Psycho - Three Complete Novels (52 page)

“Wrong. First of all you can’t judge anything on the basis of what I have told you because there’s not enough information to go on. Secondly, you don’t strike me as the type who’d ever settle for leaving well enough alone. If you did, you wouldn’t be a journalist. Any more than I would.” Gibbs shook his head. “But the bottom line is, don’t blame yourself for what you think may have happened or what did happen. There’s no need for a rush to judgment.”

True enough, Amy told herself. It doesn’t pay to be judgmental about anything without getting sufficient input first. She glanced up at Hank Gibbs; his appearance hadn’t changed since their meeting, but he was a perfect illustration of misjudgment, because he no longer looked like a Norman Rockwell illustration at all.

“Relax,” Gibbs said. “Steiner’s going to be okay and Claiborne will probably make it too. Point is you don’t have to be such a hurry to get over to the courthouse because now you have all day. But if you want to ask any questions, feel free.”

Amy did relax enough to take another sip of her coffee, and while she didn’t feel entirely free, at least what he’d said lifted some of the burden from her conscience. Enough so that she was able to accept his invitation.

“How long have you been editing the paper?” she asked.

“Nine years. Why?”

“I was wondering about the files. Would there be anything going back about thirty years ago?”

“Not that I know of.” Gibbs smiled. “Believe me, I looked. Then I asked around, trying to find out if some of the older folks happened to save copies from back in those days. If anyone did, they won’t admit it; people here didn’t want to talk about Norman Bates back then and chances are they didn’t want to read about him either. Most of them still don’t seem to want to know the details.” He leaned forward. “Why do you?”

“Because he’s a symbol,” she said. “In some ways he seems to be more alive today than he was thirty years ago. Or is it just that we’ve turned into a violent society?”

“I think our society has always been violent,” Gibbs said. “The only difference is that now we’re beginning to admit it. And we’ve still got a long way to go. People fool themselves into thinking that reading about it or watching it on screen is ‘facing reality.’ But actually what they see or read is preselected. I think that we turn our backs on violence in its worst and most commonplace forms—penning and butchering fowl and livestock, death on the highways, crime in the streets.” Gibbs shook his head. “But who am I to get on a soapbox? Isn’t that what your book was all about?”

Amy nodded. “I started to tell the story of Bonnie Walton, try to find out why her grungy life as a common hooker could lead to committing a series of cold-blooded murders. But
Tricks or Treats
ended up dealing more with her johns than with herself. When I researched their past histories it seemed to me that all of them were victims of society before they became victims of murder. A couple of them turned out to be just kids sampling what they thought would be more sophisticated sex, the same way they’d experiment with designer drugs in preference to pot.”

Hank Gibbs arched his eyebrows. “That’s a pretty heavy way to describe it,” he said.

“Caught me out?” Amy smiled as she spoke. “Most of what I just said is a direct quote from the book. I don’t usually talk that way.”

“Why not?”

“No audience, I suppose.”

“Try me.” Gibbs reached for his coffee cup. “You were saying about the johns—”

“All they seemed to be looking for was a little excitement to ease the monotony of a dull existence. In the case of the three middle-aged men you could strike out the word ‘existence’ and substitute ‘marriage.’ The older men weren’t looking for great sex—from what I was able to find out, they weren’t looking for sex at all. A little conversation, a little sympathy, the temporary illusion of being the center of attention; that’s what they were buying. But they got more than they bargained for. Sad.”

“I agree.” Gibbs finished his coffee and centered his cup in the saucer. “I’m glad you don’t sound like one of those feminists.”

“I believe in equal rights,” she told him, “but that means looking at both sides of the question. There’s no doubt that Bonnie Walton was also a victim; forces in her early life drove her into prostitution, and prostitution drove her into mental illness. You might say that her psyche, as well as her body, was bedridden.”

“I might, but I’ll bet you beat me to it.” Gibbs smiled. “Something tells me that’s a line from your book too.”

“Right.” Amy glanced down at her notebook for a moment as she continued. “But what I’m leading up to is that it seems possible Norman Bates might have been a victim if we had all the facts to go on.”

Gibbs nodded. “Problem is, there’s not too many people around who knew him.”

“And some of those who did had a very short acquaintance,” Amy said. “That insurance investigator, Arbogast, probably saw him for only a few moments. With the Crane girl it might have been a matter of several hours, but of course there’s no way of telling. And now with her sister dead, Sam Loomis dead, Sheriff Chambers and his wife both gone, there doesn’t seem to be anyone left who had a direct connection with the case. I’d been counting on Dr. Steiner and Claiborne but it looks like that will have to wait. Meanwhile—”

“Meanwhile, what?”

“I have a secondary list.” Amy opened the notebook. “There’s this man who’s responsible for putting up that replica of the house and motel.”

“Otto Remsbach? Might be a good idea if you found out what that’s all about.”

“Don’t you know?”

“Not very much.” Gibbs shrugged. “You’ll probably get more out of him than I could. You’re prettier.”

Amy ignored the lead, if it was a lead; as far as she was concerned pleasure ended with breakfast. This was business. “Then there’s a Dr. Rawson. Also Bob Peterson, and of course I want to have a talk with the Sheriff—”

“Then what are we waiting for?”

“I appreciate what you’re saying, Mr. Gibbs, but I really can’t ask you to inconvenience yourself.”

“Meaning you wouldn’t feel comfortable having me around unless I kept my mouth shut.” Gibbs nodded. “Okay, I promise.”

He turned in his chair to signal the waitress for the check but the long arm of coincidence—or, more precisely, her scrawny one—was already extended to deposit the bill on the table. “Thanks, Millie,” he said.

Leaving his tip, paying at the cashier’s stand, and conducting Amy through the lobby, Gibbs slowed his movements once they stepped out onto the sidewalk. “Mind doing a little walking?” he asked. “Nobody on your list is more than three blocks from here. That’s one of the joys of living in a small town. Right offhand, I can’t think of any other.”

Their first stop was the office and showroom of Remsbach Farm Implements Co.; at least that’s what the lettering on the display window proclaimed, and Amy had no reason to dispute it because she could see the tractor model looming up on the platform behind the window-pane.

Otto Remsbach’s office was on the left-hand side of the hall just a few steps past the doorway. Gibbs held the door of the outer office open for Amy’s entrance, then followed her, moving up beside the desk where a honey-blond secretary whom Amy judged to be abut her own age sat behind a typewriter. She glanced up as they entered, her tentative smile broadening as she recognized Gibbs.

“Hi, Doris,” he said. His head bobbed in accompaniment to the customary introductions. “Doris Huntley—Amelia Haines. It
is
Amelia, right?”

Amy nodded. “Pleased to meet you, Miss Huntley.”

Gibbs’ resonant voice broke in before the secretary could respond. “Miss Haines just got into town last night. She’s doing a story about the Bates place so naturally she’d like to have a talk with Mr. Remsbach.”

Doris Huntley’s brown eyes focused momentarily on Amy in what seemed to be a quick reappraisal. But her reply was directed to Gibbs. “I’m sorry, he’s over at the warehouse in Marcyville. Probably won’t be back until sometime late this afternoon.” Now she turned to Amy again. “Is there somewhere he can reach you then?”

“I’m staying at the hotel,” Amy told her.

“Ask him to give her a call when he’s free,” Gibbs said. “Tell him from me that I think it’s a good idea. That tourist trap he’s opening could use a little good publicity for a change.”

Doris Huntley nodded. “Soon as he gets back.”

“Thanks. Be seeing you.”

She nodded again, then leaned forward. By the time Amy and her companion reached the door the typewriter was already clattering away.

“She’s very attractive,” Amy murmured.

“Otto likes them that way,” Hank Gibbs told her. “Can’t say that I blame him.”

Amy allowed her voice to rise to its normal level when they reached the street outside. “From what I saw, Fairvale hasn’t yet moved into the world of computers.”

“Not so. They have ’em at the bank, over at the super, and maybe four, five offices in and around town. I guess Otto’s just holding out until he sees how things go on this Bates proposition. So far the Grand Opening’s been postponed twice—once on account of some hangup bringing in furnishings, and of course that business out there last week meant another delay.”

“I forgot to ask you about that,” Amy said. “What’s your theory?”

“My theory is that nobody knows the first damn thing about it,” Gibbs said. “And they never will unless someone can come up with a motive. Who would want to kill an eleven-year-old girl like that? She wasn’t sexually molested, had no problems with family or at school. It’s a puzzler.”

“Those reporters who came here after the murder,” Amy said. “Did you talk to them about it?”

Gibbs nodded as they crossed the street. “They all hunted me up, first thing. Fella from Springfield, one from St. Louis, and a stringer covering this area for K.C. All I could do was tell them what I’d heard and turn them over to Engstrom, the coroner’s office, and the Highway Patrol people. Guess they came up empty-handed because in forty-eight hours everyone was gone without bothering to kiss me good-bye. And there’s been nothing in any of the papers since the first items were run.”

He turned to hold the door open at the entranceway of a small, two-story structure imaginatively fashioned of concrete blocks shaped into a square with rectangular apertures for windows on the upper floor. Amy was under no misapprehension that the building had been designed by Le Corbusier.

“Rawson’s office,” Gibbs told her. And so it was, there on the left again, about the same distance down the hallway as Otto Remsbach’s had been. The raised plastic lettering on the dark door spelled out
CLIFFORD RAWSON
, M.D.

Inside, the reception room offered the usual dingy discomforts accorded to patient patients by health-care professionals throughout the land. It occurred to Amy that at this very moment there must be several hundred thousand worried sufferers sitting on uncomfortable chairs and on edge in doctors’ waiting rooms exactly like this one.

But at the moment there was no one else besides the two of them in the outer office and their stay was not lengthy. Gibbs went over to the glass-topped counter and rapped on the pane. The receptionist seated at the desk beyond appeared to be thirty-something, her hair jet-black, eyes almost violet, and—wouldn’t you know it?—she was operating the keyboard of a small computer. Or had been, until Hank Gibbs claimed attention.

Now the two of them were talking, but while she smiled, nodded, and responded, Amy was quite conscious of her frequent side glances. The scrutiny concluded when she rose and disappeared into a corridor area beyond the cubicle housing her desk and files.

Gibbs walked over to where Amy stood waiting. “Doctor’s in. I told her why you wanted to see him.”

“Why do you suppose she was eyeballing me like that?” Amy asked.

“Marge?” Gibbs chuckled. “Don’t mind her. She used to be my insignificant other.”

Amy frowned. “What are you, some kind of comedian?”

“Not me,” Gibbs said. “A comedian is somebody who talks dirty for money.”

The routine—if that’s what it was intended to be—ended abruptly now as the door to the inner office opened and the receptionist nodded them forward.

Dr. Rawson’s own private office was at the end of the hall, past the two examination rooms and the storage unit. There was a big desk, two small chairs facing it, a bookcase against the wall opposite the window. The wall behind the desk bore half a dozen framed diplomas and certificates, all of which added up to attest Clifford Matthew Rawson’s rights as a physician, surgeon, and one of the last of a dying breed of balding, horn-rimmed-wearing general practitioners.

Once introduced he listened attentively as Amy stated her purpose for the visit—very much, she imagined, as he would listen to a new patient’s description of symptoms. But when she finished, Dr. Rawson offered neither diagnosis nor cure.

“I’m afraid there’s not very much I can tell you,” he said. “It’s true I was Lila and Sam’s family physician, but that’s as far as it goes. Now that they’re both gone, I don’t think I’d be violating confidentiality to tell you that Lila Loomis only came in once a year for a routine physical; as I recall it, she never had any serious problems. Sam had a slight heart murmur, but that’s all. I put him on a low cholesterol diet and checked him out every six months.” Dr. Rawson ran the fingers of his right hand across the side of his head to smooth nonexistent hair. He smiled apologetically. “I don’t suppose that means very much one way or the other.”

“What I was wondering about,” Amy said, “is whether either of them might have happened to mention anything to you about the Bates case.”

Dr. Rawson’s smile vanished. “They never talked about it,” he said. “And neither did I.”

“I see.” Amy nodded. “Thank you for answering my questions.”

Dr. Rawson stared at her through the upper section of his bifocals. “Mind if I ask you one?”

“Not at all.”

“Has anyone else here in town given you information about the case?”

“Not at all.” Amy wondered how many more times she might have to use the same phrase today.
Not at all,
she hoped. But if this was any example of what she could expect to encounter—