I paused, he waited. "Truth is. Sam, that in the current mental health environment— today— there's virtually no chance this guy ever would have been admitted to a psychiatric hospital, let alone put on a hold."
"Why?"
"The threshold has changed. Society has changed. Civil liberty thresholds have evolved, as a culture, we tolerate much more psychopathology and are willing to pay for much less psychotherapeutic intervention."
"Did he need help?"
I thought for only a moment before I shook my head and said. "Yes, probably, but not the kind we gave him, he didn't have a problem that would benefit from a vacation in a psychiatric ward."
"But he's dead? Your guy?"
"Yeah, for a while now." I took a long draw on tha coffee. "This is good. Thanks."
"Can you tell me his name?"
"No. What's the point, anyway?"
Sam narrowed his gaze and tightened his jaw before he took a bite out of a jalapeno bagel, chewed it to a pulp, and swallowed. I could tell he was thinking about something. I knew he'd tell me what it was if he felt like it. "A. J, heard from her immigration sources last night, they can't find a match between the cruise ship's personnel list and the departures of U.S, citizens to New Zealand in the days right before Lorna Pope's death."
I raised my eyebrows. "Not even tentative? Nobody?"
"That's what they say."
"What does that do to their theory? Simes and Custer's?"
His upper lip puffed out as he expelled some air in a little burst. "Makes it much harder for them to get the Bureau involved, that's for sure. Other than theoretically; they're still unable to tie two of these deaths together."
My mind locked onto an image of Lauren in the hyperbaric chamber. I found myself fighting tears. "Sam," I asked, "when is somebody going to believe this is really happening?"
He drained his coffee and stared for a moment into the bottom of the cardboard cup. "My own theory on that is that they'll believe it once it's too late, and by my reckoning, given what happened yesterday; it's already too late. So I think somebody important will come on board any day now."
"You just being cynical?"
He shrugged. "You decide. Listen, as much as I like hanging out in drafty, dusty construction messes, why don't I take you to our house so you can shower before you go back to Denver? Sherry and Simon are at her meeting. You'll have the place to yourself."
Around us, sunlight was starting to seep into the dusty cavern that once had been my humble home, he gazed around at the mess. "So this is going to be nice when it's done, right?" he asked.
I laughed.
So did he.
Sam went to use the chemical toilet.
I fished the portable phone out of my pocket and phoned the hospital again. Lauren was still sleeping. "That's not necessarily bad." the nurse assured me. "As soon as she's awake, we'll assess her neurological status. If it's still compromised, she'll probably go back into the hyperbaric chamber. Let's hope she looks great, though, okay?" I translated her words to mean that Lauren was now out of the black-and-white dangers that lurked in the first few hours and had moved solidly into the shades-of-gray dangers that lurked in the next few days and weeks, she promised to call as soon as Lauren was awake.
Sam let me into his house in North Boulder, gave me a towel and a disposable razor, and showed me to the bathroom. When I emerged twenty minutes later, he was gone, a note under my windshield informed me that he had "stuff to do." and that he would call me later on Lauren's phone.
I stopped by the house on the Hill to get some fresh clothes, the place hadn't been designed to admit much sunlight, but that morning it felt particularly dark and bleak, the air inside was so crisp that I could watch my breath vaporize as I stood in the living room.
I edged into the bathroom sideways so that I could avoid looking at the spot where I'd found Lauren on the floor, but finally turned and examined it, the vomit was gone. I was grateful for that. But someone, maybe a paramedic, had left a couple of latex gloves on the nightstand. I swallowed, trying hard not to cry, while I stripped off the clothes I had slept in and pulled on clean underwear and socks, some black jeans, and a polo shirt and sweater.
I was locking the house back up when a heating contractor drove up in a big Ford van, he said Milt Custer had sent him over to do an estimate. I listened to tha contractor for a few minutes as he argued persuasively against my repairing the old furnace, he was pretty excited about the new technology and focused most of his attention on the energy conservation benefits of upgrading. Given the Boulder market, it was a pretty good marketing pitch.
But I was in no mood for it. Finally I interrupted him and let him know that I wanted a brand spanking new furnace and two new carbon monoxide detectors, one in the basement and one upstairs, he went back to his truck and showed me a couple of brochures that went into a lot more detail than I wanted to know about the inner workings of my new furnace.
I asked him which one he would put in his mother's home.
He said he would choose this one and poked his index finger at a Lennox model with an attractive female model next to it, the model appeared quite proud of her new furnace.
I said it looked fine and gave him the house key, he seemed pleased by my choice and informed me that he thought he could have it in by noon on Tuesday. I replied that that was fine and inquired about the cost.
He said he would write up an estimate for me, but, ballpark, he was guessing around twenty-five hundred dollars.
I smiled at the amount. I was thinking of asking him if he knew Dresden, but I didn't.
On the way into Denver, I checked my office voice mail, praying that my own personal crisis hadn't coincided with any crises for my patients. I didn't have the time or the energy to help anyone else right now.
The only message was from Sawyer.
"Alan, hi. It's, um, me. Sawyer. I'm so sorry about what happened to your.., to Lauren yesterday. I know a little bit about how you feel right now, and, well, every beat of my heart is creating good energy for you. If being with me will help you, will comfort you in, in any way, I'd love to see you now. I'm going to stay in Boulder for a couple more days at least. I'm still at the hotel. Let me know."
I pushed the button on the phone that would end the call. I toyed with the idea of phoning her and seeking comfort.
I even started to dial the number of the hotel. Just then, though, I passed under the bridge at Wadsworth Boulevard and noticed for the hundredth time the headstone above the grave of the dog that was buried beside the freeway.
I thought of Emily and how much I was going to miss her if she wasn't okay.
THIRTY-TWO
Lauren's phone jingled in the pocket of my jacket as I drove past Federal Boulevard.
I found the little "talk" button, pushed it, and said. "Hello."
"Dr. Gregory? This is Angie, you know, at Presbyterian? Your wife's nurse? We met briefly yesterday, we talked earlier?"
I read a world of innuendo in her tone, which was as light and rich as perfect chocolate mousse. "Yes?"
"Your wife? She's awake and she's asking for you, she's looking much better, she's oriented."
"She's, uh, okay?"
"She looks .., much improved, she's oriented. But we don't really know yet, you know? Gross neurological is good, but it will take some time."
I knew, the effects of brain trauma can be as blatant as pornography; or as subtle and difficult to decipher as fine art.
"Can I talk to her?"
"Not right now, they're drawing fresh bloods."
"I'm on my way in— I'm on the turnpike. Tell Lauren I'll be there in fifteen or twenty minutes. This is great. Thanks so much for the news."
I phoned the veterinary hospital. Emily was up and about and acting hungry.
Above me the sun was breaking through the clouds.
• • •
Lauren complained that her brain felt as if it had been processed in a Waring blender, but her mental
status gave me joy; and momentarily; hope. Over the next few hours. I washed her hair and brushed it out and rubbed her feet and legs with lotion. I helped her eat and held her as she napped. I repeated to her at least three different times that Emily was recovering well and that I loved her.
I couldn't tell if she was having trouble with her memory or just needed reassurance.
We parted with great ambivalence. Neither of us voiced it, but we both knew that the reason I left was that she was much safer if I wasn't around. I promised I would check in with Sam and Simes and Custer as soon as I got to Boulder.
Sam had been busy during the afternoon while I was in Denver quietly celebrating with Lauren. I caught up with him late in the afternoon at the Boulderado, in the fourth-floor suite that had become a command post foa Simes and Custer, a. J, was there with Sam, but Sawyer and Custer were elsewhere. I guessed that they weren't out shopping.
The light was fading and the western edge of town was shrouded in dense shadows. From up on the fourth floor the view of the treetops was a brilliant salad of autumn hues. Sam handed me a beer and offered me a big bag of Snyder's pretzels. I checked the label, they were fat-free, he was still being good.
A. J. Simes looked uncomfortable, with anyone else I know I would have assumed that the luminous melon-colored sweater she was wearing might have something to do with her discomfort.
Sam said. "It's great news about Lauren."
"Yes. I'm still pinching myself, she said to thank you for the flowers, she loves them." Sam's wife owned a flower shop.
"That's Sherry's doing, and Emily's okay; too?"
"She appears to be, although I'm not sure I'd recognize brain damage in her very easily."
Simes said. "I'm so relieved for all of you."
"Thank you; A. J."
Sam munched some pretzels and finished off his can of beer. "We made some progress today."
"On what? The furnace?"
He shook his head. "No," he replied and waited until our eyes locked before continuing. "On Corey Rand."
I opened my mouth wide to stretch my jaw muscles and to keep myself from saying something I would regret.
"You didn't tell us his name, alan." Simes said from across the room, as though that would make me feel better about having unwittingly violated the man's confidentiality.
I recalled my conversation with Sam that morning, the facts I'd offered about Rand's dismissal from Rocky Flats, and the subsequent lawsuit he filed against the plant. For a detective like Sam Purdy; it was the equivalent of marking Corey Rand with fluorescent paint and putting him under a black light. Immediately, I wondered if it had been my intention all along to give up Rand's identity.
"What kind of progress?"
Sam stood and walked to the window. "You're not planning on protesting at all? I expected a truckload of grief from you." He sounded disappointed.
"What kind of progress?"
Simes said. "It wasn't difficult. Finding him. Rand. Once we knew where to look for him."
"You mean once I led you to his door."
She smiled self-consciously.
I repeated. "What— kind— of— progress?"
Sam said. "I talked to Valerie, his widow, went and saw her in Wheat Ridge, she have some terrible cough when you talked to her?"
"Yeah, she did. Does she smoke?"
"Like an out-of-tune diesel, anyway, I seemed to make her uncomfortable."
"Sam. I'm sorry to disappoint you with this news, but you make a lot of people uncomfortable."
"I'll grant you that. But most of them, in my experience, are uncomfortable because they're hiding something."
"What was Valerie Rand hiding?"
"May I?" interrupted A. J.
Sam wasn't accustomed to being deferential, but he yielded the floor gracefully.
"A little history to start." She screwed the cap off a bottle of local water from Eldorado Springs and sat down on the sofa. "This is all preliminary, we've only been on it since late morning, right?"
I said. "Right, that's to be expected, since I didn't hand Corey to you until early morning."
She didn't bite at my sarcasm. I noticed that she had decided to tell her story without notes. "Once his security clearance was yanked, he left Rocky Flats, he wasn't fired, by the way, he quit after he was demoted to a clerical position that didn't require security clearance, anyway, he struggled for a while trying to find a new career, he tried to make it in law enforcement. Was a sheriffs deputy up in.., what's that place called. Sam?"
"Estes Park."
"Yes. Estes Park. But he never made it out of his probation. I got the impression from the sheriff that his, quote, 'style' made him a bad fit for the department, after that, he bounced around in other peripheral security-type jobs. Tried.., aerospace, uh. Martin Marietta in... I'm sorry, Sam?"
"Jefferson County."
"Thank you. I don't know what's going on with me and names today, he was a security officer there, he lasted less than a year. Insubordination was the reason given by the company for denying Rand unemployment benefits."
"I'm getting the picture." I said. "He was a malcontent. It's not surprising, given the profile."
"Yes, a malcontent, after he was canned by Martin Marietta, he and his family left their home in.., shit."
"Westminster."
"Due to foreclosure. Things got even more rotten then. His wife left him and took their son to live with her family in Wyoming, urn, Cheyenne." A. J, seemed pleased that she'd finally remembered the name of a geographic location. I wondered if the concentration and word-finding problems were a routine part of her MS.
"But they didn't divorce?"
"No, as a matter of fact, they reconciled in ‘990 or so. Surprisingly., he seemed to have started getting his life back together, he was managing a Radio Shack store in— oh. God damn it."
"Lakewood."
I asked. "Is this history all from Valerie?"
A.J, said "No."
I turned to Sam for an answer, he wouldn't look at me, the nutritional label on the back of the pretzel bag fascinated him. I half expected him to inform me how much fiber there was in a handful of Snyder's.
"Where then?"
"Sources."
"Alan, it's not important." Sam said, warning me off.
"What is important, then?"
A.J, answered. "Corey Rand was five feet eleven inches tall, he had green eyes and blond hair that some people described as golden. His build could best be described as average to stocky. Records we've obtained show that his weight varied over the years from one-sixty to one-eighty-five."
The description seemed to match the hazy image of Corey Rand that I had in my memory. "Yes? So what?"
A.J, reached onto the desk behind her and picked up a single sheet of paper, she handed it to me.
I'd barely gotten over my distraction at tha letterhead on the page— Department of Justice. Federal Bureau of Investigation. Washington. D.C.— when she summed up the contents of the memo for me.
"Corey Rand's characteristics match the age and physical description of the solitary American who had access to the incinerators on board the cruise ship the night that Dr. asimoto disappeared."
It didn't seem like much to go on. "As do, what? Maybe two million other people in the United States?"
She exhaled and took a tiny sip from her bottle of water. I thought it was her method of biting her tongue.
"We can't rule him out, yet, that's what's important."
"He's dead." I knew I was arguing because a dead suspect did nothing to help me with my yearning for vengeance for the assault on my wife and dog.
"He wasn't dead back then."
I stared at Sam until he blinked, then fixed my gaze on Simes, she didn't blink. I said. "Now you've decided that you're looking for more than one killer? Is that what I'm hearing?"
Sam said, "Got to have an open mind, alan."
AJ, recapped the bottle, she said "What if? Stay with me here, okay? What i
f Matthew Trimble's death, the drive-by in L.A., wasn't part of all this? What if it was what it appeared to be, that is, a random act?"
"I'm listening."
"And what if Amy Masters's tanning-bed death was really accidental? What if the reason that the local authorities found no evidence of tampering with that bed is that there wasn't any?"
"What are you saying?"
"I'm hypothesizing that perhaps we should be investigating fewer deaths than we are. It would leave us with Susan Oliphant's death in the plane crash, wendy Asimoto's death on the cruise ship, and Arnie Dresser's death while hiking, and, of course. Lorna Pope's death in New Zealand."
Her argument seemed weak to me. "You're forgetting Sheldon and his family. But that's not the point. I could make an argument to exclude any of them. Why choose Matthew Trimble and Amy Masters?"
"I'm hoping that you can tell us that, alan. You were on that inpatient unit with Corey Rand. I wasn't."
THIRTY-THREE
The original litany of murder victims had been so compelling to me that I hadn't considered that any of them should be excluded from the list. But I wanted time to think about it alone.
"Do you know where Sawyer is?" I asked A. J.
"No. But they're due back soon, she and Milt."
"I'm hungry. I'll be downstairs in the restaurant getting something to eat. Tell her that, would you please? Ask her to join me."
Sam asked. "You want some company now?"
"No." I said. "Not especially." He looked more perplexed than injured at my response.
Downstairs in the restaurant I ordered a sandwich and a beer and tried to remember who had been working on the unit during the two days of Corey Rand's admission so many years before.
Sawyer and I had driven to Grand Lake for our one-night holiday and we had almost completely missed Rand's brief admission.
Had Matthew Trimble been on that weekend? I wasn't sure, he wasn't taking new admissions, though; Arnie was, maybe Matthew was out of town and missed Rand's entire stay on Eight East. It was Thanksgiving weekend, a lot of people were taking time off.
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