The Path of Silence

by Edita A. Petrick

  “You saw him?” I lowered my head so he couldn’t see my expression.

  “It was our third meeting in ten years. It wasn’t as stressful as the others but just as tense. He’s not going to halt the project and won’t be blackmailed.”

  “That’s a brave declaration,” I snorted.

  “Meg, what happened on your side?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Why did you go to Mexico to have the baby?’

  “They have better doctors and none of them were named Martin.”

  “What did your father do?”

  “You saw him. Why didn’t you ask him?”

  “I saw him officially, in a conference room with fifteen other banking principals. It wasn’t really the time or place to ask him about it.”

  “It’s late.” I started to rise. He reached over and pushed me back down.

  “Much like the Smithsonian job, I came here on assignment. The last thing I expected was to find you in the Baltimore police ranks. I don’t have any right to interfere in your life but I have the right to know what happened more than ten years ago. I told you my story. I want to hear yours.”

  “You left. I was pregnant. My father thought motherhood would interfere with my studies. He had political ambitions for me. I disagreed and left to have my child where I felt comfortable.”

  “Why did you change your name?”

  “To lead as normal a life as possible—and raise my daughter.”

  “Did you ever try to find out what happened to me? As a police officer, you would have the means.”

  “No. As an FBI agent, you would have even better means. Why didn’t you look for me?”

  “When he came to see me in Mead, you father said you’d had an abortion and left the country, to work in Europe’s banking circles. He had made it clear that you didn’t want me to interfere in your life.”

  “And you believed him?’

  “Yes.”

  “For an FBI agent, Field, you’re easily convinced.”

  “He’s the chairman of a bank. It didn’t dawn on me to question him.”

  “He’s a messenger. He’ll say anything to get what he wants.”

  “I know that now. Why didn’t you ever marry again?”

  “My child and my career kept me busy. Did you remarry?”

  “I never fell in love again. There didn’t seem to be a point,” he said. “Why didn’t you tell our daughter about me?”

  “There didn’t seem to be a point.”

  “That’s harsh.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Was I that unmemorable?”

  “You weren’t there. I don’t like to talk about ghosts.”

  He rose and turned to leave. I should have let him go but some habits are hard to break. I always see my visitors to the door. I stood up and followed.

  He stopped, hand on the door handle. He stood in profile. It was safe to look, remember and regret.

  He turned around, suddenly and unexpectedly. I had no time to avert my eyes. I don’t know what he saw on my face. He grabbed my neck and pulled me closer. His other hand rose and gripped mine. He placed it on his shoulder, pressed it down and I felt his lips brush against mine.

  It started as a soft kiss and ended as a hard demand. Memories started to circle. They grew more vivid with each pass. It was the same kiss as ten years ago but on a different level of intensity. The youthful playfulness was gone. It was replaced by urgency. He was wearing a different aftershave. The one I had remembered was spicy. This fragrance was lighter on my senses. The closeness was not.

  “Fielding!”

  “You used to call me that when I forgot to leave a tip in a restaurant.”

  “You did that on purpose,” I murmured.

  “I did a lot of things on purpose but that wasn’t one of them. Meg…” he sighed.

  “Field, I have to think.” I turned my head.

  “Don’t leave me out of your thoughts, Meg,” he murmured and kissed me again. He pressed his forehead against mine, as if wanting to penetrate into my thoughts. We stood for a long time, in silence.

  “Remember when we stood in line for Springstein tickets and you fell asleep on my shoulder, standing up?” he asked softly.

  “No.”

  “It started just like this. It was cool outside and I hugged you to keep you warm.”

  “I was tired. I’d spent all night studying for a test.”

  “You do remember.”

  “It’s hard to hide the memories, Field.”

  “Ten years is enough, Meg. Don’t hide anymore.”

  “We have to work together, for God’s sake. Don’t make it any harder.”

  “I need something to look forward to in the morning.”

  “Field.…”

  “I’m leaving,” he said, stealing another kiss. “But I won’t be far away.”

  It was only later, when I sat down on my bed, ready to bury my face in my pillow that I remembered I hadn’t checked on Jazz. I got up and went to her bedroom. Her nightlight was on and she was breathing evenly—but her eyelids were flickering.

  “Thanks for being so good tonight,” I said softly and ran my hand across her brow.

  “You’re welcome,” I heard her mumble when I was closing the door.

  Chapter 22

  “Brenda said that half the hospital was down on the fourth floor when Joe and Quigley exchanged their expert opinions,” Ken said, when I picked him up in the morning. “Even pediatrics is in an uproar. She was called in at two a.m. for backup in emergency surgery after a head nurse ran out in tears. A doctor had ripped into her for not handing him an instrument fast enough. The place is going to be sheer hell. Staff will be snapping at each other. Suspicions will kill any cooperative spirit. If the patients start canceling appointments and surgery, the board will sacrifice a few doctors. They’ll dismiss them as means to restore public confidence. Brenda said that Joe had accused Quigley and his team of mismanaging implants…” His voice trailed off as he sipped his coffee. I’d brought it, knowing it was going to be a difficult morning.

  “If Martin is at Hopkins—whether as Martin or under another name—this’ll make him cautious. He’ll cover his tracks and remove whatever evidence there might be of using the hospital facilities. We’ll never flush him out. Joe should have controlled himself. The newspapers will have a field day. A maniac is loose—a doctor experimenting on live subjects.”

  “They won’t catch on to the execution element,” he said.

  “Probably not. But whatever chance we had of finding Martin is gone.”

  “We’re probably going to get a lot of crank calls,” he sighed.

  “It looks like you’re right,” I said, as we walked into the office.

  “This is your share,” Sven said, as he handed me stack of phone report slips. He gave another to Ken.

  I drained my coffee and started reading reports from frightened and anxious people.

  The first five were filed by men who had visited Hopkins in the last two years, either for minor surgery or as outpatients. They’d felt strange twinges while watching the news last night. The next three complainants were fishing for material to use for law suits. One report was a page out of the X-files. The complainant hinted at a possibility of an alien presence among us. He wanted to make sure that he would be the next on their abductee list.

  George Hicks had filed report number ten. He needed a reason to continue drawing unemployment benefits and not be forced to look for work—lest his chest explode. Jack Sampson was sure that the scar tissue on his upper left chest was hiding an explosive device instead of the result of a cyst removal five years ago at Hopkins.

  The last report was odd.

  Daniel Kane didn’t have chest pains. He didn’t think he had been implanted with an explosive device—but he had heard rumors in Mongrove.

  “Do you think this is something?” Ken asked, as we headed to visit Kane in Curtis Bay. It was not far from Brooklyn Park.

 
“It’s hard to say. At least we have a reason to get out of the madhouse that used to be our office,” I sighed.

  I’d phoned Daniel Kane and asked whether we could send a squad car to get him. What he told me was not reassuring in terms of credibility. He never left his house. He never opened his window shades either. The whole world was spying on him. He no longer dared to venture outside. He’d spent nine months in Mongrove where they frequently opened their shades. I got the impression that he was still upset about it.

  Kane suffered from acute schizophrenia. But there was something about the way he gave me information—freely and not excusing his condition—that made me decide to see him.

  Kane lived in a nice two story house. It was light gray with blue painted trim and matching striped awnings. His front lawn was well kept. The white picket fence was freshly painted. If he never ventured outside, he had to have hired help looking after the upkeep. That meant he was not destitute.

  We stood on the porch for five minutes, after we’d slid our IDs and business cards through the brass-trimmed mail slot as requested. There were four peepholes in the iron-bar reinforced front door.

  I tried not to show what I felt, standing there waiting, while Kane checked us out. Suddenly, my cell phone chimed.

  It was Kane. He was checking out our phone numbers. Ken got a call too.

  Finally, my compassion ran out.

  “Mr. Kane,” I said, moving closer to one of the viewing spots. “I’m sure you must recognize my voice. I’m Detective Stanton. We spoke on the phone. You invited us to visit you. This is my partner, Detective Leahman. Please let us in. We really are Baltimore police officers.”

  He let us wait another minute. Then the door cracked open.

  “Detective Stanton, enter first please.”

  I glanced at Ken, stifled a sigh and obeyed. Ten seconds later, he was allowed to squeeze through the crack then the door hurriedly slammed shut.

  It took a while for my eyes to adjust to the smoky darkness.

  “This way, please.” A hand waved in the air, like a shadow.

  I entered a library. The only source of light was a large computer monitor. The shadow went to sit in the corner. He told us to sit in two chairs strategically positioned so that the light from the monitor shone directly at us.

  “Mr. Kane, it’s difficult to speak to someone I can’t see,” I said as I sat down.

  “Now you know what I have to live with,” he shot back quickly.

  “I understand and I sympathize but if you won’t allow us to see you, then we’ll have to stay here twice as long to get your physical description, before we get to the issue.” I was frustrated. He must have heard it in my voice. He laughed.

  “I have to admit I haven’t heard that threat before. Very well. I see your point.”

  I heard a scraping sound. He pulled the chair in line with the desk where the peripheral light from the monitor was enough to see him and sat down.

  He was thin but not frail, in his fifties. Sitting down, I judged him to be a little taller than I was, maybe five foot ten. He had a circle of pale hair. The rest of his head was a bald crown. I couldn’t tell the color of his eyes but they were dark. He didn’t seem nervous, just reserved.

  “I’m a schizophrenic,” he said. “But the condition is not stamped on my face. It’s apparent from the way I live. I wasn’t always like this. My condition worsened as I aged. For at least twenty years, I was able to lead a normal life. I was a professor of history at Darwin College in Selecton. I was married, no children. My wife passed away ten years ago. I believe that’s what increased my symptoms. But that’s not why you’re here.”

  “I see you keep in touch with the world.” I motioned at the monitor and the impressive computer hardware I saw stacked underneath the large, L-shaped desk.

  He smiled. “It’s my only means these days. I no longer go outside. I have a housekeeper who does my shopping and errands. I just cannot bring myself to leave the house anymore.”

  “Who had you committed to the Mongrove facility?” I asked.

  “I did. My physician at the time reluctantly concurred, though he’s no longer sure whether it was a good idea. It certainly didn’t help me to control my condition. Nothing can. I’ve accepted that.”

  “How long did you stay at Mongrove?”

  “Nine months. I signed myself in just about two years ago.”

  “Mr. Kane, you obviously have financial means. Why would you choose to go to a state-funded facility like Mongrove? Why not a private institution?”

  “It’s close by. I couldn’t go too far away from my house. Since I voluntarily committed myself, I could sign myself out anytime. Knowing that I could hire transport with tinted windows to take me home in a matter of ten minutes was the main reason why I chose it.”

  “Where would you have hired that kind of transportation?” Ken asked.

  “There was an armored limo service, located in a plaza just across the street from Mongrove. I don’t believe it’s still there. My housekeeper told me that the plaza closed down. Two years ago, however, it was still there.”

  “Would you know when the plaza closed down?” Ken asked

  “According to my housekeeper, two months ago.”

  “Was the limo service there right until the end?”

  Kane passed a hand in front of his face. “I always thought it was a strange location for an armored limo service but I suppose things like that are driven by the economy. The name was Creeslow. It’s what made me take closer notice of a fellow patient at Mongrove.”

  “Patti,” I said.

  Kane raised a hand. He leaned forward, into the circle of light given off by the monitor. “At Mongrove names are usually fashioned into a control tool. Spoken three or more times in quick succession turns a patient’s name into a phrase used to direct, stop—or threaten. My physician had tried to stop me from going there. He would not tell me outright why but at the end of nine months, when I’d learned enough, I signed myself out. Her name was Patricia Vanier. She was a distraught young woman, prone to melancholy—a marginal manic-depressive but she was not afflicted to a degree that would require her incarceration in a hard-line facility like Mongrove, under constant medication. This, of course, is only my own educated opinion. I spent twenty years studying the nature of my condition, even as I functioned normally, teaching at the college. I knew that it would progressively worsen as I got older. This house, the shadowy atmosphere, is a result of those years of learning.”

  “Go on, sir,” I said softly. “We’ll ask questions when you finish.”

  Kane was a schizophrenic but he was highly cognizant of what his affliction meant in terms of living and functioning in society. He’d spent years preparing himself for the inevitable. He was not just a credible witness but also a highly intelligent man. He knew more about his condition than his doctors. His knowledge, coupled with his experience in a psychiatric institution, made him an expert.

  He’d befriended Patricia, as much as anyone could with a patient who was over-medicated to the degree Kane claimed she was. When he listened to her ramblings, he’d filtered out the prejudicial nonsense. He’d picked out things that struck him as facts. Once he began to suspect that her condition was not severe and would rapidly improve if drugs were withheld, he did it on quite a few occasions. He was clever. No one noticed anything.

  When the medication was stopped for two days, she’d told him that her fiancé Jonathan, had worked part-time for Creeslow. She had reported him missing two years earlier. However, she’d told Kane that since then, she had seen Johnny at Mongrove, wearing a chauffeur’s uniform. But she hadn’t been allowed to talk to him.

  “It was unethical to withhold her medication,” Kane said. He lowered his head and clasped his hands. “But I felt this young woman should not have been committed to such a hard-line facility, or any facility for that matter.”

  “What do you mean by hard-line, Mr. Kane?” I asked.

  He motioned f
eebly at the shuttered windows. “If you removed those window coverings, I would be covered in sweat in a matter of seconds. I would become incoherent and disoriented. In a few more minutes, I would start to babble. I would collapse on the floor, curl into a tight ball and moan. Spittle might form in the corners of my mouth. Perhaps frothing may appear. It would be very much like an epileptic seizure. It would take forty-eight hours for the attack to pass. If you were a doctor in a psychiatric institution and knew these symptoms, would you use the means of therapy that I have just outlined on a schizophrenic patient?”

  “Is that what they did to you?” I was shocked to hear him chuckle.

  “That was just basic therapy. There were others, far more brutal. Once I recovered, these pioneering cures were explained to me with help of statistics claiming great success—to convince me that it was done for my own good.”

  “Why did you stay there nine months?” Ken asked.

  Once again he chuckled. “I had to stay there long enough to make a statistically valid conclusion that their methods did not work. In my opinion, Patricia’s affliction was merely deep melancholy. It was not an ailment that required heavy medication. She needed to talk out her feelings. That’s precisely what she did not get in Mongrove. Talking was forbidden. That’s what the control phrases were for—to stop the patient, redirect him. Patricia was young. The major effects of the drugs cleared out of her system in forty-eight hours. She was still not what you would term clear-headed but she was lucid. Unfortunately, once she experienced greater awareness of her surroundings, she started to roam. She was clever and observant. She found a way to get out of the patient area—and was caught. I stopped withholding her medication. I didn’t want to cause any more problems for her.”

  “She’s still in there,” I told him.

  A painful smile creased his sparse features. “I wouldn’t be surprised. I don’t believe she had any relatives who would have followed up on her release. It’s probably what she saw during the last time she escaped from the patient area that’s keeping her incarcerated. After that episode, her medication was increased. She could no longer form a sentence. She spoke in fragments. But by then I was in the facility for eight months and very familiar with her. It was easy to pick out new words I’d never heard before.”