The Dark Hour

by Erin Lanter

  Feeling a bit more energized, Tessa stood and walked back to her room. If her gut was right, Margo Lang was the woman she’d seen last Monday night, and her psychiatrist was the one who killed her. She needed to find a way to let someone know what she’d found, then get herself out of this place.

  80

  After the late night escorting Tessa James to the psychiatric hospital, Al Jefferson made an executive decision to go in to work late. Not that anybody would mind. He knew he’d been a real jerk lately.

  He poured coffee into his jumbo-sized travel mug and grabbed a cinnamon roll from the plastic package. Leaning over the sink, he took a bite. A little stale, he thought ruefully, then took another bite. Darlene would be all over him about his cholesterol if she saw what he was eating. Fortunately, she was visiting her mom out of town. Without her there to nag him about his health, he relished eating the way he had before she moved in. As annoying as her nagging was, though, the woman could cook. To his disappointment, even the cinnamon roll didn’t taste as good as it would have before he met her.

  He quickly took a sip of hot coffee, almost taking the skin off the roof of his mouth in the process.

  I guess that lousy cinnamon roll is the last thing I’ll be able to taste for a while, he thought as he grabbed his keys and headed out the door.

  Another day of crime and criminals too dumb to get away with anything awaited him.

  The drive to the station was pleasant. Rush hour traffic ended hours ago. No one cut him off or refused to let him merge into another lane. Most mornings he wanted to pull people over just for being rude.

  With his caseload lighter than it had been in years, his main concern was the alleged murder victim Tessa James had brought to his attention, the attempted murder of Camille Walker, and the girl in the creek bed. As far as he was concerned, two of those cases were pretty much wrapped up. Tessa would go to jail for shooting the Walker lady, and with no evidence for what she’d claimed to witness, there wasn’t much of a case to investigate.

  Al had been so preoccupied with Tessa James, that he’d forgotten to check in with Isaac about any developments with the girl by the creek bed.

  Crossing the squad room, he avoided eye contact with anyone who glanced in his direction until he passed Isaac’s desk. Not even looking at his partner, Al hooked a finger and said, “My desk. We need to talk.”

  Isaac dutifully followed him. He sat down, crossed his ankles, and folded his hands. Al thought he looked suspiciously like someone who’d just been sent to the principal’s office.

  “What’s up, Al?” Detective Dunn asked.

  Al placed his travel mug on his desk and dropped into his chair with such force it sounded like the wheels were going to break off their casters. “What’s going on with the Jane Doe they found by the creek bed?”

  Isaac uncrossed his ankles and shifted in his seat. He cleared his throat and said, “Well, we have an identity, so technically she’s not a Jane Doe anymore.”

  Al spread his hands in front of himself. “Is this not something you thought you should mention?”

  “Identity was just established last night, when you’d insisted on being the one to escort Tessa James to the psychiatric hospital even though a uniformed officer could have easily done it,” Isaac spat. “Then you decided to come to work four hours late today and not tell anybody, not to mention the fact that you haven’t been answering your phone.”

  Ignoring the remark, Al pressed, “Well? Who is she?”

  Isaac held up a finger and went back to his own desk. He came back carrying a folder, then reclaimed his seat and crossed his ankle over his knee, spreading the file the length of his tibia. He shuffled some papers, then said, “Let’s see. She’s been identified as Amanda Meyers. Twenty-three years old, born and raised in Boston. Moved here five years ago for college, then just stuck around after that.”

  The young detective shuffled more papers. “It looks like she’s been unemployed for the past year. Apparently she was let go from her job at a local marketing firm for strange behavior. Her temper had gotten bad and they worried she was going to snap. She was fired, the firm citing that she created a hostile working environment. After that, nobody saw much of her, but she was still able to make her rent. We think maybe her parents were paying for her apartment. Anyway, a couple months ago, she made a scene at a restaurant and became violent. She was arrested. After a psychological evaluation, she was found to have bipolar disorder and was admitted to the state psychiatric hospital.”

  At Al’s questioning look, Isaac said, “I was here most of the night digging up information on her.”

  “She was a psych patient that ended up dead? When was she discharged from the hospital?”

  “No idea. I’m about to head over there. Wanna come?” Isaac offered.

  Al grunted. “Just try and stop me.”

  81

  Drew pressed his foot against the accelerator, weaving in and out of traffic, trying to get to the hospital as quickly as he could.

  It was after the lunch rush, so traffic had cleared considerably. Still, he felt like he’d never make it there.

  Nearly twenty minutes later, he parked, and hurried from his car, only to see that Detective Jefferson had parked close to the building and was walking toward the hospital entrance.

  From a distance, Drew watched the detective enter the hospital, pausing only briefly at the front desk to flash his badge, then breezing past the receptionist. As Drew ascended the hospital steps, he saw Detective Jefferson disappearing down a long hall.

  Breathing heavily, Drew pointed in the detective’s direction and huffed, “I need to get in there.”

  “Are you also with the police?” the receptionist asked, shuffling the papers on her desk. It was clear she didn’t care about Drew’s urgency or his collapsing lungs.

  “I need to catch up with the detective you just let in,” he said, deliberately slowing his breathing.

  “I’m sorry, sir. If you aren’t with the detectives, you can’t come in. Visiting hours don’t resume until six o’clock this evening. You’ll have to come back then.” She shoved the stack of papers into a folder and finally made eye contact. “Perhaps you should tell your detective friend to wait for you next time,” she suggested.

  Six o’clock? He glanced at his watch. That was still four hours away. His mind reeled at what could happen to Tessa during that time. His gut clenched. Here she was, a sane, adult woman being locked away and denied the basic right of seeing friends and family. And for what?

  Because someone had framed Tessa for shooting Camille.

  Drew slammed his fist on the desk and turned to walk away. The receptionist flinched.

  “I’ll be back at exactly six o’clock,” he muttered and walked back out into the humid summer air.

  This is ridiculous, he thought angrily. I can’t even imagine what this is doing to Tessa. She’s really going to have a hard time trusting people when this is all over.

  He shook his head and walked slowly back to his car, disgusted with his own inability to help her. He slid behind the wheel of his car and stared absently at the neglected building.

  Dr. Raymond would be finished with Camille by now. Backing out of his parking spot, he drove back in the same direction from which he’d come. To kill time between now and visiting hours, Drew would find out what Dr. Raymond had to say about Camille.

  If they could somehow prove Tessa hadn’t been the one to send Camille that text message, the judge might lift the seventy-two-hour hold so Tessa could go home.

  But how could he possibly prove that?

  She wasn’t going to be released, and unless a miracle happened, things would only get worse for her.

  82

  Knocking briskly on Dr. Jacob Armistead’s office door, Detectives Jefferson and Dunn walked in without permission and claimed chairs on the opposite side of the doctor’s desk.

  “Detective Jefferson. It’s a pleasure to see you again,” the psychiatrist sai
d through a tight smile, looking back and forth between the two detectives.

  “Likewise,” Al clipped. “So, Doc, how’s it going around here? Your patients doing okay?”

  The doctor nodded. “They’re doing very well. Progress is being made.”

  “Swell.”

  “Okay, then,” Detective Isaac Dunn interrupted. “Let’s get started. I’m sure the good doctor is very busy.”

  “I am,” Dr. Armistead agreed, “but please, ask me anything.”

  The corners of Al’s mouth twitched, then formed a smile. “Tell us about Amanda Meyers.”

  “Who?” The psychiatrist narrowed his eyes and shook his head, but the beads of sweat on his upper lip and forehead betrayed his anxiety.

  “Amanda Meyers,” Detective Jefferson repeated. “She was a patient here until about three days ago, give or take.”

  Dr. Armistead looked up at the ceiling as if willing recognition to drop from the sky. “Amanda Meyers. Amanda Meyers,” he repeated. “I’m trying to remember, but the name just doesn’t ring a bell.”

  “Try harder,” Detective Dunn said in a sharp tone that was uncharacteristic of his typical easygoing manner.

  “I’m sorry. I have no recollection of a patient by that name. Let me send for a nurse. They spend more time with the patients than we do.” He picked up the phone and pressed a single button. “Can you please come to my office right away?” he said when someone answered.

  “It should only be a minute,” he said, replacing the phone on its cradle.

  This guy is full of it, Al thought as he studied the faint cracks on the wall. He knows exactly who we’re talking about.

  A young woman with red hair and purple scrubs knocked, then pushed the door open. “You needed to see me?”

  Dr. Armistead waved a hand in her direction. “Detectives, this is Ann Mason. She’s one of the nurses on my unit. Ann, these are Detectives Jefferson and Dunn. They need to know if you remember a patient named Amanda Meyers.”

  “Sure,” Ann said. “She wasn’t on our unit, but she was in one of the recovery classes I teach about medication management.”

  “Ann is in school to become a nurse practitioner. Her knowledge about medication is much more extensive and useful than that of our other nurses,” the doctor explained, admiration lilting his voice.

  “When did you last see her?” Isaac asked.

  Ann knitted her eyebrows as she thought. “Four days ago, I think. She seemed really distracted in class, almost like she was worried about something. After class, I asked her if she was okay, and she said she was. That was the last time I saw or spoke to her.” Ann’s face clouded. “Why?”

  “I’m afraid she’s passed away,” Al said, watching the nurse’s reaction carefully.

  Ann placed a hand on her chest. “That’s awful. How did she die?”

  “I’m afraid we’re not at liberty to discuss that at this time,” Isaac responded. “It’s an ongoing investigation. I’m sure you understand.”

  “Of course,” Ann said, nodding softly. “Such a shame. She really was a nice girl. Bright, too. She could have had a great life ahead of her once she got back on her feet.”

  On a hunch, Al said, “Do you know if she was taking her medication regularly? I know she wasn’t on your unit, but, since you taught her medication class, maybe you’d know.”

  Ann flicked her eyes toward the psychiatrist, then nodded vigorously. “Oh, yes. She was doing extremely well. She was lucid, outgoing, friendly. She hadn’t had a manic episode in weeks. I think her doctor was planning to discharge her soon.”

  Isaac retrieved the small notepad from his pocket. “And who might that be?”

  “Dr. Wilma Robinson on unit 3C. You should talk to her. She and Amanda had a really good rapport.”

  “Thank you, Ann. That will be all,” Dr. Armistead said, dismissing her.

  Nodding slightly at Detectives Jefferson and Dunn, she turned and left the room.

  “I told you a nurse would be more helpful than I. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have several patients to speak with this afternoon.”

  “Of course,” the detectives said in unison as they rose from their chairs. “And I know you’ll be willing to speak with us again if we have more questions,” Al added.

  The detectives left the room before the doctor could respond.

  After quickly asking a janitor how to get to unit 3C, they found Dr. Wilma Robinson in her office. An attractive fiftyish woman with short ash blond hair and intelligent green eyes, she was a stark contrast to the ferret-like Jacob Armistead who, despite his arrogance, always seemed like he was sweating.

  After a quick introduction, Isaac said, “We understand you had a patient named Amanda Meyers.”

  Dr. Robinson narrowed her eyes and said, “I’m afraid I cannot discuss patients – “

  “She’s dead,” Al interrupted, “so that rule no longer applies.”

  “Dead?” Dr. Robinson gasped. “How can she be dead?”

  “When did you last see her?” Isaac asked, using the gentle tone he saved for friends and family of victims.

  “About three days ago,” Dr. Robinson said, eyes searching her desk for something that obviously wasn’t there. “I met with her in the morning to discuss her treatment plan and the next steps she would have to take to be discharged, but by that afternoon, she’d just… disappeared.”

  “What do you mean ‘disappeared’?” Al asked.

  “We thought she’d just taken off, escaped somehow. Amanda was doing extremely well and was frustrated that I hadn’t discharged her yet. She wasn’t entirely pleased with what I had to say in our meeting. I thought she took matters into her own hands.” Dr. Robinson’s eyes watered. “What happened to her?”

  “I’m afraid we can’t discuss that,” Isaac said in a soothing voice, “but we’re wondering if anything happened here lately. Something that might have given her a reason to feel like she had to leave?”

  Dr. Robinson tapped her chin with an index finger as she thought, then, as if a light bulb had switched on in her head, she snapped her fingers. “There was one thing. At first, I thought it was because she might be slipping into a manic episode. That’s why I held off discharging her. Sometimes, during one of her episodes, she’d make wild accusations about people, so, I’m ashamed to say, we didn’t take her concern seriously. But she was taking her meds and had been doing so well, and I began to wonder if there might be something to it.”

  Al tightened his face to mask his impatience. “Go on.”

  “She said she saw someone who works here harassing another patient. Amanda was adamant that it happened. We looked into all the employees on our unit but came up with nothing. When I told her that, she became furious. She reminded me that not everyone worked on our unit. That’s when she told me who it was. I wanted to believe her, but I couldn’t bring myself to admit that what she was saying could be true. I mean, he’s such a good doctor. And she’s such a caring and compassionate nurse…”

  “Who did Ms. Meyers accuse, Dr. Robinson?” Detective Dunn urged.

  The doctor hesitated, then sighed. “Dr. Jacob Armistead, on unit 3B and his number one nurse, Ann.”

  The two detectives exchanged glances. “What was the name of the patient Ms. Meyers said they were harassing?”

  “Margo Lang.”

  “Thank you for your time. You’ve been incredibly helpful,” Al said as he and Detective Dunn walked quickly out of the office, retracing their path out of the hospital.

  Checking on Tessa would have to wait.

  The pieces were falling into place, and the case against Jacob Armistead was coming together. Now it seemed as though he had an accomplice.

  “What now?” Isaac asked once they were outside. The creases in Isaac’s forehead deepened as he studied his partner.

  “I need to get Tessa James out of there,” he said, holding his phone to his ear. “No matter what unit she’s on, she’s at the mercy of that monster.”

&nbs
p; 83

  Jacob Armistead quickly shut the door behind Detectives Jefferson and Dunn. As he paced around his small office, beads of sweat popped up on the back of his neck. Soon there were dark circles under his arms. He continued to pace, the walls closing in on him.

  How stupid could I have been?

  I shouldn’t have let Amanda Meyers off this property, he berated himself. Now they suspect that I was responsible for her death.

  Plagued by the weight of a lifetime in jail, he sat heavily into his chair and put his head in his hands, flexing his clammy fingers in his hair.

  Ann would talk, he knew she would. She’d do whatever she had to do to make sure she didn’t end up in jail. She was young, with a bright future ahead of her. They’d give her a plea bargain for sure.

  Side by side on his desk were a picture of his mother as a young woman and one of him and Samantha, smiling broadly, with the Pacific Ocean behind them. Their honeymoon to Hawaii had been one of the happiest times of his life. For the first time, someone had accepted him unconditionally. She didn’t care that he wasn’t the most handsome man in the room; she was just fascinated by his brain.

  So much like his mother.

  It looked like the one weakness he’d allowed himself was finally going to be his undoing. It was exhilarating to have control over beautiful women. He’d done it many times, relishing the thrill every time they were helpless against him.

  Now Ann would betray him, and she’d force him to teach her a lesson, too.

  He made a fist with his bony hand and slammed it down on the desk until it hurt. Tears streamed down his cheeks.

  Real men don’t cry! he mentally shouted at himself, but try as he might, he couldn’t curb the flow. His mother’s words kept echoing in his brain. Real men don’t cry!

  A knock at the door stopped the tears he’d been unable to control.

  “Dr. Armistead?” a voice called from the other side of the door.

  “Yes?” he replied, the word coming out as a croak. He cleared his throat and repeated, “Yes?”