Voices In The Walls: A Psychological Thriller (Michael Gresham Series)

by John Ellsworth

  "Sumbitch was lying," said Carr.

  "Let's go."

  The two men again exited their vehicle and returned to Hussell's front porch stoop. They rang the doorbell and rapped on the outer glass storm door. This process went on for a good five minutes before the door finally swung open and there stood Elroy Hussell once again, this time holding a can of Pork N' Beans and a spoon.

  "You just can't stay away?" said the old man.

  "Just a follow-up," said Tingo. "You told us you never saw the car again after it disappeared."

  "I said I never saw it again after it was stole. It didn't disappear, mister, it was stole."

  "But the Secretary of State says you signed the title when the car went to the junkyard. So you must have seen it again, isn't that right?"

  "Are you callin' me a liar? Truth be told, I never did see it again. I just signed the goddam title."

  "You're telling us that you didn't see the car, that you just sold it sight-unseen to the junk dealer in town?"

  "That's about the long and the short of it, mister."

  Tingo looked at Carr, who shook his head.

  "Well, I'm calling foul," Carr interposed. "I think you didn't tell us the whole truth."

  "You didn't ask all the right questions, mister. I ain't required to do your job for you."

  "But why wouldn't you just tell us you signed the title once the car was recovered after the accident."

  "Why wouldn't you just ask me? I'm freezin' my nuts off. Goodbye, gentlemen."

  Before the cops could react, the door slammed and the storm door shuddered shut and they were left there alone, looking at each other.

  Finally, Tingo shrugged. "It ain't a crime."

  "No, it isn't a crime to withhold the whole truth."

  "Besides, no D.A. would charge him with anything."

  "I say we just write it off. Those beans made me hungry."

  "You an Elk?"

  "Nope, Moose."

  "Must be someplace on the square."

  "Let's go find out. I'm starving."

  25

  Jana and Vicki

  Jana knew there would be tests and inquiries from the police, and the hospital would require him to have unique knowledge of the woman in the paper. They weren't going to just turn her over to anyone who came around asking. He would need her hospital file in order to demonstrate his possession of the unique. The hospital records would tell things about her that no one could know without being inside the young woman's inner circle. Tattoos, scars, colorations, dental marks and repairs—these were the things by which he could prove she belonged to him, could prove that he had known her since before the accident. Plus, he had the marriage license forgery. It would fit those particulars—such as they were—just right. So he determined he would make his play for her.

  He began by visiting the hospital. There was much to be learned from the staff in the records department. He wandered the first floor hallway, following the yellow footprints painted on the floor, until he surfaced at the suite of offices marked RECORDS. There, he went inside.

  It was busy. No one came immediately to the counter to assist him. Excellent. It would give him time to choose a likely candidate to cooperate with him.

  It didn't take him long. Her name tag said Vicki and she was all of five four, if even that, a bit on the pudgy side, with thick lips and long black lashes that batted nervously when she waited on someone. She was either new or lacked confidence in her abilities, Jana noted, and so he focused in on her. He needed someone who lacked confidence—she would be most amenable to his suggestions and friendliness.

  He stepped outside into the hallway, planted his back against the far wall, and waited. And waited. It was 11:40 a.m. and he knew she would be taking a lunch break in the next hour or so. He only hoped she would leave the office for the cafeteria or somewhere off the hospital grounds where he could follow.

  Sure enough, at 11:59 a.m., she emerged. And—he couldn't have planned it better—she was alone. In one hand she had a brown paper lunch bag; in the other she carried an iPod that she was fiddling with as she hurried away down the hall. Her plan was clear: a table in the cafeteria before the noon bunch swept in and took all the good places to sit, and a thirty or forty-minute session with her favorite sounds. Who just happened to be Fallout Boy and Green Day.

  Vicki Knightly was an untested activist, a young woman whose heart was in line with those who tried to stop the Japanese whale slaughter and the Canadian baby seal tragedy. The music she chose likewise reflected a social conscience—such as it was—and she opened her lunch bag and was chewing along in time to Jesus of Suburbia when the man sauntered up and stood beside her, a friendly smile on his face and shining eyes that shone warm and kindly.

  Her mouth full of egg salad and white bread, Vicki looked up. The man continued looking down at her. His lips moved and she removed an ear bud from one ear.

  "What was that?" she asked.

  The man gave her his shy look.

  "I said I'm sorry to interrupt."

  "Oh, it's okay. I'm just eating."

  "Do you know where the records department is?"

  It was his lucky day; she just happened to work there.

  "I do. I work there."

  The man motioned at the chair across from her round, two-seater table. "May I?"

  "It's a free country."

  "Thank you. Anyway, I need some help with a certain woman's records."

  "You'll have to come over to the office and fill out a request form. You need a four-five-five PR form. Then we can help you. Is it your wife?"

  "Yes. I saw her picture in the paper."

  Vicki looked at him appraisingly. It was no secret that every other week or so the hospital would run pictures of Jane Does in the paper. Maybe the man had recognized someone near and dear to him. It excited her, thinking that she might be part of a Jane Doe placement. Those were happy events and Vicki hadn't had her turn with one yet. Others had and they got their pictures in the paper too, when the happy moments were caught on camera and published.

  "What's her name?" Vicki inquired.

  "Jane Doe two-three-five."

  "I remember her. What's she to you?"

  "My wife. At last I've found her."

  "How did you lose her?"

  "She just disappeared one afternoon. She was going shopping at Macy’s and I never saw her again."

  "Oh, I know a little about two-thirty-five. She's been here almost four months. You've been looking all that time?"

  "Yes, I even came to this hospital several months ago but they told me there was no Jane Doe who fit the description I gave."

  Vicki gave the man her most suspicious look. "I find that hard to believe. Jane Does are treated with the greatest of care and love by this institution. You must have met up with someone who was having a rotten day."

  "I don't know. But now I'm heartsick, thinking my beautiful wife might have been here the entire time and I didn't know it. I'm thinking of a lawsuit."

  Vicki set her egg salad aside. "There's no need for a lawsuit. We can help you get reconnected without much ado, I'm sure."

  "You can?"

  "Yes. You'll need to fill out the four-five-five PR. I can help with that. But be careful when you fill it out. It asks some pretty specific questions in order to prove you're who you say you are and she's who you say she is."

  "I wouldn't have it any other way. But can you help me with those answers so I don't lose out on my chance to get my wife back?"

  "I can give you the form. You'll have to fill it out, though. I can't do that for you."

  "Oh, that's too bad. I'm thinking of seeing a lawyer, then. Someone who can cut through the red tape."

  "Oh, there's no red tape."

  "Can you let me see her records first, just to be sure she's my wife?"

  "Sorry, I can't do that. The records have personal information in them. They're protected by HIPAA."

  "What's HIPAA?"

  "Hea
lth Insurance Portability and Accountability Act. It protects patient rights."

  "What if I made a contribution to the hospital? Would that help with the red tape?"

  Vicki smiled. Egg salad could be seen wedged between her front teeth and eye teeth. She ran her tongue over them as the man's eyes gravitated there and held. She decided she wanted to be rid of him now, so she could finish her lunch in peace. She was down to fourteen minutes before she had to return.

  "What if I made a contribution to you?" the man said without waiting for an earlier answer. Say I paid you five thousand dollars for her file?"

  Vicki inhaled a great stream of air and choked on sandwich particulates that hadn't yet cleared her mouth. She raised an arm and swallowed a mouthful of milk. The coughing subsided.

  "Jesus," she said, her eyes darting around. "Did you just offer me five thousand dollars for a patient's records?"

  "I did."

  "I should turn you in."

  "But you won't. Five thousand dollars is a great down payment on a new VW bug convertible. I'll bet you want one of those."

  "I do. But I can't just give you records. Someone might find out."

  "Just leave them on the counter and turn your back. It won't take me five minutes to find what I need to know in order to get my wife back."

  "Five minutes? How about three?"

  "Four, then."

  "When do I get the money?"

  "Right now. I have it in this envelope," he said, reaching inside his windbreaker for a long white envelope. He laid it across the table. Vicki started to reach for it, then hesitated.

  "How do I know this isn't a test of my loyalty?"

  "Do you really think the hospital gives a damn about you? My guess is, no one really knows you even work here, except for maybe your boss and a girlfriend or two."

  He had her there. It was very impersonal. After all, here she was, eating alone again. She hadn't even cracked the threesome that always tooled off to lunch together every damn day without inviting her. Vicki was just a little miffed about that, as she told her mother on the phone. It actually hurt. Lots.

  She reached and took the envelope and slipped it inside her brown paper bag. Then she rolled the top on the bag and set it in her lap.

  "Okay. Four minutes. Jane Doe two-three-five. It will be on the far end of the counter in ten minutes. Now go. Scat!"

  The man stood and, without a smile or a nod, began hurrying away. The less time they were seen together, the better.

  Thirty minutes later, he left RECORDS with three key pieces of information. One, there was a small green rose tattoo on her left inner ankle. But he had already known that. Anyone intimate with her body would know that, he scoffed. Two, there was a fairly engorged hang mole on the inside of her left breast. Same thing here. He had toyed with the skin tag many, many times as he lay beside her, embracing, stroking her while she wept.

  And three, there was a wedding ring with the inscription 3 June 2012 Forever on the inside of the band. No one but someone close to her, someone intimate, could possibly know these things. But the man did now, thanks to Vicki and five thousand dollars. The ring would clinch the deal, he was certain. And there was one other piece he planned on bringing in. That would be the clincher if all else failed.

  As for the patient? She would be welcome in his home anytime. She could take right back up with her work where she had left off when she ran away from him in the stolen VW.

  26

  Danny

  Dr. Thomas comes to me one evening and explains there has been a meeting about my case. A man has come forth and says I am his wife. So, the Placement Board held a meeting to let the man make his case. Dr. Thomas wants to gauge my reaction. My reaction is the same as always: I want to go home.

  Dr. Thomas recounts the meeting for me. But first he shows me the file photo of the man. Do I recognize him? Hey, I don't recognize anybody most days. This guy is nobody I know.

  Looking at my picture, Jana Emerich confidently told the hospital Placement Board, “This is definitely my wife!” He looked at the five people intently. Their job was to place patients in best-case settings upon discharge. Their work involved only those patients who were unable to place themselves. Usually these were newborn infants, but sometimes, like today, it could also involve a person with dementia or, like this case, a person with amnesia.

  The board was comprised of the hospital attorney, the police detective who first worked Missing Persons on Jane Doe 235 before Tingo and Carr, Dr. Ivanuk Thomas, Trang Nguyen, R.N., and Father Francis O'Grady, the hospital priest. They were three women and two men, as the attorney and the detective were both women. A court stenographer was present to take the statements made at the meeting. The hospital required that a record be made of all placement meetings and today's was no different. The reporter had arrived early, spread the feet on his tripod, inserted a new blank of paper, and cracked his knuckles.

  The hospital attorney chaired the Placement Board. She made an opening statement in which she essentially gave the particulars of Jane Doe 235's case. It was not that long a statement as not that much was known about the patient. The chairwoman then asked the petitioner—Jana Emerich—if he cared to make an opening statement. He said he did.

  "My name is Arno Soulé and I have at last found my wife, Dania. My heartfelt gratitude for the care you've given her. So, please let me update you. Dania and I were living in St. Louis when she left one day to shop at Macy’s. For some unknown reason, she crossed the river into Illinois. There was an automobile accident and she was brought to your hospital.

  "We were married June third, twenty-twelve. If you look inside her wedding ring, engraved there is 3 June 2012 Forever. Those are the numerals and words I had engraved to commemorate our wedding and to commemorate that we were both making lifetime commitments. Without knowing a whole lot about Dania's status other than what I read in the paper, she made that commitment and I know if she were her same old self she would still want to honor that commitment.

  "You should also know that I can tell you that on the inside of my wife’s left breast there's a red mole, the kind some call a hang mole. It has been there ever since I met Dania and she has said more than once that she plans to have it removed.

  "What else do I know about my wife? Well, she's wearing sweats now, but if you pulled up the left leg of her sweat pants you would see a small green rose tattoo. It was placed there out of deference to her Irish father. This is pretty much what I know about Dania as far as identifying characteristics, but I'm also hoping I can answer all questions you might have for me."

  "Very compelling," said the hospital attorney. "Excuse us while we talk. You may exit the room now."

  While Jana Emerich—posing as Arno Soulé—was outside the room, the hospital's Placement Board sent for my personal effects. They tore open the manila envelope that held my personal effects, and lo and behold it was there just as the visitor had said it would be: the ring said, 3 June 2012 Forever.

  Next they brought me in and examined me. They viewed my left ankle, inside. Sure enough, a very small, discreet tattoo was inked there, a green rose. The casual observer would never have noticed, the nurse said, since she hadn't noticed it for weeks even when she was seeing me in all stages of dress and undress during my first month in the hospital. So it was something else that the visitor had demonstrated.

  Then there was the mole. With the drape preserving my privacy, the doctor viewed my left breast and the hang mole there. Engorged and red, just as the man had said it would be. They called him back into the room and escorted me out.

  "Well," said the detective, leading things off this time, "we're impressed. You've given us some real indicators that you are who you say you are and that she is who you say she is. The identification you filed with your petition checks out as well, Mr. Soulé."

  "Thank you, Detective," said Jana Emerich. "And while we're at it, I have one last piece of the puzzle I can provide in case any one of you is still holdi
ng out even a single doubt. Let me tell you what that is. If you will open my wife's general health chart, you will find that her blood type is AB-negative, found in less than one percent of all Caucasians."

  During his trial for raping me, Jana’s lawyer—and, by extension, Jana—obtained my sexual assault records from the hospital ER. My blood type was reported in those records, of course. He’d simply accessed old materials and used it to sway the Placement Board.

  Dr. Thomas gasped when the visitor told him my blood type. He conferred quietly with his co-members as they leaned toward him and heard what he had to say about it. AB-negative was the correct answer. Now there was no question. It was settled—Jana could see it on their faces. Like Jana Emerich knew it would be, the blood type announcement was a dealmaker. Their faces were smiling and their eyes confident.

  My husband was indeed in the room.

  What do I think when Dr. Thomas tells me about this meeting? I tell him I want to meet my husband. And that I would like Dr. Thomas to be nearby because I'm scared I won't measure up. What if he doesn't like the new me? What if he finds me boring? Will he still take me home or will he just send me back?

  27

  Danny

  I didn't need to worry so much. For openers, he has brought me flowers. Two dozen red roses, with a card with a name written on it that I don't recognize. But I pretend not to notice. I lift the flowers to my nose and inhale. I smile. I nod. Standing behind the man is Dr. Thomas. He is standing with his arms crossed, and smiling. Having him nearby definitely helps.

  Sitting in my visitor's chair is Father Francis O'Grady, with his wavy silver hair and strong jaw line. While I have little use for spiritual matters, I like the father very much. The candy stripers have provided me with a small suitcase. Father O'Grady balances it on his lap. His folded hands lie clumped on top of the leatherette cover while his eyes study Arno.

  Nice, says the priest's smiling face.