Ed McBain - Eighty Million Eyes

“Kling.”

“Mr. Kling. She's got someone in the office with her.” The girl paused. “She interviews applicants for jobs out at the plant, you see.”

“Oh. Is she in charge of hiring?”

“No, our personnel director does all the hiring.”

“Then why does she interview—”

“Cindy is assistant to the company psychologist.”

“Oh.”

“Yes, she interviews all the applicants, you know, and later our psychologist tests them. To see if they’d be happy working out at the plant. I mean, they have to put together these tiny little transistor things, you know, there's a lot of pressure doing work like that.”

“I’ll bet there is,” Kling said.

“Sure, there is. So they come here, and first she talks to them for a few minutes, to try to find out what their background is, you know, and then if they pass the first interview, our psychologist gives them a battery of psychological tests later on. Cindy's work is very important. She majored in psychology at college, you know. Our personnel director won’t even consider a man if Cindy and our psychologist say he's not suited for the work.”

“Sort of like picking a submarine crew,” Kling said.

“What? Oh, yes, I guess it is,” the girl said, and smiled. She turned as a man came down the corridor. He seemed pleased and even inspired by his first interview with the company's assistant psychologist. He smiled at the receptionist, and then he smiled at Kling and went to the entrance door, and then turned and smiled at them both again, and went out.

“I think she's free now,” the receptionist said. “Just let me check.” She lifted the phone again, pressed the button, and waited. “Cindy, is it all right to send him in now? Okay.” She replaced the receiver. “Go right in,” she said. “It's number fourteen, the fifth door on the left.”

“Thank you,” Kling said.

“Not at all,” the girl answered.

He nodded and walked past her desk and into the corridor. The doors on the left-hand side started with the number eight and then progressed arithmetically down the corridor. The number thirteen was missing from the row. In its place, and immediately following twelve, was fourteen. Kling wondered if the company's assistant psychologist was superstitious, and then knocked on the door.

“Come in,” a girl's voice said.

He opened the door.

The girl was standing near the window, her back to him. One hand held a telephone receiver to her ear, the blonde hair pushed away from it. She was wearing a dark skirt and a white blouse. The jacket that matched the skirt was draped over the back of her chair. She was very tall, and she had a good figure and a good voice. “No, John,” she said, “I didn’t think a Rorschach was indicated. Well, if you say so. I’ll call you back later, I’ve got someone with me. Right. G’bye.” She turned to put the phone back onto its cradle, and then looked up at Kling.

They recognized each other immediately.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Cindy said.

“So you’re Cindy,” Kling said. “Cynthia Forrest. I’ll be damned.”

“Why’d they send you ? Aren’t there any other cops in that precinct of yours?”

“I’m the boss's son. I told you that a long time ago.”

“You told me a lot of things a long time ago. Now go tell your captain I’d prefer talking to another—”

“My lieutenant.”

“ Whatever he is. I mean, really , Mr. Kling, I think there's such a thing as adding insult to injury. The way you treated me when my father was killed—”

“I think there was a great deal of misunderstanding all around at that time, Miss Forrest.”

“Yes, and mostly on your part.”

“We were under pressure. There was a sniper loose in the city—”

“Mr. Kling, most people are under pressure most of the time. It was my understanding that policemen are civil servants, and that—”

“We are, that's true.”

“Yes, well, you were anything but civil. I have a long memory, Mr. Kling.”

“So do I. Your father's name was Anthony Forrest, he was the first victim in those sniper killings. Your mother—”

“Look, Mr. Kling—”

“Your mother's name is Clarice, and you’ve got—”

“Clara.”

“Clara, right, and you’ve got a younger brother named John.”

“Jeff.”

“Jeff, right. You were majoring in education at the time of the shootings—”

“I switched to psychology in my junior year.”

“Downtown at Ramsey University. You were nineteen years old—”

“Almost twenty.”

“—and that was close to three years ago, which makes you twenty-two.”

“I’ll be twenty-two next month.”

“I see you graduated.”

“Yes, I have,” Cindy said curtly. “Now if you’ll excuse me, Mr. Kling—”

“I’ve been assigned to investigate this complaint, Miss Forrest. Something of this nature is relatively small potatoes in our fair city, so I can positively guarantee the lieutenant won’t put another man on it simply because you don’t happen to like my face.”

“Among other things.”

“Yes, well, that's too bad. Would you like to tell me what happened here yesterday?”

“I would like to tell you nothing.”

“Don’t you want us to find the man who came up here?”

“I do.”

“Then—”

“Mr. Kling, let me put this as flatly as I can. I don’t like you. I didn’t like you the last time I saw you, and I still don’t like you. I’m afraid I’m just one of those people who never change their minds.”

“Bad failing for a psychologist.”

“I’m not a psychologist yet I’m going for my master's at night.”

“The girl outside told me you’re assistant to the company—”

“Yes, I am. But I haven’t yet taken my boards.”

“Are you allowed to practice?”

“According to the law in this state—I thought you just might be familiar with it, Mr. Kling—no one can be licensed to—”

“No, I’m not.”

“Obviously. No one can be licensed to practice psychology until he has a master's degree and a PhD, and has passed the state boards. I’m not practicing. All I do is conduct interviews and sometimes administer tests.”

“Well, I’m relieved to hear that,” Kling said.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing,” Kling said, and shrugged.

“Look, Mr. Kling, if you stay here a minute longer, we’re going to pick up right where we left off. And as I recall it, the last time I saw you, I told you to drop dead.”

“That's right.”

“So why don’t you?”

“Can’t,” Kling said. “This is my case.” He smiled pleasantly, sat in the chair beside her desk, made himself comfortable, and very sweetly said, “Do you want to tell me what happened here yesterday, Miss Forrest?”

When Carella got to the squadroom at 10:30 that morning, Meyer was already there, and a note on his desk told him that a man named Charles Mercer at the police laboratory had called at 7:45 A.M.

“Did you call him back?” Carella asked.

“I just got in a minute ago.”

“Let's hope he came up with something,” Carella said, and dialed the lab. He asked for Charles Mercer and was told that Mercer had worked the graveyard shift and had gone home at 8:00.

“Who's this?” Carella asked.

“Danny Di Tore.”

“Would you know anything about the tests Mercer ran for us? On some gelatin capsules?”

“Yeah, sure,” Di Tore said. “Just a minute. That was some job you gave Charlie, you know?”

“What’d he find out?”