She lay her head against the cushioned headrest, enjoying the music and the cool purr of the elegant car’s all but silent air-conditioner. Seattle was too unjustifiably proud of its sometimes heat-choked summers to feature air-conditioning in most apartments, and the one in Becca’s poor jalopy had gone to its rusty reward years ago. She allowed herself a small, selfish hope that Jo would never grow so uncomfortable with her wealth that she’d dispose of it all, or if she did, that she’d sell Becca this car really, really cheap.
“What about your father, Becca?”
Becca turned her head on the rest and looked at Jo quizzically. She might be talking about feelings more readily, but she still needed help with question clarification. “My father?”
“I’ve heard so little about him. I know the focus of our study is your mother, but it seems odd to me that such a major player in this family drama is so rarely mentioned.”
“Well, from our dinner the other night, you know my dad didn’t always get along with his older brother.” Becca traced a pattern on the cool glass of the window with her fingertip. “A point in his favor, I’ve always thought. But he and my mom fought all the time, too. He had a temper. He tried to take care of me when she was sick. And as far as I remember, he did that pretty well. My dad was always nice to me.”
Becca realized she had summed up the whole of her father’s life as she knew it. She erased the pattern she had drawn on the window with a slow sweep of her knuckle. Scott Healy was a montage of blurred pictures in her head, his face always far above her; he had been tall, and not prone to stooping to get eye-level to a toddler. But the face Becca remembered had almost always been smiling. His kindness to Becca had been tinged with a harried, anxious quality, but it had felt genuine. When he raced home at noon to fix Becca lunch, he always created the unique bowl of cheesed SpaghettiOs that had been her small self’s passion for years.
“We’ll have to consider your father a suspect, Becca.”
Becca’s reverie came to an unpleasant, jangling halt. “Come again?”
“We already know the police investigation of this case, and the forensics, were spotty. They eliminated Scott Healy because of the placement of the gun on the kitchen floor, its position between the two bodies…” Jo glanced at Becca contritely. “I’m sorry. I’m just pointing out that otherwise, your father is a rational suspect. He had motive and opportunity. Your parents were involved in an emotional argument that night. It’s possible that he’s the one who fired the first shot and then killed himself.”
Becca was abruptly younger again; not a helpless five-year-old, but a stubborn and resentful teen. She clenched her fists on the seat in denial. “So, first we considered Rachel a suspect. Now it’s my father. Jesus, John William Voakes is looking better for this all the time.”
“I consider Voakes the least likely of possibilities.” Jo either didn’t hear or ignored the warning in Becca’s tone. “The theory Marty and Khadijah proposed about him is intriguing and technically feasible, but—”
“Jo, would you please remember we’re talking about my family here?” Becca snapped off the air-conditioner against a chill. “If we’re going to try to prove my mother innocent, only to condemn someone else I love to taking the rap for this—”
“We’re going to try to find out the truth.” Jo’s voice was kind, but firm. She opened her hand on the seat between them. After a long moment, Becca accepted this unprecedented gesture, and rested her hand in Jo’s. “I’m afraid there’s no promise of a happy end to this story.”
Jo’s palm was smooth and cool against her own.
The looming presence of Mount Rainier, its base shrouded in an almost perpetual mist, hovered off the far horizon as they drove south toward the town of Steilacoom. Its volcanic history aside, the stately mountain stood as Seattle’s constant guardian, and Becca had always drawn solace from its craggy peaks on the rare sunny days it was visible. Her parents had loved Rainier, she remembered. They had taken her for picnics in a lush field of wildflowers in its foothills. A small painting her mother had made of that field was framed on Becca’s wall, above a picture of her parents.
The mountain’s silent regard worked its magic again, filling Becca with a tentative courage as they sped toward the most notorious mental hospital in the state. The mountain strengthened her, and so did Jo’s hold on her hand.
*
Western State Psychiatric Hospital, called the Insane Asylum of Washington Territory when it opened in 1871, was notorious only by lurid local legend, for the most part. Its incarceration and lobotomy of actress Frances Farmer in the forties ensured a kind of lingering, whispered infamy. Some sources claimed Farmer was never lobotomized at Western at all, but the shameful procedure had definitely been practiced here.
From the visitor’s lot, they were only seeing a small portion of the grounds—Western sprawled across two hundred and fifty acres—but the main complex didn’t seem particularly sinister. They might have pulled up in front of a dated, rather grim high school.
“This is your first time here, correct?” Jo touched her keychain to lock the Bentley in the sun-drenched parking lot.
“I toured the place a long time ago, when I was in grad school. Doesn’t look like much has changed since then.” Becca walked beside Jo toward the entrance, taking faint comfort in their twinned, elongated shadows streaming over the concrete.
“Given your career, you’d know more about this place than me. Any impressions you’d like to share?”
“Let’s see.” Becca smiled at this courtly acknowledgement of her credentials. “Western really has a decent reputation in psych circles, in spite of its detractors. The staff here is good. Patient rights are respected.”
“And anyone in western Washington who’s declared mentally disabled as part of a criminal case receives treatment here?”
“Right. Western has wards for both civil and criminal commitments.” Becca paused as Jo pulled open the heavy glass-paned front door. “I seem to remember that long-term patients die kind of young here.”
Jo held the door and stared at her, and Becca shook her head.
“I don’t mean that anyone kills them off. Or that there’s abuse, or neglectful treatment. It’s just a sad little factoid that stuck in my head—people die young here. I guess even with the best intentions, most places like this just aren’t able to nourish life, in all the ways that count.”
Jo touched her back to steer her gently inside. “It seems this one nourished Voakes well enough, for more than twenty-odd years.”
“I have a feeling someone like John William Voakes doesn’t have much interest in spiritual nourishment.” Becca wished they hadn’t invoked his name, just inside the doors of his prison. He seemed much more a living, breathing reality here. She wished briefly for formidable bars on the opaque glass windows of the reception area, rather than wired screens.
“Dr. Joanne Call, Rebecca Healy.” Joanne produced their IDs and Rachel’s letter, and handed them to the staff seated behind the large desk, a uniformed guard and a smiling younger woman in civilian garb. Visitors were first welcomed to Western by the muscle of the guard and this girl’s warmer greeting, two forms of reassurance for family members who wanted both safety and humanity for their loved ones.
“Oh sure, Dr. Call, I think you’re expected.” The woman spoke into her headset, nodded, and pushed back her chair. “Would you like to follow me?”
Becca couldn’t imagine anything filling her with more giddy delight.
They moved past the screening station into a larger, open area peopled by the hospital’s more functional patients, men and women awaiting late-afternoon visiting hours. They were dressed in clean, if mismatched street clothes, and could have been any small group of slightly bored people waiting for the clock to inch forward, until you looked more closely. The glossy sheen of heavy medication masked the features of almost every patient, blunted their expressions and slowed their movements. Few met Becca’s gaze as they passed.<
br />
Their escort swept a key card to open a large side door as Becca read one of the many framed posters of guidelines that hung on the walls. What was all right for a visitor to bring (non-perishable/factory sealed food items that are to be stored in the patient’s snack locker), how visitors were to interact with patients they didn’t know (courtesy communications only). Becca thought she remembered the forensics unit was in a separate complex of buildings on the east section of the grounds, but she and Jo were led down a carpeted hallway that seemed to contain administrative offices.
“Ah. Dr. Call?”
The young woman left them in the care of a lushly mustachioed official who circled his desk to greet them. He stood several inches shorter than Jo, and smiled at them both with a kind of benign distraction. “I’m Ben Chavez, the hospital’s public information officer.”
Jo had slipped into her off-putting staring mode, so Becca finished the introductions politely. “I hope it’s all right if I sit in on this interview, Ben. Will we be meeting with Voakes here, or over in the forensic center?”
“I’ll be happy to walk you over there right now.” He patted his pockets and finally produced the key card that admitted them through a series of doors. They emerged from the main building onto a tree-shaded complex of sidewalks extending in several directions. Chavez took off briskly, Jo pacing him with her long legs, Becca trotting gamely to keep up.
“So I’m just going to go into my Western State Hospital speech, and please feel free to tell me if you know all this.” Chavez shaded his eyes against the lowering sun and nodded at the surrounding buildings. “We house over eight hundred patients here, at any one time. Employ almost two thousand staff. We work with the Psycho-Social Rehabilitation model, which involves—”
“We’re trying to understand why release is being considered for someone with a criminal history as extensive as John William Voakes’s,” Jo broke in.
If Chavez was thrown by Jo’s abruptness he didn’t show it. Becca supposed a public information officer in a state hospital had to be able to switch gears smoothly. With the blurb in the paper about Voakes’s planned release, Chavez had probably been fielding such terse questions for weeks.
“Well, keep in mind that Mr. Voakes was found not guilty by reason of insanity, a verdict that’s not too likely today. His crimes were committed just before the legal reforms around the insanity defense kicked in, in the mid-eighties. All the public outcry over Hinkley’s assassination attempt on Reagan led to—”
“And Voakes has been deemed no longer insane?” Jo sounded merely curious now, not abrasive, but Becca still winced at the sidewalk. “Is that why he’s being released?”
“I believe the determination has been made that Mr. Voakes is no longer a threat to the community. That’s the legal wording for the release criteria in place at the time he was committed.” Chavez’s tone was sympathetic, as if expecting to weather their outrage. He swiped his card at the door of a smaller circular building. “A technical distinction, mostly. But it’s important to note that residents committed here due to homicide often stay a lot longer than they would have spent in prison. Mr. Voakes has been with us for twenty-six years.”
Pointing out that Mr. Voakes had taken eight lives—ten?—seemed moot at the moment. But Becca heard an underlying tension in Chavez’s voice. He was polished and professional and he worked by a script, but other than that he seemed to be a decent guy. She wasn’t nearly as adept in reading subtle facial expressions as Jo, but she wondered if his eyes held the slightest shadow of fear.
“I really wanted you to see this.” Chavez stopped at the entrance to a large circular room and perched his hands on his hips. A dozen people sat at computer stations around one side of the space, peering intently at their screens. Three staff moved from one to the other, offering guidance with what looked like grocery budget spreadsheets. These patients presented in more traditionally healthy ways than those in the general visiting area, Becca noted. Their casual clothing held some sense of personal style, and haircuts were recent and well done.
“This is our Program for Adaptive Living Skills, or PALS.” Chavez sounded genuinely proud. “These residents no longer need in-patient treatment, but they still face some challenges living in the community. It’s an amazing program, really. Intensive life skills training, field trips into town. Residents are monitored, assessed, and tested every step of the way before they’re released.”
The focus and industry of everyone in the room was impressive, but Jo obviously shared Becca’s confusion as to why they were there. They were nowhere near the complex that contained the forensic center.
“And you’re showing us this, because?” Trust Jo to be direct.
“John William Voakes lived in this program for the past twelve months. And as I said, residents are monitored, assessed, and tested every step of the way before they’re released.”
“Voakes lives here. Not in forensics?” A dark suspicion bloomed in Becca’s mind. “He’s already out, isn’t he?”
Chavez kept his eyes on the far wall. “We engaged in some deliberate misinformation in our statement to the press, Becca. I’m afraid some sleight of hand was necessary to avoid any public drama around the release. Mr. Voakes was transferred to an excellent transitional living program in south Seattle two weeks ago. Where he will continue to be—”
“Monitored, assessed, and tested, every step of the way,” Jo cut in. “May we speak to his psychiatrist?”
“Well, that would be Dr. Hasef. I’m afraid he’s on vacation until—”
“Thank you, Mr. Chavez. I think we’re finished here.” Jo turned on her heel.
*
Jo stalked ahead of Becca to the Bentley, frustration stiffening every line of her body. Becca followed silently, the oppressive shadow of the hospital falling away as they emerged into the twilight of the parking lot.
Becca heard the faint chime as the passenger door unlocked beneath her hand, but she didn’t open it. She looked back at the looming hospital thoughtfully, imagining a different life.
Jo tapped her keys on the roof of the car impatiently, waiting for Becca to get in. “Yes, Becca? Something?”
“Just thinking. Wondering how things would be, if they had happened just a little differently. If my mother had fired that gun, but only one shot. If she’d killed my father, but not herself. I’d be coming here to visit her, wouldn’t I?”
Becca stared at the implacable edifice of Western State until she felt Jo’s hand brush the small of her back. Jo opened the door of the Bentley, waited until Becca was safely settled in its plush seat, and closed it with a quiet click.
Light lingered long in the sky this time of year, and Becca watched the last gold rays bathe Rainier’s face as they drove back to the city.
Chapter Eleven
Jo waited until the twilight faded and it was fully dark outside. “You’re sure you’re up for this, Becca? It’s been a very long day.”
“If we really have to do it at night, yeah, I guess I’m up for it.” Becca stood across the living room, looking at Jo as if she were a dentist about to inflict an unanesthetized root canal. “You’re sure it can’t wait for some nice, sunny morning?”
“I’m afraid it has to be dark. The shootings occurred at night. We want to reproduce the conditions of the catalyzing event as closely as possible.”
“I guess I’m still not sure why this walk-through thing is necessary, period.”
“Walking through what happened will re-create a scene that holds great emotional resonance, for both you and your mother.” Jo made herself be the factual guide Becca would need to get through this. She went to the last of the radios and tuned it in. The Spiricom was set at full range. “Voices have been known to speak in moments of mutual memory—in the presence of a loved one who’s talking about a shared experience.”
“Can’t we do this at the Lady of the Rock, then?” Becca’s smile told Jo she was being facetious, perhaps a way of whistling in the
dark. “I can talk about the shared experience of our picnics there; those are emotionally resonant. And Mom can float by and give us her recipe for peanut butter sandwiches.”
“I wish we could. That would be much more pleasant.” Jo wished Becca weren’t standing clear across the room. If she were beside her, Jo might be able to touch her shoulder as casually as any of her friends. “But I’m afraid your mother didn’t come back to talk to you about your picnics. Her messages all relate to the night she died.”
“I understand. I was kidding.” Becca drew her hands through her hair. “Okay. How do we start?”
Jo went to one corner to make herself as unobtrusive as possible and clasped her hands behind her. “Please start with the day, before it happened. Everything you remember about that day.”
“All right. It was my birthday. Dad had to work, but Mom took me to a movie that afternoon. Grease, I think. I remember my little baby dyke self crushing out on Olivia Newton-John.” Becca spoke methodically. “And my folks threw me a birthday party later. Cake, presents, the works.”
“The party was held in here?” Jo asked.
“No. In our backyard.” Becca drifted to a window and looked out at the dark yard. “It was a big deal, lots of neighborhood kids. Rachel brought her son, Loren. My aunt and uncle were there. Mitchell flirted with my mother most of the party.”
Jo looked up. “You remember this, Becca?”
“Jo, I’ve been through this day at least a hundred times in therapy. The details are pretty clear. And that one’s no big surprise; Mitchell still flirts with every attractive woman he sees. I grew up watching him do it.”
Jo nodded. “Go on.”
“That’s all I remember of the day.” Becca was quiet for a moment, her face reflected in the dark pane of the glass. She turned from the window. “The next thing that’s clear is all three of us, in here. It was late enough for me to be in bed. Past time, in fact. I was sitting in a corner with my new coloring book. I was miffed that my birthday was over, and they’d forgotten about me again.”
A Question of Ghosts Page 11