The Memory Thief

by Don Donaldson

  AS HER hand reached for the cottage telephone, Marti reflected on how she’d been on the Gibson staff only a week and had already had to throw out two changes of clothing. And she hadn’t brought much to begin with. Then she remembered the bolt cutters she’d left in the hospital basement.

  Nuts.

  At some point, she’d have to retrieve them and get them back to their owners. But right now she had something more important to do.

  She dialed information. “McNairy County Sheriff’s Office, please.”

  They put the call through, and it was promptly answered by a gruff male voice.

  “This is Dr. Segerson. I was there a few hours ago talking with Sheriff Banks. Is he still in?”

  “Gone for the day. Can I be of help?”

  “Could you relay this call to him, or give me a number where he can be reached?”

  “We’re not allowed to do that. You have business with this office tonight, you’re gonna have to go through me.”

  “I’d rather call back when he’s there.”

  Marti hung up, irritated at what had just happened. Damn it, this was important. She needed to speak with Banks; no one else would do.

  She tried information for the sheriff’s home phone number, but it was unlisted.

  Now what? Drive over to the office and try to convince the people there to give her the number? That didn’t seem like a productive way to go. She could wait until he was back at work in the morning, but she was too keyed up to let that much time pass.

  Playing a long shot, she left the cottage and climbed into her car.

  CLAY ANSWERED the door in his history professor uniform.

  “You look like you’re going out,” Marti said.

  “Retirement party for two of our faculty. The dean will be taking names and checking them twice for anyone in absentia. Did you figure out how Odessa could have done it?”

  “I’ve got a few ideas, but I need to talk to Banks again. He’s gone for the day, and his office won’t tell me his home number.”

  “C’mon in. I may be able to help.”

  He stepped back and Marti went inside.

  “Back here,” Clay said, heading for the hallway.

  Marti followed him to the den, where he sat down at a dark antique desk with bears and other wildlife crudely carved into the sides. He pulled a box of Rolodex cards over in front of him and began flipping through them. While she waited, Marti dropped into one of Clay’s tree-limb chairs beside a lamp table of the same construction.

  Having found the number he was looking for, Clay reached for the phone and punched in a number. While it rang, he looked at Marti. “This is a guy who serves on the volunteer fire department over in McNairy. I think he knows Banks—” His eyes shifted to the desktop. “—Eddie . . . Clay Hulett . . . How you doing? . . . Yeah, I know what you mean.”

  They exchanged some fireman small talk, then Clay got down to business. “Do you happen to have the home number of the sheriff over there? . . . Yeah, that’s him . . .”

  Clay nodded to Marti and scrabbled in the desk drawer for a pen. He peeled a blank card from the Rolodex and scribbled down a number.

  “Okay, thanks, Eddie. No, I won’t tell him who gave it to me.”

  Clay got up and gestured for Marti to take his place.

  As they swapped seats, he said, “Bet you didn’t think it was going to be that easy.”

  “I don’t believe I’d bet against you on anything.”

  Marti’s call to Banks was answered by a woman.

  “Sheriff Banks, please.”

  “May I tell him who’s calling?”

  “Dr. Segerson.”

  “And what is this about?”

  “It’s a long story.”

  “Condense it for me.”

  Marti assumed this was Banks’s wife. Rather than feeling upset with her for being so protective of her husband’s time off, Marti respected her for it. That didn’t mean Marti was going to spend a lot of time explaining things to a third party. “If you’ll just tell him who’s calling, I’m sure he’ll want to speak with me.”

  There was no response, but the line remained open, so Mrs. Banks was either thinking about what Marti had just said, or was carrying her message to Banks. There was a scraping noise in the background, followed by a thump, then the sheriff came on the line.

  “Dr. Segerson, what can I do for you?”

  “I guess you knew that the night of the murder over there, Odessa was in seclusion.”

  “Yes.”

  “Doesn’t it strike you as a little odd . . . the one night when something happens he might have been responsible for, his normal routine is altered?”

  “It certainly got my attention.”

  “And no one checked on him the entire night, did you know that?”

  “Doctor, with all due respect, this is all old news to me.”

  “I just came from the hospital basement. The main door to the seclusion cellblock doesn’t lock automatically when you close it. You have to turn the key. The same is true for all the cell doors. Suppose whoever put Odessa down there forgot to lock the doors, or thought they locked automatically. After they left, he could have just walked out. Such a mistake would probably have been discovered the next morning, but why would the person responsible admit it? Especially if there was a chance the mistake had led to the murder of someone.”

  “Odessa was taken to seclusion by two orderlies on the night shift,” Banks said. “He was removed the next day, by two who work days. So you see, there’d be no reason for the ones discovering the mistake to lie about it.”

  “Unless they were good friends with the other two and knew how much trouble they’d be in.”

  “There’s no evidence of that kind of friendship. Believe me, I checked the point thoroughly. And the two on the day shift swear both doors were locked when they went down to pick him up. I’ve had a lot of experience with liars, and there’s no doubt in my mind they were telling the truth. In addition to that problem, we have to explain why Odessa returned to the hospital after the murder. Do you have an explanation for that?”

  “Maybe he figured it would give him a good alibi.”

  “So how did he lock himself in when he got back?”

  “I don’t know. But I found a way he could have gotten out of the hospital basement without being seen. There’s a tunnel from the basement to a storage building with an exterior door opening onto a section of the parking lot isolated from any of the other buildings. Were you aware of that?”

  “I saw the entrance in the hospital basement, but it was padlocked. How could he have gotten in there?”

  “I admit there are a few things yet to explain . . .”

  “Doctor, you make it sound as if we’re dealing with a couple of minor points. The things we can’t explain are huge. I can’t take a theory with that many holes in it to our DA. He’d think I’ve lost my mind. You seem very invested in proving Odessa’s our man. May I ask why?”

  Unwilling to tell him the true reason for her interest, Marti slipped the question. “If he did it, he needs to be punished. We owe it to the victim and to her family.”

  “Can’t argue with that, but you’ve got to do better than what I’ve just heard.”

  “I’ll work on it.”

  She hung up and looked at Clay, who said, “Work on what?”

  “He had an objection for everything I told him.”

  “Valid or reaching?”

  She leaned back in her chair and folded her arms over her chest. “It was all reasonable. But that’s only because we haven’t been smart enough to fill in the blanks in what happened.”

  “Don’t take offense at this, but—”

  “What?”

  “Maybe he didn�
��t do it.”

  Marti rocked forward in her chair and hit the desk with both fists. “He did.”

  “Would you be as convinced if you’d never heard of him before?”

  Marti’s hands slid from the desk into her lap. Disappointed and defeated, she wilted, her collapse pushing the air out of her in a rush. “Honestly . . . I’m not sure.”

  Clay looked at her across the desk for a few seconds, wishing he could think of something to say that would cheer her up. But this thing was so complicated and charged with significance, he didn’t know where to begin, so he copped out. “Maybe if you sleep on it you’ll wake up in the morning with a solution to one or two of the things that are puzzling you.”

  As lame as she found his suggestion, it warmed Marti to have someone she could talk to openly about the situation. “I don’t seem to have any other choice.”

  She got up and slowly walked toward the doorway, her head down but her mind active, looking for a way through the logical escarpment that stood between her and proof Odessa was responsible for the Blake murder.

  Clay followed her into the living room, then moved up beside her. He raised his right hand toward her shoulder, intending to give her a supportive hug. Then, unsure of whether he should follow through, he hesitated.

  At exactly that moment, a couple of words from Clay’s suggestion came bouncing back from wherever they’d gone in Marti’s head, one of them slightly modified: solution . . . puzzle . . .

  Mouth gaping in amazement, she looked at Clay. “I have to go back to the hospital.”

  “Why?”

  “I’ve got an idea.”

  “What is it?”

  “Too complicated to explain. I’ll talk to you later.”

  “I should be home around ten. Let me know.”

  WHEN MARTI entered Two East B, she immediately spotted Harry Evensky sitting at a table by himself, working on the latest newspaper with a pair of blunt scissors. She looked around the dayroom to see if Odessa was watching, but he wasn’t there. Evensky looked up as she approached.

  She leaned down and spoke in a voice she hoped only he could hear. “I need to talk to you.”

  “Sure. Go ahead.”

  “Not here . . . in the interview room.”

  Evensky scooped the Rs he’d cut from the paper into an envelope, then, envelope and scissors in hand, he got out of his chair.

  In the interview room, Marti shut the door and turned to the old man. “Your riddle: What’s tall and fair . . . you think it’s here but it’s really there?”

  Evensky’s eyebrows lifted and his head craned forward on his neck in anticipation of what she was about to say.

  “Is the answer Vernon Odessa?”

  The old man’s face lit up. “Now, was that so hard?”

  Chapter 22

  “YOU SAW Odessa outside the hospital one night when you were out, didn’t you?” Marti asked the old man.

  “I thought you understood that.”

  “When was it?”

  “The night the woman in Blake was killed. I read about her the next day in the paper. I think he did it.”

  “Why on earth didn’t you tell someone?”

  “Eventually, when it became clear that the murder wasn’t gonna be solved unless I spoke up, I tried, but nobody was willin’ to think about what I was sayin’.”

  “Where did you see him?”

  “He came out a side door of the big building where they store stuff and got into a tan rec vehicle.”

  The tunnel, Marti thought. Those were Odessa’s footprints on the floor. “What happened after he got in the vehicle?”

  “It drove away.”

  “Who was at the wheel?”

  “I couldn’t tell.”

  “Did you get the license number?”

  Evensky shook his head. “Too dark, and it left too fast. Besides, I wasn’t out there takin’ notes.”

  “I may want to talk to you some more about this, but for now, go back to the dayroom and don’t tell anyone what we discussed.”

  “What are you gonna do?”

  “I don’t know. I need time to think.”

  After Evensky left, Marti hit herself in the head with the palm of her hand. Odessa had help. That’s how he got out. Someone went down to seclusion after he was locked in and released him. The same person must have unlocked the tunnel door and then gone upstairs and out of the building to the vehicle they left in.

  But who would do such a thing?

  She paced the room, trying to fit various people on the staff into the picture, but failed to make any progress, probably because she hadn’t yet come up with any motive for such behavior.

  Motive . . .

  That approach stumped her, too.

  Motive . . . think . . .

  She finally realized she was being too logical. She wasn’t letting her mind run free.

  Okay . . . open up . . . let the possibilities in . . . don’t get in the way . . .

  Somebody in the hospital had a grudge against the victim and talked Odessa into killing her for them . . .

  Not bad, but even that was too logical. Odessa was a creature of emotion. He wasn’t a contract killer. He’d certainly kill a stranger, but she had to fit his victim profile.

  Try again.

  Somebody in the hospital had a warped sense of adventure. They longed to kill someone themselves, but didn’t have the nerve . . .

  Boy, was that sick. Could someone that mentally ill hold down a job?

  Been done before. Jeffery Dahmer worked at a chocolate factory.

  C’mon, try again. Get creative . . .

  Her mind went arid for about twenty seconds, then she hit the mother of all creativity.

  Jesus, was that idea out there. She tried to discard it and find more fertile ground, but it wouldn’t go away. Giving it a little more consideration, she thought back to her reading of Odessa’s file when she first arrived. Is to be given no neurotropic drugs . . .

  That fits.

  And Odessa’s explanation for behaving himself at Gibson but not at his previous hospital.

  Another fit.

  His transfer initiated shortly after . . .

  Marti’s palms began to sweat as one more fact locked into place.

  She left the interview room and went to the nursing station, where she found the night nurse. “Olivia, when was the decision made to use the old seclusion facility for Odessa?”

  “It’s a standing order from Dr. Quinn that if Odessa ever becomes violent, he’s to be locked down there. The directive is posted on the glass by the medication work area.”

  “May I see it?”

  “Of course.”

  They went into the nursing station, where Marti noted that the directive was dated just two months before the night Odessa had his behavioral lapse, almost as though . . . “I notice the order doesn’t say anything about suspending the usual three-hour log check. When was that procedure initiated?”

  “The night we had to forcibly control him. Dr. Quinn spoke to us personally about it. He wanted him to be down there in the dark, totally cut off from any human contact. He wouldn’t even let anyone take food to him. It sounded cruel to me, but as I said earlier, Dr. Quinn wanted Odessa to have no doubts about how seriously we viewed that kind of behavior.”

  “Do you remember what time Odessa was sent to seclusion?”

  “I think it was around eight o’clock.”

  “And Quinn was in the hospital then?”

  “He might have been here, or maybe someone called him.”

  “But you didn’t.”

  “No.”

  “How long was it between the time Odessa was locked up and Quinn appeared on the ward to lay out the addi
tional rules?”

  Olivia thought about it a moment. “Around an hour.”

  “Okay, thanks. Is there an outside phone book in here?”

  Olivia showed Marti the directory, then went off to her duties.

  Marti suspected that Quinn would have an unlisted number, but to her surprise she was wrong. Using a pen from a cache in a leather cylinder near the phone, she jotted his address on a nearby notepad. She tore off the top sheet and carried it back into the dayroom, where she headed for the table where Harry Evensky was back at work cutting R’s out of the paper.

  He looked up at her approach. “That nurse help you figure out what you’re gonna do next?”

  “You said you lived around here all your life. Do you know where Claiborne Road is?”

  “Gimme that piece of paper and I’ll draw you a map.”

  MARTI PULLED to a stop at the big wrought-iron gates and studied Oren Quinn’s house in the failing light. Despite her dislike of the man, she grudgingly had to admire his home, a fairy-tale mansion built in the shape of a widely spread V, with the arms joining at a half-circle turret. The two wings of the house were clad in cobblestones, with red-brick trim around the windows. The turret was mostly red brick with patches of cobblestones. It seemed like a place that would be home to a man with no dark secrets. But if she was right about Quinn, that would be far from the truth.

  As she looked at the house, the two lanterns flanking the entrance came on, startling her.

  Was Quinn back early from his meeting?

  She hoped not, because she needed the freedom his absence gave her.

  She watched the house, waiting for more lights to come on, but the rest of the house remained dark. So the two fixtures by the door were probably on a timer. She scanned the gates in front of her car looking for a security camera.

  None there.

  The entire property was surrounded by a wrought-iron fence at least seven feet tall. It wouldn’t be a cinch to climb over, but it was doable. The estate appeared to consist of about four acres of lawn strategically interspersed with small groupings of evergreens. But, where to get in?

  The land bordering the right boundary was scrubby pasture that wouldn’t provide any cover. But on the left and behind it, there was an orderly pine forest that was probably eventually going to be harvested for paper pulp.