Jerry Labriola - Murders at Hollings General

David snorted. "Well, we have a case in point here. There's a real loony tunes running around this hospital."

"How did it happen? With Ted, I mean."

"He was on the sixth floor and, moments later, was found lying on top of the car at the bottom of the back elevator shaft. Someone rigged the mechanism."

"Down the shaft? Oh, my! It couldn't have been an accident?"

"Conceivably, but think about it, Sam-the mechanism was rigged. Plus the killer left a message." David revealed the contents of the smeared paper on his windshield the week before and of the tape in the control room. "Now," he added, leaning forward, "and this is why I'm here. What's your read on the kind of person doing this? Hardly your run-of-the-mill miscreant, right?" Hell, David thought, why not "shrink-speak"?

"Hardly. Take the way Charlie Bugles was slaughtered." The psychiatrist spoke deliberately. "Now you tell me about this elevator shaft thing-that took a lot of precision, I would guess. Why didn't our Mr. X just use a gun? He must have had a mental lapse in shooting Coughlin, and that's characteristic of this personality type-inconsistency. Next, we add the notes. That's also characteristic: `Look world, look what I'm about to do,' or `Look what I've done.' He not only kills, but gets a kick out of announcing it in advance or applauding himself afterward. The murder is not sufficient, even if there's real motive. He's compelled to add an unreal touch of the dramatic-an exclamation point, if you will."

David slid to the edge of the recliner. "He knows exactly what he's doing, then?"

"Yes, indeed. In my opinion, these aren't simply random killings. The guy's got motive and diffuse hostility. It's not well-organized like a specific gripe against a specific person or thing. It's diffuse. It's rage. And that's the worst combination: a person with a diffuse hostility who's presented with a motive he can't handle in predictable ways. He feels persecuted and goes bonkers."

David realized he was receiving insights from a man who drew on many years of experience in the behavioral field, insights that coincided with his own tenuous ideas. That's the way it was for him lately: uncertain, everything a battle in his own mind. David needed reinforcement. But also structure. He was getting both from Dr. Corliss.

"Sam, can I ask you about a specific person?"

"You mean some famous cases? The Boston Strangler? Son of Sam? Jack, the Ripper? None of them fits this profile, incidentally."

"No. I mean Victor Spritz."

"Victor Spritz? He's a suspect?"

"I'd have to answer yes, but I'm not sure. You know him as well as I do. What can you say?" David leaned closer. "Better still, has he ever consulted you?"

Dr. Corliss stood and walked to a filing cabinet, draping a thick wrist over its top. "Everything in here is confidential, David. It would be a breach of medical ethics and my conscience, too, to reveal if a person is or is not a patient of mine, whether we discuss the case or not. You see, merely saying so-and-so was a patient gives him a label. A psychiatric label. And I happen to believe that an extension of that ethical canon-if we can call it that-is that it's unconscionable even to say someone has never consulted me. So the way we get around it is-if you're asking whether Spritz has ever seen me professionally, I can say there's no record of him in here." He patted the file cabinet.

"Sam, you're beautiful! Okay, let me ask, then could he fit the mold you described?"

"Without a doubt " The psychiatrist fingered his medallion as David checked for movement. "I've seen Spritz at his worst and, frankly, he scares me. He's either easily triggered into rage reactions or he's got T.E.D."

"T.E.D.?"

"Transient Explosive Disorder. Either way, he should be on medication. I'd love to see his EEG."

Dr. Corliss returned to his chair and, drumming his fingers on the desk, said, "But do you know what? There are plenty of others tottering on that same edge-working right here in this hospital."

"Care to name a few?"

"Now, now. Ethics. Remember-ethics."

For the most part, David had received the information he sought. And as he departed from the psychiatrist's office, he realized what it was that appeared changed in the wizened psychiatrist. He no longer acted like a disgruntled loser as he had the year before in the election for Chief of Staff at Hollings General.

After the visit to Rosen Hall, David motored home primarily to upload three days of information into his computer. Typing haltingly, he came to understand such entries were another mechanism for structure, a means of distilling chaos while cleansing his mind.

Tuesday, January 20

MURDERS, continued-

Ted Tanarkle-bottom of elevator shaft.

Mayor and hospital committees acting up. Bernie never took flight to Tokyo.

Sparky: Coughlin's murder weapon Japanese rifle. Kathy: Says I'm still running show. But, what's Nick up to?

Foster had major surgical training.

Bernie punched out brother Robert.

Dr. Corliss said Spritz easily disturbed. I say he's not alone around here.

At five-forty-five, he left for the fifteen-minute drive to the other end of the city. Running north to south within a chain-link fence, the Regional Recycling Center was a strip of land sunk in the middle of a crater, not unlike the rectangular bottom of a wicker basket. A dirt road encircled the Center while, laterally, bushy terrain rose to the level of elm tops which were based alongside the road below. The high ground formed a rim which sloped on all sides to main streets leading to the city proper. Below and from opposite sides of the elevation, two blacktops shot to the rim only to become, on the other side, dirt themselves.

A block from the foot of the elevation, David stopped his car under a streetlight while he kept the motor running. He opened Friday, pulled out his Blackhawk Magnum and laid it on the seat between his thighs. He shrugged his left shoulder to feel the Minx.22, then reached down and patted his ankle snubby.

Halfway up the hill, he turned off the headlights and shifted to a lower gear for a slower, less noisy accent. A single lamp on a pole flooded the enclosure from the south side, and as his car bent down over the east rim, David saw the shadow of a hoisting crane spilling against the left bank, a giant crustacean perched on the latticed pattern of the fence.

Light fog drifted in the silent, sharp air and David pounced on his Blackhawk when he heard the guttural meows of cats in a standoff. Easy now. He returned his hand to the wheel and eased the car forward, head still, eyes sweeping to and fro. He stopped abruptly when, over the dimly lit rows of barrels and dumpsters and through the links on the other side, he spotted the shape of a car.

David was about to flash his lights. Wait! Who says he's in the car? He wanted to slouch down but the Mercedes wasn't built for his frame. He thus hunched his back and buried his head in his shoulders, turtle-like. Whipping out the Minx and grabbing the Blackhawk, he switched them in his hands and kept them close to his chest as he waited.

The other car's lights blinked. David returned the blink, put down only the Minx and took his foot off the brakes. His car reached level land and, instead of gradually accelerating, he swerved to the left and gunned around to reach the far end in less than a moment, screeching to a halt opposite the driver's side of a late model sedan. He felt the floodlight in his eyes and, in one motion, pointed the Magnum at a darkened figure as he tightened his finger on the trigger, fully expecting to see a gun butt similarly leveled in his direction. There was none. The figure disappeared beneath the window and David heard a muffled plea, "David, don't. It's me, Nick Medicore."