Shades of Eva (41 page)

“Not much activity here anymore, but it’s
important,” Isaac said.  “Food service, transportation,
maintenance, the recreation hall, the laundry…this street used to
be the busiest one in the complex. There used to be a dime store
and a cobbler along here.  We even had a barber and a beauty
shop.”

We stood outside the large, wrought iron
gate securing the tunnel cut into Ward E. “So how many stayed here
at one time?” I asked, pulling on the gate to test its weight.

“In its heyday, I’d say 2,000 people at one
time. Course there were a lot more buildings around back then. All
tolled probably half a million souls have spent time in this
wonderful place, for better, for worse.”

I sketched the gate and made an outline of
the back of the main building as Isaac pulled the gate open. I was
making notes of all of the camera locations on the outer walls, and
drawing lines between the different buildings to estimate distances
between them. Should I fail to find blueprints to the place, these
sketches would have to suffice.

The iron gate creaked through every second
of its arc and opened just enough to allow us passage into the
courtyard. Isaac closed and then locked the gate behind us, then
led me in.

I was finally in the Quad, that walled-in,
gardenesque space where my parents had met. I was finally in and I
felt every ounce of that finality when that big iron gate swung
closed and then locked behind me with a clang that sounded like a
giant prison door banging shut.

“This gate is the entry point for all the
trucks,” Isaac said. “The cafeteria has been moved up to the front
of the complex, but they still move supply through here.”

As I said, the Asylum proper was essentially
a square (the perimeter made up of the wings) wards A and B in the
front; Wards C and D on each side; and Ward E comprising the back
of the square with the Quad smack in the middle. Punctuating the
Quad was the 110-foot water tower.

Whereas before I could only imagine what it
was like to stand right beside this structure, I took the
opportunity to do just that as we made our approach. It looked as
it did 40 years ago in that postcard, but it was real. It was
mammoth and that was an understatement. Its slightly curving
surface felt just as flat as I’d imagined it would; it felt as if
it were a flat wall before me.

The Quad had the look and feel of a garden,
far from what you’d expect from a mental institution’s recreation
yard. Isaac explained it was part of a patient’s therapy to
maintain the Quad. Painted benches lining flagstone paths wound
their way through sections of perennials, dogwood trees, Japanese
maples and a variety of shrubs and flowers.  There was even a
fountain within an area separated by a thick hedgerow split by a
white stained arbor with hanging vines in full bloom.

It was an English garden. I had pictured an
urban wasteland.

“The entire complex is under 24-hour
surveillance,” Isaac continued. I continued sketching as Isaac
continued the tour. “There’re cameras mounted everywhere.” He
looked to my drawing again. “I see you have most all of them
depicted. Why are you drawing those?”

“Details,” I reiterated. “Got a short memory
so I need to write things down.” Again, Isaac left it at that,
though he nodded less approvingly this time.

We entered the rear of the admin
center and stood in a long corridor that branched off to the east
and west. We proceeded east down the hall toward a sign above a
stairwell that read Basement, and then entered its doorway. Isaac
flipped a light switch on that dimly lit the stairwell. I followed
him down. Two file rooms flanked each side of the staircase. On the
left: patient files A-N. On the right: O through Z.

“These are the archives,” Isaac explained.
“You might be called to come down here and retrieve files for the
clerks. They can come down here, but some of them don’t want
to.”

“Is a little spooky,” I said,
understandably.

We walked deeper into the A-N room. Six rows
of four-drawer filing cabinets divided the room into five hallways,
essentially, each about 60-feet deep. The rows were alphabetized,
and the cabinets, themselves, were lettered according to last name.
Each cabinet reminded me of my father’s toolbox in the
toolshed.

I had stepped into one of the hallways and
pulled a random drawer open and withdrew the first file I came to.
Isaac heard the drawer open and came over to look. I was in the As.
The man’s name was Ebenezer Alexander.

“Look at this one,” I said, shining my light
on his written diagnosis. “He was committed for Mortified
Pride.”

“Don’t know what the hell that is,” Isaac
said, “but I wouldn’t do that if I were you. All of these are
confidential files.”

“Off limits, huh?” I mumbled,
indifferently.

“Yes, we guard them. We don’t read
them.”

I replaced the file and closed the
cabinet.

“Half a million souls, aye?” I said, letting
my eyes wander the enormity of the room.

Those cabinets held half the magic of 143
years of psychiatric practice. I smiled to myself, the descendent
of one of Coastal State’s very own, standing where no descendent
was intended to stand, where no descendent had ever been
allowed.

After Isaac’s initial tour
, we
remained in admin. Isaac walked down the hall to get some coffee; I
took the opportunity to say hello to some of the
administrators.

I greeted Theodore Sax, Maxwell Cleveland,
and Margaret Hipshire, who were all in their offices, and thanked
them, again, for hiring me. I followed the hallway down to Dr. Anna
Norris’s office, the chief medical superintendent who used to kiss
my cheek on those old home visits for my parents. I was mumbling a
rhyme to myself:

Tweedly dee, Tweedly dumb!

You thought I was gone, but here I come!

Dr. Norris wasn’t in.

I saw a young woman coming toward me in the
hall. Her nametag read Veronica Warren, Information Technology.

I stopped her and asked her where the main
meeting room was. She asked what I was talking about with an
I-don’t-know-who-you-are kind of snobbish expression.

I gestured to my badge. “You know,” I said,
smiling behind my Ray Bans, “the think tank, the room the regents
and the biggies would meet in, say if there was a coupe, or a
publicity nightmare, or something like that?”

I must have taken her aback. She gestured
suspiciously over my left shoulder. I turned around. A sign right
behind me and above another doorway read: Main Boardroom.

I thanked her and she left shaking her
head.

I walked into the boardroom, spun a couple
rotating leather chairs around, and wiped a finger along the edge
of one lengthy, and very clean, mahogany table. I removed a bug
from my pocket and placed it on the underside of the table at the
end nearest the window, then several more strategically about,
doing as Amelia had instructed me to, and then got the hell out of
there.

Isaac had reappeared in the doorway just as
I was exiting. “Gotta pinch a loaf,” he said. “Give me ten minutes
and we’ll start rounds. Wait for me in the Quad.”

My primary duty was rounding
—checking
the buildings, the floors, and the grounds on a regular basis for
intruders, patients out of place, or for any structural or
mechanical problems. I was to do this hourly the entire shift.

I gathered my GPS and homemade map of the
grounds and proceeded to the courtyard—into the Quad to wait for
Isaac.

I called Amelia to tell her some of the bugs
were in place and to follow up on something from the night
prior.

She picked up after two rings.

“It’s me. Listen, I placed the bugs—”

“—
I know
," she replied, cutting me
off.
“—They’re working. Good job!"

“You know that already?”

“—
Yes. I’ve got my eye on you, Chet.
You’re doing fine.”

To say that I was surprised by any of this
would be an understatement. I wasn’t surprised—I was stunned,
mostly, by the expediency by which Amelia seemed to be working. Not
to mention that if this were true, and Ully had at least some
knowledge of Elmer’s murder, then Amelia’s theory was true—Elmer
was dead and he was likely dead just feet from where I was
standing. 

I asked Amelia what she meant by texting me
that he was in a bad way. I asked what had happened to Ully, and if
anything had happened to her.

She said she was fine, but that they had
spent a lot of time on the subject of where Fred might be, which,
in an indirect way, answered my question as to why Ully had been
laid out.

A few days ago it would have made me feel
pretty stinking good to hear that Ully was in bad straights and
that I was well on my way to becoming a millionaire. But my main
concern that day, standing on those grounds listening to those
birds singing like it was God’s last day in the galaxy, was in what
I’d say to my uncle when I saw him. And for what pretense was he
being committed?

Ully still maintained an aura of dominance
in my mind—and not the kind of aura open to persuasion by an
insolent little nephew. I feared that once he saw me, he’d
recognize the coward I felt I was becoming, or had always been.

I asked Amelia, “Does he know I’m here?”

“—
He knows you’re there, Mitchell, and he
knows why he’s being sent there. He’s also on some medication, so
I’m not sure how he’ll react when he sees you.”

“What do you mean how he’ll react? What if
he gets pissed off, or confused, and tells everyone I’m his nephew?
Then what?”

Amelia seemed to be laughing at me—or maybe
at the question.
“—He’s not that out of it. He’s in agreement,
but he is angry. I don’t think he’ll go against us, but I want you
to give him a friendly reminder of what he has to gain by
cooperating with us. Show him the new spine you grew in the last
twenty-five years.”

“He gets to keep most of his money, his
freedom, and his health? You think that’s enough to keep him quiet
about us?”

“—
He’s suffered a little, physically,
from our talk, but that’s a far cry from the suffering he’ll endure
if he rats me out, and he knows it. I need you to remind him of
that. Sooner better than later! So when he arrives, be there to
greet him, okay?”

I was turning almost frantic, again, at the
idea of threatening Ully. That was a role-reversal I hadn’t fully
considered. “When am I going to get to do that?” I said. “I have
rounds every hour and this Isaac is attached to my fucking
hip!”

“—
I’ll text you when he’s almost there. I
have faith in you, Chet. You’ll figure something out. Now listen to
me! This is going to get pretty specific. We’re on a timeline. Ully
is going to tell the docs your mother was raped by Levantle.
They’ll have to report it. Police will need to talk to Ully, get
his statement. This will all take some time. I don’t look for them
to contact Ben until later today or tomorrow. As long as Ully
cooperates, we’ll have police looking for Levantle as well. Maybe
they know something about his whereabouts. It can only help
us.”

I was trying to estimate how long we
actually had. I was measuring things in hours, which turned out to
be about right. I knew Ully, and didn’t trust him to be quiet for a
day any more than I trusted the ants to stay away from my picnic.
If he squealed to one person, then my name—all of them—and Amelia’s
face—were front page news.

“—
You’ll talk to Ully, remind him of what
I said, and as soon as you know where Elmer is, call me. We have
power at the river house, now, so I’m setting up surveillance from
there. So get your ass in gear and start rooting out the gallery.
We don’t have a lot of time!”

I was irritated to say the least. The last
thing I wanted was to be hurried. I had rounds to do. I had another
bug to plant in Ully’s room—if I could figure out where the hell
his room was going to be! I had a pissed-off uncle to talk to who
was on his way, the bones of a dead baby brother to locate, and a
hidden art gallery to find.

I could see Isaac coming out of admin and
into the Quad toward me walking somewhat bull-legged and smiling as
if on the verge of a joke.

I reached into my pocket and rummaged
quickly for another Valium, and added a Dilaudid to the mix. If I
was going to do this, I’d have to have a little Happy Face in me.
To hell with sobriety!

I was just putting the pill bottles back
into my pocket when Isaac reached me.

“Boy did I ride that loaf like a gay cowboy.
What’s the haps, Ponch?” He patted me on the back. “Why the long
face?”

“Family issues,” I said. “Same old
shit!”

I looked at my watch. It was 10:05
a.m.
Isaac and I proceeded to round the place again. This time
I felt a little more confident. I knew where I was going. I’d met
most of the staff and was becoming accustomed to the cacophony of
odd noises you hear in a mental institution: distant cries,
inappropriate laughter, occasional screams, gastrointestinal
retorts, perseveration, the constant dousing of small fires and the
mechanics of a living, breathing mental hospital: the vents, the
carts rolling to and from, the transfer of patients from
wheelchairs to beds, of breakfast carts rolling, breakfast trays
falling, of patients arguing or laughing.

 Once rounds were over and we had a
little more downtime, I took leave of Isaac and half-stumbled my
way over to the south lawn, GPS in hand.

It was 10:47 a.m. according to the GPS’s
on-screen clock. I compared it to the clock on my cell phone. It
was spot on. I tapped MAP MODE on the GPS and hit enter. The
coordinates to Elmer’s presumed gravesite were already programmed
in.

It didn’t take me long to isolate an area of
eleven by eleven meters centered around the geographical indicator
as written on the postcard. The area, however, wasn’t in the
Courtyard. It was behind it, outside the iron gate and across the
road, roughly ten feet into the ravine behind and just beyond the
halfway house.