Disclaimer: They're not my characters; I make no profit from them.
Rated: G
Author's notes:
First, some background. If you've sat through a college psych course anytime in the last thirty years, you've probably encountered D. Rosenhan's paper, "On Being Sane in Insane Places" (Science:1973), which discussed the results of an experiment in which 'normal' people got themselves committed to psychiatric facilities (by claiming to hear voices) and then proceeded to behave normally. Very few were detected as 'pseudo-patients' and it took, on the average, nineteen days for them to be released. Most were diagnosed as 'schizophrenic', and discharged as 'schizophrenia in remission'. Very few were suspected by the staff as being anything but legitimately insane, although after their initial claims of hearing a voice saying words like 'empty' and 'hollow', the participants created no additional symptoms.
Placing fictional characters undercover in psychiatric facilities is a long and honored tradition. Usually these facilities are the sites of horrible goings-on, murders and such. Straitjackets and Thorazine are employed. Angst ensues.
That is just way too easy.
On the other hand, what if Mark had a good reason to want to get to somebody who was inside an otherwise ordinary psychiatric unit? Yeah, you know what he'd do. But what if he, being cognizant of his parole status and not wishing to screw things up, stuck to telling only the absolute truth right from the start? And just how long have you had these paranoid delusions, Mr. McCormick?
Heheh
Thank you kind betas, Cheri and Susan. (The stuff that's right is theirs, the stuff that may still be wrong, means I need new trifocals.)
The responses McCormick gives about his mother, in this story, are based on a story by Arianna called 'Remembrance' many thanks.
Maybe Madness
By L. M. Lewis
Too much sanity may be madness and the maddest of all,
to see life as it is and not as it should be.
Miguel de Cervantes
It was the end of a sweltering Saturday and in the gathering twilight a thin, ill-kempt man stood in front of a mailbox, on a street corner in downtown LA. He had an envelope clutched in his hand. It was slightly thick in one corner and heavier than an ordinary letter. He gave it one last look, checked the seal of the flap, opened the mailbox. and dropped it in.
Then he walked down the street toward a police officer who was directing traffic at the next intersection.
00000
Earlier that day
"Milt, I'm tellin' ya," Frank repeated, "he's gone to ground--checked in over at County, told 'em he was hearing voices, wanted to kill himself, the whole nine yards. They've got him in the unit there for a 72-hour eval and nobody is going to get him out without a court order. And you know we aren't going to get a hearing on that until Tuesday; it's Labor Day weekend."
Hardcastle nodded glumly. McCormick was not so easily convinced. "Frank, we've been watching Spitzelli for a week now; he's as sane as I am. We know he's got the goods on Dreschler. Now you're telling us you can't even talk to him?"
"Only if you're one of his psychiatrists, and I'll bet he's not telling them much, either."
"Dreschler's squeezing him," Hardcastle said, "we know that much. We just don't know how. I think Spitzelli needed to be somewhere where he could prove to Dreschler that he wasn't talking to the cops."
"For three days?" Frank asked.
"Something must be going down soon." The judge rubbed his forehead. A week of surveillance, twelve-hour shifts spent in the truck, him taking the days, with McCormick on at night, had done nothing to improve his personality. He growled, "Spitzelli knows about something, and it's bad enough that he feels safer in a rubber room."
"If we had something, anything, Milt--"
"I know, Frank. We're just going to have to wait it out till Tuesday."
"But--" McCormick protested.
"No 'buts'." Hardcastle cut him off sharply. "The police will watch Dreschler. We'll be the first in line to have a little talk with Spitzelli when he gets out, and if he decides to take an extended stay, we'll talk to Jenkins about a court order. I guess I've got the whole weekend to figure it out."
"Whatever it is; it may be too late by Tuesday," McCormick shook his head in disgust..
"I know that," the judge's face was set; he kept his voice controlled, "but there's not a damn thing we can do about it."
00000
That night
The overworked registration clerk in the overcrowded emergency facility took one look at the man sitting in front of her and edged back a little in her seat. The police had dropped him off a half-hour ago, saying only that they'd found him wandering around and appearing confused. Alcohol, she thought, though she didn't smell any, maybe drugs. He was wearing a sleeveless t-shirt and grubby pants. His thick hair was matted and snarled. He sat slumped in the seat, looking exhausted, staring at nothing in particular.
"Name?" she inquired professionally, trying, as always, to preserve the illusion of sanity with the insane.
To her surprise the man looked at her carefully, as though he were thinking about the question. After a moment he replied, confidentially, "I can't tell you."
She frowned. "Why not? I need a name in order to register you."
He leaned forward over the desk, she leaned back. He dropped his voice to a whisper, "Because if I tell you my name, you'll put it in that machine." He pointed at her computer, smiling slyly.
"Yes. That's called registering. That's what I do."
"Ahh," the man nodded, "but if you put it in there, he'll come and get me."
She made a little knowing 'oh' with her lips and typed in the words 'Doe, John' and under Reason for Visit: 'psychiatric disturbance'. She typed in 'ukn.' For most of the other blanks but when she got down to the last line, she thought she'd have another stab at it.
"Next-of-kin?" she inquired.
The man gave her a long and thoughtful look. "My mother, dead. She was murdered."
The clerk felt a twinge of alarm, but the man made no movements. She asked him again, more tentatively. "Your nearest living relative?"
There was another pause. Then a very hesitant answer, "My father, but I don't know where he is."
"His name?"
The man was smiling sadly. "Oh, he's got a lot of different names . . . I 'm not sure which one is real."
The clerk shrugged mentally and typed in one last 'unk.'. She'd really tried. They didn't pay her enough for this job.
She finished her entries and hit 'print' then waved the orderly over and handed him the papers on a clipboard. "Mr. Doe, to unit 'B', for triage," she said, and the strange young man went docilely into the back.
00000
The judge sat at his desk, reviewing the file on Dreschler, small-time hood gone on to much bigger things, after a near miss in Hardcastle's own court eight years ago. This was the part he hated--reading about a rise to obscurely funded power that had occurred through a web of convenient deaths. There hadn't been sufficient evidence to convict the first time, but the swirl of circumstances surrounding Andre Dreschler had grown darker with each passing year.
He sat back, rubbed his forehead and sighed. There were no new insights to be found here, nothing he hadn't already read fifty times. He was almost glad McCormick had stalked off in a self-righteous huff to visit Barbara Johnson for the rest of the long weekend; if he'd hung around here they'd be getting on each other's nerves. God knows he could use a few days off himself.
He turned to the Spitzelli file: 'known associate' of Dreschler, ex-wife and an eight-year-old kid in Encino. That might have been the handle Dreschler used, but Harper's people had contacted the ex. She and her daughter were reportedly fine. The woman wanted nothing to do with Spitzelli--didn't even want to talk about him. She'd answered no further questions for the officers who had gone to her home. Can't blame her, Hardcastle thought, she'd been married to a weasel.
He looked out the window at the darkened gatehouse and thought about calling Barb Johnson's place. No, bad idea; McCormick had been up all last night and most of today. Tomorrow maybe he'd call.
00000
The overworked resident in the overcrowded emergency facility was filling the papers out as he talked. "John Doe? Do you suppose there's something else I could call you? It's Saturday night; I'm already taking care of another John Doe, a Juan Doe, and a Jane Doe."
The untidy man in the hospital gown sat on the edge of the cart, arms crossed, his head cocked a little to the side as though he was listening to something that no one else could hear. At the question he straightened up a little, and made eye contact with the doctor.
"You could call me 'Skid'," he answered softly.
"Is that your name?"
"No, um, some people used to call me that."
"A nickname?"
"Yeah, you know, like what happens when you lose control. I used to do that a lot."
"Do you know where you are right now?"
The man looked around, disinterestedly, "Yeah, I'm in an ER."
"And how you got here?"
"The cops brought me; they said I'm confused."
"Are you? Confused, I mean?"
The man lowered his head a little and spoke in a confidential tone. "Yeah, I am. There's stuff going on that I really don't understand. I need to talk to somebody here about it, really important stuff . . . I think something bad is going to happen."
"Bad? What kind of 'bad stuff'?"
"Dunno," the man shook his head, looking worried, "but when I figure it out, I'll let you guys know."
The ER resident sighed; this really wasn't his department. All he needed to stick to was the physical assessment; the psych guys could deal with all the rest of this mumbo-jumbo. "I'll need you to take some deep breaths—"
The exam passed smoothly. For once, it was a fairly cooperative crazy. The doctor stepped out of the room and flagged down the crisis worker, already there to evaluate three other patients.
"Got you another one. He's in B-6. Sounds delusional, elements of paranoia."
"He's medically cleared?"
"Yeah, no alcohol, negative tox screen. He's got some bruises on the right ribs, says he was in a fight two weeks ago, and two old scars, right shoulder and abdomen, says they were both gunshot wounds."
"Hmm, sometimes they really are out to get you," the crisis worker quipped.
"Yeah, well, he says a psychic warned him about the one to the abdomen, but he didn't listen."
"Ahh . . . okay, get me a petition, and I'll do the certificate. I've still got a couple of beds in the male unit, but we're filling up fast."
00000
It was nearly midnight when Hardcastle got up from his desk wearily. He'd lost track of time in the unusual quiet, but after two hours he was no closer to the solution than he had been before.
He looked out the window towards the basketball hoop. If the kid was here—but, no, the judge had seen McCormick grab for his side, after bumping into a file cabinet a couple of days ago, nearly two weeks after that dust-up with those goons at Dreschler's warehouse. He wasn't ready for elbows under the hoop yet. Hell, maybe he'd pushed him too hard this week, Hardcastle really wasn't sure when Mark had last managed to fit any sleep into his schedule, but they'd both wanted Dreschler pretty bad.
He checked the door and switched off the hallway light. Barbara will make sure he takes it easy-- she worries about him. He turned and slowly climbed the stairs.
00000
It was five a.m. and the overworked intake nurse on 3-South was processing her fourth patient for the shift. The man on the gurney looked pale, with shadows under his eyes. He was sitting up, with his arms wrapped around his bent knees, as though he was fighting not to doze off.
"Doe?" she asked.
He looked at her out of the corners of his eyes. "Skid," he mumbled. "Are you going to ask me a bunch of questions? 'Cause I am starting to feel a little crazy, here."
"No, Mr. Doe."
She flipped through the sheaf of papers that had come upstairs with the man. The certificate was checked off: 'Unable to care for self.' And under that, in the crisis worker's hurried hand, 'Patient refuses to give name. States people have attacked him repeatedly with knives, guns--sometimes try to run him over. States mother was killed 'because she knew something she wasn't supposed to know.' States he has been staying with 'a friend', but that they had an argument today and he left. States he thinks this person will have him put in prison if he finds him now. Admits to past history of suicidal ideation. Not currently receiving any psychiatric treatment or medications. Patient found in need of involuntary admission for further evaluation and treatment."
It was signed and dated early this morning. "Well, there goes the rest of your holiday weekend," she said.
"Yeah," the man turned his head toward her, "I'm in, really? It took a long time downstairs."
"Yes, but the doctor probably won't get to you until morning."
"That's okay. I'm starting to slip. I haven't slept in a day or two . . . how many patients on this unit?"
The intake nurse took a closer look at the patient. His eyes were shifting around, taking in his surroundings nervously, despite his apparent exhaustion. "Maybe you need something?"
"Yeah, sleep."
"Maybe a shot of Haldol."
"I'm allergic to it."
"You've had it before?"
"Yeah, once, when I was a kid, ah, 16. I couldn't talk and my neck got really stiff."
"That sounds like a dystonic reaction, not an allergy."
"Doesn't matter," the man shuddered, "no more Haldol for me. Anyway, it didn't work. I still kept running away. But I did learn never to tell anybody you want to die. They've actually got worse things than dying to put you through, if you say that."
'Pressured speech' the intake nurse jotted in her notes. "So you don't feel like killing yourself now?"
The man shook his head. "No, nowadays I mostly worry about other people trying to kill me. How many patients here?"
"About twenty-four when we're full. Right now we have twenty-six. This is intake; if you need to be in longer than three days, you'll be sent to another unit."
"But everybody spends the first three days here, right?"
"Generally, yes."
"Good," the man sighed with relief. "Can I take a nap now?" He was already curling up on his side with his eyes drifting closed. "I'll try and figure out what's wrong in the morning . . . first thing."
00000
Despite his late hours, Hardcastle was up at dawn on Sunday morning, putting the first of sixty lay-ups through the hoop hanging off the house. He'd made up his mind, at about two a.m., to take a run over to Encino later on, and see Spitzelli's ex for himself. There wasn't anything else he could think of doing.
He'd thought maybe he'd give McCormick a call but, nah; it didn't take two people to run down a dead-end lead. Let the guy have a day or two to catch up on old times. He'd be easier to live with when he got home.
00000
The overworked orderly jostled the man's shoulder one more time, heard him mumble something that sounded like 'Hard ace', and stepped back just in case the guy was going to swing. Instead, the man on the gurney blinked blearily, and looked around, confused, as he tried to sit up.
"Hey, man, you are a mess. You should go get yourself cleaned up. The doctor's gonna wanna see you in a little while."
"What time is it?"
"'Bout eight."
There were other patients up in the day room. The gurney had been pushed over against the wall, alongside the nurses' station; there wouldn't be a bed available until after they did transfers and discharges in a couple of hours.
The man sat up carefully, rubbing his face. "Well, I guess three hours is better than nothing."
"Here," the orderly said, "clean gown, towel, showers." He pointed to a doorway. "No screwing around. I got a lot of people to take care of."
"Okay, okay," the guy was moving slowly, stopping to take a look at the people already in the day room, sitting in scattered ones and twos.
"Hustle, man."
"Okay," the patient took the pile from him. "Hey, you got any pants to go with this outfit?"
"Yeah, you get through the shower; I'll find you some. Move it."
The man was back out, looking more alert, by the time the orderly returned from the linen room. "Thanks," he said as he pulled the scrub bottoms on under his tie-string gown. "Kind of cold in here."
"You gotta get used to the air-conditioning. The doc said you can go in now." The orderly pointed the man towards an office at the opposite corner of the large room. "You put on a good show for her."
"Huh?" The man looked at him.
"Yeah, you know what I mean. You guys never bother for me, I'm just the orderly." He shook his head knowingly. "You're about as crazy as that one over there. His name's Tony."
The man looked up sharply, studying the guy who'd just rounded the corner from the other hallway and entered the dayroom. The orderly saw a smile flicker across the man's face and then, just as quickly, it was gone. "You know him, huh?"
"Nah," the man said, "never met him before. Might like to meet him, though."
"After you talk to the doc." The orderly pushed the man in the right direction, then turned around to strip the gurney and wheel it back over to the elevator.
00000
Hardcastle absentmindedly cracked three too many eggs into the bowl, shook his head in disgust, and flipped the toaster from four slices to two.
00000
"Doe?" The psychiatrist, overworked as usual, looked across her desk at the man who'd slouched into the room. "Are we still calling you that today?" The guy was casting glances back over his shoulder, out into the day room, as he took a seat. "Do you want to tell me your name?"
"Um, not yet, I've got to settle some things first," the man said.
"What things?"
The man was fidgeting. "Don't you people take notes? I talked to everybody yesterday."
"Looks here like you talked a lot but didn't say very much."
The man sighed. "All right. Ask me anything. I'll answer."
"Your name?"
"Skid, just Skid. I really can't tell you the rest. If he comes for me now I am in serious trouble."
"Who is 'he'?"
"A guy I know. He put me in prison one time. He could do it again if he wanted . . . and he may want to after this."
The doctor looked down at the chart in front of her, then back up at the man, who looked genuinely worried, but was still half-distracted by what was going on behind him in the dayroom. She rapped on the desk to get his attention.
"This man, the one you said put you in prison. He's the one you had the fight with yesterday? The 'friend' you were staying with?"
The man nodded. "We fight all the time, though. Yesterday it was more like an argument. But most of the time we get along pretty good. He's . . ." the man hesitated, then added quickly, "kind of like a father to me."
"I see. And your real father?"
"Left. Gone. When I was five."
"Your mother was murdered?"
All she got was a nod this time.
"And you had an episode of psychosis when you were sixteen?"
The man looked at her blankly. "I don't think so. Oh, you mean getting the medicine? No, I just ran away a whole lot of times. I mean a lot . . . I made them crazy. They didn't know what the hell to do with me after a while. You know, let's just say I had a crappy childhood, and leave it at that. I'm not sure I want to talk about it. I think I'm really kind of past that now."
The doctor nodded; she had watched the man's face go a shade paler. He was still preoccupied with things going on behind him, trying to keep one eye surreptitiously on the other room. "I see--"
"I wish you did. This is frustrating as hell."
"Well, Mr. Doe," she jotted down her notes and then closed the chart, "I can see we have a lot of work to do here. This is going to take more than three days."
"God, I hope not."
"I'd like to get you started on some medications. I think they would make this process a lot easier."
"Do I have to? I really don't think I need them."
"No, we're not going to make you take them, as long as you are in control and not violent."
"Okay, no acting out. No medicines. It's a deal. Are we done?" The man was on his feet and out the door before she could actually dismiss him.
00000
By midmorning, the judge was parked outside Theresa Spitzelli's condo just off Balboa. There were no signs of activity there. The blinds were shut and he couldn't see any light from within. He had time; better to let her come out than to risk alerting her to his presence while she was still inside. He settled down for a long wait.
00000
Tony Spitzelli watched the man's approach warily. A tall skinny guy, he thought he might have recognized him at first, maybe from the joint? It was possible. The guy was circling around. It appeared pretty aimless at first, but all that not-quite-random walking was getting on Spitzelli's nerves. It was almost a relief when he finally pulled up a chair and sat down next to him.
Spitzelli frowned at the guy. "It's a big room," he said.
"Yeah," the guy replied, "but everybody else here is nuts."
Spitzelli stiffened up for a moment, then he let out a short laugh. The guy was so damn right.
"Tony," he said.
"Skid."
"Quentin?"
The man looked at him, puzzled. "Yeah, do you know me?"
"Nah," Tony replied, "I know the look. If it wasn't Quentin I was gonna say Folsom."
The guy frowned. "It's that obvious?"
"Maybe not all the time, but in here, yeah."
The man nodded. "So, what'are you in for?"
"Me?" Spitzelli said, "Voices. I'm hearing the voices. I had a cellie at Quentin, back in '77, who taught me all about that. He heard the voices for two years straight. Sometimes it got so I thought I heard them, too. How 'bout you?"
The man looked at him for a moment then dropped his voice low, saying, "I think something bad is going to happen. I don't know exactly what, but I think a lot of people are going to die, maybe tomorrow."
Tony froze in his seat; the guy hadn't taken his eyes off him.
"I think maybe there's someone who doesn't want any part of this, but he can't say anything because . . . now that's another part I'm not sure of, something else bad is going to happen if this guy talks."
Tony swallowed hard. "Who the hell are you?"
"I'm nobody," the guy looked around the room and took a breath, "I'm Skid. I'm a guy from Quentin."
"Listen, I don't know you. I don't know nothing."
"There's this guy, see, he's a judge. If you talk to me, I can talk to him. Nobody ever has to know where it came from."
"They'll know. And then they'll kill my kid."
The guy sat back.
"Get it?" Spitzelli spoke in a harsh whisper. "I'm gonna sit here and stare at the ceiling until it's all over, if that's what it take to keep Amy safe. They can shoot me full of drugs until I drool, for all I care."
"Your ex said everything was all right."
"You talked to her?" Tony asked hopefully.
"No," the man said, "but the cops did, yesterday."
"She doesn't know what's gonna happen, but she knows to keep quiet."
00000
A thin, dark haired woman came out of the front door alone a few minutes before one. Hardcastle recognized her from the photograph in Spitzelli's file. He was out of the truck and intercepted her before she reached the sidewalk.
"Hello, Mrs. Spitzelli, I'm Milt Hardcastle."
"Do I know you?" She tried to push by him. "I'm in a hurry."
"Going to pick up Amy?" he asked.
She froze in her steps and turned toward him, frightened. "What do know about her?"
"I know she isn't here."
"Who are you?"
"Listen," he said, "let's not stand out here on the street and talk about it. Let's go inside."
She looked up at him, then her eyes darted up and down the street, frightened, as she led him quickly back up the sidewalk, and into the foyer.
00000
"They took her Friday afternoon. They was at the park; her mom turns around and Amy's gone." Spitzelli whispered, head to head with the other man, as they sat in the two corner chairs. "Theresa calls and asks me what should she do? I tell her not to tell nobody. I call Dreschler. He acts like he don't know what was going on.
"Then somebody drops off an envelope in Theresa's mailbox late Friday night -- just a couple inches of braid. That's all. Next morning, I see a cop car parked down my block, and I get nervous, thinking maybe they're gonna arrest me, take me in for something or another and, if they did, I wouldn't have no way of proving I hadn't said nothing. So I came here."
00000
She sat on the sofa, rocking back and forth with little silent jerks of her shoulders, crying inaudibly. Hardcastle held the braid in his hand. The envelope he'd touched as little as possible; it was lying on the coffee table in front of him, unaddressed.
"I can't talk to the police. They'll kill her. Tony said."
There was a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. The little girl had been gone over thirty-six hours now. Whatever Spitzelli knew, even if it was more important now than later; it wasn't going to go away. There was no reason why Dreschler should ever let the girl be found, once she'd stopped being useful.
"Mrs. Spitzelli . . . Theresa," he said. "Is there any way you can talk to your husband? Make him cooperate with the authorities. I won't tell you it's going to work, but it may be her only chance."
"He won't. He said he won't. They'll kill her." She lifted her head for a moment; hope was not quite dead in her eyes. "But . . . if you could find her, get her back. I'd get him to talk; I swear I would . . . I know stuff he's done."
00000
"No," he said to the man, in a harsh whisper that attracted the attention of an orderly, who glanced over at them for a moment and then went back to what he had been doing. "You get the cops in here and I'll clam up. I'll sit in the corner and talk to the ashtrays." Tony lifted his head for a moment, glaring at him. "There's only one way I'll talk; you get Amy back first. Then I'll tell 'em everything I know. But it's gotta be soon."
"How soon?" The other man asked grimly.
"Oh, no," Tony shook his head, "that's information. I want my daughter back first."
"Come on, man, gimme a clue. What have I got here? Two days? Two hours?"
""Not two days, you get her back by tomorrow morning and I can help them stop this thing."
"And if I don't?"
"A lotta people are gonna die."
The man stood up, disgust written on his face. "You know, Tony, if you don't cooperate, and this 'thing' happens, your daughter's worth nothing to Dreschler afterwards."
"I gotta take my chances on that." Spitzelli replied. "Get her back. Lemme see her, then you can send the cops in here."
"Can you tell me where to start looking?"
"Maybe," Spitzelli said, "a couple of places."
"Here's a pen," the man said, "I swiped it off the shrink's desk," he palmed it over to Spitzelli. "Put them on here." He handed him a paper napkin. "I need every address you can think of. Write small, most likely ones at the top." He stood up. "I'll be back. I gotta make a phone call." He turned on his heel, and went over to the nurses' station.
00000
Hardcastle dialed Barb Johnson's number from Theresa's condo. It rang five times before she picked up.
"Hi, Barb, it's Milt. Listen, I gotta talk to McCormick."
"Mark's not here. He's not with you? He called yesterday evening and told me not to worry if he didn't show up. He said he had to run one more errand for you, and it might take him a while."
Hardcastle was silent for a moment, thinking. "Yesterday?"
"Yes, about six-thirty; I think he was calling from a pay phone. He's okay, isn't he, Milt?"
Hardcastle wanted to reply, 'Yes, or at least he will be until I get my hands on him.' But he didn't think Barbara would understand. He reassured her briefly and said, "Just have him call home if he does show up." Hardcastle tried to keep his voice pleasant, despite the fact that he was gritting his teeth.
He hung up. Theresa was looking at him with a confused expression. "It's nothing," he smiled reassuringly, "just a little mix-up. Stay here by the phone. If anything changes at this end, if you get any more information, call me at this number." He handed her a piece of paper. "You may have to leave a message."
He knew exactly where he was going as he headed out the door, but he had to drop by the estate first. He suspected he was going to need some paperwork.
00000
"My name is Mark McCormick. My address is 101 PCH, in Malibu," he repeated himself to the nurse sitting at the nurses' station. He'd been trying to explain this for forty-five minutes now, first to the orderly, then to the nurse. "I need to make a phone call."
"And I'm telling you, Mr. McCormick, telephone hours are from eight to nine-thirty, in the morning, and then only to immediate family. You may, however, receive incoming calls, if your psychiatrist approves."
"But nobody knows I'm here," he heard his voice go up a notch in pitch as well as volume. The orderly had moved within arm's length. The nurse was leafing through his chart to the medication page. "Maybe I could speak to the psychiatrist, then?" He tried to lower his voice, and wound up gritting his teeth.
"I'll try again." The nurse picked up the phone.
"I think you need to step away from the desk now," the orderly said bluntly. "Let the nurse do her job."
He sat down in the closest chair, watching as the nurse waited for someone to pick up at the other end, and then finally spoke in low, unhurried tones. He realized he was tapping his foot impatiently. He stopped that. He caught the word 'Thorazine' and felt panicky as he looked up at the clock. He didn't have that kind of time. The orderly had gone back to stacking linens on a cart in the hallway. The stairwell was only about fifteen feet away, but he'd need to go back and get the list from Spitzelli first.
He was almost up on his feet when he heard the elevator ding and then an all-too-familiar voice arguing with someone, "I know it's not visiting hours; I'm not here to visit. I came to retrieve someone, probably a patient here."
McCormick was up out of the chair, and looking around the corner saying, "How do you do that?" He was grinning--an unabashed I-don't-care-what-you-do-to-me grin of relief that took all the punch out of Hardcastle's scowl. The orderly had intercepted McCormick with one arm, but the judge stepped forward now.
"Oh, no, he's mine, and I've got the papers to prove it. Who's in charge here?"
The nurse had hung up the phone, and the psychiatrist was coming around the other corner from her office.
"Ah, Doctor." Hardcastle segued into professional charm. "I've come to take this one off your hands. There seems to have been a little mix-up."
"Yes," the psychiatrist replied coolly, "there certainly seems to have been." She took the chart from the nurse. "Perhaps you would care to step into my office, ah, Mr.?"
"Hardcastle, Milton C., Superior Court, retired."
"McCormick, Mark, San Quentin, paroled," the younger man added.
"You, stay right there." Hardcastle pointed him back to the seat.
00000
The doctor ushered him into her office and shut the door behind him with a click. He'd had one last glimpse of McCormick, fidgeting in the chair where he'd left him. It was obvious that Mark had already been trying to end this impromptu undercover operation by the time he'd shown up. His impatience now was a good indicator that he'd gotten at least part of what he'd come for.
He turned and faced the psychiatrist with a smile, taking McCormick's file out from under his arm and opening it to the relevant page. Your 'patient' is under my judicial stay, in my custody. He's under parole."
The doctor glanced down at the forms, and looked at the judge. "Then you are the person he was staying with, up until yesterday evening?"
"Yes."
"And you are, it appears, also the person who originally ordered his incarceration."
"I passed sentence, if that's what you mean." He shook his head, "But that was four and a half years ago. Now, what happened today, you've got to understand. He gets a little carried away sometimes, but his intentions are good."
"There are certain privacy issues," the doctor hesitated, "but since you are, in effect, the patient's parole officer," Hardcastle didn't like the way she continued to refer to him as 'the patient', but he kept his mouth shut, "I think you ought to be aware--" She laid the open chart on top of McCormick's file, facing the judge, and ran her finger down the relevant passages. "Are these things true?"
Hardcastle read; he grimaced. "Well . . . yes."
"Then at least we can rule out delusional disorder. I'm not sure I can say the same about borderline personality."
"Borderline--? Wait a minute, Doc, just how much time did you spend with him?"
"We've only had the one session," she said, primly, "but I think the facts speak for themselves."
"Okay, well, I've had a whole lot of sessions with McCormick and I can tell you, he's one of the sanest people I know. And considering everything here," he tapped the chart, "I think that's practically a damn miracle."
"And I think we may be looking at extensive disassociation and even identity fragmentation--"
"Listen, he came here to talk to one of your other patients, to get some information that might help prevent some deaths, and maybe solve a kidnapping," the judge interrupted impatiently. "I think he may have found out something useful. So, if you don't mind, I'm gonna take him out of here now, and were gonna go try and put this all together." The judge closed the chart, lifted it off the file, and set it aside. He gathered up Mark's papers and slipped them back into the file folder. "And maybe when we're all done, if he's got some time, he can come back here and explain to you how he makes this work, 'cause I've sure as hell never understood it. But I do know one thing," there was a quick double-rap on the door; the judge stood up and slipped the file under his arm, "and that is--if it ain't broke, don't fix it."
McCormick opened the door and leaned in, looking annoyed. "Are you almost done already? We've gotta talk." Someone had given him back his clothes; it was the usual disreputable outfit that he wore to do yard work.
He grabbed the judge by the arm and pulled him a short way out of the room. "There," he pointed to the far corner. Spitzelli was hunched forward in a chair, rocking, his face slack; a trickle of spittle ran from one corner of his mouth. "I'm just gonna say good-bye."
The psychiatrist stood behind Hardcastle, her arms crossed in disapproval. "Mr. Spitzelli is experiencing, at the least, an acute psychotic episode, though it is also possible that he is suffering from an underlying schizophreniform disorder."
McCormick was standing over the man, with one hand on his shoulder, saying something that Hardcastle couldn't make out. The rocking went on, unabated. Mark reached down and held the man's left hand for a long moment, the other man's hand moving restlessly in his. Then McCormick straightened up. Hardcastle watched the whole process with an amused smile.
"Do we have to sign anything?" the judge turned and asked the doctor.
"He doesn't appear to be a danger to anyone at this time, and since you are essentially acting in a custodial capacity--"
"Yeah, I'll make sure he eats his vegetables and doesn't stick a fork in the toaster."
She sniffed. "You may sign him out at the desk." Then she turned and walked back into her office, shutting the door behind her with a small thump.
McCormick was alongside him. As they walked to the elevator, he flattened the crumpled napkin before passing it to the judge. It was covered with small print—addresses and notations, written out with exacting care, as though someone's life might depend on it.
"All that tiny print probably means something to these psychiatrists." McCormick said.
"How do you do that?" Hardcastle held the napkin up close enough to read.
"Smoke and mirrors, Judge." McCormick shrugged. "But mostly mirrors this time."
"So these are places where Spitzelli thinks Dreschler might have stashed his kid?"
Mark turned his head and looked at Hardcastle with disbelief.
"I spent the morning with his ex; she told me everything," the judge added.
"Honestly," McCormick sputtered, "I don't know why I even bother sometimes."
"Well, she didn't know any of this." He held out the napkin.
The two men stepped onto the elevator. Hardcastle noticed the tension go out of the kid's posture as the doors closed and the elevator began to descend. The elevator doors opened, they stepped out.
"Hey," Hardcastle asked, as the younger man pushed through the crowded ER waiting room toward the exit, "where'd Spitzelli learn to do the crazy act so well?"
"He had a two-year private tutorial at Quentin."
There was a pause.
". . . and you?"
"Me?" McCormick squinted at the sunlight as they walked out into the hot September afternoon. "I just stuck to the facts. Hey, you got your key to the Coyote? I want to stop and pick it up."
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It felt strange to be back in the gatehouse, taking a shower, getting dressed. He could feel the effects of another night of very little sleep catching up with him but, at the same time, his mind was racing.
A kid's life was a stake, and then there was the deadline that Spitzelli had given them, with its nebulous but dark consequences. But Hardcastle had pointed out that they couldn't just go flying off to tackle the first address on the list, as Mark had very much wanted to. This would require planning and equipment. For himself, Mark retrieved a black nylon bag from under his bed. It was something the judge knew existed in a theoretical sense, but rarely referred to.
When he returned to the main house, he found Hardcastle on the phone. It was 3:45. He sat down on the sofa and set the bag down behind it, where it would be less likely to be remarked upon. The next thing he knew, he was opening his eyes. The clock on the desk said 6:23. Someone had put a blanket over him, and there was an open pizza box on the end table.
Frank and Milt were studying a map. As he started to sit up, Frank smiled at him and said, "You snore, Mark."
"Yeah, only when I'm really, really tired. I thought this was going to have to be a private party?" He looked at Frank and then the judge.
"Frank is off-duty. We've got a van, and some directional sound equipment, and a tech to run it."
"They're off-duty, too?" Mark smiled.
"Nope," Frank whistled under his breath, "this stuff is way better than what we've got for the department, industrial espionage quality."
"Well, I think we're about as ready as we can be." The judge folded the map down to the essential area as he stood up. Mark grabbed a piece of pizza. The three of them headed out to the van.
The tech, a quiet guy named Andy, who Mark had met on a couple of previous occasions, was already sitting in the back, setting up some of his equipment. Mark climbed in next to him. Frank drove; the judge navigated.
Their route had been planned to take in all of the potential spots, though not necessarily in the exact order Spitzelli had listed them. The procedure was simple: pull into range, sit quietly, listen like hell for signs of life and, if they heard them, listen even harder in hopes of hearing the sound of a child.
Two cold spots, at the third place they heard voices, a couple of Dreschler's men, talking tantalizingly about "the big one," but nothing specific, and no kid. Hardcastle reluctantly made the decision to pull the plug after forty-five minutes. Two more sites, one occupied--no kid, just a cleaning lady who sang pretty good opera.
In the claustrophobic darkness of the van, the night dragged on. At each stop it was later still, and the process took longer before they could be certain that the place was clear.
McCormick could hear the strain in the judge's voice, as he gave directions to the last place—they pulled up to a large, one-story warehouse in an industrial district, nicely isolated by surrounding parking lots and a weedy field posted, "For sale, will build to suit."
It was hard to eavesdrop on that sort of structure. They only found one small window, next to a double door on the south wall. Andy made a sweep and they heard nothing. There was a tinge of pink in the eastern sky. They were running out of night.
"We can't sit here." McCormick insisted. "If someone does look out, there's no reason for anyone to be parked here on a holiday morning." He was still twitching tired, with a trickle of sweat making its way down his back, and he thought if he spent one more minute cooped up in this van, he'd go crazy.
Hah, short trip. He shook with a silent laugh, or maybe it was just fatigue again. Hardcastle was looking at him, but it was hard to figure out what the look meant.
"I could get up on the roof," he finally said, "now, before it gets light. We went by an access ladder on the other side." The judge's look became more decipherable. That's hope; he thinks you have some sort of instinct for this--that you have a good reason for wanting to go up there, besides getting out of this crummy van for a few minutes.
More smoke than mirrors this time, Judge.
But Frank pulled back around the building quietly, putting the van out of sight of the entrance and window. This side was a flat, unbroken wall. McCormick had the straps of his bag over his shoulders. He climbed up onto the roof of the van, carefully avoiding the expensive electrical bits that protruded. He allowed his eyes a moment to become dark-adapted, and then grabbed the lowest rung of the utility ladder, climbing efficiently, feeling the same old thrill. No, he thought, no thrills. This is strictly business.
He surveyed the gravel-scattered tar roof, with its skylights every twenty-five feet or so, and treaded lightly to the first of them. Through it he saw a shadowy vista of boxes stacked on pallets, with narrow passageways in between.
He worked his way forward on the roof, until he realized he could see a soft glow from a skylight near the front of the building. He made his way there and looked down on the puddle of light thrown by a fluorescent camp lantern sitting on the floor below. At the outer edge of the circle was a child, curled up on her side, asleep on a blanket. A heavy-set, balding man was sitting nearby on the floor, back up against some boxes, head slumped forward. His gun must have slid from his loosened grip. It was lying next to him.
The man shifted in his sleep. No time for the cavalry, Mark thought, if he wakes up before we get inside, we'll have a hostage situation. He took the bag from his shoulders and walked back three skylights, quickly unshipping the plexiglass and making his rope fast to a piece of pipe work on the roof. A moment later he was dropping to the dark floor below.
He touched ground with barely a sound, unfastened himself, and moved forward through the shadows. From ground level the perspective was different. The gun had come to rest not even six inches from the man's hand. If he woke, it would only take him a fraction of a second to regain it. Get the gun first.
He crept forward, edging in closer without a breath. Touching the gun with two fingers, he eased his hand over it gently, watching for any signs of response from the man. Then a moment later he had it, and was backing off toward the girl. And the guy was still asleep.
The child was a slightly built eight-year-old, with unruly dark hair. He bent over and gently patted her arm, until her eyes flickered open. Miraculously, she didn't scream.
"Hi," he whispered, "I'm Mark, your dad sent me."
She looked at him owlishly, then at the sleeping man; then she whispered back, "I'm Amy."
He gestured with his head towards the front door, and helped her up with his free hand. She tiptoed like a pro. He kept one eye on the guard, still dead to the world, until they were through the door. "Left," he said softly and grabbed her hand as they cleared the doorway.
Coming round the corner, he saw Hardcastle out of the van, staring up at the roof. He turned at the sound of their approach.
"All done, Judge. Meet Amy Spitzelli."
The judge smiled broadly, and then asked, "She was by herself?"
"No," Mark handed over the gun, "he's still in there."
The judge looked down at the weapon that had been placed in his hand. "Does he need an ambulance?"
"No, he needs a union, 'Local 57--Villains, Thieves, and Scoundrels'. The hours are too damn long. Sidekicks need one, too; nobody gets a decent night's sleep anymore." Mark boosted Amy into the back of the van. "If we hustle, we can run by her mom's place and still get to the hospital before they pass out the morning dose of Thorazine."
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They found Tony Spitzelli pretty much as they'd left him, but at the first glimpse of his daughter, clinging tightly to her mother's hand, he stood up, wiped the drool off his face, and held his arms out to her, sweeping her up in a clutch. Theresa Spitzelli stood there, beaming.
A moment later, Frank was at his side, and Spitzelli handed the child back to her mother. "Later, honey, I gotta talk to this man, now."
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On Tuesday morning, Hardcastle left the toaster on the two-slice setting and let McCormick sleep in. The judge checked his watch and smiled; he was pushing 13 hours now.
The headline on the morning paper read, "Labor Day Union Picnic Bomb Plot Foiled," in a much smaller typeface than the alternative would have demanded. The judge finished reading the article, and put the newspaper down, looking satisfied. As usual with mob-related stories, the background was more than a little blurry. Didn't matter, Dreschler was in the lock-up along with an even dozen of his crew, including the guy who'd fallen asleep on duty.
Hardcastle turned to the pile of mail lying next to the paper. In among the bills he found an envelope addressed in an unexpected hand. He frowned, puzzled. A letter from McCormick? He picked it up, and felt the weight of something metal lodged in the corner of it. He slit the envelope open and took out the single sheet, folded around the spare key to the Coyote.
"Hardcase, (it read) If you are receiving this, then something has gone wrong. I'd appreciate it if you'd look for me at County, in the psych ward, probably as 'John Doe'. The Coyote is parked in the lot four blocks south of the hospital, $25.00 a day; bring cash. Thanks, Mark"
Just a note, really. Just in case. As if he needed to send a note or no one would notice he was gone. What had been going through his head when he wrote it? How many different ways could this have turned out wrong? "I just stuck to the facts," he'd said, and that doctor had pronounced him certifiable. He must have had an inkling that he was playing with fire.
The judge shook his head, folded the paper, put it back in the envelope, and slipped it into his pocket.
Come and look for me--please?
Anytime, anywhere, kiddo; you don't even have to ask.