With that piece of theater out of the way, all that was left to do was to drive to the county road, find a stone bridge, and throw the body into the water. The rest of the cleanup was easy. He disposed of the robe, rubber gloves, and plastic lining from the trunk, changed his bloody clothes, and returned the car. It had been a difficult task, but a job well done.
Part 3
Fate leads him who follows it, and drags him who resist.
‒Plutarch
23
The yellow Piper Cub flew in a straight line across the strip-mining field. It began to circle the field, slowly gaining altitude, constantly moving higher and higher until it was almost out of sight in the clear blue sky. Then the engine slowed to what seemed like an idle, and the nose of the plane dipped toward the earth. The angle of attack increased until the nose of the single-engine plane was pointing almost straight down, falling through a silent sky. The engine sprang to life again, and the speed increased. It was in a power dive. It plummeted, gaining speed and spiraling down on the verge of being out of control. Just when it looked as though the pilot would never be able to avoid a crash, the nose began to come up. The plane leveled off and began to gain altitude again.
“Wow, that was too close. I was sure you were going to lose it,” said Tom Haskins.
“That was nothing,” said Hank, trying to hide his hands shaking on the controls. “I’m going to do a hammer stall next—hang on.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea; you haven’t been flying that long.”
“Don’t be a pansy. I can fly this thing in my sleep.”
The Piper Cub engine roared. The yellow plane gained speed and flashed across the sky. Suddenly the nose again pointed skyward and the plane began to rise, steeper and steeper until it was flying almost straight up. The engine strained, propelling the plane into a vertical trajectory high above the old strip mine. Gravity, being all that Newton said it was, began to take its toll on the plane’s airspeed. There was a second where the world appeared to stop. The engine was still whining at full throttle, but the plane just stayed in one spot, at the point where the engine’s upward power was matched by gravity’s relentless downward pull. It hung there, still, for what seemed like minutes and then slowly began to fall to one side as Hank turned the rudder to the full right position. The plane’s wing now became the head of the hammer, as its body—the hammer handle—tilted down with great force. No longer having any airspeed, the plane began to tumble out of control. It was a perfect hammer stall.
Hank Haskins pushed forward on the throttle, trimmed the rudder and ailerons, and tried to counter the tumbling motion of the plane. The object of the recovery from a hammer stall was to get the nose pointing down and the airspeed and power up sufficiently to pull out of the dive before you ran out of sky. Everything was going well. The plane was beginning to level off, and Tom was just about to start breathing again, when the strain on the plane’s wings became more than it could bear. First the left wing tip tore off, and the plane began to spiral. Next the right wing folded in half and ripped from the body of the plane.
Tom yelled, “Pull up, pull up!” But there was nothing Hank could do. Then neither said a word as the yellow Piper Cub disintegrated on contact with the old coal field.
Tom and Hank stood in silence for a few seconds, and then Tom said, “I told you you weren’t ready for a hammer stall. That’s a hundred bucks down the drain.”
Hank shut off the radio control transmitter and began to walk to the crash site. “Maybe if you built the wing a little stronger, we would still have a plane.”
Tom began to pick up pieces of the little yellow Piper Cub from the hill of rocks. Hank sat on the ground and opened his backpack. “What kind of sandwiches did you make?”
“Cheese—it was all I could find in the refrigerator.”
“It smells like rotten cheese,” Hank said. “Why didn’t you make peanut butter sandwiches?”
“Stop complaining,” Tom said as he collected model airplane parts. “It’s not the sandwich you smell; it’s this place. The whole hill stinks. Hey, I think I see the engine under those rocks.” He reached under an overhanging rock.
“Snake,” yelled Tom as he touched something soft. Hank dropped the backpack and picked up a stick. He kicked the rocks away, ready to protect his brother. Both boys stood motionless, staring at the woman’s arm Hank had just uncovered.
24
Franklin lay in the upper bunk of the bed in his jail cell. He stared at the cracks in the gray concrete ceiling while trying to understand how he’d ended up here. The steel springs creaked and moaned as he turned and fidgeted on the bare gray-striped mattress, trying to find a spot that wasn’t lumpy. The odor of mildew caused him to sneeze. Until a few weeks ago, he was just another normal guy leading an uneventful life. Well, maybe not totally normal. He had a very vivid imagination, and he seemed to have unusual dreams, but hell, didn’t everybody dream from time to time? Granted, most people didn’t have vivid dreams of a murder and then find that a murder was committed almost exactly as they dreamed. That was a little odd, but he chalked it up to a clairvoyant moment. A glitch in time and space that revealed to him, and only him, a glimpse into the future. Actually, he was blessed. He should be honored for his gift, not punished as though he had done something wrong.
Franklin jumped down from the upper bunk, landing flat-footed on the painted cement floor. It stung his feet and sent a shock wave up his spine.
“They can’t do this to you,” a voice said from across the cell. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”
Franklin’s head snapped around to see a man sitting in a chair facing the far wall. His voice sounded familiar, but Franklin couldn’t quite place it. He knew, however, that this cell mate sounded belligerent, and even though his words seemed sympathetic to Franklin’s plight, Franklin feared encouraging the man’s combative attitude. He tried to change the subject.
“Did you come in while I was sleeping?” he asked. “I thought I was alone.”
“Nope, I’ve been here all along,” the man said without turning to look at Franklin.
“I didn’t see you when I came in. Did they let you out for exercise? I could use some exercise,” Franklin said as he pulled on his socks and banged his shoes against the frame of the bed. He held up each shoe to check inside for spiders or roaches, or whatever awful creatures might have crawled in while he was asleep. Who knows what inhabits this place, he thought.
“Nope, I’ve been here all along,” the man repeated, this time with an exasperated tone.
Franklin thought it was rude of his cell mate not to turn around to face him as they spoke, but Franklin didn’t want to add to the quarrelsome nature of the conversation. “So how long have you been stuck here?” Franklin asked.
“As long as you have,” he answered and folded his arms across his chest.
There was a heavy clanking noise, and Franklin looked to the cell door; his cell mate did not. A guard holding a clipboard said, “Jameson, step outside the cell.”
Franklin stood. “Maybe I’m being released. They probably realized that they made a mistake.” He turned, feeling a bit uncomfortable talking to the back of the man’s head, but if he didn’t want to turn around, that was his business. “If I don’t see you again, I wish you well,” Franklin said, feeling a little confused by the man’s indifferent tone, yet sensing familiarity and a feeling of kinship.
“You’ll see me again,” the man said in a dispassionate tone.
The cell door slid open with a loud rumble, and Franklin stepped into the corridor. His new orange jumpsuit fit so loosely that the cuffs of the trousers bunched up against his shoes and its sleeves fell over his hands. He would have been embarrassed by his appearance if fear hadn’t already overwhelmed all his other emotions.
“Where are we going?” he asked the guard leading him through the cellblock.
“You have visitors,” the guard said in a monotone. Franklin asked who his visitors were and how much tim
e he would have with them. He asked the time of day and if the guard was married. He talked incessantly until the guard turned to face him and stared into his eyes with a totally blank expression. Franklin nodded, said “OK,” and followed silently for the rest of the journey.
After a short walk, the guard opened a large steel door and motioned for Franklin to step inside. In the center of the room were four chairs and a small metal table. Three chairs were lined up on one side of the table, and the fourth chair was centered on the opposite side. Franklin was guided to the single chair. As he attempted to pull the chair back from the table, he observed that it was bolted to the floor. That seemed unnecessary. Next the guard placed a handcuff on Franklin’s right wrist and secured the other end of the cuffs to a ring welded to the tabletop. Equally unnecessary, Franklin thought.
Up in the corner of the room near the ceiling was a small video camera. Franklin couldn’t help waving at the camera with his free arm.
After about five minutes, the door opened and a tall man with a reddish beard and dark horn-rimmed glasses entered the room carrying a letter-size notebook. He wore a three-piece gray suit with a gold chain and a watch fob strung across the front pockets of his vest.
“I’m Dr. Fielding,” he said. “I have been asked to speak with you.”
“What kind of doctor are you?” Franklin asked. “I’m actually feeling quite good. I don’t think I need a doctor.”
“I’m a psychiatrist, Mr. Jameson. I’m here to help determine if you understand the severity of the charges against you. Do you understand the charges?”
“It’s all a big misunderstanding. You see, I had a dream about a murder, and then it came true, and I thought I could help the police since I saw the murder happen—in my dream, that is—but these fools think I had something to do with it.”
“And where were you when this murder dream occurred?”
“I was home, asleep. Well, I was asleep during the murder dream. When I woke up, I was in my car in the driveway.”
“Where had you been?” asked Dr. Fielding.
“I don’t think I was anywhere. I was dreaming that I was at the murder, and then I went with the murderer to dispose of the body, and when I woke up, I was in my car in my driveway. Besides, the murder didn’t actually happen for another two weeks.” Dr. Fielding opened his notebook and scribbled several lines of notes.
“I understand that you called 911 to report the location of the body. How did you know where it was?”
“I told you. In my dream I rode with the murderer to dispose of the body. He drove to a bridge on the county road and threw the body off the bridge. More than two weeks later, I drove to the same bridge and found the body. That’s when I called 911.”
Suddenly the door opened, and Lieutenant Peirce poked his head into the room. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but Mr. Jameson is a patient of Dr. Klein’s.” Ruth Klein leaned around Lieutenant Peirce and also poked her head into the room. “She was hoping that she could sit in on your evaluation.”
“That would be all right, as long as you don’t interfere, Dr. Klein.”
“She has promised to sit quietly and observe, isn’t that right, Doctor?”
“I’ll be a fly on the wall,” she said. “Are you all right, Franklin?”
“I’m fine. I was just telling Dr. Fielding, was it, how I came to know where—”
“Please talk to me,” Mr. Jameson,” said Dr. Fielding in a very authoritative tone.
“You don’t have to be so harsh with him,” said Dr. Klein.
Lieutenant Peirce held up his index finger and said, “That’s one.” Ruth sat down and did not reply.
Dr. Fielding straightened his tie and cleared his throat. As he began to ask his next question, he noticed that Ruth Klein was leaning toward him, trying to look at his notebook. He moved the notebook and looked questioningly at Lieutenant Peirce. The lieutenant closed his eyes and slowly shook his head from side to side. Ruth immediately sat back in her chair and returned her gaze to Franklin.
“Now,” said Dr. Fielding, “have you had any other dreams that eventually became real events?”
“Yes,” said Franklin. “I dreamed of a burglary, and then the house of the murder victim was burglarized, just as in my dream.”
“That was just a coincidence,” said Ruth. “His dream was so general almost any burglary in the last six months would have looked the same.”
“Please, Doctor?” said Fielding. Ruth placed her hand over her mouth and nodded her understanding. Lieutenant Peirce looked her in the eye and held up two fingers.
Dr. Fielding looked at Ruth for a moment, gave a slight sigh, and turned back to Franklin.
“What do you think caused these strange dreams, Mr. Jameson?”
“Isn’t it obvious I’m psychic? That’s why I went to the murder scene the night they arrested me. I was waiting for a premonition, a sign to tell me who the murderer was.”
“I know this looks bad for him,” said Ruth, “but he’s just overzealous about finding the murderer, he—”
Lieutenant Peirce stood, held up three fingers, and with the other hand pointed at the door. Ruth bowed her head and slowly began getting ready to leave the room.
“Franklin, you should ask for a lawyer before you say another word. And, Lieutenant, nothing he has said can be used against him; doctor-patient privilege applies. And turn off that camera,” she said, pointing at the ceiling as she walked out of the room.
Franklin was led along a concrete walkway back to his cell. He tried looking into each cell he passed but was prodded to continue by the guard.
“Most inmates don’t like to be stared at,” the guard said. “It’s not smart for a new guy to make enemies on his first day.”
“I’m just looking for someone to talk to,” Franklin said. “Well, I guess I can talk to my cell mate. He seemed like a nice guy. Do you know what his name is?”
“You don’t have a cell mate,” the guard said. “We don’t put anyone in a cell with someone who’s under a psych evaluation.”
“Oh,” said Franklin, now not sure if he hadn’t been the victim of another dream.
25
Hyrum Green was walking from his car to his office building when he heard a woman calling his name. He turned and saw Ruth Klein running across the parking lot as best she could in uncomfortable business shoes. She waved, and once she saw that she’d attracted his attention, she slowed to a slightly limping walk and caught up with him.
“Dr. Green, I was hoping to catch you before you started your day. I was with a friend last night, and he asked me to contact you. He needs your help.”
“Really, why doesn’t your friend just call my office and make an appointment? I can treat him on an emergency basis if that’s needed.”
“No, it’s not a professional matter, and he’s not my friend, he’s a friend of yours, Franklin Jameson.” Ruth felt a little strange saying that Franklin was not her friend. He was a patient, but she was starting to think of him as a friend, albeit a troubled friend.
“He was arrested night before last, and he asked me to notify you. Your home number must be unlisted, so I came in early to catch you as you arrived.”
“That was very good of you. What kind of trouble is Franklin in?”
“It’s a bit of a long story—can we talk inside?” Ruth asked. She stopped walking, took off her shoes, and pulled a pair of old tattered clogs from a small canvas shopping bag. “I wear these in the office between patients,” she said, averting her eyes.
“By all means. My first appointment isn’t for two hours,” he said, looking at his watch. “We can talk in my office.”
As Ruth walked up the front stairs of the building, she noticed that Dr. Green had dropped slightly behind her, and although she didn’t turn, she could feel his eyes on her body. It must be the clogs, she thought.
“What time does your staff come in?” she asked, feeling uncomfortable being alone with him. Ruth still had not completely recov
ered from the night someone chased her through the basement of the building. She had since concluded that someone was trying to frighten her; if the person had wanted to catch her, he (or she) probably would have. She had spent a considerable amount of time trying to decipher who the culprit might be. She didn’t believe she had any enemies, and she knew of only two men who had recently been in the building. Lieutenant Peirce had just left her office before the lights went out, but he was a police officer. He had no reason to try to frighten her. Unless he thought it was the only way he could cause her to stop meddling in police business. Possible, but very unlikely. Dr. Green was in the hall when she emerged from the basement, so he couldn’t have been behind her. Of course, he could have run up the back stairs and reached the corridor at the same time she did, but for what purpose? They’d never had any involvement with each other. He would have no reason to want to frighten her.
Then there was Franklin. She wasn’t really afraid of him, yet she seemed to always carry her pepper spray whenever he was near. He had considerable psychological baggage that they hadn’t yet explored, and in some way he could have been asserting his dominance over his doctor. He said he made the 911 call to the police, but she thought he said that just to support his theory of being psychic. Well, he’s in jail anyway and not a threat for now.
Then she had an extremely uncomfortable thought. Sylvia’s murderer may have discovered that Sylvia was in therapy. If he thought she might have confided some information that could lead to his identification, he would have a reason not only to frighten her, but to eliminate her. That was a seriously disturbing supposition.
She looked up and found that Dr. Green was staring at her.
“Nine,” he said. “My staff starts at nine. I usually come in an hour early to prepare any bridges or crowns that will be installed that day.”
“How interesting,” Ruth said, not really hearing a word he said. “I believe Franklin is going to be charged with the murder of Sylvia Radcliffe. She was one of my patients. Did you know her?”
(Un) Sound Mind Page 21