“What makes you think that?” Carlson snapped.
Rox racked her brain for something valid, ignoring Marty’s emphatic signal to get off the phone. “We got a call from some retired guy with the Big Brother program. He wants to mentor Logan and said you brushed him off.”
“Oh.” A pause. “We just think it’s best to wait until Logan is settled into his new home at Serenity. Too much stimulation all at once is upsetting to him.”
“That sounds wise. Thanks again.” Rox hung up and her tight lungs relaxed. She looked at Marty. “Do you buy that?”
“That’s not what she told me.” He rolled his eyes. “But she’s had time to come up with that excuse.”
“The hallucination issue is a weird one.”
“No kidding.” Marty tapped the laptop. “We’re still moving forward on this. That kid doesn’t belong behind locked doors.”
“Or with his mother,” Rox added. She leaned in to look at the map on the monitor. One of the roads was very familiar. She’d driven it a few times on an earlier case. “I know just the spot for the extraction.”
Chapter 10
Thursday, October 11, 2:30 p.m., Mt. Angel
Lexa and her news photographer approached the protestors from the side parking lot. The demonstrations had started after her interview with the director and were a new element to her assignment, a whole separate story. The chance to cover multi-dimensional breaking news wasn’t usually given to a new reporter like herself. Excitement and worry had kept her awake half the night. If she handled it well, the opportunities might keep coming. With some high-profile stories in her portfolio, she might land a job at a bigger newspaper in a bigger town. Maybe Portland. Kiona could probably find work there.
“I’m stopping here to get some distance shots,” Ryan said. The photographer was prematurely bald but still good-looking. Easy to work with too.
“Should I stay back and out of sight?”
“Just for a minute.” He yanked the canvas bag off his shoulder and began setting up a tripod. Lexa watched Ryan work, wanting to learn everything she could. When he’d taken a dozen shots, he waved her along. “I’m done here. Talk to anyone you want and I’ll follow.”
Lexa moved toward the crowd of about twenty people, scanning the faces. Three older women occupied a spot up front. All with short gray hair and loose-fitting clothes, they could have been sisters. But older women tended to look alike to her. Lexa decided to chat with them anyway. They had big signs and were probably the organizers.
She hurried over, hoping the whole group would stop chanting while she interviewed people. What were they saying? She focused on the words, instead of the noise. “More mental health care. Not less!” they shouted. She stopped and made a note, then caught the attention of the woman in the middle of the trio. She had to shout to be heard. “I’m Lexa Robbins, with the Emerald State News. Can I ask you some questions?”
“You bet! We need all the exposure we can get to help develop a backlash.” The woman waved her hand to quiet the crowd. It took a minute for everyone to comply.
“What’s your name?” Lexa asked.
“Terry Zimmerman.”
“Tell me why you’re out here.”
The woman cocked her head. “Do you mean why am I protesting the closure?”
A flash of embarrassment. Had she asked a stupid question? “Why do you think the state hospital needs to stay open?”
“Because without it, my son would be on the streets, screaming at strangers or being arrested all the time.” Terry’s wrinkled face tensed in anger. “Every time he’s picked up, the cops taser him or slam him to the ground. Once they even broke two ribs. This is the only place he’s safe.”
Lexa had interviewed a few mental health professionals that morning and knew the counter-argument. “Some experts say these patients would be better off in smaller community-based settings.”
Terry snorted, but it wasn’t jovial. “Like what? Can you name one?”
Lexa flushed again. “No, but I’m researching them next. And there are private hospitals.”
“Which most families can’t afford.”
Try another angle. “How long do you plan to keep up the protests?”
“As long as we can. Shutting this facility would be a travesty.”
Lexa didn’t think twenty people with signs would change anything. “Do you have other strategies? Like targeting state representatives or filing a lawsuit?”
Another woman in the trio cut in. “We do now. Thanks for the ideas.”
Had she crossed a journalistic line? Lexa changed the subject again and kept her focus on Terry. “Where will your son go if the hospital closes?”
“I’ll bring him home, but he won’t stay there.” The mother’s eyes clouded with grief. “I can’t force him to take his meds.”
Lexa heard the click of Ryan’s camera behind her. She shifted to the other women and asked their names, so they could be identified in the photo. Time to move on. “Thanks for talking to me.”
She spotted a thirty-something guy and walked over to him. His story was similar. A younger sister was in the hospital because she’d stabbed their mother. He worried that his sibling would end up in prison if the hospital closed. “She doesn’t belong in a cell with guards who don’t give a shit,” he cried out. “She needs medication and supervision.”
“She’ll be locked up for life?” A sad fate for many, she feared, but what else could society do?
The man nodded. Lexa noted his name and decided to wrap up. As she headed back to her car, she spotted a cluster of six people who were off to the side, deliberately separate from the main protest. The wordage on their sign was startling: Fire the Director! Stop the Abuse!
The back of her neck tingled. More conflict. More angles to write. She hurried over and introduced herself. “Are you protesting the closure?”
“No.” A middle-aged man with a full beard spoke for the group. “Unless it’s the only way to stop the abuse of patients.”
“What exactly do you mean?” Lexa tapped her phone’s record button. She wanted this on file.
“Unnecessary electroconvulsive treatment, often used as punishments. Rough handling like pinching and grabbing too hard.” The guy pulled out his cell. “I’ll show you my daughter’s bruise.” He angled his phone so she could see the image. A scrawny pale forearm with an ugly dark-purple abrasion.
“I reported it, but they blamed another resident.” Beard Guy was calm but his voice held gritty determination.
Lexa scanned the group. “Do you all have similar stories?”
Two women started to speak, but one stopped and gestured for the other to proceed. Gaunt, with wispy hair and pale skin, she looked ill. “I was in there for six months. During that time, an orderly named Bruno sexually assaulted me twice. But my doctor dismissed my complaint as a rape fantasy.” The woman looked down at her feet and mumbled. “Because of my mental history.”
Lexa started to ask what that meant, but Ryan trotted up and started taking photos. The thin woman hurried away, hiding her face. Before Lexa could go after her, a booming voice called out from the hospital’s entrance.
“Please go home! Your presence is upsetting to the patients. And the decision to close the hospital isn’t final.” Director Strada stood in front of the sliding door, arms crossed.
Was the governor actually reconsidering? Or was Strada placating the crowd?
Terry, the older woman she’d talked to earlier, stepped forward and yelled, “When will we know?”
“Governor Palmer will make a public announcement soon. In the meantime, just go home!” Strada spun and went back inside.
No one made a move to leave. Lexa rushed over to Terry and caught her attention. “What do you think of Roger Strada? Have you had any personal interactions with him?”
“He’s in a tough spot, but other than that, I don’t know anything about him.”
“I do.” Her shorter friend jumped into the conver
sation, sounding belligerent. “He used to run the Whitehorse Care Center, and my sister worked under him. She says he’s controlling and sexist and puts money ahead of everything.”
Lexa noted the other medical facility, then asked the woman’s name.
“Angie Bidwell. Are you going to quote me?”
“Possibly. But I’d like to know more about how Strada operates the hospital here. Those people over there—” She pointed at the smaller group of protestors. “They claim patients are abused.”
“Strada has to know about it,” Angie insisted. “He’s in charge. If he doesn’t know, he’s out of touch and needs to be fired.”
Lexa used shorthand to put the statement into her notes. That one she would quote. “What’s Strada’s relationship with the governor?” She glanced around at the group of women, hoping someone would confirm her theory about their sexual relationship.
They looked blank.
A man behind them stepped forward. “Strada will do whatever Governor Palmer says.”
Lexa took notes as rapidly as she could, and tried to ask a question at the same time. “Why do you say that?”
“She’s his boss. Also, one of the staff told me Palmer’s involved in policy decisions here too.”
Lexa asked his name, but the man walked away without responding. Others in the group followed, heading for their cars. Apparently they were done for the day.
Back at her desk, Lexa wrote the first draft of an article about the demonstrations. She quoted several of the protestors, including the references to physical abuse and rape. She was careful to qualify everything with “allegedly” and “reportedly.” She wondered how much of it would get past her editor.
After she uploaded the file, Lexa called the Whitehorse Care Center in Tigard, but couldn’t get anyone on the phone who had worked for Roger Strada. She read the background notes she’d made before interviewing him, but couldn’t find anything useful. Except his ex-wife’s name. Could she track her down? Probably, but Lexa worried about getting too far off the subject. The reports of abuse had to take precedence over the alleged sexual affair between the governor and the hospital’s director. It would be ideal to find an ex-employee who’d witnessed abuse and was willing to talk. More important, she still had to interview the governor herself.
Lexa reached for her phone. But her thoughts kept coming back to Roger Strada. What if he was the one who wanted the hospital closed—because he had something to hide?
Chapter 11
Friday, October 12, 8:20 a.m., Portland
Marty’s phone rang somewhere in the house and he jumped up to search. His chest scar gave him a jolt, as it did every time he moved too quickly. The Batman ringtone meant his old patrol partner was calling back. Where in the heck had he left the dang thing? He went to the kitchen, the last place he’d been before sitting down to watch his favorite home improvement show. He found the cell on the counter and snatched it up. “Hey, Bowman.”
“What’s up, Mac? I’m on duty.”
“Can I do a ridealong today? I need to use the PPB’s database to look for old police reports.”
“Another crazy extraction case?”
“Maybe.”
“You’re gonna get me fired.” Bowman complained about everything. That was just his nature.
“You know that’s bull. The union will never let it happen. You’re too close to retirement.”
“I know.” His friend made a slurping sound, then continued. “Truthfully, it would be great to have you in the unit again. Like old times.”
“Where should I meet you?”
“Hang tight, and I’ll pick you up.”
“Thanks.”
As Marty climbed into the patrol car, he was hit with a mix of nostalgia and anxiety. A huge chunk of his life had been spent behind the wheel of a rolling office like this one. The computer, only present for the last decade, had made his job easier in some ways and more complicated in others. Today, he was grateful for it. But the stink of sweat and vomit overwhelmed him. When you sat in a unit every day, you got used to it. But now it was nasty and brought back bad memories.
“It’s a slow Friday, so far,” Bowman said, knocking on the dashboard for luck.
“Everyone’s busy this time of year.” Marty buckled up, remembering how his partner drove. “They’re in transition. Going back to school, getting in last-minute vacations before it gets too cold. Even the vagabonds are on the move, heading south to spend the winter in the sunshine state.”
“Not enough of ’em. The young ones are still hanging out downtown.” Bowman glanced over at him. “What kind of info are you looking for?” He pushed the pivoting monitor toward Marty.
“Anything on a woman named Shay Wilmont and a kid named Logan Wilmont. Oh, and another gal named Cat Skylar.”
Bowman grunted. “That sounds like a name some hippie girl made up for herself. But Rox already asked me about the kid, and I didn’t find anything.”
“It’s his mother and aunt I really need to know about.” Marty opened the database for police logs and keyed in Logan’s name first. It didn’t hurt to check again.
While he waited, Bowman took the MLK Boulevard north toward his patrol area.
No reports on Logan Wilmont surfaced. He knew some juvenile records were expunged, but those were special circumstances. Marty keyed in Logan Skylar just to see if the kid used more than one last name. Some with divorced parents did. The name came up, but the offender was nineteen and in the county jail for burglary. Marty tried Shay Wilmont and got nothing. Same result for Cat Skylar.
“Are you striking out?” Bowman asked.
“So far.” Maybe Logan’s mother had lied about the assault or coerced a mental health official to institutionalize her son. That corroborated the aunt’s claim that Logan wasn’t dangerous and his mother was totally selfish.
Yet it was strange to find nothing at all. Most people, over the course of their lives, had some interaction with the police, even as witnesses to crimes. But cops were also notoriously bad spellers, so he tried variations of Shay Wilmont’s name. He eventually got a hit with a missing-persons report, which surprised him. Two years earlier, someone had reported Shay Wilmonte, with an E, as missing. The woman in question was forty at the time and had an address south of Portland, so the report matched their client. Huh?
He must have made an odd noise, because Bowman asked, “What did you find?”
“Give me a second.”
Marty scanned the brief details. A friend had reported Shay missing when she couldn’t reach her, but the case had been closed with the conclusion that Shay Wilmont had traveled to Seattle. So no big deal. He filled Bowman in. “Our client was once reported missing, but apparently she was just out of the state for a while. She told us she was a recluse, so she must have gone off the map even with her friends.”
“Most missing people who get reported turn up somewhere.” Bowman scanned the new neighborhood as he drove. Always on duty.
“I know.” Marty pushed the monitor back so Bowman could see it. “I’m just glad the kid we’re trying to rescue isn’t a nutcase who’s had multiple interactions with law enforcement.”
“What’s his situation?”
“You don’t want to know.”
His ex-partner gave him the cop stare. “Be careful, Mac. I won’t visit you in prison.”
Chapter 12
Friday, October 12, 8:35 a.m., Salem, Oregon
Lexa wiped away her tears, got out of her car, and buttoned her sweater. The mornings were cold now, despite the sunny afternoons. Shoulders back, she strode across the parking lot and into the newspaper office. She never showed anything but confidence at work. Universities were still cranking out journalists, but the number of jobs kept shrinking. She felt lucky to be employed, especially being a woman. As a student, she’d considered broadcast news—which seemed to be adding employees—but she despised the shallow, sensationalistic coverage. She wanted to write in-depth pieces, not read a te
leprompter. Unless those became the only journalism jobs left.
Get your shit together, she coached herself, as she hurried through the maze of desks in the old brick building. She loved working downtown in the state capital. The shops and cafes were delightful, and the political energy was palpable. But her boyfriend, Kiona, wanted to move to Alaska where he could find work, and they’d had another fight about it that morning.
Uh oh. Her editor stood outside her half-wall cubicle. “You’re late again.” Thirty-something and attractive, Jeff Archer would have been interesting to her—if he wasn’t her boss.
“I’m sorry. I had to stop for gas.” She hated lying, but revealing personal problems was a career killer.
Jeff gave her a slow look of skepticism. “We already had our Friday meeting, and Randy will send you notes.”
“I’m still working on the governor profile, correct?” Please, please, don’t take it away.
“Yes. And you need to get an interview. With photography.”
“I will.” Lexa smiled, trying to pour on the charm.
Jeff nodded and walked away.
She let out the breath she’d been holding and slid into her chair. She turned on her computer and opened her current file.
“Are you okay?” Her cube neighbor poked her head around the wall.
“Mostly. Thanks for asking.”
“You look upset.” Jean was forty, chubby, and super nice.
“Rough morning, but I’m handling it.”
“I’ll buy you lunch later if you want to talk. I had an abusive boyfriend once, so I know what you’re going through.”
“Kiona isn’t abusive. He’s just frustrated because he can’t find a job.” Was he abusive? Did squeezing her arms count? Lexa thought she’d hidden the bruises with mid-length sleeves.
“I think you deserve better.” Jean gave her a sad smile and retreated to her own workspace.
Lexa picked up her desk phone and called a close friend who worked in the governor’s office as Assistant to the Scheduler. “Hey, Carly. Any luck getting me that interview?”
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