P. Parrish - An Unquiet Grave

It was easy to see why he had missed it. Dr. Seraphin’s “weekend cottage” was set far back from the road and hidden behind large evergreens. There was an iron gate barring the driveway. The gate looked new, Louis thought, as he pulled up to the intercom.

The doctor herself answered, and the gate slid back. He drove up the driveway and parked next to the Volvo.

It was dark, nearly seven, and still snowing. But thanks to several well-placed floodlights, he could see the house clearly. It was a large, two-story wood-frame home, probably built in the forties, and very different from the gleaming new minimanses that surrounded it. Far from a cottage, the “old Bueller place” had that carefully cultivated shabby look that whispered old money.

Louis was surprised when Oliver opened the door. “The doctor is in the den,” he said.

Louis came in. He heard a click and a beep and turned to see Oliver locking the door and resetting an alarm. Louis followed him through a dimly lit living room and down a hallway. The den was all wood and glowing lamps with a fire crackling in a stone fireplace. An antlered deer head on the far wall loomed over the room, next to an antique gun case that held a couple of shotguns.

When Dr. Seraphin saw him, she set aside her book, shrugged off a red plaid throw, and stood up from her chair.

She was wearing what looked to Louis like a plain gray sweatsuit, but as she came toward him, he guessed it was probably cashmere.

“Good Lord, you look half frozen. Can I get you a drink?” she asked, taking off her gold-rimmed bifocals to let them dangle by a gold chain.

“No, thanks.”

“You don’t mind if I have one then.” She went to a small table that held a variety of bottles. “Please, take off your coat and make yourself comfortable.”

Louis didn’t move. He waited as she fixed her drink, looking out the large windows. The backyard was fully illuminated by floodlights, revealing a couple of snow-covered Adirondack chairs on the deck and a white expanse that tapered down to the black lake. In the distance, Louis could make out a boathouse. It looked old and like it was ready to fall away into the lake.

Dr. Seraphin came up behind him. “I really need to do something about that boathouse,” she said. “I don’t even have a boat and it’s such an eyesore.”

Louis turned to her.

“Now, what was so urgent that you had to see me tonight?” Dr. Seraphin asked, drink in hand.

“A security guard was murdered in E Building today,” Louis said.

Dr. Seraphin’s face and shoulders sagged. She went to the sofa and sat down on the edge, clutching her glass in both hands, looking at the carpet.

“The killer slit his throat, then wrote bitch on the wall with his blood.”

“Good God,” she whispered, looking up at him. “But he killed a man this time. It’s obviously a message of some kind, a way to get attention.”

“Whose attention, Doctor?” Louis asked.

She stared at him.

“The guard was stabbed in the lobby, but then whoever did it took the trouble to drag the body upstairs and into an office before he slit his throat-into your old office, I’d bet.”

Louis watched her face for a reaction. But there was just a bland sadness that seemed forced.

“It’s your attention he’s trying to get,” Louis said. “Why?”

She set her glass on a table before she looked back at him.

“I don’t know,” she said.

“Well, you’re a target now, Doctor, so you damn well better try to figure it out.”

He could see a hint of displeasure flick across her face. But he didn’t care. He was tired. Tired of hitting dead ends, tired of chasing ghosts. A man had died tonight and he couldn’t get it out of his head that somehow he had been responsible.

“You need to go to the police,” Louis said.

She stood up. “Impossible.”

“You need to tell them what you know, tell them about the files we pulled.”

She was shaking her head. “I can’t do that. I won’t do that. I have a reputation to protect.”

“Screw your reputation, damn it.”

A couple seconds of silence ticked off before she spoke. “You are obviously under a lot of stress, Mr. Kincaid. I can’t imagine it is easy for you right now, being caught in the middle of all this.”

She went back to the bar. Louis heard the clink of ice cubes. His head was throbbing, probably from not eating all day. He shut his eyes briefly. When he opened them, Dr. Seraphin was standing in front of him holding out a glass.

“It’s brandy,” she said. “Take it.”

He took the glass. The brandy burned a trail down his throat and hit his empty stomach like a hard punch.

“Please sit down,” she said.

He perched on the edge of the sofa, his back to the fireplace, across from the chair where she had been reading. The book was open, facing down on the ottoman. He could read the title: The Divided Self by R.D. Laing.

“I want to help, Mr. Kincaid,” Dr. Seraphin said, sitting back down.

“Then go to the police with what you know.”

“I am the head of the state psychiatric association. Do you have any idea what will happen to me if they find out I breached confidentiality?”

“Look,” Louis said, “when this guy is caught, there will be a trial. You will have to testify.”

“You promised me-”

“There is no way I can keep you out of it now.”

Her expression didn’t change, but Louis could see the slow rise of anger reddening her cheeks.

“No,” she said firmly.

Louis took a quick swig of the brandy and banged the glass down. He reached inside his jacket, pulled out four file folders, and tossed them on the ottoman next to the book.

“Then pick one, damn it. Tell me where to start.”

Her eyes went from the folders up to his face. “You had no authority to take those out of the hospital.”

“So sue me.”

For a moment she didn’t move. A log fell in the fireplace with a sharp crack. Dr. Seraphin reached down and gathered up the files. She looked through each one slowly, then set them in her lap.

“I don’t know,” she said. “It could be any of these men, it could be someone we didn’t even find.”

Louis rubbed the bridge of his nose. His head was killing him.

“All right,” Dr. Seraphin said. “I won’t go to the police, but I will help you. I want to help you. I will advise you all I can. Find these four men, find out what they are doing now, find out who is functional and who is not. Maybe then I can narrow it down.”

She held out the files, but Louis didn’t take them. “And I’ll go back over things tonight,” she said. “I’ll try to remember any others who seem to fit. Believe me, I want this man caught as much as you.”

Dr. Seraphin was still holding the folders. After a moment, she set them on the ottoman and sat back in her chair, considering him carefully.

“Are you all right, Mr. Kincaid?” she asked.

“A headache, that’s all.”

She nodded. “Not sleeping well either, I would imagine.” When he didn’t say anything, she added, “I could write you a prescription for something.”

“I hate pills. But thanks anyway.”

“Another brandy then?”

“No, thanks,” he said, even though he wanted one badly.

It was quiet. For a moment, just one, he wanted to close his eyes and give himself over to the silence, anything to stop the whirl of thoughts in his head. The warmth of the fire on his back was lulling. He didn’t even realize he had closed his eyes until she spoke again.

“It’s not your fault,” she said.

He looked at her. “Excuse me?”

“The guard who died. It’s not your fault.”