by J. D. Barker
Poole said, “You never stayed at someplace called the Finicky House for Wayward Children?”
Bishop shook his head.
“It’s mentioned in your diaries.”
Bishop leaned forward so fast the chains went tight and yanked him back. “Sorry, I…I don’t know how much time we have. Please tell me Paul Upchurch is still alive. He might be the only person who knows the truth.”
“Why? How do you know him?”
Bishop settled back in his chair. “I don’t, not really. He’s the guy Porter hired to write those things.”
34
Diary
Dr. Oglesby had replaced my usual chair with a new one, a giant orange monstrosity that was all cushion and no support, and I kept sinking down into it. If I leaned back, I might disappear altogether, so I was forced to sit right on the edge. I’d grown a lot over the past year, but my legs were still a little short and barely touched the ground. I suppose I could sit on the floor, but—
“I see your mind is still prone to wandering, Anson. How about you face forward and do your best to remain in the moment.”
I looked up at Dr. Oglesby. If an argyle sweater could eat a man, this one was hard at work. Green and yellow and white and possibly one of the most hideous garments I had ever laid eyes on, the sweater was at least two sizes too large for the good doctor, and he was swimming in it.
I smiled up at him. “I wouldn’t dream of missing a second of our time together, Doctor.”
“I’m glad to hear it. I look forward to our sessions together as well.”
I thought to myself—he’ll reach for them in three, two, one—
And there he went. He took the glasses hanging around his neck and placed them on his nose, then looked down at the notepad in his lap. “How are you enjoying your time with Ms. Finicky?”
“How are you enjoying my knife?” In previous sessions, he fell into the habit of leaving my knife on the corner of his desk, displaying it just out of my reach—a not-so-subtle taunt, some kind of power play, a technique I’m sure he stole from someone else because he wasn’t creative enough to come up with the idea on his own. My knife wasn’t there today. The last time I saw him, as Detectives Welderman and Stocks were loading me into their car to take me to Finicky’s, I had asked him if he had my knife, and the smug bastard had replied, “What knife?” As if it never existed at all.
“We’re not here to talk about a knife, Anson, we’re here to discuss your well-being, and we’re on a limited timetable so I suggest we remain on task.”
“Why am I here? Why are we talking at all? You don’t have me locked up in one of your rooms anymore.”
Dr. Oglesby smiled. “You may have left the Camden facility, but until the court says otherwise, you are still my patient. I have a vested interest in making sure you receive the treatment needed to become well.”
“I am well, Doctor. I couldn’t be better.”
“Traumatic experiences tend to leave scars. Sometimes they’re buried for a while and surface when we least expect them. So, although you may feel well today, tomorrow or the next day you may not, and it’s up to me to help you get through that.”
Father had once told me the health insurance industry loved to find ways to line the pockets of others within the health insurance industry—a general practitioner would recommend you see a specialist, and that specialist would send you off to a therapist, and that therapist might check your blood pressure so he can bill your insurance company for a “wellness visit” in addition to the prescribed therapy…he might prescribe one or more medications which required regular visits in order to monitor the effects of said medication…on and on, and even though the health issue could have probably been resolved by the first doctor, he involved two others—all this unnecessary time and billing—then the three of them would run off on Saturday to play golf together and spend a little of that hard-earned insurance money. If Dr. Oglesby had any interest in me, I doubted it went beyond my impact on his bottom line. The medical industry was a scam, and I didn’t need anyone poking around in my head.
“We really do need to do something about your drifting off during conversations,” the good doctor said.
“I’m not drifting, I’m contemplating.”
“Contemplating what?”
“Your worth on this planet.”
This seemed to amuse him. “And you feel you’re sufficiently qualified to make such a determination?”
“The homeless man who roots around in the trash behind the community college is close enough to the academic world to see your intellect is a sham. I imagine you don’t work for someplace like Camden out of choice but because you’re unable to sustain yourself in private practice. You’re nothing more than a mall security guard who failed to get into the police academy. You display your degrees because you’re supposed to, but I bet you secretly hope nobody looks too closely. How many times has someone read the name of the school you went to and said, ‘Huh, where is that, exactly?’”
That did it. The glasses came off, and Oglesby settled back in his chair. The smile didn’t leave his face, though. “Perhaps I’m not the one who is acting. What happened to the quiet, polite boy from our previous sessions?”
“He’s waiting for you to return his knife. The picture, too.”
The doctor frowned. “Picture?”
“You know what picture.”
The photograph I had of Mother and Mrs. Carter had been in my pocket when the knife was taken from me. I knew he had it, too. I hadn’t brought it up until now.
He looked me dead in the eye. “I’m not aware of any photograph. If you cooperate, though, I can take another look through the items that came in with you. Perhaps something was misplaced, mislabeled, or misfiled. Those things do happen on occasion.”
This time it was my turn to offer a blatantly disingenuous smile. “I’d appreciate that.”
Back on went the glasses. He glanced at his notepad. “Tell me about Libby McInley. You seemed so concerned for her while staying with us. If you don’t want to talk about how you’re adjusting at Finicky’s, why don’t we discuss how she is coping?”
I’d been talking too much. I’d probably offered more words in this session than all our previous sessions combined, and I needed to put an end to that. My emotions were controlling my tongue and bypassing my brain, and I knew that wouldn’t end well. Father had always taught me to consider every word that passed my lips before they found the ears of others, and for the past twenty-two minutes, I completely ignored that particular lesson. Now Oglesby was baiting me, and I knew I shouldn’t take that bait, but I couldn’t help myself. “What happened to her?”
I didn’t expect him to answer. I had asked this question before and he always fell back on doctor-patient privilege and said he couldn’t discuss her case. The doctor surprised me, though.
“Her last foster father raped her numerous times, and when she fought back, he beat her severely. At first, he used a telephone book to prevent bruising, but after several hours, he put that aside and decided he preferred the feel of his own fists on her. Her foster mother, who had been sitting in the living room not ten feet away, listened to all of this for the better part of a weekend before she finally had enough. Rather than call the authorities, she took out a .38 and shot him twice, then tried to hide his body in a crawlspace. Although Libby required medical attention, her foster mother was also unwilling to give up the $512 per month she received from the state for housing Libby, so she left her tied to a bed and pretended none of this happened. Luckily, a neighbor heard the shots and called 911. Libby spent two days at Roper Hospital in Charleston before being transferred to our care.” He leaned forward. “She needs a friend, Anson. Perhaps you can be that friend.”
I said nothing at first. I couldn’t imagine the doctor lying about something like this, yet in the back of my mind, Father whispered that he very well might be. “He wants you to trust him, champ. He’ll tell you anything. And once you do trus
t him, he’s got you.”
Instead of saying anything, I let my eyes wander the office. When they landed on his calendar on the wall behind his desk, I noticed something peculiar, something that jumped out at me. August 29 was circled. The same date that had been circled on the calendar in Mrs. Finicky’s kitchen.
35
Clair
Day 5 • 12:10 PM
Clair followed Stout to the elevator, down to the second floor, and through several hallways and corridors. Within minutes, she was completely disoriented and knew if someone were to remove the various signs on the walls, she’d have no idea how to get back to the cafeteria. The mask itched at her face, and her warm breath bellowed beneath the material. Every time she swallowed, the pain in her throat reminded her she was getting worse, and the brisk pace at which they moved was enough to leave her winded. Although she was sweating, she couldn’t get warm. Clair knew she had a fever but couldn’t bring herself to actually check her temperature. She wasn’t sure how much longer she could keep this up. The virus was getting the better of her. She felt that if she were to stop moving and sit down, if she attempted to rest at all, she might not get back up.
At the end of the hall, they came upon two wide metal doors. Stout slid his ID badge over a reader embedded in the wall, and both doors swung open. A whoosh of cold air rushed out at them, and Clair shivered again. A black woman wearing floral print scrubs beneath a white button-down sweater looked up from a desk and pointed at the green door in the far back corner of the room. “She’s in the cold room waiting on you.”
“Thanks, Bev,” Stout said, crossing the room.
All Clair heard was cold room, because she couldn’t imagine a room colder than this one, then she followed Stout through the green door into what could only be described as the arctic tundra. “Oh, balls,” she said through chattering teeth.
The pathology office was much larger than Clair had expected, large enough to rival the medical examiner’s offices downtown, and certainly larger than at any other hospital in Chicago. At least fifty by fifty, with large bright halogen lights spaced evenly across the ceiling. The walls and floor were all white tile and there were at least a dozen aluminum workstations filling the space, each positioned over grates in the floor. Five bodies were present—three covered, two exposed. She got the impression they could hose the entire room down, if necessary. Large HVAC vents whirred above, churning out the icy air. The room smelled of bleach, but it wasn’t as strong as she expected. Although, with her stuffy nose, she was surprised she could smell at all.
There was a coatrack just inside the door. Stout took a red jacket off one of the hooks and handed it to her. “Here, put this on.” He grabbed a green one for himself.
Clair shrugged into the coat. “Why the hell is it so cold in here?”
A woman in her late fifties came around the corner holding a clipboard. Her graying hair was pulled back. She wore protective eyewear and green scrubs. “We keep this room at 36 degrees, the same temperature as the drawers next door. It helps minimize decomposition during prolonged examinations. Abnormal autopsies are performed here, routines such as heart attack, cancer, and the like are processed down the hall under more typical settings in a warmer room.” She held out a gloved hand. “You must be Detective Norton. I’m Doctor Amelia Webber.”
Clair looked at her outstretched hand and thought of her own without gloves. The look on her face must have betrayed her, because Dr. Webber dropped her hand. “Nobody ever wants to shake the pathologist’s hand. Even my husband gives me the stink-eye after twenty-eight years of marriage.” She leaned in closer. “Christ, you look like shit. Are they giving you anything?”
“Antivirals and steroids,” Clair told her. “I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine. You should lie down somewhere and give your body a chance to fight the virus. You’re starting to swell up, too. That’s a side effect of the meds.” She glanced at Clair’s hands. “You’ll want to take off those rings while you still can.”
Clair shivered again and tugged the zipper on her jacket up tight. “I was told you have cause of death?”
The doctor eyed her for another moment, then said, “I do. Give me a second, let me get Eisley.”
Clair’s brow furrowed. “Eisley’s here?”
“Not exactly,” Webber replied, crossing back through the room and around some tall glass-doored cabinets. She returned pushing a large television on a wheeled stand, a computer mounted below it. A power cord trailed back to the wall. She clicked several buttons, and the screen came to life.
Tom Eisley looked out at them. “Hello Detective, I’ve been…wow, you look terrible.”
A small camera was mounted above the television set and angled down. Clair looked up at it, then back at the screen, unsure where she should face to speak to him. “I’m fine, Tom.”
“You don’t look—”
“I’m fine,” Clair interrupted. “Can we get on with it? I’m under a bit of a time crunch here.”
She didn’t mean to snap at him, but if he was offended, he didn’t show it. “Sure. Amelia, would you like to start?”
Dr. Webber nodded and wheeled virtual Eisley over to two of the occupied tables. Stanford Pentz on their left and Christie Albee on the right. Both were naked. While Pentz had a recently closed Y incision on his chest, Albee had yet to be autopsied. Webber turned to Pentz first. His head had been shaved and twisted to the side as if he were looking off to the left. An incision circled the top of his head. She had opened his skull to access his brain. “He initially presented with signs of cardiac arrest, but when I examined his heart, I didn’t find anything to indicate disease or a congenital defect. He was a fit man, his heart was actually in better shape than I expected, then I found this after cleaning away the blood from the ear removal—” She pointed to a small, dark spot on his neck, just below his missing ear.
“He was injected with something?” Clair asked, leaning in closer.
Webber nodded again. “Nothing came up on the tox screen, and we did a full panel. I had it tested twice and still nothing. Then Eisley suggested I test a sample of brain tissue.”
From the television monitor, Eisley said, “Specifically, I asked her to look for succinic acid.”
“And I found succinic in quantity,” Webber said.
Clair asked, “What is succinic?”
Eisley said, “It’s a byproduct of a muscle paralytic drug called succinylcholine, typically used by anesthesiologists. When injected, it paralyzes all the muscles of the body, including those used for breathing. Anyone receiving this drug without the ventilatory support supplied in surgery would die from asphyxia. It’s fast, but it would be a horrible way to go—the drug has no sedative effect, only muscular paralysis, so the recipient would be wide awake as they suffocate.”
“I would have never looked for that,” Webber admitted. “I was focusing on the heart. There are no outward signs of asphyxia. Normally you’d have a blue discoloration to the skin or petechial hemorrhages around the face. We have none of that here.”
“The paralytic effect of the drug prevents these things from happening,” Eisley said. “I only suggested it because I read about a doctor in Sarasota, Florida who used it to kill his wife—an anesthesiologist having an affair. Apparently that particular drug is a favorite of murderous doctors since it can be difficult to detect. You’re in a hospital, there’s obvious access, so it crossed my mind.”
Clair turned back to Webber. “You said it would be fast. How fast?”
“From injection to death?”
Clair nodded.
“Blood travels the body at three to four miles per hour,” Webber explained. “A couple seconds at most for the paralytic to take effect, several minutes to death.”
“No time to react or call out,” Stout pointed out. He glanced over at the body of Christie Albee. Her head was also turned to the side. “Did you find the same with her?”
Webber shuffled over and pointed to a simi
lar spot below the woman’s ear. “Nearly identical injection point—directly into the posterior auricular vein. In both cases, the direction of the needle indicates your unsub came up from behind. I found a definite forward angle. When I take into account the height of both victims along with that angle, I’d say you’re looking for someone under six feet tall.”
“Someone under six feet tall with access to medications locked away in anesthesiology,” Stout pointed out. “I can check the records. Maybe we’ll find someone in that department who shouldn’t be.”
Eisley blew out a frustrated sigh. “That might be the case if I didn’t have the same COD with both my Jane Does. Tom Langlin down in Simpsonville was also killed with succinylcholine. I confirmed with the local pathologist about twenty minutes ago.”
“What about the salt?”
“Ah, the salt,” Eisley said. “As Bishop would say, I’ve been trying to puzzle that one out but I haven’t gotten very far. I can tell you the salt we found on both Jane Does as well as the man in South Carolina is of the type you’d buy in bulk at a large depot store, possibly for a water softener. The salt found on and around both your hospital victims is simple table salt. The Jane Does were stripped naked and completely submerged for some time. Several hours, at least. At first I thought the intent had been to preserve the bodies or possibly to confuse time of death. Now I’m not so sure. Both Pentz and Albee were killed within twenty-four hours of discovery. If the intent had been to destroy evidence, lye would have been far superior and just as accessible. The table salt served no purpose at all, which leads me to believe it’s symbolic in nature. Some kind of message. I’ve been in contact with the FBI, and they’re leaning biblical on this. I have to admit, it’s been some time since I opened the Good Book. I’m familiar enough with the story of Lot’s wife, but that’s about it. I’ll contact you if I learn more on that.”