Deception on All Accounts Page 14

  He picked at the tightly wrapped cylinder with his big fingers, which only resulted in more frustration. He muttered several words of disgust and pulled his reading glasses out of his shirt pocket. After close inspection of the situation, he leaned to one side and fished in his left pocket for his favorite knife—the one he had been carrying since he was a young boy more than forty years ago. He opened the blade, laid the roll of antacid tablets on the edge of his desk, and carefully sliced it in two. A tiny piece fell to the floor. Charlie rolled back in his chair and visually searched. Unsuccessful at finding the elusive sliver, he returned his concentration to accessing the rest of the chalky-white tablets of relief.

  Federal Agent Victor Robinson appeared at the doorway, walked right in, and dropped a brown envelope in the middle of Charlie's desk.

  “I don't know why you asked for this report, McCord. But in any case, here it is.”

  Charlie extracted an antacid and popped it into his mouth before glancing over his reading glasses at the agent. “Thanks, son.” Using the same blade, he sliced open the sealed edge of the envelope before snapping the knife closed. Once more, the big man stretched and leaned to one side as he dropped his knife back into his pants pocket. Then he looked at his watch and threw his glasses on the desk.

  “You're out early, Robinson. You want to stick around for the seven o'clock roll call? You can witness some real action out on the streets today with some of my troops, if you'd like.”

  “I think I'll pass,” said Robinson, ignoring Charlie's jab. “By the way, since you're so interested, you ought to know we're putting the Mercury Bank robberies on hold temporarily. I'm on my way to Oklahoma City right now. We've got a rash of threatening rumors floating around with Tinker Air Force Base mentioned as a possible target of some kind. I've got orders to leave these penny-ante robberies to you local law dogs to figure out. Anyway, I think this homeless guy is looney. And until someone finds where he hid the money, there isn't much else to go on. Makes no difference to me whether he's locked up in jail or in a crazy house. It's all about the same. From what I can tell, he's going to be staring at the walls of Eastern State for a while.”

  Charlie thumbed through the contents of the envelope, a stack of reports from the hospital. “I guess your higher-ups don't care that two people were murdered?”

  “Why do you care about this case, anyway?” asked Robinson.

  “It's personal,” said McCord. “That particular bank happens to be my bank.” Charlie put the emphasis on the word my. “You know, that money he took could have been some of my piggy-bank money, not to mention he killed a kid…and a security guard.” Charlie shoved the papers back inside the envelope and looked straight at the agent. “Besides that, just in case you care, I think you feds have got the wrong man.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Yeah, and I thought in my spare time I might help you boys out by catching the real robber.”

  “Great,” said Robinson. “Now that you got your chance, McCord, go for it.” Robinson rolled his eyes, turned on his heels, and disappeared out the door.

  Charlie placed the remainder of the antacids in his shirt pocket along with his reading glasses, stuck the envelope under his arm, and headed down the hall.

  Charlie had studied the FBI agent's hospital reports for several days and had finally come to the conclusion he needed to see someone in person. There was a lot to be said for looking at a person face-to-face when you talked to him, Charlie thought. After eighteen years as a cop, experience had proven that a lot of information could be gleaned from one's eye. So he had decided it would be worth spending a personal day to get some answers and it would give him a chance to get away. Picking up Highway 69 at Adair, Charlie drove north through Big Cabin toward Eastern State Hospital in Vinita. He turned down a tree-lined street on the edge of town that led to a complex of large brick buildings. The grounds were well maintained, simple landscaping with large oak and maple trees providing an abundance of peaceful shade. As he drove in front of the main building, he could feel unseen eyes watching him through the metal-screen-covered windows. He parked in a visitor's space, placed his gun under the front seat of his truck, and approached the front door. When he entered the building, he questioned his decision to wear casual clothes instead of his customary uniform.

  He had felt uncomfortable about the case being placed in a permanent pending status. Although he came in no official capacity, he thought there were answers here—if he could just figure out how to get them.

  Once inside, he asked a young woman at the reception desk for Dr. R. M. Graham, who turned out to be Dr. Rachel Marlene Graham, a petite woman with shoulder-length, caramel-colored hair. She wore octagonal-shaped, rimless glasses that looked like they belonged on the face of someone's grandmother. A white doctor's coat swallowed her tiny frame by at least two sizes. She radiated a youthful appearance, which Charlie thought must contradict her age. He knew she had been head psychiatrist at Eastern State Hospital for several years. The sergeant shook her hand, careful not to squeeze too hard for fear he might break her delicate fingers.

  She directed him to her office. It was decorated in several shades of blue and reminded Charlie of a living room in someone's elegant home. Fresh-cut daisies graced the coffee table centered between a cushy, blue-striped sofa and two comfortable armchairs covered with pink, yellow, and blue print fabric. The doctor chose one of the armchairs and Charlie took the other.

  “So, Sergeant McCord, you're here about one of our patients?” she asked. “Yes, ma'am,” answered Charlie. “I have a few questions about John Doe. He was sent here from Sycamore Springs by a judge for evaluation a few months ago. I've got the report you sent right here, but—”

  “Oh, yes, that would be Rob.”

  “Rob?” Charlie turned his head and looked at the doctor with an apparent question on his face. “You know his name?” he asked.

  “No,” the doctor laughed. “He hasn't exactly told us his name—or anything else, for that matter. I'm kind of embarrassed to tell you this.” She looked down at the floor. “The first night he was admitted, we read his chart and found out he had been arrested for robbing a bank. One of the night orderlies started calling him ‘robber’ and then it got shortened to Rob. It stuck.” She looked at Charlie and smiled. “It's better than calling him John Doe or Number XYZ, don't you think?”

  “I see. Yes, I guess so.” Charlie shook his head and wondered what it must be like to work with mental patients day and night. “Look, Doc,” Charlie began. “I don't want to take up too much of your time. It's just that I've been reading these reports and I was wondering if you could just tell me a little about him. He's tied to a robbery case where a young man was murdered. And…well, these reports just don't…well, I guess I just don't understand the jargon.”

  “I'll be glad to fill in the blanks for you.”

  “Good.” Charlie sounded hopeful. “Do you think he's ever going to be able to talk again?”

  Dr. Graham looked past Charlie and stared through the window into space for a moment and then returned her attention to the sergeant. “Psychiatry is not an exact science, Sergeant McCord,” she explained. “So, I guess a short answer to your question would be…I don't know, or at best, I hope so. It is our goal to administer the right combination of medication and therapy to improve the mental state of the patient. He's been here less than six months. Not a very long period of time to expect a miraculous recovery in a patient like Rob.” The doctor walked over to a corner table and poured a cup of coffee, then held the pot in the air gesturing an offer to Charlie. “Black?” she asked.

  Charlie nodded and rose to take the cup from the doctor.

  “I can tell you nothing more than what is already in the report sent to the judge and the FBI,” she continued. “In my opinion, Rob has had a psychotic break, a break with reality. He is delusional. We are not sure, at this point, what brought on this psychotic break. It could be the result of a trauma, a psychotic depression,
or post-traumatic stress disorder. We are not going to know that for sure until he makes enough progress to talk to us. And even then, he could be amnesic. Right now he seems to be living in the moment, with no conscious connection with his emotions and feelings.”

  “Amnesic?”

  “He might have amnesia,” she explained. “Could have lost his memory and not remember who he is or—”

  “Or what he's done.” Charlie finished the doctor's sentence for her.

  “Yes, that's right,” the doctor agreed. “He is definitely experiencing a repression from the conscious knowledge of who he is, and I get the feeling he's not sure life is worth living right now. However, I think we should be optimistic. He still has the basic instincts of survival. He was securing food for himself and staying out of the elements, even if it was in a box.” The doctor smiled.

  “Do you think this man could have calculated entering a bank, waiting out a time lock, and killing someone if necessary to make off with enough money to buy him boxes from now till kingdom come?”

  “I'm afraid he's the only one who can tell us that, Sergeant McCord.” The doctor placed her half-empty cup on the coffee table and rose, signaling the end to their meeting. “You can look in on him if you want,” she added.

  Charlie followed Dr. Graham out of her peaceful office and back into the sterile world of long halls and double-locked doorways. After Charlie thought he had walked at least three miles, Dr. Graham suddenly stopped in front of a closed door and gestured toward a small window.

  Charlie had to duck his head to peer through the glass. The small room appeared to be about the size of a single jail cell, Charlie thought, except nicer. The bed looked like an army cot with sheets tucked in tight, blanket folded and draped over the foot of the bed. The toilet and lavatory were in full view. No mirror. Nothing that could be used to hurt oneself.

  The homeless man Sadie called Happy, the perpetrator Charlie identified as John Doe, the patient Dr. Graham referred to as Rob, the lonely man who could not speak, all one and the same, sat on the bed staring out the window of his hospital room. His back rested against the wall, knees bent, bare feet on the edge of the bed. He was dressed in clean, hospital-green pajamas. His hair had been washed and cut, his beard trimmed short. A pair of slippers sat neatly on the floor next to a small dresser.

  Charlie returned his gaze to the brightly lit hallway and Dr. Graham.

  “That's about all there is to see,” she said.

  “Thanks, Doc,” said Charlie as he pulled a business card from his shirt pocket. “If he ever gets around to saying anything, would you mind calling me?”

  “I'll be glad to,” she said.

  The doctor followed Charlie to the front door and swiped a card-like device through a scanner. The front doors magically opened.

  Charlie walked to his truck, got in, and slammed the door. Silently, he thanked God that he was not crazy. He rolled down the window and breathed in the fresh autumn air. The breeze smelled like football weather and for a moment he let his mind wander to memories of earlier years when, as a defensive lineman, the most important thing in life had been winning that week's varsity game. The oncoming colder weather would inevitably reignite the pain of arthritis in his knee caused from the absence of cartilage—a souvenir from the last game he ever played.

  As he reached to turn the key in the ignition, a car sped into the parking lot, drove past his parked truck, and nosed into a space near the sidewalk. Charlie recognized the car immediately, even before he saw the driver get out. He had seen it a hundred times parked at the bank. The car belonged to Sadie Walela.

  Charlie sat still and tried to blend in with the upholstery. He didn't want Sadie to see him just yet. And he hoped she wouldn't recognize his old truck. He watched as Sadie got out of her car and walked straight to the building and entered. Charlie shook his head and spoke aloud to himself.

  “What in the…?”

  After a few minutes had passed, Charlie couldn't stand it any longer. He jumped out of his truck, marched back into the building, and ran headlong into Dr. Graham.

  “Back so soon?” Dr. Graham smiled.

  “Did you see a woman come through here a few minutes ago?” he asked. “She has black hair. An Indian woman.”

  “Yes,” she said. “Yes, I did.” The doctor offered no additional information.

  “Where did she go?”

  “I believe she is visiting one of our patients. Is there a problem, Sergeant?”

  “I'm not sure yet.” Charlie rubbed his forehead. “Exactly which patient is she visiting?” Charlie knew the answer before the doctor spoke.

  Dr. Graham walked over to the check-in station, picked up the sign-in book, and looked back at Charlie. “It looks like she's visiting with the same man you were asking about. What do you call him? John Doe?”

  Charlie shifted his weight and placed his right hand on his hip, an unconscious habit he had of resting his hand near his gun. Only today, there was no gun. “I don't suppose you could tell me if she's been here before?” Charlie found it hard to hide his aggravation.

  The doctor looked at Charlie for a moment as if trying to decide whether she wanted to share that information. Then she ran her finger up and down the last few pages of the book she was still holding. “Once before, about a week ago.”

  “Why didn't you tell me he had been having a visitor?”

  “You didn't ask.” The doctor handed the book back to the nurse sitting at the desk. “Is there anything else I can help you with today?”

  “Is she the only one that's been here to see him?”

  “As far as I know,” she said. “You two are the only people interested in him.”

  Charlie thanked the doctor and returned to his truck to wait. As it turned out, he didn't have to wait too long.

  When Sadie turned the key in her car door, Charlie appeared out of nowhere at her elbow.

  “Hello, Sadie.”

  “Damn!” she yelled before she recognized Charlie. “Don't ever do that to me.” She caught her breath and leaned against the car. “What are you doing here?”

  “I was about to ask you the same thing.”

  “I came here to see Happy,” she said.

  “Sadie, if you are in cahoots with this man and he is faking his inability to talk, I'm going to wring your neck and put both of you away for the rest of your lives.”

  Sadie stared at Charlie in disbelief. “Please, you can't turn on me, too,” Sadie pleaded.

  “Then come clean with me, Sadie.”

  “There's nothing to come clean about.”

  “Then why are you here?”

  “To clear my name.”

  “Of what?” Charlie began to sound impatient.

  “They fired me, Charlie. They fired me and accused me of somehow being connected to the robberies. They blamed me for Gordy, Melvin Crump, everything. You know, I take responsibility for going into the bank alone that day. I thought, under the circumstances, it was the right decision. Obviously, it wasn't. But they seem to have forgotten I'm the one who got robbed. Now, I have to clear my name. And if nobody will help me, well then, I'll do it myself.” Sadie wiped a tear from her cheek with the palm of her hand. “I have plenty of extra time now, anyway.” It felt good to hear her thoughts and feelings finally take form, expressed in words for the rest of the world to share. Suddenly, she stopped and looked at Charlie. “I know I've already asked you this, but are you sure those doors were locked that day?”

  Charlie frowned and rubbed his chin. “Yes,” he said. “I'm sure. But I can't vouch for the next morning.” Charlie put his hand on her shoulder and turned her body so that she had to look straight at him. “Can you?”

  “I didn't do it, Charlie,” she whispered.

  “Okay, that's settled,” he said. “I didn't think you did, anyway.” He smiled and Sadie smiled back. “Let's work on one thing at a time,” he said. “Did you see Happy while you were in there?”

  “Oh, yes. I did. He
seems to be really sad, doesn't he?”

  “Will he talk to you?”

  “No. Not yet. But he will. I know he will. He looks at me and I think he wants to talk.” Sadie pursed her lips. “He has the answers, Charlie. If he could just tell us where he got the sweatshirt…the dye pack. He's the only one that can help me. I just have to figure out how to get it out of him.”

  They stood in silence for a while. A gust of wind caught Sadie's hair, pulling it across her face. As she swept the strands behind her ear she looked back at the hospital. Yellow and crimson leaves fell from a nearby sugar maple tree and landed near her feet. “What do we do now?” she asked.

  “Let's go home,” said Charlie as he opened her car door for her. “We can't do any more here today.”

  Chapter 16

  The aroma of fried chicken welcomed Charlie McCord when he walked through the front door. It was the end of what he thought would be an endless day, and a good meal sounded good. He had spent all afternoon writing paperwork on two juveniles who had been wreaking havoc on the owner of a small grocery store. One would distract the old man while the other would squeeze all the soft tomatoes he could, squirting scarlet juice and tiny yellow seeds all over the wall behind the produce counter. Then, when the old man went to clean up the mess, they would grab as much beer as they could carry and run.

  Charlie had collared the culprits and delivered them to juvenile hall, where he was sure they would be out on the street tomorrow with renewed vigor. At which time, he would consider taking the two brats out behind the store and applying his own custom-made form of punishment. Some kids, Charlie thought, needed an attention-getter they could remember before any learning could take place. He and Lilly had never had any children of their own and Charlie didn't really like dealing with kids on the street. But, in all likelihood, the big man would follow the book and keep hauling the young hoodlums in again and again.

  Charlie could see Lilly standing in the kitchen dredging chicken parts, first in a mixture of milk and eggs, then in a mountain of flour, before carefully placing them, piece by piece, into the hot grease. Silky blond tresses looked like they were trying to escape the tiny bun held in place by a blue rubber band on top of her head. White flour smudged the end of her pale pug nose where she must have absentmindedly rubbed the back of her hand to stifle a sneeze or quell a tickle.