The Brain Vault (Stephanie Chalice Thrillers Book 3) (21 page)

“It’s a little early, isn’t it? What is this stuff anyway?”

“Absinthe, darling lady. I smuggled a supply home when I came back from Europe.”

“Smuggled, why smuggled? You never heard of the duty free shop?”

“Stephanie, the green fairy’s just become legal here in the states but I’ve had a contraband stash here for a while. I used to think of it like Cuban cigars.”

“Cuban cigars are banned for political reasons. Something tells me that’s not the case with your private stock of hooch.”

“Absinthe was banned in the states in the early 1920’s because some of the distillers used low grade alcohol.”

“And?”

“And as a result, some unfortunate people went blind.”

“You know your eyes are a little bloodshot.”

“That’s not from the alcohol. I munched down a mescal button with last night’s supper.”

“Jesus, Nigel, why didn’t you tell me—I thought you were toasted. You’re mixing alcohol with hallucinogens and you expect to help me with a high profile investigation? Are you nuts?”

“Never say die, my lovely, I’m coming down as we speak.”

“Forget about it, you’re in no shape to diagnose the criminally insane.”

Twain poured a sip of his green fairy into an odd glass and then added a splash of ice water. The green stuff turned a fuzzy white. Nigel swirled the liquid in its glass and drank it.

“Oh, that’s beautiful. That’ll help.”

Nigel had the silliest expression on his face that I had ever seen. “I only do this for the religious experience—you know that. I use mescal for its entheogenic qualities.”

That much was true. Nigel was devoutly religious. His nearness to God began when he was a child growing up in London. He had lived through much ridicule for his use of psychoactive substances in the treating of his patients. For him, popping a peyote button was about the same as you or I dropping aspirin.

I needed a little time to assess Twain’s state of mind, so I quizzed him to see if he had presence of mind. “So tell me about this green liquid you just chugged.”

“My dear girl, absinthe has been around since the nineteenth century. It’s said to have hallucinogenic qualities, but I can assure you it does not—if anyone should know, it’s me. It was a very popular drink in most of Europe, Paris in particular, where it was enjoyed by many of the day’s most highly regarded artistes and creative minds: Baudelaire, Lautrec, van Gogh, Gauguin, and Picasso, were all fond of the drink.”

Now Picasso, I understood; he’d have had to have been blitzed to paint some of the stuff he did. Go to the museum and check out Guernica, you’ll know exactly what I mean.

“It’s made from wormwood.”

I didn’t need to know that. As far as I was concerned, I’d spent too much time in the insect world already. I mean I know there are no actual bugs in wormwood, but a girl’s got to draw the line somewhere.

So a few minutes had passed and Twain was still looking silly, but as far as I could tell, he was completely lucid. “Nigel, I’ll ask you one last time. Are you in touch with reality? Are you going to be able to analyze my tunnel rat and tell me what’s going on in his crazy head?”

“Like no one else can.”

Good enough for me. I put Twain in the car and drove to Lenox Hill. Nigel Twain had never led me astray.

Z
ugg had gotten a lift back home.
I sincerely hoped that he was enjoying some rest. The man had a good soul—what he was going through, it just wasn’t fair. I felt as if I needed to thank him daily for his help, as if each time I saw him might be the last. I didn’t for his sake—to help him stay strong and hopeful. I did include him in my prayers at the end of each day. As a matter of routine, I prayed each night for my father’s eternal spirit, my family, my friends, and of course for Gus. I had recently included my old boss, Sonellio, and now Zugg. The list was growing: the names of those I implored God to safeguard, the ones I couldn’t protect on my own. Who would be next?

Ambler and Lido both looked like they had benefited from some well needed shuteye. They were at the hospital and waiting for us when we arrived. Lido was cordial to Twain, despite his nagging suspicions that Twain was a frequent visitor in my dreams, a demonic tempter with an animal magnetism I could not resist. Was that in Lido’s mind or mine? Ambler had his doubts about Twain, but kept his mouth shut, and would continue to do so as long as Twain continued to come through for us. As I mentioned, the man was a bit eccentric, but he had the right stuff.

“Your John Doe died last night,” Ambler said.

“The tortured man?” Twain asked. I’d given him a high level briefing on the drive uptown. The fact that he had retained some of it was good news—it just confirmed for me that he wasn’t totally sloshed.

“That’s too bad. It would’ve been nice if he had seen his assailant brought to justice.”

“He might be able to do that yet.” Twain was hinting at the afterlife. I wasn’t saying his beliefs didn’t have merit, but I didn’t want to get into it.

“I hope they’re sending him for an autopsy.”

“They are,” Lido replied. “I made the call myself.”

“Nigel is here to do a preliminary psychological evaluation on our tunnel boy.”

Ambler turned to Twain. “Lido and I already looked in on him. He’s awake and the nurses have him cleaned up. I don’t want to waste any more time. We have to get over this poor little urchin thing and treat him like the suspect he is, one that may be responsible for torture, homicide, and kidnapping. We can’t allow his disfigurement to play on our sympathies a moment longer.”

“Agreed,” Twain said. “So long as he’s able to communicate—based on Chalice’s description, withdrawal is the least of our worries. I won’t know until I see him. In any case, I’m ready.”

Maiguay was waiting in attendance when we arrived at the psychiatric wing. “I’m sorry your John Doe didn’t make it, Detective. I know you were counting on his coming around.”

“Life doesn’t always go the right way. Thanks for everything you did.” Maiguay was familiar with Lido and Ambler. I introduced him to Twain. “Dr. Twain is here on behalf of NYPD to do a psychological assessment.”

They shook hands. “You have privileges with Lenox Hill?” Maiguay asked.

“For many years. You did the initial intake on our suspect?”

“I did. He had tremendous levels of anxiety, so I put him on two milligrams of Xanax and he still jumps out of his skin at the slightest start. Frankly, Dr. Twain, I think he’s frightened to death. The good Lord only knows how long he’s been roaming around those subway tunnels. He’s been plucked from his native environment, chased by the police, Tasered—”

Ambler interrupted. “That poor man you’re so damn worried about may be guilty of torture and murder. If he has any information that might lead us to Paul Liu, we need to get it out of him now.”

“Torture, murder…him? I wouldn’t think so. I’m no psychologist, but he has very limited executive functioning.”

“What does that mean?” Lido asked.

Twain answered as the resident psychological expert in the group. “It means he couldn’t possibly plan anything as complex as abduction or carrying out any of those horrible deeds that befell Kevin Lee. Did you attempt any rudimentary testing, Dr. Maiguay?”

“Yes, just the basics of course.”

“How did he do with the Tower of Hanoi Test?”

“He was distracted by it as one would expect from a patient with frontal lobe damage. He was unable to complete the test. I attempted the Wisconsin Card Sorting Task with similar poor results.”

“I see,” Twain said. “Does he respond to a name?”

“Yes, he responds to the name Rat.”

“Rat? He responds to the name, Rat?”

Maiguay nodded. “As I said, his level of executive functioning is almost nil.”

“He sounds preseverative,” Twain said.

“Before we go all soft and gooey again, how do we know he’s not a malingerer?” Ambler asked. “I’ve seen plenty of good fakers in my day.”

“That’s not for me to determine,” Maiguay said. “I suggest we let Dr. Twain evaluate for himself.”

“Then what are we waiting for,” I said. “Let’s roll.”

L
enox Hill had a monitoring room in the psychiatric ward, with a one-way mirror similar to the setup NYPD used for lineup identification. Ambler, Lido, and I filed into the observation room.

“That Maiguay is a bleeding heart,” Ambler said, his temperature still running on high.”

“He’s a doctor, not a cop. What would you expect of him or anyone like him?” Lido said.

They were both right, but for now I was more interested in Twain’s assessment of our suspect. We watched as he entered the room, the one occupied by the man that responded to the name, Rat.

Twain entered the room in a very unassuming manner. Nonetheless, our suspect was startled by the opening door and looked nervous as he watched Twain enter the room. Twain’s posture was relaxed and his facial expression was pleasant. He pulled a chair alongside Rat’s bed. Just for the record, Rat was restrained. He was after all a murder suspect.

“Hello,” Nigel said.

Rat did not respond. He continued to monitor his new visitor with extreme caution.

“You’ve been through quite an ordeal. I do hope you’re feeling a little bit better after a good night’s sleep and some tender loving care.” Twain had studied Rat through the door’s glass viewing panel prior to entering the room so as not to be shocked by the man’s appearance. Even so, I could see him fighting the temptation to stare at the man’s gross facial deformities.

Though retrained, Rat did his best to put a few additional inches between himself and Twain, but he did not speak.

“I mean you no harm. I merely need to ask you a few questions, will that be alright?” Twain’s British voice was peaceful and soothing to the point of sending us all off for a catnap.

I could see Rat turn his wrists within his leather restraints. As I noticed the other day, his fists were still clenched. “Hurt,” his voice was very nasal and barely decipherable, which was not uncommon for someone with such a severely damaged palate.

Twain picked up on his movements. “Are your restraints too tight?”

“Hurt, hurt.”

“I’m going to loosen your wrist restraints, just a notch. Do I have your word that you will remain calm and in your bed?”

Rat did not respond. Twain waited a moment, likely making a mental assessment of whether to proceed or not. He finally adjusted the restraints, loosening each a single notch and no more.

“Is that better?”

As before, Rat was unresponsive. The Tower of Hanoi Test was on the bed with him. It looked like a common children’s toy, a circular base with a pole in the middle; brightly colored rings were stacked on the pole, their size diminishing as they got to the top. Rat turned back to the toy and began to stare at it.

“How are you feeling?”

“Hungry.”

“The doctor is feeding you intravenously. Do you understand what that means?”

“Hungry.” Rat switched gears. He grinned and began to kick his feet playfully. Twain watched attentively.

“I’ll see that you’re brought some food. Is there something special you might like?”

“Hot dog, ketchup…hot dog, ketchup.”

“Okay, I’ll see about getting you something you like… Can you tell me your name?”

“Rat.” He was getting more and more excited. The Tower of Hanoi toy fell off the bed.

Twain made no attempt to retrieve the toy or calm him down. “Is that the only name you have?”

“Rat.”

“I’m sure that’s not the name you were born with. Don’t you have another name, a name you like better?”

Rat looked off the side of the bed, searching for his toy. He continued to kick his legs.

“Who gave you that name?”

“Sir.”

“Who is Sir?”

Rat did not respond.

“I’m going to ask you some important questions. I hope you’ll answer them as best you can.” Twain paused momentarily, and then continued. “A friend of mine is lost, and I was wondering if you might know where he is. His name is Paul and I’m very concerned about him.”

“Paul.” Rat began to smile.

“Paul is a very good friend of mine. Can you tell me something about Paul? Is he alright?”

“Like Paul.”

“Why do you like Paul?”

“Paul perfect.”

“Do you know where I can find him? I miss him very much and I worry about him.”

“Where Paul?”

“When was the last time you saw Paul?”

Rat’s smile faded. He began to pout.

“Did someone take Paul?”

“Gone.” He was on the verge of tears.

“Is Paul with someone you know?”

“Sir.”

“How can I find Sir?”

Rat stopped kicking but did not respond verbally. He turned away from Twain and intensified his search for the Tower of Hanoi toy.

“Thank you. You’ve been very helpful. I’ll see that you’re brought something to eat.” Twain stood and walked to the door. He turned back before exiting. “Why is Paul perfect?”

Rat grinned, but didn’t respond.

Within a moment, Twain had joined us in the monitoring room.

“What do you think, Nigel?”

“On one hand, he appears to have extremely limited executive functioning, as Dr. Maiguay suggested. He lacks the ability to organize, so the idea of his masterminding an elaborate crime seems well beyond his intellectual capability. His mannerisms, speech, and of course his moniker, all relate to someone who has lived his life in subservience. This Sir character he referenced may have abused him. The lesions on his forehead, the large one in particular may be responsible for his limited intellect. The areas of the brain that deal with speech and cognition are located in the frontal lobe.”

“So you buy the whole thing?”

“I didn’t say that—ten minutes does not an evaluation make.”

“So it’s possible he’s full of shit?” Ambler said.

“Yes,” Twain replied. I could see he was still mulling over the facts. “There’s always that.”

T
he camping trip had been her idea; breaking early for lunch and a quickie had been his.
They were in the Ford pickup with the windows rolled down. It was after the act, and Randy was ready for his post coital nap. He wanted to pass out and stay passed out until there wasn’t enough daylight left for anything but finding their way out of The Pine Barrens.