Silent Victim - C. E. Lawrence [35]
He greeted them with a cordial but formal smile.
“Hello, I’m Dr. Perkins. And who might you be?”
The voice was British, self-consciously posh, but with a suggestion of a regionalism—West Country, perhaps? Lee’s knowledge of English dialects was fair—because of his Scottish ancestry he had traveled in the U.K. a fair amount.
“I’m Lee Campbell, and this is Detective Leonard Butts, NYPD.”
“Detective, is it? Oh dear me, to what do I owe this honor?”
Perkins looked rather pleased, and his voice held a note of suppressed excitement. Lee waited a moment before responding, half-expecting Perkins to apologize for his odd attire and give some explanation about being an actor in a local production or something. But when no explanation was forthcoming, Lee said, “Could we have a few minutes of your time? It’s about Ana Watkins.”
“Is something the matter?” Perkins’s face immediately assumed an expression of concern—so quickly that Lee didn’t trust it.
“Can we come in?” Butts said, looking over his shoulder—or rather trying to, as he was at least half a foot shorter than Dr. Perkins.
“Oh, yes, yes—of course!” Perkins said, sweeping them into a spacious and graciously furnished drawing room. A grand piano covered with a cream-colored antimacassar, upon which sat a heavy blue vase filled with white tea roses, presided over the room. He motioned them to a pair of blue and white wing chairs in front of a marble fireplace. Butts complied slowly, taking in the room with some astonishment, judging by the expression on his face. Lee guessed that as a homicide detective in the Bronx, he seldom did interviews in dwellings like this one.
“Please, sit down,” said Perkins.
“This is a very nice place you have here,” Butts said, lowering his bulk into one of the armchairs carefully, as if afraid he might crush it.
“Thank you, but I really can’t take any credit for it—it’s all my sister’s doing, you see,” Perkins replied with a flip of an immaculately manicured hand. “She’s the one with the artistic eye. I just live here.” He pulled up a straight-backed chair in between the armchairs and settled himself in it.
Even his movements were theatrical. He looked not so much like a man at home in his drawing room as an actor playing the part of a man at home in his drawing room.
“Now then,” he said, straightening his starched white cuffs, “what’s this about Ana?”
“We understand Miss Watkins was a patient of yours,” said Butts. It was a common interrogative technique to get as much information out of subjects as you could before giving them anything in return.
“You said she ‘was’ a patient,” Perkins observed. “Has something happened?”
“Was there anything in the course of her treatment that might lead you to believe she was suicidal?” Butts continued, ignoring the question. This too was standard operating procedure—never give away information to a potential suspect unless you find it necessary.
Perkins leaned back and crossed his arms. “I’m afraid that comes under doctor–patient confidentiality,” he said primly. “In fact, I can’t even confirm that Miss Watkins was—is my patient until you tell me what this is about.”
Butts glanced at Lee, who said gently, “Dr. Perkins, I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but Ana Watkins was found dead yesterday.”
Perkins sprang from his chair as though it were suddenly electrified. “Oh, dear me!” he cried, wringing his hands. “Oh, dear me—poor girl! What happened?”
“She was drowned,” Butts replied bluntly.
Perkins stared at him, took one enormous gulp of air like a stranded fish, then paced in front of the fireplace, wringing his hands and muttering, “Dear me, oh dear me!” Once again, Lee was struck by the theatricality of his gestures. It was like watching an actor in a performance rather than a real human being in distress.
“Dr. Perkins,” Butts said, “if you wouldn’t mind, we’d like to ask you a few questions.”
“Of course,” Perkins said.