Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine, Vol. 44, No. 4, April 1980

Grimes held out his hand. “I’ll take care of it. May I have the cassette, Mrs. Van Leer?”

She studied him for an instant. “The telephone company has a voice analyzer. I’d rather they did it.”

“Oh no!” exploded the older Matson. “We have all the facilities for voice analysis and that’s where I want it done. I’m afraid that the telephone company would be biased.”

“No more biased than you!” shot back Vivian.

“I am confident,” he said, “that the voice on the tape is not my son’s, therefore, I’m willing to have it checked — but only in our laboratory. I think you are a sick woman who for some reason wants to destroy my son and I suggest that you consult with a psychologist as soon as possible.”

Vivian’s face reddened. He probably had enough power down at City Hall to put her in some home or something. Was there no way to fight back? Oh God, if she were only fifty, or even sixty instead of seventy-eight! She handed the tape to Grimes. “Will you take good care of it, Sergeant?”

He took the cassette. “I will.” He turned to the older Matson. “I’ll have to hold your son until we can check this out. My voice on the tape is quite real.”

Greg Matson backed off. “I don’t wanta go to jail, Dad, don’t let them—!”

Vivian watched, unmoved by tears. She’d seen that act many times during her working life — phoney as an eleven-dollar bill. “Sergeant, let me know the results of the test.”

“Yes Ma’am.”

She left amid an elder Matson tirade against crazy old ladies.

But she had an odd feeling that she had failed again.

That afternoon Vivian had a visitor from the City Welfare Department, a Miss Caroline Eckel, a tall, thin, sober-faced woman with straight black hair, who looked as though she should be working in the public library. She wore a knee-length brown skirt, chilly white blouse and a plain brown coat.

Vivian, after a glance at George’s tank which was covered, motioned the woman to a chair. “I suppose this has to do with the Matson boy,” she remarked, sitting down in an easy chair. “Are you a psychologist?”

“Why, yes,” was the brittle reply. The woman was nervous. “My superior suggested that I pay you a visit.”

“Why? I’m not on welfare.”

“True, but you seem to be having a problem.” She leaned forward and cast what was meant to be a steady gaze on Vivian’s placid face. “Do you have dreams?”

Vivian smiled. The woman was obviously right out of college. “Yes, one recurring dream — that young Matson will stop bugging me. How long have you been out of college?”

“College? Six months.” She frowned. “Then young Matson is a fixation with you. You are convinced that he lives only to harm you.”

Vivian rubbed her chin reflectively. “At the moment, that appears to be the case.” She laughed. “Caroline, you are a lousy shrink.”

Caroline’s ample mouth dropped open. “What do you mean?”

“For forty years, young lady, I was an industrial psychologist. One of the first things you do when seeing a patient is to gain their confidence, talk about their daily life, their home, anything. You just barge right in an accuse me of being nutty as a fruit cake.”

“I did not. I merely—” Tears appeared in her eyes. She looked down at the floor for an instant. “I’m so afraid—”

“Afraid of what?” Vivian asked gently. “Talking to people?”

The girl nodded. “I freeze in front of people.”

“You must train yourself to relax,” Vivian said. “Make friends with your patient before you start probing. Talk about baseball, football, anything that the patient finds interesting—”

The telephone rang, Vivian walked over to the table and picked up the receiver.

Grimes was on the other end.

“Ma’am, I hate to tell you this, but your tape was wiped off by accident. Now, I told the lab to take good care of it, but—”

“Sergeant!” Anger flashed in her face. “The lab isn’t under Matson’s jurisdiction, is it?”

There was a pause. “I’m afraid so.”

“I guess I am an old fool. What do I do now?”

“Well, now,” Grimes said earnestly, “you just be careful and if you have any more trouble, you just let me know—”

“Sergeant?”

“Yes.”

“Horse droppings!” She hung up.

She went back to her chair and sat down. Then, with a wry smile, looked at the welfare worker. “Caroline, where do you come from?”

“A little town in Ohio,” Caroline said eagerly. “Remford. It’s just a tiny town and—”

Vivian settled back and half listened to the wonders of a small town in Ohio.

The next three days went by with no messages of hate from young Matson, either on dark corners or the telephone. She hadn’t really expected him to use the phone any more, thanks to the tape recorder which she kept connected just in case. Perhaps he had tired of his little game.

Then, one Saturday night at dusk she was walking home from the bus stop and as she paused on a corner, a familiar voice oozed out of a dark store front. “If it ain’t the ole lady with the tape recorder.” An icy chill went up her spine. The street ahead was deserted, with no help anywhere. She must make a run for it! But it was too late. He grabbed her and pulled her into the dark store entrance.