by Joe Hart
She glanced at him again, and when he looked at her, he could see a glint of humor in her eyes. The change in her expression brought a light to her pretty features and he had to force himself to look away.
Stop it, he thought. Keep professional and cold. She could be a suspect for all he knew.
“I like patients, just not the general public. I like being able to help. I have ever since I was a kid patching up my brother when he got a scrape on his knee or a bump on the head.” She smiled, and Sullivan had to look away again when he began to admire how white and even her teeth were.
Ahead, New Haven came into full view like a ship appearing out of a fog. The building was three stories, with at least four wings. Like Singleton, it was also composed of brick, but here and there the architects who designed the structure had added subtle hints of flat stonework and rounded doorways. There was a multitude of windows on the first and second floors, while the third was abysmal, unbroken brick. The road he had seen trailing through the woods appeared out of the water and wound to the front of the building, ending under a green cloth awning. Stark-white letters spelled out the facility’s name beside the entrance doors made entirely of sliding glass. It seemed the creators had thought New Haven sounded wonderful, making the letters nearly two feet tall, while Psychiatric Facility and Care Center was printed in gray below, as though the actual function of the building was inappropriate and should be overlooked.
“Whoa,” Sullivan said and slowed to a stop. Amanda stepped up beside him and also gazed at the building.
“Holds a certain ominous quality, doesn’t it?” she asked.
“This coming from a prison doctor,” Sullivan said without looking at her. “It looks like a pretty old place.” He could see her hood nodding.
“Yeah. I thought I heard it was built in the late fifties, but I could be wrong. It’s one of the last psychiatric facilities still operating in the state.”
“Jesus. I’ve never heard of a prison being so close to a mental hospital before,” Sullivan said.
“That’s because of the location. The area is basically swamp for miles and miles around. You saw how desolate the country is on the way in, I’m assuming. That’s why they picked this place. If an inmate or patient managed to escape and was able to get over the fence without being cut to shreds, there would be miles of uninhabitable swamp, water, and bugs to contend with. Not to mention the nearest form of civilization is over ten miles away.”
Sullivan caught movement out of the corner of his eye and looked to the far end of the nearest wall. A steel door opened and two men dressed in white nurse scrubs appeared, their laughter barely carrying through the mist. One orderly pulled a pack of cigarettes out from his pocket and handed one to his co-worker. Both men lit up and a white plume of smoke formed above them, like a miniature storm cloud.
The rest of the group gathered behind Sullivan and Amanda while they discussed the facility. Barry stared at the walls of the massive building for several seconds before speaking.
“How many people are held here?”
“I think around two hundred at any given time, but there could be more,” Amanda answered.
“Well, let’s get out of the rain before we all catch pneumonia, shall we?” Don said, and made his way across the lawn of the facility.
Sullivan eyed the third story for another few seconds, and then followed the rest of the group toward the front doors.
==
The interior of New Haven was cool and blessedly dry. White tiled floor ran the length of the spacious lobby and ended at walls painted a tranquil green-gray. A waiting area sat to the right, with four overstuffed chairs in front of a sprawling fireplace, and against the wall a bookshelf stood solemnly, holding multiple paperback volumes. A mirrored ceiling vaulted above them like a tidal wave of glass, and a massive mahogany desk awaited them as they stepped through the door. A dark-haired receptionist in a white blouse sat behind the counter, smiling politely as they approached. Amanda asked a few questions in a low voice, and soon Sullivan saw the woman behind the desk point to a bank of elevators lined against the left wall.
The elevators were spacious. Large enough, Sullivan deducted, that two or three orderlies along with a full hospital bed between them could fit inside. The dull humming and claustrophobic confines within the elevator reminded Sullivan of the solitary cell in the lower level at the prison. His eyes roamed absently until they came to rest on the bulging bag in the tech’s hands. As soon as he realized what he was looking at he immediately examined a booger pressed into a gap in the metal walls. Sullivan dropped his eyes to his muddy shoes, until he heard an electronic ding and the doors slide open.
The medical ward was on the third floor, in the west wing of the facility. Having only seen the lobby, Sullivan didn’t know what to expect when he stepped off the elevator, but somehow he really wasn’t surprised.
A wide hallway stretched away from them and, almost fifty yards away, turned ninety degrees. Steel doors stood in the walls on either side every ten feet. A small observance window reinforced with steel mesh was recessed into each door, much the same as all the glass in its sister building only a short walk away. Sullivan led the way down the hall, trying to discern exactly which direction he was traveling in. After a moment, he deduced that the left wall was south and the right wall north. South faced into the building’s innards, north faced onto the grounds. Left side—garden view, right side—ocean, his mind intoned. He shook his head in annoyance and rubbed his scar.
“We follow the hallway to the very end,” Amanda said, walking a few steps behind Sullivan. Her hood was down letting her hair fall onto her shoulders. Even under the fluorescents she was undoubtedly pretty.
A door ahead on the right opened and a large male nurse with a graying beard entered the hall. If the ragtag group coming toward him was a surprise, he hid it well. Without giving them another look, he reached into the confines of the room he’d exited and pulled an aging man in a gray straitjacket out into the open. The restrained man had a scalp so devoid of hair, the light above glared from it. His eyes were wide and watery blue, and his mouth quivered as though he were a fish recently plucked from the water.
The patient’s gaze met Sullivan’s as the group neared and funneled to the far side of the hallway. Sullivan stared at him, his eyes narrowing. The man had focused on him. Like a sniper aiming at a target in a crowd of people through a scope, the man had singled Sullivan out, and when he spoke, Sullivan wasn’t surprised that the words were directed at him.
“You’re government? FBI? CIA?”
Every ounce of Sullivan’s being told him to keep walking and just smile, but something from deep within him pushed an answer out of his mouth and into the open air. “BCA.”
The man nodded fiercely, as if he had expected as much. “Bureau of Criminal Apprehension. Who’s the SAIC now? Hacking, isn’t it? Yeah, Hacking. How is he? Fair?”
“Okay, Jason. Let’s go get you something to eat,” the large nurse said. “He loves state and federal agencies.”
Sullivan halted and the rest of the group waited a few feet down the hallway. Jason stood grinning and nodding. Suddenly, he leapt across the distance of the hall and pressed the hard plastic buckles and straps of the straitjacket against Sullivan’s chest. The nurse leaned back and then lunged forward, his arms out and face pulled into an almost comic representation of horror. Sullivan saw this all as he was slammed into the drywall behind him, feeling the mental patient’s breath flow over his exposed throat. He felt his hand going automatically to the butt of the forty-five on his hip. He started to draw the weapon, and then realized Jason had turned his body just a little, pressing his left elbow over the top of the gun, preventing Sullivan from pulling it fully from the holster.
The patient’s lips sprayed spittle across Sullivan’s earlobe, yet he only whispered the words that he finally spoke. “Don’t drink the water.”
The nurse yanked Jason off Sullivan and hurled the restrained ma
n across the hall, into the opposite wall, with enough force to rattle the ceiling tiles above them.
“What’s the matter with you, Jason? You don’t treat people like that! You’re supposed to be nice to guests,” the nurse yelled as he grabbed the stunned patient by the back of the jacket and shook him with more than a little urgency.
“It’s okay,” Sullivan said, as he locked the gun back into his holster. “No harm done. He’s okay.”
The shine in Jason’s eyes hadn’t diminished, and he stared almost through Sullivan and into the next room. He nodded imperceptibly, and then he was gone, being shoved down the hallway by the bearded nurse.
Sullivan watched the two men walk away and nearly grabbed for his gun again, when Barry touched his shoulder.
“You okay?”
“Yeah, fine.”
Barry wrinkled his brow and leaned forward, as if to say, You sure? Sullivan nodded and squeezed his friend’s hand. “I’m good, let’s go.”
A desk manned by an orderly gazing at a crossword sat just before a door marked “Infirmary” at the end of the corridor. Amanda spoke to him briefly, and after eyeing the group and the black bag in the tech’s hand, he punched in a code and the door clicked open before them.
A short entry opened up into a wide room, with beds lining the walls on either side. Stainless-steel cabinets and locked drawers shone in the light from banks of overhead fluorescents. At the far end of the room Sullivan saw a makeshift operating theatre, partially obscured by a curtain hanging from a track in the ceiling. No one else occupied the room, and their squeaking footsteps were the only sound besides the muttering of the receding storm outside. Another doorway sat at the far end of the room, and it was through this that Amanda led them.
The smell reached Sullivan before he stepped fully into the small morgue. Scents of formaldehyde buried beneath an odor of stale death permeated the room. The floors and walls were a matching white tile, which refracted the cold light from above. A stainless-steel table occupied the center of the room and it drew Sullivan’s attention. There was no mistaking the pipes and faucet at one end and the gaping mouth of the drain at the other.
“This will work splendidly,” Don said, gazing around the room. “I appreciate the accommodations, Doctor.”
Amanda smiled. “Happy to help. I’m sure Dr. Rabbers won’t mind us using his space.”
Don motioned to the tech holding the black bag. The man stepped forward and placed the remains in the middle of the autopsy table with a flat thump.
“I would have waited until we made it back to our lab, but with the weather and the unusual urgency of the crime, pertinent findings are very important.” Don said the last words while looking over the top of his glasses at Sullivan. “Bob, Gene? Let’s get dressed for the occasion.”
Sullivan and Barry stood near the door while Don and his team located protective gowns, masks, and gloves from a nearby cabinet. Amanda offered to help, but Don politely declined. Mooring stood silent, brooding in the far corner, his soaked hat pulled down just above his eyes.
Don flipped on a powerful light that hung just above head height, directly over the table. Its beam spotlighted the black bag, making it glow darkly on the stage of shining steel. One of the techs produced a small digital recorder and placed it on the edge of the table to Don’s left and hit a button.
“June second, two thousand twelve, approximately two fifteen p.m. Don Anderson acting as forensic pathologist. Attendants include Gene Wilson and Bob Englund, forensic technicians, Agents Sullivan Shale and Barry Stevens of the BCA, as well as Dr. Amanda Erling and Officer Everett Mooring.” Don breathed out, and to Sullivan it sounded like a sigh. Don opened the black bag in front of him, the plastic crackling like static on a dying radio.
Sullivan felt a moment of disgust and anticipation as Alvarez’s remains were drawn into the light. The head was as misshapen as he remembered and even more battered. The upper part of the man’s face was distinguishable, but below the nose the flesh and bone had been warped by the crushing confines of the drain. Alvarez’s lips were puckered in something that resembled a kiss, and Sullivan could see bloodied teeth buried in the darkness of the mouth.
Don lifted the head carefully, and then set it onto the table after one of the techs pulled the bag clear. The head stared straight up at the ceiling, and now Sullivan could see the trauma incurred on the neck.
Large gouges and wide slashes were everywhere in the skin just below the head’s jaw line. Pieces of flesh had been ripped free and striations of muscle hung like red and gray party favors from the stump of spinal cord protruding obscenely from the severed neck. Sullivan could see places where the killer or killers had hacked insanely at the man’s flesh as it was separated from the rest of the body. Don’s voice startled Sullivan out of his examination and he blinked, coming back to his surroundings.
“Autopsy proceedings are based on the remains of Victor Alvarez, Mexican male, age thirty-four, hair color black.” Don reached over and slid a shriveled eyelid up to expose a dark pupil that stared at the ceiling. “Eye color is brown.” Don leaned in and tilted the neck up into the light. “Remains are limited to disembodied head, beginning just above the C5 vertebra.”
A scale hung above one end of the table, and Don placed the head in the tray. Sullivan watched the scale’s needle jump and then stop at the ten-pound mark.
“Big melon,” Barry whispered, leaning close to Sullivan. Sullivan shook his head in mock annoyance as Don continued.
“Remains weigh in at ten pounds, three ounces. Victim appears to have died from numerous lacerations and severe blunt-force trauma.”
Don motioned to the nearest tech, and both men began to wash the head beneath the faucet that extended over the table. Blood and gore rinsed free and flowed in a grisly river, disappearing in the drain. Gray-tinged flesh became clear as Alvarez’s head was cleaned, and when Don was satisfied, the remains looked both more and less human. The abject countenance gained distinct features: a smashed nose, puckered eyelids over sunken eyes, and grizzled cheeks ending in broken jawbones.
Don set the wet remains back in the center of the table. “Earlier examination presented no residue of external contaminates. No fingernail marks or hair follicles were retrieved from the victim’s wounds.” He picked up a tool that resembled a flat chisel with a narrow grip from the edge of the table. The tip of the wicked-looking instrument ended in a thin blade, which Don used to poke and probe the wounds on Alvarez’s neck. “Skin and flesh at severe trauma point have been lacerated multiple times.” Don moved closer, and Sullivan could see the man’s eyes narrowing as he focused. “Wounds are indicative of edged weapons varying in lengths and widths. Extreme wound on victim’s right side indicates a drilling mechanism—flesh is curled outward, and in this area missing completely.”
Sullivan and Barry exchanged looks, and even Mooring raised his head to gaze at what was left of the cadaver.
Don brought the edged tool to Alvarez’s lips and began to work the steel between the head’s teeth. Sullivan had to mentally restrain himself from plugging his ears as the sound of steel on enamel filled the room. Slowly, the misshapen lower jaw sagged open, and even from where he stood Sullivan saw that there was something inside the mouth. The white end of the object stuck out like a bleached tongue, and when Sullivan glanced up, he saw the same surprise he felt on Don’s face.
“Foreign object inside victim’s mouth. It looks to be lodged in the back of the throat.” Don looked around at the expectant faces of the group before picking up a forceps in one hand. The steel tongs gripped the object on either side, and after a few agonizing seconds of tugging, Don pulled it free with a wet pop. Sullivan watched as the thing slid free of Alvarez’s throat and dragged across his gaping lips.
The object was nearly five inches long, by Sullivan’s estimate, and viciously pointed at the opposite end of where the forceps gripped it. Jagged edges spiraled down its length and faded into a smooth surface, where it raggedl
y ended in what appeared to be soft tissue. Don held the object up just below the powerful overhead light and squinted at it, his mouth agape.
“What the fuck is that thing?” Mooring asked from the corner. His face was twisted into a mask of disgust, and to Sullivan it looked like he was about to lose whatever lunch he had consumed earlier.
“Everett,” Amanda said in a chiding tone as she tilted her head toward the recording device on the table.
“Don’t worry, Doctor,” Don said without taking his eyes from the thing in the forceps. “I was wondering the same thing myself.” Don motioned again to one of the techs and the younger man placed a sterile sheet of paper on the surface of the table. Don set the object down carefully, and then peered at it again as he rolled it back and forth with the tool in his hand.
“Foreign object retrieved from victim’s mouth and throat. Approximately five and a half inches long, white in color. Surface is dense and hard, almost bone-like. Sharp protrusions line the length and there are multiple grooves on the exterior. Opposing end is fleshy and soft, ending in a jagged tear. Small amount of unidentified fluid is gathered at terminating end.” Don reached over and tapped the recorder with his forefinger, and stepped back from the table, his hands on his hips. The pathologist remained silent until Sullivan cleared his throat, breaking the older man from his reverie.
“Sorry, never seen anything like it,” Don said.
Sullivan walked around the table and bent close to the object on the paper. The smell of blood was stronger here and he swallowed the revulsion he felt. The thing on the paper looked like a bone-white seashell he had seen before. An auger shell? Was that what they were called? He looked closer and could see bits of tissue clinging to the spiny edges lining the thing’s length. It looked dangerous and organic. He could almost feel those tiny blades cutting into his skin. How would it have felt in his mouth?
Sullivan straightened up and stepped away from the table. “What do you think, Don?”