Iceman

Buckhead

Betty Baylos, Keith Freidrich's girlfriend of the moment, had agreed to meet Eichord, and she had been ten times more curious about the investigation than had any of the men he'd questioned. Freidrich's, along with his other primary suspects—such as they were—had been surreptitiously voice and-fingerprinted, and a special sheet with their recent photographs had been circulated among Nevada and Texas law enforcement.

The Baylos woman was a sexy, animated woman in her early thirties who dressed and acted like a teenybopper. “How come you're wanting to know all this stuff?” she asked Eichord about fifteen times as he did variations on the routine-investigation standard response. The area that he thought he'd have lots of trouble with, that of Freidrich's sexual orientation, had been dismissed with a curt “God! That's none of your BUSINESS!"

But when Jack gently prodded, saying that it might help Keith, blah blah, apologizing for asking such personal questions about any area of intimacy between them, she simply shrugged and preceded to regale him with an ultra-explicit, blow-by-blow (literally), unashamed recounting of their amorous couplings. After ten minutes of this Eichord had truly learned everything he had ever wanted to know but was reluctant to ask, and then some.

In the voyeuristic eavesdropping he did acquire a bit of insight into the area of a disabled person's sexual magnetism. From what Betty Baylos said, if she was typical in her reactions, a good-looking guy in a wheelchair was or could be extremely attractive to a woman, piquing her curiosity as to what intimacy would be like, how that person might seek satisfaction, the things we always wonder about a person to whom we're drawn, but amplified by that element of curiosity, especially when underscored by the instincts of a woman in that situation. The urge to mother was strong.

His brief Q and A session with Jeanette Hohner was also interesting. She was a registered nurse who had been involved with Alan Schumway.

“I appreciate your willingness to be candid with me, Jeanette,” he said, “if I may be on a first-name basis with you?” Smiling, speaking softly. Not carrying a big stick. “Can you tell me a little about your relationship with Mr. Schumway?"

“Which one?” she asked. “Personal or professional?"

“Both."

“I was his physical therapist for a couple of months. And I went out a couple of times, too.” She was an interesting-looking woman. Not pretty in the face, and with a complexion that could be described as a kind of sandblasted look, but she had nice eyes and a naturalness that Eichord found very appealing. “Is Alan in some sort of trouble?” she asked quietly.

“No. Not at all,” Eichord said, and did his short routine-query tap dance. She had a look about her that made a healthy guy aware of his own maleness. The sort of figure that told you what was under the clothing was mostly Jeanette and not the by-products of clever designers of undergarments. Her curves had the look that said. These are my own. Take me or leave me. “What was your regimen in terms of the physical therapy? What kind of things would be involved in the work?"

“Mostly just his legs. He has no use of his legs, as you probably know. So we did whirlpool baths, massages, various excercizing, and that sort of thing.” Keith Freidrich's girlfriend had said her boyfriend's legs were “real thin,” in answer to a question, and Eichord used those words in his conversation with Jeanette Hohner.

“Would you describe his legs as real thin, emaciated, withered? How would you describe them?"

“Sure. They're pretty thin. But considering how long he's been in a chair, they've got pretty good tone."

“Is it possible he could ever walk again?"

“I doubt it, from what I've seen of his medical records. I couldn't say for sure, but complete paralysis like that—I doubt it."

“You know that he can't walk now, though? No way he could be faking?"

“Of course,” she said, looking at Eichord like, Are you nuts?

“Why do some patients of therapists in this sort of a profile have good tone, as you put it, and some are extremely withered in the lower limbs?"

“I don't know.” She tilted a shoulder. “Nobody really knows how much a person's muscles will atrophy. Almost all people in chairs atrophy a lot, whether they have therapy or not."

“Then why do they go through the motions if they're going to atrophy anyway?"

“Because. Some people are fighters and some aren't. And some of them have had different kinds of diagnoses. Maybe the prognosis for recovery is there. Or maybe they don't believe they'll be paralyzed forever. Or maybe they think they can regain some usage. Or perhaps they feel like they MIGHT not atrophy as much with some therapy. All kinds of reasons."

“And you can say for certain that Alan Schumway, the last time you worked with him, was atrophied consistent with an individual who couldn't move his legs and hadn't for years?"

“Sure. He had good muscle tone to begin with, so he still has some tone, like I told you, but his legs are atrophied. They're pretty thin."

“I have to ask you this, Jeanette. I'm not just being nosy, but I apologize for the intrusion on your privacy in advance. I need to know what sort of sexual relations you might have had with Mr. Schumway. If you would categorize him as normal in that way,” he kept his voice soft, speaking as softly and respectfully as he could.

“Normal. Yes. I, uh, we had normal relations."

“Intercourse?"

“No,” she said, plainly irritated, giving the word a couple of extra syllables.

“This is a murder case of some complexity.” He breathed deeply. “I need you to be specific, please.” Ever so gently.

“I gave him head. Okay?” Just like that.

Okay. It's okay with me, Jeanette. He nodded, eyes cast down by way of looking official. There was a time in his life he would have pursued that line, but he got off it now. “And when—"

“I mean, that's normal enough. Lots of couples, you know. But there were other things he wanted to do and I don't go for anything freaky. Like with another girl or anything. Forget it."

“That's what he wanted you to do?” She nodded. “When was the last time you saw him?"

“Couple months ago, I guess."

“Does he have a therapist now? Somebody else?"

“I think he goes to a doctor regularly, but I'm not sure who it is. I don't think he got another physical therapist."

“Was the personal thing between you why he stopped using you as a therapist?"

“I guess.” She shrugged with all of her upper body. “We just got into it. You know. He's got personality problems. He...” She ran down.

“What's your opinion of him, Jeanette?"

“Have you ever seen him on TV?"

“Sure."

“Well. That's Alan. You know what he's like if you've seen the TV commercials. He's a real horse's butt."

He smiled at her answer and thanked her.