by Sean Slater
‘Well, it is a good morning, I see.’
Striker smiled. ‘Good morning yourself, Mrs Ostermann.’
‘It’s Lexa, for you,’ she said.
‘What should I call you?’ Felicia cut in. Her voice was dry, business-like.
Lexa only smiled at her, said nothing, then turned her attention back to Striker. ‘Please, from now on don’t be so formal.’
‘I’ll try to remember that,’ he said.
She stepped right into his personal space and stared into his face. When she smiled, she looked ten years younger, Striker noticed, and that magnetism pulled at him.
‘How are you?’ he asked. ‘Last night you seemed a little . . . tense when we left.’
The smile on Lexa’s face remained, but her lips tightened and her eyes got a faraway look in them. ‘So what brings you out my way, Detective Striker?’
Felicia stepped forward. ‘Sorry to break up this scene from The Bridges of Madison County, but we’re here to speak with your husband.’
Lexa’s cheeks reddened from the comment. ‘Oh. I’m . . . I’m sorry. You missed him.’
‘Missed him?’ Striker asked.
‘Yes, he had much to do today, I’m afraid. He left far earlier than usual. Around six o’clock, I think. Didn’t Dalia tell you?’
Dalia, who had been standing there silently, said nothing. She then took the opportunity to make herself scarce. Without so much as a word, she slipped in between the group, crossed the driveway in front of the undercover police car, and hopped into the passenger side of a green Land Rover.
‘Quite the chatterbox,’ Felicia noted.
Lexa said nothing. She looked back at Striker and put on her best smile. ‘I will tell Erich you came by the moment I see him, Detective Striker.’
‘And when will you see him?’ Felicia persisted.
Lexa’s eyes never left Striker’s. ‘In a few hours. I’ll see him at the clinic.’
That made Striker blink. ‘What clinic?’ he asked.
‘Why, Mapleview, of course.’
‘Mapleview? I didn’t think your husband worked there. You mean, you work together?’
She nodded softly. ‘Yes. Well, now we do. It’s how Erich and I met, actually – through our professions. Long ago, before Erich even started the EvenHealth programme, I was a psych nurse at Riverglen.’
Striker thought this over. ‘Riverglen, huh? Interesting. But you no longer work there?’
‘No, now I do more private than public work. The pay is better, the hours are less and, more importantly, it’s all day shifts now. I stopped pulling nights after I turned forty. It was just too hard – though, with your profession, I’m sure I don’t need to tell you that.’
Striker raised an eyebrow. ‘I know nights.’
‘I bet you do.’
Felicia stepped forward to get Lexa’s attention. ‘When exactly are you going to see your husband, Mrs Ostermann?’
‘Well, when he gets to the clinic.’
‘Which will be?’
‘Sometime this afternoon, I would guess. Erich usually does his paperwork in our home office Thursday mornings. The rest of the week, he spends the mornings at Riverglen. He avoids the worst of the rush-hour traffic that way – coming back from Coquitlam at the end of the day can be a real grind.’
‘But he did end up going to Riverglen today?’ Striker asked.
‘Yes, but he should be at Mapleview after two or so.’
‘We can’t wait till then,’ Striker said to Felicia. ‘We’ll have to head out there to see him.’
At hearing this, Lexa made an uncomfortable sound. She took in a deep breath and her face turned hard. She looked directly at Striker. ‘Erich doesn’t like being disturbed when he’s in the middle of his work – he takes it very, very seriously.’
‘So do we,’ Felicia said dryly. ‘Suicides and missing people are generally rated fairly high on our list.’
Lexa Ostermann didn’t so much as acknowledge the comment. She kept her eyes focused on Striker and continued speaking. ‘I only ask that you don’t . . . upset him right now. Erich is under a lot of pressure with his caseload at Riverglen, not to mention all the private work he’s doing with EvenHealth. He’s very tired. And he’s stressed out. He hasn’t been sleeping well of late, so he upsets rather easily.’
‘I’ll do my best to keep things on the level,’ Striker assured her.
Lexa nodded as if she was grateful for this, but her expression remained one of concern.
Striker felt for the woman. He said goodbye to Lexa, and they returned to the car. They climbed inside, backed out of the driveway, and then reversed so Lexa and Dalia could drive their Land Rover out of the front gate.
The last thing Striker saw before leaving was the look on Dalia’s face through the windshield. Her expression was as hard as rock and her eyes were cold and empty and seemed very far away.
‘Something’s wrong with that kid,’ Felicia said.
Striker knew it, too. He felt it deep down in his chest.
Thirty-Seven
The mental health centre known as Riverglen was old, having been built in the early nineteen hundreds. Fresh layers of white paint had been added to the old wood trim of the windows, and the crumbling blocks of surrounding red brick had been spraywashed clean. But no matter how much work the government put into the hospital, no matter how hard the politicians tried to make the facility look like a modern-day, healthy and happy place to live, an air of despair cloaked the facility, as visible as the storm clouds that were sweeping in from the north.
This was Riverglen – an institution for the mentally ill. It was listed under the government’s Mental Health and Addiction Services, for those who bothered to look for it.
Felicia pointed to the belfry high atop the central roof. ‘Gives me the creeps, this place,’ she said.
Striker nodded. ‘Right below that is where they gave people the shock-treatment therapy.’ The moment he said the words, he regretted them. Felicia already had a problem with these places, he didn’t want to make it worse.
‘I hate this place,’ she said softly. ‘My grandmother was brought here, way back in the days when everyone called it The Hallows. The things they did to make her better. Christ. They drugged her, strapped her down, gave her electric shocks. I don’t remember much of it – I was so little then – but I remember enough. Like her hair falling out from the stress, and her body turning rake thin.’
‘I had no idea,’ Striker said.
Felicia looked over at Striker and her eyes were hard. ‘She was a lot better off before ever going in here. And once she was committed, she never left. It was a tragedy.’
‘Psychiatry’s gotten a whole lot better since then,’ Striker offered.
But Felicia didn’t seem moved by the comment. She glared at the building before her, then shuddered. Striker parked the car, gave her a nod and they climbed out.
Outside, the wind from the Pitt River funnelled into the hospital grounds and caused the bushes flanking the walkway to flap and flutter. Felicia bundled up her long charcoal coat and marched ahead. Striker joined her. Together, they hiked up the old stone steps of the entrance and stepped between a giant pair of freshly painted white pillars before entering the foyer of the mental hospital.
Riverglen.
They had arrived.
Inside, the place was no different. An aura of despair filled the halls. Once past the front security station, Striker and Felicia were led by a guard to the east wing of the facility, then down a long narrow corridor towards the office of Dr Erich Ostermann.
Striker took note of their surroundings as they went. The walls were high, easily ten feet, and the windows were small, allowing little natural light to break the gloom and offering absolutely no view of the land outside. Just being there was depressing.
‘This place is fucking barbaric,’ Felicia said.
The guard, a short fat guy who looked to be in his mid-fifties, gave them a queer look
when he heard the comment, but Striker just nodded at the man, and they all kept going.
The office of Dr Ostermann was located in the corner of an L-shaped hallway. In the east wing, leading off the hallway, was an entirely separate room – a common area where several patients were sitting, dressed in pale blue gowns.
Striker looked into the room. It was small, rectangular and, unlike the halls, had natural light and even a few windows overlooking the mountains to the north. Some of the patients were playing backgammon. Some were reading books and talking in pods. But most of them were huddled around an old tube TV in the far corner of the room. On the TV was a cooking show.
The whole scene reminded Striker of an old folks’ home. As they waited for Dr Ostermann to return, Striker watched the patients.
In the nearest corner, a group of four people were playing cards. One of the participants, a tall thin white guy who looked like he hadn’t shaved in days, suddenly stood up from the table and yelled out, ‘Fuck you, you FUCKERS!’ He ripped off his shirt and threw it on the floor.
Striker looked at Felicia, saw the tense look on her face.
‘Strip poker?’ he asked.
Before she could even respond, one of the security guards stood up from his station in the corner of the room and called out, ‘Henry! You’d better calm down over there. I mean it!’
The man was unafraid. ‘He’s got a knife at the table!’ he cried out. ‘A knife! Can’t have that – it’s against the rules, it’s DANGEROUS!’
The guard looked over at the table, saw the paper plates and bran muffins, the squares of butter and plastic knives. ‘It’s okay, Henry. It’s all fine. He’s allowed to have that one. It’s plastic. So just relax.’
‘It’s DANGEROUS!’
‘Just be good and I’ll give you some of your favourite snacks again.’
‘M&Ms?’
‘I promise,’ the guard said.
‘Peanut?’
‘Of course.’
Henry didn’t respond at first; he just gave the guard a hot stare, stuck out his jaw, and then finally put his shirt back on. He left the other patients playing their card game and hung out by himself near the room entranceway. He turned his eyes towards Striker and Felicia, and caught their stares.
‘What the fuck you two lookin’ at?’
Striker said nothing; Felicia just grabbed his arm and turned him away.
‘Don’t provoke him,’ she said. ‘He’s mentally ill.’
Striker wasn’t planning on it. Before he could respond, a woman behind them asked, ‘Can I help you two?’
They both turned to face her.
Seated at the reception desk in front of Dr Ostermann’s office was a woman dressed in an all-white hospital uniform. She looked thirty or so, and harsh, with her hair pulled back into a tight bun and little to no make-up on her face. She did not smile.
With Henry still ranting behind them, Striker approached the desk. ‘Detectives Striker and Santos,’ he explained. He showed the woman his badge and credentials. ‘We’re here to speak with Dr Ostermann.’
She still did not smile. ‘Did you book an appointment?’
‘For an asylum?’ he asked. ‘No, we didn’t.’
The woman’s face tightened – her first sign of any emotion. ‘We don’t call it that any more,’ she corrected. ‘This is a mental health facility.’ She leafed through a ledger on her desk and made an unhappy sound. ‘Dr Ostermann is in session for another twenty minutes. Until eleven. And after that he has to be at his personal practice by twelve . . . I don’t know if he’ll be able to fit you in today.’
‘He can and will,’ Striker said. ‘He knows we’re coming. I talked to him yesterday.’
‘I was never informed of this.’
Felicia’s face darkened. ‘So there’s some things in this world you don’t know?’ she asked.
Striker offered the woman a smile. ‘I’m sure it just slipped his mind.’
The woman showed no reaction to the words. She just gestured to a row of seats along the far wall. ‘Sit there. I’ll let the doctor know you’re waiting for him.’
Striker looked over at the door to Dr Ostermann’s office. He walked across the room, grabbed the handle, and opened it.
‘Sir! Sir! Detective! ’ the receptionist called.
Striker played ignorant. ‘Yes?’
‘Out here, please.’
‘Oh, sorry. I thought you wanted us to wait inside his office.’
‘No.’
Striker sat down next to Felicia, who craned her neck and grinned at him.
‘Nice try, Sherlock.’
He said nothing back. He just sat next to her, breathed in deeply and smelled the vanilla perfume she always wore. The scent filled his head with other memories, enjoyable ones, and he tried not to think about it. He focused instead on a way to get inside the office.
They waited for another five minutes, until the receptionist got up from her desk. ‘I’ll be back in a moment,’ she said. She offered no further explanation, and disappeared down the hallway. Striker waited for her to disappear around the corner. Then he stood up.
‘What are you doing?’ Felicia asked.
‘Magic,’ he said.
He walked over to the wall, leaned against it, then made a soft whistling sound. In the common room, Henry was still muttering to himself about the knives being too dangerous. He heard the whistle and looked over.
This time, Striker did not look away. Instead, he smiled at the man, winked, and whispered, ‘Look at what I got.’ Then he brushed the tail of his jacket to the side, revealing the pistol holstered beneath. ‘I snuck it in here.’
Henry let out a loud gasp. ‘You can’t have that in here!’
Striker thumbed the release button and slid out the magazine. He popped out a bullet, reloaded it, then slid the magazine back into the gun. He looked back at Henry.
‘Got three full mags.’
‘You can’t have those – they’re dangerous!’
‘Real dangerous.’
‘It’s against the rules!’
‘I don’t follow the rules.’
Henry’s face darkened and he started to tremble all over. ‘YOU CAN’T HAVE THAT IN HERE – IT’S DANGEROUS!’ he bellowed. He stepped forward and kicked one of the chairs, just as the receptionist returned. She let out a gasp and dropped her coffee cup as the chair went sliding across the floor and slammed into the door, rattling the safety glass.
‘Henry, calm down!’ she ordered. ‘Calm down!’
‘HE CAN’T HAVE THAT IN HERE! CAN’T HAVE IT! IT’S FUCKING DANGEROUS!’
The guards came rushing over, took custody of Henry, and quickly escorted him back to his room in an effort to maintain calmness in the area.
But the damage was done. The other patients were already leaving their card games and backgammon tournament, and the TV had lost its appeal. Striker turned to face the receptionist.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I stood up to stretch and I guess he saw the gun. He just freaked.’ He glanced around the area. ‘Jesus, they all look angry now.’
The receptionist looked at the spilled coffee on the floor, then at the mass of patients mustering near the doorway. ‘Perhaps . . . perhaps it would be best if you did wait inside the office, after all.’
Striker smiled at the woman and held up his hands.
‘Whatever you think is best,’ he said.
Thirty-Eight
The moment the receptionist allowed them inside Dr Ostermann’s office and shut the door behind them, Felicia looked over at him and a grin spread her lips.
‘That was terrible,’ she said.
Striker just shrugged. ‘I know, and believe me I’m not proud of it, but we had no choice. We needed to get in here before Ostermann got back. We need to know who this Billy guy is. It’s as simple as that.’ He looked at his watch and saw that it was ten-fifty now. ‘What time she say his session ended?’
‘Eleven – and that’s if he does
n’t finish early.’
Striker frowned at that. Ten minutes wasn’t a lot of time. He looked around the room. To his surprise, the office was fairly barren. He’d expected to see medical diplomas hung on every wall. Plaques and certificates and awards. Maybe some pamphlets for the EvenHealth programme. A row of books, at the very least.
But there was none of that.
All that occupied the office was a large oak cabinet in the far corner, a big sturdy wooden desk, and a pair of comfortablelooking leather chairs sitting opposite the desk.
On the walls hung nothing but standard pictures. A sailor looking out over the sea; a little boy at the doctor’s office; and a Native Indian-style wolf head. Aside from this and a few plants decorating the room, there was nothing of interest. No shelves, no books at all.
Striker moved over to the desk. He tried to open the drawers but they were all locked. On it was nothing but an ink blotter, a computer and a keyboard with mouse. The computer screen was blank, and when Striker moved the mouse, the logon screen appeared.
‘Needs a password,’ Felicia said.
‘EvenHealth?’ he asked.
‘Lots of luck,’ she said.
He knew she was right, and didn’t even venture to guess. Instead, he moved over to the cabinet on the far side of the room and opened the doors. Inside was a small TV set with built-in DVD player. A Samsung. On the shelf below was a row of DVDs, each one with a name on the side. Striker searched for any with the names Larisa Logan or Mandy Gill, but found none. Instead, he found one labelled Billy Stephen Mercury. And in brackets were the words: Kuwait. Afghanistan. PTSD.
PTSD – Post-traumatic Stress Disorder.
He turned and looked at Felicia. ‘Our Billy?’
‘Write down the details. Hurry. Before Ostermann gets back.’
‘I’ll do more than that,’ he said. He flicked on the TV and grabbed the DVD case. He opened it, slid out the disc, and slipped it into the tray.
