Palindrome

by E. Z. Rinsky

  “You heard the lady. Let’s go talk to this fucker.”

  NEXT MORNING I’M wearing a suit—­and not in a courtroom—­for the first time I can remember. We stopped at Walmart and picked them up for forty bucks apiece last night. Loony-­bin staff aren’t paid enough to tell the difference.

  Courtney takes the Accord over I-­80 down a four-­lane highway lined on either side by pines, truck stops and farmland. Courtney swerves around a pickup truck pulling a trailer with two horses sticking their heads out of the back, catching the breeze.

  Now I get to make the easiest phone call of the week.

  “Tammy? It’s Frank. Is Sadie there?”

  “Hi Frank! Yeah just a minute, I’ll get her.”

  I gaze out the window. Mist rising from yesterday’s rain. The tires sound slick beneath us. My heart feels a little lighter with every mile we put between us and that cabin. Plus, the dream feels a little more distant today.

  “Dad?”

  “Hey, sweetheart. How are you? How is the Feinsods’? Having fun hanging out with Ben?”

  “It’s fine but . . .” Sadie lowers her voice into the phone. “She’s an even worse cook than you.”

  “You’ll live.”

  “When are you coming back?”

  I suck on my teeth. “Not sure, maybe another few days.”

  “Is it going okay?”

  “I’ll tell you about it all when I get back, alright?”

  “Alright.” I imagine her pouting on the other end. “How’s Courtney?” she asks.

  “I wish you could see him now,” I say. “You wouldn’t even recognize him.”

  We woke up at five to apply each other’s disguises. Courtney’s thin hair is dusted a light shade of grey, and I chopped off his ponytail and parted the rest down the middle. Then I gave him a clean shave and aged him about thirty years with ultrathin rubber patches that make him look wrinkled. Powder to blend it all together, a few liver spots and thick rimmed glasses, and we have a convincing charade. The frown and blue bags under his eyes are his own.

  I admire my work; you’d have to get pretty darn close to Courtney’s face to notice anything amiss.

  “How’s school going?” I ask.

  “Good. We’re learning about the layers of the Earth. Did you know there’s basically lava under everything?”

  “I . . . I guess I knew that.”

  “Cool, huh? You just have to dig and you’ll get to lava.”

  I rub my eyes. “We’ll try that when I get home, okay? I’ll get us both shovels, and we’ll dig till we hit lava.”

  “Don’t make fun of me.”

  “Okay, I gotta run, sweetie. I’ll try to call tonight, okay?”

  “Alright. Bye.”

  Courtney talks out of the side of his jowled mouth. “How’s she doing?”

  “Fine.”

  I inspect my own face in the rearview mirror and don’t recognize the man staring back. The blond wig set us back four hundred, but a shitty one is too easy to spot. Blue-­colored contacts, crow’s-­feet drawn on with a makeup pencil, and a mustache. Courtney’s not as good at applying makeup as I am, so we had to get creative.

  We drive in silence for a few minutes. Courtney weaves past a twelve-­wheeler. I review the notes we gathered last night.

  The Berkley Clinic is located on a 255-­acre property that was originally an apple orchard. In 1915 the land was acquired by an oilman named Hugh Brandsworth, who built a munitions factory, as well as a dormitory for the workers. Then, in the fifties, it was converted into a penitentiary, a large percentage of its inmates World War II vets with PTSD. They built a central administration building, put metal screens over the windows in the dormitory, and turned the factory into a cafeteria/common area. Today there are three buildings that house the five hundred-­plus inmates (all male): the original, hundred-­year-­old dorm is low security—­guys whose families put them there. Nervous breakdowns, mild schizophrenia, bipolar; Cuckoo’s Nest stuff. Next up is a newer building, which is home to a hundred or so petty criminals, who may or may not have mental issues. Public nudity, unarmed robbery—­mostly first-­time offenders.

  And then the third building, presumably home to our man, Mr. Silas Graham: the Sachar Center. Place is home to some of the nastiest, nuttiest men in the Northeast; the real sickos who need more care than your run-­of-­the-­mill maximum-­security complex can provide. A hodgepodge of pedos, rapists and murderers assigned here as part of their plea bargain. Most of them are serving life sentences—­most will die here, and society will be all the better for it. They get a little therapy—­both group and individual—­plus meds for those who need them, which I’m betting is the vast majority. Visitations are strictly controlled for these perps. That could be an issue.

  “Even if we get in there to talk to him, there will be guards around,” Courtney says, artificial jowls turned down; this old man look is actually pretty natural for him. “Will you be able to interrogate him if ­people are watching?”

  “If you have a better idea, I’m all ears.”

  “I still think bribery could work.”

  I fidget in my seat. My seat belt feels too tight.

  “If this goes south, we can always try bribery. I’ve got five thousand wrapped up in my groin.”

  Courtney glances at me, like he’s sizing me up for the first time. “But you think this will work right?”

  “I think this has as good a chance of working as anything else.”

  Courtney tightens his grip on the wheel.

  THE BERKLEY CLINIC is about a hundred miles north of the cabin, smack in the middle of bumble-­fuck. It’s been four miles since our last Waffle House, and that’s saying something. Haven’t passed more than a dozen cars in the last ten minutes coming down this road. Then a rust-­red brick wall appears amidst never-­ending coniferous forest. Courtney slows down, takes a careful left into the front gate. Rolls down the window at the security booth and flashes our phony IDs to a fat, walrus-­looking fella.

  “We’re the guys from the Bureau,” Courtney announces. “Someone called this morning? We’re here to talk to one of your patients.”

  I really did call, but I can tell by the way Walrus hesitates before he nods that this is the first he’s heard of it.

  “Turn around and park outside the gate.” He points to a small lot across the street. “Leave weapons in the car. I’ll have to frisk you before I let you in.”

  We don’t put up a fight; Courtney doesn’t even carry a weapon. After we park, I put my Magnum in the glove compartment and slip my ceramic knife out of my sock and leave it too. We lock up the Honda—­plates changed this morning so they can’t track us through the car rental company if this all falls apart—­and walk briskly, purposefully, across the poorly paved road to the front gate. According to Wikipedia, this is the only break in the fifteen-­foot-­high brick perimeter besides a freight entrance on the south side of the complex, which is used only for trucks dropping off supplies.

  Walrus frisks us with fat, gloved hands. I’m thinking this is probably the first time he’s done this in a while. Doesn’t even make us take our shoes off; again, I could easily have smuggled in my knife.

  Satisfied, the guard returns to his booth, and the gate creaks open.

  “Follow the driveway up to the admin building.” He points. “I already radioed in. Some folks are coming out to meet you.”

  Cursory nods and smiles to Walrus, and then we’re inside, walking erect and serious enough to connote professionalism but slow enough to convey our age.

  Courtney must see me anxiously drumming my fingers against my thigh, because under his breath he says, “Relax. And don’t act like yourself. You’re too high-­strung. Feds are always really calm. All business.”

  “Courtney. Shut up.”

  Black tar driveway clicks und
er our polished shoes. I take in our surroundings.

  I find it hard to believe that this place used to be an orchard. The ground is flat and bare, and the only trees in sight are squat and lifeless, caked in frost. In the summer or spring this place might actually look alright, but January leaves it desolate and sterile. Low grey buildings and chain-­link fences sprawl over the property, reminiscent of a crappy elementary school. An empty, caged-­in basketball court on our left. A few men in scrubs—­must be orderlies—­are eating lunch on a bench, their breath steaming. The entire fucking complex is enclosed by that rectangular brick wall, topped off with a healthy serving of barbed wire. Plus, there are eight guard towers arranged at strategic points of potential entry.

  Nobody has ever escaped from this place, but fun trivia: Twelve years ago an inmate stole a plastic knife from the cafeteria, used it to slice thin strips of cloth from his shirt, and strangled two guards to death.

  Courtney says, “Are you sure you want to do the talking? I know the story as well as you.”

  “I’ve got this. You just stand there and look ugly.”

  The driveway leads to a roundabout. We stop outside the central office; a one-­story grey building that looks about as inviting as an Ebola quarantine.

  I stretch a little, try to work some tightness out of my lower back and the wrinkles out of my shitty suit. Straighten my tie. Two ­people are approaching us, a pear-­shaped man with pink cheeks wearing a drab blue suit and a woman in a white lab coat. They look confused. Before I have a chance, Courtney steps forward to greet them, badge already in hand.

  “Hi, I’m Leonard Francis, and this is Ben Donovan,” Courtney says crisply. “We’re from the Bureau. Someone should have called this morning to let you know we were coming.”

  I hold out my badge as well, and the man and woman inspect them for a moment, as if they know what they’re looking for.

  The man says, “Yes, I received that message. I’m Harrison Linton, director here,” and extends his hand for a firm handshake, his jowled cheeks and thick lips approximating a smile.

  “Dr. Marie Pollis.” The woman is small and mousey, with rimless glasses over narrow eyes. “I’m in charge of our mental health program here. How can we help you two?”

  Courtney runs a hand through his dyed grey hair. Again I think this is actually a natural look for him; his temperament always seemed strange in such a young man’s body. He’s got a small pillow taped under his dress shirt to simulate a gut, and he stands with his knuckles on his hips, puffing out his paunch like he’s proud of it.

  “I apologize for the short notice,” I say, stepping up and subtly butting Courtney out of the way. “It’s been a very hectic week. But we desperately need to speak to one of your patients. It’s something of an urgent matter. We are currently engaged in a manhunt for a murder suspect, a rather grisly case. I can’t explain all the details, as the investigation is ongoing, but we have very good reason to believe that this was a copycat incident. And speaking to the original killer, even if he knows nothing about this copycat, could be critical to apprehending and negotiating with our suspect.”

  Harrison and Dr. Pollis exchange a quick look. They don’t get visitors like this very often—­exactly what we were hoping.

  “Do you have a permit or something?” Harrison asks.

  “Of course,” I say. “Leonard?”

  Courtney removes a document—­which he spent hours last night perfecting—­from his suit pocket and hands it to Harrison. His big, wet eyes scan it back and forth, like he’s watching a tennis match on clay, then they freeze, bulging, riveted like the ball is just hanging in midair. He looks up at us and exhales, his breath an ominous grey cloud that hovers between us.

  “Silas Graham?” he asks slowly. “He’s been here for years. There’s no way he’s in touch with anything going on out there.” He gestures vaguely to the entrance, as if this facility is the real world and everything beyond its gates a mere distraction.

  I nod, expecting this objection. Courtney stands slightly behind me with his hand behind his back.

  “Understanding Silas better may well help us to anticipate our suspect’s next move,” Courtney says. “Maybe not, but more information certainly can’t hurt. And again, I stress”—­he furrows his bushed-­up eyebrows in deep concern—­“time is of the essence.”

  Dr. Pollis shakes her head adamantly. “There’s no way you can speak to Silas. Not only is he in maximum security but he hasn’t agreed to see a visitor in years. And that’s his right.”

  Harrison seems uncomfortable with this hard line. He’s a man who doesn’t like conflict. “Listen, why don’t you two come in and warm up. We’ll see what we can do for you.”

  Dr. Pollis glares at him, then we follow them up a cement walkway to the administration building, past an American flag waving miserably in the cold breeze. A pair of reinforced glass doors open into a tiled reception room that smells of bleach and lentil stew. It’s like a weird parody of a college admissions building.

  Behind the desk sits a tired-­looking blond woman on the phone. A guard sits in a high chair reading a magazine. A few plants behind the desk do little to warm the aseptic atmosphere of this place. We follow Harrison and Dr. Pollis behind the reception desk into a glass-­walled office. Every door, I notice, has to be opened with a magnetic key card. Harrison closes the door and walks around to sit behind a metal desk covered in papers. A family portrait and a few framed degrees hang on the wall; he’s a psychologist.

  Courtney and I sit across the desk from him as we did at Orange’s, like two gay dads here for a parent teacher conference. Dr. Pollis stands awkwardly off to the side.

  “So you want to talk to Silas . . .” Harrison makes a clicking noise with his tongue, then looks again at Dr. Pollis. “Even if we could get him to agree to talk to you, I doubt you’ll get much out of him, truthfully. What do you think?”

  She fiddles with her chestnut hair. “It seems like a long shot.”

  “Is he responsive, though?” I ask. “I mean, do you think he would be willing to cooperate? We only need to talk to him for maybe a half hour or so.”

  “Maybe a bit longer . . .” Courtney adds. I shoot him a quick look.

  “So somebody else committed a crime that looks like Silas’s?” Harrison asks. I grin to myself. Guy is curious. “That’s it?”

  “Well.” I sigh, like this is the twentieth time I’ve had to lay out all the details for someone. “I suppose I oversimplified it a bit. We think Silas was something of a role model for him—­we have reason to believe the two knew each other. We’re having a hard time tracking down our suspect and feel like Silas is our best way of getting inside his head. The better we can understand Silas—­we hope—­perhaps we can gather some clues about our suspect’s current state of mind.”

  “He’s on the loose?” Dr. Pollis asks, with strange indifference. No trace of alarm. Guess she has more immediate threats to worry about, working at this place.

  “That’s right,” I reply. Beside me Courtney strokes his faux-­wrinkled cheeks rapidly, as he often does when he’s thinking hard. I pray the makeup doesn’t smudge. “And we’re having an unusually hard time finding him. Obviously time is of the essence here. To find him before—­God forbid—­he kills again.”

  “If you don’t mind me asking—­” Dr. Pollis starts.

  “I’m sorry.” I compensate with an apologetic smile. “I really can’t say any more about the crime.”

  “Well.” Harrison spreads his palms. His face is definitely several stages redder than it was outside. “If we can’t get you in to see Silas, which sounds like it’s going to be tricky, maybe you could at least speak to the doctor in charge of his care. Dr. Pollis, would that be alright?”

  Her face scrunches up. I’m thinking he trusts us, she doesn’t.

  “I suppose,” she says.

  �
�Great.” Harrison grins. “If you two don’t mind, could I get those badges back from you? Just need to photocopy them for our records.”

  My stomach falls out from under me. I can feel my dick shriveling up into my body. Gig’s up. Abort. Maybe we can get out of here without facing five years for impersonating FBI agents. But Courtney, calm as can be, obligingly extends his fake badge, and I, with trembling hands, do the same. And then I watch in terror as Harrison, eyes twinkling, gently plucks them from our grasp with thick, ruddy hands.

  “And do you have the number of your central office that I can call to confirm your authorization?” he asks gently. He doesn’t suspect anything, that’s my only source of comfort. He really does believe us. But of course he would do a quick background check. Jesus. Fuck.

  “Of course,” Courtney replies and removes his wallet from his suit pocket. I smile at Dr. Pollis like this happens all the time. She gives me the obligatory tight-­lipped nod of two candidates for the same job sharing a waiting room. Courtney fiddles through his cards, frowns to himself, like I did when I pretended I thought I had more cash for ice cream.

  “Must have given out all my cards,” Courtney says. He removes a pen from his suit pocket and scribbles ten digits on the back of another card, hands it to Harrison.

  Harrison wheezes as he rises to his feet.

  “Be right back,” he says and walks out to the front desk. Dr. Pollis just stands there awkwardly. I lean over to try to conceal my shaking knees. I think I’m gonna piss myself. I stare at the portrait of Harrison’s family in an attempt to calm myself, but all that does is evoke images of Sadie in tears as I’m led away from her in cuffs.

  I try to catch Courtney’s eye, to nonverbally ask if maybe it’s bribe time, but he refuses to make eye contact with me. He’s just smiling pleasantly at Dr. Pollis, hands on his lap.

  “Do you have a restroom I could use?” he asks her.

  “Sure. To the left of the front desk,” she says. As Courtney rises to his feet, he slips a hand into my pants pocket. I start to recoil, until I realize what’s going on: he’s snatching my cell phone. Then he strolls from the office with an air of business as usual.