by catt dahman
“What happened?”
“I kept feeding him poison, Bert became sicker, and he died,” she said as she gripped a napkin, breathing hard and gulping as she spoke, “I basked in the attention I got from all of the doctors and all of the people at the funeral. I was a terrible mother, but I didn’t know it. I made Josie sick next and was working on Joshua. I poisoned all of them. Doctors examined them, but they thought a virus had spread, or maybe a genetic problem had caused them to be ill. They were baffled.”
Patricia continued to slip rat poison, arsenic, into their juice even while the children were hospitalized. Both children had diarrhea, vomited, had stomach pain and headaches, and were confused, and as Patricia flitted about, asking for a cure and answers, friends and family gathered about her. The church people, businesses owners, and almost everyone became involved; Patricia was the star. She basked in attention.
A nurse was alerted and alarmed when she found Patricia giving Joshua juice when he was supposed to go without food and drink so he could fast a few hours before a test. They were even thinking the children could have cholera, but when the nurse saw what had just happened, for some reason, she grabbed the empty juice cup from the trash and examined the children again.
Each had white marks on the fingernails, a stria that was like a light band or a stripe going across the nail bed. After careful observation and an investigation by the police, Patricia was caught poisoning her children and arrested.
Joshua and Josie died, and Patricia Springsteen was charged with three murders; her husband, while distraught and shocked, hired an excellent defense team and plied his wife with doctors.
Her husband swore she was the best wife and mother on earth and only became this way after the last child was born. He said she was ill and never would have done such a horrible thing if she had been in her right mind.
Patricia was remanded to the Fordham Institute for the Criminally Insane because her family knew that before she had children, she was a loving, kind, wonderful person, but since a miscarriage, three children, and another miscarriage, she became depressed, sad, and unable to keep her house or even care for her children.
When Bert first became ill from her poisoning, everyone in her life descended upon the house to help her: cooking, cleaning, and showering Patricia with attention and sympathy.
“Dr. Becket accepted me as a patient and has gotten my medications right. I take a lot. But, I can mourn my children, and most days, I have no urge to kill myself. I am working on forgiving myself because I was very ill.”
“Despite the cutting?” asked Matty as he pretended to run a knife up and down her arms.
“I’m better now.”
Virgil saw Patricia pull her sleeve down over her arms, but not before he saw white lines crossing her wrists. “Thank you for sharing.” I still don’t if all of them should be together. Their discussing and sharing seems odd.
“Attention, whore,” Matty muttered.
“Pot calling the kettle black, are you? I am better now…most days. You nasty bitch.”
“Shut up.”
“Matty, the right side of your hair is frizzy; it looks wild.”
Matty slapped a hand to her hair, not sure if she believed Patricia. She asked Vigil, “Is it?”
He nodded, suppressing a smile.
She took off to her room in a flash to fix her hair.
Virgil smiled at Patricia.
“I stay inside my head a lot, thinking and trying to forgive myself, but I notice things. I rack my brain, trying to see if I notice anything that could help catch the murderer.”
“I hope you can recall something.”
“I do remember one thing that was strange. Before Tommy was killed, he was talking loud, and he said something very confusing but refused to explain. He said, ‘It’s not the same. Someone changed it.”’
“I wonder what that meant?”
Patricia shrugged and said, “Maybe nothing, but it was only a little while before he was murdered, so it makes me wonder. He was looking all around as if he were searching for Easter eggs.”
“Thank you, Patricia. If you remember anything else, please tell me.”
“You got it, Doc McLendon.”
Chapter Seven: Of Counting and Pulling Fibers
Virgil offered Vivian his arm like in the old days, and she set her hand on his jacket, glad of the touch even though it wasn’t a hug and a kiss that she craved. They walked along the paths watched by Donte as several patients took in fresh air and sunshine.
“How is it going?”
Virgil sighed. He could tell her anything, but the words were hard to come by. “I’ve met a lot of killers, and they are truly criminally insane. Some, when I hear their stories, I feel very sorry for, but not all. I have about six more to interview and then the staff, but I’ve only eliminated one staff member and three patients.” He told her about Tamantha Bok’s eating disorder, Keri Oxford’s autophagia, and Andrew Wakefield’s Cotard’s Syndrome. He added, “Matty Goldstein may be eliminated because she’s too much of a twit to get away with the crimes.”
Vivian laughed and added, “I’ve been listening and watching, but so far, I have nothing to add. Most are rich and like to compare their wealth; they talk about current events, art, and history, and they spend a lot of time talking psychology which is funny.”
“Anyone you’ve been able to get a story from?” Thus far, Virgil had gotten a story from each person he had talked to.
Vivian nodded and told him about Percy Sawyer, a sixty-one-year-old man who was diagnosed as having a serious case of Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder. It began after his parents died in a car crash when their car left a bridge and went into a cold, swollen river in the winter. He began using counting as a way to feel safe and in control, but it hardly affected his life because he had always had tendencies with his slight fear of germs that caused him to wash his hands constantly, count stairs as he went up or down them, and a slight uneasiness with symmetrical items.
When Percy was forty-eight, his wife died of cancer: a long, drawn-out illness that took a happy, beautiful woman and made her skinny and ill and left to fight pain.
Percy stayed by her side, and with no control, he watched her die a little each day. He knew he washed his hands until they were raw, counted everything he could, and suddenly tossed out every item in the house that was yellow. His garbage cans filled with all kinds of objects as he made sure there was no longer an even number of anything in the house.
His children came and went as shadows, seeing their mother and finding the house and their father changing rapidly and in shocking ways. Although she was dying, Clara begged her children to care for their father because she could see he was acting out in dramatic ways. She was worried.
“Sounds as if he could be helped,” Virgil mused as he watched a squirrel scampering along the ground.
“Clara died, and he became worse and was a recluse in time. I don’t know if his children were trying to help him or were too emotionally lost by then, but when he turned fifty, something else occurred.”
The squirrel darted up a thick tree trunk. Virgil nodded, “So I guessed.”
“His oldest daughter was in a car wreck and was paralyzed. I guess it was like when his parents died, but he cracked this time. A meter reader came by to read the gas meter, a usual thing you know, and he spoke to Percy, telling him the reading.”
“Even numbers?”
Vivian suppressed a grin. She hated to know the man suffered with an illness, but his fear and loathing of even numbers was kind of a funny disability in a way. “Yes, unfortunately, Mr. Sawyer fell apart and panicked, feeling that the disruption of his life would cause his daughter to die of her injuries. He grabbed his pocket knife and attacked the meter reader with it. From what I gather, a lot of stabbing and beating ensued, and Mr. Sawyer killed the meter reader.”
“Luckily the family had enough money to bring him to Fordham. And his daughter? Did she survive?”
“No, he’s been here eleven years, and Dr. Becket has been astute enough to find the right balance of medications so that Mr. Sawyer is fully functioning but still counting and adverse to anything yellow.” A prescription had to be changed early in Percy’s treatment because the pills Dr. Becket wanted to prescribe for his patient were yellow.
“Do you think he could be the killer? Did he see or hear anything?”
Vivian bit her lip, “I am stumped, Virg; these people are very sick and are being held by only a thread of medications and activities to distract them. Every one of them has committed a crime, some worse than others, but it’s worse than working with out and out liars. I don’t know how anyone can see who these people really are.”
Virgil said that was how he felt and why he was only making slow progress. He briefed her about some of his theories and asked her opinion.
“Maybe. I think Donte is the key. Look through his eyes, Virgil. Look through your eyes and his.”
“Makes sense.”
“Mr. Sawyer can’t be excluded. It doesn’t fit his illness to kill randomly, but then we don’t what the motive was to begin with. I nudged him and asked questions, but he said he wasn’t sure whether he was sleeping or wandering or doing something else.”
“Avoiding the questions?”
“Maybe,” Vivian said, “it’s so hard to tell with these patients. I think he may know something more than he says, so I intend to watch him and probe.”
Virgil hesitated and then asked Vivian if Dr. Becket had talked to her about her experiences and stress levels. He felt guilty that she had been through so much since meeting him.
Vivian, afraid of being seen, couldn’t hug him, but she whispered she loved him and added, “Dr. Becket said that I am handling everything very well and that I am mentally strong and have a wonderful support system. I’m fine, Virg. You, Joey, and Nick are lucky that the poisoning in the water didn’t cause lasting problems.”
Laughing, he reminded her that his soda addiction was a good thing in that situation because he drank far less of the water than the rest. He felt bad that their time was over; he frowned as he escorted her back to the main building and thanked her, formally, in case anyone were listening.
Vivian almost giggled as Lynn Redding rushed over to grab Virgil.
She took his arm and led him into the halls. She was dressed in an elegant bright red pantsuit, her hair clipped back, and make-up on thick. She asked a few questions about his thoughts about the patients and said, “I want you to meet Edward Knight. Mr. Knight is one of the oddest patients you’ll ever find here, and when he’s properly medicated, he is very normal, despite his frequent concerns. When off his meds, he is insane,” she said and then laughed at her own joke, and Virgil joined in.
“What are his symptoms and diagnosis?”
“We call it a fiber disease, but it’s mysterious, and no one is sure what it is besides a delusional illness. He itches and stings and claims that fibers are poking out of his skin. Of course, he scratches them. There have been other cases around the world, but no one understands the symptoms very well.”
She knocked and then opened a door, “Ed? Hello. This is Dr. McLendon, whom I told you would be stopping by.”
“Hullo, Doctor. How can I help you?”
Virgil sat down and appraised the man. Old scars covered his face where he had dug and torn skin, leaving holes. Ed’s nose was completely picked away. His arms were a mass of old scars, newer scars, and fresh, bloodied skin.
“You have a fiber disease?”
“Yes. They itch often, but I take meds for the itching and anti-delusional medication, but,” he said as he winked, “they are real.” they what?
“Are you removing the fibers?”
“Yes, I do. When I feel them, I dig them out. It keeps me busy. I’m sure they are a penance for my sins.”
“I see. What sins are those, Mr. Knight?”
Ed Knight spoke softly, “When I was little, I worshiped my Uncle John. He was fun, affectionate, and exciting to be with. He told me that we had to keep some things a secret because there were some who would be jealous and stop him from spending time with me. I loved things we did, whether it was going for a malt at the drugstore, driving fast in his convertible, or swimming in country ponds and holes where businesses had strip mined the land.”
“That sounds fine, enjoying time with family.”
“It wasn’t,” Ed said, “because we had a secret.”
“What was the secret?” Virgil asked. It seemed secrets were the cause of many problems for these people.
“He liked to rub my back and stomach. He also liked to touch my privates while he touched his, and, to be honest, it felt good. I didn’t mind. I willingly went along, but I was younger then.”
“You didn’t know any better.”
“Yes, as I got older, see, I felt shame and embarrassment and began to both like and hate the attention. I understood boys dated girls and married girls and had sex with girls. I learned in school and church that older men were sinful if they touched boys in that way. It was an abomination.”
“How old were you then?”
“I was about thirteen, I think, because I got hair under my arms, and all that rot. I allowed it because I loved him. But then I also started to hate him. I wanted him to stop because it made me so angry, but then suddenly, he would look sad and ask why I hated him. I loved my uncle so much. One day, I was very confused and scared of the attention. Uncle and I were going on a long weekend trip: three days and two nights with no hiding or finishing quickly so as not to be caught. He would have days and nights to…do those things. I was sick. I didn’t want to do the things he asked me to do. I told my father.”
“That was wise for you to do that and very brave, I might add. What happened?”
“I went to the bathroom, and I found a wiggling, strong-as-wire fiber! It was growing from my privates, and I scratched and cut with a razor, and I finally got the thing out of me. Father beat Uncle John badly enough that John had to go to the hospital. I felt terrible. It was my fault. All of it.”
“It wasn’t”
“Dad said it wasn’t. His knuckles were bruised and bloody with scrapes, but he also had my baseball bat as a weapon. Uncle John…his fingers were broken, both arms were broken, and one leg was broken in two places. He had three broken ribs, and a broken cheek, and his nose was broken and mashed to a pulp. All of Uncle John’s front teeth were knocked out or broken to shards. He lost one eye because the damage to his face was so bad.
“John began his self-mutilation when he found the fibers in his penis, scrotum, and nose,” Lynn Redding supplied information. “He essentially picked, cut, and scratched away his entire nose and his genitals, including testicles and penis.”
“But I got the damned fibers,” Mr. Knight grinned, “if you look, I am smooth as a girl down below. It’s for the best. You can’t eat cake if you have no teeth.”
“Yes, you can, Ed.”
“Oh, well. You can’t eat peanuts,” said Edward as he tapped his dentures.
“How did you come to be here at Fordham?” Virgil asked, fearing the answer. He had an inkling.
“Father wanted the best for me. I was older when I came here. My disease was contagious, you see; I caught the badness. I dealt with the fibers, and sometimes they got worse, and sometimes they didn’t show at all, but then I started to ignore the girls and knew I really liked little boys.
All I could do really was touch since I had nothing left, but that’s against the law. They put me here so I would stop touching them and stop removing the fibers, but I still drag them out when I find one,” he said as he chuckled, “the fibers, I mean.”
Vigil felt a wave of dislike, despite the illness and abuse this man suffered. He smoothed his dark hair back and took a deep breath, remembering what he was supposed to be doing, instead of smacking Edward. “Did you see or hear anything related to the recent murders here? The ones in the den or Tommy or
Mr. Hoyt in the library?”
“I was asleep during the first two. Tommy was a follower; he shadowed everyone and was meddlesome as hell, so that doesn’t shock me that someone cracked him. Now Hoyt, he was a vexation as well. The man was such a talker. ‘Yap, yap, yap.’ The night he died, he was going on and on, murmuring to himself because no one wanted to listen to him go on and on.”
Virgil went into sheriff-mode and questioned, “What was he muttering about? It’s okay if it doesn’t make sense to you. It may to me.”
Edward Knight narrowed his eyes as he thought, absently picking at a scab on his arm and making it bleed. He said, “Mr. Hoyt was yammering about someone named Rayber or Raymond who knew something and had killed some people, and Hoyt was thrilled over it. He stood up and said ‘meladon’ very clearly and raced out of the commons, and I suppose he went to the library. There were many of us there, and we took that as a interval to leave and go to bed.”
“Would you spell that word?”
“I can try. Not sure how to spell the word for sure.” He spelled the odd word as best he could.
“Did anyone follow Mr. Hoyt?”
“I don’t know. We all ambled out of the room, and only a few remained to read or to play checkers.”
Virgil tried to look encouraging and added, “That’s good information. Are you sure he muttered that?”
“Something like that.”
“And before that, what was Mr. Hoyt doing?”
“Hmmm. Let me think. He and a few others were heavily debating history…the War Between the States…the Civil War. They were going at it, and Hoyt was quite animated. They were loud at times when they talked about Abe Lincoln, his death, and a curse on the whole thing.”
Virgil’s head popped up, his skin prickled, and he felt a swell of adrenaline. The boxes of books that Donte brought to his room from the section in the library that Hoyt was about to peruse before being killed were all about President Lincoln. He was awaiting two more folders from Dr. Kenshaw that were likely in his room right then.
