In The House Of Secret Enemies

some people-but they had to believe in him. From what I could see. the effects of what he was doing were at most ephemeral, and extremely short-lived. I suppose that's why he panicked.'

'Panicked?'

Johnson's eyebrows lifted. 'The police haven't told you?'

'I'm running ahead of myself. I haven't talked to the police yet. I assume you're talking about the drugs Morales is supposed to have administered.'

'Oh, not supposed to. I saw him, and it was reported to me by the patient.'

'What patient?'

He clucked his tongue. 'Surely you can appreciate the fact that I can't give out patients' names.'

'Sure. You told Edmonston?'

'It was his patient. And he insisted on filing the complaint himself.' He shook his head. 'Dr. Mason would have been doing everyone a favor if she hadn't insisted on having the university bail him out.'

'Uh-huh. Can you tell me what happened the night Dr. Edmonston died? What you know.'

He thought about it for a while. At least he looked like he was thinking about it. 'Dr. Edmonston and I always met on Thursday nights. There were records to be kept, decisions to be made, and there just wasn't enough time during the week. On that night I was a few minutes late.' He shook his head. 'Those few minutes may have cost Robert his life.'

'Maybe. What was Morales doing there?'

'I'm sure I don't know. Obviously, he was enraged with Robert. He must have found out about the Thursday night meetings while he was working with us, and decided that would be a good time to kill Dr. Edmonston.'

'But if he knew about the meetings, he'd know you'd be there.'

Johnson glanced impatiently at his watch. 'I am not privy to what went on in Esteban Morales' mind. After all, as you must know, he is almost completely illiterate. A stupid man. Perhaps he simply wasn't thinking straight. . if he ever does.' He rose abruptly. 'I'm afraid I've given you all the time I can afford. I've talked to you in the interests of obtaining justice for Dr. Edmonston. I'd hoped you would see that you were wasting your time investigating the matter.'

The interview was obviously over.

Johnson's story stunk. The problem was how to get someone else to sniff around it. With a prime suspect like Morales in the net, the New York police weren't about to complicate matters for themselves before they had to, meaning before the senator either got Morales a good lawyer or laid his own career on the line. My job was to prevent that necessity, which meant, at the least, getting Morales out on bail. To do that I was going to have to start raising some doubts.

It was time to talk to Morales.

I stopped off at a drive-in for dinner, took out three hamburgers and a chocolate milk shake intended as a bribe for my outrageously oversized brother. The food wasn't enough. A half hour later, after threats, shouts and appeals to familial loyalty, I was transformed from a dwarf private detective to a dwarf lawyer and taken to see Esteban Morales. The guard assigned to me thought it was funny as hell.

Esteban Morales looked like an abandoned extra from Viva Zapata. He wore a battered, broad-brimmed straw hat to cover a full head of long, matted gray hair. He wore shapeless corduroy pants and a bulky, torn red sweater. Squatting down on the cell's dirty cot, his back to the wall, he looked forlorn and lonely. He looked up as I entered. His eyes were a deep, wet brown. Something moved in their depths as he looked at me. Whatever it was-curiosity, perhaps-quickly passed.

I went over to him and held out my hand. 'Hello, Mr. Morales. My name is Robert Frederickson. My friends call me Mongo.'

Morales shook for my hand. For an old man, his grip was surprisingly firm. 'Glad to meet you, Mr. Mongo,' he said in a thickly accented voice. 'You lawyer?'

'No. A private detective. I'd like to try to help you.'

'Who hire you?'

'A friend of yours.' I mouthed the word 'senator' so the guard wouldn't hear me. Morales' eyes lit up. 'Your friend feels that his daughter needs you. I'm going to try to get you out, at least on bail.'

Morales lifted his large hands slowly and studied the palms. I remembered Janet Mason's Kirlian photographs; I wondered what mysterious force was in those hands, and what its source was. 'I help Linda if I can get to see her,' he said quietly. 'I must touch.' He suddenly looked up. 'I no kill anybody, Mr. Mongo. I never hurt anybody.'

'What happened that night?'

The hands pressed together, dropped between his knees. 'Dr. Edmonston no like me. I can tell that. He think I phony. Still he let me help his patients, and I grateful to him for that.'

'Do you think you actually helped any of them?'

Morales smiled disarmingly, like a child who has done something of which he is proud. 'I know I did. And the patients, they know. They tell me, and they tell Dr. Edmonston and Dr. Johnson.'

'Did you give drugs to anybody?'

'No, Mr. Mongo.' He lifted his hands. 'My power is here, in my hands. All drugs bad for body.'

'Why do you think Dr. Edmonston said you did?'

He shook his head in obvious bewilderment. 'One day the police pick me up at university. They say I under arrest for pretending to be doctor. I no understand. Dr. Mason get me out. Then I get message same day-'

'A Thursday?'

'I think so. The message say that Dr. Edmonston want to see me that night at seven-thirty. I want to know why he mad at me, so I decide to go. I come in and find him dead. Somebody cut throat. Dr. Johnson come in a few minutes later. He think I do it. He call police. .' His voice trailed off, punctuated by a gesture that included the cell and the unseen world outside. It was an elegant gesture.

'How did you get into the office, Esteban?'

'The lights are on and door open. When nobody answer knock, I walk in.'

I nodded. Esteban Morales was either a monumental acting talent or a man impossible not to believe. 'Do you have any idea why Dr. Edmonston wanted to talk to you?'

'No, Mr. Mongo. I thought maybe he sorry he call police.'

'How do you do what you do, Esteban?' The question was meant to surprise him. It didn't. He simply smiled.

'You think I play tricks, Mr. Mongo?'

'What I think doesn't matter.'

'They why you ask?'

'I'm curious.'

'Then I answer.' Again he lifted his hands, stared at them. 'The body make music, Mr. Mongo. A healthy body make good music. I can hear through my hands. A sick body make bad music. My hands … I can make music good, make it sound like I know it should.' He paused, shook his head. 'Not easy to explain, Mr. Mongo.'

'Why were you upset near the end of the project, Esteban?'

'Who told you I upset?'

'Dr. Mason. She said you were having a difficult time affecting the enzymes.'

He took a long time to answer. 'I don't think it right to talk about it.'

'Talk about what, Esteban? How can I help you if you won't level with me?'

'I know many things about people, but I don't speak about them,' he said almost to himself. 'What make me unhappy have nothing to do with my trouble.'

'Why don't you let me decide that?'

Again, it took him a long time to answer. 'I guess it no make difference any longer.'

'What doesn't make a difference any longer, Esteban?'

He looked up at me. 'Dr. Edmonston was dying. Of cancer.'

'Dr. Edmonston told you that?'

'Oh, no. Dr. Edmonston no tell anyone. He not want anyone to know. But I know.'