CnC 4 A Harvest of Bones (19 page)

Arming the security system, I turned back to Murray. “Still having trouble with the guys at work?”

She shrugged as we climbed into her truck. “Well, it’s not like it’s a huge department. They can either shape up or find another job. Bonner agrees with me on this, at least, especially after Rusty’s stunt. The place has gotten slack. Half the guys there couldn’t pass their physical entrance exam if they had to right now. So I told them to hit the gym, cut down on the carbs, and tone up that muscle.”

I snorted. “Do you really think they’ll listen?”

She nodded. “I know they will—they don’t like being beaten by a woman when it comes to arm wrestling. I made them a deal. If they can’t beat me in the best two of three, and if they can’t pass the number of push-ups I can do, then they have to shape up. I’ve got three detectives under me. All of them lost the bet. Their egos are bruised and they all want a rematch.”

“Now that you know none of them are the ones trying to get you fired, do you think things will get easier?” I was hoping that her discovery of her not-so-secret admirer was going to shift the mood.

She eased onto the main highway and we headed toward Bellingham. “Honestly? I don’t know, Em. But I think Rusty was stirring up some of the trouble. Right now, it’s a wait-and-see situation.”

We headed north on Highway 9 for ten miles or so, then veered west toward Bellingham. The Fairhaven Psychiatric Hospital was located a mile or so east of the city. Residents had, many years ago, feared the type of people who would be housed there and insisted on the state removing it from near the boundaries.

As we rounded a curve, a large sign proclaimed that Fairhaven was just ahead, to the right. Murray flipped on her blinker and veered onto the wide, spacious road. Lined with maple and horse chestnut trees, the drive was lovely. The long meadows of grass were covered with brightly colored autumn leaves, and the trees looked sparse against the overcast sky, but there was still a genteel feel to the place. I had a feeling this institute was more of a private haven for those from well-to-do families who had decided their loved ones weren’t well enough to withstand society. It certainly didn’t resemble a state-run facility, that much was for sure.

We’d barely driven one hundred yards along the park-way before a wrought iron gate barred our way. Booths sat next to it on either side, manned by security guards wearing olive uniforms. I had a feeling they were packing guns beneath those jackets.

I glanced at Murray. “This isn’t a day spa, tell you that much.”

She nodded, rolling down her window. The guard remained behind his bulletproof glass and motioned for her to speak into the intercom.

“I’m Detective Anna Murray with the Chiqetaw Police Force. I’ve come on official business. I spoke to Dr. Ziegler this morning and he said you’d have me on the list.” She flashed her badge.

The guard checked over a list and nodded. “And your guest?”

“Emerald O’Brien,” she said. “She’s connected with the case in question.”

The guard made a quick phone call, then stepped out of his booth and handed Murray two passes—one for each of us—and a sticker for the truck. He admonished us to wear our passes at all times while inside. Along with the passes, he gave us a brochure about Fairhaven, then returned to his booth and the wide gates swung open.

Murray slipped her pass around her neck—they were on long ribbons—and I did the same. She slapped the sticker on the dashboard so it was visible through the window shield, face up, and then slowly eased the truck through the gates.

In the distance, I could see a clock tower rising from a building shrouded by the trees and a wave of melancholy swept over me. Even from here, I could feel the years hanging heavy over the institute and, in the pit of my stomach, I had the feeling that most of the residents weren’t even aware of the time that passed in the outside world as they waited inside for something to change in their lives.

Ten

 

 

A JUNCTURE BETWEEN never-never land and the twilight zone, Fairhaven Psychiatric Hospital seemed poised on the crux of a vortex of energies, partially created from—I suspected—the neuroses and instabilities of those making their home there. It was as if a large dragon coiled overhead, brooding as it spied on the complex. Whether poised to pounce or to protect, I wasn’t sure.

Murray glanced over at me. “Can you feel it?” she asked. “As if something stopped time here.”

When I thought about it, I saw she was right. People came to the institution to mark time—whether to rest and recuperate from some devastating breakdown, or just to wait it out. To wait for death, wait for life, wait in limbo. I nodded, shivering.

“Yeah, I can feel it. Creepy and yet, incredibly sad.” We followed the road toward the main building. Fairhaven was comprised of four buildings. The main structure housed the administrative offices, dining hall, classrooms, the infirmary, and several meeting halls. Two of the other buildings were the dormitories, segregated by sex. And the fourth was, according to the brochure the guard had given us, restricted to authorized personnel. Apparently, violent cases were treated and housed there.

A circular drive in front of the buildings spun off several smaller roads—one to a parking lot for visitors, a second to a staff parking lot, and a third to an undisclosed location. Murray parked in the nearest open space for visitors. There weren’t many people here today, I noticed as I climbed out of her truck and smoothed my skirt.

I took a deep breath and looked around. The lawns were perfectly manicured—a state my own would never see. A few people crossed from one building to another under the covered walkways, but most looked like staff. Only once on our way to administration did we see someone that I assumed to be a patient, led by a rather hassled-looking nurse wearing a pale blue pantsuit.

As we entered the main building, a hush descended, and I felt like a child entering a library, although there were no Quiet Please signs hanging in the hallway. A locked door prevented us from going any farther, and a cubicle to the left housed a guard behind a bulletproof pane of glass.

“The nature of your business, please?”

“Police business,” Murray said, and held up her badge as she leaned close enough for him to scan the pass she wore around her neck with a handheld scanner.

“I’m with her,” I said and moved forward to allow him access to my pass. He flickered the gun-shaped object over the bar code on my pass and nodded.

“If you have weapons, you’ll have to check them here. No weapons allowed in the main facility. And I need to glance through your handbags, please.”

Murray reluctantly surrendered her gun, getting a receipt for it. I had nothing to declare, but when the guard peeked in my purse, he pursed his lips.

“How about this?” he said, pointing to the little switchblade that Jimbo had given me.

I blushed. “Oops, sorry. I forgot I had it with me.”

Unsmiling, he wrote out a receipt and handed it to me. After a second, he glanced at Murray and then motioned me close. He whispered, “Ma’am, I hope you know that switchblades are illegal to carry in Washington State. I’m not a police officer like your friend there—she would know better than I—but next time, I’d leave this little beauty at home.”

I noticed Murray was trying hard to avoid listening, but a faint grin played across her lips as she studiously pretended not to hear our exchange. I thanked him for the advice. He punched a button and the heavy double doors clicked. Mur pushed them open and I followed her inside.

As we passed into the facility, Murray murmured to me, “Remind me to have a talk with Jimmy about what kind of gifts he’s handing out to our friends. The guard’s right—you shouldn’t be carrying that around in your purse.”

I cleared my throat. “What about a pocketknife?”

“No problem as long as it doesn’t open automatically. If the blade doesn’t exceed about three to three-and-one-half inches, you should be—” She stopped abruptly. “My God, it’s ugly in here.”

The walls were pale blue, the furniture cream and brown, and everything was covered in a wash of antiseptic sterility, worse than most hospitals and clinics. Cinder blocks formed the walls, big rectangular stones, and the floor had been polished until the linoleum shone, a mottled blue and peach pattern. The place was totally devoid of character or personality.

The receptionist’s desk sat in the middle of a four-way juncture. An older woman in a white pantsuit sat behind the desk. She was stout, with her salt-and-pepper hair pulled back in a bun, and she wore rectangular wire-framed glasses that were about a decade out of date. She beamed as though we were exactly the people she’d been waiting to see. For the first time since we’d entered the grounds of the institution, I felt like there was a human being attached to it.

“I’m Nurse Martin. May I help you?” she asked. Her tone immediately put me at ease; she sounded sincere instead of just mouthing a rote response, the perfect choice to meet and greet family members.

Murray must have sensed the same thing I did because her demeanor softened and she gave the woman a gentle smile. “Thank you. Is Dr. Ziegler here? He assured me it would be all right to drop in. We need to talk to him. I’m Detective Anna Murray and this is Emerald O’Brien.”

When Mur pulled out her badge most people flinched or looked a little intimidated. Not this woman. She eyed it carefully, gave a respectful nod, and picked up the phone. After paging the doctor, she pointed to a row of uncomfortable-looking chairs.

“If you’ll wait over there, Dr. Ziegler will be here in a few moments. I’m sorry the chairs aren’t softer, but if you girls would like some coffee or tea, I’d be happy to get you a cup.”

We declined graciously, and took our seats. Nurse Martin went back to her work, fluttering over the desk. We had been waiting about five minutes when a man of around sixty strode into the waiting room. The doctor was swathed in a white coat with a stethoscope around his neck, so tall that he towered over Mur by a good six inches.

She held out her hand. “You said we could come by and talk to Brent Brunswick?”

“You caught him on a good day. He’s actually having one of his lucid moments. If you’ll follow me.” We swung in behind him and headed down the hall. “I had him brought to the main facility. He usually spends most of his time in his room except for meals,” Ziegler continued. “I need you to understand that Mr. Brunswick has been with us for fifty years. He’s going on seventy-one, and while he’s capable of functioning on his own to the degree that he can dress himself and feed himself, he doesn’t speak often. When he does, he doesn’t always make sense.” He stepped along so briskly and was so tall that I had trouble keeping up.

“What exactly is wrong with him?” Mur asked.

“Schizophrenia. The condition developed when Brent was twenty years old. His records indicate that he was always a moody boy, but one day something snapped and he made the break from reality. He lived for years in a fugue, and then slowly began pulling out of it for short periods of time. Back when he was first diagnosed, we didn’t have the treatments we do today. At this point, the illness has a firm hold on him; stronger than anything we can offer to treat him with.”

“There’s no hope he’ll ever get better?” I asked.

The doctor glanced back at me. “Ms. O’Brien, Brent is seventy years old. Even when young, he was a hypochondriac, with an overactive imagination that seemed to take on a life of its own. I gather he claimed to hear voices when he was in his early teens, but his family overlooked it because it never seemed particularly dangerous.”

“Does he have a family history of schizophrenia?” I asked. The condition was often passed down through heredity.

“Apparently, he had a grandfather with the disoder. I take it this is germane to your case?”

Murray nodded. “As I said, we’ve made a discovery in the lot where the house that he grew up in stood—a skeleton. Perhaps from the time when he was around nineteen or twenty. We need to question Mr. Brunswick. We’re not labeling the find a homicide yet, but that could change, depending on the results of our investigation.”

Dr. Ziegler gave her a long look. “Do you think Brent may have had a hand in this? Something like that could easily cause that final break in his psyche.”

Murray shrugged. “Right now, we just want to find out if he can tell us anything about the skeleton.”

“I see,” he said, stopping to glance through the thick file he carried. “I can tell you this: It’s a matter of public record that Mr. Brunswick’s grandmother committed suicide when she was around thirty-five. The story was in the papers, even though the family tried to have it covered up. She probably suffered from some sort of mental disorder, though there’s no way to prove it. And one of his uncles ended up being treated for alcoholism after he was arrested for raping a young woman.”

He thumbed through the file. “Again, our records indicate that the family tried to hush it up, but Mrs. Brunswick said that the authorities wouldn’t let it go and the story apparently hit the papers and was the catalyst that forced Mr. Brunswick and his wife to move away from Seattle to Chiqetaw.”