Then, in June 1953, Levinson’s name reappeared in the book, his name written every single weekday in the same spot. And he was visiting a single prisoner exclusively. That prisoner was Harry Lightman. I looked at Steph as her face grew suspicious, waiting for her to speak.
“Why would he only see Lightman?” she finally said. I shook my head, unsure.
“And why take that break?” I replied, counting the months. “Twelve-month gap. Bit long for it to be a holiday.”
“And a long time not to see a regular patient. Weird. I wonder…” she said as she turned back to the box, looking for another folder.
“What are you thinking?” I said, curious. She was busy flicking through papers, books and stuff when she pulled something out.
“Ah, found it,” she said as she put another book on the desk. This one was titled “Visitors” and had all the visitors that came to the prison listed with their entry and exit times. Being such a specific prison with a relatively small number of residents, visitor numbers were pretty much at a minimum compared to a normal prison such as Pentridge or Beechworth. She opened the book and began at the beginning, running her finger down the list of names, stopping at each entry that read “Dr. Levinson/ Prisoner Lightman”. After a moment she looked at me.
“Wow, he was spending a long time with him. Look,” she said as she pointed to an entry. It showed Levinson enter the prison at 10.20 am and leave at 3.45pm. Another showed him arriving at 11.10 and not leave again until 5.30pm.
“Bit longer than the usual hour,” I said, following her finger down the page.
“Can you think of any reason why he would be spending so much time with him?” Steph asked, looking up from the page. I shook my head.
“I’m not one to answer that. I didn’t make it my life to treat many patients. I know I have the title, but between you and me, I was never a good psychiatrist. My heart just wasn’t in it. But, if I was to have a guess, I would say he was conducting research of some description.” She nodded, as if understanding.
“Think we should talk to him?”
“Talk to who?” a voice suddenly said from behind me. It was Rademeyer’s.
“We’ve been going over some of these files, Chief. There’s a doctor that’s been spending a lot of time with Lightman.” Steph said.
“How much time?” he asked. His tone didn’t sound like one of peaked interest, sounding instead, like someone who was going to doubt, regardless of the information conveyed. Steph shuffled uncomfortably in her chair. I knew that behind me, Rademeyer enjoyed his intimidation of the girl.
“A lot,” I said, turning my chair. “A lot longer than someone visiting a regular patient.”
“Lightman isn’t a regular patient,” he said.
“No, maybe not. But in the end, he’s nothing more than a killer and as such, not that different to the rest of the murderers already up there. Levinson is spending up to thirty hours a week with him. Doesn’t that sound rather excessive, Frank?” I asked.
“I wouldn’t know either way, I’m not a quack, Jim. That’s what I got you in on this for. If you think it’s worth following up then please do. But just remember, there are more bodies piling up and I don’t want you two to go off on some tangent when the real killer is out here somewhere. And one more thing. I received a call from a Richard Lovett.”
“Who?” I asked.
“Richard Lovett is the legal counsel for Lightman and he is going for a straight release based on the new murders. I’m told he’s a pit-bull and won’t lie down on this. So, you two get your fingers out of your butts and find this prick either way. We have to know what’s going on before we have two of them roaming around.”
“Thank you, Chief,” Steph said, but he didn’t respond, simply turning his back on us and walking out.
“Prick,” Steph muttered under her breath and a laugh escaped my lips. She looked at me then smiled.
“Come on. Let’s get a bite to eat. My treat,” I said and she stood before I could say anything else, which made me laugh a second time.
6.
Mrs. McNorton greeted us with an eager wave as Steph and I walked through the door to her café. I returned her wave then followed Steph to a table in the corner, several of the other tables occupied by the lunchtime crowd. A waitress came over with a bottle of water and handed us a couple of menus, took our order for coffees, then left us again. Steph studied her menu intently, settled on something, then closed it in front of her.
“I’ve never been here. I normally eat at the Cider Patch further up the street,” she said as she poured some water from the bottle.
“That lady who waved? She was running this place when I first started here as a cop.”
“Wow, that’s a long time.” I laughed.
“Did you just call me old, Officer?” I cried and she slapped my arm playfully.
“No, I didn’t.”
“Jim,
