Read Online Natural Suspect (2001) by Phillip Margolin - Free Book Online
Authors: Phillip Margolin
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helps things along. Hence this garb."
The clown gestured toward his nose.
"Honk, honk," he added.
Patrick felt cold circulate within him, as if he'd stepped into a freezing river current. "What do you want with me?"
"Not an unreasonable question," the clown said. He placed his briefcase and plastic cooler on the floor, then knelt down and opened the briefcase. He removed a small, silver dental probe which he flourished in the air between himself and Patrick.
"Is it safe?" the clown demanded in a gruff, Teutonic accent. "Tell me, pliss, is it safe?"
Patrick felt his mouth dry, his heart pound. "Please," he replied, "I don't understand ..."
The clown frowned. The makeup he wore gave his every expression an exaggerated impact, as if the smiles were in response to something truly hilarious, and the frown a result of some great and utter disappointment. "You're not a film buff?"
"What?"
"A film buff. Don't you like the movies?"
Patrick opened his mouth to reply, but could find no words.
The clown shook his head, making the multicolored wig bounce around. "I was hoping you'd be a film fan. Tell me, you don't recognize the late Sir Laurence Olivier's great line from Marathon Man? Where he has a bit of a discussion with Dustin Hoffman over diamonds and dental care? Come on, Patrick, everyone remembers that scene. Unforgettable ..."
He waved the dental probe in the vague direction of Patrick's mouth, which, at that moment, seemed to Patrick to be wisely kept shut.
The clown's smile returned. "No? Alas. It does seem to me that I am running into more and more uneducated types in my line of work. But I had hopes for you, Patrick. I mean, a newspaper man--or, even an aspiring newspaper man--ought to be well versed in popular culture, don t you think?"
The dental probe glistened, reflecting light from a single, bare overhead bulb as the clown swung it around. Then, abruptly, the clown stopped the probe in mid-swing and suddenly pointed it directly at Patrick's mouth.
"You should not be silent when I ask you a question," he said, his voice suddenly cold and even, terrifying in its abrupt flat tones. "When I ask, you should answer. This will hurry things along and limit your and my involvement. Again, I remind you, this would be a wise philosophy to adopt for the foreseeable future." The clown leaned forward and tapped the dental probe against Patrick's lips.
Patrick could feel sweat beginning to gather beneath his throat, dripping down his chest. The same was true beneath his armpits. "What do you want from me?"
"Ah, better. What I'd like is the truth. Can you manage that?"
Patrick nodded.
"I need to hear you," the clown said, a singsong, false menace in each word.
"Yes. Of course. Whatever you want, just let me go."
The clown smiled. "Maybe. Maybe not. That remains to be seen. Cooperation is the key word here, Patrick. Cooperation and compliance. Two key words. Think you can manage those?"
"Yes. Please. What are you going to do to me?"
The clown smiled again. "Why, Patrick, I'm going to hurt you. Isn't that obvious?"
Patrick moaned. "Please, I'll do whatever you want. . ."
"Of course you will," the clown said, matter-of-fact obvious-to-see filling his voice. "I mean, look at you. Look at me. I'd have to say you're not in much of a position to negotiate. You're in a position to--"
He gestured toward the trussed man, as if urging him to complete the sentence, which Patrick did, rapidly.
"--cooperate."
"And?"
"Comply," Patrick added hastily.
The clown looked at his dental probe, abruptly shook his head again, and returned it to the briefcase. But whatever relief Patrick might have momentarily felt at the disappearance of that device was replaced by a new horror when the clown removed a small, surgical steel scalpel from the case. He held it up to the light, admiring it.
"Remarkable, these things. So precise you hardly feel the slice. Hey, doesn't that sound like an advertising agent's nifty slogan." The clown
The clown gestured toward his nose.
"Honk, honk," he added.
Patrick felt cold circulate within him, as if he'd stepped into a freezing river current. "What do you want with me?"
"Not an unreasonable question," the clown said. He placed his briefcase and plastic cooler on the floor, then knelt down and opened the briefcase. He removed a small, silver dental probe which he flourished in the air between himself and Patrick.
"Is it safe?" the clown demanded in a gruff, Teutonic accent. "Tell me, pliss, is it safe?"
Patrick felt his mouth dry, his heart pound. "Please," he replied, "I don't understand ..."
The clown frowned. The makeup he wore gave his every expression an exaggerated impact, as if the smiles were in response to something truly hilarious, and the frown a result of some great and utter disappointment. "You're not a film buff?"
"What?"
"A film buff. Don't you like the movies?"
Patrick opened his mouth to reply, but could find no words.
The clown shook his head, making the multicolored wig bounce around. "I was hoping you'd be a film fan. Tell me, you don't recognize the late Sir Laurence Olivier's great line from Marathon Man? Where he has a bit of a discussion with Dustin Hoffman over diamonds and dental care? Come on, Patrick, everyone remembers that scene. Unforgettable ..."
He waved the dental probe in the vague direction of Patrick's mouth, which, at that moment, seemed to Patrick to be wisely kept shut.
The clown's smile returned. "No? Alas. It does seem to me that I am running into more and more uneducated types in my line of work. But I had hopes for you, Patrick. I mean, a newspaper man--or, even an aspiring newspaper man--ought to be well versed in popular culture, don t you think?"
The dental probe glistened, reflecting light from a single, bare overhead bulb as the clown swung it around. Then, abruptly, the clown stopped the probe in mid-swing and suddenly pointed it directly at Patrick's mouth.
"You should not be silent when I ask you a question," he said, his voice suddenly cold and even, terrifying in its abrupt flat tones. "When I ask, you should answer. This will hurry things along and limit your and my involvement. Again, I remind you, this would be a wise philosophy to adopt for the foreseeable future." The clown leaned forward and tapped the dental probe against Patrick's lips.
Patrick could feel sweat beginning to gather beneath his throat, dripping down his chest. The same was true beneath his armpits. "What do you want from me?"
"Ah, better. What I'd like is the truth. Can you manage that?"
Patrick nodded.
"I need to hear you," the clown said, a singsong, false menace in each word.
"Yes. Of course. Whatever you want, just let me go."
The clown smiled. "Maybe. Maybe not. That remains to be seen. Cooperation is the key word here, Patrick. Cooperation and compliance. Two key words. Think you can manage those?"
"Yes. Please. What are you going to do to me?"
The clown smiled again. "Why, Patrick, I'm going to hurt you. Isn't that obvious?"
Patrick moaned. "Please, I'll do whatever you want. . ."
"Of course you will," the clown said, matter-of-fact obvious-to-see filling his voice. "I mean, look at you. Look at me. I'd have to say you're not in much of a position to negotiate. You're in a position to--"
He gestured toward the trussed man, as if urging him to complete the sentence, which Patrick did, rapidly.
"--cooperate."
"And?"
"Comply," Patrick added hastily.
The clown looked at his dental probe, abruptly shook his head again, and returned it to the briefcase. But whatever relief Patrick might have momentarily felt at the disappearance of that device was replaced by a new horror when the clown removed a small, surgical steel scalpel from the case. He held it up to the light, admiring it.
"Remarkable, these things. So precise you hardly feel the slice. Hey, doesn't that sound like an advertising agent's nifty slogan." The clown
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