Simple Genius

Michelle said dully, “He’s a big boy; he can do what he wants.”

“But from what he said, that turned out to be a big mistake too.”

“You bet it did.”

“You think Sean’s a smart man?”

“One of the smartest I’ve ever met.”

“And yet he was deceived too.”

“But he figured it all out. Me, I was still in la-la land.”

“How did you feel about Sean and this woman?”

“Like I said, he’s a big boy.”

“That’s not what I asked you.”

She snapped, “I felt bad about it, okay? Are you satisfied?”

“Bad because he chose her over you?”

Her eyes narrowed. “You don’t have a lot of tact, do you?”

“We’ll assume that I don’t. But is that how you felt?”

“I think I felt he was making a fool of himself.”

“Why?”

“She was a witch. Desperate to get her claws in him. And she was a murderer too though we could never prove it.”

“So you suspected her of being a killer while Sean was seeing her?”

Michelle hesitated. “No, I didn’t. There was just something about her that I didn’t like.”

“So your instincts proved right with her.”

Michelle sat back. “I guess so. I never thought about that really.”

“Well, that’s why I’m here, to help you think of these things. And patients often contribute to the healing process perhaps without even knowing they are.”

“How so?” “Like when you were in that bar. Part of you was looking for someone to hurt, to maybe even kill. Yet another part of you was looking for someone who could actually punish you, kill you. The result was you got the shit beat out of you, but you didn’t die, and I believe you had no real intention of doing so.”

“How are you so sure?” she said mockingly.

“Because people who really want to die use methods that are basically foolproof.” He ticked items off on his fingers. “A shotgun blast to the head, hanging, gas in the oven or poison down the throat. Those people don’t want help; they want to die and they almost always do. You didn’t die because you didn’t really want to.”

“Suppose you’re right, now what?”

“Now I want to talk about Michelle Maxwell as a six-year-old.”

“You go to hell!” Michelle stalked out of the room and slammed the door behind her.

Horatio screwed the top back on his pen and smiled contentedly. “Finally, we’re getting somewhere.”

CHAPTER 13

TO SEAN’S EYE the enormous brick and stone mansion ran at least two hundred feet in length and soared three stories into the overcast sky. It combined a number of architectural styles with at least eight chimney stacks that Sean could see; there was a proper British glass conservatory, gabled windows, a Tuscany-style veranda, mullioned windows, an Asian-influenced tower and a copper-plated domed wing. It had been built, according to Joan, by Isaac Rance Peterman, who’d made a fortune in the meatpacking industry. He’d named the place after his daughter, Gwendolyn. Her name was still on the entrance columns. To Sean’s mind the appellation could not have been more inappropriate as Gwendolyn looked like an overdressed fort with an identity crisis.

There was a cobblestone car park in front and the Hummer pulled through the gates where a uniformed guard was stationed and into an empty space next to a trim black Mercedes convertible.

A few minutes later, Sean’s bags were in his room and he was sitting alone in the office of Champ Pollion, the head of Babbage Town. The room was littered with books, laptops, charts, electronic gadgets and printouts containing symbols and formulas that Sean, even at a glance, knew he could never hope to decipher. Hanging on the back of the door was a white martial arts jacket and pants with a black belt attached. So a genius with lethal hands. Wonderful.

A moment later the door opened and Champ Pollion came in. In his late thirties he was as tall as Sean, but thinner. His brown hair had a small patch of gray on top and was neatly parted on the side. He wore a pair of khaki pants, tweed jacket with soft leather elbow patches, white buttondown shirt, V-neck sweater and paisley bow tie. Sean half-expected to see a pipe swinging in one of the man’s hands to complete this picture of the 1940s-era scholar.

The man sat in his desk chair, leaned back, put his size-thirteen scuffed loafers up on the book-strewn desk, and glanced anxiously at Sean. “I’m Champ Pollion. You’re Sean King.” Sean nodded. “Would you like some coffee?”

“Thanks.”

Champ ordered the coffee, then sat back in his chair.

“So the FBI’s involved in the case?” Sean asked.

Champ nodded. “Having the police and FBI running around, no one likes it.”

“And Turing was found on CIA property?”

“Why in the world would Monk have gone there? Those men have guns for God’s sake.”

“And you have men with guns here too,” Sean pointed out.

“If I had my way there wouldn’t be. But I merely run Babbage Town, so it’s not my call.”

“And you need guards here why?”