He returned to the fridge, got an apple, bit down noisily.
"Maybe I can throw you a little cheer," I said. "For what it's worth, I know why
Claire sought out Peake."
I told him about Denton Argent's rampage. His chewing slowed. When I finished, he put the apple down. "Her brother. Never heard of the case."
"Me, neither. It happened twenty-seven years ago."
"I was in Vietnam.... So what was she hoping to learn by glomming on to Peake?"
"Her conscious motive was probably wanting to understand psychotic violence. Being a psychologist-and a researcher- legitimized it. But I think she was really trying to understand why her family-her childhood-had been shattered."
"And Peake could've told her that?"
"No," I said. "But she would Ve denied her motives."
"So she attaches herself to Peake, tries to get him to open up about what he did."
"Maybe she did more than try," I said. "If anyone could pry him open, it would've been Claire. Because she was the only person to spend any significant time with him during his commitment. She cared. What if she succeeded, and Peake told her something that put her in danger?"
"Such as?"
"He hadn't acted alone. He'd been prodded by the Crim-mins brothers. Or believed he had. Alternatively, Peake's still hi contact with Crimmins and told him Claire was getting too nosy. Crimmins decided to fix the problem. That's how Peake knew about
Claire's murder the day before it happened."
"he knew," he said. " 'Bad eyes in a box' ain't exactly evidence. As I was reminded three times today." He picked up the apple, twirled it by the stem. "Very creative,
Alex, but I don't know. It all hinges on Peake having conversations. Faking out being a veg."
"What if his mental dullness isn't all due to psychosis?" I said. "What if the bulk is caused by his medication? The severity of his tardive symptoms and the fact that he's never had his dosage altered from five hundred milligrams show he reacts strongly to moderate amounts of Thorazine. Let's say Claire decided to experiment, withdrawing pills in order to restore some clarity. And it worked."
"She tampered on the sly?"
"We're talking intense motivation. A woman who gave up her job just to get next to
Peake. If she thought easing up on his Thorazine would open him up, why not? She could've rationalized that it was for his own good-the meds were increasing his neurological problems, he could get by on less. The obvious risk would have been an increase in his violent impulses, but she might've felt confident she could deal with that."
"Heidi was working with him, too," he said. "She wouldn't suspect?"
"Heidi's medically and psychologically unsophisticated. Claire told her what she wanted her to know. Any changes may have been subtle-a few sentences here and there.
And they may have occurred only in response to Claire's prodding. Claire was spending intense one-on-one time with Peake, probing very deliberately. She knew what she wanted: a window into Peake's violence. And, by extension, Denton's. Even if Peake did say something to Heidi, there'd be no reason for her to comprehend. Or care. She'd dismiss it as gibberish, just as she did with the 'bad eyes' recitation until Claire turned up dead."
"And with Claire gone, Peake gets his full dosage again."
"And lapses into incoherence."
"Okay," he said. "Let me take this all in.... Peake blabs, Claire finds out someone else was involved... and Wark enters the picture because he and Peake are somehow in contact-"
"Because Wark works at Starkweather-"
"Yeah, yeah, let me put this in order.... Peake wakes up- maybe he does get more violent. Or at least belligerent with Wark. He makes threats-'I've got this doctor who's really interested in me. I told her you turned me into a monster, she believes me, she's gonna get me out of here.' Even if Claire never said that, Peake could believe it-delusional. He's still crazy, right?"
I nodded.
"Still," he said, "that's an awful lot of gabbing for old Monster."
"Unless he's been faking."
"I brought that up at the beginning. You said it was unlikely."
"The context has changed."
He shot out of his chair, paced the room, buttoned and unbuttoned his coat. "If Wark was threatened, why not kill Peake?"
"Why bother?" I said. "Back on a full dose-or a higher one, if someone's tinkering in the opposite direction- Peake's no threat. He'll live out his life in his S&R room, the tardive symptoms will intensify until he's neurologically cooked, one day someone will walk in and find him dead. Just like Denton."
"Claire could just do that?" he said. "Pull pills with nobody noticing?"
"Starkweather gives its staff plenty of latitude. Dr. Aldrich was Claire's nominal supervisor, and he didn't seem to know much about her cases. Neither did Swig. In that respect, working at Starkweather was similar to her job with Theobold-plenty of solitude. The style to which she'd become accustomed since childhood."
"So," he said, "I waltz in there again and ask to look at the personnel files.
Swig's gonna roll out the carpet."
"You can use the publicity threat-filing for warrants, the media getting hold of it.
No reason for him to know the judges haven't cooperated. Ask to meet with the men in
Claire's group. That's certainly reasonable. While you're there, try to work in the personnel records."
He circled some more. "One more thing. The Beatty brothers. Why would Crimmins/Wark tell Peake about killing them? On the contrary, if Peake's hassling him, the last thing he'd want would be for Peake to know anything."
"Good point," I said. "So maybe it's Column A: Peake and Crimmins still are colluding. Carrying on the alliance that led to Peake's original blood walk. Having fun with it- recording it on film." My gut tightened. "I just thought of something.
The eye wounds. What's a camera lens?"
He stopped pacing. "An eye."
"An all-seeing eye. Invisible, omniscient, director as god. These crimes are about power and control. Actors as subjects. Subjected. Camera observation goes only one way. I see, you don't. No eyes for you."
"Then why weren't the Beattys' eyes messed with?"
"Maybe because they were already impaired. Drunk- blind drunk?"
"Nutso," he said. "Back to the booby hatch. Maybe while I'm there I'll rent a room.
... Okay, I'll set it up for tomorrow. I'd like you there, see what else you can pick up. Meanwhile, I'll do more tracing on Crimmins, see if I can find out the last time he surfaced under his own name, learn more about those family accidents."
A big finger poked the expanse of wash-and-wear that covered his heart. He winced.
"You okay?" I said.
Laboriously, he stood up. "Just gas-serve me something healthier next time."
27.
GLOSSY WALLS PAINTED a peach pink that managed to be unpleasant. A dozen blond fake-wood school desks lined up in two rows of six. The facing wall was nearly spanned by a spotless blackboard. Rounded edges blunted the plastic frame; no chalk, two soft erasers.
Directly in front of the board was an oak desk, bolted to the floor. Nothing atop the surface. The right-hand wall bore two maps of the world, equal-area and Mercator projection. Posters taped to the walls offered treatises on table manners, nutrition, the basics of democracy, the alphabet in block and cursive, a chronology of U.S. presidents.
Duct tape fastened the posters: no thumbtacks.
The American flag in the corner was plastic sheeting atop a plastic rod, also bolted.
Outward trappings of a classroom. The students wore khaki uniforms and barely fit behind the blond desks.
Six of them.
Up front sat an old man with beautiful golden-white hair. Kindly granddad on a laxative commercial. Behind him were two black men in their thirties, one mocha-toned, freckled, and heavy, with Coke-bottle glasses and a rashlike beard, the other lean, with a hewn-onyx face and the glint-eyed vigilance of a hunter surveying the plains.
At the head of the next row was a very thin creature in his twenties with hollow cheeks, haunted eyes, and blanched lips. Gray fists knuckled his temples. He sat so low his chin nearly touched the desktop. Stringy brown hair streamed from under a gray stocking cap. The hat was pulled down to his eyebrows and made his head appear undersized.
Behind him was giant Chet, yawning, flexing, sniffing, exploring the interior of his mouth with his fingers. So big he had to sit sideways, giraffe legs stretched into the aisle. No hint of the bony horror concealed by khaki trousers. He recognized
Milo and me right away, winked, waved, blew a raspberry, said, "Yo bro my man whus shakin and bakin baked Alaska Juneau you know hot cold tightass don't sneeze on me homey you too homely homo fuck me up the ass." The lean black man glared.
When we'd seen Chet the first day, Frank Dollard hadn't mentioned he'd been part of
Claire's group. Today, Dollard wasn't saying much of anything; he stood in a corner and glared at the inmates.
The last man was a small, sallow Hispanic with a shaved head and a grease-stain mustache. The room was air-conditioned to meat-locker chill, but he sweated. Rubbed his hands together, craned his neck, licked his lips.
More tardive symptoms. I scanned the room for other signs of neurological damage.
Grandpa's hands trembled a bit, but that could've been age. Probably the freckled black man's gaping mouth, though that might have been psychotic stupor or a twisted daydream...
Frank Dollard swaggered to the front of the room and positioned himself behind the oak desk. "Morning, gentlemen."
No more warmth in his voice than fifteen minutes ago, when he'd met us at the inner gate, arms folded across his chest.
"Here again," he'd finally said, making no move to free the lock.
Milo said, "Just couldn't stay away, Frank."
Dollard huffed. "What exactly are you trying to accomplish?"
"Solve a murder, Frank." Milo's hand grazed the lock.
Dollard took a long time pulling out his key ring, locating the right key, inserting it in the lock, giving one sharp turn.
The bolt released. Several more seconds were taken up in pocketing the key. Finally,
Dollard shoved the gate open.
Once we were in, he smiled sourly. "Like I said, what exactly are you trying to accomplish?" Not waiting for an answer, he smoothed his mustache and began walking across the yard. The dirt stretched ahead of us, brown and smooth as butcher's paper.
Milo and I started to follow. Dollard increased the distance between us. The heat and the light were punishing. Inmates stared. If one of them had come from behind,
Dollard would have been no use at all.
Three techs stood watch on the yard. Two Hispanics and a blocky white man, nothing close to Derrick Crimmins's physical description.
Dollard unlocked the rear gate and we approached the main building. Instead of entering, he stopped several feet from the door and rattled his key ring.
"You can't see Mr. Swig. Not here."
"Where is he?" said Milo.
"Hospital business. He said to give you fifteen minutes access to the Skills for
Daily Living group. That's it."
"Thanks for your time, Frank," said Milo, too mildly. "Sorry to be such a bother."
Dollard blinked, pocketed the keys. Gazing back at the yard, he clicked his teeth together. "These guys are like trained animals, you can't vary the stimulus-response too much. Your coming in here is disruptive. Top of that, it's pointless. No one here had anything to do with Dr. Argent."
"Because no one gets out."
"Among other things."
"WendellPelleygotout."
Dollard blinked again. His tongue rolled under his lower lip. "What does that have to do with the price of eggs?"
"A nutcase gets out, a few weeks later one of his shrinks is dead?"
"Dr. Argent was never one of Pelley's shrinks. I doubt she ever ran into him."
"Why was Pelley released?"
"You'd have to ask one of the doctors."
"You have no idea, Frank?"
"I don't get paid to have ideas," said Dollard.
"So you said the first time," said Milo. "But we both know that's crap. What'd
Pelley do to get out?"
