"This is what Al Hunt told you?" Dr. Masterson asked unemphatically.
"Frankie was also obsessively neat," I said, evading the question.
"I'm afraid a patient's enjoyment of knitting isn't likely to be something brought to my attention," he commented, relighting his pipe.
"It's also possible he had a tendency to stutter when he was under stress," I added, controlling my impatience.
"Hmm. Perhaps someone with spastic dysphonia in his differential diagnosis. That might be a place to start-"
"The place to start is for you to cut the shit," Marino said rudely.
"Really, Lieutenant." Dr. Masterson gave him a condescending smile. "Your hostility is unwarranted."
"Yeah, yeah, and you're unwarranted at the moment, too. But I just might get the itch to change that in a minute, slap you with a warrant and haul your ass off to lockup for accessory to murder. How's that sound?" Marino glared at him.
"I think I've about had enough of your impertinence," he replied with maddening calm. "I don't respond well to threats, Lieutenant."
"And I don't respond well to someone jerking me around," Marino retorted.
"Who is Frankie?" I tried again.
"I assure you I don't know, offhand," Dr. Masterson replied. "But if you'll be so kind as to wait a few minutes, I'll go see what we can pull up on our computer."
"Thank you," I said. "We'll be right here."
The psychiatrist had barely gotten out the door before Marino started in.
"What a dirt bag."
"Marino," I said wearily.
"It ain't like this joint's overrun with kids. I'm willing to bet seventy-five percent of the patients here's over the age of sixty. You know, young people would stand out in your memory, right? He knows damn well who Frankie is, probably could tell us what size shoes the drone wears."
"Perhaps."
"There's nothing perhaps about it. I'm telling you the guy's jerking us around."
"And he'll continue to do so as long as you antagonize him, Marino."
"Shit."
He got up and went to the window behind Dr. Masterson's desk. Parting the curtains, he stared out into the bleak late morning. "I hate like shit when someone lies to me. Swear to God I'll pop 'im if I have to, nail his ass. That's the thing about shrinks that frosts me so bad. They can have Jack the Ripper for a patient and they don't care. They'll still lie to you, tuck the animal in bed and spoon-feed him chicken soup like he's Mr. Apple Pie America." He paused, mumbling inanely, "At least the snow's stopped."
Waiting until he sat back down, I said, "I think threatening to charge him with accessory to murder was a bit much."
"Got his attention, didn't I?"
"Give him a chance to save face, Marino."
He stared sullenly at the curtained window as he smoked.
"I think by now he's realizing it's in his best interest to help us," I said.
"Yeah, well, it's not in my best interest to sit around playing cat and mouse with him. Even as we speak, Frank-ie Fruitcake's on the street thinking his screwy thoughts, ticking away like a damn bomb about to go off."
I thought of my quiet house in my quiet neighborhood, of Gary Harper's necklace looped over the knob of my back door, and the whispery voice on my answering machine. Is your hair naturally blond, or do you bleach it… How odd. I puzzled over the significance of that question. Why did it matter to him?
"If Frankie is our killer," I said quietly, taking a deep breath, "I can't imagine how there can be any connection between Sparacino and these homicides."
"We'll see," he muttered, lighting up another cigarette and staring sourly at the empty doorway.
"What do you mean, 'we'll see'?"
"Never ceases to surprise me how one thing leads to another," he replied cryptically.
"What? What things lead to other things, Marino?"
He glanced at his watch and cursed. "Where the hell is he, anyhow? He go out to lunch?"
"Hopefully he's tracking down Frankie's record."
"Yeah. Hopefully."
"What things lead to other things?" I asked him again. "What are you thinking about? You mind being a little more specific?"
"Let's just put it this way," Marino said. "I got a real strong feeling if it wasn't for that damn book Beryl was writing, all three of 'em would still be alive. In fact, Hunt would probably still be alive, too."
"I can't say that with certainty."
"Course you can't. You're always so goddamn objective. So I'm saying it, okay?"
He looked over at me and rubbed his tired eyes, his face flushed. "I got this feeling, all right? It's telling me Sparacino, the book, is the connection. It's what initially linked the killer to Beryl, and then one thing led to another. Next, the squirrel whacks Harper. After that Miss Harper takes enough pills to kill a damn horse so she don't have to rattle around in that big crib of hers all alone while cancer eats her alive. Then Hunt's swinging from the rafters in his fuckin' undershorts."
The orange fiber with its peculiar three-leaf clover shape drifted through my mind, as did Beryl's manuscript, Sparacino, Jeb Price, Senator Partin's Hollywood son, Mrs. McTigue, and Mark. They were limbs and ligaments of a body I could not piece together. In some inexplicable way, they were the alchemy by which seemingly unrelated people and events had been fashioned into Frankie.
Marino was right. One thing always leads to another. Murder never emerges full blown from a vacuum. Nothing evil ever does.
"Do you have any theories as to just what exactly this link might be?"
I asked Marino.
"Nope, not a goddamn one," he replied with a yawn at the exact moment Dr. Masterson walked into the office and shut the door.
I noticed with satisfaction that he had a stack of case files in hand.
"Now then," he said coolly and without looking at either of us, "I found no one with the name Frankie, which I'm assuming may be a nickname. Therefore, I pulled cases by date of treatment, age, and race. What I have here are the records of six white males, excluding Al Hunt, who were patients at Valhalla during the interval you're interested in. All of them are between the ages of thirteen and twenty-four."
"How about you just let us go through them while you sit back and smoke your pipe."
Marino was a little less combative, but not much.
"I would prefer to give you only their histories, for confidentiality reasons, Lieutenant. If one is of keen interest, we'll go through his record in detail. Fair enough?"
"Fair enough," I said before Marino could argue.
"The first case," Dr. Masterson began, opening the top file, "is a nineteen-year-old from Highland Park, Illinois, admitted in December of 1978 with a history of substance abuse-heroin, specifically."
He flipped a page. "He was five-foot-eight, weighed one-seventy, brown eyes, brown hair. His treatment was three months in duration."
"Al Hunt wasn't admitted until that following April," I reminded the psychiatrist. "They wouldn't have been patients at the same time."
"Yes, I believe you're right. An oversight on my part. So we can strike him."
He set the file on his ink blotter as I gave Marino a warning glance. I knew he was about to explode, his face as red as Christmas.
Opening a second file, Dr. Masterson resumed, "Next we have a fourteen-year-old male, blond, blue-eyed, five-foot-three, one-fifteen pounds. He was admitted in February 1979, discharged six months later. He had a history of withdrawal and fragmentary delusions, and was diagnosed as schizophrenic of the disorganized or hebephrenic type."
"You mind explaining what the hell that means?" Marino asked.
"It presented as incoherence, bizarre mannerisms, extreme social withdrawal, and other oddities of behavior. For example"-he paused to look over a page-"he would leave for the bus stop in the morning but fail to show up at school, and on one occasion was found sitting under a tree drawing peculiar, nonsensical designs in his notebook."
"Yeah. And now he's a fam
ous artist living in New York," Marino mumbled sardonically. "His name Frank, Franklin, or begin with an F?"
"No. Nothing close."
"So, who's next?"
"Next is a twenty-two-year-old male from Delaware. Red hair, gray eyes, uhhhh, five-foot-ten, one-fifty pounds. He was admitted in March of 1979, discharged in June. He was diagnosed as suffering from organic delusional syndrome. Contributing factors were temporal lobe epilepsy and a history of cannabis abuse. Complications included dysphoric mood and his attempting to castrate himself while reacting to a delusion."
"What's dysphoric mean?" Marino asked.
"Anxious, restless, depressed."
"This before or after he tried to turn himself into a soprano?"
Dr. Masterson was beginning to register annoyance, and I really couldn't blame him.
"Next," Marino said like a drill sergeant.
"The fourth case is an eighteen-year-old male, black hair, brown eyes, five-foot-nine, one-forty-two pounds. He was admitted in May of 1979, was diagnosed as schizophrenic of the paranoid type. His history"-he flipped a page, then reached for his pipe-"includes unfocused anger and anxiety, with doubts about gender identity and a marked fear of being thought of as homosexual. The onset of his psychosis apparently was related to his being approached by a homosexual in a men's room-"
"Hold it right there."
If Marino hadn't stopped him, I would have. "We need to talk about this one. How long was he at Valhalla?"
Dr. Masterson was lighting his pipe. Taking his time glancing through the record, he replied, "Ten weeks."
"Which would have been while Hunt was here," Marino said.
"That's correct."
"So he was approached in a men's room and lost his cookies? What happened? What psychosis?" Marino asked.
Dr. Masterson was turning pages. Pushing up his glasses, he replied, "An episode of delusional thinking of a grandiose nature. He believed God was telling him to do things."
"What things?" Marino asked, leaning forward in his chair.
"There's nothing specific, nothing written here except that he was talking in rather bizarre ways."
"And he was paranoid schizophrenic?" Marino asked.
"Yes."
"You want to define that? Like, what are the other symptoms?"
"Classically speaking," Dr. Masterson replied, "there are associated features which include grandiose delusions or hallucinations with a grandiose content. There may be delusional jealousy, extreme intensity in interpersonal interactions, argumentativeness, and in some instances violence."
"Where was he from?" I asked.
"Maryland."
"Shit," Marino muttered. "He lived with both parents?"
"He lived with his father."
I said, "You're sure he was paranoid versus undifferentiated?"
The distinction was important. Schizophrenics of the undifferentiated type often exhibit grossly disorganized behavior. They generally don't have the wherewithal to premeditate crimes and successfully evade apprehension. The person we were looking for was organized enough to successfully plan and execute his crimes and escape detection.
"I'm quite sure," Dr. Masterson answered. After a pause, he added blandly, "The patient's first name, interestingly enough, is Frank."
Then he handed me the file, and Marino and I briefly looked it over.
Frank Ethan Aims, or Frank E., and thus "Frankie" I could only conclude, had left Valhalla in late July of 1979 and soon after, according to a note Dr. Masterson had made at the time, Aims ran away from his home in Maryland.
"How do you know he ran away from home?" Marino asked, looking up at the psychiatrist. "How do you know what happened to him after he left this joint?"
"His father called me. He was very upset," Dr. Masterson said.
"Then what?"
"I'm afraid there was nothing I or anyone else could do. Frank was of legal age, Lieutenant."
"Do you recall anyone ever referring to him by the nickname Frankie?" I asked.
He shook his head.
"What about Jim Barnes? Was he Frank Aims's social worker?" I asked.
"Yes," Dr. Masterson said reluctantly.
"Did Frank Aims have a bad encounter with Jim Barnes?" I asked.
He hesitated. "Allegedly."
"Of what nature?"
"Allegedly of a sexual nature, Dr. Scarpetta. And for God's sake, I'm trying to help. I hope you'll be mindful of that."
"Hey," Marino said, "we're mindful of it, all right? I mean, we ain't planning on sending out press releases."
"Then Frank knew Al Hunt," I said.
Dr. Masterson hesitated again, his face tight. "Yes. It was Al who came forward with the accusations."
"Bingo," Marino mumbled.
"What do you mean by saying Al Hunt came forth with the accusations?" I asked.
"I mean that he complained to one of our therapists," Dr. Masterson replied, his tone beginning to sound defensive. "He also said something to me during one of our sessions. Frank was questioned and he refused to say anything. He was a very angry, withdrawn young man. It wasn't possible for me to act on what Al had said. Without Frank's corroboration, the accusations were hearsay."
Marino and I were silent.
"I'm sorry," Dr. Masterson said, and by now he was thoroughly unnerved. "I can't help you with Frank's whereabouts. I know nothing further. The last time I heard from his father must have been seven, eight years ago."
"What was the occasion of that conversation?" I queried.
"Mr. Aims called me."
"For what reason?"
"He wondered if I'd heard from Frank."
"Well, had you?" Marino asked.
"No," Dr. Masterson answered. "I've never heard a word from Frank, I'm sorry to say."
"Why did Mr. Aims want to know if you'd heard from Frank?" I put forth the critical question.
"He wanted to find him, hoped that perhaps I might have a clue as to his whereabouts. Because his mother had died. Frank's mother, that is."
"Where did she die and what happened?" I asked.
"Freeport, Maine. I'm really not clear on the circumstances."
"A natural death?" I asked.
"No," Dr. Masterson said, refusing to meet our eyes. "I'm fairly certain it wasn't."
It didn't take Marino long to track it down. He called the Freeport, Maine, police. According to their records, on the late afternoon of January 15, 1983, Mrs. Wilma Aims was beaten to death by a "burglar" who was apparently inside her house when she returned from grocery shopping. She was forty-two when she died, a petite woman with blue eyes and bleached blond hair. The case remained unsolved.
I had no doubts about who the so-called burglar was. Marino didn't either.
He said, "So maybe Hunt really was clairvoyant, huh? He knew about Frankie's taking out his mother. That sure as hell happened a long time after the two fruitcakes was in the bin together."
We were idly watching Sammy Squirrel's antics around the bird feeder. After Marino had driven me back from the hospital and let me out at my house, I invited him in for coffee.
"You're certain Frankie wasn't employed at Hunt's car wash at any point during the past few years?" I asked.
"I don't remember any Frank or Frankie Aims on their books," he said.
"He very well may have changed his name," I said.
"Probably did if he whacked his old lady. Figured the cops might look for him."
He reached for his coffee.
"Problem is we don't have a recent description, and joints like Masterwash are a damn revolving door. Guys in and out all the time. Work a couple of days, a week, a month. You got any idea how many white guys are tall, thin, and dark? I'm running down names and running out of road."
We were so close but so far away. It was maddening. "The fibers are consistent with a car wash," I said in frustration. "Hunt worked in the car wash Beryl patronized, and he possibly knew her killer. Do you understand what I'm saying, Marino? Hun
t knew about Frankie's killing his mother because Hunt and Frankie may have had contact after Valhalla. Frankie may have worked at Hunt's car wash, perhaps even recently. It's possible Frankie may have first fixed on Beryl when she brought her car in to be cleaned."
"They've got thirty-six employees. All but eleven of them are black, Doc, and out of that eleven honkies, six of them are women. That leaves, what? Five? Three of them is under twenty, meaning they were eight, nine, back when Frankie was at Valhalla. So we know that ain't right. The other three don't fit, either, for various other reasons."
"What various other reasons?" I asked.
"Like they was just hired during the last couple of months, weren't even working there when Beryl would have been bringing in her ride. Not to mention their physical descriptions aren't even close. One guy's got red hair, another one's a munchkin, almost as short as you are."
"Thanks a lot."
"I'll keep checking," he said, turning away from the bird feeder as Sammy Squirrel watched us with pink-rimmed eyes. "What about you?"
"What about me?"
'Tour office downtown know you still work there?"
Marino asked.
He was looking strangely at me.
"Everything's under control," I added.
"I'm not so sure about that, Doc."
"I'm quite sure of it."
"Me"-Marino wouldn't give it a rest-"I think you ain't doing so hot."
"I'm going to stay out of the office for a couple more days," I explained firmly. "I've got to track down Beryl's manuscript. Ethridge is on my case about it. And we need to see what's there. Maybe the link you were talking about."
"Just so long as you remember my rules." He pushed back from the table.
"I'm being quite careful," I assured him.
"And nothing more from him, right?"
"That's right," I said. "No calls. Not a sign of him. Nothing."
"Well, let me just remind you his style wasn't to call Beryl every day, either."
I didn't need the reminder. I didn't want him starting in again. "If he calls, I'll simply say, 'Hello, Frankie. What's going on?'"
Body of Evidence ks-2 Page 25
