by Brenda Novak
“You could if you wanted to,” Lorraine insisted.
“I don’t want to. There’re only four other productive members of the team right now. I can handle him.” The men she’d come here to study manipulated her constantly, or tried to. Why should she expect Hugo to be any different? Especially with the way their first meeting had gone?
“He’s very nice whenever I see him in the dining hall.” Lorraine put a sack lunch on the desk. She came over to the mental health wing quite often to make sure Evelyn had food to eat, regardless of the meal.
Evelyn peeked in at her lunch: carrots, an apple, a cup of chicken noodle soup and a chocolate-chip cookie. “You can’t trust nice.” Jasper had once been nice, too. And look what he did.
Lorraine adjusted an earring that was hanging too low. “Dr. Fitzpatrick says everyone dons a mask. With psychopaths, that mask is more like a mirror. Whatever they think you want to see, that’s what they reflect back at you. They’re empty.”
No, not empty. Evelyn didn’t believe that for a second. She’d once seen the bared soul of a psychopath, stared into his eyes in a way Dr. Fitzpatrick never had and, God willing, never would. The men they treated were far from empty; “empty” was too synonymous with “neutral, harmless.” If she were a religious person she might substitute “soulless” and find it quite fitting, but she hadn’t been to church in over a decade.
“They know how to blend in,” she corrected. “How to appear as emotionally invested as those around them. They’re wolves in sheep’s clothing, which is why they’re able to cause so much pain and destruction.” And why the truly caring individuals involved in their lives usually suffered for it.
Lorraine seemed to measure Evelyn more closely. “Are you sure it’s only Hugo that’s got you down? You look … frazzled.”
And it was only Monday. Not a great way to start out the week. “I didn’t sleep well last night.”
“Why don’t you go home and lie down, get some rest?”
Evelyn waved her off. “It’s not even noon.”
“Listen, this place won’t fall apart if you take a couple of hours. Everyone admires your commitment—no one more than me—but you’ll run yourself into a brick wall if you don’t slow down.”
Evelyn shook a daily vitamin from the bottle she kept in her desk and tossed it back with a drink of water. “Don’t be so dramatic. I’m fine. And I can’t leave.” She checked the clock hanging on her wall. “Our new inmate will be here any minute.”
“Anthony Garza? I thought he wasn’t due until four.”
“Weather report says we’ve got another storm coming in. So they caught an earlier flight. You didn’t get the message?”
Lorraine adjusted her hairnet. “I haven’t checked my e-mail this morning. I’ve been too busy in the kitchen.”
“One of the federal marshals called just before I met with Hugo. The plane’s already landed in Anchorage.” Because of the amount of security required to move the high-profile killers they often received, arrivals were always a big deal. The entire on-site staff was alerted … just in case—although Lorraine’s presence wasn’t as high a priority as the warden, the COs and the mental health team. The last thing they needed was for someone to make a careless mistake that would result in an escape or injury. As the first institution of its kind, Hanover House was perceived to be a radical new approach to the psychopathy problem, which meant they had to prove themselves professional and effective or risk losing the public support they’d worked so hard to achieve. Just because Hilltop hadn’t mounted much resistance to having a maximum-security mental facility built on the outskirts of town—nothing like the other locations the government considered—didn’t mean they wouldn’t rally at the prodding of an inciting event. For the most part, the locals who weren’t working at the center seemed to be reserving judgment, but they weren’t welcoming her or her brainchild with open arms, especially Amarok, the handsome Alaska State Trooper who was about the town’s only police presence.
“What do we know about Garza?” Lorraine asked.
That question made Evelyn uncomfortable. The inmates at Hanover House were hand selected for the type of crimes they’d committed and the behavior they exhibited. That was one of the details that made their institution unique, besides the friendly name (“House” instead of “Prison”) and the focus on research and treatment as opposed to simple incarceration. But Evelyn had chosen Garza because he was so difficult to handle. Had the team been asked to weigh in on some of the details, as they probably should’ve been, they would’ve rejected him on the grounds that he was too antagonistic to be considered for their program. Not only had he attacked every cellmate he’d ever had; a year ago he’d nearly killed a guard.
But Evelyn thought that anger, that level of hatred and vocal interaction, might bring insights they’d been missing so far.
“We know he killed the first three of his four wives. That he’s egocentric, feels no real human attachment, has delusions of grandeur and lies like a rug.” She straightened her blotter. “He also has a penchant for self-mutilation, but that’s another thing.”
“How’d he murder his wives?” Lorraine’s expression suggested she didn’t really care to know but had to ask.
His file lay on the corner of the desk. Evelyn had read the documents inside it several times. She slid it over and flipped through the pages as she spoke. “He didn’t do anything uniquely gruesome. Knocked them out with a hammer before setting the bed on fire.”
“He did that to all three?”
When she came to a picture of the burned remnants of a mobile home, Evelyn paused. She hated to imagine what’d happened to the poor woman who’d been inside, but couldn’t stop the heartbreaking images that flashed before her mind’s eye. “Yes.”
“He wasn’t afraid three fires would raise his chances of being caught?”
Evelyn managed a shrug as she closed the file. She had to keep some distance between her emotions and what she encountered every day or she would never survive this job. Even if she couldn’t maintain that separation, she faked it. Otherwise her colleagues would be all over her—cautioning her, giving advice, telling her she was taking the job too seriously. What she didn’t understand was how they could take the men and issues they dealt with any less seriously, how they could look at their jobs as just a nine-to-five grind. “He killed each one in a different state, and he nearly got away with it. Was only tried two years ago, five years after the death of the last woman. By then, he was separated from his fourth wife. I guess he found something that worked and stuck with it.”
Lorraine made a clicking sound with her tongue. “Amazing that these cases aren’t connected sooner. What about the last wife? Why didn’t he kill her?”
“Courtney Lofland? I have no idea.” Evelyn set the file aside. “She’s remarried and living in Kansas.”
“Lucky girl. I bet you’d love to talk to her, see what she has to say about Garza’s behavior.”
“I’ve already sent a letter,” Evelyn said with a smile.
Lorraine shook her head. “I should’ve known. With you, no stone goes unturned.”
Evelyn ignored the reference to her diligence because she knew the compulsion she felt had turned to obsession long ago. “If she agrees to be interviewed, I’ll fly out there and meet her.”
“And get away from all this?” Lorraine spread her arms to indicate the sprawling two-story complex, of which Evelyn’s office comprised only a small part of the third wing.
Outside, snow was falling so heavily Evelyn could no longer make out the Chugach Mountains. They’d had sixty inches since she arrived in September, and it was only January 13. “It’d be nice to feel the sun, warm up,” she admitted.
“I wish I could go with you. I haven’t been much farther from home than the prison.”
Evelyn pulled her gaze from the window. “You’d have to fight off the mental health team first. They’d all love to return to the Lower Forty-eight.” Homesickness
was what had driven Martin Brand back to Portland, where he was from. It wasn’t easy adjusting to such a hostile environment. The echoing halls, clanging doors, occasional moans and crazy-sounding laughter were hard enough to cope with. Add to those realities the long, dark winter and lonely evenings spent with more files and psychology journals than people, and the memories of countless conversations filled with bloodcurdling details, and saying life here was harsh went well beyond the weather.
“Will you take one of them along?” Lorraine asked.
Evelyn shook her head. “We don’t have the funds. I’ll be lucky if the Bureau of Prisons approves my ticket.”
“So who’ll be working with Mr. Garza?”
“Who do you think?”
“Not you—you’re already juggling a lot more than the others. As it is you don’t get time to think about anything besides your patients.”
Evelyn offered her a rueful smile. “Maybe you haven’t noticed, but there’s not a lot to do in Hilltop besides work, especially this time of year.”
“You could get a social life.”
“Which would include … what? Drinking at the Moosehead?”
“Why not?”
Evelyn had gone there once last summer, before Hanover House even opened. Amarok had taken her. She’d had a good time, but she tried not to think about that.
“You never know what kind of guy you might meet,” Lorraine added by way of enticement.
She rolled her eyes. “Truer words were never spoken.”
“I meant that you might run into someone fun and interesting, not dangerous.”
Like Amarok. Surely Lorraine had heard the rumors about them. Or maybe not. As with so many other members of the staff, she lived in Anchorage and commuted to work. Didn’t socialize with the locals. “There are no guarantees.”
“Glenn would go with you.”
Glenn Whitcomb, one of the COs, had taken it upon himself to look after the both of them, as well as some of the other women who worked at Hanover House. When he could, he walked them out of the prison, carried anything that was heavy or helped scrape the snow off their cars. “Glenn faces the same drive you do,” she said. “He doesn’t need to be staying here in Hilltop any later than his work requires.”
“Why not? What’s he got to go home to? His married sister? He needs to find a mate, too.”
“He’ll meet someone eventually.” Regardless, she couldn’t become any friendlier with him. She could sense how much he admired her, had to be careful. Getting too chummy with a guard wasn’t professional and could undermine her authority at HH.
“Come on,” Lorraine said. “You have to overcome the past at some point.”
She was spitting Evelyn’s own words back at her. “I’ve made peace with my past. I’m happy as I am,” she responded, but she knew she bore more scars than the one on her neck. After the attack, she’d spent nearly a decade in therapy.
“You’d rather be single for the rest of your life?” Lorraine asked.
Suddenly realizing that she was hungry, Evelyn pulled the carrots out of the sack. Maybe if she ate something she’d get her second wind. “I don’t need a man. I’ve filled my life with other things.”
“Psychopaths?”
“A purpose,” she said, tearing open the plastic. “And to fulfill that purpose, I can fit one more inmate into my schedule.”
Lorraine tsked. “You’re pushing too hard. Driving yourself right over the edge.”
“I appreciate the warning—and the lunch,” she said. “What would I do without you in all of this? But I’m okay. Really. So … did Glenn’s uncle get your security alarm installed?”
Lorraine gave her a look that let her know she recognized the deliberate change in subject. She allowed it, however. “Last week. That high-pitched tone that goes off when I open the door about makes me jump out of my skin.”
Evelyn chuckled. “You get used to it.” She could speak with confidence, because Glenn’s uncle had also installed one in her house. She found the sound quite comforting.
“I guess it’s a wise thing to have.”
“It is.” Especially because Lorraine’s husband had moved out six months ago and she was now living alone. Evelyn thought it might provide her with some peace of mind—once she became accustomed to how it worked.
“I’d better get back downstairs before all hell breaks loose,” Lorraine said. “But I wanted to ask you … have you heard anything from Danielle?”
“Connelly? The gal you hired to help in the kitchen? Not yet. Why?”
“She didn’t come in this morning.”
“Have you tried calling her house?”
“Of course. Over and over. There’s no answer.”
“Are you sure she didn’t talk to the warden or another member of the team? Maybe she’s sick. Maybe she turned off the ringer on her phone so she could get some sleep.”
A knock interrupted, right before her assistant, four-foot-nine Penny Singh, poked her head into the room. “Receiving just called. Anthony Garza has arrived.”
“Thank you.”
“Did you plan to talk to the marshals?” Penny asked.
“Of course.” Evelyn felt it was important to thank the escorts. Sometimes they had warnings or other information to convey. She also made it a habit to meet with every single inmate as soon as he received his jumpsuit and other essentials so she could create his chart, make some initial notes on his attitude and psychological state and whether he was likely to be a problem.
“You’ll have to hurry,” Penny prodded. “They can’t wait. They’re worried about missing their flight, are afraid they’ll get snowed in.”
Evelyn couldn’t blame them for being antsy. With the monstrous cold fronts that rolled through Anchorage, getting snowed in was a real possibility—and it could mean they’d be trapped for a week or longer. “I’m coming.” She turned to Lorraine. “About Danielle—can you get away long enough to drive by her house?”
“Not during work hours. Not when I’m short staffed. But I’ll stop on my way home.”
“Perfect. Call me if for some reason she’s not there.”
Lorraine nodded as Evelyn brushed past. But it wasn’t fifteen minutes later that Evelyn forgot Danielle. While the staff in Receiving checked Garza in, she met with the marshals in the warden’s conference room. What they had to say about Anthony made her nervous. So she was already on edge when, right after they left, the intermittent honk of the emergency alarm sounded, punching her heart into her throat.
2
I always had a fetish for murder and death.
—DAVID BERKOWITZ, THE SON OF SAM
They’d had to sedate him. That was what the marshals told Evelyn before they left. They said he was so difficult and dangerous, to himself and others, that the only way to get Garza safely from one place to another was to medicate him. A registered nurse at ADX Florence in Colorado, where he’d been incarcerated before, had administered three hundred milligrams of Ryzolt four hours ago. There was a note on his chart.
But the tranquilizer had worn off by the time he arrived at HH. According to the COs in Receiving he’d come in slightly agitated and, despite his chains and cuffs, quickly grown violent, going so far as to head-butt an officer. At that point, someone had sounded the alarm while others wrestled Garza to the ground and replaced his cuffs with a straightjacket, further restricting his range of motion. Now he had four officers flanking him instead of two. They’d just dragged him into the holding cell across from her and had to support him so he wouldn’t trip on his ankle chains because he wouldn’t settle down. He was raving like a lunatic, threatening to dismember anyone he came into contact with.
“I won’t stay in this godforsaken place!” he cried. “You’ll all be fucked if you make me. Do you hear?”
“Should we take him to his cell?” It was Officer Whitcomb who asked. He obviously doubted she’d be able to get anything meaningful out of Garza when the man was in such a state, and she
had to agree. She’d been about to suggest they take him away and give him a chance to cool off. But the second Mr. Garza realized she was on the other side of the glass, he fell silent and went still.
“Who are you?” His dark eyes shined with anger-induced madness as they riveted, hawk-like, on her.
The first thing she noticed was that those eyes were too close together, his nose was slightly crooked and he had a wide face with almost no chin. A little bit of facial hair or even longer hair on top would’ve made those things less noticeable. But with his head shaved …
Still, she wouldn’t call him ugly—just average.
Prepared for an unpleasant encounter, should it go that way, Evelyn fixed a placid expression on her face. She couldn’t, wouldn’t, show this man how unsettled he made her. If he thought he was the first to use intimidation, he was sadly mistaken. Even the sudden reversal in his behavior came as no surprise. Sometimes the men incarcerated at HH reminded her of actors in a play with how quickly and easily they could slip in and out of whatever character suited them best.
“Ah, you’re coherent after all,” she said. “So what have you been doing, Mr. Garza? Putting us on notice that you’re no one to be messed with?”
He didn’t answer the question. “Who are you?”
She put on the glasses she used to alleviate eyestrain and jotted a note on his chart. Low frustration tolerance. Possibly disorganized thinker and yet … seems more calculating than that. Aggressive when fearful or uncertain or presented with unfamiliar stimuli—
“Hey! I asked you a question!” He half-dragged the COs along with him so he could shuffle up to the glass.