by J. B. Turner
Chisholm sighed. “He’s weak and he should’ve seen the signs. But he could have made it OK by just reaching out to someone in the State Department and saying what had happened. It would never have gone this far.”
“What about his bank accounts?”
“We’re checking those.”
Reznick shook his head. “To think that a few hours after he sat down with Meyerstein in his office, he was selling her down the river.”
“Froch was compromised many months ago,” Chisholm said. “So this operation is a long-term thing. And the planning would’ve gone on for at least a year before it started.”
“Which brings us back to Caroline Lieber and Ford.”
“The Liebers will go to the press and try to publicize their daughter’s disappearance.”
“Can you blame them?”
“No, I don’t blame them. Not in the least.”
“Got any theories as to what happened to her?”
Chisholm shook his head.
“We’re missing something, Sam.”
A phone rang. Chisholm pulled his BlackBerry out of his pocket and answered it. “Yeah.” He nodded. “Three cars on him, cell phone tracking, everything we have.” He pressed the red button to end the call.
“What’s up?”
“Our guy’s on the move.”
“Ford?”
“Yup. Picked up his car and he’s heading out of the city.” Chisholm bit his lower lip, the red light blinking on his phone. He pressed the button and opened up the message, eyes quickly scanning the words.
“There’s a girl.”
The words were spoken as if in a trance.
“Who?” Reznick asked.
“Stamper and his team have discovered that Ford had a girlfriend. Hilary Stapleton.”
“Why the hell has this taken so long?”
Chisholm ignored Reznick, and stared at the message on the screen. “Jesus H. Christ.”
“What is it?”
“Says here she’s in a psychiatric unit in Baltimore.”
Twenty-Eight
The next morning, Reznick and Chisholm found themselves on the fourth floor of a building on the Johns Hopkins Medical Campus in East Baltimore. They were led down tiled corridors, then through locked doors, before they reached the office of the director, Ron D. Franklin. The receptionist knocked on the door and they entered.
Franklin was waiting for them. He introduced himself, shook their hands, and sat down behind his desk. He was in his mid-sixties, tall and slim with wispy white hair. His shirtsleeves were rolled up as if he were ready for business.
He waited until Reznick and Chisholm pulled up a seat opposite before he spoke. “I believe you’re interested in talking to one of our patients.”
Chisholm cleared his throat. “That’s correct, Dr. Franklin.”
“Do you mind me asking why?”
“It concerns a major investigation. Counterterrorism.”
Franklin furrowed his brow as if deep in thought. “I’m ultimately in charge of the medical care of all those within the inpatient unit. Patient confidentiality is paramount, so unless she consents, there’s nothing I can do.”
Chisholm shifted in his seat. “Dr. Franklin, I’d ask you to bear in mind that we have already applied for an order requesting access to her records, under Section two fifteen of the Patriot Act, and this has been approved.” He pulled out the signed paperwork and handed it over to Franklin.
The doctor glanced at it. “How very thorough.”
Chisholm didn’t reply to the barbed comment.
“So, what do you want to know?”
“We want to know more about Ms. Stapleton and why she’s being kept within the Mood Disorders Center.”
Franklin let out a long sigh. “Bipolar disorder. Self-harm. A mental breakdown.”
“How long’s she been here?”
The doctor pursed his lips. “Three months, give or take a few days. She was a highflier. Then she crashed.”
“What line of work?”
“Hedge funds. High pressure.”
“What about a boyfriend?”
“Interestingly, just after she was admitted, she talked about her boyfriend.” He flicked open a file on his desk. “Adam Ford. She mentioned that he was seeing another woman. She also mentioned that she thought she was being followed. Calls to her office, telling her to be careful, to stay away from Ford. People watching her. It could’ve been paranoia. Who knows?”
Chisholm nodded. “Did she know the person or people who were calling?”
“No. All she said was that it was a man’s voice. An American. But we believe she was suffering from hallucinations. Voices in her head.”
“When was she diagnosed with bipolar disorder?”
“When she was twenty-one. But she was a high-functioning bipolar. She would work manically for four days without sleep, and then crash. But then the hallucinations started earlier this year. She said her boyfriend was lacing the joints she was smoking with PCP.”
Reznick wondered if Adam Ford, with his knowledge of drugs, was trying to get her hospitalized, knowing the devastating impact of PCP on someone with bipolar. And if so, for what purpose?
“Ms. Stapleton said the hallucinations were off-the-scale frightening.”
Chisholm allowed a long silence to open up before he spoke. “We really need to speak to Ms. Stapleton, if that’s all right with you.”
“I would ask that you please bear in mind that her mind wanders, and she is prone to flights of fancy. Her moods can be dark, but also, by sharp contrast, she can go manic. Very excitable. Chatty.”
“How is she just now?”
The doctor arched his thick eyebrows and smiled. “Go and see for yourself.”
The room was all beiges, with gentle watercolors on the wall, two terracotta sofas, and a coffee table in the middle. Hilary Stapleton was standing with her back to them, staring out of the window, dragging hard on a cigarette. She didn’t turn around when Chisholm and Reznick were ushered in by a nurse.
“FBI to see you, Hilary. You OK with that, honey?”
Stapleton turned around and beamed a wide smile at the nurse. She was very attractive, even without any makeup. “Thanks.” She wore faded jeans, a tight-fitting pink T-shirt, and sneakers.
The nurse smiled. “I’ll be waiting outside, Hilary,” she said before shutting the door behind her.
“You wanna take a seat, guys?” she said, pointing to the sofa nearest the door.
Chisholm nodded and they sat down.
Stapleton remained standing. “First goddamn visitors I’ve had. You believe that shit?”
Chisholm smiled empathically. “I’m sorry to hear that, Hilary.”
“You have no idea. I’m going out of my mind.” She closed her eyes and laughed. “Do you know how that feels, huh?”
Chisholm shook his head.
Stapleton seemed to Reznick to be ricocheting between depression and mania, unsure where the mood was going to take her.
She sat down on the sofa opposite and crushed the cigarette out in a glass ashtray. She looked at them for a few minutes. “I’m sorry.”
“You’ve nothing to be sorry for, Hilary,” Reznick said.
Tears filled her eyes. “Thank you. I like it when people are nice to me. It’s just that . . .” The words fell away, and she looked up and smiled. Her mood was changing by the second.
Chisholm leaned forward, hands clasped. “Hilary, we very much appreciate you seeing us. My name is Sam Chisholm, I’m from the FBI. And this is a colleague of mine.”
Stapleton was still smiling. “Nice to meet you both.”
“Now,” Chisholm said, quickly clearing his throat, “we just want to chat with you. We don’t want to write anything down and make you feel uncomfortable.”
Her face relaxed. “I don’t like it when people write things down when I’m here. It’s like they’re judging me. They don’t know me.”
“Absolutely, Hilary. We�
��ve just got a few questions about a guy you know.”
“What guy?”
“Hilary, what can you tell me about Adam Ford?”
She closed her eyes for a moment, as if composing herself. Then she began to bite her lower lip. “Why do you want to know about him?”
“It’s nothing major. We’re just trying to find out a little bit about him.”
Stapleton stood up. She was rigid, staring straight ahead. “I’m going to need more information,” she whispered.
“What do you want to know, Hilary?”
“Do you think he still loves me?”
“I’m sure he does, Hilary.” She nodded. “Let’s sit down, Hilary, and you can tell me about him.”
Stapleton sat down slowly, crossing her legs. “Things were great at the start. He was attentive. Caring. I was in love.” She stared off into the middle distance. “But there were differences.”
“What kind of differences?”
“I like music. I like to dance, have fun, drink, smoke pot, have a good time . . . you know what I’m talking about?”
Reznick nodded. “Sure.”
“He didn’t like my friends. He liked sports. He ran ninety miles a week sometimes. He rowed. He was down in his basement gym at all hours of the night. He meditated. I mean, for Chrissakes, I’m open-minded, but that’s fucking nuts, right?”
Chisholm smiled. “So, you had different lifestyles. Did he take drugs of any sort?”
“Absolutely not. Categorically fucking not. He hated me smoking. He’d put me out in his backyard, like a dog, in all weather, while I smoked myself crazy.”
“How did you meet?”
“My sister lives in DC. I visited and we went out to a few clubs. I was stoned and slipped on the floor and fell onto a broken glass.” She pulled up her T-shirt and showed them a scar across the top of her breasts.
Reznick and Chisholm averted their gazes.
“When I went to the hospital, I was covered in blood, and then I met Adam.”
Chisholm nodded. “And you hit it off?”
“I liked that he was so kind. I wanted to see him. I wanted more than that, to be honest. I think I’m a nymphomaniac, but I’m still to be diagnosed for that.”
Reznick struggled not to laugh.
Chisholm cleared his throat. “OK, Hilary, so you wanted to see him again?”
“Yeah, so I started calling him, and eventually he agreed to meet me for a coffee. We talked. I had taken my Xanax, so I was OK.”
“And it grew from there?”
“Slowly. Very slowly. I was working eighty hours a week on Wall Street, and by the time the weekend came, to see Adam, I was exhausted. But when I saw him I felt alive. Full of energy.”
Chisholm pinched the bridge of his nose. “Can you tell me what he was like to be around?”
Stapleton shook another cigarette out of the pack that had been lying on the table and lit up. She inhaled deep into her lungs and blew the smoke out, away from them. “What can I tell you? He was nice and gentle. I think he was trying, at least in the beginning, to save me from myself.”
Chisholm nodded but said nothing.
“He hooked me up with a therapist he knew. I didn’t like him, but I persevered, because Adam wanted it for me so much. He really did. But then it all kinda, I don’t know, started to change.”
“What started to change?” Reznick asked.
“Him. At least I think it was him. He started paying less attention to me. He seemed very cut off, all of a sudden.”
“When did this start?”
“Earlier this year. I was convinced he was seeing another girl.”
“And was he?”
Stapleton rolled her eyes. “He’s a guy . . . I don’t know, maybe. It was hard to figure it out. I kept on asking him if he was happy, but he didn’t want to talk about things. Not even his work, which he used to like doing. He really had a mission to save people. I don’t know, this probably isn’t making much sense, right?”
“Was there one trigger for you guys breaking up?” said Chisholm.
“It all started, I guess, when he came back from a trip.”
“A trip where?”
“I don’t know. He just said he went on a trip to find himself for a week.”
“Go on.”
“When he came back—well, about a week after he came back—I thought I was being followed.”
“Followed by whom?”
“I had an apartment by Battery Park, and I reported a prowler on my block—a man acting suspiciously, as if he was checking on me, spying on me.”
“Did you report this to the police?”
“Yes, I did. NYPD. Check it out if you don’t believe me.”
Chisholm reached forward across the table and patted the back of her hand. “We absolutely believe you, Hilary.”
Stapleton dragged again on the cigarette and watched the plumes of smoke rise to the ceiling. “I looked out my window a few times and was convinced I saw people photographing me.”
“Hilary, I don’t want you to take this the wrong way, but was this just paranoia on your part?”
“No. This was plain as day. It was a man, sometimes in the shadows. I didn’t like it. The police thought I was a crazy lady.”
Chisholm smiled. “The doctor said you’ve been doing PCP. Couldn’t this have led to paranoia?”
“I’m telling you, I didn’t take PCP. You’ve got to believe me. It was Adam. He laced the joints. I know it.”
“Why would he do that, Hilary?”
Stapleton went quiet for a few moments, a look of uncertainty crossing her fine features. “I think he was playing games with me. I think he’s a monster.”
Reznick smiled empathetically at her and then exchanged a knowing glance with Chisholm. The Fed went over to Stapleton and sat down beside her, taking her hand.
“Hilary,” Chisholm said, “we need to know all about Dr. Ford.”
“When I look back now, I can see that I was a toy for him to play with and then throw away. I think he arranged for me to be watched, to be followed, so that I would become paranoid. Maybe to keep an eye on me—I don’t know for sure. Then the PCP to finish me off, cause my breakdown, and now I’m here.” Stapleton laughed, tears filling her eyes. “No one believes me. Everyone thinks I’m a crazy loon who’s trying to blame someone else for her problems. But believe me, Adam isn’t the kind doctor type he makes himself out to be. There’s something so dark and scary about him. I’m telling you, I get afraid even thinking about him.”
“Go on.”
“Within twenty-four hours of arriving here, I was self-harming.” She pulled up her jeans and showed them cuts to her shin and the back of her calf. “I was losing my grip on reality and I needed to try to feel something. I felt the knife go into my skin. It felt good. For the first time in a long time, I felt at peace.”
Chisholm nodded. “I think you’ve been through a helluva lot. And I’m glad you’re getting the help you need here.”
Stapleton stood up and walked to the window. “Feel like I’m in a fucking zoo. Fat-assed nurses talking about art therapy, cognitive therapy bullshit. I mean, gimme a break, I just need some quiet. Is that asking too much?”
“No, it’s not.”
“Thank you. Thank God somebody gets that. Since when has it been wrong for an American, in America, to want to shut the door on the world and just be left alone?”
Chisholm smiled and nodded along. “That’s not wrong. I know where you’re coming from. Every single day of my life, I want to shut the door on the world. I mean, who needs that shit?”
Stapleton flung back her head and laughed. “You guys are fun. Wasn’t it Sartre who said hell was other people?” She ran a hand through her hair. “I always envisioned the Feds to be real cold bastards. You’re not so bad.”
Chisholm said, “You kidding me? Just ask my kids, I’m as soft as they get. Trust me.”
Suddenly, Stapleton got a faraway look in her eyes. She
’d changed. There was sadness in her gaze. “Always envisioned having kids. You know, cuddling up to them, being with them, nurturing them.”
“It’s not too late.”
“I had visions of Adam and myself, me a stay-at-home mom, baking bread with my daughter, or son, take your pick . . . yeah, baking bread, that would’ve been nice.”
“Did you ever talk to Adam about this?”
Stapleton turned and looked out of the window. “I saw, certainly in the early days of knowing Adam, a gentleness that I’d never encountered in a guy before. The way he looked at kids or expectant moms. He talked a lot about how America seemed to have lost its way. Its ideals had gone. It was all about the family, he would say. And I thought he would make a great father.”
Chisholm nodded. “Did he ever talk about his friends or family? Did you ever meet them?”
“Never.”
“What about old girlfriends? College buddies, that kind of thing?”
Stapleton turned and stared across the room at Chisholm. “Why do you want to know that?”
“We’re just trying to build up a picture.”
“Of who?”
“We need to know more about Adam,” Reznick said.
“Is that right? But you’ve not answered my question. Why do you want to know about any old girlfriends?”
Reznick smiled. “What we’re looking for is very important to us, and we’re hoping you can fill any gaps in our knowledge. You’ve been very helpful so far.”
Stapleton walked back to the table and shook another cigarette out of the pack before lighting up. “You’re not telling me the full story, are you?”
Reznick said nothing as the room filled with tobacco smoke.
Chisholm pursed his lips. “Look, Hilary, if you can’t help us any further, that’s fine, we’ll be on our way.”
Hilary held up her hand as if to stop them. “I never said I couldn’t help you. I want to help you. If you need this information, for whatever reason, then fine.”
“So were there any old girlfriends that you knew of?”
“I asked him about that once. He said there was a girl a long time ago. He sometimes called out a name in his sleep. He would sometimes wake up in a cold sweat, panting hard, in the middle of a nightmare. I don’t know . . .” She screwed up her eyes. “I think she had a foreign-sounding name. Russian.”