Criminally Insane: The Series (Bad Karma, Red Angel, Night Cage Omnibus) (The Criminally Insane Series)

by Douglas Clegg

Shackles on its ankles, it leaned back against the cold wall.

  It closed its eyes and wished it were a little boy again, in the dark of the Mad Place, its father scourging its body with the barbed wire while Ruthie prayed as loud as she could to drown out its cries for help.

  To stop the Beast from bringing about the end of the world.

  The Other One began fighting for supremacy within its body, and the "it" called Duane receded again, going into the cage in its head to sleep.

  Epilogue

  1

  Day. Sunny. Clear blue skies from the mountains to the sea. The mountains, snow-capped; the valleys, like a vision of heaven with palm trees.

  A beautiful southern California Christmas coming up.

  Michael Scoleri rode a bus to downtown Los Angeles, all the while listening to a grandmother in her sixties who had been a science teacher when she was younger but now was just a grandma, talk about her beautiful grandchildren and her wonderful daughter-in-law and brilliant son. He liked listening to her, and he found it refreshing to have so much noise around him. Wonderful human noise. When he got downtown, he stepped off at Rose Street, then walked up to Santa Monica, where he caught a bus going toward Hollywood.

  At Cahuenga, he got off this second bus.

  He decided he needed to find someone to take him in, at least for the night.

  He'd work out what came next when he had the chance.

  First things first.

  Have to get a good meal, and find a pretty girl to have some fun with, he thought.

  He began walking through the city, taking the wide boulevards, thinking of how beautiful and radiant it all was.

  No snow here, he thought. No rain. Just sun and shining buildings that reminded him of holy places.

  The shrines of worship. The cathedrals of mankind.

  He needed a different kind of girl this time. The kind who understood him. The kind who would take care of him and help make everything all right this time.

  He was sure he'd know the right girl when he saw her.

  There were lots of pretty women in Los Angeles, nearly on every street corner.

  To him, it was just like taking a stroll through paradise.

  Pretty girls as far as the eye could see.

  2

  After a few days had gone by, the Moon Lake Pure Spring Water company sent a new guy to deliver a hundred more bottles to the Darden State Hospital from Criminal Justice. He loaded up the jugs onto the water coolers in offices, including the one in Dr. Elise Conroy’s office. The delivery guy was named Josh Schwartz, and he found a slip of paper under the empty plastic jug in Conroy’s office.

  On the paper, a slim note, addressed to “Red Angel” and from “Michael.”

  The note eventually made it into Jane Laymon’s hands.

  It read:

  Thank you for the beautiful angels, my brother. Love to Ruthie.

  * * *

  Get More eBooks

  http://DouglasClegg.com/ebooks

  Publication Information

  Published by Alkemara Press, in an arrangement with the author.

  All rights reserved.

  Copyright © 2003, 2012 Douglas Clegg

  Cover Design Copyright © 2012 Alkemara Press

  Cover image courtesy of iStockphoto.com, used with permission. Copyright © 2007 Ron Blackburn

  eBook Creation by Book Looks Design http://www.booklooksdesign.com

  Night Cage

  Book 3 of the Criminally Insane series

  By Douglas Clegg

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without the permission of the author. All the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Further publisher and copyright information at the end of this book.

  Douglas Clegg’s EBooks

  http://DouglasClegg.com/ebooks

  On Facebook

  http://Facebook.com/DouglasClegg

  On Twitter

  http://Twitter.com/DouglasClegg

  Prologue

  Now

  October was Hell, and he knew it was because of the wind itself.

  The Santa Ana winds blew down like the roar of a lion along the arroyos and canyons of the desert; across the mountain passes into the bowl of valley, across three counties all sharing the dry October of southern California.

  The mountain pass beneath Big Bear was blocked off by the fires that had spread along the ridge; below this, the foothill communities, and across the flatlands of freeway and neighborhood grids, pre-dawn, a ridge of red rock hills and sporadic sprays of palm trees.

  Heat and dust coughed through the air, and the young man who felt them most, choked by a chilling terror at the shadows that flew by night, stared up at the window, listening to it rattle with the wind.

  Those burning winds brought the shadows to him.

  Blew them all back from the edge of hell or heaven.

  Night fears.

  Fingers coming toward him, scraping at his throat.

  The night fears grew with darkness. They were shadows he saw sometimes, moving toward him, reaching for him.

  He could barely breathe when they touched his skin, and he lay awake all night waiting for the faintest light through the window.

  Then, the darkening light slowly came up from outside.

  He heard the woman get out of bed in the next room and run the shower in the bathroom.

  Still, sleepy. Not ready to get up. Just another hour or two of sleep. Another dream before the day had to get going.

  He called himself Doc, although he hadn't yet cured himself of the night fears that came on unexpectedly.

  Still, he knew how to heal, and set limbs, and make infections go away.

  But the night fears were always after him, and he had slept badly yet again.

  Sometimes, he didn't fall asleep until the rest of the world awoke.

  In all his nineteen years, he could not remember a good night of sleep. The night fears came in the dark, and they crawled all over his skin, and kept him from drifting into the dream world he wanted to find. But by the time of the first light out the window, he knew he was safe, after all.

  Even in his bed, his special bed, he knew the night fears could not get him.

  The purple light outside the window relaxed him the most. The white-hot light of midday hurt him. The dark of night brought the crawling fears.

  He curled up into as much of a ball as he could make of himself. His arms hurt, as they often did, but he felt that warmth of happiness in this position.

  His special bed.

  The cage.

  The crate was just large enough for him to scrunch himself into, and just tall enough that he didn't press against the top of it.

  He felt good in the cage, and more important than that, safe, at least until she returned each day to take him out of it.

  The night fears couldn't get in there with him.

  It was just big enough for him and no one else.

  His early memories of the cage, from the time he'd been four, were calming and sweet and allowed him to sleep at night without fear. Sometimes, she brought fear with her, like a smell on her. She didn't always shake it off at the door, as she promised. She sometime brought rage with her, too, and then he didn't mind being locked into the cage.

  Sometimes, after she'd let him out, she would tell him about his father, and where he'd been conceived, and how it was like an enormous cage itself. He liked her best when this happened.

  He liked to hear her memories of that place with its special rooms and all the people she talked about, and how she described his father to him.

  "He was a good man then," she said. "But he made promises. And he broke some of them. He made some things terrible for me. And for you. But everyone who breaks a promise pays a penalty in life. You know that, don't you? Someday, you'll get to meet him. Someday, he'll find you or yo
u'll find him. Someday, he'll pay the penalty for what he's done. Punishment always comes to people, whether in this life or the next. And the punishment always fits the crime."

  In the cage, curled up in a ball, he fell asleep just as the sun was coming up beyond the room.

  He dreamt of the place where his mother and father had met, as if it were a promised land to which he'd one day return.

  It was a hospital.

  He felt he knew the place by memory – just from what his mother had told him.

  About the high fences with the wires made out of razor.

  About the police everywhere.

  About all the doctors, all of them smart as he himself was, smart as his mother.

  The long corridors of rooms with windows in the doors so patients could look out.

  In his dreams, he felt he floated down the corridor and saw the people staring through their door-windows, watching him as he went, ghost-like, to find the cage where his mother had lived when his father had made love to her.

  Even in the dreams, he saw the words emblazoned on the sign as he passed along the outside wall of one of the buildings:

  The Darden State Hospital For Criminal Justice.

  PART ONE

  Chapter One

  Discharge papers for Mary Chilmark, 1984

  The Darden State Hospital for Criminal Justice

  The patient expressed, on more than one occasion, remorse for the torture and murder of the three patients under her care while she was a registered nurse. Although she still maintains that the fire in the ward was an accident, and therefore two of the deaths were accidents, she admits that although she did not then fully have the capacity to understand her actions in the matter. She understands that the fire had begun because of her own actions. She just expressed great remorse and evinced anguish over what she had done.

  In the current interview, the patient was fully oriented. The patient was calm, and expressed remorse for her past crimes. She understood the full importance of what the word “murder” meant, and expressed a moral view and judgment of her own actions in the past. She stated that she had suffered depression and anxiety, exacerbated at the time by drug and alcohol use, precipitated at the death of her parents (in 1974.) “I got to the groups, including the PARTNER meetings and the MOVE group sessions. My individual sessions have proved more than satisfactory with Dr. Brainard.”

  When asked about the Offense, she stated, “I know that I committed those murders, but I could not see this for several years. I suppose the part of me that had no mental control believed I was doing them good. But I know now how tragically wrong that was.” She has internalized blame, as has been noted since October 1983. She does not view others as causing her maladaptive behavior, and she appears in every respect willing to take responsibility for her behavior.

  Remission Status: Is the patient’s severe mental disorder treatable by medication and psychological as well as social support avenues?

  RB: Extreme progress with this patient. Her functioning level is high, and has been instrumental in the ‘Patient In-Care” Reach in Wards B and C. The treatment team assessed her as in the top functioning category, and she had family support beyond the walls of Darden State. Her hallucinations from intake until spring 1984 were frequent and delusional. These might have been after-effect flashbacks to her prescription drug addiction, and seem to have cleared up completely.

  The patient’s severe disorder is completely in remission, and has seemed so for more than 18 months.

  Level of Danger: Does the patient represent a substantial or implicit physical harm to others based on disorder or past history?

  RB: In my opinion, and the opinion of the treatment group, Mary Chilmark is ready to transition back into the community.

  Outpatient Treatment: What is recommended to continue the patient’s treatment?

  RB: Psychiatric treatment should be continual, and the state’s supervision of this treatment is implicit. However, the patient is ready for the challenges and rigors of the outside world. She has the support of her fiancé, and his family, as well. Additionally, her pregnancy seems to be a mitigating factor, and I strongly recommend Mary Chilmark be given a second chance at this point in time. With outside supervision, continuing treatment by a state-appointed psychiatrist, continuing medical supervision, parenting classes, and ongoing medications as listed in the previous report, she should be out of the hospital and will not pose a threat, significant or otherwise, to the world at large.

  Control Factor: What is the nature of the patient’s past crime, and the original diagnosis?

  RB: The murders of two women, one man, and an unborn child. Her depression and anxiety have been successfully managed for 18 months with medication therapy.

  Chapter Two

  NOW

  October

  1

  Mary had a face like love itself.

  That’s what he thought whenever he looked at her.

  Late forties, but could pass for thirty-two on a sunny day. Maybe even twenty-eight. She was prettier than any girl he had ever known. Her eyes were warm and brown and her forehead was low, hidden by sweeps of raven-dark hair. Mary had been a nurse all her life, with the exception of the handful of years lost to a hospital where she’d stayed after her breakdown. But in her face, anyone could see that her conscience was clear, her mind her own, and she moved and spoke as if each step she took her methodical and controlled. She was a gift to life.

  And she kept the fears away.

  Doc trusted her completely.

  She shifted the curtain slightly, and bright sunlight entered the room.

  “Look at it out there,” she said, so softly that he barely heard her. "It's beautiful."

  He set down the instrument he’d been testing, and stepped over to the window. Mary stepped away, and left him gazing outside as if it might relieve some of the anxiety he was feeling.

  "Just an ordinary day," she said, stepping over to where the instruments were kept, all in a neat row on a napkin-covered plate.

  Outside, the pure flat light of southern California September, dappled by the palm trees and the two enormous avocado trees at the edge of the back lawn, by the guesthouse, beyond the swimming pool that was blue and lovely.

  "Too much light," he said. "Too bright."

  "But it's good in here, isn't it," she said.

  “The dog’s barking,” he said. “I wish it would just stop.”

  “Block it out,” she said. “Doc, you need to concentrate.”

  “It’s distracting.”

  “You're letting it do that. Come away from there. Ignore it. Focus.”

  He let the shades drop – the curtains were thick and too dark for such a room. His hand felt greasy; he had begun to sweat, which sometimes happened. He had to calm himself.

  You can do this. You can do it.

  His heart seemed to pound in his chest. His mouth, dry. His mind focused, yet aware of the sensations that had begun.

  The excitement.

  The examination room: not sterile enough. He would have to deal with less-than-optimal conditions. His hands, washed with antibacterial soap, but still he felt dirty. He looked to her face for a sense of calm. She had it. Her skin was lightly tanned, and even though he saw the creases of age in her face – around her eyes and at the edge of her lips – he couldn't help but feel just a little better from seeing those deep brown eyes of hers.

  "Don't worry," she said. "It's all right. When this is over, you'll be fine. We'll clean up, and you'll see. You'll see. She'll be better, too."

  “I don’t like this,” he kept saying.

  His left hand trembled. He looked at it, hoping to calm it just by taking deep breaths.

  “It can’t be helped.” She stood by, her hands cupping the small metal basin to catch the blood. Surgery of this type was never a perfect option. But when a need arose, and the question became life and death for the mother and child, a good doctor had to be prepared to work even unde
r the most rudimentary conditions.

  In this case, that meant the master bedroom of a suburban house, while the woman on the bed stared at them, her eyes wide. Noises came from her mouth.

  He could turn her off in his mind. Good doctors could do that. There was no time for anesthetic, and his assistant – who was nearly a doctor herself – tied the woman's arms so that when he brought the blade down to her belly to help with the removal of the child, the path would not be obstructed.

  The woman's mouth had been taped, but only for her own good. She would pass out from the pain, or her body would take over, knowing this was for the good of the child inside her.

  Nature was like that – it was both healer and caretaker. Her own body would begin to divert the signals of pain to her brain so as to release the body’s own natural painkiller.

  As the doctor prepared the woman’s belly, and cut, and opened, he felt inside her for the tumor.

  He glanced up at his assistant. “I can’t find it.”

  His assistant – who was also his own mother – raised her eyebrows. Her face had been spattered with blood.

  “The baby,” he said. “It’s not here.”

  “Of course it’s there, Doc.”

  “No,” he said, feeling around within the cut.

  “We need to get her to the hospital right away, Doc,” his mother said.

  “I think it’s too late for that,” he replied. “Let’s close her up.”

  “No,” his mother said. “See? She’s just sleeping. She’ll pull through. Here. I can feel her pulse. She’ll be fine. She’s still there. I can feel her. She hasn’t passed yet.”