Gwen, in Green

The file was relatively thin. The series of treatments had been terminated abruptly. It was closed out by a newspaper story about the tragic death of Mr. and Mrs. Paul Rogers in a flash fire at their luxurious home on Pine Tree Island. All the bodies except Evelyn’s had been discovered in their beds, or what was left of the bodies and the beds. Human bodies are devilishly difficult to burn, and there was enough left for identification purposes. Rogers’s remains were discovered in the area of the master bedroom. The three children had died in their own beds. Evelyn Rogers, horribly burned, did manage to get out of the house. She was found several hundred yards from the house, with her body half-­submerged in the waters of a small, natural pond. Her clothing had been burned off. Sheer speculation by the newspaper writer had her running from the house in flames. The fire had spread to the thick brush around the house. Perhaps, it was speculated, she ran ahead of the flames, seeing relief for her terrible pain in the water.

End. Finish. But then, a young psychiatrist had seen more than was stated in the newspaper article. In fact, King, knowing the degree of disturbance in his patient, had called the Ocean County Coroner. There were notes regarding the content of his conversation with the political hack who held the office, along with marginal notations of his dissatisfaction with the information received. No, the coroner had not performed autopsy on the remains; there were not enough remains to work with. No, the coroner was not a medical doctor. No, there were no facilities in Ocean County to make the kind of detailed analysis which Dr. King requested. Waste of time, anyhow. It was evident what had happened.

End of case.

Except for three more clippings, also dated in 1937, late in the year. A decomposing corpse had been discovered by loggers working on Pine Tree Island. The remains were identified as being those of one J. Edgar Smith, Negro, a former employee of the sawmill operator doing the logging. A protracted search of the area turned up three other bodies, also black, also former employees of the sawmill operator. In the South, in 1937, if a Negro had been turned in as missing by his relatives to the local law enforcement officers, the officers would have laughed. Everyone knew the shiftlessness of Negroes. Three dead Negroes, more or less, even four, made only inside pages of the newspapers.

Yes, King thought, putting the file back in its folder, he’d had his chance, and he’d blown it. There was, of course, no direct evidence; but Evelyn Rogers had been one disturbed young lady. A woman, young, strong, healthy, who shared the pain of trees as they were cut was not exactly normal. His notes indicated a huge reservoir of latent hostility toward her husband, whom she blamed for the logging. Most mass murderers had some sexual problem, and Evelyn Rogers had hers. It was entirely within the realm of possibility that the deaths of the Rogers family had not been accidental. Paul Rogers knew of his wife’s infidelity. In his one talk with Rogers, King had seen a man embittered, a man full of anger. He’d talked freely, with great emphasis on the fact that his wife’s lover was a retarded boy, big for his size but with the mentality of a six-­year-­old. And there was the matter of the dead loggers. Four strong Negro men. But give a woman the proper weapon and she can be deadly, even against strong men.

Too bad. If she had lived, he would have offered his services. He’d have worked for nothing, just to have the chance to pry into such a mind.

But that was in the past and now his curiosity was satisfied. To himself, for the first time, he admitted that he had neither the time nor the energy to write his book, that it would never be written. Evelyn Rogers, interesting as she was, would die, once again, when he died. His will provided that his files be destroyed.

Too bad. If he had known all, if he’d had a chance to talk with the woman, he might have been able to—to what? Satisfy his craving for sensation? Please his ego with an article about an interesting aberration? Help? Save lives?

Perhaps it was time to quit. Wasn’t his attitude toward the potential homosexual a clear sign that he was no longer interested in the welfare of his patients? Once he could have become totally involved in the case, worried about it and thought of ways to help. When the patient no longer seemed important, then it was time to take down his shingle.