“Sir,” he pants, “it’s over. They’re pulling the plug. Our license is getting revoked. We’re done.” His face falls with the last word and a morose, defeated Batista calls upon every remaining bit of strength he has to prevent the situation from damning the demeanor of poor Eric, who is perhaps the only person who put more of himself into this place than he.
But alas, this facility has been hemorrhaging, faster and more profusely than Eric and Batista’s combined efforts could prevent. And the end has come at last. May my death rattle haunt Eboncore even into his next life, thinks Batista. He stands, cups the nape of Eric’s neck, and says, “Dear Eric, your talents are simply being summoned elsewhere. Heed that summon and help the world.” He walks out, with Eric, pulling the door shut and locking it behind him.
With that, my mind snaps back to the present. My impromptu narrative doesn’t cover that the shelves are empty now, but I’ll just pretend he had already packed up those things as an act of preemptive acceptance, like making funeral arrangements for his company after receiving a dire prognosis. Perhaps Mr. Batista believed in his company and had hopes for a fighting revival, but the reality of the situation pressed in on him hard enough to permeate his optimistic barrier.
My need to explore is met with resistance in the form of a paralytic apprehension about disturbing this scene, this set and abandoned stage which has waited decades for its actors to return only to be drained of life by the strangling vines of disappointment. I have a reserved inhibition, as if the office’s tether to the here and now are tenuous, strained, and any disturbance on my part might send it hurtling back in time to the moment Batista closed the door for the last time.
But that inhibition, eventually, is punctured by my pointed curiosity, and as the reality of the here and now continues to flush away my speculation of the past, the history (or what I imagine it to be) ebbs away, replaced by their less romantic counterparts; a frantic workspace becomes a desk, a pen, and some papers. Bookshelves starved for books and trinkets now seem nothing more than an aged assembly of handsome wood, dust-covered and forgotten.
However, the filing cabinets in the back of the office retain their allure: banks of information, names, dates, events, analyses—in the mind of a detective, evidence.
Not only could they contain information on past patients, but equally important, employment records. Disciplinary action, write-ups, suspensions, terminations, demeanor, performance reviews, workplace conflict. Short of a face-to-face conversation with the kid or a detailed report from his shrink, this is the most I could possibly ask for in regard to knowing the perpetrator.
That’s when I sense it: my being drawn in to this case. This ancient, settled, ice-cold, long-forgotten case that should probably remain just that way: old and cold. My visit to the abandoned (or maybe not so much) cottage shed light on a possible case for the innocence of Thad Eboncore. Such is always a tricky situation: defending the accused. One typically wishes to believe the best in people, but over time there grows a distinct distance between that wish and reality. Still, the defendant tells you he’s innocent and you want to believe him, save for those with a stomach for the scandalous or perhaps the family of the victim. Sometimes, you’re particularly prone to this desire and you become a defense attorney, regularly going to bat for scumbags and shitstains.
But on the other hand, sometimes they really are innocent. In many cases, you find yourself asking the age-old question: is it worse for someone to be wrongfully convicted or wrongfully acquitted?
I’ve taken it upon myself a number of times to remedy the latter in my own, less legal way, but I only have so much influence on the former.
What must go on in the minds of the wrongfully accused and convicted? It probably happens more than we realize; modern forensics are good, but not infallible.
Fingerprints are usually partial, and even then, the final determination is made by a human, not a computer, and is thus prone to be victim to lack of sleep, distraction, or the rare but inevitable careless or incompetent tech. On top of that, the concept that no two fingerprints are alike is a myth. To be fair, chances of two people with matching fingerprints being suspected in the same case are incredibly slim, but it has happened, and a man who was not the perpetrator was sent to jail instead of the actual criminal. DNA is the most accurate, effective method of matching, but it’s often much harder to come by. Still, fingerprinting can get us into the ballpark much of the time, and often, that starting point is all we need to get on the right track.
Thus, the question appears in my mind, more unearthed than fabricated: Did forensics fail Thad? Or was Thad set up? Of course, the simplest and most obvious answer is simply that he’s guilty. It’s widely accepted that, most often, the simplest explanation is the correct one. However, I always hesitate to count my own experiences among the ‘most of the time.’ Whether or not by my own hand, my life tends to be in a state of deep disarray.
Now, I itch to go back to the abandoned cottage and see if any more answers bubble to the surface. But for now, I have an entire school to explore.
As though the ghosts of the past are ushering me out of the office, a weak but sure chill settles over me. Goosebumps stand at attention in salute to the paranormal visitors from the past and I think I feel a breeze, even though the room has clearly been without one for decades. Although I’m aware that these phenomena are due to my adrenaline kicking my sensitivity up a notch, the intermittent creaks and gusty moans of the old facility seem to increase in both frequency and volume.
No wonder the alleged ghostly apparitions are more frequent in this area. If I were one to believe in such entities, I’d be preparing for an encounter any second now.
Trying to hold off a rush of dramatic urgency, I pull open the desk drawers one by one. In one, I find blank copies of various forms—releases for medical records, admissions forms, new hire forms, and training manuals mostly outlining restraint techniques and emergency protocol. I grab a copy of each and stuff the stack into my backpack. Despite the muffling quality of the thick dust, the noise I make with my movements seems to be exaggerated, like I’m listening to an audio playback at maximum volume.
I leave my bag unzipped on the floor, its mouth gaping and at the ready like a carnivorous plant waiting patiently for its next meal. Hopefully I can find more tasty treats for it.
The desk’s shallow central drawer contains multiple sets of identical keys, and jingles loudly as I open it. Each ring has two keys on it, along with a tag bearing a number. I pull one set out and slip it into my pocket. The weight of it feels empowering, freeing.
The filing cabinets are secured with built-in locks. Neither of my newly acquired keys fits. Sighing, I put them back in my pocket and revert to the old-fashioned method: picking the lock.
The upper drawer squeaks angrily on its tracks as I pull it out. I wonder whether it was this bad back when they were being used daily, hourly. The files inside do not disappoint; I find employee records, organized alphabetically. Judging by the number of names, I assume that the cabinet was updated with a measure of regularity, past employees being archived somewhere else.
Whether because of his ongoing relevance or simply because his name hadn’t yet become a victim to the rotation process, Eboncore’s file is still here. And boy is it thick. A wave of almost adolescent curiosity urges me to open and read the file now, but I prefer to do my reading at home, so I remove the file, probably better than an inch deep, and feed it to my backpack.
The middle drawer in the left cabinet is just as loud as the first, but contains no juicy spoils; just a handful of office supplies. A stack of legal pads, a small stapler, and little boxes of pens, pencils, paperclips, staples, and rolls of tape still unopened. They are organized so neatly as to rouse my suspicion that Mr. Batista had at least a small amount of OCD. Or perhaps he was just exhibiting some symptoms of it as a result of his world spiraling out of control, right up until the last bit of control he did have was wrested from his finger
s even as he tried to tighten his grip. I muse for a moment at the depth of my speculation of this Mr. Batista.
Mercifully, the cabinet on the right is unlocked. The top drawer of this unit has stocks of various sweets. I only recognize a couple of them, and those I do recognize are only by name, as the packaging styles have changed so much over time, not to mention the ever-present dust and fading colors, unable to escape the damning wrath of time. The drawer smells stale and sickly sweet, with a touch of licorice on it, though I don’t see any licorice. The middle drawer is empty, leaving not so much as a trace of what may have been contained here, if anything.
The final drawer is packed so tightly that it pushes outward the moment I release the latch. In my head, a flustered Batista teams up with an equally flustered Eric, shoulders to the drawer, trying to close it enough to engage the latch. That this drawer is bulging with material indicates that the second one did indeed contain something in the past, preventing these people from splitting the contents of this drawer between the two instead of stuffing it so full. I wonder what was in the other drawer.
There are almost three times as many names here as in the drawer containing employment records, and each one is at least as thick as Eboncore’s. That these records even exist here would probably have been a serious breach of HIPAA, had it existed back then, but alas, that act wasn’t put into effect until 1996. Still, there has to have been some unmet code of ethics, right?
As with the employment records, the students’ names are listed alphabetically, from Ackler to Zoore. Reading each name, I check it against my memory, though a more effective method would probably be to seek out the most robust file. As it happens, Willa Frye’s file is twice as thick as nearly every other girls’, filling one folder to bursting and nearing the same achievement with another. I pull both folders out and deposit them into my backpack, growing in equal parts intimidated and excited at my expanding collection of homework. With each item I put into my pack, a sense of melancholy presses more heavily upon me, but this is a familiar sensation, one which I can use as motivation.
Almost every one of my conscious functions tells me to leave this, to get out, to go home and watch old movies or read my book. The voice that silences these ones is one of wary justice, and amid the onslaught of opposition from sources like reason, apathy, and self-preservation, it speaks with a bold but quiet solemnity, and in that presence, the other voices cease.
Part of me wants to find out if Thad really did what he was convicted for. If not, perhaps I can clear his name. But that’s only part of the drive; I also want to ensure that Willa Frye is properly respected. More than anything, though, I want to make sure that the correct man is in jail, for if he is not in jail (or dead, I reason), he is free to continue to commit atrocities. Sure, the case is old, but if there’s a possibility that it was one young man at the time, then it could easily have been another. I’ve seen abominations active and repulsive well into their sixties and even seventies.
Without the police file from that time, I’ll feel deeply under-informed, but armed with lock picks and a flagrant disregard for trespassing laws, I can make my own bastardized copy of a report, just without witness testimonies or updated photographs. Perhaps, before long, my bedroom will look like that creepy assembly of related articles and such from the cottage in the woods.
After I shove my new treasures into my bag, I zip it up, sling it over my shoulder, and exit the cramped office. The rest of the school awaits.
Five
The emptiness of the halls feels, oddly, full. There’s a satisfying completeness to it, like someone built and designed it as the set of a thriller movie that takes place in such a place of neglect. It reminds me of when I traversed Wometzia’s only school in pursuit of surveillance footage. That school had a similar emptiness, but it was temporary. In that building, the universe had pressed pause. In this one, the universe pressed stop. It’s the implicit permanence that does it for me. With the school building in Wometzia, the imminent start of the school year on the horizon, I could almost feel the strain of the school simply holding its breath.
But this place…it’s just dead. No office administrators ‘just around the corner if you need anything,’ no part-time janitors coming in once a week to empty trash cans and buff the floors, no promise of hundreds of feet shuffling and bumping into each other on their way to class in a matter of weeks.
The contrast seems so absolute now that it’s curious that this place reminded me of it in the first place. Indeed, it’s also odd to recall that that expedition occurred little more than a month ago. Even in pursuit of a solve much more complex and dangerous than I had had prior to it, it was also simpler times. No mysterious texter, no other mysterious texter. No hiding in absolution and isolation indefinitely, in attempt to elude the gaze and threat of past adversaries—at least, that we knew of.
Just good old police work, quiet evenings with Todd, and some fucking good thunderstorms.
I can’t afford to dwell on that life long or often, however; it floods me with longing and melancholy so intense that it drains me of any useful shreds of motivation that have managed to survive the past month intact, and I’m overcome with the urge to surface again. To fashion a figurative neon sign, bright and colorful and gaudy, to bring Todd to me. To bring my home to me.
As a man with beyond respectable discipline and self-control, I’m not usually susceptible to the emotional draws in decision-making. Logic accommodates functionality, compromise, logistical obstacles, and overall cost, monetary or otherwise. But, alas, when Todd is involved, my impervious membrane melts away into nothing but a pitiful puddle at my feet as I’m assaulted by sentiments of longing that are almost more than I can handle. I wonder whether he, too, fights this battle.
The room adjacent to Mr. Batista’s office is marked ‘Medical Records.’ I fish my shiny new keys out of my pants pocket and insert the bigger of the two. For a disheartening second, it catches on its way in, but it unsticks quickly and slides into place. I turn it and hear the springs inside the door, old, worn, and scratchy, and the latch clicks open.
This room is not much bigger than the last, but is floor-to-ceiling bookshelf around three of the four walls, allowing room only for a bare, modest desk. I wonder whether the contents of these files, thick binders filling the bookshelves all the way around, would offer more useful information (or if, indeed, any at all) than the ones in the office. I decide that it’s probably worth it to have both, and hunt down Willa’s file on the third shelf up on the wall directly opposite the entrance. It fits in my backpack, but only barely.
I sweep my flashlight’s beam over the rest of the names, but none call to me. The desk is without drawers (qualifying it as much a table as a desk, I suppose), and I find nothing else intriguing about the room. I leave and lock it behind me, as I did with Batista’s office. The latch clicks back into place, sending a reverberating echo down the hall and back, on the return trip carrying with it a small degree of the irrational paranoia of the supernatural that overcame me a few minutes ago.
Standing outside the Medical Records room, the hallway to my right leads to a cafeteria. Probably nothing of import there, but it may be worth checking out later. To my left lies a solemn-looking pair of doors, bisected by a metal piece of framework which supports both doors. I insert my key into its lock and it slides in smoothly this time. This door creaks open to reveal a second set of doors, these ones adorned with windows offering a limited view of outside. Rather than sit and look, I unlock it and walk into a courtyard.
The area is square, each corner overtaken by ambitious plant life. Creeping green fingers crawl their way up the sides of the enclosing walls, as though the plants themselves are attempting to escape, as students here may have done decades ago. Maybe in a few more years, they’ll succeed. The far wall, the least entangled by plant life, features a fading mural, barely visible in the small amount of moonlight and starlight, in which a small girl pulls at the hand of her mother, all
set to frolic through a field of wildflowers and grass which goes nearly up to her nose. The mother smiles wide in what must be a laugh—clearly, the boundless joy to be had in such an activity is a bit much for her to handle. I take a moment to revel in the irony that, just beyond a mural depicting a field of wildflowers, there’s an actual meadow of wildflowers.
To the east, the wall, while mostly green from the insistent vegetation, still stands solid, foreboding, as if instead of wearing down over time, it ripened, solidified. All four walls stand at least twelve feet high to prevent being scaled—not that anyone who managed it would have anywhere to go, but I suspect that that wouldn’t have deterred many of the clients here; lack of foresight and raw, reckless abandon blast through such inhibitions, I’ve noticed.
A giant building—the living quarters, I assume—spans the entire length of the western wall, the windows from the second floor up barred in like dusty glass prisoners in their cells waiting for the end of their sentences, marked by the eventual destruction and deterioration of the building as the tides of time pick it apart.
The building is four floors, a towering monstrosity of a thing, home, I’m sure, to abundant memories, healing, heartbreak, breakthroughs, and breakups. Friendships were born and cultivated here, and I like to think that some of those friendships persist today. The building, in its empty presence, calls to me somehow: Come, discover my secrets, sift through the wealth of history here. Indulge your curiosity. Come.
I walk toward it on the stone pathway, cutting through a landscape that may have been grass once, listening to the rhythm of my footfalls, hoping that their steadiness extends to my mind and persists through whatever length of time it takes me to look through the building. Every foot I close between myself and the structure seems to pump into it a breath of life, like I’m slowly inflating its sentience, and soon it will take notice of my presence and decide to have some fun with me.
Thunder Falls Page 5
