Blood Test

W. Bragdon stood, hitched up his holster, and disappeared through the metal door. He returned with a man in his fifties who could have stepped off a Remington canvas.

He was short and bow-legged, but broad shouldered and rock-solid, and he walked with a hint of a bantam swagger. His razor-creased trousers were of the same tan material as the deputy’s uniform, his shirt green plaid and pearl buttoned. A crisp, wide-brimmed Stetson rested squarely atop his long head. The suggestion of vanity was confirmed by his tailoring: the shirt and slacks had been tapered to hug a trim physique.

The hair under the hat was dun and cropped close to narrow temples. His facial features were prominent and somewhat avian. A thick gray handlebar mustache flared under a strong beakish nose.

I was drawn to his hands, which were unusually thick and large. One rested on the butt of a long-barreled Colt.45 nestling in a hand-tooled holster, the other extended in a handshake.

“Doctor,” said a deep mellow voice, “Sheriff Raymond Houten.” His grip was solid but he didn’t exert pressure — a man well aware of his own strength.

He turned to Bragdon. “Walt.” The baby-faced deputy looked me over once more and returned to his desk.

“Come on in, Doctor.”

On the other side of the tiny mesh window were ten feet of corridor. To the left was a bolted metal door, to the right his office, high-ceilinged, sunlit, and redolent of tobacco.

He sat behind an old desk and motioned me to a scarred leather armchair. Removing his hat, he tossed it on a rack fashioned from elk antlers.

Pulling out a pack of Chesterfields, he offered me one and when I declined, lit up, leaned back, and looked out the window. A large bay window afforded a view of Orange Avenue and his eyes followed the path of a semi hauling a load of produce. He waited until the big truck had rumbled out of sight before speaking.

“You’re a psychiatrist?”

“Psychologist.”

He held the cigarette between thumb and forefinger and inhaled.

“And you’re here as Dr. Lynch’s friend, not in a professional capacity.”

His tone implied the latter would have been more than appropriate.

“That’s correct.”

“I’ll take you to see him in just a minute. But I want to prepare you. He looks like he fell into a combine. We didn’t do it.”

“I understand. Detective Sturgis said he started a fight with members of the Touch and came out the worse for it.”

Houten’s mouth twisted under his mustache.

“That about sums it up. From what I understand Dr. Lynch is a prominent man,” he said skeptically.

“He’s an internationally renowned expert on children’s cancer.”

Another look out the window. I noticed a diploma hanging on the wall behind the desk. He’d earned a bachelor’s degree in criminology from one of the state colleges.

“Cancer.” He mouthed the word softly. “My wife had it. Ten years ago. It ate her up like some wild animal before it killed her. The doctors wouldn’t tell us anything. Hid behind their jargon till the end.”

His smile was frightful.

“Still,” he said, “I don’t recall any of them quite like Dr. Lynch.”

“He’s one of a kind, Sheriff.”

“Seems to have a temper problem. What is he, Guatemalan?”

“Cuban.”

“Same thing. The latino temperament.”

“What he did here wasn’t typical. To my knowledge he’s never been in trouble with the law.”

“I know that, Doctor. We ran him through the computer. That’s one reason I’m willing to be lenient and let him go with just a fine. I’ve got enough to hold him over for quite a while — trespassing, assault, malicious mischief, interfering with an officer. Not to mention the damage he did to their gate with his car. But the circuit judge doesn’t get up this way until winter and we’d have to ship him to San Diego. It would be complicated.”

“I appreciate your leniency and I’ll write a check for any damages.”

He nodded, put out his cigarette, and got on the phone.

“Walt, write up Dr. Lynch’s fines and include the estimate on the gate...No need, Dr. Delaware will come by and pay for it.” A glance in my direction. “Take his check, he looks like an honest man.”

When he hung up he said, “It’s going to be a sizable sum. The man created lots of problems.”

“He must have been traumatized hearing about the Swope murders.”

“We were all traumatized, Doctor. Nineteen hundred and seven people live in this town, not counting migrants. Everyone knows everyone. Yesterday we flew the flag at half mast. When little Woody got sick it was a kick in the gut for all of us. Now this...”

The sun had changed position and it flooded the office. Houten squinted. His eyes disappeared in a thatch of crow’s feet.

“Dr. Lynch seems to have gotten it into his head that the children are here, over in the Retreat,” he said expectantly. I got the feeling I was being tested, and turned it back on him.

“And you feel that’s out of the question.”