The Brain Vault (Stephanie Chalice Thrillers Book 3) (24 page)

Kahn rubbed his chin. His skin looked clammy. “You have to understand—glioma can be extremely aggressive—in some cases, life expectancy can be as short as six to eight months. You can see why someone might try something drastic, something radical, especially someone like Dr. Zugg, with an advanced background in biochemistry. Coupled with the deviant behavior that sometimes comes about as a result of the tumor’s placement in the brain—”

I was getting the vapors. I found myself struggling to fill my lungs with air. “Please, Doctor, what are you telling me?”

“The lab reported its findings. Dr. Zugg has been injecting himself with scorpion venom.”

“Why?”

“Because he’s desperate, because conventional therapy, stereotactic radiation has severe side effects. Even so, the chances for prolonging life are not good.”

“But why Scorpion venom?” I pictured myself standing in front of Zugg’s front door and being offered a scorpion cocktail. My, but the good Dr. Zugg had a droll sense of humor.

“A protein in scorpion venom bonds to the glioma tumors. There’s research going on in which drugs or radioactive material is bound to the scorpion protein as a new treatment against brain cancer. It’s very new, and very controversial—virtually unproven. No doubt Zugg has synthesized his own medication in a last ditch effort to eradicate his cancer.”

“So he’s not crazy?”

“He’s experimenting on himself with poison strong enough to kill a horse. Literally. He has no idea of dosage, or side effects, or if the material he’s injecting has any medical benefit at all. So as much as I’d like to say no, the answer is that Dr. Zugg is clearly not thinking rationally. Yes, I’d say he’s crazy. He could have gone to South America where they’re experimenting with scorpion venom and have years of clinical experience. No one in their right mind would do what he’s doing. At least we have an idea of how to treat him. I’ve administered a dose of an anti-venom. We’ll have to monitor his condition very closely.”

Kahn looked as though he had been tested to the limit and no one understood why as well as I did. After a few minutes, Kahn went about his rounds. I stayed behind looking in on Zugg. Hard as I tried, I couldn’t put myself in his shoes, but knowing the desperate mind as I did, I knew that almost anything was possible. Pushed too hard, we’re all capable of a bizarre reaction. Desperation can open the door for almost anything, and having pre-knowledge of the potential consequences doesn’t seem to keep us from making mistakes. That’s why people fall victim to torture, abduction, and murder. That’s why I have a job.

I
caught a chopper ride back to The Pine Barrens.
On the seat next to me was a case of computer-simulated photos bearing the facially reconstructed likeness derived from the skull that had been recovered there. The rendering depicted a man of Oriental ethnicity, somewhere about forty years of age.

On my recommendation, Ambler had established an effective perimeter around the Pilgrim State Hospital. Set on seven hundred forty acres, the complex consisted of seventy-five buildings. While I was en route, and with darkness falling, Ambler and Lido were beginning the difficult process of planning the search.

But for whom?

Who was the man in the photo? Intuition was telling me that the answer would be found at Pilgrim State. Time was running out for Paul Liu. With Rat in custody, there was little need for Liu’s skull. Did Liu know his abductor’s identity? Had he seen his face? Possessing that knowledge would unquestionably prove fatal for him. I only hoped it wasn’t too late.

The chopper had wireless connectivity, so I used the travel time to familiarize myself with the Pilgrim State Hospital by means of a notebook computer. As I said, the complex was vast. It was the largest psychiatric hospital ever built. At its peak, it had as many as sixteen thousand patients. It was opened by the state in 1931 to accommodate the increasing need to treat the mentally ill. Over time, the services they offered were available elsewhere, and so Pilgrim’s population decreased, many of the buildings closed, and parcels of the land sold off. It currently housed about six hundred inpatients.

The web photo depicted the main building as an enormous edifice, which was located at 998 Crooked Hill Road. The building transformed within my mind into a caricature insane asylum—something out of nineteenth century Europe. I could picture lunatics screaming from behind barred windows and patients dangling out windows, clinging to bed linens, attempting to make good their escape—the kind of place Dracula paid frequent visits to, and freed Renfield from.

I went on to read about the hospital’s history and about its facilities and vision, but it was a blog about the Edgewood State Facility that really drew my attention.

“Edgewood State Hospital, a thirteen story haunted house, connected to Pilgrim State by underground tunnels: At one time, a containment facility for World War II war criminals and tuberculosis patients.”

I found myself obsessing about Edgewood as the chopper descended toward the ground, my head filling with even more ghoulish visions than before. As I stepped from the chopper I felt certain I was in the right place, my mind exploring the unnatural darkness of the underground tunnels. What better place for a snake to hide than under a rock?

D
r. David Hector, the facility’s chief administrator met me on the building’s steps.
He was awkwardly tall and thin, at least six-foot-six. His head was angled down moderately, the result, I assumed, of some manner of neck trauma, or a really bad night’s sleep. He greeted me and we went straight inside. Walking alongside Hector down the corridor to his office, I noticed that he walked oddly, drawing his knees high off the floor like a crane.

“I appreciate you taking the time to help me, Doctor. I know it’s late.”

“Please, there are many nights I stay far later than this. I’m happy to help. It’s troubling to know that you believe the facility can help you with your homicide investigation.”

“Multiple homicides actually. Evidence was found in The Pine Barrens that tied to a double homicide in Manhattan.”

“But, Detective, The Pine Barrens is a huge piece of property. Aside from Pilgrim State, the complex contains a state university, land under development, recreational facilities, waterways, residences—The Pine Barrens is far more than Long Island’s largest natural land mass, it’s an entire community.”

We were in his office now. I closed the door and sat down. I had one of the computerized renderings in my hand. I placed it on Hector’s desk so that he could take a crack at it. “Do you recognize the man depicted in this photo? I’m thinking he may have worked here.”

Hector studied the photo. “My, but they’re doing amazing things with computers these days; so lifelike and natural. This man isn’t familiar to me, but I can’t say that I’m one hundred percent familiar with everyone on the night staff—this place goes twenty-four/seven, you know. I know most of the current employees, but that doesn’t mean he didn’t work here before I arrived.”

“And when was that?”

“About two and a half years ago. I was the director of the San Joaquin Psychiatric Health Facility in Stockton, California. I moved here when the job opened up. I couldn’t deal with the man who ran the state’s program—if you ask me, he needed more help than most of my patients.” Hector smiled at his own remark. “I replaced Dr. Robert Marsh who ran this facility for almost twenty years.”

“Do you know where we can reach him?”

“Oh yes, sure. Dr. Marsh lives in Sag Harbor, not too far from here. I’d be happy to give him a call—wonderful man.”

“Thanks, that’s a help. In the meantime, I presume you have photo IDs for everyone on staff?”

“Yes, of course.”

“What about past staff?”

“Recent terminations are computerized. Older ones are archived.”

“Paper files?”

“That’s right. We have an archives room in the basement.”

“We’re going to need to see them.”

“Of course. I’ll have them brought up to the conference room. But I do have a request of my own.”

“Of course, what is it?”

“I’m concerned about my patients. Having the police and FBI conducting an investigation is enough to unnerve anyone, let alone the psychiatrically challenged. I trust you’ve never been in a psychiatric hospital.”

That’s right, never, and don’t plan to be.
“No.”

“The patients here need to be here. Many are unstable or can just barely hold their lives together. I can’t risk having a psychiatric meltdown in my facility. It would be dangerous for the staff and patients. That FBI gentleman, Agent Ambler, he’s all business, isn’t he?”

I heard a patient’s scream filter into Hector’s office right through the wall. A woman was screaming, “Marie, Marie, I want my ice cream.” Though I tried not to think about it, I knew that I was in an asylum. It was politically incorrect to use that terminology anymore, but we all understood the reference. “I understand your concerns, Doctor. I’ll have a word with Agent Ambler—he’s not as bad as he looks. I’m sure he’ll do his best to keep the investigation unobtrusive.”

“It’s appreciated, thank you. Let me see if Dr. Marsh is available.” Hector dialed his colleague and left a message for him at his home. “He’s probably out to dinner.” Hector leaned forward, feeling the need to whisper despite the fact that we were alone behind closed doors. “His wife isn’t much of a cook. They had me over once—did you ever know anyone who could ruin spaghetti?”

In my family the term was pasta. Spaghetti was a word used by those who over boiled their noodles and doused them with jarred sauce. “I’m Italian—I’ve never had a bad dish of pasta.” Well actually there was that one time, back in my college days. I was in Hays, Kansas driving back from the coast with some friends. We stopped for the night and the only place around was the motel restaurant. It was modeled after a Bavarian chalet, and went by the name Pancake Haus. My girlfriends and I thought we were going to pig out on waffles and ice cream, but all they were serving that night was spaghetti in tomato sauce or canned La Choy Chow Mein. It’s a bad sign when a restaurant writes
tomato sauce
on the menu. So, if you ever find yourself driving down Route 70, don’t stop in Hays, even if it’s the middle of the night and you’re downright starving—just keep on going.

“I appreciate your help, Dr. Hector. I’ll go have a word with my colleagues, and if it’s not too much trouble, I’d appreciate it if those old files could be made available to me right away.”

“I’ll take care of it. With any luck, Dr. Marsh will call right back—I told him it was important.”

I was mentally preparing for a long night of strong coffee and bloodshot eyes, a night of laboring over dusty files hoping to find a photo that matched our computerized simulation, but then Lido knocked on the door. I introduced him to Hector. After a few minutes of polite conversation, Hector left us alone in his office so that he could arrange for the personnel records I had requested.

“Can you do me a favor?”

Lido nodded. “Sure. What?”

“Can you pull a few men to cross reference our simulation against hospital records?”

“That’s it?”

“No, Dr. Hector’s very concerned about his patients’ wellbeing. He’s afraid the police and FBI will scare the bejesus out of them and do them irreparable harm. We can’t have that, now can we?”

“So, you want me to have a word with your buddy, Ambler?”

“If you would be so kind.”

Lido shrugged. “Sure… So what are you going to do?”

“Ask me no questions, I’ll tell you no lies.”

“Oh, I don’t like the sound of that. What are you thinking?”

My head filled with the dream I’d had the day before. Lido and I were once again in an insane asylum. The howling started off low as a whisper and built into a roaring crescendo. I leaned forward and planted one on him, pressing my lady parts firmly against him, hoping to distract him—a little slight of hand, or breast, never hurt a girl. Now you see me, now you don’t. The good Lord bequeathed unto us those all-important feminine wiles for a very good reason. I may have abused the privilege. In any case there was no time for an official ruling.

“Now promise me you won’t do anything stupid.”

“I promise I won’t do anything stupid without checking with you first.”

Lido smiled at me, one of those I’m on to you smiles. “Bull shit, wait two minutes. I’m coming with you.”

O
kay, I don’t know the nuts and bolts of the process, but a good endorphin rush really seems to get me going, and I was getting a hell of a rush and a sense that something exciting was at hand.
I couldn’t get Edgewood out of my mind. The blog I’d read refused to leave me alone.

“Edgewood State Hospital, a thirteen story haunted house, connected to Pilgrim State by underground tunnels: At one time a containment facility for World War II war criminals and tuberculosis patients.”

I couldn’t fight it any longer. I had a hunch about who I was after and though it was nothing conclusive, my sixth sense told me that Rat’s coconspirator and Paul Liu were somewhere within this massive sarcophagus that was once Edgewood State Hospital.

I persuaded Hector to grant Lido and I access to the defunct building and turn on the power—though out of use for decades, the building remained structurally sound.

My plan was simple. We’d start on the top floor and forge downward, securing one floor at a time until a confrontation with our suspect became unavoidable—at least that’s what I was hoping for. I had my automatic out and ready, my
Para Ordnance .45 Light/Double Action
with a high capacity fourteen round magazine. The
LDA
had a tuned single-action trigger pull. Straight out of the box, it was better than anything I had ever fired before. I had only used it in the field once before and it had saved my life. I had a feeling I’d need it again today.

The building was desolate and filthy, damp, and cold in the midst of spring. I summoned to conscious thought the timeline of care for the mentally ill at this facility as I recalled it from the computer research I had done. Insulin shock began in 1936. Electric shock therapy was introduced in 1940. Surgeons began performing prefrontal lobotomies in 1946. Drug-based treatment arrived in the 1950s, starting with Thorazine. It was at that point that the patient populations began to decline. Edgewood’s useful life was curtailed in 1971 and had been left to decay ever since.