The Case of the Demure Defendant

Chapter One

The drugged girl lay on the couch, her left arm extended.

The man who stood over her held the microphone of a tape recorder.

“What is your name?” he asked.

The green light of the magic eye on the tape recorder flickered in an oscillating fan as the tones of the man’s voice registered.

His left hand made a slight adjustment of the volume on the tape recorder. His voice, quietly insistent, filled with enough authority to make it positive yet not so mandatory as to arouse antagonism within the girl’s subconscious mind, slowly repeated the question again.

“What is your name?”

The drugged girl stirred. Her eyelids flickered.

There was no impatience in the man’s voice, only that same quiet, authoritative insistence. “What is your name?”

This time the girl’s lips moved. The voice was slurred with drug-induced drowsiness. The sound was unintelligible.

“You’ll have to speak louder,” the voice insisted, beating its way through to her consciousness. “Speak louder. What is your name?”

“Nadine.”

“That’s better. What is your full name?”

“Nadine.”

“Your full name.”

“Nadine Farr.”

“Nadine, do you remember asking me to give you a truth serum test?”

She yawned.

“Do you remember?”

“Yes.”

“You promised that you would co-operate?”

“Yes.”

“You are going to co-operate?”

“Yes.”

“Move your right hand, Nadine.”

She moved the right hand.

“That’s fine. Now raise your right hand.”

The right hand moved but did not rise.

“Raise your right hand, Nadine. Nadine, raise your right hand. Raise your right hand.”

The hand was raised slowly with visible effort.

“Raise it higher. Raise it higher, Nadine. Higher.”

The hand was lifted higher.

“That’s fine. Now drop your hand. Tell me the truth, is there anyone in the world whom you hate?”

“Not now.”

“Does someone hate you?”

“Not now.”

“Are you in love?”

“Yes.”

“Did you ever hate anyone?”

“Yes.”

“Man or woman?”

“Man.”

“Who is that man?”

“He’s dead.”

“Nadine, I am Dr. Denair. I am your doctor. Do you have full confidence in me?”

“Yes.”

“Will you tell me everything about yourself?”

“Yes.”

“Are you going to tell the whole truth?”

“I guess so.”

“Will you tell the truth?”

“I... yes.”

“There is someone whom you hated?”

“Yes.”

“He is dead?”

“Yes.”

“When did he die?”

“Earlier in the summer.”

“How did he die?”

The drugged girl answered easily and naturally, “I killed him.”

Dr. Denair, who had been framing another question, jerked backward as though the sleepy voice had struck him with the impact of a physical blow. He glanced at the nurse who was standing by the beaker containing distilled water and sodium pentothal. The carefully measured solution was dripping into the girl’s veins at just the right speed to keep her hovering in a narrow corridor bordering complete unconsciousness, a drugged lethargy in which she would be unable to muster sufficient mental energy to tell a lie.

“Nadine, do you know me?”

“I know you.”

“Do you trust me?”

“Yes.”

“Nadine, you must tell me the truth.”

“I’m telling the truth.”

“Whom did you hate?”

“Uncle Mosher.”

“You mean Mosher Higley?”

“Yes.”

“Who was the man who hated you?”

“Uncle Mosher.”

“He’s dead?”

“He’s dead.”

Again the doctor glanced at the expressionless face of the nurse. He hesitated, then said, “Nadine, tell me the truth. How did he die?”

“I killed him.”

“How did you kill him?”

“Poison.”

“Why did you kill him?”

She said, “I had to go away.”

“Go away from what?”

“Disappear.”

“Why?”

“So John wouldn’t love me.”

“John who?”

“John Avington Locke.”

“Who is it that you love?”

“John.”

“John Locke?”

“Yes.”

“Does he love you?”

“Yes.”

“Your Uncle Mosher died three months ago?”

“I killed him.”

“How did you kill him?”

“Poison.”

“What kind of poison?”

“Pills.”

“Where did you get the poison?”

“It was there.”

“What did you do with the poison?”

“Threw it in the lake.”

“What lake?”

“Twomby’s Lake.”

“Where in the lake?”

“From the boat landing.”

“Did you drop it or throw it?”

“Threw it.”

“Was it in a package or a bottle?”

“Bottle.”

“Liquid or pills?”

“Pills.”

“Did the bottle float?”

“I put lead shot in the bottle.”

“Where did you get the lead shot?”

“Cut open Uncle Mosher’s shotgun shells.”

“How many?”

“Two.”

“What did you do with the empty shotgun shells?”

“Back of the gun cabinet.”

“Have you ever told anyone about this?”

“No.”

“Where did you get the poison?”

The girl’s answer was unintelligible.

“Nadine, where did you get the poison?”

She moved her lips. Her tongue made sounds as though trying to formulate some complicated sentence, then abruptly, as though in realization that the effort was too much, the girl slid off into sleep.

The doctor indicated to the nurse that she was to shut off the medication.

“Nadine.”

There was no response.

“Nadine.” The voice was louder. “Nadine, listen to me. Nadine, move your right hand.”

There was no response.

“Nadine, what is your name?”

The girl was motionless.

Dr. Denair placed his thumb above the left eyelid, raised the lid, looked in the eye, then let it drop back.

He reached over and shut off the tape recorder.

“She’ll have to sleep for a while,” he said. “When she starts to regain consciousness she may realize she has told us more than she intended. She may become excited and irritable. You understand that, Miss Clifton?”

The nurse nodded.

“You understand that this entire conversation is professional, that you are, under no circumstances, to reveal anything that has been said?”

She met his eyes. “Are you going to reveal it?” she asked.

“To whom?” he asked coldly.

“To the authorities.”

“No.”

The nurse was silent.

Dr. Denair pulled the plug from the wall outlet, put the cover on the tape recorder and turned to the nurse. “I’m going to leave it to you, Miss Clifton, to see that she is kept quiet and undisturbed. She needs to be warm. You’ll take her pulse from time to time. I have left detailed instructions as to what action to take in the event of any complications. You know my routine.”

The nurse nodded.

“I will be out for perhaps an hour or an hour and a half, then I will return,” he said. “I don’t think she will regain consciousness for several hours. If she does and wants to talk, do not discuss anything with her. Simply tell her to sleep. You will remember that you are here in your professional capacity as a nurse and will say nothing to anyone about what has taken place.”

He waited for her to meet his eyes.

She raised her eyes reluctantly. “Very well, Doctor.”

Dr. Denair walked out of the examination room which had been carefully constructed so that despite hospital controls the room had none of the white-tiled severity which might alarm a patient. While the room could be flooded with brilliance, at the moment it was lit only by a soft indirect illumination. Air in that room was held at a carefully controlled temperature and the walls were completely soundproof.