The Path of Silence (4 page)

“Explosive,” Ken deadpanned.

“You print out that piece of shit and then fill it with a story that the victim ran around for four years with a bomb planted in his chest and I’ll sign it. But I’m not reading that micro-shock shit again. He was an economist, for God’s sake, a research assistant with the International Monetary Fund, not a guinea pig for alien mad scientists.”

“It’s probably the four years, running around, that made Joe plunge into those futuristic medical journals—and visit Hopkins,” I commented. “When he disappeared, Brick was an economist with the IMF, working at their Langtry Office, developing mathematical models in their statistics division. But when we found his body last night, in addition to his own, he carried on him eight different identities—none of them even remotely connected to economics.”

“Like I said,” Bourke smiled. “You’re going to have a busy year, checking out alternate identities. It’s your case. Go solve it,” he said and dismissed us.

“Micro-shock,” Ken murmured, when we were already outside.

“Joe’s appetite sure could use a macro-shock,” I said and got in the car.

“Meg,” Ken grabbed the wheel. “Before we start checking out all those IDs, why don’t we drop by Mongrove?”

“Brick’s fiancé is still languishing in the psychiatric facility?” I was shocked.

“Brenda checked it for me. Patricia’s never made it out, not even on a day pass.”

Brenda was a pediatric nurse at Johns Hopkins. We dropped by, now and then, to have a quick lunch with her. She would have connections to check on the residents of a psychiatric facility.

Mongrove was in Brooklyn Park. The building was a colonial brownstone with white columns. It sat in a tranquil setting, surrounded by asphalt, industrial storage units and abandoned rail tracks. I heard wounded screams from gulls and seabirds, scavenging for food across the barren concrete. I felt it didn’t bode well.

Inside, it was just as majestic and impressive as the outside structure. The unspoiled ceiling soared. The bare stone staircases rose in regimented straight lines. The building was untouched by man’s rabid progress into the twenty-first century. It looked as inviting as it did two centuries ago.

That’s when it rose, to threaten the neighborhood. We saw steel-meshed screens, covering every opening larger than a mouse hole.

“We haven’t had our grant approved this year yet.” A young resident doctor welcomed us with those words. He continued, “That’s why there are no fences outside. We’ve just about covered up everything inside. We’re hoping and praying that grant arrives.”

He was about my age and not a type I’d picture sitting in a worship shrine, praying. He had approached us as if the huge floor of this stone-padded fortress was a stage, with arrogance. His honey-blond hair was nearly as long as mine. I longed to ask him for the name of his hairdresser. I loved his layered shag. It gave a new meaning to authority when he tossed his head. My instinct told me that he was one of those trick-or-treat people. If he liked us and was having a good day, he would be witty, glib and droll. If we pissed him off, he would turn into a King Cobra.

“Maximum security?” I asked with a careful smile. He must have liked my effort because he used wit to carry us over these difficult first impressions.

“Minimum staff,” he panned back, his slate eyes sparking. “We’re a State-funded institution. How do you do? I’m Doctor James Patterson, the Chief Resident here.”

I introduced us and handed him our business cards. He wordlessly tapped his chest pocket with the chipped plastic nametag. The gesture glibly drove in his point about the economy status of the facility. Still, no matter how good, I thought he was too young to be a Chief Resident. Mongrove was a huge State facility. Places like this would be filled to capacity, because of the economic structure of our society—the ratio. Only two percent of our population fell into a category that would eschew state-funded facilities. The rest would opt for State assistance, when the joy of living sanded them down to screaming level.

My curiosity was itching. I asked.

“This is a demanding job,” Patterson replied, nose quivering. “But I have to admit that there were not too many challengers clamoring after this position. I applied in the morning, had my interview at noon and by four o’clock, I was already serving a night shift.”

I decided that I liked him. Ken explained why we were here.

“Patricia Vanier,” his forehead creased with wrinkles. I felt this disturbance was not serious, merely a convention. “If you’re lucky, she won’t shut up. Then again, if you’re lucky, she won’t say a word.”

“So the extremes are tolerable but anything in-between is risky?” I smiled, understanding.

He whistled at me with his eyes. “You’ve got it. It’s the long stretch of violent history and roaming, between the extremes, that has kept her here for four years. She’s approachable when she talks, even though it’s a disjointed, one-sided conversation. She normally stays in one spot, without gestures and words pour out. She’s tolerable when silent, because she doesn’t move. It’s when she strikes out at the residents or staff and roams, that restraints must be used.” He sank his hand into the pocket of his lab coat and motioned with his head. The shaggy mane whipped around his shoulders, forcing us to turn.

“Our monitor,” he said.

I was surprised to see such a huge screen. I had thought it was a sheet.

He continued, “I thought you’d like to take a look first, check the situation. This is for the visitors, the loved ones with fragile disposition, who want to see the family member but would be overcome with emotions in a physical setting. Then again, some of our residents might find physical intrusion disturbing—spying on them. This is for the benefit of both parties.”

We were lucky. Patricia Vanier was in a talkative mood. She was a thin, frail woman. She didn’t look older than her true age, thirty-four. She had a crew cut. It was a necessity in a place with minimum staff to provide grooming care. She was dressed in a dingy beige tracksuit. Her face was pale but not ghostly. I couldn’t find anything outstanding. Her features were competent. Her nose was an appropriate size for her small, round face.

I imagined that four years ago, she would have been one of those pleasant young women who dressed in suits and always wore pantyhose, even in summertime, prim and proper. She would have been a perfect companion for an economist. She was in a lounge behind us, inside a steel-mesh screened area. It was populated by surreal, swaying figures. No one milled around.

I wasn’t a relative and this wasn’t a visit. I smiled at Patterson, thanked him for the show, turned and approached the real-life situation.

In addition to thick walls, the place had to have extra insulation in the patient areas because the lounge was quiet. I was ten inches away from the meshing. All I could think about was that I was listening to a murmur of voices in a distant cavern.

“You picked a good time to visit,” Patterson’s voice sounded behind me. “It’s quiet. Two weeks from now, the night of the full moon and this lounge would scare you away.”

“Do lunar cycles really affect…” I looked at him. His tone was flat. I couldn’t tell whether he was in the trick or treat mode.

“We have twenty-five years of studies that say so,” he nodded. His shaggy hair only stirred. He had to be serious. “She’s over there, by the wall.”

In real life, much like on the screen, Patricia Vanier was having an animated conversation with a blank wall. Next to her, leaning against the whitewashed masonry, dispirited and wanton looking, was a young woman. She reminded me of Brenda. Ken noticed too. I glanced at him. He started to bite his lips.

Patterson sent in two orderlies. They guided Patricia outside. We went to sit at the table in another fenced area.

The doctor nodded at me and spoke to her. “Patti, you have visitors. This is Detective Stanton and Detective Leahman. They would like to ask you a few questions. Do you feel like talking to them?”

No sooner had his words sounded than the floodgates burst. I motioned to Patterson to let her carry on a one-sided conversation for a while and then nodded at him again to intervene, since this was his territory. He knew what to do.

“Patti, these police officers want to ask about Johnny.”

It worked. The torrent halted. Patterson gave a sign with his hand to ask questions.

“Patti, do you remember the last time you saw Johnny?” I asked.

“They were following him. They pushed and pulled him. They kidnapped him. They hurt him. He had bruises, chicken tracks. They made his head throb. They put greasy things inside. He wouldn’t let me touch it. I couldn’t kiss it. It smelled of chicken. Johnny wanted to run. We wanted to run away. The islands. The chickens can’t swim across the channel. They tortured him.”

“Patti, who kidnapped Johnny?” I asked hurriedly when she paused.

“The black bishops, black men, blank men. He said they were blank bishops but I know he meant black. They kidnapped him, tortured, murdered him. He came back and wouldn’t talk about it but I knew. I smelled grease. I saw the bruises, bones and wings. He said he fell in the park. I saw their greasy paw prints in his skin. They tore him apart and sewed him back. They tortured him.”

“Patti, did Johnny ever say who these black men were?” Ken asked.

“The clerks, the foreigners. They take over our neighborhoods. They poison our groceries. They cheat us, never give back proper change. The 7-Eleven black men. They don’t speak English. They rattle beads and smoke black coffee. I will smash their coolers and crush all their chips.” She stopped suddenly and leaned across the table. Her dark eyes flashed. She smacked her lips softly, wordlessly.

“Patti, Patti, Patti. You don’t like it when your chips are all crumbled.” Patterson clicked his tongue. It had to be means to redirect and refocus the patient.

“I will crush them. I will crumble them.” She sneered at him, all the time making smacking noises.

“Patti, Patti, Patti,” he clucked his tongue again. “You know what happens when you don’t behave. The tape will be blank. The popcorn will be cold. The TV will be dark and the pop will be flat. You hate flat pop. You spit it out.”

The childish threats worked. She sagged into her chair.

“Did Johnny ever say what these black men wanted from him?” I asked.

“His soul. Chips, popcorn, pop. Money. Our TV. His job. His face. His body.”

Her answers were odd. It was as if she were carrying on a conversation on another level and giving us phrases taken out of context. It sounded like a program, a feature presentation from which all padding has been removed, censored.

“Did Johnny mention any names, Patti?” Ken asked.

“Black men. Bishops. Armandos. Commandos. Monsters. They push. They pull. They stick needles into your arms.” Her words were like bullets. Had she not sat in front of me, I would have said I was listening to a fledgling actress, practicing her elocution lessons.

“This is about as much as I’ve heard in four years I’ve been here,” Patterson said in a gentle voice. I was surprised he could soften it so much. The words of prayer were normally delivered to heaven on such a fleecy cushion.

Patti sat there and though she must have heard his words, she didn’t react. It was as if she was programmed and had a switch.

I motioned at Ken. He understood. This was the end of the interview. If we lingered, it might not be beneficial for the patient.

Patterson led us outside. As we passed by, I glanced at the lounge again. The woman, who looked so much like Brenda, was still slumped against the wall. Her head rolled from side to side. The rhythm made me nauseous. Ken followed my glance.

“Doctor Patterson, the patient by the wall, moving her head—what is her… I mean why…what got her here?” I wasn’t sure how to word it.

He smiled and his slate eyes sparked. It looked as if he was charging off a battery.

“Life is stranger than fiction,” he said. “You and I may not get upset over something like that but the next person may react. She’s a lot worse off than Patricia. Totally non-verbal, though there is a similarity in their case history. She went out with a fellow for fifteen years, never married. One day he left and never came back—though his wasn’t a disappearance case, like Johnny. He just walked out on her after fifteen years of dating. Her reason got stuck in the no-man’s land. A total emotional collapse,” he finished. He turned, before I could see whether the battery was still charging, or whether he had unplugged his wit.

Ken didn’t say a word, all the way to the Guilford Fine Cars, Domestic and Imports.

Chapter 4

“I
really can’t say, officer. He was with us such a short time. He was about my height, maybe taller and normal weight…” Mr. Ruggiano said and trailed off with a labored frown. It was supposed to show us that he was doing his best to recall but frankly, for him this employee was unmemorable.

He had a business card that would have drawn a crowd in any Smithsonian art gallery. He was a work of art too—tailor’s, trainer’s, manicurist’s, stylist’s and cobbler’s.

Ten seconds into the meeting, I realized that I was staring at my annual salary, before taxes. I understood why he didn’t offer to shake hands. I wasn’t wearing gloves and my raw hand might have spoiled the results of his last hot-wax hand treatment.

Guilford was now on Curtis Street, in Donchester Heights. I thought it was off the beaten motor path. The “domestic” product was missing from its name. It was dropped by popular demand. The dealership had relocated three times since Mr. Twain was issued the business card. Each move was into a bigger and better showroom.

“Why did you move out of the Jamieson Car Market?” I asked. “It’s a large plaza with a dozen dealerships. Surely teamwork is good for business.”

Mr. Ruggiano adjusted his gray-striped cravat. He measured me with a superior look and said huffily, “Our products appeal to motoring enthusiasts with refined taste.”

I smiled. “I guess showcasing exorbitantly priced exotic imports, while surrounded by domestic mediocrity, must have scared away a lot of potential customers.”