A Noise Downstairs(78)

Anna explained it as best she could. Arnwright had a small notebook in his hand and was scribbling things down.

“Would that explain why he might be inclined to take his own life?”

“If anything,” she said, “I would have thought that the visit helped. I can’t . . . this is horrible. How is his wife? How’s Charlotte?”

“Extremely distraught, as you can imagine. She was telling me that Mr. Davis was suffering from a delusion of some sort.”

Anna reached for a tissue from a nearby box. She dabbed her eyes and wadded the tissue in her fingers.

“I don’t quite know how to respond to that,” she said. “I suppose the short answer is yes.”

“Something about a possessed typewriter,” Arnwright said, without a hint of derision or skepticism.

“Yes.”

“He believed it was the typewriter Kenneth Hoffman made his victims write notes of apologies on.”

“That’s correct,” Anna said.

“I’m not a mental health expert, but that makes me wonder, had he been diagnosed with schizophrenia?”

“No.”

“Was he depressed?”

“He was certainly down, but I did not believe he was clinically depressed.”

“But doesn’t getting messages from dead people count as hearing voices? Isn’t that a symptom of schizophrenia? His wife said he was writing the notes himself, but unaware that he was doing it.”

Anna sighed. “I know how that sounds. And now, in retrospect . . .” She could not finish the sentence.

“Were you concerned he might harm himself? That he might take his own life? Could he have received one of these so-called messages telling him to kill himself, to walk out into the sound?”

“I just . . .”

“And I understand you were recently out there? Two nights ago? He’d had an episode?”

“Oh, God, what have I done,” Anna said and began to curl in on herself. “What did I fail to do?”

As the tears came, she grabbed for more tissues. “I suggested to him that he go to the hospital, that he be admitted for a short period so that he could be observed. But he wouldn’t do it.”

“Why not?”

Anna shook her head. “His friend talked him out of it.”

“What friend?”

“Bill. I don’t know his last name, but I think he works with Charlotte. She’s a real estate agent.”

Arnwright flipped to an earlier page in his notebook. “Bill Myers?”

“Possibly. Charlotte phoned him when I was there. Bill asked to talk to Paul, and after that Paul said he didn’t want to go to the hospital. He might have come to that decision on his own, though. Paul did not believe there was anything wrong with him mentally, although toward the end, he seemed more open to considering the idea that maybe he was responsible.”

“Responsible?”

“For the strange things that were going on.”

“Do you agree with the wife? He was writing them?”

Anna looked at the detective with red eyes. “Yes.”

Arnwright nodded and closed his notebook. “So it appears what happened is, Mr. Davis was in a very distressed state of mind, walked out into Long Island Sound with the intention of killing himself, and was successful. Is there anything you can tell me, as a professional who was treating Mr. Davis, that would run contrary to that finding?”

Anna struggled. To say no was an admission that she had not done her job, that she had failed him. To say no was to admit responsibility.

To say yes would be to lie.

“No,” she whispered. “No, I can’t think of anything that would contradict that finding.”

Arnwright offered a slow, sympathetic nod. “For what it’s worth, Dr. White, we have all been there. We’re all just trying to do the best we can.”

“I didn’t,” Anna White said. “Not even close.”





Forty-Seven

I killed him,” Bill Myers said. “I killed Paul.”

“I’m sorry?” Detective Arnwright said. “What do you mean?” They were meeting at The Corner Restaurant on River Street, a cup of coffee in front of each of them. Arnwright had suggested Paul’s friend order something to eat, but he’d declined, saying he didn’t have much of an appetite. That was when he made what had sounded to the detective like a confession.

“Mr. Myers, I should tell you, that if you’re about to admit something here, I’m obliged to inform you that—”

“It’s nothing like that,” Bill said, waving his hand in the air. “I didn’t drag him out into the sound and hold his head underwater, for God’s sake, but I might as well have.”

He made two fists, opened his hands, then made them again.

“I just . . . I can’t believe he did that. I can’t. He wasn’t crazy.” He leaned in closer to Arnwright. “He was going through some shit, he really was, but I never, never thought he would do anything like that. Otherwise, I would have told him to take his therapist’s advice, to check into the hospital. But no, I had to talk him out of that.” He grimaced. “I have to live with that for the rest of my life. That’s what I mean when I say I killed him. I talked him out of getting the help he so clearly needed.”