Sitting down at the kitchen table, a pad of paper and pen in hand, I dialed the number for Valhalla.
"Jeanie Sample, please." I did not identify myself.
"Is she a patient, ma'am?" the desk clerk asked without pause.
"No. She's an employee…" I acted addled. "I think so, at any rate. I haven't seen Jeanie in years."
"One moment, please."
The woman came back on the line. "We have no record of anybody by that name."
Damn. How could that be? I wondered. The telephone number listed with her name on the medical examiner's report was Valhalla's number. Had Dr. Brown made a mistake? Nine years ago, I thought. A lot could happen in nine years. Miss Sample could have moved. She could have gotten married.
"I'm sorry," I said. "Sample is her maiden name."
"Do you know her married name?"
"How awful. I should know-"
"Jean Wilson?"
I paused with uncertainty.
"We have a Jean Wilson," the voice went on. "One of our occupational therapists. Can you hold, please?"
Then she was back very quickly. "Yes, her middle name is listed as Sample, ma'am. But she doesn't work on the weekend. She'll be back Monday morning at eight o'clock. Would you like to leave a message?"
"Any possibility you could tell me how to get in touch with her?"
"We're not allowed to give out home numbers."
She was beginning to sound suspicious. "If you'll give me your name and number, I can try to get hold of her and ask her to call you."
"I'm afraid I won't be at this number long."
I thought for a moment, then sounded dismally disappointed when I added, "I'll try again-next time I'm in the area. And I suppose I can write her at Valhalla, at your address."
"Yes, ma'am. You can do that."
"And that address is?"
She gave it to me.
"And her husband's name?"
A pause. "Skip, I believe."
Sometimes a nickname for Leslie, I thought. "Mrs. Skip or Leslie Wilson," I muttered, as if I were writing it down. "Thank you so much."
There was one Leslie Wilson in Charlottesville, directory assistance informed me, and one L. P. Wilson and one L. T. Wilson. I started dialing. The man who answered when I tried the number for L. T. Wilson told me "Jeanie" was running errands and would be home within the hour.
I knew that a strange voice asking questions over the phone wasn't going to work. Jeanie Wilson would insist on conferring with Dr. Masterson first, and that would end the matter. It is, however, a little more difficult to refuse someone who unexpectedly appears in the flesh at your door, expecially if this individual introduces herself as the chief medical examiner and has a badge to prove it.
Jeanie Sample Wilson didn't look a day over thirty in her jeans and red pullover sweater. She was a perky brunette with friendly eyes and a smattering of freckles over her nose, her long hair tied back in a ponytail. In the living room beyond the open door, two small boys were sitting on the carpet, watching cartoons on television.
"How long have you been working at Valhalla?" I asked.
She hesitated. "Uh, about twelve years."
I was so relieved I almost sighed out loud. Jeanie Wilson would have been employed there not only when Jim Barnes was fired nine years ago, but also when Al Hunt was a patient two years before that.
She was planted squarely in the doorway. There was one car in the drive, in addition to mine. It appeared her husband had gone out. Good.
"I'm investigating the homicides of Beryl Madison and Gary Harper," I said.
Her eyes widened. "What do you want from me? I didn't know them-"
"May I come inside?"
"Of course. I'm sorry. Please."
We sat inside her small kitchen of linoleum and white Formica and pine cabinets. It was impeccably clean, with boxes of cereal neatly lined on top of the refrigerator, and counters arranged with big glass jars filled with cookies, rice and pasta. The dishwasher was running, and I could smell a cake baking in the oven.
I intended to beat down any lingering resistance with bluntness. "Mrs. Wilson, Al Hunt was a patient at Valhalla eleven years ago, and for a while was a suspect in the cases in question. He was acquainted with Beryl Madison."
"Al Hunt?" She looked bewildered.
"Do you remember him?" I asked.
She shook her head.
"And you say you've worked at Valhalla twelve years?"
"Eleven and a half, actually."
"Al Hunt was a patient there eleven years ago, as I've already said."
"The name isn't familiar…"
"He committed suicide last week," I said.
Now she was very bewildered.
"I talked to him shortly before his death, Mrs. Wilson. His social worker died in a motor vehicle accident nine years ago. Jim Barnes. I need to ask you about him."
A flush was creeping up her neck. "Are you thinking his suicide was related, had something to do with Jim?"
It was a question impossible to answer. "Apparently, Jim Barnes was fired from Valhalla just hours before his death," I went on. "Your name - or at least your maiden name - is listed on the medical examiner's report, Mrs. Wilson."
"There was- Well, there was some question," she stammered. "You know, whether it was a suicide or an accident. I was questioned. A doctor, coroner, I don't remember. But some man called me."
"Dr. Brown?"
"I don't remember his name," she said.
"Why did he want to talk to you, Mrs. Wilson?"
"I suppose because I was one of the last people to see Jim alive. I guess the doctor called the front desk, and Betty referred him to me."
"Betty?"
"She was the receptionist back then."
"I need you to tell me everything you can remember about Jim Barnes's being fired," I said as she got up to check on the cake.
When she returned, she was a little more composed. She no longer looked unnerved. Instead, she looked angry.
She said, "Maybe it's not right to say bad things about the dead, Dr. Scarpetta, but Jim was not a nice person. He was a very big problem at Valhalla, and he should have been fired long before he was."
"Exactly how was he a problem?"
"Patients say a lot of things. They're often not very, well, credible. It's hard to know what's true and what isn't. Dr. Masterson, other therapists, would get complaints from time to time, but nothing could be proven until there was a witnessed event one morning, the morning of that day. The day Jim was fired and had the accident."
"This event was something you witnessed?" I asked.
"Yes." She stared off across the kitchen, her mouth firmly set.
"What happened?"
"I was walking through the lobby, on my way to see Dr. Masterson about something, when Betty called out to me. She was working the front desk, the switchboard, like I said - Tommy, Clay, now you keep it down in there!"
The shrieking in the other room only got louder, television channels switching like mad.
Mrs. Wilson got up wearily to see about her sons. I heard muffled smacks of hand against bottoms, after which the channel stayed put. Cartoon characters were shooting each other with what sounded like machine guns.
"Where was I?" she asked, returning to the kitchen table.
"You were talking about Betty," I reminded her.
"Oh, yes. She motioned me over and said Jim's mother was on the line, long distance, and it seemed important. I never did know what it was about, the call. But Betty asked if I could find Jim. He was in psychodrama, which is held in the ballroom. You know, Valhalla has a ballroom we use for various functions. The Saturday night dances, parties. There's a stage, an orchestra stage. From when Valhalla was a hotel. I slipped into the back, and when I saw what was going on, I couldn't believe it."
Jeanie Wilson's eyes were bright with anger. She started fidgeting with the edge of a place mat. "I just stood there and watched. Jim's back was to me, and he was u
p on the stage with, I don't know, five or six patients. They were in chairs turned in such a way that they couldn't see what he was doing with this one patient. A young girl. Her name was Rita. Rita was maybe thirteen. Rita had been raped by her stepfather. She never talked, was functionally mute. Jim was forcing her to reenact it."
"The rape?" I asked calmly.
"The damn bastard. Excuse me. But it still upsets me."
"Understandably."
"He later claimed he wasn't doing anything inappropriate. Damn, he was such a liar. He denied everything. But I'd seen it. I knew exactly what he was doing. He was playing the role of the stepfather, and Rita was so terrified she didn't move. She was frozen in the chair. He was in her face, leaning over her, talking in a low voice. Sound carries inside the ballroom. I could hear everything. Rita was very mature, developed, for thirteen. Jim was asking her, 'Is this what he did, Rita?' He kept asking her that as he touched her. Fondled her, just as her stepfather had done, I suppose. I slipped out. He never knew I'd seen it until both Dr. Masterson and I confronted him minutes later."
I was beginning to understand why Dr. Masterson had refused to discuss Jim Barnes with me, and possibly why pages of Al Hunt's case file were absent. If something like this was ever made public, even though it had happened long ago, the hospital's reputation would take it on the nose.
"And you were suspicious Jim Barnes had done this before?" I asked.
"Some of the early complaints would indicate he had," Jeanie Wilson replied, her eyes flashing.
"Always females?"
"Not always."
"You received complaints from male patients?"
"From one of the young men. Yes. But no one took it seriously at the time. He had sexual problems anyway, supposedly had been molested or something. The very type someone like Jim would fix on because who would believe anything the poor kid said?"
"Do you remember this patient's name?"
"God."
She frowned. "It was so long ago."
She thought. "Frank… Frankie. That's it. I remember some of the patients called him Frankie. I don't recall his last name."
"How old was he?" I could feel my heart beating.
"I don't know. Seventeen, eighteen."
"What do you remember about Frankie?" I asked. "It's important. Very important."
A timer went off, and she pushed back her chair to take the cake out of the oven. While she was up, she checked on her boys again. When she returned, she was frowning.
She said, "I vaguely remember he was on Backhall for a while, right after he was admitted. Then he was moved downstairs to the second-floor ward where the men are. I had him in occupational therapy."
She was thinking, an index finger touching her chin. "He was very industrious, I remember that. Made a lot of leather belts, brass rubbings. And he loved to knit, which was a little unusual. Most of the male patients won't knit, don't want to. They'll stick with leather work, make ashtrays and so on. He was very creative and really pretty skilled. And something else stands out. His neatness. He was obsessively neat, always cleaning off his work space, picking bits and pieces of whatever off the floor. Like it really bothered him if everything wasn't just right, clean."
She paused, lifting her eyes to mine.
"When did he make the complaint about Jim Barnes?" I asked.
"Not too long after I started working at Valhalla."
She hesitated, thinking hard. "I think Frankie had only been at Valhalla a month or so when he said something about Jim. I think he said it to another patient. In fact"-she paused, her prettily arched brows moving together in a frown-"it was actually this other patient who complained to Dr. Masterson."
"Do you remember who the patient was? The patient Frankie told this to?"
"No."
"Could it have been Al Hunt? You mentioned you hadn't been working at Valhalla long. Hunt would have been a patient eleven years ago during the spring and summer."
"I don't remember Al Hunt…"
"They would have been close to the same age," I added.
"That's interesting."
Her eyes filled with innocent wonder as they fixed on mine. "Frankie had a friend, another teen-age boy. I do remember that. Blond. The boy was blond, very shy, quiet. I don't recall his name."
"Al Hunt was blond," I said.
Silence.
"Oh, my God."
I prodded her. "He was quiet, shy…"
"Oh, my God," she said again. "I bet it was him, then! And he committed suicide last week?"
"Yes."
"Did he mention Jim to you?"
"He mentioned someone he called Jim Jim."
"Jim Jim," she repeated. "Jeez. I don't know…"
"Whatever happened to Frankie?"
"He wasn't there long, two or three months."
"He went back home?" I asked.
"I would imagine so," she said. "There was something about his mother. I think he lived with his father. Frankie's mother deserted him when he was small-it was something like that, anyway. All I really remember is his family situation was sad. But then, I suppose you could say the same thing about most all the patients at Valhalla."
She sighed. "God. This is something. I haven't thought about all this in years. Frankie."
She shook her head. "I wonder what ever became of him."
"You have no idea?"
"Absolutely none."
She looked a long time at me, and it was coming to her. I could see the fear gathering behind her eyes. "The two people murdered. You don't think Frankie…"
I said nothing.
"He never was violent, not when I was working with him. He was very gentle, actually."
She waited. I did not respond.
"I mean, he was very sweet and polite to me, would watch me very closely, do everything I told him to do."
"He liked you, then," I said.
"He knitted a scarf for me. I just remembered. Red, white, and blue. I'd completely forgotten. I wonder what happened to it?"
Her voice trailed off. "I must have given it to the Salvation Army or something. I don't know. Frankie, well, I think he sort of had a crush on me." She laughed nervously.
"Mrs. Wilson, what did Frankie look like?"
"Tall, thin, with dark hair." She briefly shut her eyes.
"It was so long ago."
She was looking at me again. "He doesn't stand out. But I don't remember him as being particularly nice looking. You know, I would remember him better, maybe, if he had been really nice looking or really ugly. So I think he was kind of plain."
"Would your hospital have any photographs of him on file?"
"No."
Silence again. Then she looked at me with surprise.
"He stuttered," she said slowly, then again with conviction.
"Pardon?"
"Sometimes he stuttered. I remember. When Frankie got extremely excited or nervous, he stuttered."
Jim Jim.
Al Hunt had meant exactly what he had said. When Frankie was telling Hunt what Barnes had done or tried to do, Frankie would have been upset, agitated. He would have stuttered. He would have stuttered whenever he talked to Hunt about Jim Barnes. Jim Jim!
I hit the first pay phone after leaving Jeanie Wilson's house. Marino, the dope, had gone bowling.
14
Monday rolled in on a tide of clouds marbled an ominous gray that shrouded the Blue Ridge foothills and obscured Valhalla from view. Wind buffeted Marino's car, and by the time he parked at the hospital tiny flakes of snow were clicking against the windshield.
"Shit," he complained as we got out. "That's all we need."
"It's not supposed to amount to anything," I reassured him, flinching as icy flakes stung my cheeks. We bent our heads against the wind and hurried in frigid silence toward the front entrance.
Dr. Masterson was waiting for us in the lobby, his face as hard as stone behind his forced smile. When the two men shook hands, they eyed each other like unfr
iendly cats, and I did nothing to ease the tension, for I was frankly sick of the psychiatrist's games. He had information we wanted, and he would give it to us unvarnished and in its entirety by virtue of cooperation or a court order. He could take his pick. Without delay we accompanied him to his office, and this time he shut the door.
"Now, what may I help you with?" he asked right off as he took his chair.
"More information," I replied.
"Of course. But I must confess, Dr. Scarpetta," he went on as if Marino were not in the room, "I fail to see what else I can tell you about Al Hunt that might assist you in your cases. You've reviewed his record, and I've told you as much as I remember-"
Marino cut him off. "Yeah, well, we're here to massage that memory of yours," he said, getting out his cigarettes. "And it ain't Al Hunt we're all that interested in."
"I don't understand."
"We're more interested in his pal," Marino said.
"What pair' Dr. Masterson appraised him coldly.
"The name Frankie ring a bell?"
Dr. Masterson began cleaning his glasses, and I decided this was a favorite ploy of his for buying time to think.
"There was a patient here when Al Hunt was, a kid named Frankie," Marino added.
"I'm afraid I'm drawing a blank."
"Draw all the blanks you want, Doc. Just tell us who Frankie is."
"We have three hundred patients at Valhalla at any given time, Lieutenant," he answered. "It isn't possible for me to remember everybody who's been here, particularly those whose stay was of a brief duration."
"So, you're telling me this Frankie character didn't stay very long?"
Marino said.
Dr. Masterson reached for his pipe. He had made a slip, and I could see the anger in his eyes. "I'm not telling you anything of the sort, Lieutenant."
He began slowly tamping tobacco into the bowl. "But perhaps if you could give me a little more information about this patient, the young man you refer to as Frankie, I might at least have a glimmer. Can you tell me something about him other than that he was a 'kid'?"
I intervened. "Apparently, Al Hunt had a friend while he was here, someone he referred to as Frankie. Al mentioned him to me during our conversation. We believe this individual may have been restricted to Backhall after he was admitted, and then transferred to a different floor where he may have become acquainted with Al. Frankie has been described as tall, dark, slender. He also liked to knit, a hobby rather atypical among male patients, I should think."
Body of Evidence ks-2 Page 24
