by catt dahman
“This cousin to the Harris family was your patient who admitted himself here and could remove himself at any time because he retained his rights. He knew the paintings were here, and he was driven to see them, to be sure of the theory he formed about the family secret.”
“Thom Harris,” Dr. Becket said, “of course.”
Virgil nodded, and Donte slapped his own forehead, realizing how the puzzle pieces now fit together.
Virgil went on, “Mr. Harris intended to tear up the room, making it look vandalized, steal the painting, taking it to his room or somewhere else private, removing it from the frame, and authenticating the art as being painted by John Quidor. I think that maybe there was something written on the back: maybe something that also authenticated Harris’ theories.”
Donte added more, “While he was messing up the room, Mrs. Lunt came in and caught him. He would never have gotten another chance, so he killed her to keep his activities private. She was an innocent person who simply saw more than she was supposed to see. Right?”
“Very good, Detective Jefferson,” Virgil laughed, “he accidentally broke the frame because it was an old original, but there was no way to repair it and hang it back on the wall. He took another painting from the room, a seascape, and exchanged the paintings. We found the broken parts and glass tossed into the closet, and I bet the seascape is in there as well,” he said as he turned to Donte, “and Mrs. Wheeler?”
“He had to get the painting back into the room because it might be missed before he was ready to take it and leave, so he returned to hang the painting. Mrs. Wheeler was in the room and saw him carrying the painting. She questioned him, and he killed her to protect his sneaky actions.”
“A+, Donte. Tommy was curious and was probably shadowing Harris. Harris caught him looking into the closet, grabbed the wire hanger, strangled him, and shoved his body into the closet to hide his third crime, all to buy more time. After all, Harris walked in here, prepared for a very long search for what he wanted but found the first painting immediately. It was where everyone could see but not understand without the back-story. Hidden in plain sight.”
“But he didn’t know where the rest were?” Vivian asked.
“No, but he probed.”
Nurse Brighton raised her hand and said, “He once asked me where all the fine antiques came from. I told him they were from the Harris’ estate, and we laughed because of the names being the same. He said he loved old things and asked if this were all of the donations. I said, ‘no’ because we had the rest stored.”
“Did he ask where?” Vivian asked her.
“No.”
Another nurse let her shoulders fall, “That was me. He remarked that we had to have tons of old things and asked if we tossed or stored them? I said we kept everything. He asked where…laughing…as if he couldn’t imagine where. I pointed up to the ceiling. That was all.”
Kenshaw shook his head, “He asked me what the upper floors were for, just as a casual inquiry that I didn’t take as anything more than spontaneous interest. I told him we planned to expand the third floor for use and that the fourth was for storage. I…I didn’t know….”
“Of course not. No one knew. I didn’t know until Donte suggested I find the motive first, which I did, and then I had to determine who had to be the killer,” Virgil said.
Donte beamed, and Kenshaw patted his shoulder admiringly.
“Mr. Leland Hoyt understood more than anyone else in the room when they were having a debate. Maybe Harris said a little too much, but Mr. Hoyt was very smart from what I have learned,” Virgil said, “and he went to the library to research for references to the secret. He was getting way too close, and if he had had time to think for long, he would have known to go to the painting on the wall.”
“Naomi had heard Hoyt muttering and misunderstood some words, but Hoyt had been on the trail,” Donte said. “Harris killed him brutally, and in anger, he scraped away Hoyt’s eyes because he saw too much. Maybe he even looked at the art work. Harris didn’t have time to do much with the body, but that covered his trail once again.”
Everything was set for Harris to search the fourth floor, but Virgil questioned Naomi and had her help him with some research. She also heard Mr. Hoyt’s words. She was looking for one of the final puzzle pieces and had to be stopped, but before he could get to her, Harris found that Edward Knight was repeating information that also connected random strands of evidence. He talked too much.
Virgil explained, “To show he talked too much, Harris removed Mr. Knight’s tongue and killed him; Lynn Redding found the body. With all the confusion, Harris ran to the library, killed Naomi, and escaped. We were steps behind him.”
“He found the other three paintings and yanked them from their frames, rolled them up, tied them, and then hid them because, although we were stealthy, he heard us. He wanted to get away, and we were in the way, so he waited until I was alone, and as a female, I was the weakest. He attacked me and ran,” Vivian finished, getting them all to the present.
Becket frowned. “I understand all that, now, but what on earth is this big secret?”
Virgil shook his head, “I can’t say. Donte, Vivian and I also have a sense of confidentiality, and we can’t say, at least not quite yet. However, it would change history itself, and while some would be joyous, some would be furious. It’s potentially volatile information.”
“What’s the plan, Sheriff?” Donte asked.
“To protect the staff and patients here, block exits, and hunt down our killer. If you and some men can help, we’d be thankful.”
“We can. As you know there is a terrible thunderstorm going on, and we have had a few car wrecks. My men can join us here as soon as those calls are cleared and as the rain permits. It shouldn’t be long,” Officer Cardillo said.
Dr. Becket ruminated, “Did he kill or harm anyone before coming here or was that a lie he told?”
“I feel he never harmed anyone, and it was only a well-crafted story he used, along with his money, to be admitted to Fordham. Don’t feel duped; he’s a clever man, had an excellent plan, and is driven by family blood. It is said that Rathbones’ surviving son returned to the home one day when he was well into middle age, broke into the bricked-over closet of what was once his parents’ room, and burned that white satin, old, bloodied dress that Clara Harris Rathbone was wearing when Lincoln was shot in his head and Henry Rathbone was cut and stabbed. It is said that burning the dress was an attempt to remove ‘the curse’”
“So he wasn’t deadly before he came, and now he kills with ease?” Becket asked.
At the same time, Vivian said, “There’s no such thing as curses, right?”
“I’ll answer you both,” Virgil said, “when he killed the first time, he felt trapped. The second time was convenience, the third time was over an intrusion, the fourth because he felt he was being chased, the fifth time over betrayal, and the last to cover his identity. Plenty of reasons. But as far back as President Lincoln’s grandmother, the scandal and secrets abounded; they spread through the Harris family as well as those associated with the assassination.”
“I learned this,” Donte said, “President Lincoln was clinically depressed, called melancholy back then, Mary Todd Lincoln ended up in a sanitarium, all but two of the Lincoln children died early, and one died when he was eighteen and was said to have been a wild person. Wilkes and the other co-conspirators were shot or hanged, but each died slowly and in agony. The man who shot Booth ended up in a sanitarium, too.” He flushed as he saw he had an audience.
“Continue, please,” Virgil said.
“Henry Rathbone killed his wife, Clara, and was admitted to a hospital for the criminally insane. The artist of the painting went mad as well. Arnold Harris’ wife killed their two children, and only Jacob survived out of six siblings. She spent her life right here at Fordham, and isn’t it a little interesting that Thom Harris admitted himself here? Everywhere death and asylums.”
�
�Maybe there was a curse,” Vivian said, “six murdered here as well.”
“Do you think he is tossing the paintings into the furnace?”
“I think he may wish to, Dr. Becket, but whatever draw those painting have, the power of the secret won’t allow him to,” Virgil said.
While they talked, more policemen came into the Institute, and with a picture of Thom Harris memorized, they searched for the man, orderlies helping them. Virgil wanted to find the murderer, but he let the police take charge. Paramedics waited for the Medical Examiner and experts to finish photographing and examining the crime scene for evidence that they then sealed in envelopes and tubes.
“We’re going to load Mr. Knight and Mrs. Hathcock and take the bodies,” the Medical Examiner told them. They watched as a gurney was wheeled down the hall, the body draped with a white sheet that was spotted with blood. “Mr. Knight.”
Donte blanched, “I can’t believe it. All because he talked, but he didn’t know much.”
“Mr. Harris is desperate, and as I thought, the man got a taste for killing and took to it. He likes the kill now.”
Donte looked at Virgil and then at Dr. Becket and asked, “Is he insane? He was clandestinely searching for the art work, and then he killed to protect his secret, but is he insane?”
Dr. Becket shrugged and replied, “How can we know? He’s lied about everything. My take is that he knows exactly what he’s doing. We don’t know if a trauma caused this, but without there being the background, I think he’s sane and just evil. His mind is a deformation.”
Virgil snickered and said, “That’s the first time I have ever heard a doctor say that.”
Becket shrugged, “This is your area, Virgil, not mine.”
They saw Officer Cardillo walking around, waving the gurney through, and watching for any threats. “I’m getting all this handled, and then we’ll find this Thom Harris and get him sorted. Good work on this case, Sheriff McLendon. I had my doubts that it would ever be solved, but then I didn’t expect the body count on this one, either.”
“I’m glad I could help, officer. This case was convoluted, and I just got lucky with Donte’s helping me,” Virgil said.
Donte smiled.
Cardillo motioned the next gurney along. “Mrs. Hathcock.” A white sheet covered her body as well. She looked bigger since she was covered. The doctors looked down at the floor or their feet and refused to watch her wheeled out. Everyone was strangely silent. Virgil felt guilty.
“Cardillo! Officer down….” Brady ran halfway down the hall and then turned to run back the way he came from.
Officer Cardillo ran, yelling for the Medical Examiner and other officers to guard the patients and doctors and not to move. Virgil unholstered his side arm as did Cardillo who ran along with him; Donte paused a second and followed.
In the library, they rushed along the shelves and slid to a stop before the carnage. Naomi Hathcock was still in place, her skin turning grey at the top and darker towards the floor as blood pooled. The men blinked and looked at one another. An ambulance attendant lay to one side, strangled with bare hands, it seemed; books were around him as if there were a struggle; some of the books lay open, some flat.
What was strange was that the man was stripped of his shirt and his hat. Virgil stared at what was missing.
“He was dead when I found him,” Brady said. He yanked at his hair with despair.
“There was another man with him; there were two attendants from the hospital in here to move the body,” said Cardillo as he motioned to Brady, and they quickly moved up and down the book shelves and looked under tables. There was no body and nothing to indicate a fight. “Has anyone seen the other attendant? Did he go somewhere else? He didn’t just vanish.”
“See this blood pool here,” Virgil pointed, “if you had the crime scene photographs and compared them, you’d find this pool is fresh.” He touched the blood.”
“Who is it from?” Donte asked. He felt chilled.
“Damnit.” Virgil looked up, his face drained of color. “Officer Cardillo, call your men fast. That wasn’t Naomi Hathcock on the gurney, so it had to be the dead ambulance attendant. I knew it looked like a larger person.”
“If both attendants are dead, who took one out on the gurney?” Brady asked, We saw him wheeled out….”
“Harris.” Cardillo went pale. He grabbed his radio. He muttered curses which might have been in Italian as he gripped his radio with a tightened hand. The officer was scared.
Virgil was already on the run.
Harris had to stop and get the fourth painting which meant taking it from the frame, rolling it with the others, tying it, and putting all four back on the gurney with the body. VIrgil had seconds to grab Harris before the man was loose. He was probably too late; the son of a bitch had outwitted all of them.
Virgil and Donte heard noises before they got to the visiting room. There were shouts, banging of furniture, noise of glass shattering, and thuds. To their shock, Vivian and Dr. Becket were wrestling with a man, trying to keep him from swinging back at a man who was unfamiliar to Vigil. The stranger was in scrubs, had dark hair, and was punching Harris in the face with solid blows.
Each hammer of the man’s fist rocked Harris.
Donte ran and tackled Harris, sending both of them flying and sliding across the room. In a second, Donte looked back at Virgil who was in place, his gun ready to fire, but watching with stark amusement. Donte sat on Harris’ back with the man’s hands behind him, clasped tightly. Harris cursed and wiggled, but when Donte bounced a little, knocking Harris’ breath out of him with his weight, the man settled, his face turned to the side on the floor.
Dr. Becket was rosy cheeked and obviously proud of himself as he grinned broadly. “I guess we showed him!”
“I guess you did,” Virgil couldn’t contain a grin. Dr. Becket was very pleased with himself. In a world of talk and medications, this action had to have Dr. Becket’s adrenaline soaring.
The unfamiliar man collapsed in a chair and sighed happily. “Lynn Redding couldn’t have punched him and fought, but Lynn Redding could.” It was the woman Virgil knew, but she was acting like a he now. His voice was stern and low, his hair short, where it had been hidden beneath a wig, and the false breasts were gone beneath his scrubs. He was barefoot, having ditched the high heels and unable to get some other shoes from his room because they were not allowed to leave the area. The scrubs were the best he could change to.
Most of the make-up was washed away, but some dark liner remained, smudged beneath his eyes. The ear bobs were gone, as were the false nails. Virgil didn’t know what to think or say.
“I know. I am a shocker. Sorry, Sheriff. I’ve depended on Lynn for a long time. Seeing Mr. Knight…it made me think. And I was thinking like me again. Nurse Brighton got me some clothing, and I changed in the restroom.
When I came out and saw Vivian and the doctor going after Harris, the bastard who killed friends of mine…well…I came wanting to help, and I’m staying. I mean the me part is staying. It was the shock I needed.”
“I thought you were…you know…changing genders….” Virgil said, “I wanted to ask, but it wasn’t my business.”
He laughed, “No. I was being afraid and hiding behind someone who could deal with everything as I have been for the last three years or so. Short version is I saw my daddy use an axe on my momma. Her name was also Lynn…Momma Lynn. I was catatonic for almost twenty years until Lynn took over because she was strong and feared nothing at all. She saved me, really, and she is a part of who I am, thankfully.”
He continued on, “She went to my dad’s house because the bastard was out of prison. She barely served time because I was the only witness and catatonic, so she claimed self-defense and faked evidence, and those detectives weren’t smart as you, Vigil. She killed him. There was no place that she left intact. She cut him to pieces very slowly, using tourniquets and alum to keep him alive while she sliced and cut.”
&nbs
p; “Oh, well. And she…you….”
“Were admitted here because we were very wealthy, and she, Lynn, wanted to be here anyway. It’s a good place.”
Virgil sputtered, “You’re an inmate. A patient?”
“It was part of the therapy to make her…him…feel useful and important, so we let her pretend to be a doctor, and the patients like her, so they went for it.
After a while, it was hard to remember she wasn’t a doctor. It’s her therapy, but she never had files or touched medications except her own,” Becket explained.
“It’s unorthodox, and we work hard to keep it legal, but it was helping her and the other patients,” Kenshaw added, “you never asked, so I never told.”
His eyes twinkled.
Virgil took the handcuffs that Cardillo tossed him and cuffed Harris’s hands. To be sure, he cuffed the hands a second time. “I wish I had known.”
“Would it have made a difference? No. And you specifically said not to tell you anything unless it was vital to the case, or if you asked for information, Dr. Becket said, “and we got Harris for you, thanks to Lynn.”
“How did you manage to figure it out?”
Vivian, able to breathe regularly now, pointed to the man’s feet. She said, “Look at those silly loafers. He has big feet, see? The ambulance attendants must have had small feet, or Harris was rushing, but they wore those black leather boots. His hair was a little too long to be working that job, and I could tell that wasn’t Naomi Hathcock; the body was too big. Besides, he should have wheeled her out the way the other men went in because the entry was the closest to the ambulance, but he wheeled right through the waiting room and clicked the door closed. I knew then he was a fake.”