“That’s too bad. It would’ve been nice if he had seen his assailant brought to justice.”
“He might be able to do that yet.” Twain was hinting at the afterlife. I wasn’t saying his beliefs didn’t have merit, but I didn’t want to get into it.
“I hope they’re sending him for an autopsy.”
“They are,” Lido replied. “I made the call myself.”
“Nigel is here to do a preliminary psychological evaluation on our tunnel boy.”
Ambler turned to Twain. “Lido and I already looked in on him. He’s awake and the nurses have him cleaned up. I don’t want to waste any more time. We have to get over this poor little urchin thing and treat him like the suspect he is, one that may be responsible for torture, homicide, and kidnapping. We can’t allow his disfigurement to play on our sympathies a moment longer.”
“Agreed,” Twain said. “So long as he’s able to communicate—based on Chalice’s description, withdrawal is the least of our worries. I won’t know until I see him. In any case, I’m ready.”
Maiguay was waiting in attendance when we arrived at the psychiatric wing. “I’m sorry your John Doe didn’t make it, Detective. I know you were counting on his coming around.”
“Life doesn’t always go the right way. Thanks for everything you did.” Maiguay was familiar with Lido and Ambler. I introduced him to Twain. “Dr. Twain is here on behalf of NYPD to do a psychological assessment.”
They shook hands. “You have privileges with Lenox Hill?” Maiguay asked.
“For many years. You did the initial intake on our suspect?”
“I did. He had tremendous levels of anxiety, so I put him on two milligrams of Xanax and he still jumps out of his skin at the slightest start. Frankly, Dr. Twain, I think he’s frightened to death. The good Lord only knows how long he’s been roaming around those subway tunnels. He’s been plucked from his native environment, chased by the police, Tasered—”
Ambler interrupted. “That poor man you’re so damn worried about may be guilty of torture and murder. If he has any information that might lead us to Paul Liu, we need to get it out of him now.”
“Torture, murder…him? I wouldn’t think so. I’m no psychologist, but he has very limited executive functioning.”
“What does that mean?” Lido asked.
Twain answered as the resident psychological expert in the group. “It means he couldn’t possibly plan anything as complex as abduction or carrying out any of those horrible deeds that befell Kevin Lee. Did you attempt any rudimentary testing, Dr. Maiguay?”
“Yes, just the basics of course.”
“How did he do with the Tower of Hanoi Test?”
“He was distracted by it as one would expect from a patient with frontal lobe damage. He was unable to complete the test. I attempted the Wisconsin Card Sorting Task with similar poor results.”
“I see,” Twain said. “Does he respond to a name?”
“Yes, he responds to the name Rat.”
“Rat? He responds to the name, Rat?”
Maiguay nodded. “As I said, his level of executive functioning is almost nil.”
“He sounds preseverative,” Twain said.
“Before we go all soft and gooey again, how do we know he’s not a malingerer?” Ambler asked. “I’ve seen plenty of good fakers in my day.”
“That’s not for me to determine,” Maiguay said. “I suggest we let Dr. Twain evaluate for himself.”
“Then what are we waiting for,” I said. “Let’s roll.”
Forty-Five
Lenox Hill had a monitoring room in the psychiatric ward, with a one-way mirror similar to the setup NYPD used for lineup identification. Ambler, Lido, and I filed into the observation room.
“That Maiguay is a bleeding heart,” Ambler said, his temperature still running on high.”
“He’s a doctor, not a cop. What would you expect of him or anyone like him?” Lido said.
They were both right, but for now I was more interested in Twain’s assessment of our suspect. We watched as he entered the room, the one occupied by the man that responded to the name, Rat.
Twain entered the room in a very unassuming manner. Nonetheless, our suspect was startled by the opening door and looked nervous as he watched Twain enter the room. Twain’s posture was relaxed and his facial expression was pleasant. He pulled a chair alongside Rat’s bed. Just for the record, Rat was restrained. He was after all a murder suspect.
“Hello,” Nigel said.
Rat did not respond. He continued to monitor his new visitor with extreme caution.
“You’ve been through quite an ordeal. I do hope you’re feeling a little bit better after a good night’s sleep and some tender loving care.” Twain had studied Rat through the door’s glass viewing panel prior to entering the room so as not to be shocked by the man’s appearance. Even so, I could see him fighting the temptation to stare at the man’s gross facial deformities.
Though retrained, Rat did his best to put a few additional inches between himself and Twain, but he did not speak.
“I mean you no harm. I merely need to ask you a few questions, will that be alright?” Twain’s British voice was peaceful and soothing to the point of sending us all off for a catnap.
I could see Rat turn his wrists within his leather restraints. As I noticed the other day, his fists were still clenched. “Hurt,” his voice was very nasal and barely decipherable, which was not uncommon for someone with such a severely damaged palate.
Twain picked up on his movements. “Are your restraints too tight?”
“Hurt, hurt.”
“I’m going to loosen your wrist restraints, just a notch. Do I have your word that you will remain calm and in your bed?”
Rat did not respond. Twain waited a moment, likely making a mental assessment of whether to proceed or not. He finally adjusted the restraints, loosening each a single notch and no more.
“Is that better?”
As before, Rat was unresponsive. The Tower of Hanoi Test was on the bed with him. It looked like a common children’s toy, a circular base with a pole in the middle; brightly colored rings were stacked on the pole, their size diminishing as they got to the top. Rat turned back to the toy and began to stare at it.
“How are you feeling?”
“Hungry.”
“The doctor is feeding you intravenously. Do you understand what that means?”
“Hungry.” Rat switched gears. He grinned and began to kick his feet playfully. Twain watched attentively.
“I’ll see that you’re brought some food. Is there something special you might like?”
“Hot dog, ketchup…hot dog, ketchup.”
“Okay, I’ll see about getting you something you like… Can you tell me your name?”
“Rat.” He was getting more and more excited. The Tower of Hanoi toy fell off the bed.
Twain made no attempt to retrieve the toy or calm him down. “Is that the only name you have?”
“Rat.”
“I’m sure that’s not the name you were born with. Don’t you have another name, a name you like better?”
Rat looked off the side of the bed, searching for his toy. He continued to kick his legs.
“Who gave you that name?”
“Sir.”
“Who is Sir?”
Rat did not respond.
“I’m going to ask you some important questions. I hope you’ll answer them as best you can.” Twain paused momentarily, and then continued. “A friend of mine is lost, and I was wondering if you might know where he is. His name is Paul and I’m very concerned about him.”
“Paul.” Rat began to smile.
“Paul is a very good friend of mine. Can you tell me something about Paul? Is he alright?”
“Like Paul.”
“Why do you like Paul?”
“Paul perfect.”
“Do you know where I can find him? I miss him very much and I worry about him.”
“Where Paul?”
“When was the last time you saw Paul?”
Rat’s smile faded. He began to pout.
“Did someone take Paul?”
“Gone.” He was on the verge of tears.
“Is Paul with someone you know?”
“Sir.”
“How can I find Sir?”
Rat stopped kicking but did not respond verbally. He turned away from Twain and intensified his search for the Tower of Hanoi toy.
“Thank you. You’ve been very helpful. I’ll see that you’re brought something to eat.” Twain stood and walked to the door. He turned back before exiting. “Why is Paul perfect?”
Rat grinned, but didn’t respond.
Within a moment, Twain had joined us in the monitoring room.
“What do you think, Nigel?”
“On one hand, he appears to have extremely limited executive functioning, as Dr. Maiguay suggested. He lacks the ability to organize, so the idea of his masterminding an elaborate crime seems well beyond his intellectual capability. His mannerisms, speech, and of course his moniker, all relate to someone who has lived his life in subservience. This Sir character he referenced may have abused him. The lesions on his forehead, the large one in particular may be responsible for his limited intellect. The areas of the brain that deal with speech and cognition are located in the frontal lobe.”
“So you buy the whole thing?”
“I didn’t say that—ten minutes does not an evaluation make.”
“So it’s possible he’s full of shit?” Ambler said.
“Yes,” Twain replied. I could see he was still mulling over the facts. “There’s always that.”
Forty-Six
The camping trip had been her idea; breaking early for lunch and a quickie had been his. They were in the Ford pickup with the windows rolled down. It was after the act, and Randy was ready for his post coital nap. He wanted to pass out and stay passed out until there wasn’t enough daylight left for anything but finding their way out of The Pine Barrens.
“Let’s get moving,” Angela said. “It’s a gorgeous day.”
“Let me close my eyes. Five minutes, that’s all.”
“No way. I know what you’re thinking,” She leaned over and kissed him. It was a prelude to après sex smooching, something she knew he wanted no part of. “Ready?”
Damn, she’s got dick breath. Randy pushed open the door and jumped out. “I gotta take a pee. Be right back.” Randy walked around to the back of the pickup, pulled a Budweiser out of the cooler, and popped the top. “That’s better.”
They were parked just a few yards from one of the many swamps that were found in The Pine Barrens—Randy still had the Budweiser to his lips while hanging hog. “You’re right, sure is a nice day.” He found a large rock to pee on, and began to give it a good shower. The large stone was brown—Randy was tickled to see that it was white beneath where his stream had washed away the mud. He tried to clean off the entire surface. It wasn’t until he had zipped, that a small frog sprang from an indentation in the rock, and Randy realized that the rock he had peed on wasn’t a rock at all.
Forty-Seven
“The pellet with the poison’s in the flagon with the dragon. The vessel with the pestle has the brew that is true.”
“What?”
Twain and I were alone for a moment, away from the others, sitting in the waiting area. That silly grin was back on his face. God only knew what he was blabbering about now.
“The pellet with the poison’s in the vessel with the pestle. The chalice from the palace has the brew that is true.”
I could only assume that the mescal he had consumed was still in his system and was taking him on another ride.
“The chalice from the palace has the brew that is true—you sound really silly, Nigel. That’s an exchange from an old movie, isn’t it?”
Twain was still grinning. The Court Jester, I saw it last night.”
“And that’s funny, why?”
“Because, dear girl, because the chalice holds the brew that is true.”
“I’m not chalice, Nigel. I’m Cha-lee-see. Snap out of it before someone hears you.”
“I absolutely adore Danny Kaye. He was bloody hysterical.”
“I loved Dean Martin, but you don’t hear me crooning, ‘That’s Amore’, do you?” It’s a good thing you didn’t lose it while you were with our suspect, you could have compromised the entire case.”
“Oh settle down, Missy, I’m very much under control.”
I didn’t know if it would help, but those coffee vending machines were all over the place, so I procured a cup of steaming hot swill for Twain. It had the opposite effect of that intended.
He began laughing uncontrollably. “Is the pellet with the poison in there?”
Judging by the last cup of hospital joe I’d had, it certainly could have been. “Settle down, we need to talk.”
Twain dragged his hand across his face, using it as a prop to dramatically transform his expression to a serious one. He took a sip of the coffee and pretended to wretch. “That’s bad enough to sober anyone. What’s on your mind?”
“I want to know what you really think about our suspect.”
“I’ve already told you.”
“I know, but is he for real? Is he capable of kidnap and murder?”
“Everyone’s capable, Stephanie, you just have to push them hard enough. That man certainly has reason enough to commit a heinous act. Is it possible that somewhere in his warped mind he plays with the delusion that he can switch skulls with someone else? The answer is probably yes. Does he fancy Paul Liu’s skull? Maybe, but on the basis of his mental attributes, he doesn’t have the wherewithal to pull off anything that elaborate, not nearly so.”
“So you’d say no.”
“I’m saying I don’t know. I need considerably more time with him to make an intellectual assessment. At this moment, I’d have to say that all options are possible. He may be a child or he may be a monster—I’m not yet sure of which.”
I heard the elevator ding behind me and caught R.C Liu’s profile as he emerged. I did my best to slink down in my seat and hide my face. Ambler, Lido, and a small army of cops were just outside our suspect’s room. Surely they could deal with the annoying R. C. Liu without me.
“Who’s that?” Twain asked.
“That’s R.C. Liu,” I whispered. “He’s the Chinese ambassador.”
“Ah, the missing lad’s father.”
“That’s right.”
“Why are you trying to avoid him?”
“He’s not a pleasant man. He wants to take control of the investigation and he wants answers I don’t have yet.”
“How could he take over? He has no jurisdiction over police matters.”
“Jurisdiction, no, power, influence, and high level connections, yes—a word in the wrong ear and I’ll have the brass telling me to take a hike. Besides, who knows what kind of connections he has. Just because he dresses like royalty doesn’t mean he can’t get down and dirty if he needs to.”
“You’re suggesting he has criminal alliances?”
“Stranger theories are possible.”
Twain grinned another exaggerated grin. Please, not another mind freak. “You know, Stephanie, you get this expression on your face when you have conviction. It’s absolutely irresistible.” His eyes looked absolutely crazy.
Drugged as he was, I didn’t know what Twain had in mind. He was a godly looking man, but infidelity was the last thing on my mind. Okay, maybe not the very last thing, but it certainly wasn’t on my top ten list—what with psychotic suspects, missing persons, and a snow white skull bouncing about, it was better to keep the blinders on. I gave him a peck on the cheek. “Go home, my friend.” His pupils were dilating before my eyes. “Come, I’ll put you in a cab.”
“I so enjoy helping you.”
“You already have. Don’t undo the good work you’ve done by having someone accuse you of a
cting unprofessionally.”
I could see him weighing the gravity of my comment. “As you suggest, I’m ready to go.”
I had an ulterior motive in mind. I wanted to slip out of the hospital before Liu tracked me down. I put Twain in a taxi and gave the driver the address. I wasn’t taking any chances that Twain couldn’t remember where he lived, looking the way he did. The cab had just pulled away when Ambler rolled up in front of me.
“Get in,” he said.
“What’s going on?”
“The Chinese ambassador is looking for you everywhere and we got a call from the FBI office in Suffolk. Another skull turned up—Zugg’s already out there.”
Skulls were becoming as prevalent as dandelions on a weed-laden lawn. I had been wondering where our case was going to lead us. Our perp had been forced to abandon his old lair. So, if Zugg was right, Rat couldn’t have realized his insane dream without help. The question in my mind was who would help a madman?
Forty-Eight
Ambler and I were standing in the Medical Examiner’s office in Hauppauge, Long Island, watching the forensic photographer hover around Zugg as he irrigated the skull with water until the silt began to wash out of the porous surface. The camera’s shutter snapped, accompanied by the strobe’s flash—simultaneously, the strobe’s discharged capacitor began to recharge, filling the air with a high-pitched buzz. Snap, flash, buzz. Snap, flash, buzz. The photographer took a succession of shots as Zugg began the painstaking task of freeing the decedent skeleton from the mud it was encased within.
A microphone was clipped to Zugg’s collar, allowing him to record data as it was unearthed. “Judging by the porosity of the skull, I’d say these remains are at least three years old.” He looked up at the photographer. “Concur?”
“I’m not sure,” the photographer replied.
Zugg shook his head with disappointment. “Go out on a limb for Pete’s sake—you’re not being graded.”
The Brain Vault (Stephanie Chalice Thrillers Book 3) Page 17