Heaven Makers Page 11

  “A sane man would fake insanity now if only to save his life,” Bondelli said.

  “Keep that very clearly in mind,” Thurlow said. “Joe can’t in any way entertain the idea that he’s insane. To admit that—even as a possibility—or as a necessary pretense, he’d have to face the fact that his violent act could’ve been a useless, senseless thing. The enormity of such an admission would be far worse than insanity. Insanity’s much preferable.”

  “Can you get that across to a jury?” Bondelli asked. He spoke in a hushed tone.

  “That Murphey considers it safer to play sane?”

  “Yes.”

  Thurlow shrugged. “Who knows what a jury will believe? Joe may be a hollow shell, but that’s one helluva strong shell. Nothing contradictory can be permitted to enter it. Every fiber of him is concentrated on the necessity to appear normal, to maintain the illusion of sanity—for himself as well as for others. Death is far preferable to that other admission . . . Oscar Wilde concurring.”

  “‘Each man kills the thing he loves,’” Bondelli whispered. Again, he turned, looked out the window. The smoky pattern was still there. He wondered idly if workmen were tarring a roof somewhere below him.

  Thurlow looked down at Bondelli’s tapping finger. “The trouble with you, Tony,” he said, “is you’re one of G. K. Chesterton’s terrible children. You’re innocent and love justice. Most of us are wicked and naturally prefer mercy.”

  As though he hadn’t heard, Bondelli said: “We need something simple and elegant to show the jury. They have to be dumbfounded with the realization that . . .” He broke off, stared at Thurlow. “And your prediction of Joe’s trouble fits the bill precisely.”

  “Too technical,” Thurlow said. “A jury won’t sit still for it, won’t understand it. Juries don’t hear what they don’t understand. Their minds wander. They think about dress patterns, bugs in the rose garden, what’s for lunch, where to spend a vacation.”

  “You did predict it, didn’t you? Ruth did report your words correctly?”

  “The psychotic break, yes, I predicted it.” The words were almost a sigh. “Tony, haven’t you focused on what I’ve been telling you? This was a sex crime—the sword, the violence . . .”

  “Is he insane?”

  “Of course he’s insane!”

  “In the legal sense?”

  “In every sense.”

  “Well, then there’s legal precedent for . . .”

  “Psychological precedent’s more important.”

  “What?”

  “Tony, if there’s one thing I’ve learned since becoming court psychologist here, it’s that juries spend far more energy trying to discover the judge’s opinion than they do following what the opposing lawyers are presenting. Juries have a purely disgusting respect for the wisdom of judges. Any judge we get is going to be a member of this community. The community wants Joe put away permanently—dead. We can prove him insane until we’re blue in the face. None of these good people will face our proof consciously, even while they’re accepting it unconsciously. In fact, as we prove Joe insane, we’re condemning him.”

  “Are you trying to tell me you can’t get up on that stand and say you predicted Joe’s insanity but the authorities refused to act because the man was too important a member of the community?”

  “Of course I can’t.”

  “You think they won’t believe you?”

  “It doesn’t make any difference whether they believe me!”

  “But if they believe . . .”

  “I’ll tell you what they’ll believe, Tony, and I’m surprised that you, an attorney, don’t realize this. They’ll believe that Paret has proof of Adele’s unfaithfulness, but that some legal technicality, legal trickery on your part, prohibits introduction of the dirty details. They’ll believe this because it’s the easiest thing to believe. No grandstand play on my part will change that.”

  “You’re saying we don’t stand a chance?”

  Thurlow shrugged. “Not if it goes to trial right away. If you can delay the trial or get a change of venue . . .”

  Bondelli swiveled his chair, stared through the smoke pattern outside his window. “I find it very hard to believe that reasonable, logical human beings . . .”

  “What’s reasonable or logical about a jury?” Thurlow asked.

  A flush of anger began at Bondelli’s collar, spread upward across his cheeks, into his hair. He turned, glared at Thurlow. “Do you know what I think, Andy? I think the fact that Ruth ran out on you has colored your attitude toward her father. You say you’ll help, but every word you…”

  “That’ll be enough of that,” Thurlow interrupted, his voice low, flat. He took two deep breaths. “Tell me something, Tony. Why’re you taking this case? You’re not a criminal lawyer.”

  Bondelli passed a hand across his eyes. Slowly, the flush left his skin. He glanced at Thurlow. “Sorry, Andy.”

  “That’s all right. Can you answer the question? Do you know why you’re taking this case?”

  Bondelli sighed, shrugged. “When the story broke that I was representing him, two of my most important clients called and said they’d take their business elsewhere if I didn’t pull out.”

  “That’s why you’re defending Joe?”

  “He has to have the best defense possible.”

  “You’re the best?”

  “I wanted to go up to San Francisco, get Belli or someone of that stature, but Joe refuses. He thinks it’s going to be easy—the goddamn’ unwritten law.”

  “And that leaves you.”

  “In this city, yes.” Bondelli extended his arms onto the desk, clasped his hands into fists. “You know, I don’t see the problem the same way you do, not at all. I think our biggest job’s to prove he isn’t faking insanity.”

  Thurlow took off his glasses, rubbed his eyes. They were beginning to ache. He’d been reading too much today, he thought. He said: “Well, you have a point there, Tony. If a person with delusions learns to keep quiet about them, you can have one helluva time getting him to act on those delusions where people will see him and understand. Exposing faked insanity is easy compared with the problems of detecting a concealed psychosis, but the public generally doesn’t understand this.”

  “I see a four-pronged attack,” Bondelli said. “There’re four common essentials with insane killers.”

  Thurlow started to say something, thought better of it as Bondelli raised a hand, four fingers extended.

  “First,” Bondelli said, “did the victim’s death profit the killer. Psychopaths usually kill strangers or persons close to them. You see, I’ve been doing my homework in your field, too.”

  “I see that,” Thurlow said.

  “And Adele had no insurance,” Bondelli said. He lowered one finger. “Next, was the murder carefully planned?” Another finger came down. “Psychopaths don’t plan their crimes. Either they leave escape to chance, or they make it ridiculously easy for the police to catch them. Joe practically advertised his presence in that office.”

  Thurlow nodded and began to wonder if Bondelli could be right. Am I unconsciously attacking Ruth through her father? Where the hell did she go?

  “Third,” Bondelli said, “was a great deal more violence than necessary used in the crime? Deranged people continue an attack beyond all reason. There’s no doubt the first thrust of that sword would’ve killed Adele.” A third finger came down.

  Thurlow returned his glasses to his nose, stared at Bondelli. The attorney was so intent, so sure of himself. Was it possible?

  “Fourth,” Bondelli said, “was the killing accomplished with an improvised weapon? Persons who plan set themselves up with a lethal weapon beforehand. A psychopath grabs anything at hand—a cleaver, a club, a rock, a piece of furniture.” The fourth finger came down and Bondelli lowered a fist to the desk. “That damned sword hung on Joe’s study wall for as long as I can remember.”

  “It all sounds so easy,” Thurlow said. “But what’s th
e prosecution gong to be doing all this time?”

  “Oh, they’ll have their experts, naturally.”

  “Whelye among them,” Thurlow said.

  “Your boss at the hospital?”

  “The same.”

  “Does . . . that put you . . . on a spot?”

  “That doesn’t bother me, Tony. He’s just another part of the community syndrome. It’s . . . it’s the whole mad mess.” Thurlow looked down at his hands. “People are going to say Joe’s better off dead—even if he is insane. And the prosecution experts you kiss off with a wave of the hand, they’re going to be saying things the community wants to hear. Everything the judge says is likely to be interpreted . . .”

  “I’m sure we can get an impartial judge.”

  “Yes . . . no doubt. But judges invariably say the question to be determined is whether at the time of the crime the accused had not the use of that part of his understanding which allowed him to know he was doing a wrong and wicked act. That part, Tony; as though the mind could be divided into compartments, part of it sane, part insane. Impossible! The mind’s a unified thing. A person can’t be mentally and emotionally diseased in some fictitious part without infecting the total personality. A knowledge of right and wrong—the ability to choose between God and the devil—is profoundly different from the knowledge that two plus two equals four. To make the judgment of good and evil requires an intact personality.”

  Thurlow looked up, studied Bondelli.

  The attorney was staring out the window, lips pursed in thought. He obviously hadn’t been listening.

  Thurlow turned toward the window. He felt sick with frustration and despair, Ruth had run away. That was the only logical, sane, reasonable explanation. Her father was doomed, no matter . . . Thurlow’s muscles locked into frozen, glaring suspense. He stared out the window.

  Some ten feet out, poised in the air, hovering, was an object . . . a dome-shaped object with a neat round opening that faced Bondelli’s window. Behind the opening, figures moved.

  Thurlow opened his mouth to speak, found he had no voice. He lurched out of his chair, groped his way around the desk away from the window.

  “Andy, is something wrong?” Bondelli asked. The attorney swiveled back, stared up at Thurlow.

  Thurlow leaned on the desk facing the window. He looked right into the round opening in the hovering object. There were eyes inside, glowing eyes. A slender tube protruded from the opening. Painful, constricting force pressed in on Thurlow’s chest. He had to fight for each breath.

  My God! They’re trying to kill me! he thought.

  Waves of unconsciousness surged over his mind, receded, returned. His chest was a great gasping region of fire. Dimly, he saw the edge of the desk surge upward past his eyes. Something hit a carpeted floor and he realized with fading consciousness that it was his head. He tried to push himself up, collapsed.

  “Andy! Andy! What’s wrong? Andy!” It was Bondelli’s voice. The voice bounced and receded in a wavering, ringing echo box. “Andy . . . Andy . . . And . . .”

  Bondelli stood up—from a quick examination of Thurlow, shouted for his secretary: “Mrs. Wilson! Call an ambulance! I think Dr. Thurlow’s had a heart attack.”

  Chapter 14

  I must not grow to like this life, Kelexel told himself. I have a new pet, yes, but I also have a duty. A moment will come when I must leave, taking my pet, abandoning all the other pleasures of this place.

  He sat in Ruth’s private quarters, a bowl of native liquor on a low table between them. Ruth appeared oddly pensive, quiet. The manipulator had required quite heavy pressure to bring her into a responsive mood. This bothered Kelexel. She had been coming along so nicely, taking the training with an ease which delighted him. Now—relapse . . . and just after he had given her such a pleasant toy, the pantovive.

  There were fresh flowers on the table beside the liquor. Roses, they were called. Red roses. The liquor had been sent along by Ynvic. Its aroma, a touch on the palate, surprised and delighted Kelexel. Subtle esthers danced on his tongue. The heady central substance required constant readjustment of his metabolism. He wondered how Ruth adapted to the stuff. She was taking an inordinate amount of it.

  In spite of the distracting effort at keeping his metabolism in balance, Kelexel found the total experience pleasant. The senses came alert: boredom retreated.

  Ynvic had said the liquor was a wine from a sunny valley “. . .up there east of us.” It was a native product, lovely stuff.

  Kelexel looked up at the silvery gray curve of ceiling, noted the gravity anomaly lines like golden chords above the manipulator. The room was taking on a pleasant air of familiarity with its new touches denoting occupancy by his delightful pet.

  “Have you noticed how many of the ship people wear native clothing?” Kelexel asked.

  “How could I?” Ruth asked. (How fuzzy her voice sounded.) “When do I ever get out of here?”

  “Yes, of course,” Kelexel agreed. “I was thinking I might try some of your clothing myself. Ynvic tells me that the garments of some of your larger children often fit the Chem with very slight alteration. Ynvic calls that a fringe benefit.”

  Ruth refilled her glass from the wine bowl, drank deeply.

  The little pig of a gnome! she thought The dirty little troll!

  Kelexel had been drinking from a flagon. He dipped it into the bowl, raised it dripping amber. “Good drink, delightful foods, comfortable clothing—all this and great enjoyment, amusement. Who could grow bored here?”

  “Yes, indeed,” Ruth muttered. “Who c’d grow bored?” Again, she drank deeply of the wine.

  Kelexel took another sip from his flagon, adjusted his metabolism. Ruth’s voice sounded so strange. He noted the manipulator’s setting, wondered if he should apply a bit more pressure. Could it be the liquor? he asked himself.

  “Did you enjoy yourself with the pantovive?” he asked.

  The dirty, evil little troll! she thought “‘S great fun,” she sneered. “Why’ntch go play with it y’rself f’r awhile?”

  “Lords of Preservation!” Kelexel muttered. He had just realized that the liquor was inhibiting Ruth’s higher centers. Her head rolled crazily on her neck. She spilled part of her drink.

  Kelexel reached over, took the glass from her, placed it gently on the table. She either was incapable or had never learned how to adjust her metabolism, he realized.

  “Don’tcha like th’ stories?” Ruth asked.

  Kelexel began to remember, from Fraffin productions, the native problems involving various liquors. It was all true, then. Real, as Ruth would say.

  “‘S a dirty world,” she said. “Y’ s’pose we’re part of a story? They shootin’ us with their damn cameras?”

  What a hideous idea, Kelexel thought. But there was a strange sense of verity in her words. The dialogue carried some of the surface characteristics of a Fraffin story.

  In this moment, Kelexel had to remind himself that creatures such as Ruth had lived long (by their standards) in dreams that Fraffin wove. Not exactly dreams, though, because Chem spectators could enter the story world, too. In a sudden burst of insight, Kelexel realized he had entered the world of violence and emotion which Fraffin had created. Entering that world, he had been corrupted. To share the native delusions if only for a moment was to be enslaved by the need for more such corruption.

  Kelexel wanted to tear himself away from this room, renounce his new pet, return only to his duty. But he knew he couldn’t do that. Knowing this, he wondered what particular thing had trapped him. No answer came to his searching awareness.

  He stared at Ruth.

  These natives are a dangerous flame, he thought. We don’t own them! We’re their slaves!

  Now, his suspicions were fully aroused. He stared around the room. What was it? What was wrong here?

  He found nothing of this moment and this place upon which he could focus his educated suspicions. This of itself touched a deep chord of anger and fea
r in him. He felt that he was being played with, led about. Was Fraffin playing with him? The ship’s people had suborned four previous Investigators of the Bureau. How? What plans had they for his own person? Surely they knew by now he was no ordinary visitor. But what could they possibly do?

  Not violence, certainly.

  Ruth began to cry, the sobs shaking her shoulders. “All alone,” she muttered. “All alone.”

  Was it the native female? Kelexel wondered. Was she the bait in the trap?

  There could be no certainty in a secret battle of this land. You contended, one against the other, but every struggle occurred beneath a deceptively calm surface, hidden behind polite words and civilities and ritual behavior. The struggle went on and on within an intimate arena where no violence could be permitted.

  How can they hope to win? Kelexel asked himself.

  Even if they bested him, they must know there’d be other Kelexels. It would never end.

  Never.

  Never.

  Awareness of an endless future broke like waves across the reef of his mind. On this path lay the Chem madness, Kelexel knew. He drew back from such thoughts.

  Ruth got up, stood looking down at him unsteadily.

  Savagely, Kelexel adjusted the manipulator. Ruth stiffened. The skin rippled on her cheeks and forearms. Her eyes glazed over. Abruptly, she turned, ran for the water basin in the corner. She leaned on it, retching.

  Presently, she returned to her chair, moving as though pulled by strings. Distantly in her mind, a tiny kernel of awareness cried out: “This is not you doing these things! These things are being done to you.”

  Kelexel held up his flagon, said: “With such things as this your world fascinates and attracts us. Tell me, with what does your world repel?”

  “It isn’t a world,” she said, her voice shaky. “It’s a cage. This is your own private zoo.”

  “Ahhh, hmmm,” Kelexel said. He sipped at his drink, but it had lost its savor. He put the flagon on the table. There were wet circles there where he had put the flagon before. He looked at them. The female was becoming resistant, obstinate. How could that be? Only the Chem and an occasional mutant were immune to such pressures. Even the Chem wouldn’t be completely immune without Tiggywaugh’s web and the special treatment they received at birth.