This was Riverglen – an institution for the mentally ill. It was listed under the government’s Mental Health and Addiction Services, for those who bothered to look for it.
Felicia pointed to the belfry high atop the central roof. ‘Gives me the creeps, this place,’ she said.
Striker nodded. ‘Right below that is where they gave people the shock-treatment therapy.’ The moment he said the words, he regretted them. Felicia already had a problem with these places, he didn’t want to make it worse.
‘I hate this place,’ she said softly. ‘My grandmother was brought here, way back in the days when everyone called it The Hallows. The things they did to make her better. Christ. They drugged her, strapped her down, gave her electric shocks. I don’t remember much of it – I was so little then – but I remember enough. Like her hair falling out from the stress, and her body turning rake thin.’
‘I had no idea,’ Striker said.
Felicia looked over at Striker and her eyes were hard. ‘She was a lot better off before ever going in here. And once she was committed, she never left. It was a tragedy.’
‘Psychiatry’s gotten a whole lot better since then,’ Striker offered.
But Felicia didn’t seem moved by the comment. She glared at the building before her, then shuddered. Striker parked the car, gave her a nod and they climbed out.
Outside, the wind from the Pitt River funnelled into the hospital grounds and caused the bushes flanking the walkway to flap and flutter. Felicia bundled up her long charcoal coat and marched ahead. Striker joined her. Together, they hiked up the old stone steps of the entrance and stepped between a giant pair of freshly painted white pillars before entering the foyer of the mental hospital.
Riverglen.
They had arrived.
Inside, the place was no different. An aura of despair filled the halls. Once past the front security station, Striker and Felicia were led by a guard to the east wing of the facility, then down a long narrow corridor towards the office of Dr Erich Ostermann.
Striker took note of their surroundings as they went. The walls were high, easily ten feet, and the windows were small, allowing little natural light to break the gloom and offering absolutely no view of the land outside. Just being there was depressing.
‘This place is fucking barbaric,’ Felicia said.
The guard, a short fat guy who looked to be in his mid-fifties, gave them a queer look when he heard the comment, but Striker just nodded at the man, and they all kept going.
The office of Dr Ostermann was located in the corner of an L-shaped hallway. In the east wing, leading off the hallway, was an entirely separate room – a common area where several patients were sitting, dressed in pale blue gowns.
Striker looked into the room. It was small, rectangular and, unlike the halls, had natural light and even a few windows overlooking the mountains to the north. Some of the patients were playing backgammon. Some were reading books and talking in pods. But most of them were huddled around an old tube TV in the far corner of the room. On the TV was a cooking show.
The whole scene reminded Striker of an old folks’ home. As they waited for Dr Ostermann to return, Striker watched the patients.
In the nearest corner, a group of four people were playing cards. One of the participants, a tall thin white guy who looked like he hadn’t shaved in days, suddenly stood up from the table and yelled out, ‘Fuck you, you FUCKERS!’ He ripped off his shirt and threw it on the floor.
Striker looked at Felicia, saw the tense look on her face.
‘Strip poker?’ he asked.
Before she could even respond, one of the security guards stood up from his station in the corner of the room and called out, ‘Henry! You’d better calm down over there. I mean it!’
The man was unafraid. ‘He’s got a knife at the table!’ he cried out. ‘A knife! Can’t have that – it’s against the rules, it’s DANGEROUS!’
The guard looked over at the table, saw the paper plates and bran muffins, the squares of butter and plastic knives. ‘It’s okay, Henry. It’s all fine. He’s allowed to have that one. It’s plastic. So just relax.’
‘It’s DANGEROUS!’
‘Just be good and I’ll give you some of your favourite snacks again.’
‘M&Ms?’
‘I promise,’ the guard said.
‘Peanut?’
‘Of course.’
Henry didn’t respond at first; he just gave the guard a hot stare, stuck out his jaw, and then finally put his shirt back on. He left the other patients playing their card game and hung out by himself near the room entranceway. He turned his eyes towards Striker and Felicia, and caught their stares.
‘What the fuck you two lookin’ at?’
Striker said nothing; Felicia just grabbed his arm and turned him away.
‘Don’t provoke him,’ she said. ‘He’s mentally ill.’
Striker wasn’t planning on it. Before he could respond, a woman behind them asked, ‘Can I help you two?’
They both turned to face her.
Seated at the reception desk in front of Dr Ostermann’s office was a woman dressed in an all-white hospital uniform. She looked thirty or so, and harsh, with her hair pulled back into a tight bun and little to no make-up on her face. She did not smile.
With Henry still ranting behind them, Striker approached the desk. ‘Detectives Striker and Santos,’ he explained. He showed the woman his badge and credentials. ‘We’re here to speak with Dr Ostermann.’
She still did not smile. ‘Did you book an appointment?’
‘For an asylum?’ he asked. ‘No, we didn’t.’
The woman’s face tightened – her first sign of any emotion. ‘We don’t call it that any more,’ she corrected. ‘This is a mental health facility.’ She leafed through a ledger on her desk and made an unhappy sound. ‘Dr Ostermann is in session for another twenty minutes. Until eleven. And after that he has to be at his personal practice by twelve . . . I don’t know if he’ll be able to fit you in today.’
‘He can and will,’ Striker said. ‘He knows we’re coming. I talked to him yesterday.’
‘I was never informed of this.’
Felicia’s face darkened. ‘So there’s some things in this world you don’t know?’ she asked.
Striker offered the woman a smile. ‘I’m sure it just slipped his mind.’
The woman showed no reaction to the words. She just gestured to a row of seats along the far wall. ‘Sit there. I’ll let the doctor know you’re waiting for him.’
Striker looked over at the door to Dr Ostermann’s office. He walked across the room, grabbed the handle, and opened it.
‘Sir! Sir! Detective! ’ the receptionist called.
Striker played ignorant. ‘Yes?’
‘Out here, please.’
‘Oh, sorry. I thought you wanted us to wait inside his office.’
‘No.’
Striker sat down next to Felicia, who craned her neck and grinned at him.
‘Nice try, Sherlock.’
He said nothing back. He just sat next to her, breathed in deeply and smelled the vanilla perfume she always wore. The scent filled his head with other memories, enjoyable ones, and he tried not to think about it. He focused instead on a way to get inside the office.
They waited for another five minutes, until the receptionist got up from her desk. ‘I’ll be back in a moment,’ she said. She offered no further explanation, and disappeared down the hallway. Striker waited for her to disappear around the corner. Then he stood up.
‘What are you doing?’ Felicia asked.
‘Magic,’ he said.
He walked over to the wall, leaned against it, then made a soft whistling sound. In the common room, Henry was still muttering to himself about the knives being too dangerous. He heard the whistle and looked over.