It was 4 A.M. when he parked in the garage of the duplex in Tangletown. He entered quietly, trying not to disturb his landlady, who lived below him. He stripped down, put on clean boxer shorts and a T-shirt, and made himself a cup of Sleepytime herbal tea. He had a lot of questions and no answers, but he needed sleep. He knew exactly what he wanted to do first thing in the morning, and he wanted to be clearheaded.
He sipped his tea and strolled to the living room window that overlooked the front yard and the street beyond. At that hour, he wasn’t particularly concerned about being seen in his underwear. He caught sight of an old pickup, driving slowly out of the light of the streetlamp in front of his house. For a moment, he thought it might be the pickup truck he’d seen at the Bayport Court. Then he shook his head and drew the curtains.
You need some sleep, Thorsen, he told himself. You need it bad.
chapter
seventeen
The ringing of the telephone on the stand beside his bed pulled Bo from a deep slumber.
“Thorsen,” he mumbled into the mouthpiece.
“You sound asleep,” Stuart Coyote said.
Bo looked at the clock radio. 7:00 A.M. “I am. What’s up?”
“Just checking in with my partner.”
“Partner?”
“Diana took me off the Wildwood detail and assigned me to work with you on the Tom Jorgenson thing. Interesting developments last night, I hear. How about you fill me in completely over breakfast at the Broiler.”
“When?”
“Is an hour enough time to make yourself gorgeous?”
“An hour,” Bo said.
Coyote was already waiting at the St. Clair Broiler, drinking coffee, looking over notes he’d scribbled on a small pad. “You look like you didn’t get any sleep at all.”
“Not much,” Bo admitted.
“Tom Jorgenson?”
Bo nodded. “The questions are piling up. The answers aren’t.”
Bo ordered black coffee and the Texas scramble. Stu Coyote asked for a Greek omelet.
“According to Diana, this is what we’ve got so far.” Coyote glanced at his notes. “A laundry worker with access to Jorgenson’s floor skips work the day after the apparent accident that killed the guard. The pickup he’s driving is registered to one Luther Gallagher. He abandons his motel room wiping away all traces of himself before you can talk to him. Is that about it?”
“One more thing. Luther Gallagher hasn’t been home in over a month.”
“How do you know that?”
“I went to his house last night.”
Coyote checked his notepad, then scowled at Bo. “You already went to St. Peter?”
Bo shrugged. “Couldn’t sleep. Looks like he’s a Sundays-only customer of the Pioneer Press. Five weeks’ worth of newspapers are lying around his front steps, and a pile of unopened mail is sitting on his porch.”
“What do you know about Ableman?”
“Not much.”
“I can tell you the name’s an alias,” Coyote said. “Diana gave me the Social Security number you got off his job application and I ran it first thing this morning. It belongs to Max Ableman all right. But according to Social Security, Max Ableman is sixty-two years old and living in Florida. Looks like our guy plucked a name and Social Security number out of the air.”
“Knowing it would be quite a while, if ever, before the error was discovered,” Bo concluded.
Coyote referred again to his notes. “Gallagher works at the Minnesota State Security Hospital in St. Peter. Let’s head down there this morning.”
“You’re reading my mind, partner,” Bo said.
They drove in separate cars, giving them the flexibility to divide their time and energy if necessary. Bo led the way.
In daylight, St. Peter was a pretty little town set in the wooded valley of the Minnesota River. The Regional Treatment Center, of which the Minnesota State Security Hospital was a part, lay in the hills south of town. The facility was a mixture of imposing sandstone block buildings that looked several decades old and newer, more functional brick structures.
At the reception desk in the administration building, Bo and Coyote met briefly with the director of personnel, who arranged for them to talk to the program director in the Security Hospital where Luther Gallagher was employed as a security counselor.
The Minnesota State Security Hospital sat behind trees atop a hill a quarter mile west of the other buildings. It was a relatively new single-story facility, dull red brick, with barred windows, razor wire on the fencing, and a perimeter maintained with motion detectors and infrared cameras. Housed therein were the most dangerous of the patients remanded by the courts for treatment.
Helen Wardell, the program director, met them in her office, a gray, windowless room. She was a gaunt woman with dark circles under her eyes and a look on her face that seemed perpetually braced to deal with crises. The odor of cigarette smoke rolled off her clothing, and her voice was raspy in the way of someone long addicted to nicotine.
“Luther Gallagher,” she said. It was clear the name was significant and not in a good way. “What’s he up to now?”
“That’s what we’re here to find out,” Bo replied. “We were hoping to speak with him, but apparently he hasn’t been to work in quite a while.”
“He went to Albuquerque. Christ, I could use a cigarette. You guys mind if we take this outside?”
They stepped out of the building into an internal courtyard reserved for staff. It consisted of two stone benches and a small patch of grass, separated from the sky above by a mesh screen. Helen Wardell lit her cigarette and breathed smoke that drifted upward toward freedom.
“What’s this about Albuquerque?” Coyote asked.
“Luther called one morning with some cock-and-bull story about his father having a heart attack in Albuquerque. He requested a leave of absence to drive down and spend a few weeks there while his father recovered.”
Bo asked, “Why cock-and-bull?”
“Luther? Giving a good goddamn about his old man?” She started to laugh, but it turned into a hacking cough.
“He’s not a particularly sensitive guy?” Coyote said, encouraging her.
“He’s big, that’s why he’s here. Dealing with the kind of people we house, big is a definite plus. But sensitive? Yeah, like a rhino.”
“Did he say when he’d return to work?”
“He was supposed to be back last week. We haven’t heard from him.”
Bo asked, “Does the name Max Ableman mean anything to you?”
She watched the smoke escaping through the mesh and thought a moment. “Should it?”
“I spotted a pickup truck registered to Luther Gallagher in a motor court in Bayport yesterday. According to the desk clerk, a man named Max Ableman was driving it. Ableman is an alias, but it’s still possible Gallagher might have mentioned him.”
“If he ever did, I don’t remember it.”
“Not that it will help, but why don’t you describe Ableman,” Coyote suggested to Bo.
“Probably in his late thirties, early forties, just under six feet tall, approximately one hundred eighty pounds, sandy hair, pale complexion, quiet. And scars.” Bo made a couple of slashes across his upper arm.
Wardell paused with the cigarette just shy of her lips. “Sunglasses, even indoors?”
“That’s him.”
“Oh, my God.” She dropped the cigarette on the sidewalk without bothering to crush it out. “Gentlemen, if you please.” She signaled them to follow and returned to her office, where she asked them to wait. She left and came back in less than five minutes with a small, dark woman at her heels. “These are the agents. I’m sorry, I’ve forgotten your names.”
Bo held out his hand and introduced himself and Coyote.
As she shook Coyote’s hand, the woman said, “I’m Dr. Jordan Hart. I’ve asked Helen if we could go to my office and talk before we inform the local authorities. You seem to have information
about Moses.”
“Moses?” Coyote said.
“The man you call Max Ableman.”
“Moses.” Coyote grinned at Bo. “Brother, looks like we’ve found the Promised Land.”
Dr. Hart was younger and less imposing than Bo imagined a psychologist who dealt with the criminally insane might be. He guessed her to be in her early thirties. She stood barely five feet tall, had a smooth, dark complexion, and intense brown eyes. She escorted them to her office. It was a neat little room, red brick walls decorated with tasteful Monet prints and lined with bookcases. The wide window overlooked another courtyard, one with a small flowerbed where a patient knelt, carefully pulling weeds and putting them in a plastic bucket.
“What’s your interest in David Moses?” she asked. She poured water into a coffeemaker and flipped the switch.
Bo explained about Ableman, about his own suspicions concerning the death of the hospital security guard, and about his fear for the safety of Tom Jorgenson.
“What can you tell me about this Moses?” he asked.
“David escaped two months ago,” the psychologist informed them. “We’ve had no word on him since.”
“Escaped how?” Bo asked.
“He just walked away.” Her words had a bitter edge.
Coyote looked surprised. “With all the razor wire you’ve got around this place?”
“David Moses is a unique individual.” Dr. Hart offered them the coffee that had just finished drip brewing. “What do you know about him?” she asked.
“Almost nothing,” Bo answered. “Except that he appears to be one step ahead of us.”
“That doesn’t surprise me.”
She handed them their coffee in disposable cups, then sat down with a mug of her own, a big ceramic thing with printing on the side: SOMETIMES A CIGAR IS JUST A CIGAR.
“Before I can tell you anything, I need to see a court order allowing me to release information on David.”
“I’ve told you what’s happened,” Bo said. “Do you think Moses could be responsible?”
She didn’t say so, but her expression confirmed it. “Without a court order,” she insisted, “my hands are tied.”
Bo took out his cell phone and placed a call to Diana Ishimaru. He explained what he needed.
“It’s in the works,” he told the psychologist. “But if you wait until you have it in your hands, that might be too late. The more I know about this Moses, the more certain I am that he’s already killed one man. And it may be only the beginning. You said he was a unique individual. Why?”
She spent a moment weighing her options. Finally she said, “When he was being evaluated for competency to stand trial, he was given the WAIS, Wechsler Adult Intelligence Scale, as part of the standard battery of assessments. Top score on the WAIS is a hundred fifty. David came in at a hundred forty-seven. I’ve never met anyone who scored so high, so when he was assigned to me I administered several additional tests to make sure his IQ score was accurate. It was.”
“Competency to stand trial on what charge?”
“Manslaughter. Two years ago, he was arrested for the murder of a man in Minneapolis, a street person, homeless, as was David Moses. The killing took place outside a mission shelter. There were no witnesses to the actual murder, but apparently the noise of the brawl caused someone to call the police. When they arrived on the scene, they found David disoriented, hallucinating. He told them he was being followed. People were trying to kill him. The court ordered psychiatric evaluation. He was diagnosed as paranoid schizophrenic, judged not mentally competent to stand trial, and he was remanded here for treatment.”
“He was put under your care?”
“At first, yes. This facility houses patients who have committed serious crimes. Usually sex offenders and murderers. Often, they’re here for life. They’ve fallen into that dark area of the criminal justice system in which the constitutional rights of a citizen are abrogated. They’ll never leave this place unless the doctors give them a clean bill of mental health, and that doesn’t happen very often. At first, David was pretty hostile. In my initial sessions with him, he wasn’t cooperative at all. After several months, he decided to toss me a few bones. I think he was testing me. It was obvious David wanted out, and he was trying to figure out how to do it. He tried to con me, but I wasn’t fooled. So he got himself another doctor.”
“How?” Bo asked.
“He accused me of sexual impropriety. It was a ridiculous allegation, but it got him what he wanted. Dr. Graves.” She said the name with distaste. “Graves and I have never seen eye to eye. I tried to warn him about David, but he wouldn’t listen. David worked him like clay on a potter’s wheel. Two months ago, Graves recommended David be granted campus privileges.”
Coyote looked up from his coffee cup. “What’s that?”
“A patient with campus privileges has permission to walk the hospital grounds unsupervised. It’s a transition step when we believe someone is almost ready for a return to society. Which I absolutely believed David was not. I said as much in the staff meeting when Graves put forward his proposal. I was overruled.”
“So Moses just walked away and disappeared,” Coyote concluded. “And you’re the one talking to us because Graves was taken off the case.”
“Yes.” Her satisfaction was obvious.
“Just how dangerous is Moses?” Bo asked.
She didn’t answer immediately. Instead she said, “Working with David is like stepping through a looking glass. With him, one never knows what’s real and what isn’t. Some patients try to manipulate me, but I can usually trip them up in their inconsistencies. David is far more clever. It’s as if he allows you a true glimpse of his world, then slams the door so you’re not certain exactly what you saw. Except that you know it was real and it was terrible.”
“What can you tell us specifically?” Bo asked.
“What I know of the facts.”
“Fine.”
“David’s an orphan. He spent some time in St. Jerome’s Home for Children in the Twin Cities. He didn’t graduate from high school but joined the military instead at seventeen. He was discharged eight years later. He appears to have no other criminal record.”
Bo waited. When she didn’t go on, he asked, “That’s it?”
“In terms of facts.”
“Nothing after his discharge?”
“Between the ages of twenty-five and thirty-five, his life is a blank. Or at least as far as any official records are concerned.”
“He never gave you a clue about that time in his life?” Coyote asked.
“Yes. Only now we leave the realm of fact and we enter the Twilight Zone of David Moses.” She hadn’t touched her coffee, but now she took a sip. “Over the course of my treatment of David, I sifted through the notes and put bits and pieces together, and finally constructed the skeleton of a story. It’s a chilling one if it’s true. Do you have time?”
“As much as you need,” Bo said.
Coyote held up his cup. “Got any cream for this coffee?”
chapter
eighteen
Sixty miles north of the State Security Hospital, in the small maze of St. Paul city streets known as Tangletown, Nightmare parked along the curb two houses away from the duplex where Bo Thorsen lived. The side of the white van he drove carried an antenna logo and below it the words METRO CABLE COMMUNICATIONS. He wore sunglasses, a gray uniform with the name D. Solomon sewn onto the shirt pocket, a gray cap that matched the uniform, and he carried a small toolbox. He whistled his way through the shafts of morning sunlight that slanted among the big American elms in the yard, and he climbed the front steps of the duplex. Through a curtained front window on the ground floor came the sound of a television tuned to The Price Is Right. He quietly turned the knob on the front door, but the door was locked. He set his toolbox down, glanced at the empty street, took a lock pick from his pocket, and in a few seconds was inside the house. To his right stood the door of the first-floor
unit, to his left the stairway that led upward. Nightmare silently mounted the stairs. The door of the upstairs unit had only a knob lock and a dead bolt. Child’s play. Less than two minutes from the time he’d left his van, Nightmare was inside Thorsen’s apartment.
He paused and took in the feel of the place. The most imposing item in the living room was a massive bookcase that took up nearly all of one wall. The shelves were full. The other walls were sparsely decorated with small watercolors matted and delicately framed. The furniture was tasteful and spare, all light tones. The whole place felt clean and uncluttered.
Nightmare went to the bookcase and scrutinized Thorsen’s taste in reading. The shelves were nearly equally divided between classic nonfiction texts that covered a lot of territory—Bronowski, LeviStrauss, Chomsky, Jung, Heilbroner, Galbraith, Campbell—and fiction and poetry, almost entirely American—Mark Twain, Walt Whitman, William Carlos Williams, Faulkner, Steinbeck, Wharton, Dos Passos, Sandburg, Frost, Angelou, Mailer, Dove. Thorsen had a signed first edition in excellent condition of Tom Jorgenson’s autobiography The Testament of Time. Years ago when the book had first been released, Nightmare had read it and thought that, except for hiding the fact that he was a liar and a betrayer, Jorgenson told a pretty good tale. The worn covers seemed to indicate that many of the books had been well read, although they may simply have come used from secondhand bookstores. Nightmare couldn’t be certain yet. He was just getting to know Thorsen. The agent subscribed to several magazines. Time, The New Yorker, Smithsonian, and one of Nightmare’s favorites since childhood, National Geographic. A television with a thirteen-inch screen sat like a forgotten child on a small table in one corner of the living room. There was also a sound system and a carousel of CDs that contained mostly jazz.
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