“Happens,” Nick admitted. “But if CASt isn’t one of these three suspects, then what have we contributed?”
“We’ve ruled them out,” Catherine said. “That’s important, too.”
Nick’s nod was grudging.
Following Amargosa Road out into the Last Chance Range, Nick couldn’t help but mirthlessly smile at the hospital’s location. “Last chance” is right, he thought. Most of the patients at Sundown were dangerous either to themselves or others, and consequently spent most of their time under complete lockdown—served meals in rooms that were really cells, only getting out for exercise once a day, one-at-a-time, in a tiny yard to walk laps for fifteen minutes.
Nick pulled into the parking lot, home to maybe a dozen cars, most of which were parked at the far end, near the employees’ entrance of the wide, one-story building. The facility was larger than it seemed from the front. This Nick knew, having once flown over in a helicopter, getting a view of the huge pentagon; and on a previous visit, Nick had seen the interior of the building, which had gone on forever, with endless wings, like something out of a bizarre bad dream.
If you weren’t mentally ill when you came here, it would be easy to get with the program….
They climbed down from the SUV and walked toward the front entrance.
“When I have my breakdown,” Catherine said, “promise to shoot me if they send me here.”
“No problem—same in my case?”
“Deal,” she said.
The glass double doors were chicken-wire woven. Nick tried to open one and it didn’t budge.
Catherine pointed to a sign on the door that read: PLEASE USE SPEAKERBOX TO REQUEST ENTRY.
Nick said to her, “Okay, so your attention to detail is better than mine.”
Catherine went to the box next to the door and pushed the button.
Several moments dragged by, and Catherine was frowning at Nick, as if asking for permission to try again, when a female voice asked, “May I help you?”
“Catherine Willows and Nick Stokes to see Dr. Jennifer Royer. We’re from the LVPD Crime Lab.”
“Do you have an appointment?”
“No. But I left a message on her machine.”
“… Just a moment.”
Another long pause followed, Nick and Catherine looking at each other, wondering if they had been ditched.
Finally, the woman’s voice came back over the speaker: “I’ll buzz you in. Please have your credentials ready.”
The buzz that followed reminded Nick of the handshake gag you could buy at various casino magic shops. He opened the door for Catherine and they passed through. Behind him, Nick heard the thunk of an electronic lock.
“And we asked to come in here?” Nick said.
A wide-eyed Catherine said, “This is not a happy place….”
The lobby was clean, walls a soft mint green, floors a lighter green tile, with the only decorative touch a starkly framed architectural drawing of the facility itself.
A thick patina of sadness seemed to cover everything, like emotional dust; despite the double glass doors letting sunshine seep in through the wire-mesh, the lobby remained shrouded in faint gray light, in part due to fluorescent tubes under discolored plastic tiles in the ceiling. A darker green sofa and a few matching unpadded chairs were scattered against the far walls, with a low-slung table littered with Psychology Today magazines. The scent of pine cleaner clung to the air, doing little to dissipate an aroma of sickness and death that seemed to emanate from the walls, the air ducts, even the furnishings.
These impressions were subjective to say the least, but Nick could see from Catherine’s quietly appalled expression that she shared them.
She confirmed this by whispering to him: “You’re not a guest here, not even a resident—you’re a hostage.”
A heavyset woman in white was framed in the reception window. She had bottle red hair and a hard, dark glow about her, as if her displeasure with her lot in life had turned radioactive.
“May I help you?” she asked. It seemed more a warning than an invitation.
This was the intercom voice.
Catherine said, “We’re the LVPD personnel to see Dr. Jennifer Royer?”
They stepped forward and held out the IDs on the necklaces.
The reception nurse leaned forward, read them. Looked up, blandly skeptical. “Do you have anything else?”
Dutifully, they showed the gatekeeper their wallet IDs, as well.
She gave them a smile that seemed to say, Congratulations for meeting the admission standards, but don’t get cocky: You still have to get out….
Or maybe Nick was just feeling a little paranoid.
“Down the hall on the left,” the nurse said, not looking at them any more, “third door.”
The third door on the left was open and Nick knocked on the frame.
A woman of about forty, her red hair—not from a bottle, short but not mannish—looked up, seated behind a desk cluttered with files. She apparently did not avail herself of the Vegas sunshine much, though with her fair Irish complexion, that might have been self-protection. She had a narrow face with a long straight nose, blue almond-shaped eyes and a wide mouth—unusual but attractive features, the intelligence behind them apparent.
“Ah,” she said, her voice carrying the hint of a Southern accent, “you’re the Crime Lab people. I got your message, but haven’t had the chance to return it. Glad you went ahead and came out anyway…. Sit, sit.”
Two metal-frame chairs were waiting opposite the desk, and the CSIs took them.
The office was small and neat, except for the desktop, indicative of a perpetually busy occupant. The desk itself was metal as were the two file cabinets that ran along the left wall. The doctor’s chair looked comfortable but not overly so. Nothing elaborate at Sundown—but sufficient. And not one thing more….
“I’m Catherine Willows and this is Nick Stokes.”
The woman smiled and it seemed genuine, one professional to another. She had small, straight, white teeth. “I’m Dr. Jennifer Royer, the head doctor…. You can fill in your own joke.”
“We’d like to talk to one of your patients,” Catherine said.
“Congratulations,” the doctor said, with just a faint trace of amusement. “That makes you part of an elite group.”
Catherine frowned. “Excuse me?”
Dr. Royer’s smile pursed. “The patients housed at Sundown generally don’t receive visitors of any kind, not even from the LVPD.”
“How about family?” Nick asked.
“That varies from case to case,” Royer said. She sighed, and shook her head; her dry good humor was clearly her way of dealing with this depressing place. “Patients are sent here for diverse reasons, at least in the sense that there are countless but myriad ways the words are written down. But in reality? There’s really only one reason our patients are within these walls: Someone, or perhaps everyone, wants them locked up.”
“Warehoused,” Catherine said.
The doctor—her frankness refreshing if surprising—nodded and said, “Exactly—shoved out of sight.”
“But once they’re here, you try to help them.”
Royer’s smile froze—it was almost a grimace now. “We try.”
Nick asked, “How’s your success rate?”
With a self-deprecating shrug, the doctor said, “We prefer not to share that information—this is, after all, a private facility.”
Nick exchanged glances with Catherine—a success rate so low, it wasn’t available to the public?
Catherine said, “Surely a significant percentage of your patients leave, and return to a normal life.”
“Some do. Most of them go out in a way that I’m sure your crime lab is familiar with … Now how exactly may I be of help to Las Vegas law enforcement?”
Shifting in the hard chair, Catherine said, “As we indicated, we’d like to talk to one of your patients.”
“Which one?”
>
“Jerome Dayton.”
Dr. Royer didn’t hesitate. “No Jerome Dayton here.”
Catherine winced, perhaps thinking she’d mis-heard. “I’m … sorry?”
Shaking her head now, Dr. Royer said, “No one here by that name.”
Nick said, “You’re absolutely sure of that?”
“I should be—I’m the attending physician for every patient at Sundown.”
Catherine glanced at Nick, who could see his partner was getting irritated. To Royer she said, “We had information Dayton was a patient here.”
“Well, he’s not a patient now.”
Nick noted the ambiguity of that and pounced. “But he was? Jerome Dayton was one of your patients?”
The smile was long gone. Dr. Royer’s face had turned stony. “There are just around one hundred guests here at Sundown and none of them is named Jerome Dayton.”
“Did he go out in one of those body bags you mentioned?”
The doctor thought for just a second, then said, “I don’t think I can be of any help to you. Very sorry.”
Catherine pressed: “Could you check your records?”
“No.” The finality in the previously pleasant doctor’s voice was unmistakable. “That would be a violation of the patient’s right-to-privacy.”
“But if he’s not a patient …”
“The privacy of former patients is also a concern.”
Shaking her head, smiling in a forced manner that had little to do with the usual reasons for smiling, Catherine said, “Dr. Royer, this is a murder investigation. We just got word of our third murder in a little over one week.”
The stony face remained such.
Nick said, “Jerome Dayton was a major suspect in the CASt case … perhaps you remember it? And if he’s not a patient in this hospital … then he’s a key suspect in the series of murders occurring in Las Vegas right now.”
Dr. Royer did not seem terribly impressed by Nick’s impassioned statement. She merely said, “That doesn’t give either the Las Vegas police or, for that matter, myself any authority in a matter of violating this patient’s rights.”
Catherine nodded icily. “You have a point. So we’ll get a court order.”
The doctor shrugged, then jotted a number on a business card and handed it to Catherine.
“That’s our fax number” she said. “Have the court order sent here. In the meantime, let’s see if we can track down Mr. Dayton’s records.”
Catherine blinked, and her expression would have been no different had Dr. Royer slapped her. “You’re … going to help us?”
“Call for your court order,” she said crisply, “and we’ll look while we wait.”
“I don’t understand ….”
“Of course you do. You’re both professionals. I can see that. Well, so am I … and I’m a stickler for the rights of our patients, Ms. Willows.”
Catherine seemed almost embarrassed as she said, “Of course you are.”
“Is there any reason to think you won’t get your court order?”
“No. That will be easily obtained.”
“All right,” the doctor said. “Then if this man is a killer, there isn’t a second to waste.”
While Catherine made the cell phone call, Nick watched Dr. Royer search through one of the file cabinets. Apparently Sundown hadn’t converted their older records to computer files as yet—not surprising.
By the time Catherine had made her call, the doctor was already sitting down again, going over the contents of a file folder, her expression thoughtful.
“As soon as the judge signs the order,” Catherine said, “it’ll be faxed over.”
“May be a waste of time,” Dr. Royer said, eyes still on the file.
“Why?” Nick asked.
The doctor looked up and said, matter-of-factly, “I don’t see how Jerome Dayton could be your killer.”
“Why?” Catherine asked.
Royer nodded at the file before her. “Jerome Dayton became a patient here about ten years ago. Long before I accepted my post at Sundown, by the way.”
Catherine said, “Well, that tallies with what we know about Dayton—he would have been admitted ten years ago.”
“Yes. He was admitted as a paranoid schizophrenic.”
“Meaning,” Nick said, “he heard voices?”
“That’s only one of the symptoms,” Royer said. “Hallucinations, both auditory and visual, can be symptoms of schizophrenia. But the patient can also suffer from delusions of persecution.”
“Was that the case,” Catherine asked, “with Jerome Dayton?”
“Yes, he did have such delusions.”
Royer slowly scanned the file further. She read to herself for five minutes, flipping through pages.
Nick and Catherine waited patiently. Ten minutes more had passed before the dour nurse returned with the fax and placed it on Royer’s desk. The nurse disappeared, Royer glanced at the fax, nodded, and returned to her reading.
Several minutes later she said, “It appears Jerome thought his father was emasculating him, forcing him to have sex.”
Catherine said, “Do we know these were in fact delusions?”
Nick picked up the thread: “Were there examinations to look for signs of sexual abuse?”
“According to this file,” Dr. Royer said, “there were indeed such examinations, and nothing was found to support the young man’s claims. The father, Thomas, was, of course, one of the biggest contractors in the city at the time.”
Nick frowned. “Since when is there a cure for schizophrenia?”
“Four out of five patients respond well to certain medication,” Dr. Royer said. “In Jerome’s case, Haldol helped him turn a corner. He was, according to the file, going through counseling and group therapy while he was here.”
Catherine’s expression was troubled. “So, he was under control … if not cured.”
“Yes.”
“And he was released?”
“He was,” Royer said.
Nick shook his head, disbelievingly. “When was this?”
“Seven years ago.”
Nick sat forward. “He was cured in three years?”
Royer looked at the CSI over the file. “I’ve already said, he was not ‘cured.’ He was, however, on medication, and had his illness under control. According to the file, he made incredible strides once my predecessor diagnosed his problem. Jerome was even taking day trips and weekends with his parents.”
Catherine asked, “Is that normal?”
The doctor smiled, the first time since the subject had changed to Jerome Dayton. “ ‘Normal’ is not a scientific term, Ms. Willows. And since you’re a scientist yourself, you can guess how seldom the word ‘normal’ comes up around a facility like this…. No, such day trips are not ‘normal,’ but it’s not unheard of either. Remember, Jerome was admitted voluntarily; he cooperated when his parents admitted him.”
Catherine, alarmed, asked, “Could he have signed himself out?”
“That’s possible, though the file doesn’t specifically indicate as much…. Sometimes diagnosis and medication are all a patient needs to get on the road to recovery, Ms. Willows, and they get better at a remarkable rate. Sometimes spending time with family—day trips and weekends—can be beneficial to the healing process.”
“Seven years,” Nick said, shaking his head again. “I can’t believe no one knew this guy was back on the street.”
Royer shrugged. “If he was a suspect in the CASt case, those murders stopped what, eleven years ago?”
“Ten,” Catherine said. “He was admitted just before the last murder.”
“That’s why I don’t see how he can be your man,” Royer said. “He’s been out for seven years, and there have been no killings.”
“Until recently,” Catherine said.
“Granted,” the doctor said, nodding, “until recently. But you’re the criminalists—you tell me: Do serial killers normally take a seven-year hiat
us?”
Catherine shook her head. “No. But as scientists, doctor, we don’t use the word ‘normally’ much in our work, either…. Do you know where we can find Jerome Dayton?”
Royer thumbed through the file. “Ah, here it is…. Presumably, his parents. He was released into their custody.”
“The father’s dead,” Nick said. “Two or three years ago. Got lots of play in the press.”
“I remember that,” the doctor said. “Mr. Dayton was something of a celebrity, at least locally. Then I can only assume Jerome Dayton is still with his mother.”
“Can we be sure he stayed on his medication?” Catherine asked.
“Reasonably sure. For the first several years, he did counseling, group therapy, and received his drugs here. Eventually, he started obtaining his meds from our sister facility, and this file stops. You might want to get the subsequent file from them.”
The doctor then carefully read the order.
“Everything looks good,” Royer said. “Do you mind if I photocopy this file, before I turn it over to you?”
“Not at all,” Catherine said. “No telling how long it might be in our hands.”
“Right … I wish we could have been more help, but everything I see here points at Jerome’s innocence. And as you’ll see, there are no violent episodes in his history, either.”
“Known history,” Catherine amended.
The doctor echoed that, then went out to get the file copied.
“I can’t believe it,” Nick said to Catherine. “This clown was released seven years ago, probably the best CASt suspect of all, and no one knew he was out!”
“Well … maybe it doesn’t matter.”
“Doesn’t matter?”
“Yeah, Nick. I mean, he was incarcerated here, when the last murder of the original CASt cycle went down.”
Soon Dr. Royer returned, and gave the original file to Catherine, who said, “Thank you, Dr. Royer, for your time and effort.”
“We do what we can.”
When they were outside, Nick said, “You remember the date of the Drake murder?”
“Well I’ve got it written down,” Catherine said, and took out her pocket notebook and showed him.
As he pulled out the Tahoe keys, he said, “What does the file say for that date?”
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