By the time Tracy arrived at Ashton Pillars, the day had grown cooler and damp. Thick clouds hung over the low, sprawling buildings carrying with them a sense of sorrow and doom. Tracy walked carefully up the narrow front steps and was immediately greeted by an armed guard.
“Tracy Wrenn?” he said as she got within earshot.
“Yes.” Tracy looked at his blank face.
“Dr. Wright told us to call him as soon as you arrived,” the guard continued, pressing a buzzer on his intercom. “Come in under the enclosure. He’ll be here in a second.”
Tracy pulled her raincoat tightly around her and stepped under a long, gray awning, beside the guard.
“Terrible thing,” he murmured as Tracy looked around at the hospital grounds. It was hard to believe they were only half an hour away from the city. The place was surrounded by unkempt fields and scraggly trees. Everything felt so desolate, as if humanity had been left far behind.
In a matter of moments, a strong, medium-height man walked through the front door forcefully. He had a dark moustache and was dressed in a navy suit. This has to be Dr. Wright, thought Tracy.
“Thanks for being here, Dr. Wrenn.” The man extended his hand. “Everyone’s heard about you. I’m Dr. Meyer Wright.”
Tracy shook his hand. “Please just call me Tracy,” she responded. It was better that way. The simpler she was, the less intimidating, the more patients and staff would feel comfortable around her.Dr. Wright smiled a moment. “Before we start, I want to give you a tour of our facility,” he started. “Despite this awful situation, we’re proud of Ashton Pillars. Believe it or not, patients do well here.”
“I believe it.” Tracy nodded, pushing her long, auburn hair back over her shoulders, as a light drizzle started falling.
Dr. Wright seemed pleased by her comment and motioned toward the land surrounding the hospital.
“As you may know, our hospital is part privately funded and part state funded. Therefore, all of these acres are part of Ashton Pillars,” he started. “Patients spend time both indoors and outdoors. When they’re up to it, they take long walks outside on the strolling paths. About half a mile down that bumpy road is our male division. Naturally, male and female patients are housed separately.”
“Naturally,” Tracy responded, looking down the long, bumpy road, wondering who was holed up there.
“And, of course, when the patients are well enough, we allow them to attend coed mixers. It’s good for them. It’s healthy,” Dr. Wright continued, clearly trying to emphasize happier days.
“Yes, I’d heard about the coed mixers,” Tracy responded noncommittally. There were all kinds of new programs mental hospitals were experimenting with these days. Many residential hospitals even allowed certain patients to go home to sleep and return the next day. Tracy had never been in favor of that policy. It could be too jarring to negotiate two worlds. And there was always an escape hatch for patients then. Tracy felt it was important to learn to be where you were fully and deal with whatever was going on there. Then you could take the next step.
“Maggie Henderson’s death took place at nine-thirty this morning. Isn’t that correct?” Tracy asked, wanting to return to the matter at hand.
Dr. Wright seemed jarred by the mention of the patient’s name.
“Yes, that’s right, why do you ask that? Are you thinking it might have been the result of one of our coed mixers?”
“Not at all, why do you ask?” Tracy was taken aback.
“One of the newspapers has suggested something like that. I imagine you’ve read the article?”
“No, I haven’t,” Tracy remarked.
“The papers are always looking for something, aren’t they?” Dr. Wright bared his teeth. “You don’t see them swooping down and writing articles about all the success we have! It’s only the lurid details they’re after.”
“Coed mixers could seem a bit risky to them,” Tracy responded calmly.
“But our male patients are never allowed into the women’s division early in the morning,” Dr. Wright insisted. “They’re barely allowed in at all. It’s extremely unlikely that Maggie’s death was due to any relationship she may have had with a male patient here.”
“The papers will grab at anything,” Tracy responded. “Don’t worry. The FBI is on the case now. We’ll sort it all out.”
“I hope so.” Dr. Wright seemed nervous.
The light drizzle was turning into rain. “Let’s go inside now,” Tracy suggested. “I want to see the hospital and also go to the room where Maggie died.”
“You’ll go to Maggie’s room with Aldon Blank when he arrives,” Dr. Wright muttered.
Tracy wondered why she had to wait for Aldon. Was Dr. Wright afraid for her to go to Maggie’s room alone? Why?
*
The moment Tracy stepped inside the hospital she had a sense of foreboding. Except for an occasional nurse passing hurriedly by, the corridors were empty. Dr. Wright spoke quickly, pointing out different areas as they walked along. He was obviously trying to create a sense of normalcy where no normalcy existed.
“This is the dayroom.” He motioned to a large room on the right, which was empty but filled with large windows and colorful drawings that hung on the walls. “Usually the dayroom’s filled to the brim. But of course, the patients are nervous now. Many are hiding in their rooms and refuse to come out. Of course, we cannot allow that to go on very long.”
“It’s understandable that they’re staying inside,” murmured Tracy. “This has to be a terrible violation in a place they felt was safe.”
“There are no places that feel safe to mental patients,” Wright quickly countered, upset by Tracy’s remark. “Patients are always on edge and suspicious. They feel endangered wherever they are. However, as I said, they will not be permitted to stay in their rooms for much longer. As soon as we receive clearance from the police, we will resume our normal schedule.”
“And if they refuse to come out and join in?” asked Tracy.
“Naturally, we will not allow that to go on for very long. Patients are here to recover. Treatment at Ashton includes both following the schedule and obeying orders.”
Tracy wondered exactly how the hospital would force the patients to come out of their rooms.
“But the patients have now been exposed to a trauma not of their own making,” she insisted, eager to hear Dr. Wright’s reply.
“We’re not to blame, we do our best.” Dr. Wright’s face flushed. “Usually patients enjoy their experience at Ashton. They talk, play cards, read magazines. Some draw or write letters. Others receive guests.”
Tracy said nothing. Clearly, Dr. Wright was desperate to make a good impression and Tracy didn’t want him to feel any more threatened than he already did.
“Look”—he changed the topic of conversation—“the dining room is to the left. Our dining arrangements are comfortable. The same patients sit together for every meal. The nurses sit at their own table in the rear. The food is excellent. We’re known for that.”
Tracy felt as though she were being taken for a tour of a hotel. The bad PR had obviously gotten to him and he was doing all he could to bolster Tracy’s impression of Ashton. He had to; a lot was at stake. And, of course, compared to the hospital for the criminally insane that Tracy worked at, where violence broke out on an ongoing basis, this place did seem welcoming and safe. But Tracy had to dispel that impression quickly. Three patients had died here within six months. Something dark was festering inside.
“The staff’s offices are a few steps up here,” Dr. Wright went on, as they stepped up to a narrow hallway where offices were lined up on either side. “We’ve collected all relevant names of patients and staff for you and Aldon. These include anyone who could possibly know anything about these deaths. If a person had any direct dealings with the victims, their names are underlined in red.”
“Good,” said Tracy, as Dr. Wright opened the door to his office and they walked inside.
The first thing Tracy noticed about Wright’s office was that the walls were filled with photographs of young women who looked out at you smiling, happy, and seemingly well adjusted.
“These are photographs of patients who have been successfully discharged,” he quickly informed Tracy. “They’re doing well now, living fine lives.”
Their strange, smiling faces gripped Tracy’s attention. A kind of alumnae club, she thought.
“These are testimonials to the good work we do,” Dr. Wright countered, as if he’d picked up Tracy’s thought.
“Impressive,” said Tracy as she sat down on a dark green leather chair opposite Dr. Wright’s wide, mahogany desk.
“You’re an extremely attractive young woman to be doing a job like this,” Dr. Wright commented as he took his seat as well. “Whatever led you to it?”
An uneasy moment of silence hung between them as Tracy smiled. This was Dr. Wright’s way of taking charge of the relationship, she realized. Still, she had to say something.
Fortunately, however, before she could answer, there was a hard, taut knock on the door.
“Come in,” Dr. Wright called out harshly.
A tall, good-looking, sandy-haired man in his early forties, with sparkling blue eyes, walked in. Dressed in dark tan corduroy slacks and a parka, he had a warm, grounded, solid presence. Tracy liked him immediately. This has to be Aldon Blank, she thought, immediately standing to greet him.
Aldon gave Tracy a long, surprised glance, as well. “Tracy Wrenn?” he asked, extending his hand.
They smiled at each other. “Good to meet you,” said Tracy, shaking Aldon’s strong hand.
“Sit down,” Dr. Wright interrupted, nodding at Aldon.
Aldon pulled another green leather chair close to Tracy’s, and they both sat down. Tracy was surprised at how good she felt having him here.
“Okay.” Aldon ran his hand through his wavy hair. “Police are collecting evidence in the victim’s room now and cordoning off the crime scene. FBI needs additional background information. I have some questions and I know Tracy must, too.” Then he turned to Tracy, a tiny smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “You first.”
“Thank you,” said Tracy, returning his smile and then turning to Dr. Wright. “We need to know more about Maggie Henderson, and about the other two deaths as well.”
“I sent the files to the FBI this morning,” Dr. Wright countered.
“But we’d like to hear it from you. Fill us in on the essence of all three cases,” Tracy continued. “We’re looking for a signature for the killer and an MO.”
“The killer?” Dr. Wright stiffened a moment.
“From what I’ve heard,” Aldon chimed in, “law enforcement was not called in on the previous cases. Is that true?”
Dr. Wright bristled, opened his desk drawer, and pulled out several files. Then he tossed them on his desk. “Law enforcement came in briefly. There was no reason to call FBI before. The first patient, Sandra Blackman, twenty-one, who died six months ago, was declared a suicide by both the medical examiner and staff. She’d been a suicide threat from the time she arrived here and had made several attempts at other times in her life. In fact, that is why she’d been hospitalized.”
Aldon leaned closer to Dr. Wright. “Why wasn’t she on a suicide watch?”
“Sandra was always being watched carefully,” Dr. Wright countered, “but you cannot keep a patient under continual scrutiny. Eventually, she must be permitted to socialize with others. Calculated risks have to be taken for her greater good.”
“I assume Sandra was on medication,” Tracy joined in.
“Of course she was.” Dr. Wright’s mouth clenched. “All of the patients here are. And at every mental hospital, as you well know.”
Aldon threw a quick glance at Tracy. “Is that right?” he asked. “All patients in residential hospitals are on medication?”
“That’s usually the protocol,” Tracy replied.
“Usually?” Dr. Wright didn’t like that. “Always. That’s why they’re here. They need medication, rehabilitation, therapy, and sometimes more. We don’t spare any effort to make our patients well. Suicides are to be expected, however. Just as in any medical hospital, some make it, some don’t. It’s inevitable that some will die.”
Aldon looked again at Tracy, as if questioning Dr. Wright’s response.
“It’s difficult to prevent all fatalities,” Tracy spoke slowly. “But usually when a patient is medicated, it subdues the intensity of the rage and of the death urge.”
“The death urge?” asked Aldon. “What’s that?”
“That’s the part of a person that sabotages themselves, enjoys suffering, has a wish to harm and destroy,” Tracy started. “Underneath, there can be a desire to die. In some patients this death urge takes over, in many it’s repressed.”
“By and large our patients here are not subject to the death urge.” Dr. Wright took exception. “They are not violent as they are in the hospital you work at. I hope you are not implying that. ” Obviously Dr. Wright wanted to make Ashton Pillars look good by comparison.
“The hospital I work at is a hospital for the criminally insane,” Tracy responded. “That’s a very different population.”
“My point exactly,” said Dr. Wright. “And in case you’re wondering why we have had these suicides, please remember that despite the medication we give them, some patients are noncompliant as well. They may pretend to swallow their medications, but then later we find pills stashed under their mattresses.”
“Tell us about Maggie.” Tracy focused in. Dr. Wright was distracting them from the issue at hand, getting off on theoretical discussions about the different patient populations.
“Maggie was getting better,” Dr. Wright insisted. “Her death comes as a complete shock.”
“Why was she here?” Tracy wanted details.
“Maggie was diagnosed with chronic depression,” Dr. Wright said. “It’s in her chart. She couldn’t bear to be alone and did well in therapy. Usually she could be found in the dayroom, talking to anyone she could find. Patients here are forced to interact with one another. Maggie wrote letters home, went to mixers. She was well liked. In fact, she was getting ready to be released.”
That piece of information was important. The time before a patient was released was always a delicate and dangerous time for them.
“Did Maggie want to go home?” asked Tracy.
“We thought so,” Dr. Wright mused.
“When patients grapple with depression, the most dangerous time is when they get better,” Tracy remarked to Aldon. “They’re most vulnerable to backsliding then. That is when we might expect a suicide attempt.”
“Assuming this was another suicide, there were no signs of Maggie slipping, were there?” Aldon dove in.
“Absolutely none,” Dr. Wright emphasized. “And thank you for that. We do believe this was another suicide, as awful as that is.”
“What about your patient who died one month ago?” Aldon wanted more.
“Deidre Ray,” Wright went on. “She also died right after breakfast, and was found on the floor of her room. Her throat was slashed just like Maggie’s.”
“Same MO, same signature,” Aldon remarked. “What’s the likelihood of that in cases of suicide?”
“Some of them copy each other,” Dr. Wright grumbled. “The patients get close to each other and are easily influenced. They don’t usually have a strong mind of their own, so they imitate. When one takes the dark road, another follows.”
“Why was Deidre here?” Aldon stayed focused.
“Self-mutilation. Deidre cut herself regularly. That’s why she was admitted.” Dr. Wright held up her file. “Self-destructive urges are deep, not always conquered. When the person becomes disappointed or angry they lash out at themselves. This time she went too far.”
“But you didn’t find a weapon in any of these cases, did you?” Aldon now seemed perturbed.
“That’s what was most perplexing,” Dr. Wright admitted. “Police checked for everything. We did not find any weapon, fingerprints, DNA, or other evidence in the two previous cases.”
“How could they have killed themselves, then?” Aldon wouldn’t be sidetracked. “How could you settle on that diagnosis?”
“The police are collecting evidence from the third patient’s room now.” Wright pivoted away from the question. “Upon first glance this death was exactly the same. There was no weapon that we found here either.”
“But the victims were slashed. How did it happen?” Aldon was adamant.
“A razor blade most likely,” Dr. Wright offered.
“No one found a blade though.” Aldon couldn’t get past that point. “We have to find the weapon. A person doesn’t kill themselves and then dispose of the weapon. Without a weapon we can’t call any death a suicide. What made the medical examiner settle on that finding?”
“The manner of the cuts, the history of the patients, and the fact that they were living here safely guarded. None of them had any enemies,” Dr. Wright answered swiftly.
“You have no way of knowing if they did or didn’t have enemies.” Tracy joined the conversation. “Patients misperceive reality, hold grudges, don’t they? At any moment another inmate could suddenly seem like an enemy to them. The killer could very likely be here in our midst.”
“Very doubtful,” Dr Wright insisted. “Our patients become friends and companions. They support one another.”
“Who was the last to see Maggie alive?” Aldon plowed forward.
“Maggie was seen at breakfast by everyone. Then she went back to her room during the break. Maggie’s roommate, Virginia, found her body on the floor when she returned later on. Rather than notifying the staff, she found a way to immediately call home screaming, reporting what happened. In a matter of hours it was all over the news. Of course we would have preferred to handle this quietly, the way we did with the other cases. We don’t want to terrify the patients this way.”
The other two deaths were handled quietly, thought Tracy. The investigation was over with quickly, before it began. Somehow the hospital had gotten away with that before. This time they couldn’t.
“I agree with Tracy,” Aldon announced. “It’s very likely the killer is under our nose.”
“Our patients here are not violent.” Dr. Wright refused to consider it.
“But they can turn violent, can’t they?” Aldon continued.
“I’ll defer to Dr. Tracy Wrenn on that,” Dr. Wright replied.
Aldon turned to Tracy, his blue eyes zeroing in. “When does a regular patient turn into a homicidal threat?”
Tracy felt her heart pounding. “Each patient is different. There is no one answer that applies in all cases,” she said.
“But it can happen, can’t it?” Aldon insisted. “Even right here?”
“Not only can it happen, it often does,” Tracy murmured. “It’s just that no one wants to face that fact.”