A Dead Nephew

by Anna Celeste Burke

  “How can Brien be okay?”

  “Most of what had been in the needle was already in Mark Payton, the homeless man. There was just a stub of a needle left, and he sank it into Brien’s arm. That didn’t stop Brien, though. Rather than wait for a rescue squad, Brien picked up the homeless man, carried him to where they’d hidden their four-wheel-drive vehicle, and they drove him to the nearest hospital—JFK in Indio. That’s where I’m going now.”

  “Did Mark Payton live through it?”

  “He’s alive, but not out of trouble. They’re doing their best to counter the effects of the garbage the Cleaner Man pumped into him. The guy’s thin as a rail, like Louie, so who knows if he’ll make it or not. The needle Betsy yanked out of Brien’s arm contained a tiny amount of the crud, which has given them ideas about what to do for the poor guy fighting for his life.”

  “Should I come to the hospital with you?”

  “No, Jessica. Betsy said to tell you that the Cleaner Man had burn scars on the back of his hands, and you should keep trying to find out more about Christian Cursor.”

  “She’s right. If you need anything, or if Brien or Betsy do, call me.” George and I stepped out of the elevator into the lobby and parted company. I had Ginny Fieldcrest on the line by the time I reached my car.

  “I’m so glad you called,” Ginny said the minute I’d introduced myself. “I’ve tried to get someone to listen to me for so long, I’d given up hope anyone ever would. Tell me when and where you want to meet, and I’ll be there.”

  “If you have time now, I could use coffee or iced tea,” I suggested.

  “Do you know where the Terra Lago Golf Course is?”

  “Yes.”

  “Meet me at the golf club’s restaurant. Most of the golfers will still be out on the course, so we should have the place to ourselves.”

  “I’m at my car and can be there in twenty minutes,” I responded eagerly. “How will I know it’s you?”

  “If I’m not the only one in the dining room, I’ll be the one wearing the biggest smile and a hot pink visor. I can’t tell how happy I am to get this off my chest. Especially if this guy is still hurting people.”

  “Someone is. Let’s talk and see if your guy is our guy. I’m on my way, going as fast as I can without getting stopped for speeding.”

  *****

  I was in the Terra Lago Golf Club parking lot in just under twenty minutes. I hustled inside and spotted a sign directing me to the restaurant. Ginny had been right about the place being nearly empty at this early hour. When Ginny waved at me, I pointed in her direction in response to the hostess’ question about where I wanted to sit.

  Windows everywhere gave us stunning views of the golf course that backed up to the Indio Hills. The vibrant green of the golf course stood out against the brown tones that ran the gamut from the palest beige in the bright morning sunshine to almost black in the shadows. It was a postcard-worthy setting for our discussion of trouble in paradise.

  While our server took our order for iced tea, I checked out Ginny Fieldcrest. She was a sprightly woman who must be about the same age as Bernadette. Her short gray hair was cut in a neat, carefree style. Something in her demeanor suggested she wasn’t easily flustered but wouldn’t put up with any nonsense. Maybe I’d gotten that from bits of our conversation or what I knew about her background. She’d removed the hot pink visor sporting a flamingo as soon as we sat down. The visor told me she was also a woman who made room for fun. Those attributes all probably served her well as a nurse. As soon as our server left, I spoke to Ginny.

  “I’m so glad you could meet with me on such short notice. I hope I’m not interfering with your plans.”

  “Nope. I didn’t have a thing planned for the day. It’s too hot to do much. Why are you interested in Christian Cursor and Randall Young?”

  “We’re wondering if either Christian Cursor or Randall Young is the man we’re looking for in connection with an active investigation.” I didn’t want to say too much that might influence what she had to say. “I understand you knew Christian Cursor as a patient when you worked at the Patton State Hospital.”

  “I did. He was a deeply disturbed man with psychotic delusions about being chosen by God for an important mission. That wasn’t too unusual since religious content is common among people with delusional disorders. What was odd was the fact that he had bad chemical burns. When he was admitted, he had bandages on his head, arms, and hand; part of his face was bandaged too. Chemicals had damaged his hair, so it was frizzy and patchy, missing completely in places. I immediately wondered if the chemicals played a role in his delusions.”

  “Did they?” I asked.

  “He wasn’t my patient, but I was curious, so I asked his nurse. She thought so because he would sit in his bed, reciting what sounded like formulas to her. Christian wrote them repeatedly too—in crayon because he wasn’t allowed a pencil or pen. She showed them to me, and what I noticed was that there was other stuff mixed in with what looked like scientific notations. I’m not a chemist, but there were abbreviations I recognized. Some of what he wrote contained religious references—like what appeared to be the number used to designate chapter and verse from the Christian Bible. Other symbols looked more like what you’d see in a cave painting, or that appeared to be Arabic letters or some other exotic script. I went to his case manager and expressed concern because I thought I’d seen many of the same symbols before.”

  “You don’t mean during a previous admission, do you?” I had goosebumps, and the hair on the back of my neck stood up. Betsy had been correct when she suggested the truth about the man’s identity might be found in elements of his clinical symptoms.

  “No. Not as Christian Cursor, anyway. I wondered if there was any connection between him and a young man admitted years before.”

  “By the name of Randall Young?”

  “Yes! That’s him!” Ginny exclaimed. “I wasn’t too surprised when Christian Cursor’s case manager looked at me like I was crazy. Randall Young had been admitted at least ten years before Christian Cursor. She said she didn’t have time to search for a connection between the two men but said I could try.”

  “What did you find out?”

  “There wasn’t much information available since so much time had passed. I found a summary about Randall Young, including his diagnosis and the reason for his admission, along with the charges filed against him.”

  “What were they?” I asked.

  “Manslaughter in the death of his mother. There weren’t many details about his case, but he’d been accused of administering a tainted form of insulin. That triggered memories for me since I was there when he was admitted. I’d just started working at the hospital. He was a quiet, slightly built young man, and I was shocked to hear that he’d killed his mother. The incident was straight out of a Shakespearean tragedy, even though he hadn’t bumped her off to inherit a throne. His nurse tried to soften the impact by telling me that he intended to heal her not, kill her.”

  “I’ve heard almost the same story from someone who lived near Randall Young when the murder occurred. He also said Randall Young had a fascination with chemicals involving more than insulin,” I added.

  “That doesn’t surprise me. At the time, his nurse said he planned on a career as a chemist. Randall must have been good at it because he had a position as an intern in a prestigious lab before his psychiatric illness caused him to fall apart. He was young—twenty-five if my memory is correct. They hired him back when he was released.”

  “No! How did that happen if he was charged with manslaughter in the death of his mother?”

  “Randall was hospitalized for three years. When he was reevaluated and determined fit to stand trial, a lawyer got him off. The only evidence that Randall had injected his mother with the tainted drugs was based on his father’s testimony. The mix of substances wasn’t anything very sophisticated, indicating that the person who concocted it didn’t have to be a chemist. Randall’s
lawyer argued that his father’s suicide was a confession that he’d killed his wife, not that his son had done it. I’m not sure what else went on, but the charges were dismissed, and he was released with no strings attached.”

  “At the time, Randall had no prior record.”

  “The lawyer also argued that if his son was dangerous enough to commit murder, his father would have had him committed. He argued that the death of his mother is what had caused Randall to become unstable again. He appeared to be more lucid than when he was admitted, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that he was a true psychopath. I caught him smiling to himself many times after he’d had a conversation with members of the staff and during the hearing about his mental status. He reminded me of Jim Jones, or that young woman accused of murdering her child—Casey Anthony.”

  “I understand what you’re saying,” I said. “It’s hard to determine if they’re happy to be living in their delusion or happy to have deceived others. There’s often something charismatic about them too that I don’t understand.”

  “There’s no doubt in my mind that Randall was a genius. During the hearing, he offered a very sophisticated explanation of what he’d come to understand about his schizophrenia diagnosis. That impressed everyone sitting around the table. That didn’t include me since I was watching from a separate room. The company that had rehired him sent a representative to vouch for him. The hearing was almost a celebration about his miraculous recovery.” Ginny shrugged. “I can’t blame anyone. When you work with people who struggle with a severe mental illness, it’s uplifting to believe some people get better.”

  “What I was told is that his father and mother believed he’d recovered until his mother suddenly became ill. His father discovered too late that they were wrong, and that Randall had come to believe he could cure his mother of her diabetes. He’d set up a lab to work on his cure that his father didn’t discover until his wife was dead.”

  “The guilt he felt about not knowing the truth about his son could have driven him to suicide,” Ginny responded. “It was a big loss—his wife and his son at the same time.”

  “Do you know the name of the company that rehired him?”

  “Oh, yes. When I couldn’t shake the feeling that Christian Cursor and Randall Young were one and the same, I called them.”

  “What did they say?”

  “They asked me ‘who?’ It was as if they’d never heard of Randall Young.”

  “Are you kidding?” I responded.

  “I wish I were. When I pushed harder because I knew for a fact he’d worked there not once but twice, I got a terse response. ‘Randall Young is not currently an employee.’ When I asked why not, I got a ‘no comment,’ and then some scripted mumbo jumbo about employee privacy rights—blah, blah, blah.”

  “If you’d write down the name of the company, I’d like to have my assistant see what she can dig up about them. If there was an incident at the lab after he was rehired, information might have reached the news even if they didn’t release lots of details or mention Randall Young’s name. It’s not just about employee privacy. Companies also want to protect the work they’re doing to keep other companies from stealing it.”

  “I’m sure that must be the case, although you’d think they’d have some interest in protecting the community from a man like him.” She paused to write the name of the company on a notepad I’d handed her. When she’d shoved it across the table, she spoke again. “Maybe if I could have convinced someone that Christian Cursor was Randall Young, they wouldn’t have released him again. When Christian Cursor was first admitted, he told me he’d killed someone, but the police didn’t believe him. He seemed so distressed that I wondered if the burns were self-inflicted to stop himself from doing it again. Christian Cursor was such a down and out guy that no one could believe he was a brilliant chemist. He’d been working at odd jobs, living hand-to-mouth with friends and in shelters. The police officer I spoke to finally discouraged me when he said that the dates didn’t match up when they did the background checks. Christian Cursor was supposedly employed elsewhere while Randall Young was still in the Patton State Hospital. That’s when I gave up, figuring I’d become obsessional.”

  “What about their fingerprints? Were Christian Cursor’s scarred by the fire?”

  “That was strange too. Christian Cursor didn’t have any. It’s not that they were damaged—he just didn’t have them. In my obsessive phase, I investigated that too and decided it was from handling the lye they found among his stash of stolen chemicals. If the report is still on file, you can get the entire list of chemicals the police collected when he was arrested. Maybe something on the list works better than lye, but it’s used in soap making and is easy to get. It’s also been used to get rid of bodies. Not completely, mind you, but it cuts down on what you have to bury or hide some other way.”

  “That is creepy,” I commented. “A guy like Randall Young would have been a walking encyclopedia of information like that.”

  “That’s what I thought. Good luck trying to get someone to believe you.” Then she smacked the table. “Where’s our server? I could use more iced tea. I’d prefer something stronger than that, but my doctor told me to cool it, given all the meds I’m taking. One drink a day is my limit, and I’ve got a forty-year-old scotch waiting for me after dinner.”

  “It’s good that you take care of yourself.”

  “I try, but it’s no fun.” She paused for a second. “You know what? If you speak to the higher-ups at the hospital, you might learn more than I did. You could ask if they tried to get Christian Cursor’s prints when it came time to release him. I can’t tell you because I’d moved on and given up by then. That doesn’t mean I’m not still haunted by the possibility that I gave up too soon.” Ginny shivered and shut up.

  The server must have heard Ginny because she arrived with a pitcher of tea, refilled our glasses, and left fresh lemon wedges. As soon as the young woman left, Ginny leaned in and spoke in a quiet tone.

  “His eyes were what gave Christian Cursor away. There was this faraway look in them most of the time. It’s as if he lived in a different world, but every so often, I caught this other look in them. Like someone was watching me from that other world, and I wasn’t quite sure it was the gaze of a human. Just like Randall Young.”

  I knew what Ginny meant. I’d had similar experiences when I’d previously met a human predator or two. It was a gaze that wasn’t unique to humans but was common among hawks, wolves, even cats—big and small—when they were sizing up their prey or on the hunt. I shuddered at the thought of meeting the Cleaner Man and peering into those eyes.

  “What has the guy you’re chasing done?” Ginny asked.

  “I’d like to tell you, but I don’t want to say too much. When we catch him, I may call on you to help us identify him. I don’t want any clever lawyer to say I influenced your judgment one way or another. Obviously, I wouldn’t be asking you about Randall Young and Christian Cursor if there weren’t similarities with our suspect, but there are lots of differences too. Do you happen to know when Christian Cursor was released?”

  “Let me think about it. It was probably about two years before I retired. His nurse called me about it because she thought I’d want to know. Four years ago—yes, that’s right. It was the same year my daughter remarried.”

  “You’ve given me lots to think about. If I get a picture or a description of our suspect before we take him into custody, may I call you again?”

  “No problem. If there’s a chance he’s still out there, he needs to be stopped once and for all! I’d be happy to help.”

  “Thanks, Ginny. We’re working hard on this case. No matter what we discover, I’ll call and keep you in the loop.”

  “I’d appreciate it,” she responded. “I guess we’d better get out of here and let out server use the table. They won’t start serving lunch for a while longer, but those golfers will be ready and waiting when they do.” When Ginny stood up, I could
see hot pink stripes in the wedged heels of her shoes. I bet she’d be loads of fun when not dealing with such dismal matters. Before I said goodbye, I couldn’t resist giving Ginny Fieldcrest a hug.

  On my way home, my mind raced. The pace of the past few days was getting to me. Suddenly, I found myself checking out the shops I passed. It’s as if every gallery, boutique, and knick-knack shop was lit up with neon signs, like the Vegas strip. My palms itched, and my brain began to tell me lies. “Ginny Fieldcrest deserves a little thank you gift.” “Bernadette and Auntie Agnes have been such good sports this week, wouldn’t they like to be surprised with a special treat?” “Laura should have a cute little outfit to wear when Eduardo returns.” “Maybe it was time to get a jump on shopping for Kim’s trousseau.”

  My inner spoiled brat was really working me, using every trick in the book. For every gift I bought for someone else, of course, there’d have to be one for me. Or I could lapse into “one for you and two for me” mode. I was changing lanes to turn into a small shop loaded with pricey tchotchkes when, in my rearview mirror, I glimpsed the mountains. A bit of verse from one of the books my patient mentor, Father Martin, had insisted I read.

  Give me,

  Amidst the confusions of my day,

  The calmness of the everlasting hills.

  Break the tensions of my nerves

  With the soothing music

  Of the singing streams

  That live in my memory.

  I thought about how much Anastasia had enjoyed our morning walk together and wondered how her playdate had gone. Just imagining the fun settled me down. My “shopping addiction service dog,” as Tommy sometimes refers to her, is a bundle of joy wrapped in soft white fur. I headed for home as fast as I could—that’s where I needed to be. Not just with Anastasia, but with my dear Bernadette. Auntie Agnes too, who loved Sacramento so much she was willing to be regarded as a bothersome, crazy old fool to save his lost friend and find justice for Sacramento. I put the pedal to the metal and headed home as fast as I could. As it turned out, the decision was a good one.