by catt dahman
Of Guilt and Innocence
A Virgil McLendon Mystery
catt dahman
© 2014: catt dahman
[email protected]
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book, including the cover, and photos, may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the author / publisher. All rights reserved,
This is a work of fiction; however, it is based on many documents findings and theories. Some of the material is completely true. I suggest doing your own research. References to the metal illness listed are factual. The Fordham Institute for the Criminally Insane is not a real place.
Chapter One: Welcome to the Insanity
Virgil McLendon, not for the first time, but for the one hundredth, wondered at the irony of having a confusing mission that led him right into a private, exclusive Fordham Institution for the Criminally Insane, a place where murderers were already captured but who were thought to be too ill to be fully responsible for a defense. His job was usually to catch killers and let them suffer punishment, so helping them was new for him.
The grounds of the facility were still chilly and dotted with flowering trees and flowerbeds that did nothing to dispel the institutional grey of the building and bars on the windows. The attractive stonework was marked with dampness, and the tall trees cast deep, dark shadows that enveloped the large buildings, hiding any hope that might creep in from the sunlight.
The atmosphere alone would drive one to depression, sending anyone into a Poe-esque sense of dread, leading one to fear being buried alive or hidden away in a wall. It was appropriate since the patients were left, locked away and greatly hidden away for all time.
Without his uniform, gun, and handcuffs available, Virgil felt strangely vulnerable and almost as if he were bare. Uncharacteristically, he wondered since when had he become so dependent on his gun as opposed to his wits; that was not his style. It wasn’t before, rather. It was now, after having to use both his brain and tools of his trade to survive and catch criminals.
The doctors would, no doubt, have plenty to say about his dependency on the tools of law enforcement, but he was a small town sheriff and was uncomfortable in this situation that was so far from his usual paths.
Less than a year before, he had been a quiet deputy who followed orders and busted the occasional drunk or shoplifter. In one quick motion, it seemed, he was thrust into a new role of being in charge of the biggest manhunt in history, one that destroyed many lives and suddenly made Virgil the go-to-officer for difficult cases and unsolvable crimes. It was the media portion that was the worst, however; interest built into frenzies, and reaching hands, begging hands pleaded with him to help solve cases.
At least it was quiet here.
“Mr. McLendon, welcome to the Fordham Institution. Please come in, and make yourself at home,” said one of the orderlies who, instructed beforehand to drop Virgil’s official title, held open the door and greeted him with a wide grin. “Come on in, and get yourself a gander at the digs. Everything is top-notch here,” he said as he winked, “any comfort you’re missing, I can probably get for you.”
The orderly was Donte Jefferson, a giant of a man who stood fully seven feet tall and weighed in at three hundred pounds; he had chiseled muscles that rippled beneath his mandatory scrubs of pale blue. Where the man found scrubs to fit, Virgil could only wonder. He might ask later just out of curiosity because if they were custom made, that showed a very deep investment in his work.
Virgil liked to form his own opinions and knew only that Donte was the most depended-on at the institute, highly praised by the staff of Fordham for his dependability and exacting manner, as well as beloved by the patients for his humor and gentle nature. Virgil would test this for himself as he worked, as was his way.
It was possible Donte was also a brutal murderer, but then, anyone could be the particular murderer Virgil was looking for. Several in the institution were killers, or they would not be locked away here. It was as if he were to find the white tigers in a cage of golden tigers by touch alone.
Virgil glanced around the patients’ commons room as they walked through and found it pristine and comfortably decorated with expensive chairs, tables, and art work. One large portrait was of Abraham Lincoln with two boys, one white and one a black child. It was captivating because of the large eyes the black child cast at the president and the adoring look Lincoln had for the children. From history, Virgil thought he recalled Lincoln was a doting father and loved all children.
“This way, sir,” Donte said as he led them through various locked doors and past a nurses’ station. Chrome gleamed, and the floors were polished without having any scuff or worn patches, and the walls were perfectly clean. The hospital smelled of lemon cleaners and oil and decidedly unlike the usual antiseptic odors.
Several nurses gave them waves. Each wore a neat white uniform with pinned hair under a prim hat, but none had stern, cruel faces as Virgil had somehow expected. Instead, they were plain or attractive and looked genuinely competent, warm, and calm. Here, the employees were caregivers as opposed to prison guards.
One of the nurses might be a violent killer, too.
Virgil felt more out of place than one would normally feel in this environment; this was all still new to him, and more than a few times, he questioned his capabilities. He was a sheriff who, by some odd ways and techniques, solved the biggest murder case in Texas almost nine months before, a case that involved four brutal killers who preyed upon campers and children, but how that made him an expert, he didn’t know. Surely, these doctors and nurses knew far more about the minds of killers than he knew.
While he thought his methods were logical and simple, the same as playing a piano or working out a math problem, he now was bombarded with police departments all over the country asking him to come solve cases for them. If he had time, he would do so, but it wasn’t possible. He wasn’t sure why they didn’t all gather the clues, follow them, and depend on evidence.
A few months before, but after the murders in his hometown, he helped the FBI and Sheriff’s department in Blanco Vista solve a particularly nasty case of a mysterious murderer of over sixty men who were tortured, abused, and dumped, dead, by the side of the road or in secluded parks. A lucky break and a lot of help made the solve fairly simple although a deputy almost died in the process. The FBI, impressed by the solve, sent Virgil more requests to teach his “profiling” technique and his ability to read a crime scene to help them train agents.
They were far more experienced than he was; what could he possibly teach the experts?
He refused ninety-nine percent of the requests, humbled to be asked but with no time and a lack of confidence; however, his friend, Special Agent Mason Lord, whom he had recently worked with in Blanco Vista, presented him with a case that was an enigma. The FBI agents had thrown up their hands over the situation, saying in private that the case was impossible to solve. Mason Lord said the other agents didn’t think Virgil could possibly solve the case, but he had total faith in his friend.
The challenge intrigued Virgil.
Unlike the other detectives, Virgil thought each case was a golden opportunity to learn more, learning that might, in th
e future, help him. He wasn’t sure why everyone didn’t look for such chances to improve techniques. He just wanted to be great at his job; that was all.
“The visiting room we passed through is the one where the crimes were committed. It was the biggest mess you’ve ever seen. We had to replace chairs and a few chair cushions…all torn up. It looked as if someone had intentionally ruined all he or she could.”
“So, did it seem as if someone were trying to destroy the furnishings or that he was searching for something?” Virgil asked Donte.
Frown lines appeared on the man’s smooth forehead and replied, “I would say that whoever wanted to ruin the room, defaced it like angry patients do at times, but he didn’t do the normal things you’d find, such as peeing on the carpet or smearing the walls with feces. On the other hand, this is a high-falooting bunch of patients. They may get verbally mean or physically abusive at times, but when they act out, it isn’t in the middle of the night without an audience.”
“Is vandalism a common thing here?”
“No. A little acting out, and as I said with an audience, but on this scale? Never. Ever. It doesn’t happen here. And what’s odd is no one saw a thing.”
Virgil thought and then asked, “And the room is always open, am I correct?”
“Yes, it is. There isn’t as much security here as one would think because families pay a lot for their loved ones to be watched but not imprisoned. They didn’t go any further, and they didn’t want to escape, it seems. Maybe they thought they would be caught or maybe something disturbed them.”
“Besides the patients, who else was killed? They disturbed the killer, right?”
“I think so, but I’m not an expert.”
“But you think so. Why?”
“I don’t know. The first two murders were in the room. The third was in a closet. I don’t see how the first two are connected to the third and why the killer didn’t run away,” Donte said as he shrugged, “but that’s why you’re here, sir, to figure that out. Those FBI agents looked and talked and asked questions and then said they’d get back with us. They gave up. The local police here tried really hard but just gave up with sad faces.”
“I promise I won’t give up. I may be here a long time, but any case is solvable.”
“Even when you are dealing with liars and the clinically insane?”
Virgil smirked a little while answering, “No different than the outside. Donte, if you had to hazard a guess…a feeling…how would you explain the events?”
“I’m no expert, like I said, but to me, it feels as if the killer had a plan that wasn’t about escape, and the third murder…it seems more…like enjoyment. It was about the killing. But I don’t know these things, really. I’m no help.”
“On the contrary, your observations are of great value and as much help as any fingerprint. Thank you, Donte.” Virgil was a direct sort, and he asked, bluntly, “Why do you work here? Do you enjoy it?”
Donte was startled and then began laughing. He finally leaned back against the wall and wiped his eyes with his hand and answered, “Oh, Sheriff, you are a hoot and a half. I like your style; I sure do. Keep your suspects jumpin’ and off-kilter.”
“Well, I am curious. I need a backstory for everyone.”
“I understand. The truth? You know as I do that equal treatment isn’t always equal for a black man with just a high school education, but here, I am treated like gold and am paid well, and I have dignity. I like taking care of folks that need help, and, Sheriff, the honest work and honest respect are worth a fortune to me. I’ve done well for myself here. Many men of my color don’t aspire for much, and they don’t make it nearly as far as I have.”
Virgil nodded.
Donte sighed, “My mama is proud of me. Real proud. I sleep well at night, and that can be a rare thing, but I have a good life. Yes, sir, I like working here just fine. You could say this is my life, right here. I am happy with it.”
“Thank you for your honesty. Places have a flavor, and the people give it that. It helps me to know who you are because you are in the center, it seems.”
“What flavor am I?”
Virgil laughed, “You are savory.”
“Well, that is fine, indeed. Savory is what satisfies and remains constant. I like that.”
“Not to be repeated, but my wife says I am like a friend cheese stick with a jalapeno in the middle which means mush and bland until the payoff. I haven’t decided if that’s good or bad, but I like cheese sticks and love the hot peppers.”
Virgil looked in each room as they passed by: calm rooms where patients could mingle without danger and tastefully decorated with a lot of soft blues and pale greens on the walls and secured artwork that covered the walls. Chairs and sofas were well padded with soft fabrics. A feeling of sterility was there, but it was expensive, luxurious desolation. It looked like many homes, richly decorated but uncluttered.
Virgil thought of his own home, a huge place richly decorated in antiques and decor that they had gotten with the house. All the crystal, silver, brocade, and silk had only hidden horrific secrets that had to be unearthed before the house was a home. Sometimes beauty disguised monstrous interiors.
As they walked down halls, Virgil tried to memorize all the times they turned down hallways. He saw every room was pleasant but couldn’t stop and look because he was keeping up with Donte. The layout was something he would have to explore more carefully when he was alone.
“Thank you, Donte. Hello, Sheriff McLendon…ummm, Mr. McLendon, I should learn to say, yes? Or Dr. McLendon for this situation?” a doctor said as he greeted Virgil with a firm handshake.
He was Dr. Walter Kenshaw, said to be an expert in psychology with numerous publications and accolades. His background checked out as being excellent, and he had no legal issues on record. The local police department respected him.
Dressed in a pair of slacks and a natty blazer with real leather elbow pads, soft loafers, and a messy scarf, he looked the part of a professor. His greying hair was a little long, and brushed off his face, and his eyes were bright blue with intelligence. He affected a slight accent that wasn’t quite English, but old-world, like one from the turn of the century, formal and soothing. Originally from the South, he had intentionally worked to overcome his former accent.
He had met Virgil in town the day before at the police station and had given him the barest of information. Virgil still smirked over the way the doctor presented himself.
“Doctor,” Virgil said as he shook the doctor’s hand and followed him upstairs and through another locked door that opened into a maze of corridors. Virgil almost asked for a map so he wouldn’t get lost. That made him smile inwardly, but he remained straight-faced because people didn’t trust law enforcement officers who laughed at their own musings.
“Fordham is one of the most respected institutions for the criminally insane in the country. I won’t lie and say the private commitments are inexpensive because they are very expensive, but we also take only the most intriguing cases so to better our experience.” It was much the same as he said the day before. He rambled as if trying to convince Virgil to be a patient.
Virgil found that to be an avoidance of the real issue, and he was willing to bet the doctor knew it, too. That was natural, however. It would be difficult for the doctor to begin again about the murders occurring right under his nose.
“These are individuals and cases you study to write for journals, correct?”
“Yes, we find sharing helps many others in the profession. I am fascinated by the cases like these that are not only rare, but also disturbing for even medical professionals to deal with. The patients are all dangerous or have been at some time but who were also diagnosed with serious illnesses that we don’t fully understand yet.”
“What do you find intriguing, Doctor? What criteria would allow someone to be admitted here?” Virgil asked as he sat across from Dr. Kenshaw.
“The price tag, I am afraid is first.
The amount is staggering with a year’s cost equal to buying a modest home or an expensive automobile.”
“And people can afford that?”
Dr. Kenshaw sighed as he closed his eyes for a second and then said, “It seems ludicrous, yes? But these families often feel as if they are to blame for the patient’s actions, and from guilt that they pay for the top care available. Would I pay the cost in the same situation? No, I wouldn’t since it is futile, but it gives the families a sense of peace and maybe a certain status to say that their loved one is here at the best, most expensive institution in the country. Sad commentary.”
“Is this place worth the cost?” Virgil was blunt, but it was a valid question.
“There are excellent doctors in other institutions, and while some are vile places, most are decent. For general considerations, no, it is not worth the cost. But here the patients have far more freedom and comforts, and the families suffer far less guilt; for that aspect, it is worth every penny. Consider the families, not the patients themselves.”
“Thank you, doctor, for being so open. Knowing that little bit of information gives me a definite feel for the place, and frankly, I am finding your honest attitude to be probably part of the value of Fordham.”
“I’m humbled. Thank you.”
Virgil found the doctor to be, despite the slight English affect and clichéd clothing, trustworthy. It was very possible that the two oddities made the families and patients feel safe in an old-world way. “Please continue. The other requirements for being admitted?”
“We look at the case and determine if the person were truly guilty of the crime, whether it was shoplifting or murder since we only want the truly guilty. Malingering and fake illnesses are a waste of our time and the family’s money. Unique symptoms and diagnosis are of interest, and we prefer those who…how shall I put it….” He tapped his chin with a finger, “those who will never be well enough to leave. That is not for the cash flow but because we are able to study each patient long term and learn from him.”
