The Lion, the Lamb, the Hunted: A Psychological Thriller (10 page)

“Not at all. Mrs. Kingsley was dealing with enormous guilt over her son’s murder. She blamed herself. As time went on, her memories and perceptions about the kidnapping seemed to become more distorted, as did her impression of reality as a whole.”

“Distorted in what way?”

“Her recollection about what actually happened, the circumstances leading to it—none of it made any sense, and most of it seemed to lack truth. After a while, it started sounding like she was talking about someone else’s life rather than her own. She was a different person.”

“What kinds of things did she say?”

He gazed down at his notes, threw his hands up, shaking his head. “I honestly wouldn’t know where to begin. Purely illogical thinking.”

I leaned forward to glance at the notes. “Can I have a look?”

He dropped his arms down to shield them and stared at me as if I’d asked the unthinkable. “Absolutely not.”

“But Mrs. Kingsley’s no longer alive, and her husband gave me permission.”

“That’s not the point, Mr. Bannister. It’s at my
discretion whether or not to release them, and I choose not to.”

I shot him a long, curious gaze. He broke eye contact by picking up the phone, hastily punching a few buttons, and then said, “Ms. Penfield, please come to my office immediately.”

“Doctor Faraday, you should understand my intentions here. I’m not trying to—”

“I understand your intentions just fine. You have a job to do. So do I.”

Penfield walked in, spared me a quick glance, then gave the doctor her attention. He said, “Please put these records back where they belong.”

She nodded, moved toward his desk.

I tried again. “Doctor, I don’t want to put Mrs. Kingsley or this hospital in a bad light. I just want to tell her story so people can understand the hell she went through. Not seeing those records would be missing the biggest part.”

Penfield suddenly looked at me with an expression that was hard to read. I couldn’t tell whether it was animosity or…well, I just couldn’t tell.

The doctor said, “The answer is still no, Mr. Bannister. The records are confidential. End of discussion.”

Penfield grabbed the last of the papers, closed the folder. “Will there be anything else, doctor?”

Faraday shook his head, and she threw me another quick glance before going on her way.

He said, “Now, where were we?”

I nodded toward the door. “We were discussing those records you just had whisked out of here.”

“Look,” he said, exhaling his frustration and shaking his head. “I’m sorry if it came out wrong. It’s not that I’m afraid you’ll put us in a bad light or anything like that.”

“Then what is it? Because quite honestly, I’m a little confused about what just happened here.”

His stare lingered a moment. “Let me put it to you this way. Some things are better left alone. Trust me, this is one of them.”

“I’m not following you.”

“What I’m saying is that the picture you’d see of Mrs. Kingsley would not be a flattering one. And it wouldn’t serve any purpose other than to make her look badly.”

“Doctor, with all due respect, good or bad, it’s reality, and it’s my job to write about it, not hide it.”

With eyes locked on mine, lips pursed, he shook his head.

I tried another option. “Then if you won’t let me see the records, can you at least tell me more about what happened while she was here?”

He paused for a long moment, seemed to be evaluating my words, and then with reluctance in his voice said, “With each visit, she became more disturbed, more agitated…and more lost in her own mind. We couldn’t help her. No one could. Things were becoming extremely tense. And unpleasant.”

“Unpleasant, how?”

“We were concerned about the safety of others.”

“Why?”

He hesitated again. “There were threats.”

“What kind?”

“Death threats. To the staff and other patients—actually, to anyone who came within shouting distance of Mrs. Kingsley. Quite honestly, she frightened people. We’d made the decision to move her to the maximum-security unit, and her husband was in the process of committing her. Permanently.”

“Do you know what brought this on?”

He pressed his hands together, looked down at them for a moment, then back up at me. “When I said Mrs. Kingsley was a different person, I meant it.”

“I’m sorry?”

“She was experiencing what we call a major depression with psychotic features.”

“Which means…”

“She was severely delusional, seeing and hearing things that didn’t exist, and…” He let out a labored sigh. “…and she began assuming an identity other than her own.”

“What identity?”

“She called herself Bill Williams.”

“She thought she was a man?”

He nodded.

Glancing down at my notes, I raked my fingers through my hair, then looked back up at him. “Was she in this state all the time?”

“No. She’d slip in and out.”

“When did it start?”

“Toward the end of her last stay.”

“So, close to the time she died,” I confirmed.

“Yes.”

“And who was this Bill Williams?”

“Nobody, I’m sure. But in her mind, she
was
him. Her vocal tone became deeper, her mannerisms, even her facial expressions…all convincingly masculine. It was a startling transformation.”

“Did she give any details about him? Who he was?”

“Just that he was a murderer.”

“She took on the role of a killer…”

“Yes, and according to her, one of the most dangerous killers of our time, maybe ever.”

“What did he do?”

“Question should be, what didn’t he do? She reported that he began murdering when he was nine years old. Lured his best friend into a shed behind his house, then beat him to death with a claw hammer, to the point where the child’s face was unrecognizable.”

I cringed at the thought, said nothing.

“She talked about it frequently—as Bill Williams, that is. She…I mean,
he
…took great delight in the feeling in his hands when the hammer made powerful impact with flesh and bone…the release, the euphoric pleasure. And it doesn’t end there. He just kept going. Several years later after his mother remarried, he climbed into their bed while she and the stepfather were asleep and began spooning the husband. Then he shoved the man’s face into his pillow…and a kitchen knife up his rectum. The mother woke in the middle of the night drenched in blood. Bill had wrapped the man’s arms around her, then went off to his room and peacefully back to sleep.”

“Good
Lord
,” I said. “All this created from her mind?”

“I’m afraid so. A very disturbed one, I remind you, one that had lost contact with any form of reality.”

“Did this Bill—or Mrs. Kingsley— talk about anything else?”

“Plenty. In her final days, she spent a good part of her time bragging about the other murders he’d committed.”

“What did she say?”

“Horrible things. Gruesome things. Some of the most disturbing I’ve ever heard—and trust me, I’ve experienced a lot here.”

“Details?”

“I’ve actually tried to forget them… but with a few, I’ve had a hard time doing that.”

“You can’t tell me?”

Doctor Faraday gazed out the window and shook his head very slowly. A tree branch shifted in the wind and threw an odd shadow across his face. “I’d rather not.”

I drew in some air, blew it out quickly. “Can you at least tell me why she’d dream up someone so horrible, let alone want to assume his identity? Who was this guy?”

He turned back and caught my gaze, held it for moment. “According to her, Bill Williams was the man who kidnapped and murdered her son.”

The hair on my arms stood straight up—on the back of my neck, too—and suddenly the room felt frigid. I didn’t say anything for a long moment, and then, “She assumed the identity of the man who killed her son…”

“Correction: the one she manufactured as the killer.”

“Why would she do that?”

“With the mentally ill, there really isn’t any rhyme or reason, Mr. Bannister.”

“She ever say why she thought he did it?”

“No, and it hardly much mattered since it was all made up, anyway.”

“I appreciate you taking the time, doctor.” I stood up, gathered my things.

“Welcome,” he replied with an expression that revealed absolutely nothing.

I reached over to shake his hand—it was still ice-cold—then, handing him my business card, I said, “My cell number’s there if you remember anything else.”

He led me back down through the hallway and out toward the reception area where a guard escorted me to the elevator. Penfield was standing there, staring at me. Once again.

“I’m going downstairs, Samuel,” she said, her eyes locked on mine, her expression bare. “I can see him out, save you the trouble.”

Penfield watched him move down the hall and then under her breath said, “I was here when Mrs. Kingsley died.”

I felt my heart clap twice inside my chest.
Pay dirt.

She went on, “And I
don’t
believe she killed herself. Never did.”

“What are you telling me? That she was murdered?”

“
Nurse Penfield!”

Doctor Faraday’s voice, coming from around the corner.

She glanced quickly in that direction, then shoved the folder into my hands. “Take this, then get lost. And I mean it!
F
ast
!”

I dropped the folder down to my side, could see Faraday coming around the bend.

The elevator door opened, and I stepped inside quickly, the door closing just in time, barely revealing a nervous Penfield as she turned around to face Faraday.

Chapter Sixteen

They say angels come in the most unexpected disguises, but who knew mine would look like Aurora Penfield? The lesson, I suppose, was never underestimate the value of a bitter and disgruntled employee.

In my motel room, I opened the folder. Inside, were the notes—pages and pages of them—written by Faraday during Jean Kingsley’s stays at Glenview. I spread them on the bed, wondering which might hold the answers I needed.

The doctor’s messy shorthand was hard to decipher but still clear enough to show Jean Kingsley’s downward spiral growing more pronounced during her final stay:

June 15, 1977

Pt. in catatonic state. Unresp @ external stimuli. No talk. Ref. to eat.

Then:

June 23, 1977

Pt more respons. but disconnected @ external stimuli/reality. Aware of surroundings w/min. resp. Nurses report pt. sitting by window, rocking an imaginary baby, singing to it. Words slurred/indistinguishable. Pt. claims she’s holding her deceased son Nathan.

Disturbing, but mild when compared with what followed next:

Jul. 5, 1977

Pt more alert/respon. but anxiety sig. increased. Agitated. Complaining intruder in her bed hides under sheets, touches her inappropriately. Screaming all night.

Jul. 9, 1977

Pt suffering from trichotillomania w/noticeable hair loss and trichophagia. Nurses rpt. pt. pulling hair out, eating it. Also found clumps around bed.

Jul. 14, 1977

Pt engaging in self-injurious scratching behavior @ forearms and legs. Skin broken, bleeding. Sent to infirmary @ evaluation and treatment.