Jonathan Kellerman - Private Eyes

“When did he die?”

“Seven and a half years ago.”

Surprised, I said, “Before Melissa was born?”

“Mrs. Dickinson was expecting Melissa when it-” He looked up, startled, and swung his head to the right. The waiter was approaching from that direction, bearing the blackboard. Imperious and well-spoken and black as coal; Dutchy’s African cousin.

I chose the T-bone steak, bloody rare. Dutchy asked if the shrimp was fresh that day and when informed that it certainly was, ordered shrimp salad.

When the waiter left I said, “How old was Mr. Dickinson when he died?”

“Sixty-two.”

“How did he die?”

“On the tennis court.”

The lip trembled some more but the rest of his face remained impassive. He fumbled with his teacup and tightened his mouth.

“Did your serving on the jury have anything to do with getting them together, Mr. Dutchy?”

Nod. “That’s what I meant by a stroke of fate. Mr. Dickinson came with me to court. Sat in during the trial and was… entranced by her. He’d followed the case in the papers before I was impaneled. Had commented several times- over his morning paper- on the profoundness of the tragedy.”

“Had he known Mrs. Dickinson before the attack?”

“No, not in the least. His concern, in the beginning, was… thematic. And he was a kind man.”

I said, “I’m not sure I understand what you mean by thematic.”

“Grief for beauty lost,” he said, like a teacher announcing an essay theme. “Mr. Dickinson was a great aesthete. A conservationist and a preservationist. He’d spent much of his life dedicated to beautifying his world, and was terribly hurt by the degradation of beauty. However, he never allowed his concern to cross ethical bounds. When I was selected for the jury he said he’d be accompanying me to court but that both of us needed to be quite scrupulous about not discussing the case. He was also an honest man, Dr. Delaware. Diogenes would have rejoiced.”

“An aesthete,” I said. “What kind of business was he in?”

He looked down his nose at me. “I’m referring to Mr. Arthur Dickinson, sir.”

Once more, no bells. This guy had a way of making me feel like a D student. Rather than come across a complete philistine, I said, “Of course. The philanthropist.”

He continued to stare at me.

I said, “So how did the two of them finally meet?”

“The trial intensified Mr. Dickinson’s concern- hearing her testimony, seeing her face bandaged. He visited her in the hospital. As chance had it, he’d been a benefactor of the very surgical wing in which she’d been placed. He conferred with the doctors and made sure she was receiving the very best care. Brought in the top man in the plastics field- Professor Albano Montecino from Brazil, a true genius. The man had done pioneering work in facial construction. Mr. Dickinson arranged for him to obtain medical privileges and exclusive use of an operating room.”

Sweat had glossed Dutchy’s brow. He pulled out a handkerchief and patted.

“Such pain,” he said, facing me squarely. “ Seventeen separate surgeries, Doctor. Someone with your background can appreciate what that means. Seventeen invasions - each one excruciating. Months of recuperation, long stretches of immobility. You can understand why she’s taken to solitude.”

I nodded and said, “Were the operations successful?”

“Professor Montecino was pleased, pronounced her one of his grand triumphs.”

“Does she agree with him?”

Disapproving look. “I’m not privy to her opinions, Doctor.”

“Over how long a period was she operated on?”

“Five years.”

I did some mental calculations. “So she was pregnant during part of it.”

“Yes, well… the pregnancy interrupted the surgical process- tissue changes brought about by hormones, physical risks. Professor Montecino said she’d have to wait and be monitored closely. He even suggested… termination. But she refused.”

“Was the pregnancy planned?”

Dutchy blinked hard and drew back his head- the turtle once more- as if unable to believe what he’d heard. “Good Lord, sir, I don’t pry into the motivations of my employers.”

I said, “Excuse me if I wander into uncharted territory from time to time, Mr. Dutchy. I’m just trying to get as full a background as possible. For Melissa’s sake.”

He harrumphed. “Shall we talk about Melissa, then?”

“All right. She’s told me quite a bit about her fears. Why don’t you give me your impressions.”

“My impressions?”

“Your observations.”

“My observations are that she’s a terribly frightened little girl. Everything frightens her.”

“Such as?”

He thought for a moment. “Loud noises, for one. They can literally make her jump. Even those that aren’t very loud- at times it seems to be the suddenness of it that sets her off. A tree rustling or footsteps- or even music- has the ability to put her in a crying fit. The doorbell. It seems to occur when she’s been in a period of unusual calm.”

“Sitting by herself, daydreaming?”

“Yes. She daydreams a lot. Talks to herself.” Closing his mouth, wanting a comment from me.

I said, “What about bright lights? Have they ever scared her?”

“Yes,” he said, surprised. “Yes, they have. I can recall a specific incident, several months ago. One of the maids purchased a camera with a flashbulb and was traipsing around the house trying it out.” Another disapproving look. “She surprised Melissa as the child ate breakfast and snapped a picture. The sound and sight of the bulb going off distressed Melissa greatly.”

“Distressed her in what way?”

“Tears, screaming, breakfast rejected. She even started hyperventilating. I had her breathe into a paper bag until her respiration returned to normal.”

“Shift in arousal,” I said, more to myself than to him.

“Pardon me, Doctor?”

“Sudden changes in arousal- in her psychophysiologic level of consciousness- seem to bother her.”

“Yes, I suppose they do. What can be done about that?”

I held out my hand in a restraining gesture. “She told me she has bad dreams every night.”

“That’s true,” he said. “Often more than once a night.”

“Describe what she does while she’s having them.”

“I can’t say, Doctor. When they occur she’s with her moth-”

I frowned.

He caught himself. “However, I do recall observing a few incidents. She cries a lot. Cries and screams. Thrashes around and fights comfort, refusing to go back to sleep.”

“Thrashes around,” I said. “Does she ever talk about what she saw in the dream?”

“At times.”

“But not always?”

“No.”

“When she does, are there any consistent themes?”

“Monsters, ghosts, that kind of thing. I don’t really pay much mind. My efforts are concentrated on getting her settled.”

“One thing you can do in the future,” I said, “ is pay close mind. Keep a written record of what she says during these incidents and bring it in to me.” I realized I sounded imperious. Wanting to make him the D student. Power struggle with a butler?

But he was comfortable with the subservient role, said “Very well, sir,” and raised his teacup to his lips.

I said, “Does she seem completely awake after having a nightmare?”

“No, she doesn’t,” he said. “Not always. Sometimes she sits up with a horrid, frozen look on her little face, screaming inconsolably and waving her hands. We- I try to wake her but it’s impossible. She’s even gotten out of her bed and walked around, still screaming, impossible to wake. We just wait until it subsides, then return her to bed.”