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Authors: P.J. Parrish

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BOOK: An Unquiet Grave (Louis Kincaid Mysteries)

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Louis watched them carefully. Eloise DeFoe was probably in her eighties, but she looked anything but feeble. There was a steeliness in her eyes that was disarming. She seemed mildly upset, but Louis couldn’t tell if it was because he had brought up her dead daughter or because her son had left her out of the loop.

“Look, Mr. Kincaid, we can take care of this,” Rodney said, taking his arm and leading him toward the door. “If there is something else I need to sign—”

Louis pulled away. “No, my business here isn’t quite done. I came to tell you something else.”

Eloise DeFoe was looking at him expectantly. Rodney had retreated behind the rim of his glass. Louis watched their faces carefully as he spoke.

“When we opened your daughter’s casket, it was filled with rocks.”

“Rocks?” Eloise DeFoe stared at him for a moment, then sank into a chair. “Good Lord,” she murmured.

Louis looked at Rodney. He had gone pale.

A clock chimed out in the foyer three times before Eloise DeFoe spoke again. “Well, where are my daughter’s remains then?”

There was nothing in the woman’s face to read, not surprise, horror, or grief. Louis realized she was assuming he was working for the hospital and he decided to use this assumption to his advantage. “We haven’t been able to locate them,” he said.

Rodney set the glass down with a thud. “You’re saying you’ve lost my sister?”

“We don’t know,” Louis said carefully. “We are looking into it and—”

“This is outrageous,” Rodney said. “You can just go back to that hospital and tell your boss to expect a letter from my lawyer.”

Louis glanced at the mother. She was just sitting there, stunned. He knew he was about to get thrown out and that he wasn’t going to get any information about Claudia’s past. He decided his best chance was to keep up the pretense of working for Hidden Lake.

“Now calm down, Mr. DeFoe,” Louis said to Rodney.

“You can help us out. Surely when your sister died, you were given some paperwork, a death certificate. Anything you have might help us.”

“You lost all her records, too? I want you out of our house. Now.”

Louis turned to the mother. “I’m sorry,” he said.

“Please, just go,” she said softly.

Rodney followed him to the door and waited stone-faced as Louis stepped outside.

“My mother isn’t well,” Rodney said. “Don’t call her, don’t come back here.”

Louis started down the steps but then turned back. He couldn’t let this go. “You don’t care, do you?” Louis said. “You don’t care at all where your sister’s remains are. What kind of brother are you?”

Rodney slammed the door.

CHAPTER 7

Louis checked his watch. Just after nine. He had left Plymouth before his foster parents were awake, not wanting to give Phillip the chance to come along to Hidden Lake. There was a growing chill in the Lawrence house, and Louis didn’t want to give Frances any more reason for suspicion.

There were only three cars in the parking lot when he pulled up to the hospital. He zipped up his jacket and got out, letting his gaze wander over the grounds.

From what he could see, the compound was huge, enclosed in a wrought-iron fence that had once been very elegant but was now topped with loops of razor wire. He could see maybe a half-dozen red brick buildings, some small and utilitarian looking, others large and elaborate with steep-sloped roofs and peaked dormer windows, spires, chimneys, and bell towers. He could see the top of three brick smokestacks attached to what he guessed was some kind of power plant. Beyond the smokestacks, more red brick buildings, and then a border of bare trees.

He remembered the schematic on the bulletin board back at John Spera’s office. It had shown a lake on the property, but he couldn’t see one. There was a narrow asphalt road that stretched from the parking lot and up the hill, disappearing into the pines. Maybe he would drive it when he was done inside. If it wasn’t closed.

Louis jogged across the parking lot to the building signposted ADMINISTRATION. Like all the others, it was red brick but with an imposing stone portico of three columned arches. Carved in the portico was ANNO DOMINI 1895.

Louis found himself trying to imagine what the building might have looked like a hundred years ago, before the harsh Michigan winters had scarred the bricks and eaten away the stone steps, before the ivy, snaking over the stone arches and pillars, had gone brown and brittle.

A water-stained sign was taped to the front door that read CLOSING, DECEMBER 31, 1988. ALL VISITORS CLAIMING RECORDS OR LOVED ONES MUST REPORT TO THE MAIN NURSE’S STATION ON THE SECOND FLOOR.

Louis pulled open the door and stepped inside. The lobby had an austere beauty, like an old-fashioned bank, with marble pillars and elegant fixtures. There were no lights, just a single shaft of pale light coming from a glass ceiling dome and settling in a pool on the terrazzo floor. Two corridors branched off into darkness and there was a wide marble staircase. Off in one corner was a glass showcase filled with curios and old medical instruments. A reception desk sat empty, its marble top caked with dust, a hand-printed sign propped on top: ALL INQUIRIES SECOND FLOOR.

The marble banister was cold under Louis’s hand as he started up the staircase. The place felt so hollow he swore he could hear the echo of his own heart.

Then he heard something else. Footsteps from above, coming down. A man appeared at the landing between the first and second floor, drawing up short. He was tall and thin, about thirty, dressed in baggy hospital scrubs and an oversized gray sweatshirt. He peered at Louis, as if he were trying to focus, his fingers moving from his thin ragged beard to his red tufted hair.

“I’m going out,” he said.

There was something in his look—and his voice—that told Louis this man was a patient, and he was surprised any patients still remained. Louis moved toward the wall to give him room to pass.

“My name’s Charlie,” the man said.

Louis gave him a nod. “Mine’s Louis.”

Charlie shifted and glanced slowly to the front door, as if he had to figure out exactly where it was. “I need to keep my head warm,” Charlie said, holding out a woolly hat with red and green stripes.

“Good idea.”

Charlie pulled the cap down over his head, leaving the tasseled chin ties hanging loose like braids.

“Do you like my hat?” Charlie asked.

“It’s a helluva hat.”

Charlie smiled and came down a few more steps. “Did you hear them?”

“Hear who?”

“I never hear them in the daytime, but I did today. Did you hear them?”

Louis tried to keep an even expression. “No,” he said. “Excuse me. I need to go upstairs.”

“I hear them.”

“I’m sure you do,” Louis said. “Excuse me.”

Louis moved past Charlie and continued up the stairs. At the top, he looked back over the railing. Charlie had disappeared and the front door was easing shut behind him.

It was dim on the second floor, the only light filtering through the barred windows. There was a big desk that looked like a nurse’s station but it was deserted. Down the hall, Louis could make out a series of signs: RECORDS. PHARMACY. LOUNGE. SUPERINTENDENT. There were boxes stacked against the walls, along with three folded wheelchairs.

An odd sound made Louis turn. A woman was coming down the hall, her rubber-soled shoes squeaking softly on the linoleum. She was reading a file as she walked, and all he could see was the top of her head, a fuzzy circle of reddish brown curls. She was wearing a plain skirt and blouse covered with a baggy cardigan sweater that stretched almost to her knees.

When she saw Louis, she stopped. Her eyes were as blue as the Gulf of Mexico outside his cottage back home. They were the most vivid feature in an otherwise unremarkable pale face that set her age at somewhere close to fifty. He had to lean in to read her name tag: Alice Cooper.

She saw the question in his eyes. “I know, I know,” she said. “But it was mine long before it was his.”

Louis smiled, but it didn’t seem to warm her.

“If you’re here to claim a family member you’ll have to fill out the form,” she said, ducking behind the counter of the nurses’s station.

“No, I’m not. I just need some information. Are you the person I need to talk to?”

“I’m head of records here. Or at least I was.” Her eyes narrowed. “Are you a reporter?”

“No.”

“Then what kind of information do you want?”

“A friend of mine made arrangements to move one of the deceased patients from the cemetery to a place closer to his home.”

She picked up a stack of files and started sifting through them quickly. The desk was heaped with them.

He went on. “But when they went to move her, the casket was full of rocks.”

Her eyes came up to his face. “Are you a lawyer?”

“No, just a private investigator trying to help out a friend.”

She blew out a long breath and ran a hand over her curls. “Yes, I remember now. Someone called us a few weeks ago about this. His name was . . . Lawrence, I think. Are you him?”

“No, but I’m working for him.”

“What was the woman’s name again?”

“DeFoe, Claudia DeFoe.”

Alice shook her head slowly. “I felt bad for him, but I couldn’t tell him anything because she was an E Building patient.”

“What’s E Building?” Louis asked.

She paused. “Are you sure you’re not that reporter who’s been calling here?”

“I’m a private eye out of Florida.” Louis reached in his coat and flipped open his ID card. She gave it a careful look before he put it away.

“E Building housed the criminally insane and other patients who posed a danger to others,” she said.

“This woman was here for depression,” Louis said. “Why would she have been in E Building?”

Alice reached below the desk and pulled out a cardboard box. She didn’t look up as she began to stack the files in it. “Sometimes the family doesn’t know everything. People change after they come here.”

“What about her records? Could I see them?” Louis asked.

She arched an eyebrow. “Medical records are confidential. As a private investigator you ought to know that.”

“Look, I really am a P.I. and the only thing I am interested in is finding out what happened to this woman’s remains.”

Her expression changed slightly, the bright blue eyes not softening—Louis suspected she was too shrewd for that—but at least she wasn’t looking through him as if he weren’t there.

“I can’t help you,” she said, stuffing another folder into the already packed box. “I am in charge of seeing that the patient files are moved. But all the E Building patient files are locked up over there, and I’ve been told a special crew is coming to move them next week.”

“To make sure they don’t get in the wrong hands,” Louis said.

“Exactly. Wrong hands, as in reporters’.”

“What would reporters be after in this place?”

“Donald Lee Becker. Does that ring a bell?”

It took Louis a second to place the name. Donald Lee Becker had raped and murdered six young women at Michigan State in the sixties. He had claimed an insanity defense and had been institutionalized.

“Becker was here?” he asked.

She nodded. “In E Building. He died here. Last week, they found some bones on Becker’s old farm, and now the reporters have starting coming around again.”

“So what’s going to happen to the E Building records?”

“Someone from the state’s mental health association will go through them. Most will go to the county, some sealed and sent to the state.”

Alice hoisted the full box with a grunt. Louis moved to help her, but she was already coming out from behind the counter. He watched as she went to the far wall and stacked it next to the others. He knew that once the state or county took possession of Claudia DeFoe’s hospital records, he’d never get a look at them.

She came back with an empty box and started in on the next tower of folders.

“I met a man on the steps,” he said.

Alice hesitated. “That would be Charlie Oberon.”

“Is he a patient?”

“Kind of.”

“I thought there were no patients left here.”

Alice didn’t answer for a moment. “There aren’t. The last ones were moved months ago. We sent Charlie to a group home in Albion, but he ran away and came back here. We discovered his status has always been voluntary and he has no family.” She looked up at Louis. “He’s harmless.”

“How long has he been here?”

“Since he was fifteen.”

“What’s going to happen to him?”

BOOK: An Unquiet Grave (Louis Kincaid Mysteries)

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