by Ann Gosslin
Looking for something?
Erin whirled around, but the room was now empty. When her phone rang, she jumped. Anonymous caller. Though Ray was in another room, she stepped into the front hall before answering. ‘Hello?’
Dead air, followed by the sound of something heavy scraping across the floor and a ragged intake of breath.
‘Hello? This is Dr Cartwright.’ The click of a door closing. ‘Who’s there? Hello?’ But the connection was cut, and she clutched her phone, waiting for the caller to ring again.
‘Everything okay?’ Ray stood in the doorway.
‘Fine.’ Her face burned. ‘Wrong number.’ She struggled to keep her voice casual, but her throat was tight. It could have been Cassie. But there was no way to know, and now no chance to reach her.
She turned away from Ray’s quizzical gaze. She’d told him her name was Carson. Had he heard her say her real name when she answered the call? The endless lies were exhausting. But it didn’t matter, it was unlikely she’d ever see him again.
27
Greenlake Psychiatric Facility
Atherton, New York
April, Present Day
Hunched over a stack of paperwork, Harrison barely glanced up when Erin entered the room. ‘If I’m not mistaken, today is your last formal session with Tim?’ He stuck his glasses on top of his head and rubbed his eyes.
Erin nodded. ‘If things go as planned, I’ll be submitting my full report to the review board by the end of next week.’ Ahead of the deadline, she might have added, despite the earlier setbacks.
‘Well, that’s good to hear.’ He fussed with the papers on his desk. A nervous gesture she’d come to recognise. ‘How did you fare on your visit to Tim’s hometown? Anything of interest come up?’
She hesitated, sorry now she’d mentioned her plan to visit Belle River. At some point, Harrison had transformed from ally to adversary. But when? Two doctors eyeing each other across a hostile no man’s land. To deflect the question, she busied herself with some papers of her own. ‘It was just a routine look around,’ she said, trying not to sound defensive. But she had no desire to describe her visit to the Stern family’s former home, or how she’d been so easily duped by the current owner.
Something odd about the space behind Harrison’s desk attracted her attention. The middle photo, the one with the largest snowy peak and diamond-bright sun, was missing. She looked round till she spotted it on the floor, leaning against the bookcase. In the corner, a cardboard box was filled with files.
‘Did you discover anything of note?’ He leaned heavily on his elbows, his forehead damp with sweat.
‘Not especially.’
In a show of vigour, Harrison hauled himself out of the chair and began to straighten a row of books on the shelf. But his agitation was apparent.
‘Well, it’s good to hear things are progressing,’ he said, stepping back to survey his handiwork. ‘And now that I’ve met Tim’s father, I feel more confident about the situation. He seems like a perfectly decent chap. And quite keen to give Tim a proper home.’
It was impossible to hide her surprise. Harrison hadn’t mentioned anything about a visit. Was there a reason for keeping her in the dark?
‘Mr Stern arrived yesterday, just after lunch,’ he said, answering the question on her lips and returning to his chair. ‘We spoke for nearly an hour, before I took him to see Tim in the dayroom, where I kept a watchful eye from the nurses’ station. We were all a bit on edge, considering it was the first time the two had seen each other since… well, in twenty-seven years.’
As her mind buzzed with questions, her fingers drifted to the scar by her collarbone, a clear sign of anxiety. What she wouldn’t give to have been a fly on the wall of the dayroom. The body language alone would have relayed a treasure trove of information. Her instinct was to pepper Harrison with questions, but she relaxed her grip on the armrests, reminding herself to breathe and tread slowly. An attendant rapped on the door.
‘Ah, your chariot awaits.’ Harrison’s smile looked strained. ‘Would you mind coming round again when you’ve finished your session?’
*
The shriek and clatter of the ward assaulted her eardrums. Doors clanged, keys jangled. The shrill buzzer that erupted each time a door opened seemed to have tripled in volume since her last visit. An attendant with a sour expression led her down the long dank corridor. Her skin felt clammy in the foetid air.
In his room, Tim sat upright in a plastic chair. Feet together, eyes front, as if waiting for a bus. He turned his head away as the attendant’s bulk filled the doorway.
‘Got a visitor, Timbo. Doc here to see you.’
A muscle twitched in his jaw. ‘My name is Timothy.’
‘Yeah, yeah. Timothy. Whatever. But look sharp. Pretty lady wants to talk to you.’ As he leaned close, Erin stepped away. ‘We don’t get many women in here. Should perk the old boy right up.’
She waited until the attendant backed off before turning to Tim.
‘Hello, Timothy. Everything okay in here?’
His eyes flicked to the walls and the floor. ‘Do you see anyone?’
‘I don’t see anyone. Only you.’ She paused. ‘Do you see someone?’
He clenched and unclenched his hands, but said nothing.
‘There’s no one in this room but you, Timothy.’ She watched him carefully, wondering if this was the same type of delusion he’d had before when he claimed to have seen a strange man lying on his bed.
‘Nobody here.’ His breath came in gasps. ‘No one?’
Should she go ahead with her evaluation, or was Tim too upset to make sense of the tests? Her heart plummeted. There’d been too many delays already. She was hoping this would be her last trip to Greenlake.
‘Do you feel well enough to answer some questions? It won’t take long.’
He coughed and lumbered upright. ‘I’m ready now.’
Accompanied by a female attendant, they walked single file to the visitors’ room at the far end of the ward, with the dim light bulb and flaking paint. A feedback loop of her own incarceration scrolled through her head. The smells and noise. The noxious cloud of despair. She closed her eyes and focused on her breathing, terrified of being sucked back through the tunnel of time.
Inside the room, Tim turned away. She could see the tension in his shoulders as he sidestepped to the window, shielding his eyes. The sun shone on the scraggy fields and abandoned factory, glancing off the cracked windows. The coils of razor wire splintered the light into tiny shards.
She perched on the edge of the chair. ‘Why did you think someone was in your room?’
He leaned his forehead against the window and muttered something under his breath.
‘Was it the same man as before, the one you saw lying on your bed?’
‘No.’ He dragged his sleeve across his face. ‘It was nobody.’
She would like to ask him about his father’s visit – how it went, what he thought – but that might set off another spasm of panic, a repeat of the lunch fiasco when she’d alluded to Belle River. Only four weeks ago it was, though it seemed like years. Time had contracted to a thin, treacherous stream.
‘Okay then, Timothy. I’m going to ask you a few questions and show you a couple of pictures. It won’t take long and then we’ll be done.’
‘My father was here.’ He rotated away from the window, pulling his head tortoise-like into his hunched shoulders. ‘He gave me a sweatshirt, but I left it in my room.’ He ran his hands over the stained green sweatshirt he usually wore.
‘Did you and your father have a good visit?’ She scanned his face for signs of distress.
‘I got a book of Sudoku. And the sweatshirt. He said places like this are always cold.’ A chill pricked her spine. Places like this are always cold. A perfect mimicry of Stern’s voice. Tim turned back to the window. ‘Winter’s over. Spring is here.’ He tapped his fingers on the glass. ‘He gave me a picture of his dog. She has silky hair. Her name
is…’ He squeezed his eyes shut. ‘I don’t remember.’
‘Do you like dogs?’
He pulled a creased photo from the pocket of his jeans and held it out. She touched it with her fingertips, expecting resistance, but he released it willingly into her hand. Lulu, caught in mid-stride, as she lolloped across the lawn, with the pond and red barn in the background. Like a farm in a picture book. She turned it over to see if Stern had written anything on the back. No text, but someone – Tim? – had sketched a large birdlike creature with outstretched wings, its head shaped like an anvil.
‘What’s this… some kind of prehistoric bird?’
Sweat shone on his brow. ‘Scopus umbretta. Hamerkop.’
The drawing was accomplished, the winged creature so deftly executed it seemed poised to lift off the paper. Ruth Davis was right. As a bird artist, Tim clearly had a gift. He held out his hand, and she dropped the drawing into his palm.
‘Can we start now?’ He held his watch close to his face. ‘I need to get back to my Sudoku. I’ve done 31 out of 400 and I don’t want to get behind.’
He sat and wedged his hands between his knees. Erin noted the time and began the assessment, but with Tim distracted and unfocused, it was slow-going. After fifteen minutes, she suggested they take a break. She had him stand up, and together they did a few simple stretches, hands reaching to the ceiling, bending side to side, followed by a breathing exercise.
When she was ready to begin again, Tim had wandered back to the window.
‘Bed shed dead. Dud thud blood.’
She gripped the pencil and listened intently. Symptoms of psychosis? Or had Tim remembered something he’d seen?
‘Timothy?’
He turned away from the windows, his eyes flat. ‘Can I go now? Eleven more by lunchtime or they won’t count.’
Won’t count? It was impossible to follow the topography of this mind.
‘Twenty minutes. I promise.’
She gamely continued with the rest of the assessment, but struggled to concentrate, as her thoughts leapt ahead to the questions she wanted to ask Harrison about the change in Tim’s mood. His meds could have been altered again, or he might have stopped taking them. Patients could be notoriously clever at deceiving the nurses.
*
After debriefing Harrison on the day’s session, Erin stopped by the records department to check out Tim’s medical history from his first ten years at Greenlake. It wasn’t easy to persuade the staff to allow her to take the boxes offsite, but after endless promises to safeguard them, she loaded them into the boot of her car.
Bed shed dead. Dud thud blood. Classic clang symptoms of schizophrenia were often meaningless. But not this time, of that she was sure, especially with those particular words. His father’s visit had shaken something loose. Tim was starting to remember.
28
Lansford, New York
May, Present Day
Erin shut the blinds and switched on the light before dumping a box of Tim’s medical and legal records on the coffee table. She spread out the files and tilted her head to study the labels. Where to begin? The arrest, the police report, or the trial? Running her fingers over the folders, she paused at the police report.
She plumped the cushions and poured a glass of wine. Just dive right in. Curled up on the sofa in the living room, she went straight to the plastic sheaf of photos from the crime scene. Many more than provided in the summary of Tim’s case she’d received from Harrison. The mother’s head split open, her chest and abdomen stabbed repeatedly with a carving knife. According to the pathology report, the first blow was struck in the living room, but the body had been found in the kitchen, following an extended struggle. That meant the initial blow from the meat cleaver wasn’t enough to disable her, not if she had the strength to flee.
A logical scenario if Tim was hesitant and pulled back. Did that mean he wasn’t in a state of full-blown psychosis at the time? She scribbled a note on the yellow legal pad by her side. To complicate things further, Tim’s two sisters were not killed with the same weapons as the mother. They were found in their beds, their throats cut with a fish knife, discovered later by the police, stuffed under Tim’s mattress. The coroner’s report suggested they may also have been asphyxiated. Probably with the bed pillows. Though the investigation could not conclude who was killed first, Erin could only assume it was the two girls. If they’d been alive during the mayhem and bloodshed downstairs, wouldn’t they have run to help their mother when they heard her screams?
The downstairs rooms were marked off with yellow crime-scene tape and chalk from the forensics team. Modern furniture in the living room, a nubby carpet the colour of oatmeal, dark green curtains on the windows. A delicate spun-glass hummingbird with a tiny beak and scarlet throat lay broken on the floor. An amber hanging lamp over the dining table that resembled a flying saucer. Avocado-green appliances in the kitchen, and a brown-glazed cookie jar in the shape of an owl.
A typical suburban home. Except for one thing. Nothing was tacked to the refrigerator with cheerful magnets. No student artwork, notes or party invitations. No magazines or books strewn about, and no evidence of sporting equipment or gym kit tossed in the entryway. Except for the bodies, no signs of family life at all.
In Tim’s room, the bed was neatly made, the pillow placed squarely in the centre of the headboard. Had he tidied up before or after the murders? She scanned the police report. It must have been before as no blood was found in his room. Blood from the mother was found on the stairs and in the sisters’ room, but the police couldn’t determine if it had been tracked in before or after the girls were dead. Tim could have suffocated them first, dispatched the mother, then returned to his sisters’ room to slice their throats.
Why? She closed her eyes. What type of paranoid delusion would have driven Tim to massacre his family? Psychosis of such violence couldn’t possibly have sprung from a void. To commit such bloodshed, a tidal wave of fear and paranoia must have roared through his veins.
She shut her eyes, but the photo of Doris Stern, soaking in a pool of blood, remained fixed in her mind. The air in the flat was stifling and she leapt up, knocking against the coffee table and banging her knee. Dizzy with fatigue, she opened the window to let in some air.
Across the alley, the light was on and a shadow drifted past the closed blinds. In the stillness, the rhythmic sound of chopping came through the open window. Root vegetables, chicken bones? Or was her mysterious neighbour dispatching a hapless hitchhiker he’d picked up on the motorway? She chided herself for the gruesome nature of her thoughts, closed the window and yanked the curtains shut. Enough crime scene photos for today. Sleep would not come easily tonight. She stuffed the photos, yellowed with age, back into the plastic folder, and turned her attention to the police report.
According to the coroner’s assessment, the victims had died sometime between eleven that night and two in the morning. Tim’s father had taken a hotel room down the coast in Portland, in order to meet with a client early the next day. On Saturday morning, a neighbour called the police just after ten to report the crime. The Stern’s dog had been barking for hours, so she’d gone over to investigate. Other than the barking, the house was quiet. When she peeked in the front window, it was to find the furniture tipped over and the walls smeared with blood. After running home in a panic to call the police, she barricaded herself in her house, terrified that a maniac was on the loose.
Doris Stern’s car, a blue Pontiac sedan, was parked in the driveway. The police made numerous attempts to contact Mr Stern, though, at the time, nobody knew where he was. When he pulled up to the house, shortly before noon, he found his home cordoned off with yellow crime-scene tape and a female officer waiting to deliver the terrible news. They questioned him about Tim. When had he last seen him? Was he known to use drugs?
As for Stern, he was exactly where he claimed to be, in Portland for a business meeting. It all checked out. A woman, whose name was later redacted f
rom the police report, had provided an alibi for the evening before. Two people remembered seeing him in the hotel at breakfast, and an attendant at a Texaco station in Portland confirmed that Stern stopped to fill up his car just after eleven on Saturday morning.
When Stern was asked to identify the bodies, he refused, saying he couldn’t bear to see his daughters laid out in the morgue. An old family friend, who lived in Boston, volunteered for the grisly task. Just the daughters. It wasn’t his wife who Stern couldn’t bear to see. Erin scribbled that down.
Three days later, on the Monday afternoon, Tim was picked up just over the New York state line. A motorist spotted him wandering down a rural road cutting through the forest, his T-shirt and jeans stained with dried blood. When questioned by police, he claimed to have no idea how he’d got there or where the blood came from. The officer at the scene would later report that Tim didn’t bat an eye when informed his family was dead. He’d merely stared at the wall with a vacant expression. When he finally spoke, he said, ‘Even my dad?’
Throughout the arrest and trial, Tim repeatedly claimed he had no memory of the murders, or how he ended up so far from home. He had no drugs on him and his bloodwork was clean. A preliminary diagnosis of dissociative disorder, with possible amnesia or fugue state, was made by the court-appointed psychiatrist. Later changed, after further assessment, to paranoid schizophrenia. Following a brief trial, Tim was declared not guilty for the deaths of his mother and sisters by reason of insanity. Stern did not testify or appear in court. Nor did he see Tim before he was sent to Greenlake for an indefinite period of incarceration.
Erin’s back ached. As she stood and paced the floor, a thought came to her. Was there a police record of the suspected arson attack on the house? She rummaged through the box. But it wouldn’t be there, of course. The house had burned down after Tim was in custody. With Tim on a locked ward, and the family home destroyed by fire, the case was closed. End of story.