There was too much traffic in the fast lane. She slid behind a tractor-trailer in the middle lane then cut right to get into the slow lane and speed ahead of him. “So how do you know all this stuff about the Masons? Did you research them when you got tired of learning about Satanists?”
“No,” Rein said. “I am one.”
“What?”
“Well, I was one. I’m not sure if you lose your status after you leave.”
“You did all that? Went through the degree things and promised to get your heart torn out and ripped in half and stuff?”
“What can I say? I always wanted to be part of a secret society.”
Carrie laughed and shook her head. “Somehow, I can’t picture you wanting to be a part of anything. Did you enjoy it?”
“It was interesting. There is a lot of history involved. The rituals are the same as when George Washington and Benjamin Franklin were members. It was nice to feel connected to something with so much history.”
“Why did you leave?”
“There’s a question they ask that I could no longer answer. In times of greatest trouble, who do you put your faith in?”
“Jesus?”
“No. It can be any god. It doesn’t need a name,” Rein said. “But when I knew I could no longer answer that, I left.”
“We’ve talked about this before, but you don’t believe in anything? No higher power out there in the universe keeping it all together?”
“Nothing. As an investigator, I committed myself to only following the evidence where it goes. If you observe the world and humanity on its own, without any preconceived ideas about some higher power and you still arrive at that conclusion? I’d suggest you’re insane,” Rein said. “All I see is chaos. We do our best to stabilize it and maintain it but it’s a constant losing battle. If there is a universal higher power, it’s an agent of destruction. It’s definitely going to win. Stars collapse, worlds go dark, species go extinct. Thinking we’re different because some magical being in the sky is our friend is delusional. We will cling to this as long as we can before slipping away into the darkness with everything else.”
“I’m sorry I asked. You are a depressing person,” Carrie said. She checked the distance on her GPS. “I’ve never been to a mental institution before. Unless you count police stations.” She checked to see if Rein was smiling at her joke. He wasn’t. “I’ve been thinking about this. If the killer isn’t Pennington, it could be anyone he knew in here. I mean, first we took all the sickest sickos we could find and grouped them together like some kind of science project. Now, all because nobody wants to pay for them anymore, we’re letting them out.”
“The killer isn’t Tucker,” Rein said. “He’s an Elmer Hoffman.”
“Who the hell is Elmer Hoffman?”
“He was an art forger. A very talented one. He could recreate the style of any artist and pawn it off as an original. Picasso. Rodin. Da Vinci. He made millions of dollars forging their work.”
“Why didn’t he just do his own paintings if he was that good?”
“He lacked the spark of creativity,” Rein said. “He had no imagination of his own. He possessed all of the technique but had none of the inspiration. They said it drove him mad to go without recognition. He started to hide his name within the paintings. No one noticed until he committed suicide and left a note confessing to everything.”
Carrie mulled it over. “Just like our killer. He wants us to think he’s Tucker Pennington, but because he’s just an imposter, he has no original ideas so he’s stuck borrowing whatever he can, wherever he can find it.”
“Exactly,” Rein said. “At some point, like all imposters, he will crave the recognition he feels he deserves. Earlier, you asked why I stopped you from telling Harv the truth about Tucker. We need to let Harv focus on him, because it’s going to drive the real killer over the edge. He’s out here doing all this work and no one knows it. He’ll go into a frenzy.”
“It’s that easy, huh?” Carrie asked. The satisfaction in Rein’s voice when he described his plan to her gnawed at her. She tightened her grip around the steering wheel. “You know, I am trying not to think this, but it’s on my mind so I’m going to say it.”
“That’s for the best. Let it out, whatever it is.”
“When you talk about him going into a frenzy, you do realize you’re talking about him going after people I love, right? And that if we don’t catch him in time, it’s my family, or Bill’s family, whose asses are on the line.”
“We’ll catch him.”
Anger made her jaw tremble. “Did it ever even occur to you that the only reason my dad and Penny and Nubs are in danger is because of me? Do you have any idea how that makes me feel? Even if everything turns out okay, I’ll still have to live with the guilt that for a few days some psychotic piece of shit wanted to torture them to death. Like Nubs doesn’t have enough bullshit to deal with because of her mother? I’ll be lucky if she doesn’t already turn out mentally fucked-up without me adding my own bullshit on top of it!”
“Carrie, none of this is your fault,” Rein said. “Nubs is going to be fine. She’s a good kid.”
“How would you know? How in the fuck would you know? You couldn’t even bother to show up for dinner with her the other night. Wait, let me guess. There was something else more important to do.”
She cranked the wheel to the right. The sign for their exit was coming up fast.
* * *
Carrie laid her file on the counter and badged the Sunshine Estates receptionist. “I’m Detective Santero with the Vieira County Detectives. We’d like to speak to someone about one of your recently released patients.”
“Is the staff psychologist available?” Rein added.
“No one’s filling that position at the moment,” the receptionist said. “Budget cuts. It’s just a few doctors and orderlies now.”
“Who’s been here the longest?” Carrie asked.
The receptionist scrunched up her mouth in thought. “Probably Mr. Darryl.”
“We’ll talk to him,” Carrie said.
The receptionist paged him and said they could wait over there.
“You see that?” Carrie muttered. “No one ever asks to see your ID, do they? They never ask for your badge or your rank. I went to a SANE examination last year and they almost didn’t let me into the hospital until I proved who I was. You just waltz in here, the same way you waltzed around the crime scenes earlier and nobody says a thing.”
“I guess I look like I belong.”
“Or, you just look right. And by that I mean white. And male.”
“Is there anything else you need me to apologize for today? The way I talked to you in front of Bender. The way I’m putting everyone in danger. The way I didn’t show up for dinner. Now it’s that I’m a white male?”
“Older white male.”
Someone was coming down the hallway toward them. They could hear sneakers squeaking on the polished tiles. “You know, we don’t have to do this anymore,” Rein said. “After this case is done, whatever this is, can just be over.”
“Fine.”
“You go your way and I’ll go mine. Then maybe I won’t offend you anymore,” Rein said.
“Great.”
The door opened and a white-haired, bearded orderly waved for them to come along. “Good morning,” he said with a smile. “Come on in.”
“Thanks, Mr. Darryl,” Carrie said. “We’d like to ask you a few questions about some of the patients that have been here. There’s been some trouble.”
“What kind of trouble?”
“A doctor who used to work here was murdered. So were some other people.”
“Which doctor?”
“Linda Shelley,” Rein said.
“Oh, don’t say that,” Mr. Darryl moaned. He pressed his hands to his forehead. “No, please, please, don’t say that.”
“I’m sorry,” Rein said. He put his hand on the man’s arm. “We’re looking for the m
an who did it. Can you help us?”
“What do you need?”
“There was a patient named Tucker Pennington,” Carrie said. She pulled a photograph of Pennington out of her file. “Do you remember him?”
“Sure, I remember him,” Mr. Darryl said. “He killed Dr. Shelley?”
“Actually, we think it might be someone he knew,” Carrie said. “The victims were all involved in his case at various stages.”
“Tucker kept to himself,” Mr. Darryl said. “He was on high doses of medication that really knocked him out. He was like a zombie most times.”
“Did he have any friends, anyone in here he spent time with?” Rein asked.
“No, not that I can recall. These folks don’t really make friends in here. If they was the friendly type, they wouldn’t be in here, if you catch my meaning.”
“Is there anyone who’s been let out recently who worried you?” Carrie asked.
“Shoot. I’m worried for all them getting out,” Mr. Darryl said. “And worried for everybody else too. At least when they was here, they had people to keep an eye on ’em, make sure they got they meds, and didn’t hurt nobody. Now, Lord knows what’s gonna happen to ’em.”
“Who makes you the most worried?” Rein asked. “Who is the one patient you never want to see show up at your house?”
Mr. Darryl scrunched up his mouth in thought, then said, “Gregory Moon. Nasty piece of work. That boy was crazy. I was sorry to see him leave but glad to see him go, if you understand.”
Carrie wrote the name down. “Did he and Pennington know one another?”
“They did. They came here from the juvenile detention center together, from what I can recall. Had a few fights. Always ended with Tucker whooping on him, after Moon pushed him too far.”
Rein nodded as the man spoke and waited for Carrie to stop writing. “That’s good info, Mr. Darryl. Please show us everything you have on Gregory Moon.”
“There’s not much I can give you. Most of the patient files get archived when they’re released.”
“There’s always a way,” Rein said.
“It’s in a secure room. Don’t you people need search warrants for patient records?”
Carrie looked down the hall. It was empty except for them. She leaned close to Mr. Darryl. “There’s not even enough staff here to keep this place operational. Nobody’s going to notice. I told you, this is a murder investigation, and more people are at risk.”
“I could get in trouble.”
“And what, lose your job?” Rein asked. “I’ve got bad news for you. This job is about to get rid of you and everyone else. Now, we could get a search warrant, sure. By the time we get back, you might already be laid off and a lot more people will already be dead. Or, you help us, and we put in a good word for you at wherever you apply next.”
“Mr. Darryl assisted us in a very important investigation. I think he’d be a great asset to your company,” Carrie said.
“That’s right,” Rein said. “A reference like that is worth something.”
“I don’t need no references,” Mr. Darryl said. “What I need is my paycheck as long as I can get it here. We got rules, same as you all.”
Rein seized him by the arm. “Linda Shelley was butchered in her own bedroom. Now you say you knew her. Well, I knew her too, and I’m going to find the man who did it and make him pay. I need you to help us do that.”
“This is the time you decide which is more important, Mr. Darryl. Rules or what’s right,” Carrie said. Mr. Darryl’s back was pressed against the wall, trying to get away from Rein. Carrie removed Rein’s hand from the man’s arm. “Linda Shelley always chose what was right. I know that, because I saw her do it myself, even when it broke the rules.”
“I’ll do it, but only for her,” Mr. Darryl said. “It’s going to take a little while. Meet me around back in your car and I’ll bring it out. Is there anything in particular you want me to find?”
“Everything,” Rein said. “We need to see it all.”
18
Tucker Pennington was kneeling on the floor with his hands pressed together, rocking back and forth as he prayed. His mother, Grace, and the priest were sitting across from one another in the parlor. Grace was making small talk about the people who went to Saint Margaret’s. Father Ihan humored her without indulging in gossip. “They are doing their best, I am sure,” he said.
He reached for the plate of golden butter cakes on the side table and picked one up. He held it delicately with one hand and took a bite. It melted in his mouth and he sighed with pleasure. “This is fantastic. You are an excellent baker.”
“Oh,” Grace said, waving her hand at him. “It’s mainly just flour and sugar. I was going to make enough for the whole church next Sunday. My pantry is filled with so much flour and sugar I could make butter cake for the Roman legion if they showed up.”
Ihan took a drink of coffee to wash the butter cake down. He raised his cup to acknowledge Tucker as he finished his latest prayer. “Well done, Tucker. Come sit.” He patted the couch cushion next to him.
Tucker got up from the floor and sat on the couch next to the priest, keeping to the edge of it and rocking back and forth. “You have been praying all day,” Ihan said. “Is something disturbing you?”
“The police were here the other morning,” Grace Pennington said. “They tried to accuse Tucker of leaving the house unsupervised. Luckily, we had video cameras installed before he came home just for such an event. That really fixed them, I’ll tell you. You should have seen the look on that female cop’s face.”
“Well, they have a job to do too,” Ihan said. “We must pray for them to be safe and have good judgment.”
“I’ll pray for them to have better judgment, that’s for sure,” Grace said.
Ihan patted Tucker’s arm. “You received many compliments on how clean the church is. Everyone noticed.”
Grace smacked her hands on her thighs. “I just remembered I forgot to write you that check. Why didn’t you remind me?”
“I did not want to make any presumptions.”
“Don’t be silly. We’d do anything for the church.”
“You are very generous,” he said.
She laid the leather three-ring binder containing her checks and paged through it to find the right page. “Father, speaking of cleaning the church, I’ve been telling Tucker that there is more to being a good Christian than just praying.”
“Of course.”
“He could be working in soup kitchens. He could become a missionary and go visit poor people. You came from Venezuela. Maybe he could go to Venezuela and help the poor people there as a way to give back for you helping him.” She tore the check off and held it out toward him. “I think there are more important things he could be doing than janitorial work.”
Ihan reached forward and took the check. The woman said the word janitorial the way people describe drunks vomiting in alleyways.
“I want people to see him,” Grace insisted. “I don’t like him scurrying around cleaning bathrooms in the middle of the night, like we’re ashamed to have him home or you’re ashamed to have him in the church. People need to know that everything they heard about him is a lie, and he has devoted himself to God. They need to see it.”
Ihan slid the check into his pants pocket. “If we only believe in what we see, can we call ourselves Christians?”
Grace closed the checkbook and sat back. “You’re right. The people who don’t believe Tucker has changed must not be true Christians.”
He measured his words. “In the book of Corinthians, Saint Paul tells us to look not to the things that are seen, but the things that are unseen. What can be seen is transient. The unseen is eternal.”
Before Grace could press the issue, someone knocked at the door. She squished her mouth together and balled up her fists. “So help me, Lord, if that’s those detectives again, I’m not letting them in. I’ll tell them to call our attorney. This is getting ridiculous.�
��
She looked through the front windows and saw a young man standing on the porch, grinning back at her. He had long black hair, tucked behind his ears and combed flat on top of his head. He wore a faded blue blazer with missing brass buttons and black slacks that didn’t fit. His shirt was an awful green floral pattern, tucked in, with no belt. He was Tucker’s age but after so many years of confinement, Tucker looked like an old man already with his sagging skin and missing hair. This young man looked awake and alive, and more importantly, he looked glad to be there. “Good morning, Mrs. Pennington,” he said through the window.
She opened the door just a crack. “Do I know you?”
“No, ma’am. I’m a friend of your son’s. We went to school together, and I heard he was home. I just wanted to come over and say hello.”
“Oh!” she said. She broke out into a smile. “Oh well, that is just wonderful. Tucker! Come look. One of your friends has come to visit.” She opened the door wide to let the young man in. “Isn’t this nice? Please do come in.” She waved her hand toward the couch and said, “This is Father Ihan from Saint Margaret of Antioch’s. He’s been supervising Tucker’s treatment.”
The young man held up his hand and waved.
Tucker rocked back and forth, not looking up.
“How long have you and Tucker been friends?”
“Oh, we’ve known each other for years,” he said. “We lost touch for a little while, with all the trouble, you know. But I never stopped thinking about him.”
Grace was too overcome to speak. It was everything she’d hoped for her son. A friend. A normal person who cared about him and saw the good in him. She rubbed the young man’s arm briskly, thanking him without having the words to thank him with.
“Perhaps the boys would like to talk alone?” Father Ihan said. “Fellowship is an important part of all healing.”
“That’s a wonderful idea,” Grace said. “You boys go up to Tucker’s room and get reacquainted. I’ll make some food and bring it up to you, okay?”
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