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

by catt dahman

  “Okay.”

  They carefully opened the library door, looked inside, and listened. They heard a squeak. As they came into the room, a bloody figure tried to crawl away in fear. Donte went to his knees, speaking softly. Naomi stopped trying to get away and realized that help was there for her. Her eyes were glassy with shock, and she couldn’t talk even though they asked her questions.

  Her hands and forearms were sliced deeply, probably with another long piece of glass but were defensive wounds. Her throat was cut, but only on the side and not deeply because a thick chain with a crucifix attached to it deflected the glass; it, however, had made the wound seep and not gush, temporarily saving her life. A shard of glass remained in the wound, both allowing it to bleed and seal the area somewhat; if removed, she would die within seconds. When she fell, the killer figured she was dead.

  Donte said if they moved her, she would die. Even if Dr. Becket got to her in time, the huge pool of blood testified that Naomi had lost way too much blood to survive. They saw her begin to weaken.

  She met Virgil’s eyes and used her injured arm to point shakily. Virgil followed the direction she pointed. There was the blood-covered floor and her desk. He noted nothing important on the desk.

  Vivian made a sound and said, “Here, the book was under the desk, and it’s book marked. I bet she dropped it, it skidded there, but he didn’t notice or forgot. Art History of the 1800s.” Virgil looked back and said, “I am so sorry, Naomi. I had no idea he would go to such lengths, and I want you to rest easy, knowing that you are a hero.”

  Her eyes widened.

  “You, dear, have been ill, and because of that, you did some horrible things, but as you are forgiven, so must you forgive yourself. You have helped preserve a secret that will challenge minds, give people new hopes and dreams, and also you have, I hope, saved lives and helped bring a murderer, not sick but a wicked man, to justice. Please be at peace.”

  A tear leaked from her eye as Donte sniffed and held her hand.

  She closed her eyes and seemed to think for a second or two and then let go. Strangely, with the anguish and guilt lifted from her face, she almost looked pretty and young again. It was enough to make Donte gasp.

  “She’s lovely,” Vivian said, “that was beautiful, Virg. You’re such a kind-hearted man.”

  “Well, don’t tell other people that,” he said. He looked sadly at Naomi. Donte set her hand down on her chest and just looked at her face.

  Virgil opened the cover of the book, and inside was a note indicating that the book had been donated by Jacob Harris; thus, it was part of all the rest that set this into motion. He was willing to bet that the books he had gained information from were all donated by the same man. Turning to the book marked page, Virgil read, saying things aloud as he went, “John Quidor lived in New York and painted scenes for his friend, Washington Irving and some religious subjects, and then in 1886, he suddenly declared he had painted his last works, but no one ever saw those. He was known for his harmonious colors, his talent for capturing a person’s inner soul and feelings on his face, and for his works that told stories.

  “I see colored pictures here of his art, and it’s not flashy, so you will notice it all at once, but his style is very subtle. The details are fantastic,” said Virgil as he played Beethoven’s music, thought, and unconsciously moved his fingers on one hand.

  The artist retired and went into seclusion and died a little over a decade later penniless, after he had been wealthy for a few years at the end of the 1860s. People said he was depressed, paranoid, and prone to panic attacks before he died.

  “I think the secret was too much for him as well,” Virgil said, catching Vivian up as quickly as he could by outlining the general idea. Later, she said he would have to tell her the whole story. He nodded, “I will. It’s a good story or a bad one, depending on if you’re the one keeping the secret.”

  “Virgil, but now you, Donte, and I will have this cursed secret. What will we do? It’s cursed, right?”

  “Do you believe in curses?”

  Vivian shrugged, “I didn’t before, but now, maybe. It’s something to think about.”

  “Trust me; I am thinking about it.”

  Chapter Ten: On the Hunt

  “Let’s go. I’ll be asked to help back there if we don’t get going. Doc Becket is giving shots all around.”

  “Stay close,” Virgil warned Donte and Vivian.

  They went far into the back of the Institute, winding through hallways that narrowed, and finally ending at the foot of industrial-looking stairs, the ones Donte said would be closest to where they needed to be. The stairs needed to be painted, but the railing, a thick, heavy bar, was secure.

  The lowest level of the Institute was where utilities were housed, where the large heated pool offered tranquility, and where the very oldest items were kept in basement closets. Donte said rubbish in the basement was as old as the institution and needed to be tossed out, but old records also were kept in big file boxes.

  “How far back do they go…the files?”

  “From the first day Fordham was open until probably 1930: staff and patients. The files you want will be on the third floor storage, I think,” Donte said, “plans are being made to bring the third floor up to Fordham standards, tearing out walls so we can have half again as much for an expanded facility and also add a very high security area for more disturbed patients.”

  “Hard to imagine many sicker than some I have met.”

  “They’re nothing. I mean there are the ones who are violent and acting out and who may never be calmed down. They need a place to go, too, and there are more of those people than you can imagine.”

  “Gives me the creeps,” Vivian said as they walked, “I’m not sure why evil murderers scare me less than the insane ones.”

  “On our first big case, Viv, those people were crazy as hell, but we had no sympathy, remember? They knew better. No matter what life handed them and no matter that they were not mentally healthy, they knew right from wrong. They made a choice. That little girl who killed her father? She didn’t know right and wrong anymore. She was in a fight for her life. That girl who cooked…well...she didn’t understand.”

  “Was the one in California…insane?” she asked.

  “Maybe. He was a sick and tortured individual. He needed help. But he knew right from wrong. So does this killer. Consider him as evil and cold as any other murderer,” Virgil reassured Vivian, “Donte, please continue explaining the plans.”

  “We want the first floor to be more of a place for easier patients such as the ones who may not be here for life or who are here for mental illnesses but who have only a non-violent criminal history.”

  “Impressive.” Virgil thought parts of the third floor had more light, and the floors and walls looked stable. He motioned the other two to stay quiet.

  Once they were on the landing of the fourth floor, Virgil looked at the door and motioned, indicating someone had picked the lock; how a patient got tools to do that or how they brought them in, Virgil didn’t know, but it chilled him, and he meant to say something to the doctors about it. Raising his table leg, Virgil opened the door and walked inside, darting to the side silently, looking and listening.

  He only heard his own heartbeat.

  Donte took point, leading them down aisles of discarded items. To the immediate right were chairs: wooden ones and big metal ones with ripped fabric and stuffing leaking out. Continuing along the right side were boxes piled high, sealed, and labeled DÉCOR. Behind them were desks stacked to the ceiling, tables, and other big pieces of furniture. To the left were more tables topped with slatted wooden crates full of fifty or more lamp bases, and a little farther down were several large statues gathering dust.

  Vivian jumped as Venus de Milo startled her. Busts of mythological people, historical figures, and religious significance lined the aisle. At the end of one aisle, strange appliances filled an enormous area. Most had faded, colored dials, r
otten rubber tubes, wires, and chipped paint. A few had bizarre skull caps attached to them, and some had leather cuffs. Virgil suppressed a shudder as he tried not to imagine what terrible tortures these machines presented in the name of medicine.

  “Back in the days, patients were treated in ways we feel were inhumane, but unfortunately, some are still used. Some patients are kept wrapped in ice cold, wet sheets to calm them, but they usually pass out after screaming for hours. Some receive lobotomies to calm them when therapy and medication would have worked, and some are subjected to harsh punishments and then rewards to modify behavior,” Donte whispered.

  When they turned into the next winding aisle, they saw boxes labeled as being part of the Harris donation. Vivian tilted her head to Virgil, asking if this were what he wanted. He shook his head and used his hands and fingers to indicate he wanted paintings: three of them with each in a different frame.

  Donte walked ahead, Virgil stayed in the middle, and Vivian lagged behind as the aisles broke into an area with three more choices of directions. Donte walked down one, and Virgil moved down another, quickly scanning the junk.

  Vivian noticed more life-sized statues. There was a replica of a naked David set back side-by-side next to a faded wooden Native American that had been used as a cigar advertisement. He had been carved in Europe and was very stylized to fit the time when that type of statue was popular.

  There was a carved dark wooden African statue with a scowl on his handsome face and big, red disks in his delicate earlobes. The artwork and skills to carve the hair and make the man’s dark eyes seem alive was remarkable.

  There was also a dull replica of a knight in his armor. Before she could identify the other figure, it shoved her, dodging her table leg, and throwing the armor and African statue on top of her. A box of metal junk toppled, spilling all over the floor.

  “Vivian,” Virgil called as he broke his silence and ran for his wife, his face full of terror. As Donte and he reached her still form beneath the trash, they heard the fourth floor’s door snap closed with a loud bang. Neither man chased the suspect because it took them both to clear debris off of Vivian.

  Donte felt her pulse, nodded said, “Strong pulse. She’s just knocked out, I hope. Check her for cuts or swelling.”

  As they cleared away the junk, Vivian snapped her eyes open and said, “I’m not knocked out; I was smashed under that mess. Ouch, that hurt. I was just quietly praying that I didn’t have broken bones again.”

  Donte allowed her only to sit up carefully, helping her as he checked her over. She wasn’t bleeding and was able to move all her limbs without pain. She was relieved her ribs and fingers weren’t re-broken, remembering that her last encounter with villains left her with a concussion, her fingers snapped like twigs, and bleeding badly. She wigged each finger before Virgil would help her to her feet.

  “Virg, I’m okay. Stop looking at me as if I am broken. Hon, I am fine.” Vivian’s heart hurt to see her husband’s worried eyes.

  “Did you see him?”

  “I barely saw him. I did see that he was carrying tightly rolled canvases under his arm. It was only a flash, but he had them rolled up.”

  Searching behind where the man had been hiding, they found wire, nails, screws, three old frames, one pane of glass, a pile of glass shards. Virgil’s face drained white as he realized the man could have easily used the wire to choke Vivian to death or a shard of glass to cut her throat as he had the others. Had he not been in a hurry and panicked, he would have killed Vivian.

  “Hey, I’m okay. If he had tried, we would have fought it out. I’m really okay,” Vivian said, reading his thoughts. She held him close for a second, covering his face with kisses. Stopping, she pulled Donte over and hugged him as well and said, “I promise I am fine.”

  She finished calming them by taking Virgil’s hand in hers so he would stop thinking about piano arrangements and using his hand to tap the keys as they filled his mind. His anxiety was at critical levels.

  “Let’s go get the bastard,” Vivian said.

  Chapter Eleven: Caught Like Mice

  Downstairs after Virgil made a stop by his room for his sidearm locked securely in a tiny gun safe in his suitcase, he strapped on his belt and felt an enormous sense of relief. It was strictly prohibited, but the responding police would have guns, and Virgil was finished with his investigation and on the trail of a killer as a sheriff now.

  He breathed slowly. He knew Vivian was his Achilles’ heel. She was the way to turn him from a calculating sheriff to a shivering worrier. The gun gave him a little confidence.

  Becket was relieved to see the three join them in the cafeteria. “The police are here. We have officers Brady and Cardillo.” He made introductions while Virgil showed them his badge.

  “They need to bring in their own people, Virgil.”

  “Just be warned that there is a murderer running around this place, and he won’t hesitate to hurt someone. I wish I could guess his next move but don’t know for sure if he wants to take the secrets, burn them, and destroy them or if he wants them for himself. Either way, he’s dangerous.”

  “Let me get some people in here, and we’ll help you find this man. We’ve wanted him for a while now,” Brady said, “great work in finding him.”

  Virgil nodded.

  Becket handed him a folder, “You said to stay put, but I ran to the records room and grabbed this in case it could help.”

  “Now, Dr. Becket,” Virgil shook his head.

  “I had to. We have to solve this, and I am here to help you. You have worked hard to solve this case, and it’s my place to do all I can. I took a butter knife.”

  “A butter knife? Dr. Becket, you are a very dedicated person. Careless, but dedicated.”

  Virgil sat down and read over the information.

  Lillian Harris was a twenty-five-year-old wife and mother, married for seven and a half years, and with children ages six, five, four, three, two, one, and two weeks. In seven years, there was no time during her married life that she hadn’t been pregnant, nursing, or becoming pregnant again. In between pregnancies, she had two miscarriages as well, before delivering her first child.

  She was an excellent mother, keeping her children well fed, amused, spoiled but well disciplined, healthy, and clean. She doted on each of her brood, as did their father. Both parents were exceptional.

  Arnold Harris was a wealthy business owner with varied interests worldwide. If the house were filled with laughter during the day while he was at his offices, it only doubled when he came home every day to play with them, hear their stories, and read books to them. He might have loved business and holdings, but he worshiped his family.

  Late in the seven and a half years of her marriage, Lillian had felt fat and tired and torn in many directions with all the other children and over whelmed with the new baby. Two live-in nannies, two maids, and a cook didn’t help her feelings. She felt bleak. And. So. Very. Exhausted.

  Her mood was impossible to shake loose. She felt sad.

  She thought she had slept next to the two youngest and didn’t remember piling on covers or pressing the covers against their mouths and noses until they smothered. She must have done that in her sleep. When she discovered what she had done, she wept but wasn’t so sad because she was relieved in a way. Emotions fought like demons in her mind. She decided she wished to die. She deserved to die.

  A maid discovered Lillian trying to hang herself and saved her life, sending for her husband. By the time he arrived, the maid was hysterical, holding both dead children in her arms, crying and shrieking loudly enough that a crowd was gathering in front of their mansion.

  Arnold Harris promptly burst into tears as he entered his home, pushing through the crowd and wailing for a doctor.

  Lillian stayed depressed and was constantly at risk for murder or suicide, and yet she was far too ill to defend herself for a trial. After a lot of thought, Arnold decided to commit her to the Fordham Institute for the Cri
minally Insane. She was comfortable, safe, and somewhat improved under expert care and posh surrounding; he faithfully visited her every week.

  Of the five children remaining, two died of influenza, one was killed in a horse-back riding accident, and one killed herself just after her sixteenth birthday. The last child alive was Jacob Harris who attended college, studying business and law and amassing his own fortune within a few years of working with his beloved father.

  He never missed a visit with his mother and often praised the owner of the facility for the excellent care and genuine comfort the staff gave his mother and her family.

  Jacob never married and never had any children. He died when he was middle-aged, never getting over losing his mother a few decades before. His solicitor followed his will to the letter, sending large amounts of money to various organizations, to his college alma mater, and to the Fordham Institute. His home was sold with proceeds going to various family members, cousins, and other relatives while the furnishings went to Fordham in hopes that the luxurious furnishings could be used to better the home environment.

  Until refurbishing could be scheduled at Fordham, the contents of the Harris’s estate were stored. The Institute might have been redecorated, and there might never have been a problem except for one random occurrence. A cousin, related by blood to the Harris line, happened to be looking through a scrapbook of old photos and noticed a peculiar set of paintings on a wall of the old home owned by Arnold and Lillian.

  The photos weren’t clear, but he saw enough to pique his interest. He was a history teacher and became fascinated with the odd paintings to the extent that he took the picture from the scrapbook for himself and began to ask about the old house and those art works. It took a while to get his information since he interviewed older family members and researched his family in the library.

  The cousin was a direct descendant of Clara Harris Rathbone, who was a friend to the wife of President Abraham Lincoln. Mrs. Rathborn’s husband had commissioned four painting to be developed when he was in Germany, but the artist was in the United States. He wanted the secret to die, but he also had to keep it alive. He decided to hide the secret. The four paintings were given to the Harris family since they raised the Rathbone’s children and were passed down through the family, with none of the family aware of any significance.