Too Far Gone (13 page)

“I suppose Nurse Fugate.”

“Why would she know?”

“She was in charge of the nursing staff and the orderlies and janitors on all the wards. She left here around the same time Sibby did. She didn't just spend a lot of time in that ward, she had her office there.”

“Left about the same time? So you do know when Sibby left. One more lie and you can kiss your sweet butt good-bye.”

“Around a year ago,” Veronica said hastily.

“How do I find this nurse?”

“I can give you her address. But if anybody finds out I told you, I'll be fired.”

Hands shaking, Veronica Malouf flipped through the Rolodex on her desk and copied down an address and phone number.

“Keep helping me and I'll do my best to keep it between us. In the meanwhile, if that reporter calls back, tell her Sibby Danielson is still in the hospital, because you checked and saw her. Now, how could she get out through security without having received a release form?”

“She couldn't. There had to be a release form or she'd never get out the gate, but it isn't where it should be.”

“Unless she maybe went out in a car trunk?”

“The staff parks in a fenced-in lot to the rear of the building, and it's under constant surveillance. Standing policy is that every vehicle is searched when it leaves. No exceptions. They'll search your car when you go out. You'll see,” Veronica said.

“They searched Dr. LePointe's car?”

“I'm not sure. Maybe. Not always.”

“How much power did LePointe exercise here?”

“His mental health foundation gives a lot of research grant money to most of the doctors as well as the clinical psychologists, and it pays for continuing ed for nurses and orderlies. He's Doctor Emeritus of River Run, and he's the past chairman of the state's mental health board. Half the people on the payroll get some form of financial subsidy from Dr. LePointe. He doesn't have an office here anymore, but truth is, Dr. Whitfield only runs the place on paper, and he knows it. When Dr. LePointe calls, Whitfield trips over himself to put down his putter and grab the phone.”

“Do you think Dr. LePointe has reason to stay on top of what's happening here?”

She shrugged. “He checks in with me like I'm still his secretary. Before he retired, he gave me a new Honda Accord Coupe. I think he worked here so long, he can't let go—hates not knowing everything that's up. What do I tell Dr. Whitfield about Sibby?”

“I'll tell Dr. Whitfield that Sibby Danielson can't have been released. We'll leave satisfied.”

“He might check.”

“He obviously doesn't know who she is. But you're going to search until you find her records for me.”

Veronica's eyes lost their focus.

“Twenty-six years means there's an awful lot of paperwork on her. If you want this to go away, you'll find and deliver that paperwork to me at NOPD HQ. It isn't a suggestion, Veronica. The alternative to compliance will be catastrophic for you. You have my word on that.”

“Take official records out of here?” Veronica looked stunned, and afraid. “It's against the law.”

“I'm the only law you need concern yourself with. A word to the wise,” Alexa said, “I know a
lot
more about all this than I'm telling you. If you cross me, whatever you imagine anybody else might do to you is nothing in comparison to what I
will
do. Dig for those records like your very freedom and future ability to find meaningful employment depend on it.” Alexa smiled at Veronica. “When you find them…straight to me. Now, when you call Decell back, say we were satisfied that she was here, because there was no release form.”

Veronica nodded slowly.

“And,” Alexa added, “I want the names and pertinent info on all of the staff that worked on Danielson's ward in the year before she vanished.”

“I don't know…that's kept—”

“I have all the confidence on earth that you'll find those things for me,” Alexa said firmly. “When there's no choice, there's always a way.”

31

Alexa returned to the hospital director's office after her visit with Veronica Malouf, to find Dr. Whitfield expounding on the hospital and the role it played in not merely protecting society from the anti-social actions of the hospital's residents, but, just as importantly, in protecting the residents from an ill-informed and suspicious society.

“Patient inmates are re-evaluated on a yearly basis. If Danielson was judged to be of less danger to herself or others, she would certainly have been moved progressively into less restrictive wards and eventually—as a result of successful therapies—she might have been released into a halfway house, or to her family if certain criteria were met, or into some other appropriate, and authorized, living situation. Do you know her original diagnosis?”

“Paranoid schizophrenia,” Alexa said. She didn't want Dr. Whitfield getting curious and starting to dig into this patient the FBI found of interest. “Voices commanding her to kill. Standard diagnosis.”

“Ah, if she was delusional, it is generally accepted that she was not responsible for her actions,” Whitfield said.

“She's here, by the way. Safe and sound,” Alexa said.

“That's the end to our little mystery,” Whitfield announced.

“Looks that way,” Manseur said. When he looked at Alexa, she tilted her head to signal him that it was time to go. Dr. Whitfield stood when Manseur did.

“I'd love to pick your brain sometime,” Dr. Whitfield said. “I'm fascinated with police procedure as it relates to homicide cases and I'm sure you must have a plethora of tales in your grab bag. I've thought about writing a novel—more or less a fictionalized version of my own experiences with the criminally insane. We have to get together soon.”

“It would be my pleasure, Dr. Whitfield,” Manseur said, handing him one of his cards.

“Maybe we could schedule a round of golf,” Dr. Whitfield said.

“Absolutely. The frustration of chasing the ball around and making numerous attempts to steer it into a small hole relaxes me.”

“Frustration relaxes you? Now, that is interesting.”

“It's great, since my life is nothing but frustration,” Manseur said, smiling. “Stress kills more cops than bullets. Me? I'm always loose as a goose.”

“And a sense of humor helps, I bet,” Whitfield said. “Doctors use humor in stressful situations, just like members of the Detective Bureau.”

“Thank you for your cooperation and insights into mental health,” Alexa said, shaking Dr. Whitfield's hand.

“It's what I know,” Whitfield replied. “Anytime. Let's get together next week, Detective Manseur. You'll join me at the Metarie Country Club for a round of golf?”

“Depending on what the hurricane does,” Manseur said.

“They'll have any downed trees cleared from the fairways next day. Mark my word.”

After they left the building, Alexa said, “There's a common theme in this case.”

“What?”

“Missing files.”

“The release form, you mean?”

“That, and there are no treatment records. I inspired Veronica to find them for us. She's scared to death of crossing LePointe, but I think she's more afraid of me at the moment. She told me that LePointe is still exerting influence over the place.”

After retrieving their weapons, they got in the car and Manseur started it. “At least we know Sibby Danielson is locked up.”

“She may indeed be locked up, but not here,” Alexa said.

“You just said…”

“Veronica was calling Decell. I interrogated her. She assured me Sibby isn't here, despite what the lack of a release form indicates. I lied to Dr. Whitfield. I'm praying your brain-picking, future golfing partner doesn't decide to check on her for himself.”

“How is Decell involved?”

Alexa explained what she'd learned from Veronica Malouf.

“That doesn't mean the one thing has anything at all to do with the other. Sibby and Gary West.”

“Dr. LePointe was the director of the hospital just after his brother's murderess was sent here. I can't believe the obvious conflict of interest.”

“This is New Orleans. Conflict of interest has a different meaning here than most places.”

“I keep forgetting that the rules that govern the rest of us mortals don't apply to Dr. LePointe,” she said, tasting acid in her throat. She fished an antacid from her purse and chewed it.

At the gate, a waiting guard asked them to open the car's trunk. Manseur hit the button and the lid rose. They sat in silence while the guard looked inside, using a flashlight to illuminate the shadowy corners. After looking through the windows to make sure there were no inmates hiding in the car, he signaled for the gate to be opened and waved them on.

“It doesn't mean anything,” Manseur told Alexa, “but Sibby was here while he was running the facility. We have to eliminate her as a possible participant in the abduction. I admit it's somewhat strange on its face. He does have a degree in psychiatry and a well-documented social conscience.”

“I find it somewhat strange on
any
face that a wealthy physician like LePointe, who probably has a medical school degree from a no-doubt impressive medical school and an ego the size of the Great Pyramid would take on running an ancient, crumbling mental asylum out in the middle of nowhere. Social conscience or not, it's odd.”

“I seriously doubt Dr. LePointe would commit a crime or otherwise risk his reputation. He's a dedicated physician.”

“You might just think what he wants people to think. You don't know him.”

“Neither do you,” Manseur said, bristling. “Let's do some investigating before we get our panties in a bunch.”

“Michael, are you wearing panties?”

“I don't believe Sibby Danielson is connected to Gary's disappearance. She's a side issue, and LePointe's connection is better suited to investigation by the state medical ethics board than by the NOPD…or the FBI.”

“So you suggesting we drop Sibby?” Alexa asked.

“I didn't say that,” Manseur said, defensively.

“We have to compile a list of individuals involved and run their phone records to look for call patterns that tie them to each other and the Gary West event.”

“That could be tricky for me,” Manseur said. “Soon as I ask for LePointe's phone records, red flags are going to wave all through City Hall.”

“I wouldn't dream of involving anybody local,” Alexa told him.

Manseur frowned.

“Anybody else, I mean.”

32

Because of the headache, Leland Ticholet was chewing up one aspirin tablet after another as he piloted the boat toward Doc's place. He needed his good headache pills and a dark space until the lights in his brain stopped flashing. He was tempted to pull over and lie down on the bench with a burlap bag over his head, but he needed his pills bad. It had been a while since he'd had a migraine, because he had pills to take every day to keep them away. They had worked until he forgot to take one due to all the excitement of thumping that man for Doc and all.

As he turned into the channel toward the little house, he could barely focus his eyes ahead because the sunlight hitting the water shot right into his brain like a nail.

He spotted the car Doc drove parked alongside Leland's father's old panel truck. He hoped Doc didn't yell at him or make fun of him in that smart-ass way, because Leland didn't want to hurt him. But if he did holler, then what happened to him was not going to be Leland's fault. Most of the time he didn't even remember the stuff happening that brought the sheriff's men. He was going along just fine as you please, then somebody did something and the infuriation blast happened and Leland was as surprised as anybody else about it.

Doc was waiting at the back door, looking mad, as usual. “Why didn't you answer the telephone?” he demanded. “It's what I gave it to you for. Where is it?”

“I didn't hear it ring,” Leland said as he pushed easily by the smaller man.

“What the hell do you mean?”

“Battery might have died. Little as it is,” Leland said, going through the kitchen cabinet drawers looking for his pill bottle. “And I got a headache on me. Feels like my brain is on fire.”

“You haven't been taking these, have you, Lee?” Doc asked. Leland looked up and had to squint to see that Doc was holding his brown bottle of headache pills.

“Give me 'em,” Leland said, reaching for the bottle and snatching it out of the little guy's hand.

“Where is the cellular phone I gave you?” Doc asked.

Leland remembered hurling it into the water, but he wasn't about to tell Doc that. He threw six capsules into his mouth and chewed before he answered, his teeth slimy from the plastic casings. “I guess maybe it's in the boat.”

“Well, go get it.”

“I will when I go back to it,” Leland said. “Right now I'm gonna shut my eyes.”

“Unacceptable,” Doc said. “Totally un-ac-ceptable behavior, even for a man without any social filters whatsoever.”

“Who gives a hoot,” Leland said, going into the closet. He slammed the door behind him, which made his vision go bright white and the pain almost put him on his knees. He curled up on the pine floor like a nesting rat. He heard Doc walking around in the kitchen, but he was smart enough not to say anything else. He sure as hell couldn't go get the man staying at Leland's camp, because he didn't even know where it was. And Leland knew Doc wanted that man brought here. He wasn't sure why he wanted him moved here, and whatever the sombitch was thinking didn't matter to Leland one little bit.

33

Kenneth Decell hung up and slipped his cell phone into the pocket of his sports jacket. He looked at his employer, who had been staring at him anxiously while he talked to Veronica Malouf. LePointe raised a bushy white eyebrow, waiting.

“Manseur and Keen left satisfied after Malouf told them Danielson was still in the hospital.”

“Took her word?” LePointe asked.

“They didn't ask to see for themselves. How the media got on this bothers me. Somebody set them up to it; I just can't imagine who, or why.”

“Pressure,” LePointe said. “It's obvious that whoever is behind all of this wants to keep pressure on me until I pay them off.”

“I'm not sure that's the smartest way to deal with them.”

“It's your job to deal with this, Ken,” LePointe snapped.

“Keen makes it a lot more complicated. She's not local. I can't close her down like I could if it was just Manseur.”

“Casey went behind my back to ask for Keen to be on this because she didn't trust the police here to be competent.”

“Casey—”

“I don't blame her, Ken,” LePointe interrupted.

Decell was glad he hadn't finished his thought because, true or not, it wasn't a good idea to criticize Casey West in front of her uncle. “He is her husband,” Decell said.

“She loves that little hippie. This Keen person is adept at what she does?”

“Extremely. An almost perfect record of successful case closures. When they're solvable, her rate rises higher. She doesn't miss much.”

“Which means what here?”

“For starters, what Veronica thinks Agent Keen believes and what she does believe may be vastly different.”

“If Casey had just left this alone, we wouldn't have your second front to deal with, but there it is,” Dr. LePointe said. “If she had just left this alone. No second front.” Dr. LePointe had the annoying habit of repeating himself, perhaps just to hear the sound of his own voice, but maybe because he doubted an ex-cop could keep his mind wrapped around the facts LePointe thought worth remembering. “You're a miracle worker and I need a miracle right about now.”

“I won't let you down, Dr. LePointe,” Decell promised. “You can count on that.”

“I believe it's time to let the authorities know about this letter.” LePointe lifted an envelope and then tossed it onto the desk in front of Decell, who removed the letter and read it slowly.

Refolding it, Decell said, “It's probably better to let Manseur and Keen chase their tails for a few hours, until I can put things in order.”

“Inarguably you are expert at what you do, Decell. Cop-think works well enough situation-by-situation as in working with individual criminal cases. But this game is far bigger than the simple elements you're concerned with. Dealing with complex situations and looking far into the future is something I have to do with accuracy every day. I intend to hold on to what my ancestors built brick-by-brick over three hundred years of hard work, learning from mistakes, and strategic planning. Naturally they suffered the occasional setback, but without receiving a lethal blow. That's not going to change on my watch. During my tenure, the worth of the family's assets has increased dramatically, and not merely due, as some might claim, to the economy's performance.

“What I do,” LePointe said, opening his hands expansively, “is like playing several chess games at once. It's a blessing that you don't have to think on the level I do, Ken.” LePointe spoke in the manner of a patient parent explaining something to his child. “Failure is not an option, whatever the cost. Do we understand each other here?”

Decell stared across the desk at LePointe, knowing the man was just starting his Mr. Superior song and dance. Decell was accustomed to having to sit and be lectured to while trying to seem impressed, interested, and in agreement.

“Naturally, you are the only person I trust to handle this, Ken. And for doing so in a satisfactory manner, you will be rewarded most handsomely.”

“You've always been more than generous, Dr. LePointe.”

LePointe took a slip of paper from his desk, for a long ten seconds seemed to be considering what he was going to write down, then scribbled a figure on the paper before pushing it across the desktop.

Decell made a show of leaning forward to read the figure and prepared himself to act astounded by LePointe's beneficence. LePointe had always paid him well, which considering the mundane nature and low effort level that most of LePointe's requests required was indeed generous. But the figure Decell saw written there stunned him, because it represented the kind of money you'd expect to pay to have a senator killed.

“Is the amount adequate to ensure that this problem is going to be solved to my satisfaction?”

“I guarantee it.”

“That figure will be paid to you upon completion. Wherever and however you choose.”

Decell nodded, and realized he was holding his breath.

LePointe snatched the paper and put it into his desk drawer, stood up, and walked Decell all the way to the front door, which was unusual and—although Decell seriously doubted it was more than a ploy to make him feel appreciated—seemed to signify a change in Decell's status from servant to trusted associate. It wasn't the first time, but it was rare. LePointe didn't want to know details, and Decell wouldn't spell out the particulars of his mission.

If violent means were required, such measures would be forthcoming, with animal swiftness and absolute certainty. When it came to conducting the symphony of ending threats to his clients, Decell was willing, if not eager, to get his hands dirty.

For what LePointe was paying, ex-detective Kenneth Decell would have dressed up in the vestments of a cardinal, pulled a hammer from underneath his robe, and beat the Pope to death as he addressed the faithful gathered below the papal balcony.