Marino cut him off. “Yeah, well, we’re here to massage that memory of yours,” he said, getting out his cigarettes. “And it ain’t Al Hunt we’re all that interested in.”
“I don’t understand.”
“We’re more interested in his pal,” Marino said.
“What pair’ Dr. Masterson appraised him coldly.
“The name Frankie ring a bell?”
Dr. Masterson began cleaning his glasses, and I decided this was a favorite ploy of his for buying time to think.
“There was a patient here when Al Hunt was, a kid named Frankie,” Marino added.
“I’m afraid I’m drawing a blank.”
“Draw all the blanks you want, Doc. Just tell us who Frankie is.”
“We have three hundred patients at Valhalla at any given time, Lieutenant,” he answered. “It isn’t possible for me to remember everybody who’s been here, particularly those whose stay was of a brief duration.”
“So, you’re telling me this Frankie character didn’t stay very long?”
Marino said.
Dr. Masterson reached for his pipe. He had made a slip, and I could see the anger in his eyes. “I’m not telling you anything of the sort, Lieutenant.”
He began slowly tamping tobacco into the bowl. “But perhaps if you could give me a little more information about this patient, the young man you refer to as Frankie, I might at least have a glimmer. Can you tell me something about him other than that he was a ‘kid’?”
I intervened. “Apparently, Al Hunt had a friend while he was here, someone he referred to as Frankie. Al mentioned him to me during our conversation. We believe this individual may have been restricted to Backhall after he was admitted, and then transferred to a different floor where he may have become acquainted with Al. Frankie has been described as tall, dark, slender. He also liked to knit, a hobby rather atypical among male patients, I should think.”
“This is what Al Hunt told you?” Dr. Masterson asked unemphatically.
“Frankie was also obsessively neat,” I said, evading the question.
“I’m afraid a patient’s enjoyment of knitting isn’t likely to be something brought to my attention,” he commented, relighting his pipe.
“It’s also possible he had a tendency to stutter when he was under stress,” I added, controlling my impatience.
“Hmm. Perhaps someone with spastic dysphonia in his differential diagnosis. That might be a place to start–”
“The place to start is for you to cut the shit,” Marino said rudely.
“Really, Lieutenant.” Dr. Masterson gave him a condescending smile. “Your hostility is unwarranted.”
“Yeah, yeah, and you’re unwarranted at the moment, too. But I just might get the itch to change that in a minute, slap you with a warrant and haul your ass off to lockup for accessory to murder. How’s that sound?” Marino glared at him.
“I think I’ve about had enough of your impertinence,” he replied with maddening calm. “I don’t respond well to threats, Lieutenant.”
“And I don’t respond well to someone jerking me around,” Marino retorted.
“Who is Frankie?” I tried again.
“I assure you I don’t know, offhand,” Dr. Masterson replied. “But if you’ll be so kind as to wait a few minutes, I’ll go see what we can pull up on our computer.”
“Thank you,” I said. “We’ll be right here.”
The psychiatrist had barely gotten out the door before Marino started in.
“What a dirt bag.”
“Marino,” I said wearily.
“It ain’t like this joint’s overrun with kids. I’m willing to bet seventy-five percent of the patients here’s over the age of sixty. You know, young people would stand out in your memory, right? He knows damn well who Frankie is, probably could tell us what size shoes the drone wears.”
“Perhaps.”
“There’s nothing perhaps about it. I’m telling you the guy’s jerking us around.”
“And he’ll continue to do so as long as you antagonize him, Marino.”
“Shit.”
He got up and went to the window behind Dr. Masterson’s desk. Parting the curtains, he stared out into the bleak late morning. “I hate like shit when someone lies to me. Swear to God I’ll pop ‘im if I have to, nail his ass. That’s the thing about shrinks that frosts me so bad. They can have Jack the Ripper for a patient and they don’t care. They’ll still lie to you, tuck the animal in bed and spoon-feed him chicken soup like he’s Mr. Apple Pie America.” He paused, mumbling inanely, “At least the snow’s stopped.”