Of Guilt and Innocence: Institute at the Criminally Insane (Virgil McLendon Thrillers Book 3)

by catt dahman

  Lynn Redding smiled, “Why I take medications.” She patted his arm and winked, her eyes twinkling with humor.

  Chapter Three: Of Closets and Wolves

  After meeting the second patient, Virgil retreated to his room: a comfortable place with a soft double bed, a desk, bookshelves, a bedspread, drapes, and a rug in soft bluish purple, over-sized chairs, and several lamps. Thoughtfully Donte brought him a tray with lasagna and vegetables that equaled that of a fine restaurant. There was also a big pitcher of tea. Virgil forced bad images from his mind and ate mechanically. It was delicious.

  Refreshed after a short nap, Virgil pulled his folders from a satchel and studied them. The FBI found straight forward facts and excellent pictures, but none were anything substantial that could be picked out to point to a motive or a suspect. Obviously, magazines and pillows were first tossed on the floor of the meeting room. Knick-knacks were throw all over, and a table was turned on its side. On top sprawled like a broken doll, a woman lay face down. It was the room Virgil admired when he arrived.

  Virgil made notes on a pad.

  The killer was in the room and had made a small mess of the furnishings, and then for reasons unknown he was either surprised or he turned on an accomplice and hit the woman Anne Lunt in the back of the head with a heavy brass lamp. He or she then tossed the lamp to the side where the shade crumpled and the bulb shattered. Anne’s head wound, deep and rendering her unconscious, bled profusely. She would have probably recovered.

  The killer did something secretive and discovered that Anne was still alive. Maybe the victim awakened. Whatever the situation, the killer used a heavy glass bookend and crushed Anne’s skull with several hard, pounding swings to the back of her head, killing her. He hit her many times, far more than was necessary.

  After that, the killer tore open pillows to spread stuffing around the room, tore up papers, and yanked art from the wall, breaking glass and destroying the frames. The second act of vandalism was to cover something, maybe to indicate there was a fight, but Virgil didn’t know what the killer might have been thinking.

  What did he do between the attacks on Miss Lunt?

  He was sure that the killer hadn’t planned for there to be a murder; that was not the motive. The murder was incidental. There was no planning, no organization, and no forethought, but that didn’t narrow it down to either a patient or a staff member. Until they understood what the motive was, there was no way to figure out who committed the crime. Unorganized crimes were difficult.

  Could it be as simple as someone acting out, wishing to commit simple vandalism, and then killing over it? Very possibly. Somewhere in the photos was the answer, but Virgil couldn’t see it.

  In the second folder was another batch of pictures and notes from two nights later.

  Witnesses claimed Mary Wheeler was in the room, sitting in a chair and calmly reading a book. Unable to sleep, she said she didn’t want anything to help her sleep and would read until sleepy; she was still there at two A. M. In the hour following, someone, the killer, went into the room and killed Mary.

  The room looked mostly put back in order except for a few missing items and walls needing paint.

  Mary Wheeler was bashed in the face several times with a small statue that shattered her facial bones: her cheeks, her nose, and eye orbits. From the blood and rips left in the fabric of the chair’s arms by her nails, it was clear the woman suffered before her death.

  Virgil paused and said, “Come in, please.” He raised his head to see who had knocked at his door.

  Donte smiled, “How are you?”

  “Better after a good meal and a nap.”

  “I just wanted to check on you. When you’re ready, Dr. Redding can introduce you to more patients. I know Keri was a shock. Dr. Redding was putting one over on you. Those are not our easy cases but are two very difficult ones. She feels guilty for teasing you, but she had to initiate you as one of us, I guess.”

  “I forgive her. I know she meant no maliciousness.”

  “None at all.”

  “Donte, may I ask you to sit with me and help me with these reports?”

  “Sure, I don’t know how I can help since I’m not a doctor or an investigator,” said Donte, laughing as he sat down.

  “Don’t underestimate yourself. I was a deputy just busting drunks and scaring delinquent children less than a year ago, and I was the butt of jokes for my ideas.”

  “That’s rough.”

  Virgil laughed. “I know some of my ideas are a little weird, but they work for me.”

  “I have faith in you.”

  “In the first death, it looks as if the killer were interrupted, so he staged a crime scene with no real concern for authenticity. He…I’ll say he even though it may be a she…probably did all that to divert attention from his purpose, and I’m afraid he did a poor job of it, but it worked well enough that I can’t figure out what the motive was. The room has been cleaned up, and we have no crime scene to look at other than in pictures.”

  “And a motive helps you know who it is? What if you find the killer and then figure out the motive? Does that ever happen? Does this ever go backwards?”

  Virgil stared a second. He rubbed his temple.

  “Did I say something stupid?”

  Virgil shook his head, “No, you just told me I am looking at this wrong and an trying to solve it like I have other cases, but each case is different. I feel like an idiot. You’re completely right.”

  “I am?” asked Donte, laughing hard and slapping his knee with mirth, “Sheriff, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “The motive is impossible, so we’ll look for the killer instead. You saw this first, and I didn’t consider it. That’s why I told you never to underestimate yourself. I am sure there is a clue in the photos of the crime scene, and I’ll figure it out when I have spoken to each person here. The issue is that half the suspects are already murderers.”

  “What would indicate someone as a possible suspect?”

  “They have to be somewhat strong. Tamantha Bok probably wouldn’t have the energy and muscles for a fight. Is she prone to physical activities?”

  “No. She’s wasting away, Sheriff, and can barely get around. Do you feel she is excluded?”

  “Probably so. And Keri, it seems to me that had she killed the victims, she would have failed at impulse control and bitten them or eaten parts. Even without her teeth, she would have tried, and the autopsy shows nothing like that. She wouldn’t have the ability to do it anyway.”

  “That makes sense, Sheriff. Hey, am I a strong suspect?”

  Virgil smiled and replied, “You are only the third I have excluded as a suspect and the reason I am asking for your input now. You couldn’t possibly be the killer because of your size and strength. You are a very tough man, and unlike the norm, you wouldn’t need so many blows to kill someone. I know you have the power to kill in one hit.”

  Donte’s eyes went big. “Well, yeah, but also, I wouldn’t want to kill anyone. I’m glad you eliminated me for whatever reason. If I knew anything, I’d say because I like this job.”

  “The third murder is interesting. I think the first and second were related to something unknown but connected. The third….” Virgil opened the folder.

  “No one even bothered with that closet, and it wasn’t locked. It was just full of junk. We were looking for Tommy, and it was one of the last places we searched.”

  “He was strangled with a wire hanger from the closet? Tommy wasn’t a particularly large man, so the killer could be male or female.”

  “Is that normal to go from bludgeoning to strangling? Don’t murderers use the same thing each time?” Donte asked.

  Comfortable, Virgil sat back in the big chair, despite the circumstances. He liked Donte Jefferson and thought the man was smart and insightful. He said, “Often so, and on this case, I feel it’s most likely the same killer, not for sure, but probably. Based on that theory, the killer uses what
is handy to kill with…a statue, a lamp, a hanger; it’s more a murder of convenience but with a hidden purpose. People were in the wrong places at the wrong times. Strangling feels more personal to me, but that isn’t written in stone, not when the killer had to be quick and couldn’t leave blood all over the floor in a hallway. Donte, I need to see that closet right now.”

  Donte jumped to his feet, moving gracefully for his size and height, and said, “Come on. I want to see what you find since the FBI didn’t find anything of value.”

  “I bet the agents did. They were looking for a killer, and you and I are looking for a motive,” Virgil winked happily.

  On the second floor near the top of the stairs, Donte, opening the door, showed Virgil the closet in question. Inside, it was the same as when the victim was found, minus the body and wire hanger. Donte had unlocked the door, saying it was kept locked since the murder.

  Virgil noted that other hangers were in place, pushed to the right on the bar. There were hand weights on the ground, old coats, a table with broken legs, several lamps without shades, old bedspreads, and sagging brown, cardboard boxes. Tommy was found heaved on top of the rubbish, the hanger still around his neck, legs pushed and shoved inside the closet so that the door could be closed. Part of the floor near the threshold was empty but thick with a layer of dust. Atop the dust were small shards of broken glass, a few tiny nails, a screw, and bits of wood.

  Virgil knelt and used a pair of tweezers to remove some of the debris, putting it into an envelope that he sealed. He tilted his head and asked, “And this was exactly how it was found? Was anything tossed in after Tommy was removed? Did anyone add to the closets’ contents?”

  “No, Sir. This is exactly as I found it. They took Tommy out, and that was all. They photographed it. I locked it up at once. No one but staff has keys.”

  Virgil, holding the folder, slid a picture out and looked at the photo and then at the closet, lining up the two so he could compare. He asked, “This photo was taken immediately after Tommy was removed?” He was looking at the one without the body.

  Donte wondered why Virgil wasn’t looking at the picture of the body. Wasn’t that the important part? Making sure, he looked at the picture carefully before answering, “Yes, Sir, and as you see, it’s exactly the same.”

  “Yes, it is. Donte, I don’t see anything that may have broken and left this glass, do you?”

  “No, is that important? It is…what does it mean though?”

  “See the dust? This glass was broken and left here recently since there is no dust at all on it. What could have broken in here? I think our killer was doing something in the meeting room and had to kill when interrupted, and then he killed again because the same room was occupied, and he wished to be alone. He then killed Tommy because Tommy was near this closet or looking inside of it.”

  “Maybe one of the patients took something from the meeting room, such as a bookend or a statue and hid it here, being very possessive of it. People here are paranoid and obsessive, you know.”

  “That makes perfect sense and would satisfy me, but I can’t help but wonder why there was such a need to return to the meeting room alone. The second murder is bothering me the most. Donte, I can’t figure it out, and that tells me that the second event is most important.”

  “There you are,” Dr. Redding announced as she came around the corner. “How are you feeling?”

  Virgil smirked, “Are you analyzing me, Dr. Redding?”

  “Call me Lynn, and I’m asking from a friendly point of view. You were understandably anxious after an introduction to a second patient that we saw, so we felt you probably needed some time to relax, but here you are ‘busy as a bee’. Have you found anything interesting?” she asked as she looked at the closet and shrugged, “I can’t see anything that will help.”

  “Agreed. Nothing here,” Virgil said, “shall we continue with introductions? I am gaining a lot from these.”

  “I can tell both interviews so far have shocked you, despite your valiant effort to remain neutral,” said Lynn as she flung her hands dramatically, making every one laugh. She whispered, “At your rate, you’ll never be hired here as a doctor.”

  “Good,” Virgil said, “I have spoken to killers before. That part…well, both of the victims, those women killed, were horrific; I get them. I know those were terrible murders and that each was violent and frightening enough to give anyone nightmares, but I expected, knowing their crimes, to feel….”

  “Hatred? Disgust? Yes, that’s there and normal, but instead, knowing their illnesses, it’s worse, isn’t it? To know that what they did wasn’t because of evil or a personal gain but because of a real sickness in their poor mind. Does that make sense?”

  Virgil nodded, relieved that she understood. Tamantha Bok’s murder of her father was brutal and disgusting, and yet she was driven to it through her abuse and her illness, leaving her, not a killer to be hated, but a pitiful shell. The girl was terrified of food, something so strange and sad that it seemed unreal.

  Keri Oxford could be easily condemned for killing and eating an infant, but the girl was so ill that she consumed herself as well. Virgil hadn’t expected for the perpetrators of horrendous crimes also to be victims whom he had a compassion for, despite their crimes. It was all twisting and churning in his brain until he didn’t know how to feel.

  “Do you play?”

  “Pardon?”

  Dr. Redding pointed to Virgil’s hand and said, “You were making motions as if you were playing the piano. I saw that before when you were thinking hard or stressed. It must be what you do to avoid anxiety.”

  “I do play. I play the music in my head, and it shuts out everything else so I can think or not think as the case may be. I’m not always aware when I do it. Is that a psychiatric problem I have, Dr. Redding? Lynn.”

  She patted his arm and replied, “Virgil, it would be best if everyone had a place to go to in his mind where there was calming music. If all of our patients had that ability to escape in a healthy way, they wouldn’t be here, would they?”

  Dr. Redding led Virgil to another section of the sanitarium that housed fewer patients and had a nurses‘ station between the hallway and the rooms. There was a small commons area where a man sat stiffly. He was sixty, had long, greasy grey hair, a messy beard, and disheveled clothing, and as he sat there, he looked about the room expectantly. His gaze never remained in one spot long, and he was as intent upon looking at a blank wall as he was looking at a barred window.

  One side of his forehead was dented in a concavity that ran from his hairline to his ear. His eye drooped, and a raised keloid scar ran from the corner of his bright blue eyes to his jaw; another scar ran across his nose, and a disfigured mess had been sewn back. A third scar bisected his lips from cheek to chin.

  “Mr. Andrew Wakefield. Andy, this is Dr. McLendon, and he’d like to meet you.”

  “Eh? He does? Can he hear me? Can he see me? Doctor, can you see me?”

  Virgil swallowed hard, “Yes, I can. Hello, Andy.”

  “Strange that you see me.”

  “Oh?”

  “Please forgive my stench. I keep asking them to bury me and be done with it, but Dr. Becket refuses, saying that if they bury me and I am still conscious, his ethics would be breached or some such malarkey; they just don’t want to pay for my funeral, my family I mean. Cheap bastards. If they would just do it, they could have my fucking money, and Althea could remarry; she’s a slut by the way, and the kids could run wild. I don’t know why they don’t bury me.”

  He rambled, leaving Virgil to puzzle everything out. Virgil blinked and asked, “Can you help me, Dr. Redding?”

  Dr. Redding patiently explained, “It’s Cotard’s syndrome, named after the doctor who first diagnosed it. Mr. Wakefield believes he is actually dead.”

  “Believes? Stupid bitch. I am dead! Dr. McLendon, maybe you can see the reason since none of these fools will. Obviously, I stink, and it’s rot, I tell you.
My flesh is rotting off my bones, and my innards are mush. You should see how much rot runs down the drain when they force me to shower. Bah, I have no heartbeat. Here, feel.”

  Virgil hesitantly allowed Mr. Wakefield to take his hand, put it on the man’s chest, and feel. He almost laughed aloud when he realized that he was actually surprised to feel a strong heartbeat as if there were any other possibility. There was no stench, either. None of the patient’s skin had rotted away, despite Andy Wakefield’s holding out his arms to show the rot.

  “So do you concur?”

  “It is a mystery, Sir. How long have you been without a heartbeat?” Virgil placated Mr. Wakefield.

  Wakefield mumbled and answered, “A very long time. Long enough that I should be long buried and forgotten. This is a travesty, and I am going to write to the governor about my poor treatment.”

  “You wrote to him a few weeks ago, Andy,” Dr. Redding said.

  “Then I will write to the president. What kind of facility allows a man to sit and fucking rot? Put me in the damned ground.”

  Virgil looked at Lynn for more help. He supposed it was something like the man being confused and thinking he was dead, but Andy was fully convinced he was and needed to be buried. If out on his own, would he climb into a grave or bury himself? Even though the condition had a name, Virgil thought it was rare, but at least known to the doctors.

  “Andy is scheduled for more electroconvulsive therapy and an increase in anti-depressants and anti-psychotics which should help him as it always does. He gets this way every so often, and he needs a little boost to get back to reality.”

  Andy leaned forward and asked, “Have you read Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein, Dr. McLendon?”

  “Yes, I have.”

  “Then you know what they’re doing! I beg you to get me buried and out of the hands of these idiots. They use me as a corpse like the doctor in the story. They take me, and they hook me up, and then they wait for the storm. Bang. Pow. Shit. And what happens?”

  “They resurrect you?”

  “Finally! A doctor who understands. Yes. They bring me back and for what purpose? An experiment. Sick bastards to use a dead man this way. Don’t listen to a word they say; they lie so much.”