her?

He lay in the darkness and tried not to count the minutes.

The girl was naked when she came into the room. She did not put on the light. There was the familiar tray in her hands, but it did not carry food any more. The Llama was on the left-hand side of the tray. Alongside the gun were a small cardboard box, a book of matches, a spoon with its handle bent back toward the bowl, and a glassine envelope.