Palindrome (14 page)

Harrison walks in.

“Great, thanks.” He grins. Then picks up his desk phone. “Dr. Nancy? Hi, it's Harrison. I have two gentlemen here who'd like to speak to you, if you don't mind. About Silas Graham. Mmm-­hmm. Okay, I'll send them right over. Have a good one.”

He sets the phone down and smiles.

“No pictures, no recording devices. And I assume you've already handed over any weapons?”

We both nod slowly.

“Great. Dr. Pollis, could you please walk them over to Sachar?”

D
R.
P
OLLIS LEADS
us back past the flagpole to the edge of an athletic field. On the other side of the field, another low grey building bulges like a bad wart on the face of the earth. Frozen brown grass crunches beneath our feet. Every direction eventually terminates in the brick wall that encloses this place. There are guard towers in each corner, and then four more halfway along each wall.

I get the feeling that the Berkley Clinic has way more land than they need; besides the few buildings and chain-­link-­fence-­enclosed recreational areas, this place is mostly just empty stretches of grass.

At one point Dr. Pollis's cell phone rings, and she steps away from us to take it. I immediately turn to Courtney.

“How the fuck did you pull that off?” I whisper.

“That was close, Frank.” He shakes his head. “Gave him your number and answered in a different voice from the bathroom, pretended to transfer him, searched for our records in the computer, then authorized us. Thank God they don't have any experience dealing with situations like this.”

“You had my number memorized?”

“Of course. I memorize all my numbers. Don't have a phone to store them in, and it's faster than flipping through a notebook.”

“Jesus.” My body is still rigid as a board, and there are little marks on my palm where my fingernails nearly drew blood. “Let's just call it quits. If we can't get in to see Silas, this whole thing is worthless anyways. He probably has that fucking tape under his pillow—­”

Dr. Pollis returns, shaking her head. “Sorry about that. I'll have to leave you two with Dr. Nancy once we're at Sachar. Suicide attempt in House Three.”

“Is that common here?” Courtney asks, scarf wrapped tightly around his neck. No hat; he correctly intuited his red duck-­hunting number might have hurt the credibility of his disguise.

“Unfortunately, quite,” Dr. Pollis responds as we resume walking. “No metal silverware, no belts, no shoelaces . . . but they still find ways. This gentleman was on gardening duty. Got his hands on some weed killer and chugged it. Just not quite enough, apparently.”

“You trust them to garden? Don't they need, like, tools?” I ask.

“Depends on their classification,” she responds. “Not the Sachars—­the Category Threes—­obviously. They don't even get to eat in the cafeteria together. We try not to put them in groups of more than ten,
ever
. That's when things turn ugly. But the Category Ones and some of the Twos are usually just fine with some responsibility. Fine until they aren't, that is.”

To our right, about fifty yards away, a group of men in blue shirts toss baseballs to each other while a few orderlies supervise.

“Has Silas ever attempted suicide?” I ask.

Dr. Pollis purses her lips and looks at me over her glasses as we walk. Weighing what she's allowed to say, I suppose.

“Once. A few years ago.”

“Not since?”

“No . . . but he's been different ever since.”

I notice Courtney's fingers twitching with excitement. Can tell he wants to pick this woman's brain for hours but can't risk her feeling she's said too much. I still can't believe this charade worked. Seems too easy, which makes my stomach churn.

“How so?” Courtney asks casually.

Dr. Pollis quickly checks something on her phone. She walks fast, and we have to struggle to keep pace with her while also affecting the gait of men thirty years older.

“When he first came here he was almost megalomaniacal. Beyond help, beyond control. The other patients were drawn to him; his tattoos and reputation for heinous crime made him a natural leader. And he'd talk about his crimes, brag even. Even to me and Dr. Nancy—­who is his group and one-­on-­one doctor. In his file, we have at least three different records of his crime, as told by him. I thought for a while he was psychopathic, but then he tried to kill himself and I realized this couldn't be the case.”

Courtney licks his lips. I stare ahead at the squat two-­story building that houses this monster and shudder.

“Why not?” I ask.

“Because I realized that his entire personality, everything he showed to the world, was a facade. One so elaborate that it even fooled me. Just as his face is hidden beneath those . . .
pictures . . .
he had hidden himself beneath this constructed personality—­a brazen ass who would boast about his victims, strangle smaller patients in the showers, throw a plate of food at a resident and spit in his face. They just took it. Nobody wanted to mess with Silas, but not because he's physically imposing. He's quite tall, but lanky and thin. Looks like a strong breeze could knock him over. Kind of like you,” she says to Courtney.

I swallow a chortle.

Dr. Pollis continues, “He terrified everyone because of his bravado. They all knew what he'd done. But then something happened. He tried to kill himself, and it was clear that he'd erected these high walls to disguise something. Something he was deeply ashamed of.”

“What's that?”

“Fear. Crippling fear. He is the most terrified patient—­person—­I've ever encountered. And a few years ago, the barriers he'd erected around his fear crumbled, and he withdrew. Refused to leave his room for two months, and even when he does now, well . . . It's sad. He's like half a person. Sometimes you get something out of him, sometimes not.”

We arrive at a bland building. Stiff grey letters above declare this the Sachar Center. Dr. Pollis checks her phone again and shakes her head, then hands us off to two orderlies at the front door that look like clean-­shaven ogres. Key card IDs dangle from necks as thick as oaks.

“Luke, Dennis, take them to Dr. Nancy, would you? I have to run. And when they finish up, you can take them back to Admin to retrieve their badges.”

She shakes Courtney's hand first, then mine.

“Best of luck with everything, truly,” she says, with an enthusiasm commensurate with her day job. And then she races off, phone in hand.

D
R.
N
ANCY
K
RAMER
is significantly more pleasant to speak to than Dr. Pollis. We're in her office, which is like a little bio-­dome of pleasantness in what is otherwise, unsurprisingly, a pretty dreary spot. She's cheery; bubbly even. Which is especially impressive considering what her day-­to-­day here must be like. She's short and a little stocky, dirty blond hair in a ponytail, huge dimples.

She talks about her patients—­pedophiles, rapists, cold-­blooded killers—­like she's their kindergarten teacher. Which is half cute and charming, half superdisturbing.

After Dr. Pollis handed us off, Luke and Dennis led us down a brightly lit narrow corridor, the smell of man lingering faintly beneath enough bleach to make my eyes sting. The hall was lined on both sides with thick blue doors. Men peered at us through their slits of reinforced glass. Some banged on their doors as we passed. Some just glared at us, wide-­eyed. One man's pupils were as white as fresh snow, and he was pressed up so close to the window that his eyes were actually flattening against the glass.

Luke and Dennis seemed totally unfazed. Me, I was getting that same sick feeling I'd gotten when my first PI case sent his consciousness bursting out the back of his head, all over cream-­colored motel wallpaper. Courtney wasn't digging it either. Tried to stay all business, off-­handedly asked the two gorillas which room Silas was in, but they didn't answer. Then up a flight of stairs, through three card-­locked doors, and into the employee “lounge” area—­though I doubt much lounging truly occurs here. They let us into Dr. Kramer's office and are probably still standing right on the other side of the door with their hands folded across their chests, staring blankly into space.

Now though, I'm starting to feel a little better. I guess that's the idea. Dr. Kramer's got carpeting, for one thing, which makes the whole room feel warmer. A nice, lush forest green. She's got pictures of islands and oceans—­landscapes probably being the only thing that won't provoke something fucked up with these guys. We're sitting in plush, plaid lazy-­boys, and she sits in her own brown leather chair, not behind her desk like I'd imagined she would but out with us, like we're just having a casual chat.

I recline and let myself relax a little, thinking we're in. Maybe this whole thing won't sour, and in an hour we'll be out of this evil place for good.

I notice she has a goldfish in a bowl resting on her bookcase.

“So, Doctor Kramer, you've been Silas's primary psychiatrist since he checked in five years ago, right?” I say.

“Call me Doctor Nancy,” she says. “Everyone does. And yes. I used to see him two or three times a week. But now he hardly leaves his room.” She sounds almost nostalgic. “We have to deliver meals to him most of the time.”

“What's wrong with him?” I ask, then try to rephrase when Courtney flinches. “I mean, why is he here instead of a normal prison?”

Dr. Nancy nods seriously. Though she's in a standard-­issue white smock, you get the feeling that if she had a choice, she'd be wearing a hot pink skirt. And unlike Dr. Pollis, she's wearing a little rouge on her cheeks. But what's the point of looking good when you work in a place like this?

“Paranoid schizophrenic is the official diagnosis. But that's just an overarching label—­every person is unique.”

Snowflakes and serial killers, am I right?

“But we can't meet him? Face-­to-­face?” Courtney asks.

Dr. Nancy summons an over-­the-­top apologetic face. “Unfortunately not. It's a patient's right to refuse visitation. Unless you're accusing
him
of another crime, of course. But it sounds like that's not the case.”

Fuck. I fucked up. Probably could have fabricated a story like that. Didn't even think of it. Too late now.

“Alright, so tell us about him,” I say.

“Sure!” She smiles. “So he was born somewhere down South—­I think Alabama maybe? I'd have to check his folder. He was a very unhappy child. Suffered from some intense learning disabilities, if memory serves. When he was eleven, he killed his parents with a ball-­peen hammer and was placed in a foster home somewhere in Maine, about thirty miles from where he'd eventually kill that girl—­”

“Thanks, Doctor,” I interrupt, “but we already know all this. We have the police report. We're more interested in how he's behaved since he checked in here.”

Dr. Nancy blinks.

“His psychological profile,” I add, “is our best chance of understanding his copycat.”

“Well . . .” She puts a finger on her chin. “When I asked him about it in therapy, he confided that he'd been ‘told' to kill them. I asked him if he felt remorse. He said he didn't. That he just did what he'd been told. And then when I pressed him, he admitted that he'd also been told to kill Savannah.”

“So he hears voices?” I ask.

“Yes. In fact, though he never really showed remorse for killing his parents, he once broke down here with me. Started sobbing about killing Savannah. Explained that he hadn't had a choice. That he was just doing what he was told. Poor boy. Sometimes I think we're mistreating these men. He's not a bad person, really. He's just lost. He just needs—­”

She suddenly catches herself. She was about to say something she didn't want to.

“What does he need?” I ask gently.

She shakes her head, blushing lightly. “Nothing.”

Courtney is superfocused. They wouldn't let us bring in recording devices, but I trust his brain as much as any tape recorder. Speaking of—­

“Can residents bring personal possessions in with them? Or do they confiscate everything?” I ask.

Dr. Nancy looks confused. “I don't . . . It's not a prison. Most residents are allowed to keep personal belongings in their rooms, assuming we judge them to be conducive to a mentally healthy living environment. And as long as there's no potential to harm, of course.”

“Do you happen to know if Silas brought any cassette tapes in with him?” I ask her.

“I have no idea,” she says, maybe a little too fast.

Brief awkward silence.

“So he was a real tough guy when he came in, right?” I say. “And then
something
happened, and he tried to kill himself. And now he won't leave his room?”

She purses her lips, like she's considering this for the first time. “Yeah, I guess.” She shrugs.

Courtney is growing frustrated and having a hard time hiding it. We simply have to talk to Silas face-­to-­face to learn anything.

“So it sounded like you were saying that you don't think Silas is actually ill,” I say. “Do you think maybe he's lying about hearing voices so he doesn't have to go to maximum security?”

She frowns. A serious mood change just occurred.

“Of course he's ill,” she says.

“Dr. Pollis said he hasn't received visitors in a while,” I say. “But did he used to? Can you remember anyone coming to visit him?”

“Visitor records would be in his file, but I'm afraid I can't share that with you.”

“Can't hurt if you took a look though, right?” I ask, pouring everything I have into a phony grin. “Just to refresh your memory?”