adjusts his gold-rimmed glasses, then looks down from his clipboard and fakes a thin-lipped smile, asking, "Are you feeling better now, Mr. Whithurst? More calm, perhaps?"
Arthur nods.
"Very good," the doctor says, as if rewarding a slow or recalcitrant student for a correct answer. "You have been given a drug to relax you, make you more comfortable. If you cooperate with me, answer a few questions, maybe Eugene can soon get you out of that restraint. You will find it best to cooperate with him, too."
Dr. Stern glances over his shoulder at the huge tech, who has abandoned his chair and is now standing by in the doorway with his muscular arms crossed in front of his chest, nodding his head and smiling humorlessly, exposing a gold capped front tooth. Eugene does not appear to be a man blessed with a great degree of patience. He has that don't-mess-with-me-just-do-as-you're-told look. Cooperation might be wise.
The doctor turns back and looks down at Arthur still lying on the gray mat. "Do you understand, Mr. Whithurst? Would you like to cooperate, answer a few questions?" Apparently Dr. Stern is a believer in a certain kind of verbal economy, always slipping in two questions for the price of one.
Arthur murmurs hoarsely a single response, "Yes," and mimics the doctor's fake smile.
The doctor readjusts his glasses, pushing them back up his nose with his middle finger, before thumbing through his notes on the clipboard. "Okay, very good," he says absently, carefully reading over something with frowning interest.
Eventually he taps the sheet of paper with his forefinger and says, "Hmmm…the police report here indicates that this all revolves around your deceased partner, Mr. Whithurst."
Dr. Sterns then looks directly at Arthur. "What about this partner? Tell me about—" He stops to consult his notes again. "—Mr. Cordoba?"
The name makes Arthur wince.
In a tired, barely audible voice, Arthur replies, "Tommy Cordoba was a small man, doctor, small in every imaginable way, and oh so very dirty."
"Dirty, how do you mean?" Dr. Stern asks. "His thoughts or his appearance?"
"Oh, you know, filthy, unkempt, untidy," Arthur explains, his voice gradually rising in pitch, his face more animated now.
"You see, we were in a dirty business—garbage collection. Valley Salvage Company. A good business, though, seven contracts with different municipal jurisdictions all up and down the valley. Anyhow, Tommy dispatched, handled the trucks and crews—most of them Mexicans or Blacks."
Arthur pauses and visibly shudders in his restraints, his voice a little thicker with obvious distaste. "None of them were allowed in my office with their filthy, greasy clothes…except for Tommy. I couldn't keep him out. Always dirtying ashtrays with his smelly cigars, smudging up papers with grimy fingers, poking into files, just generally disrupting the order of everything in my domain."
Arthur closes his eyes, clenches his teeth, and groans. "I hated him," he whispers vehemently, beads of sweat popping out on his forehead and upper lip.
The doctor writes something down on his clipboard. "Is that why you killed him?" he asks, looking back down at Arthur. "Because he was a disruptive force in your domain of the business?"
Arthur blinks, shakes his head. "No, actually it was because of my books."
"Your books? You mean the company records?"
Arthur's expression of distaste changes, as he first nods, then shakes his head with disbelief. "I don't know how, but he discovered the juggled balances on the books. I couldn't believe it, with his kind of mind. But late one night, about a week ago, he confronted me with the figures, accurate down to the very penny—"
"You mean your partner found out you were embezzling funds from the business after checking your books?" Dr. Stern says, interrupting Arthur. "Skimming money and falsifying figures to hide it?"
Arthur nods again sadly. "And he threatened to expose me, if I didn't sign over the entire company
Arthur nods.
"Very good," the doctor says, as if rewarding a slow or recalcitrant student for a correct answer. "You have been given a drug to relax you, make you more comfortable. If you cooperate with me, answer a few questions, maybe Eugene can soon get you out of that restraint. You will find it best to cooperate with him, too."
Dr. Stern glances over his shoulder at the huge tech, who has abandoned his chair and is now standing by in the doorway with his muscular arms crossed in front of his chest, nodding his head and smiling humorlessly, exposing a gold capped front tooth. Eugene does not appear to be a man blessed with a great degree of patience. He has that don't-mess-with-me-just-do-as-you're-told look. Cooperation might be wise.
The doctor turns back and looks down at Arthur still lying on the gray mat. "Do you understand, Mr. Whithurst? Would you like to cooperate, answer a few questions?" Apparently Dr. Stern is a believer in a certain kind of verbal economy, always slipping in two questions for the price of one.
Arthur murmurs hoarsely a single response, "Yes," and mimics the doctor's fake smile.
The doctor readjusts his glasses, pushing them back up his nose with his middle finger, before thumbing through his notes on the clipboard. "Okay, very good," he says absently, carefully reading over something with frowning interest.
Eventually he taps the sheet of paper with his forefinger and says, "Hmmm…the police report here indicates that this all revolves around your deceased partner, Mr. Whithurst."
Dr. Sterns then looks directly at Arthur. "What about this partner? Tell me about—" He stops to consult his notes again. "—Mr. Cordoba?"
The name makes Arthur wince.
In a tired, barely audible voice, Arthur replies, "Tommy Cordoba was a small man, doctor, small in every imaginable way, and oh so very dirty."
"Dirty, how do you mean?" Dr. Stern asks. "His thoughts or his appearance?"
"Oh, you know, filthy, unkempt, untidy," Arthur explains, his voice gradually rising in pitch, his face more animated now.
"You see, we were in a dirty business—garbage collection. Valley Salvage Company. A good business, though, seven contracts with different municipal jurisdictions all up and down the valley. Anyhow, Tommy dispatched, handled the trucks and crews—most of them Mexicans or Blacks."
Arthur pauses and visibly shudders in his restraints, his voice a little thicker with obvious distaste. "None of them were allowed in my office with their filthy, greasy clothes…except for Tommy. I couldn't keep him out. Always dirtying ashtrays with his smelly cigars, smudging up papers with grimy fingers, poking into files, just generally disrupting the order of everything in my domain."
Arthur closes his eyes, clenches his teeth, and groans. "I hated him," he whispers vehemently, beads of sweat popping out on his forehead and upper lip.
The doctor writes something down on his clipboard. "Is that why you killed him?" he asks, looking back down at Arthur. "Because he was a disruptive force in your domain of the business?"
Arthur blinks, shakes his head. "No, actually it was because of my books."
"Your books? You mean the company records?"
Arthur's expression of distaste changes, as he first nods, then shakes his head with disbelief. "I don't know how, but he discovered the juggled balances on the books. I couldn't believe it, with his kind of mind. But late one night, about a week ago, he confronted me with the figures, accurate down to the very penny—"
"You mean your partner found out you were embezzling funds from the business after checking your books?" Dr. Stern says, interrupting Arthur. "Skimming money and falsifying figures to hide it?"
Arthur nods again sadly. "And he threatened to expose me, if I didn't sign over the entire company
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