Primary Justice

42

THE TALL, THIN WOMAN with the stringy blonde hair was not dressed like a nurse or any other identifiable authority figure, but she seemed to be the one in control. Ben told her that he was an attorney, careful to suggest, without actually stating, that he was Tidwell’s attorney. The woman bought it; she was probably used to seeing junior attorneys sent out to do dirty duty like this. The woman gestured toward a chair, and Ben sat down.

The chair faced a wall that, from about four feet above the floor on up, was made of a thick, clear acrylic. A metal speaker in the center allowed communication from one side to the other. Apparently, Tidwell was still considered dangerous. Ben rubbed his arm and decided that he was in no position to disagree.

A door in the room on the opposite side of the glass opened, and a heavyset male guard escorted Tidwell into the room. Tidwell was wearing a loose-fitting orange jump suit. Ben was reminded of the outfits his father used to wear when he was working in the yard. The guard led Tidwell to the chair opposite Ben’s on the other side of the acrylic, then positioned himself against the wall next to the door.

Tidwell stared contemptuously through the acrylic barrier. “Know why lawyers are always buried at least twelve feet underground?”

“Forget it. That’s not why I came.”

“Because deep down, they’re really nice people,” Tidwell growled, obviously disappointed. “What do you want?”

“I came to see for myself.”

“See what?”

“See if you really are crazy.”

Tidwell started to smile, then caught himself. After a moment, apparently deciding there was no harm, he allowed himself a full grin. “Of course I’m crazy,” he said. “I’m in the loony bin, aren’t I?”

“Under observation,” Ben said slowly. “So the shrinks can decide whether you’re capable of comprehending the charges brought against you.”

Tidwell continued to smile. “I must be crazy,” he said. “How else could I do all the horrible things I’ve done? I couldn’t distinguish between right and wrong.”

“Save it for the jury,” Ben muttered.

“I was controlled by an irresistible impulse. I didn’t comprehend the nature and quality of the acts I was committing.”

“Christ!” Ben said, pounding his forehead. “Your lawyers have even briefed you on the M’Naughten test for insanity.”

Tidwell smiled but said nothing.

“And you’re just smart enough to pull it off,” Ben muttered, shaking his head.

Tidwell stared back at Ben. His beady green eyes seemed yellow through the distorting ripple of the acrylic panel.

“Can you tell me one thing?”

Ben waited for a response and got none.

“I’ve almost deciphered this puzzle, but there’s one piece I don’t have. After I was stupid enough to tell you I’d found Catherine, and you ran back to the apartment, what did you do to her?”

“I didn’t do anything,” Tidwell said, smiling contentedly.

“What did you say, then,” Ben said. “Let me guess. I think you told Catherine that Emily was dead, that you’d killed Emily to punish Catherine for being bad. That would do the trick. That would push her over the edge.”

Tidwell’s grin widened appreciatively.

“You sick son of a bitch,” Ben said. He felt he needed to stand. He began to pace back and forth before the acrylic screen. “You killed Catherine just as surely as if you had crammed the pills down her throat.”

“What’s it to you, anyway?” Tidwell asked.

“I—” Ben started, then stopped. There was no way he was getting into that. “I got to know Catherine, a little bit,” he said simply.

He walked to the door and opened it.

“I hope they fry you, you sick bastard,” Ben said. “I hope they draw and quarter you and drag your entrails through the streets of the city.”

Tidwell’s smile spread from ear to ear. “I do, too,” he said. “Isn’t that crazy?” And he laughed and laughed and laughed.