“Well… that was interesting,” Fitzgerald said when the door was closed behind them and the two were alone again.
“You were right, Jane. Psychopath, definitely.”
She shrugged. “I think he was intentionally fucking with us, mocking us. One last spit in the face before we hang him.”
Staver looked down at his handwriting. “I think he’s just crazy. But in any case, it’s a clear rejection. We’ll take your recommendation on this one and cross him off the list.” He slumped back in his chair again. “I’m gonna grab some lunch, see if I can get a call in to my kids before they go to school. What do you say?”
Fitzgerald stood and stretched. “Sounds good. I’ll be back at two.”
They put their files in their briefcases and walked out of the room, heading off in different directions. But as soon as they were out of sight of one another, both broke into a dead run. Staver headed for the military tribunal’s communications center and demanded a secure line to the War Department. Fitzgerald went down into the basement, into an unlabeled room next to a maintenance closet, where her own secure line ran to a nondescript building in Foggy Bottom, an unremarkable DC neighborhood, where the people who answered were decidedly descript and remarkable.
4
The sun shone brightly over manicured lawns and white adobe-style houses and buildings, giving the entire campus a sense of resort-like tranquility. Pathways laid out in concrete and tarmac crisscrossed the grounds. People in white coats and smocks were everywhere, giving the uniformed military officers genial smiles — and wide berths.
“Nice place, this,” said the Marine captain with ANDERSON on his name badge. “Get a couple girls, some drinks… could be a swell place to spend a few weeks.” He walked with the precision of a disciplined military man across the grounds, his eyes scanning for danger the entire time and his prodigious muscles unconsciously flexing.
Next to him, Lieutenant Commander Danny Wallace smirked and shook his head. “Trust me, Andy, you don’t want to be here if you don’t have to.” Danny knew Anderson from their time together in the Pacific, and had pestered Hillenkoetter — still his superior despite the captain’s new command — for some help. If all went well, Danny had plans for Anderson. If only the latter man could start getting a little more comfortable with… unusual situations.
A moment later, they watched as several white-coated attendants, all of them big, hulking men, rushed inside one of the low-slung buildings, where screaming could be heard. Not long after, they dragged a man out — one attendant per kicking, thrashing limb — and set him down just outside the building’s entrance, where they struggled to get him into a straitjacket. Someone forgot to secure the man’s head, though, and with an unexpected twist, the patient managed to sink his teeth into the forearm closest to him, prompting a cry of anger — and a meaty right hook to the screaming man’s face.
It was much easier to get him into the straitjacket after that.
“Gentlemen, I’m sorry you had to witness that,” came a voice from behind the two officers. They turned to find a bespectacled, bearded man, burly and bow-tied, smiling the weary smile of an overworked doctor. “Agnews State Hospital practices a positive approach to therapy whenever possible, but of course sometimes the health and safety of the hospital’s other patients, as well as our staff, must take priority, and we have a handful of patients who simply don’t respond well to anything we do.”
Danny nodded grimly and extended his hand, which the other fellow took and shook with seeming gratitude. “I’m Lieutenant Commander Dan Wallace. This is Captain Andrew Anderson. I don’t know if my message was passed along, but I called yesterday inquiring after one of your patients here.”
“Of course, Commander. I’m Dr. Stanley Abrams, director here at the hospital. I’m so glad you came. We would of course be glad to assist the military in any way we can. If you’ll follow me?”
Danny and Anderson followed Abrams through the hospital campus as he gave them what felt to Danny like a typical VIP visitor speech. The mental hospital — insane asylum was, apparently, no longer a term in use — was the finest serving the San Francisco and San Jose areas. They used traditional “talk therapy,” as Abrams put it, but were also experiencing a lot of promising success with hydrotherapy and, more recently, modern “electro-shock” treatment.
If someone strapped me down and shocked me, I’d tell them anything they’d want to hear to make it stop, Danny thought. No matter how crazy I am.
“Excuse me, Doc, but maybe we can get on to the part about why we’re here?” Anderson eventually interrupted.
The doctor smiled obsequiously. “Of course, Captain. Let me just check my folder here.” Abrams shuffled through the papers he carried as they walked, and finally pulled out the right one. “Ah, here we are! Margaret Ann Dubinsky, age twenty-seven, hailing from the Chicago area. Moved here when she was eighteen, before the war. Became an elementary school teacher.”
“You have a lot of elementary school teachers here?” Danny asked.
“No, no, it’s actually quite unusual,” Abrams said. “Saddest thing, actually. She was teaching up in Mill Valley, receiving very high marks, I’m told. There was an incident during a meeting with the parents of one of her students. She had asked for the meeting to discuss the possibility that the child’s low marks might have been due to a learning disability.”
“A what?” Anderson interjected.
Abrams shot the Marine a look. “A mental issue that keeps someone from understanding the information presented to them in an academic setting, Captain. A minor mental issue, but one we’re now recognizing among students who might have simply been considered ‘slow.’ At any rate, she explained the matter to the parents, who were reportedly dismissive of the whole matter. They believed their boy was simply being lazy. Miss Dubinsky disagreed strenuously, and the meeting became confrontational. Then the father suddenly became violent. He attacked Miss Dubinsky as well as his child and stormed out of the meeting. From there, he acquired a knife from the cafeteria and took several school employees hostage in the main offices. He killed a janitor and a secretary before the police shot him dead.”
“Jesus Christ…” Anderson muttered. “Was she seriously hurt?”
“She was knocked out before the father got the knife,” Abrams replied. “A slight stroke of good luck, if you care to look at it that way. But Miss Dubinsky isn’t a patient at Agnews because of any physical condition, as I’m sure you’re aware. Following the attack, she became withdrawn and introverted. She apparently blames herself for the incident and began experiencing severe depression. Her condition deteriorated to the point where she eventually quit her job. I’m told she’d been living for two months on the streets of San Francisco, avoiding contact with all friends and family. The police picked her up on a loitering charge and soon determined that she would be best served if they brought her here.”
“So, she went crazy after the shooting,” Anderson said, shaking his head. “Understandable.”
Abrams wheeled on Anderson, literally getting in front of him as he walked so that they both came to a halt. “Captain, please understand. We practice serious medicine at Agnews and do not use that terminology here,” he said with what could be best described as polite urgency. “Nor do we use ‘insane’ or ‘nuts’ or anything else like that. We strive to maintain a positive environment. These people are patients, and they are being treated for an illness. I cannot have you using that kind of language around Miss Dubinsky or any other patient!”