Hannah Bronto - Lovers in paradise

"I think there's some mistake…" I began.

"Oh, no." She shook her head certainly admonishing me with her sparkling green eyes. She tapped her finger against the crystal of her wristwatch. "Your appointment was for three o'clock and it's twenty after now."

"Miss… I'm not…"

"Now, now, Mr. Fell," she insisted, refusing to listen, "you know what Doctor Gideon thinks of tardiness. You only get your one hour, and if you fail to get here on time, the loss is yours. There will be no refunds."

I snapped my I.D. open. "My name is Browne, Miss Plain-clothes Detective Malachi Browne. I'm with the Bos-Wash police."

"Oh, then you're not…?"

"No, I'm not."

"Then why did you lead me on?" she accused. She shook her head seriously, making a soft tsking sound with her tongue.

"Miss, I'm in a hurry. I'd like to speak with Dr. Gideon, please."

"In reference to what, sir?"

"Police business, Miss."

When she saw that she wasn't about to get anything further from me, she sat back in her chair, lacing her fingers primly together in the center of the desk. She smiled a bland, professional smile.

"Would you have a seat, please. I'll see if the doctor can speak to you without an appointment. He's a very busy man, you know."

"I thought you said he was free? Didn't he have an appointment with Mr. Fell for three o'clock?"

There was an appointment book on her desk, and she glanced at it quickly. When she noticed my eyes following hers, she promptly closed the book. "I'm not at liberty to divulge that type of information, sir." She smiled again. "Would you please have a seat. I'll see if the doctor is in."

Realizing that there was no way I would ever get the best of this woman, I wordlessly withdrew, taking a seat in the totally empty waiting room off to the left of the desk. There were magaview attachments imbedded in the walls at various intervals around the room, and I pulled one down and snapped it over my head. The reel was an old one, almost three months out of date, but I flipped past the images regardless, just trying to kill time.

"The doctor will see you now, Mr. Fell."

I snapped up the viewer and smiled at the nurse. As the attachment slid silently back into its housing in the wall, I found myself thanking God she was the good doctor's secretary and not mine.

Dr. Gideon was a young man, much younger than I had expected, and I was surprised. In his middle thirties, he was trim, healthy-looking and handsome. He had a thin, almost aesthetic face with large round sad brown eyes and a quick easy smile. He was confident and quite sure of himself, and his grip was like iron when he shook my hand.

"Please be seated," he said, his voice a warm reassuring baritone. "I'm sorry, but I don't think Miss Gethryn gave me your name."

"Browne," I said, showing him my I.D. "Malachi Browne."

Dr. Gideon settled himself in his chair. "How can I help you, Detective Browne?"

"I'd like to ask you a few questions about a patient of yours. Miss Effie Spade."

Doctor Gideon frowned thoughtfully. "Spade… Effie Spade. And you say she was a patient of mine?"

"Come off it Gideon," I snapped. "I have it on good authority that she was your patient. Besides, you gave yourself away by asking about her in the past tense. You should have said is and not was a patient. If you didn't know her you wouldn't have known she was dead. Try again, Gideon."

He was unruffled. "So she was a patient of mine." He swiveled from side to side in his chair. "So I knew she had died. What does that mean?"

"It means you know something about her, and you're keeping it to yourself. I've a curious man: I want to know why."

"Surely you're aware that doctor-patient confidences are privileged. By all rights I shouldn't even be talking to you."

"Are those confidences binding even after death?" I asked. He was a cocky son of a bitch. I wanted to cut him down to size and cut him down quick.

"Of course…"

"Even in a case of murder?"

Dr. Gideon fell forward a fraction of an inch, then caught himself. But it was too late: his mask had slipped just enough.

"Murder. Who said her death had anything to do with murder?" He settled back in his chair, all the ruffles carefully smoothed out.

"I say it was murder."

"But the newspapers… her friends and neighbors – they all said Effie… Miss Spade had died of natural causes. A genetic defect of her heart."

"That was the story we gave out. The first murder in over two hundred years isn't something we like to brag about."

He studied me for a long while. "You're telling the truth, aren't you? Effie Spade was murdered, wasn't she?"

"She was shot at point-blank range with a blaster set at maximum strength. Believe me it's not a pretty sight."

"No, I imagine that it wasn't." For a moment he seemed distracted. "I know what those things can do they're terrible weapons."

"You know about blasters?" I asked softly.

Anger flashed in his brown eyes. "Now, wait a minute! Don't you go putting two and two together and come up with me. Sure I know about blasters – and in anticipation of your next question, yes I do own one."

"Oh?"

"It's all perfectly legal. I'm a collector of rare weapons, and I have a very large collection. And among them is a blaster, but I can assure you right now it is not the weapon that murdered Effie Spade. The blaster I have is in mint condition. It's never even been fired."

"I'm glad to hear that."

"And, to show you that I'm anxious to help you in every way possible," he said, nodding calmly, "I'll drop my blaster off at police headquarters for your science laboratories to check. You'll see that my weapon has never been discharged."

"Dr. Gideon, if you know so much about guns, as, you imply you do, surely you must know that in this day and age there is no definitive test for establishing whether or not your particular blaster has been fired. There are certain ways in which a blaster can be 'cleaned'."

Gideon glared at me. "I don't like what you seem to be implying. I'm a respectable psychiatrist, with quite a considerable standing in my community. If you think…"

"I don't think anything. All I do is ask questions. It's the answers that make the difference."

His lower lip quivered, and he pulled it taut by grimacing at me through his clenched teeth. "All right, Cop, what is it you want from me?"

"I want to know about Effie Spade."

"I've already explained that to you: I can't divulge that information to you, murder or not." When I didn't say anything, he went on. "I have a Code of Ethics, man! I could lose my license…"

"Effie Spade lost her life."

"Dammit, man, I want to cooperate!" he shouted. "Isn't it clear to you that I can't? My hands are tied! I simply can't tell you the things you want to know."

Again I didn't say anything, aware that not asking questions sometimes gets you the best answers. I glared at Dr. Gideon as he floundered. Sometimes when you let a man talk he forgets when to stop.

"Look dammit. I have a lot to lose in this! I can't afford to be touched by scandal: it would ruin my practice. If people found out that Effie was murdered by a, blaster, and that I had a blaster – well, they might… would… Oh, Jesus."

"You're good, Doctor," I said softly. "You're really good. You're either lying through your teeth or telling the truth. I can't be sure which it is yet. But I'll bet that being a psychiatrist must give you something of an edge, right?"

He sighed and seemed to slump in his chair. "All right, ask your questions. I'll answer what I can but nothing more. I'll bend the rules but I won't break them. That's my last concession."

"Fair enough." I sat up in my, chair. "Was Effie Spade your patient?"

"Yes."

"Why was she seeing you?"