Khasha pulled a face at the receptionist’s self-importance. “Can you show it to a guard? He’s been missing for seven days. Maybe he just came here today?”
In response, she received the same question that she’d heard from dozens of other receptionists, clerks, and various law enforcement personnel. “How do you know he’s missing?”
At that instant an armed guard came down the hallway. Khasha whisked the picture off the desk and held it in front of his face.
“Has this individual been admitted to this hospital? Hamilton Turbee?” she asked tremulously.
“Yup. That’s the guy who came over from PSA 706 six days ago. Don’t know about no Hamilton Turbee. That’s our John Doe #17. He’s curled up in a ball in the corner of his cell.” The guard sniggered. “The way he’s curled up makes him look like a small bag of flour. This guy’s really over the top.”
“Oh my God,” breathed Khasha. “Can I see him?”
“Nope. Against hospital policy. You can’t tell with guys like this. One minute they’re curled up like a puppy, the next instant they’ve killed somebody. He assaulted a police officer. In fact, several police officers. He’s listed as dangerous. He has eight or ten criminal charges against him already. Sorry, you can’t see him other than during visiting hours, which ended a couple of minutes ago.”
“He did what? He assaulted…?”
“Yeah. Police officers, multiple times. This guy is a criminal. He’s criminally insane. That’s why he’s here.”
“No way,” said an astounded Khasha. She couldn’t imagine Turbee assaulting any creature, let alone a police officer. “Please, please let me see him.”
“Nope.”
“Please.”
“No. Rules are rules.”
“OK,” said Khasha. “Can you give me a moment?” The guard shrugged his shoulders, unconcerned, and Khasha pulled out her cell phone, scrolling through the numbers she’d dialed in the past few days. Finally she found what she was looking for and pressed the call button.
“Henessey van Rijn,” came the professional response at the other end of the line. “How may I direct your call?”
“Mr. Turbee’s office, please,” said Khasha. She waited a moment as the call was connected.
“Mr. Turbee’s office,” came the second, efficient but friendly reply from James Turbee’s receptionist. “How can I help you?”
Khasha gave a brief description of who she was and what had happened, and how it appeared to have caused Turbee’s present situation.
“Ah, yes, you’re the young lady that called a few days ago. Please hold for a moment. Mr. Turbee is here, but in a meeting. I’ll interrupt. This is something he would want to know about.”
The phone was switched over to pleasant hold music. Vivaldi, thought Khasha with approval. Very classy. She waited for less than a minute.
“James Turbee here,” came a man’s voice. Powerful, she thought. Again Khasha explained the situation, including the purported firing by Dan, and Turbee’s apparent present condition, in a hospital that by and large housed the criminally insane.
“How is he at this moment?” asked the elder Turbee.
“I don’t know, sir. The guard tells me that he’s in the corner of his cell, drawn up in a fetal position. They won’t let me see him.”
“Khasha, did you say that he’s at Saint Elizabeth’s? That institution is for the treatment of psychiatric issues of people who are in trouble with the law. What on earth did he do that was criminal?”
“They said something about him attacking police officers,” she replied.
A few seconds ticked by in silence. “Hamilton? Attack a police officer? No way. Look, please stay there, miss. I’m about half an hour away.”
Khasha advised the receptionist that John Doe #17’s father was coming, and that she was going to wait for him.
“I really don’t care if the Pope is coming. It’s after hours. Period,” the receptionist said perfunctorily.
Twenty-five minutes later, James Turbee stepped through the door. His appearance differed profoundly from that of his son. He wore a Savile Row suit, perfectly cut, with a silk shirt and tie to match, was tanned and polished, and had elegant graying hair; in short, he turned heads wherever he went. The man exuded power and class. He was the managing partner of Henessey van Rijn LLP, a legal conglomerate that had offices in many of the world’s capitals. The firm had more than 500 partners, 1,000 associates, and a total payroll for almost 3,000 individuals. James was one of the men in charge of keeping them all in line. He was 65, and had made his career as a litigator, but drifted into firm management in his mid-50s. He had a penchant for it. By the time he was 60, he ruled the legal behemoth with a will of iron. He traveled continually, visiting the many branches of the firm, cutting deals, acquiring more law firms, and fighting competitors for clients. Few saw him the way he was at this moment — a concerned and protective father.
After briefly introducing himself to Khasha and getting the details of the situation, he approached the front counter. “My name is James Turbee. I hear you have my son in here. I want to see him.” He caught the receptionist directly in his steely gaze.
“I’m sorry, sir, but it’s past visiting hours. You can come back tomorrow, if you wish,” replied the receptionist. She turned back to her computer screen, which displayed the latest Microsoft product designed to reduce efficiency to zero, Spider Solitaire. As she busied herself moving the cards around the screen, the elder Turbee pulled out his cell phone and called his office. After being given a telephone number, he made a second call. He stepped briefly outside to make this one. Within a few minutes, he stepped back inside and approached a confused Khasha.
“Watch this,” he said quietly. “It could be entertaining.”
No sooner had James finished making this remark than the telephone beside the receptionist began to ring. She took her hand off the cursor, frustrated that her strategy for the next card play had been interrupted.
“Saint Elizabeth’s Hospital, how may I help you?” she asked. There was a sudden change in her body language. Her posture straitened and the tone of her voice became infinitely respectful. “Yes sir. Yes sir. Immediately sir. Yes. Yes.” She put down the telephone, white faced, and said to James, “Come with me, sir.”
Khasha followed them into the wards. A guard joined them as they walked through the doors. “How did you do that?” she asked.
“The chain that owns this place is a client of the firm. I know the President of the chain reasonably well. So well that I have his personal cell number at my office. That’s who just called. Knowing him, that last conversation was probably spiced with profanity and vigor. She may be out of a job as we speak.” James straightened his tie proudly, and stood a bit taller. Khasha just smiled at his posturing.
The receptionist led them through a series of hallways and a large common room. Khasha had never been exposed to severe mental illness or psychoses. To see men mumbling to themselves in corners, demonstrating severely obsessive-compulsive behaviors, talking to nonexistent people, playing imaginary golf, and painting imaginary paintings was chilling. She moved a little closer to the older man and the guard as they passed through the room, down two floors, and through more doors and hallways. Finally they arrived at Turbee’s cell. He was still curled up in a little ball on the floor, his knees clutched tightly to his chest.
Khasha looked at the young man lying on the floor. An IQ that was off the Richter scale, but he’d never ridden a bike. No driver’s license. No friends. No girlfriend. “Poor little guy,” she murmured.