Criminally Insane: The Series (Bad Karma, Red Angel, Night Cage Omnibus) (The Criminally Insane Series)

by Douglas Clegg

  The nurse drew out a small syringe from its plastic casing.

  Its mother nodded, closing her eyes. "I feel like a damn dartboard. I've had more needles in me than a pine forest."

  The nurse laughed, but it did not. It knew that its mother was serious. She'd had blood tests and shots of things, and intravenous tubes for weeks. Ever since she got worse. Ever since she called the hospice and the visiting nurse place.

  Ever since she told him that she was going to die before Christmas. "I know my body is going. I don't want to die," she had said to him. "But God is calling me."

  Didn't even like thinking of it. Didn't even want to imagine what its life would be like without her. Lost Ruthie when she was a little girl. She didn't go to Heaven, not according to Daddy. She went to Hell. But his mother was going to Heaven. She was pure and holy. She was above all the filth of the world. Ruthie had been part of it. Daddy had told it about Ruthie and her sins and how she came into the world bloody with sin and how she was the Whore who must never see the light of day lest she unleash her disease and vermin upon all mankind.

  Ruthie was in Hell.

  But the idea of its mother leaving it was something that made the hammers go off in its head. Pounding and thrashing inside it. Making the cage rattle. Making the Other One stronger.

  Its mother was going to die.

  Its dog Jojo was going to die.

  It wanted everything to just stop. To just keep everyone alive.

  Its dog.

  Its mother.

  She was the only thing who had protected it.

  She had saved it, in the last minute.

  Saved. Not saved like the baptisms daddy gave it all the time.

  But saved from the place in the earth where its daddy tried to bury it alive.

  2

  It doesn't like to dream, but when it has been awake for so many hours — nearly four days, it reckons — it begins to dream with its eyes wide open, even sitting behind the wheel of its truck. It wonders about the child, the little dove, but it has to keep moving on its route or else nothing will go right.

  It remembers how it and Ruthie would be down in the Mad Place with its daddy and how daddy would read scripture, and rock back and forth on his knees, raising his hand up to the dark above his head and cry out against the vileness of humankind. How Ruthie would begin speaking in tongues, and then it would follow her lead, although it felt fake. The Holy Spirit never came into its head, not like the Other One did. But Ruthie was holy and she got chosen young to be a blessed one of God. "Thou art a vessel!" its daddy would cry, his hands on Ruthie's scalp like he could feel the Jesus energy coming up from her. "You are chosen by the Lord! You are righteous and pure and your purity will be a light unto the world!"

  It's not sure if that's exactly what its daddy would say, but in memory, that's what it seemed like. Its memories and dreams get all mixed up, and it has blocked out so much of what happened in the Mad Place that it isn't sure if it all happened exactly like it remembers.

  Ruthie's face was truly pure. It remains that much. It remembers how he loved her more than he could've if she were his flesh and blood. She came to them and stayed before the other children. The others were all bad, but Ruthie was sent by God. Its daddy had loved her, too, like she was his own daughter, and it even got a little jealous when it saw the two of them together, singing hymns in the Mad Place or saying prayers so loud that their voices echoed.

  His mother had been there, too, but its memories of her were weaker. It remembered her perfume, which was like juniper berries, and the way she never said much in front of its daddy. Sometimes its daddy hit its mother, and it got really mad, but then it was usually punished in the Mad Place and it knew that was right and godly. It never heard from God directly, but that was because it was born in sin. That was a problem it could never get away from.

  It was born in the filth, that's what its daddy had said, and when its daddy had told it about how its mother had been a sinner and how she had given her soul to Satan until its daddy had SAVED HER. SAVED HER AND BROUGHT HER INTO THE HEALING LIGHT OF THE LORD!

  "She was a whore, as all women are whores until they are saved by the hands of men who are of the Spirit! As your sister is a whore! Ruthie is cursed by God with her twisted spine and legs. She was born into sin, she remains in sin until a man shall bring her to light and redemption. And you, you children, the Lord saith, Suffer to bring the little children unto me. And you must go to Him. You must feel the Spirit in you. You must let only God speak through you, for what is your flesh is the Devil. If thine right eye offend thee, cut it out. If they right hand offend thee, chop it off. If thy twisted legs offend thee, saw them and toss them into the fires of Hell! Do not mistake your flesh for life. Your flesh is death. Burn your flesh. Scourge it. Your weakness must become your strength!"

  And then, its daddy would bring out the cigarettes and press them into its back. "You are nothing. Your flesh is nothing. You are born of evil. You are an it. Say it. Say it. You are an it."

  And it would say it, over and over again. "It! It! It! It! I am an it! I am! An! It!"

  And Ruthie would say over and over again, "Whore! Whore! Whore! I am! A! Whore!"

  And then, in the dark, she would hold it and tell it that one day mommy would stop all of this.

  And daddy would get better.

  But it never believed that.

  It knew that the Other One lived inside it, just like daddy had been telling it since the day it was born.

  3

  Its workday doesn't begin until nearly one. It works for six hours. It is a part-timer, and can only take so much daylight and interaction. It is lucky to have the job since its daddy died.

  It arrives at the gate. The guard, Pete, waves it in. It passes the dome and the main office, and drives its truck right up to the back. Then, it parks. Others are there, and it says a few words to them. They joke a bit about the crappy day. About the possibility of a storm brewing.

  One of the guys says, "Man, that's the one pisser about southern California. It won't just sprinkle. It's gonna end up pouring for two weeks straight if it starts."

  Another says, "Naw, I bet this'll just be sprinkles. I predict sunny skies by Christmas. I bet it's snowin' up where Duane lives."

  "How's your girl, Duane?" a guy in a red jacket asks it.

  It looks up. It is good at mimicking them without them knowing. "She's great."

  "You old dog," he says.

  It smiles. Uncomfortable. It doesn't talk to many of them if it can help it. It wishes that Monica had never come around work that one day, wearing her skimpiest outfits, nearly flashing her tits for the guys. They all talked about her afterward. About how they wanted to get her panties wet. About how they wanted to stick themselves into her, all at once. It didn't like men when they talked like that. They couldn't help it, just like daddy couldn't help it with Ruthie, because whores did that to men. Spirit was strong, but flesh is weak. The Devil made flesh to tempt man. These men were easily tempted.

  But Monica had worked at it.

  It didn't like Monica being so cheap. She was like a whore when she did that, and it had rescued her and taken care of her just so she'd never become a whore.

  "How's your mom?" the one named Jeff asks. He's different than the others. He is saved and goes to church and talks about his Bible Study group. It likes Jeff.

  But it has no reply for him.

  "She got my prayers," Jeff says, then passes on to his truck.

  "Aw, dang, here comes Randy, now we're screwed. Well, have a good one, Duane. You too, Chad."

  "Ditto," It says, and then goes to get its designated truck for the day's work.

  4

  It doesn't even notice its routine anymore. It has been doing this for nearly six years, and it is used to the stopping and starting, the traffic on the 101, the side streets, the hills with their winding streets and the houses with their winding driveways.

  It is dreaming, instead. It sees it
s daddy, gaunt and with a harsh expression on his face, one hand raised to heaven, the other wrapped around a big fat worn Bible.

  When it dreams with its eyes open, it is always back in the big stone room with the pool of water and the angel.

  And Ruthie is there, too.

  Ruthie, with her face so like a spoon, shiny and curved, and her hair all smoothed back because it would comb it with its fingers for her.

  It had felt that Ruthie was its only happiness.

  Ruthie with her little crippled legs and leg braces that didn't help her.

  Ruthie with her smile that was like sunshine even in the shadows.

  And in the dream, their daddy began shouting that they were possessed by demons.

  "And the demons need to come out!" his daddy shouted, slapping the Bible down hard on Ruthie's head. "OUT! OUT! OUT!"

  Then daddy went to get the barbed wire, and the first time daddy did that was the first time it heard the Other One rattling the bars of the cage in its head.

  Chapter Thirty

  1

  Eating a turkey and Swiss on rye, while pouring over transcripts of tapes, Trey was beginning to get a picture of what had made Scoleri. Taken from his original mother soon after birth because she had been keeping the baby up at night with the same speed that she took herself, he bounced through Southern California, group homes, some of which Trey knew of that were down in Chino, some in the outlying areas of San Bernardino. He followed the cadence of Scoleri's speech, his pontificating in this other personality that he called "Abraxas" of how he created the Earth, how the dinosaurs were his dragons, how he and the Devil knew each other too intimately, among other delusions and constructs. There was a history of hurting other children, particularly girls, and three admittances to hospitals before the age of 13, each time someone had beaten him up. Once, they'd used razors on him.

  Despite this, Trey developed little sympathy for Scoleri. Trey was not a bleeding-heart, and he knew that there were other kids who were tortured the same or worse, whose psychological make-up allowed them to grow up into healthy, productive, contributing members of society. They got help. They worked at it. But in Scoleri's case, and in the case of other sadistic sexual predators Trey had seen and studied, he had the X Factor. That was the one mysterious thing — perhaps organic from birth, perhaps it had been the speed he'd been given as a baby, or perhaps, as Trey sometimes thought, human predators were a throwback in evolution. Every single human being exhibited predatory nature of some sort, whether it came out in a competitive spirit that rejoiced while others failed, or in manipulating others to do one's will, or any number of mindless activities that involved one-upsmanship. It was not just getting ahead for some people. It was about destroying the competition.

  But those were nothing compared to the predators Trey had come to know. These human beings are akin to lions on the hunt, seeing a herd of antelope, picking out the weaker, the sicker, the less able to survive members, and targeting them.

  The only word that came to mind as he read Scoleri's file was: evil. Not cosmic evil. Not spiritual evil. But ordinary human evil that was willing to break the social contract, to go outside normal behavior, that experienced great pleasure at the suffering and pain of others. It was that element of enjoying suffering that most disturbed Trey in nearly every single case file he had ever read.

  Scoleri's was no different.

  Then, as he quickly scanned the last file, he said, "What about 1984?"

  Elise looked up from her cup of coffee.

  "He talks specifically about nearly every year of his childhood, except 1984. He would've been about eight years old then. We know he left the group home in Mentone that year. All it says is transferred. Then, over here," Trey lifted a sheaf of transcript papers, "he talks about his God year, but he doesn't answer your questions about it."

  "I don't have all the answers," she said. "He only tells me what he tells me."

  "Well, maybe it means nothing. But I feel like I know the guy backwards and forwards from all this." He set the papers down, closing two of the file folders up. "I still think he's talking to somebody. To get this information. It's an inside job. He reaches the kidnapper somehow. Maybe one of these group homes, or foster families that kept bouncing around from. Maybe it's one of those people he's still in contact with."

  Flipping through page after page, Trey came up with a list of people with whom Scoleri was in regular contact. None of them were anything other than trusted employees at Darden State. No outside family, no lawyer, no cop, even. Nobody but the ward staff.

  "Someone here?" Elise asked.

  "I wish I could say that. Maybe. Let me go talk to him about it."

  "Look, Trey, I wouldn't ordinarily say this in any other circumstance. But I have been working with Scoleri for four months. Since his transfer from Napa. He believes he's psychic. He believes that he talks to others with his mind, and they talk to him. I am not leaving this up to the police. Not my little boy. They don’t understand the criminally insane. You and I do.”

  “How much time do you think we have?” he asked.

  Through a haze of smoke, she said, “Eight hours. Maybe less. Between now and tomorrow morning. That's the longest he's gone. He doesn't want ransom. He doesn't want anything that he doesn't already have once he has one of the children. He kills the victims within several hours of taking them. The longest one was twenty-four hours. Maybe. I'm not sure." She took a deep breath, steeling herself. "He's dead. My baby's dead already.”

  Her hands trembled, and she stared at them as if she didn’t know what to do with them anymore.

  2

  Another silence, brief.

  Elise took a few deep breaths. Trying to control it. The thing inside her. The thing that wanted to explode. “It’s been hell this morning. I want to believe he’s fine, but I’m sure he’s dead. The rational part of me knows he’s dead. But the emotional part can’t accept it.”

  “He’s alive,” Trey said. “You’ve got to believe that.”

  “It's the only thing I can believe. Right now. Look, I think Scoleri is a link to the Red Angel. He believed the Red Angel is the agent of the devil. And he knows things.”

  Trey shrugged.

  “Didn’t Hatcher feel a connection to you?”

  Trey laughed nervously. “You could say so. She thought we were past life buddies.”

  “Were you?”

  Trey was astonished. “You’re a doctor. You don’t believe in reincarnation, do you?”

  “Do you?”

  Trey was silent. “Okay I concede the point. I’m not sure.”

  “And I’m not sure with Michael Scoleri, either. I’m not sure, but if he’s even ten percent right, call it perceptive, call it intuitive, I don’t give a damn. I am not going to trust the same detective and his cohorts who had two days to try and save the Red Angel’s last victim and screwed up because they wouldn’t listen to a man they consider criminally insane sitting at Darden State. Did you see what he wrote on himself? With his fingernails?”

  Trey nodded. "I heard. Suffer the children."

  "Not just that," Elise said. "He had names. There are seven of them, and the sixth one is Lucas. The fifth one is Mary. Trey, they haven't even found a fifth child yet. What if they do? What if her name's Mary? What if Lucas is the sixth, and then the seventh is named Billy? How would that happen, that a psychopathic personality in Darden State knew who the kidnapper would take next?"

  Trey took a breath. Then, "Elise. You do not believe that he is telepathically linked to this killer. Tell me that."

  "No. I don't. But there's something. I can't figure it out."

  "When was the last time you had a session with Scoleri?"

  "Friday. Normal day. We spent three hours together. He seemed especially troubled."

  "In the pod?"

  "There. And here. Bronson and Marcovich were here, too."

  "Restraints?"

  "Not completely."

  "Hands free?"<
br />
  "Hands only. Leg cuffs."

  "Not full shackles?"

  She shook her head.

  "Who else came in your office on Friday?"

  "No one that I can think of."

  "Any deliveries?"

  "People come in and out of here all the time. But I'm here when they do that. I would've noticed someone. Or Eric would've."

  "Did he have access to any writing material?"

  "No. We cleared sharps before he came in."

  "Did he do anything while he was here?"

  "He stood most of the time. He said he was tired of sitting."

  "Did he go to the window?"

  "Maybe. I don't remember. Yes. He looked out on the grounds. He looked at," she pointed to the pictures on the wall — calming images of waterfalls and countrysides.

  "I have to ask you a question that you probably already heard from the cops, Elise. But, here goes: why do you think Lucas was targeted?"

  "Targeted? Trey. This is a random kidnapping. The cops said the main link was the upper middle class neighborhoods and San Pascal itself."

  "Okay. I guess I'm just doing scattershot here. But I just don't believe in telepathy. Or that he has some psychic link to the man who kidnapped your son. Those three hours you spent with him may be crucial."

  She heaved a sigh of frustration. "I wish I could give you more. It was just a completely normal day, with him, and with others. I didn't connect him with this at all. I only got pulled in on the Red Angel that night."

  "You see any others who might have a link to the outside?"