Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine. Vol. 133, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 811 & 812, March/April 2009

“Before you close your notebook,” I said, “you might want to dig a little deeper. Whoever slit the throat and poured a coloring agent into the gash was acting out something more than a prank.”

“What are you,” he said, “a shrink?”

“Forensic psychiatrist,” I said. “Here for a mystery writers’ conference.”

The shrug was Mitchum at the top of his game. Probably he practiced in front of a mirror. I saw he was frowning at my nose. Before med school, I’d boxed in the Marine Corps, and the nose was exhibit one.

“You don’t look like a mind bender.”

“I can hook on some false whiskers,” I said, “if that’ll help.”

“What were you doing out at the pool so early?”

I could tell from his tone that I’d been suddenly elevated from witness to suspect.

“Working on a tan,” I replied.

He gave up on me, turning to the night manager.

“Is the ventriloquist staying here?”

“Yes sir.”

“Okay, let’s bring her down,” he said, tossing a throwaway smile at me like a bone. “She can ID the remains.”

By the time Karen Palmer came out through the glass doors beneath the blue canopy, first light was bleeding off the sky to the east like a cut artery. She wore white shorts, a ribbed sleeveless blouse, and high-heeled beach sandals, and I saw that her legs had a nice tan. The instant she caught sight of the childish figure in the sodden pinafore, she let out a sharp cry and ran over, falling on her knees beside it. Sobs shook her body. They say ventriloquists’ dummies, over time, take on a human persona in the minds of performers. She had breathed life into this one until it had become a part of herself, and now she might have been hysterical over a dead child.

“Any idea who could have done this?” the detective asked.

She raised her head, nodding.

“Someone’s been stalking me for the last two months. He sends me notes.”

“What kind of notes?”

A bloom of color came into her cheeks.

“The early ones were sexually explicit. Lately, they’ve taken on a threatening tone.”

“Did you contact the police where you live?”

“Yes, but they couldn’t identify the person.”

“If I were you, I’d report this when you get back. Might be a connection.”

After the police and fire rescue units had left, Karen remained on the edge of a deck chair, her face buried in her hands. She was clearly distraught, and I felt bad for her. I stepped over to introduce myself and told her I was a forensic psychiatrist.

“I’ve had some experience in the criminal justice system with stalkers. If you feel up to talking about it, I might be able to help.”

She had, I thought, a certain refinement, some imprimatur of class, that made her hesitant to share personal details of her life with a stranger, even a professional. But the strain she was under overrode her reluctance, and she nodded through the film of tears.

We spent a good part of the afternoon together, drinking tea under an umbrella at a table in the sun. She’d appeared on national TV and now enjoyed a minor celebrity on the nightclub circuit. The odd part was, I’d talked to one of the conference speakers who had caught her act in the lounge. He said the show was funny, but spiked with graphic jokes. For some reason I couldn’t picture her on stage using four-letter words to get a laugh. Against the honey sheen of her skin, the blue eyes were deceptively innocent, and as the afternoon slipped away in the splash of swimmers and the lazy swell of voices, I began to sense a shadow of fragility in her on the other side of the well-bred manner. Several times during our conversation she stopped talking and turned her head sharply, and I caught a darting reflex of fear in the pupils, as if they had picked up some danger lurking out of sight beyond the archipelago of tables and deck chairs packed with hotel guests.

“Do you have any of the notes this guy sent you?” I said.

“I got one two days ago. It was left at the desk.”

She fished the folded scrap from her purse and held it out to me. The handwriting had a manic slant, as if some angry violence were backed up in the fingers squeezing the pencil.

DON’T TRY TO HIDE

FROM ME. I ALWAYS

KNOW WHERE YOU ARE.

“If you want the truth,” she said, “I’m terrified. I think what he did to Sara Jane was a message that he plans to do the same to me. I can feel him out there now, watching us...”

“You did a show last night, didn’t you?”

“At midnight.”

“If he was the one who mutilated your doll, how did he get his hands on it?”

“I suppose he could have got into my room with a duplicate key.”

“Didn’t you have the safety latch on?”

“I don’t know. I’m always worn out after a late show. When I got back to my room, I just took off my clothes and crashed.”

“I guess you can get the doll repaired.”

It was the wrong thing to say. The grief twisted across her face again.

“You don’t understand. She wasn’t just some inanimate thing. She had a piece of my soul. That’s the part that was murdered last night. I’m the target. He’s coming after me.”