“What else do you know about my mother?” he asked.
The doctor shrugged and flexed the fingers of one of her black-gloved hands. “Not much, to tell the truth. That she was a patient in the state hospital while I was superintendent. I occasionally saw her name on medical files that came across my desk.”
Allan recalled his mother’s tearful pleadings each time he and his father went to visit—once or twice a month at the most. He could still hear her imploring words. “Don’t leave me here. It isn’t safe.” What had she meant? Had she only imagined that she was in danger? His father had assured him several times the asylum was the safest place for her—that she might harm herself or others if not institutionalized.
Allan had believed him then. Now, he wasn’t so sure. He remembered well the last time he’d seen his mother alive. She was sitting in a stiff wooden chair beside her bed—a small bed with a thin mattress and a pillow as flat as a postage stamp. He’d brought her lilacs from the bush by their front door at home. “Allan, it’s not safe here,” she’d whispered. “Tell Daddy to take me home.”
Not safe.
The words still haunted him. And his father hadn’t listened to his pleas any more than he’d listened to his wife’s.
“We had more than a thousand patients at the asylum when I worked there,” Leadill went on. “I cannot be expected to remember every single one, but…” She paused, a significant gleam in her dark, birdlike eyes. “I have various files at my disposal. These I will be willing to hand over for your perusal—to help you with your research.”
His heart pounding, Allan tried not to show his excitement over this unexpected offer. He’d always wondered what really had happened to his mother. Over the years, he’d collected tidbits of family gossip. As a boy of ten, he had not been able to keep his imagination from running wild regarding his mother’s confinement in the mental hospital. In one scenario, he believed his mother had been rich and his father had wanted to control her money. Allan gave up this theory in his teenage years, because there was no evidence of money in the family. So he wondered, instead, if his grim-faced father had sent away his wife so he could enjoy the company of a mistress or a lover. But if his father had had a secret lover, Allan had never been able to prove it, and Ernest Partner had never remarried, so there hadn’t been a woman waiting in the wings.
“I’m sure you have many questions,” Dr. Leadill went on suggestively.
“I do,” Allan admitted.
“Then allowing you access to my personal files may provide you with some answers,” she said. “In exchange, I ask only that you allow me to read your manuscript before you submit it to the publisher.”
Allan hesitated. “I think that’s fair.”
Dr. Leadill rose from the chair, reaching for her handbag.
Allan also hauled himself to his feet.
“I shall bring the files here and give them to your research assistant.” She looked pointedly at Wren.
Allan followed her hard-eyed gaze and felt a stab of guilt.
Wren looked exhausted and rather anxious. It had been a long day, and an emotionally draining one too. No doubt, she was eager to go home to her little girl. He was still silently chastising himself for insisting she accompany him to the asylum.
When Dr. Leadill took her leave, moving with a briskness surprising in someone of her alleged advanced years and poor health, Allan shut the door behind her. He turned to Wren. “Go home. You’ve had quite a day. I’m sorry I kept you so long. Why not take the day off tomorrow? You look as if you could use the rest.”
Wren stood and then surprised him. “Was your mother buried in the asylum cemetery?”
Allan shook his head. “No, she was buried in a family plot near all the other members of the Partner clan. Why do you ask?”
“Do you trust her—Dr. Leadill, I mean?” Wren’s large, anxious eyes seemed to bore into his face. “I noticed that you didn’t actually agree to let her see the manuscript before it was submitted. You just said it was a fair exchange—her notes for the right to read the manuscript. I can’t image you’d really be willing to let her read it.”
“There’s that famous intuition stirring up suspicions again.”
Wren lowered her gaze. “Do you really think you’ll find something useful in her personal files?”
Allan shrugged. “I honestly don’t know. But as I told you earlier, I’ve always suspected that my mother didn’t jump from that winding staircase. She was pushed.”
“But is it legal for Dr. Leadill to allow you to look at those files?” she asked.
“Perhaps not,” Allan acknowledged. He felt a mild stirring of discomfort. It probably wasn’t legal at all. But then, he supposed it depended on just how personal those personal files were. But he still wanted to glimpse through them.
“Shouldn’t the files be in the possession of the current superintendent? How did she get hold of them?” Wren pressed.
“I don’t know. She said they were her personal files, didn’t she? Maybe she kept those for her own private use or maybe she made two sets of files—one for the office and one to keep at home. I don’t know.” Again, he shrugged and toyed with the tape dispenser on the corner of his desk. “I wonder how she knew I was writing another book?” he mused. “There hasn’t been any publicity yet.”
Wren opened her mouth to speak and then closed it as she reached for her purse and her tote bag.
“Go on, say it,” Allan prompted.
“I can’t help wondering if Dr. Leadill knew we’d been out there today—at the asylum. I wonder if she came to the office knowing full well neither of us would be here.” She looked at him quizzically.
“You still think she broke into the office?” Allan asked, arching a brow.
“I know she did. I locked the door before we left. I’m certain of it. And another thing, she didn’t seem at all astonished when you mentioned that someone had been shooting at us. Not one bit.”
“So what are you saying? You think Gorse called her, telling her what happened when we came out of the back door of the kitchen building? Why would he do that? She has no authority to order extra security or anything. Dr. Leadill has been retired for many years.”
“Let’s say Dr. Leadill knows something about the baby bottle we discovered, that she knows something unlawful took place at the asylum years ago,” Wren suggested. “Taking advantage of your eagerness to delve into the details of your mother’s confinement there would be a good distraction, don’t you think? You’ll be so consumed by what’s in the files, you might not wish to pursue what happened at the state hospital all those years ago—if anything happened at all. You said you suspect your mother was pushed. Maybe you’re right. And maybe homeless people have been living in the alcoves in the tunnel too, and Dr. Leadill is aware of it. Who knows? The only thing we can know for sure is that the baby bottle didn’t get into the food tunnel by itself.”
“You have a point,” he said, feeling mildly discomfited.
Wren scooped up some steno pads and shoved them in her tote bag. She tidied her desk. “If there was any injustice regarding your mother’s treatment while in the asylum, this could be God’s way of bringing the truth to light.”
“Spoken like a good minister’s wife.” Realizing how condescending this remark sounded, he took a step toward her. “I’m sorry, Wren. That was uncalled for. I was rude.”
She shrugged as she zipped up her bag.
“You know I don’t believe in God,” he reminded her.
“So you’ve told me more than once,” Wren replied, her tone crisp. “But I’m beginning to wonder who you are trying to convince—me or yourself.”
Allan held his tongue. There was something in her boldness that surprised him, something he admired, too. He cleared his throat. “When Dr. Leadill brings in the files, I want you to go through them first, flagging any information that might be useful for the book or anything that might pertain to my mother. I’m particularly interested in any me
ntion of her treatment—medications, physicians notes, anything like that.”
“Dr. Leadill might not come back with any files at all,” Wren said as she stepped around the corner of the desk and made her way to the door. “I don’t trust her.” Her tone was quiet, but hard with certainty.
“You don’t even know her,” Allan objected with a light laugh. “Why should you mistrust her?”
Wren frowned at him, her eyes glinting as she pointed to the corner of his desk.
He turned to look.
“Notice anything missing?” Wren asked.
He frowned and shook his head.
“That little old lady took your camera with her when she left.”
4
“There’s a possibility there may be human remains buried in the food transportation tunnels underneath the old state hospital, and I would like permission to go back down there to look around.” Allan came right to the point.
Detective Frank Reed’s body immediately grew rigid at the gruesome suggestion, and he exchanged a quick glance with his partner, Hector Torres. Had the two already found something—or someone down in the dark tunnels?
Ever since the shooting, the kitchen annex and the access to the tunnels had been taped off as part of the crime scene. Had the police done some investigation of their own?
Allan had no reason to suppose human remains might be discovered there. He was merely looking for any excuse to do a little more exploring. Wren’s discovery of the baby bottle had piqued his curiosity. But without police permission, he had no way of gaining access.
“Is this some sort of joke?” Reed asked. He sat in a swivel chair, one leg crossed over the knee of his other leg. He wore a blue broadcloth shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. The shirt made his blue eyes look particularly icy. His desk was cluttered with color-coded file folders, official-looking forms, an old butter tub filled with paper clips, and a coffee mug that boasted COPS DO IT LAWFULLY. His gaze slid over to Wren.
“No, it’s not a joke,” Wren replied, sitting up a little bit straighter.
She looked none the worse for wear following yesterday’s misadventure. In fact, she had more color in her cheeks than usual. Her brown eyes appeared bright and alert, as though she’d had a good night’s sleep. She had come in to the office this morning refreshed and eager to get to work, instead of taking the day off as he’d suggested. Allan was uncommonly relieved.
On the other hand, he hadn’t slept much at all. He’d spent most of the night tossing and turning, wondering why Dr. Leadill had snatched his digital camera off the corner of his desk. What had she feared he’d taken photographs of? Or had she simply swept it up with her purse by mistake? Did she intend to return it when she dropped by with the files she’d promised? And what about those files? Did they really contain details about his mother’s confinement in the asylum—the sort of information worth digging for or only the usual admission records?
“It’s not possible for either of you to go back down there, so get that idea out of your head right now, Mrs. Bergschneider, Professor,” Reed said, scowling at them both.
“Why not?” Allan pressed.
“The old kitchen building is now a crime scene,” Torres spoke up. “Off limits until we complete our investigation.” The man leaned against a battered, gray file cabinet. His dark hair was cut short, military style. He kept his beefy arms folded across his broad chest.
“Has the demolition been postponed then?” Allan asked.
“Not that I know of,” Reed admitted. “As soon as our crime scene personnel get done processing the site, I expect the razing will go ahead as scheduled.”
“Besides, it’s dangerous down there,” Torres threw in. “The county, and maybe even the state, could be held liable if something happened to the both of you while you were poking around. I’m surprised you got permission to enter the building in the first place.”
“I think it would be more dangerous, even criminal, to allow the old building to be dismantled before any remains are found,” Allan insisted.
“What makes you so sure there are bodies down there?” Reed pressed, leaning forward across the desk, facing him in a challenging way.
“Call it a professional hunch,” Allan said, shrugging. He glanced sidelong at Wren and noticed how the corner of her mouth twitched. “That’s something the police should understand and respect—a professional hunch.”
“You’re a history professor, right?” Reed asked.
“That’s right,” Allan replied. “And my hunch is based on years of research regarding asylums for the indigent insane. Before the reformer, Dorothea Dix, came along, society treated the mentally ill like so many Hansels and Gretels, abandoning them in the woods with a few crusts of bread—in a manner of speaking.”
Honestly, he would be just as surprised as the next guy if human remains were found down there. After all, the institution had had its own cemetery. If a patient had been murdered or accidentally killed, it would be easy to bury the body in the cemetery with all the others who died of natural causes. But the glass bottle had been an intriguing find. He simply wanted a chance to snoop around some more.
“Go on,” Reed said.
Allan could tell the detective was intrigued. He needed to take advantage of the man’s interest, so he told them about some of the poor victims Miss Dix had discovered in her travels and about the pitiable conditions she’d found them enduring.
“So what does that have to do with the bottle you found in the tunnel?” Torres asked. “Gorse said it was more than likely left by a homeless person—someone who wandered in several winters ago, hoping to get out of the cold.”
“A homeless man or woman with a baby bottle?” Allan asked. “That’s unlikely, don’t you think?”
The two detectives exchanged a glance.
Torres shrugged. “So what’s your hunch? Who do you think left the bottle down there?”
“I’m just guessing,” Allan said, gesturing with his hands, “but I think the bottle may have belonged to one of the mental patients.”
Reed regarded him with a thoughtful stare. “It’s my understanding the hospital was for adults only, no kids.”
Allan nodded. Now they were getting somewhere. Reed’s professional curiosity was aroused. Allan could see it in the man’s face. “Let’s suppose that a female patient was raped and later gave birth to an infant there. Or she may have been the unfortunate victim of medical experimentation,” he threw in, grasping at straws. He needed to present all possibilities—no matter how unlikely—if he wanted another opportunity to get down into those tunnels.
Reed’s eyes widened with incredulity.
Wren shuddered. She was lacing and unlacing her fingers, her hands in her lap. Was she recalling the stark hydrotherapy rooms with the large tubs, and imagining the overwrought patients being wrapped like mummies in hot, wet towels, and then stretched out helplessly on the gurneys? Gorse’s explanation of that process had disturbed her.
“Look, Professor, this is all fascinating, but you have no proof anything like that went on,” Reed pointed out. “Before they closed the place down for being potentially hazardous, the state hospital had been in business for more than one hundred and fifty years. If there had been any sort of medical hanky panky going on, it would have been discovered and the place would have been shut down a lot sooner. A public scandal would have led to some sort of investigation. The state legislature would have looked into matters. The police would have been called in, too. Heads would have rolled.”
“There are regulations against that sort of thing—medical experiments and such,” Torres said. He gave Allan a condescending smile.
“I’m sure the authorities would have put a stop to it, if they knew what was going on,” Allan agreed. “But what if they didn’t know? What if they never found out?” His voice sounded a bit melodramatic. Maybe he’d gone too far. If they began to consider him a lunatic with unfounded conspiracy theories, they’d immediately dis
miss his request to go back down into the tunnels. He had no need to convince them what he said was true. How could he? He had no proof whatsoever. All he had to do was raise a reasonable doubt.
“Are you implying that sort of thing actually went on right here in Jacksonville?” Torres demanded.
“I’m not implying anything,” Allan replied slowly. “I’m merely suggesting it’s a possibility. It happened in Nazi Germany. Why couldn’t it happen here?” He held up a hand. “Look, we found an old, glass baby bottle down there. Aren’t you even curious? Don’t you wonder what else we might find if we looked? Maybe someone shot at us to scare us away from ever going back down there.”
“You’ve got quite an imagination, I’ll give you that,” Reed said, grinning. He turned to Wren. “Is the professor writing some story this time, like a horror novel?”
She smiled and shook her head. Her cheeks flushed. “No, it’s a biography, and what he says about the treatment of the mentally ill is true. There’s been so much cruelty through the years. You have no idea.”
Reed looked over at Allan again. “You really should be writing thrillers or horror fiction or something, that’s all I’ve got to say.”
“Well, I’m not. I’m writing a biography about Dorothea Dix. As part of my research, I’d like to request permission to go to the site again,” Allan said.
Reed fixed him with another considering stare before looking over his shoulder at his partner.
Torres raised an eyebrow.
Reed shrugged. “OK, professor, we’ll go out there and look around again. We’ll do a sweep of those tunnels. You and your research assistant can come along, if you insist. But I think you’re letting your imagination run wild. There have always been rumors about that place, but nothing of merit. I grew up in a small town like this one. We had a TB asylum there—not as large as the mental hospital here, but still big and creepy all the same. There were tales of ghosts and torture and all sorts of mayhem, none of it true.”
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