Blackburn nodded. “The doc on duty said they were gonna clean her up and put her in a cell. She’s pretty docile right now, but if you’re smart, you’ll strap her to the goddamn bed.”
Tolan nodded, gestured. “Let’s walk and talk.”
Baycliff Psychiatric Hospital was located on Pepper Mountain Mesa, overlooking the Pacific Ocean, and what the cluster of colorless buildings lacked in character was made up for by their surroundings.
The walkway leading to the Emergency Detention Unit was edged by neatly landscaped grounds full of oak and bigleaf maple. There was a good breeze blowing, and the leaves, a rusty yellow-gold, floated like confetti and cartwheeled across the lawn.
Off to their right, and some distance away, was a forest of California pepper trees. A narrow pathway snaked through them, its mouth blocked by a thick chain holding a NO TRESSPASSING sign, warning off the curious.
A good quarter mile up that pathway, nestled in the Pepper Mountains, stood the remains of the old Baycliff Hospital, a once majestic structure that had been abandoned after a severe earthquake and fire over half a century ago. It remained untouched and forgotten, except by the occasional adventurous gang of teenagers looking for a midnight thrill.
The current hospital, located on what the geophysicists considered more solid ground, had been built in the late 1960s and looked it. Except for the view, it held little of the grandeur of the older model. And none of the allure.
As they walked, a sudden memory assaulted Tolan: he and Abby exploring the ruins of the old hospital one afternoon. His calendar had been free and she had closed her studio for the rest of the day, both of them hoping the adventure might help them recapture some of the energy that had been draining from their marriage of late.
As they explored the grounds — Abby furiously snapping photographs of the massive, burned-out building — they had joked of ghosts and demons, and had marveled at the courage of those who chose to visit late at night, tempting fate.
Three days later, Abby was dead.
“Here’s the thing,” Blackburn said as he and Tolan continued toward the EDU. “I’ve got a guy on his apartment floor with a ventilated chest. Less than two blocks away, your new patient shows up bare-assed in the middle of the street and tries to use the business end of a pair of scissors on a cab driver.”
“I assume this isn’t a coincidence?”
“She had what looks to be the victim’s blood on her, including traces on her left heel, and we found a matching footprint at the scene.”
Tolan sensed some hesitation. “So what’s the problem?”
“A couple of things. First, the crime scene techs say the splatter pattern doesn’t mesh with the blood we found on her. Thinks it’s more likely she put her hands in it, then rubbed her face.”
“Uh-huh,” Tolan said. “What else?”
“The scissors.”
“What about them?”
“They don’t match the wounds. So if Miss Nature Lover is my suspect, why the sudden switch of utensils? It doesn’t make sense.”
These things rarely do, Tolan thought. “Have you considered she might also have been a target? Maybe she picked them up at the crime scene in an attempt to protect herself.”
“I was thinking the same thing,” Blackburn said. “The blood on them probably came from her hands. But to be honest, I don’t know how she’s involved — and I’d sure as hell like to find out. Unfortunately, she’s a complete schizo.”
Tolan bristled again. Most people who used such terms knew nothing at all about schizophrenia or mental health in general. He laid the blame for that squarely at the feet of a syndrome he called BTS—
— Bad Television Shows. And the treatment was simple: selective use of the remote control.
“You say she was naked, so no ID at all?”
“Nope. We ran her prints and got a big fat zero. Some old homeless coot thought she might be a friend of his, but he turned out to be a nut job too.”
Tolan stopped just short of the EDU lobby doors and looked at him. “Listen, Detective, if we’re going to work together, let’s get something straight. They aren’t nut jobs or whackos or schizos or loonies or maniacs. As far as I’m concerned, the only difference between my patients and a guy battling a heart arrhythmia is the organ under distress.”
“Easy, Doc, I’m not trying to offend anybody here. Hell, my old man was manic-depressive.”
“Then you of all people should know how damaging labels can be.”
Blackburn shrugged. “The only label we had for him was asshole. But if it’ll make you feel any better, consider me duly chastised.”
Tolan said nothing. Truth was, he’d heard a lot worse coming out of the mouths of his own colleagues. Looking back on the year he’d spent as a medical resident, he could remember when burn victims were crispy critters and terminal patients were GPO — Good for Parts Only. Such language was a release valve, a little dark humor to help get them through those long, hard hours of sobering reality. He doubted it was any different for cops.
But for some reason he’d been particularly touchy lately. Was it the insomnia? Had his yearlong battle with sleep deprivation somehow robbed him of his capacity for tolerance and turned him into a high-minded, judgmental prick?
Taking a long, deep breath, he sighed and said, “Don’t mind me, Detective. I’m a little oversensitive these days.”
“That just about makes us polar opposites,” Blackburn said. “But I can live with it if you can.” Then he smiled. “Call me Frank, by the way. Some people tell me it’s a name that suits me.”
Tolan managed a smile in return. “I’m beginning to see why.”
He pulled open the lobby doors and gestured Blackburn inside. He had been coming to the EDU almost daily for over nine months now and still couldn’t get over how drab it looked. Faded green walls, a row of metal chairs, battered end tables carrying the requisite out-of-date news magazines. Function over aesthetics.
Adjacent to this was a wire-mesh security cage that led to the maze of hallways that made up the detention unit. A lone guard sat at a desk just inside the gate, and a sign above it read ESCAPE RISK.
Thanks to funding cutbacks, both public and private, institutions like Baycliff tended to use such facilities until their last living breath. This one was definitely in the gasping phase.
All in all, it was a far cry from the upscale office suite Tolan had once shared with Ned Soren. And the world of book signings and television appearances and standing-room-only speaking engagements seemed like another life, belonging to someone completely foreign to him.
Normally Tolan wouldn’t bother coming through the lobby. Like all the other doctors on staff, he carried a special key card that got him in through any of the three private entrances located at the sides and back of the building. But hospital policy forbade allowing outsiders such access, and with Blackburn tagging along, they had to take the traditional route.
As they approached the security gate, Blackburn said, “I don’t think I have to tell you that time is of the essence.”
Tolan nodded. “I understand. But if she’s suffering from any real psychosis, it could be weeks or even months before she opens up.”
“That’s not what I want to hear, Doc.”
“I’m not a miracle worker,” Tolan said. “Far from it.”
“Maybe not. But you’re the closest thing I’ve got.”
6
Solomon never did get his chili dogs.
After the incident on The Avenue, he’d lost his appetite and spent the next couple hours wandering the streets, feeling like somebody had ripped the guts right out of him.