Of Guilt and Innocence: Institute at the Criminally Insane (Virgil McLendon Thrillers Book 3)

by catt dahman

“She called for help, and we went with her to catch him,” Lynn Redding said, “and I was just a few minutes into being myself, but I wanted to help.”

  Brady glared and said, “You’ll wish you had a nice place like this when you go to death row.” Brady and Cardillo grabbed Harris off the floor.

  Harris didn’t say a word.

  Virgil stared right into Harris’ cold eyes. “I know the secret. I know why Booth wanted so badly to kill the president, and I know all about those paintings and what they mean. When they strap you into the electric chair, you remember that he was a proud man, and a loving man, and no one had the right to kill him. You think about how you had no right to kill to keep any secret.”

  Harris blinked.

  “When you fry, I will make sure I am a witness, so the last thing you see will be me, smug with the knowledge that it was all wrong to have such a secret and that I. Am. Setting. It. Free.” Virgil spat the last word with fury.

  The rest walked back to the cafeteria. Before going, Virgil whispered something to Cardillo who nodded. Cardillo allowed another officer to go with Brady and borrowed something from his comrade and then followed Virgil, curiously. “Make sure he is secure, and if the cuffs are too tight…good.”

  Virgil paused only to grab the four wrapped paintings from under the white sheet.

  “Don’t tell me, Vivian, but wasn’t there someone who may have warned you not to follow Harris? Maybe shrilly? One who tried to stop you three?”

  Becket answered instead, “There was concern that we would be injured or killed because you told us not to go anywhere else.”

  “I know,” Virgil waved, “but it’s much more. Come with me.” He found everyone looking at him. He said, “The suspect has been arrested and taken away to jail. It’s over now.

  “There is just one more bit of business. I have noted how things work here, and it is simply impossible for Harris to have done this alone. Someone warned him if there were activity in the hall and said when it was clear.”

  Everyone turned and looked around, seeing if a face betrayed guilt.

  Vivian knew whom Virgil meant but kept her face averted.

  “This person made sure the coast was clear and that Harris could move around freely. Someone warned him who I was and how close I was so that he had to take drastic action tonight and clear the way to grab those paintings and get out. Harris didn’t know when those bodies would be found, and, of course, he never intended to take a chance getting out the way he did. That was a last ditch plan. The original plan was for him to be let out with a key.”

  Donte’s jaw dropped and said, “That would have to be staff.”

  “It wasn’t me. I’m not really staff,” Lynn Redding announced.

  “Nor was it Dr. Becket. He wasn’t pretending; he was fighting Harris to keep him down. Dr. Kenshaw could have changed records or hidden them, but he’s been nothing but forthcoming,” Virgil said.

  “It could be anyone at all,” Nurse Brighton said.

  “True. But I narrowed it down. You see someone came to work here a few months before Mr. Harris admitted himself, confirming to him that the painting, one of four, was here. This person also came here and wanted to be sure the stories and legends were correct; therefore, she checked out many books from the library in the very section where I did my research. She read the same books.”

  Nurse Brighton turned and asked, “Annabeth?”

  “The library cards are evidence,” Virgil said.

  “I like to read,” Nurse Annabeth Curtis said.

  “You did carry around books all the time, and I commented they looked boring because they were history,” Nurse Brighton said.

  Annabeth Curtis, looking at all the people who stared at her, tucked strands of hair behind her ear. “That doesn’t mean anything.”

  “Your hair pin…Harris used it to pick the lock upstairs,” Virgil told her.

  She glared and replied, “You’re crazy. I didn’t do a thing wrong. I didn’t kill anyone, and you know it.”

  “You’re an accessory, nevertheless. Are you his girlfriend? A family member? How did Harris get you to help him?”

  Annabeth Curtis shook her head and answered, “It isn’t what you think. I was looking for answers, just as he was, and the painting might have helped. My father possibly has Marfan’s Syndrome, which involves a small jaw, high palate, slender face, and serious eyes and heart problems. If I could find all the answers, genetically linking us to the president, then he could get a proper diagnosis. I’m a nurse for a reason.”

  “I’m afraid being a nurse doesn’t involve working with a murderer even for your father’s sake,” Dr. Kenshaw said quietly, “I cannot express how deeply hurt I am at your deception. There is much I would say, but saying that you are certainly fired is the least of my thoughts.”

  “Asshole. Fake accent. Brighton and her rod-up-her-ass. Donte playing at being white. Becket with his go-gettum attitude. You know these people are killers and will never get better, and still you study them like lab rats. What I did…it was not any worse. At least my father isn’t a criminal or a fake.”

  Virgil faced Annabeth Curtis and said, “But you are both. And you’re under arrest.”

  Chapter Twelve: Sunrise

  “I think that clears up the murders and the mysteries here, doctors,” Vigil said. Although he had slept little, he did rest some; it was almost noon, and he had eaten a good lunch of chicken Caesar salad, bread, a little pasta and red sauce with fat, spicy meatballs. He teased Vivian that he would miss the cooking there; she good-naturedly poked him in his side until he laughed hard.

  Lynn Redding walked around, still helping the other patients, but as a man now and as himself. He shook Virgil’s hand and had hugged Vivian goodbye earlier. He looked happy.

  In another area, Nurse Brighton, still with a shocked look on her face, kindly tended everyone, refusing to play the ‘tough nurse’ now that Annabeth Curtis was in custody and charged with several crimes. She said she hated to see Vivian and Virgil leave.

  Dr. Becket thanked Virgil and Vivian and walked with them, Dr. Kenshaw, and Donte.

  In a general office with a desk and a few chairs, Virgil closed the door and addressed the doctors and the orderly, “I can’t leave without giving Donte a sort of gift. Donte, you are so proud of making something of your life, but I want you to know that race doesn’t define a man. A man’s soul defines him. You can aspire to be anything you wish, even a president.”

  Virgil unrolled the first painting, the one that was formerly hanging in the gathering room. The president lovingly looked at the young men, one was Robert, obviously, and the other was the child who looked as if he had African blood. Virgil flipped the art work over. One the back in excellent penmanship was a note.

  President Lincoln with his sons, Robert and Isaiah at 16 and 15.

  “Maybe he had a son, Isaiah, with another woman,” Donte said, his voice almost a whisper.

  Virgil grinned, and Vivian took out the second painting. In this beautiful piece, President Lincoln sat in a huge, over-stuffed chair with his feet propped up on a stool as he relaxed. His face was peaceful as he held in his arms: Tadd, Isaiah, Willie, and Robert, all found snuggled against the big man; Willie had a thumb in his mouth. It was an older rendition since all but Robert, and possibly Isaiah, died before they were eighteen. In the painting, Mary Todd Lincoln was standing close, her hand on Isaiah’s shoulder.

  Mr. and Mrs. Lincoln with their four sons.

  In the third, a photographer was preparing for a family picture that featured the President, his wife, and three of the boys. Mr. Lincoln’s eyes were turned, and his face was caught as a profile as he looked over at Isaiah with a sad, longing expression; the boy stood with the other servants, his eyes downcast. Mrs. Lincoln gripped her husband’s arm with anguish on her face.

  Isaiah was not publicly acknowledged, but he was of his father’s (Abe Lincoln) bloodline.

  The final painting rolled out was of the
President slightly in the background, but with Mary Todd Lincoln as the main subject. She gazed at the older boys, men, actually. One was Robert, and the other was Isaiah; both were in their early twenties.

  Virgil glanced at Donte.

  Slavery had to be abolished. For one child. God sanctify the President. Some will show vehemence and rescind this man’s magnitude, while others will rejoice that this child was born. May God have mercy and sort this secret we keep.

  “Donte, you can be anyone you wish to be and do anything you want because the barriers were broken long ago.”

  “A part African man…mixed blood…was president. It means more people can aspire for that. One day, we’ll have a full black president because it’s possible. Thank you, Virgil and Vivian,” said Donte as he whipped tears from his eyes.

  “Or even a woman as president,” Vivian laughed, wiping away tears.

  Dr. Kenshaw smiled, “Those are beautiful paintings. As suggested, I spoke with the director of the Smithsonian and an expert. Sworn to secrecy, they will authenticate the paintings which will be sealed in frames and never examined, but will go into a special exhibition. Let people wonder and debate. Let everyone have a chance to form opinions.”

  “And we made a new title for Donte. He is now Mr. Jefferson, Chief Security and Safety but will have many more duties. The job comes with a double in his salary,” Becket announced, “and Nurse Brighton will be Head Nurse.”

  Donte sat in a chair and wept. Vivian hugged him and said, “You deserve it.”

  “I’m so over whelmed and thankful.”

  “Lynn Redding has decided he wants to run the library now, and we have promised him a huge amount of money to stock many more books. It seems books are far more important than we ever knew,” Becket said.

  “That sounds wonderful. The police have a full confession from Curtis and Harris, and they’ll be locked away for a long time. Maybe forever.”

  “We can’t begin to thank you….” Kenshaw began.

  “It was very interesting, and Vivian and I are glad we could help. Special Agent Lord called and was happy as well. He said he has cases stacked up that he wants me to solve, but how will I get the time?” Virgil laughed, “I’m sure a few will interest me. I’m not sure how I ended up on this path.”

  “It’s because you care and are talented and smart,” Vivian said.

  “To neglect a talent is a sin, Sheriff McLendon. It is a terrible sin and maybe damaging to the psyche. Follow your gift, please,” Dr. Becket said, “and Dr. Kenshaw, are you ready to reveal our gift to the sheriff to thank him?”

  “Satisfaction is enough of a gift,” said Virgil as he waved them off.

  Dr. Kenshaw removed a file, opened it, and said, “Because you are legally responsible, you will have to sign the paper work, but I have already made arrangements. You won’t be able to visit as often because of the distance, but I think you know what kind of institute we have. Fordham is the best. You trust Nurse Brighton and Mr. Jefferson, and I hope Dr. Becket and me as well. You know we work hard and can get results through unorthodox ways.”

  Vivian shook her head, looking at Virgil. She was confused, “What is this?”

  “I’m flummoxed as well,” Virgil said.

  “The father of your step-daughter, your deputy, your friend who is in a state-run, adequate, but-not-exceptional institute. Tobias is his name?”

  “Yes.” Virgil’s hand picked out notes on an invisible piano. He still hurt for his friend, his deputy, who was catatonic.

  Dr. Kenshaw took the moving hand, held it as if he were shaking it, and said, “Sheriff, we are willing to accept your deputy as a patient with no fees…forever. We’ll keep him comfortable, and we’ll try hard to reach him and help him. He will be our special case whom we will endeavor to cure, but while we do, you know how well he will live here.”

  Virgil was speechless for once. Donte smiled at him, encouragingly. Vivian nodded. He said, “Hand me a pen, please. I am so shocked. This is a true gift, and if anyone can reach Tobias, you can.”

  He signed papers, straightened them, and closed the folder.

  “In the storage room above, there is a painting I saw. Could you use it for his room? It’s one you’ll notice quickly because it’s big and of horses running, but one horse is very close and looking into his eyes is…well…Tobias loves horses and connects with them.”

  “I know there is also a life-sized bronze of a horse. We could install it right outside his room to make the hall more interesting and help him,” Donte said.

  “And, Sheriff, Vivian mentioned a piece of art upstairs that has been long neglected. It’s of dark wood and carved as a life-sized African warrior? She said you looked at it with great interest. It is being shipped to your home.”

  “This is too much. Thank you.”

  “If you ever need us for a case study, call. We are always ready to help you, and you may have cases when a psychiatric evaluation might help. Good luck with all you do, Sheriff.”

  “Thank you. Doctor?”

  “Yes?” Kenshaw asked.

  “Can the innocent feel guilt? Can the guilty find innocence?

  “Sheriff, that is what I ask each day as I work with patients. I know what you’re asking. Did the President feel guilty? I think so. I think he was melancholy because of that, a genetic throwback in his bloodline that made one child look like a black child. He couldn’t handle any cruelty towards his son, Isaiah, but his last breaths were about him. He must have loved him deeply. It’s a shame that Rathbone went mad.”

  “Was it a curse? Odd bloodline showing up? The insanity?”

  “I don’t believe in curses,” Dr. Kenshaw said, but he leaned near Virgil’s ear and whispered, “But If I did, I would say this was indeed a curse upon a President and a terrible, cruel shame. Keep your guilt and innocence separated.”

  Virgil and Vivian walked out and into the daylight, and everyone waved good bye.

  Vivian was strangely quiet.

  “Want to tell me what’s bothering you?”

  Vivian sighed, “It’s just that…guilt, innocence, mistakes…curses of the blood…bad blood.”

  “What about it?” He took her hand, kissed it, and walked with her to the car.

  “I’ve known something for a while now. I found out when I was locked in the cellar of that terrible barn. It was an indiscretion, a onetime occurrence, but, Virgil, Janice’s baby isn’t Joey’s child, and it’s going to be born of bad blood. It’s a secret.”

  “Secrets come out as you’ve seen.”

  “This is one that we’ll take to the grave. No records and no paintings. I’ll tell you the whole story.”

  Virgil nodded, “I’ll keep your secret, Vivian. I always will.”

  He paused as she seemed to relax.

  It was worth repeating, “Always.”

  (Fort Worth 2014)