John Miller - Too Far Gone

Veronica nodded slowly.

“And,” Alexa added, “I want the names and pertinent info on all of the staff that worked on Danielson’s ward in the year before she vanished.”

“I don’t know…that’s kept-”

“I have all the confidence on earth that you’ll find those things for me,” Alexa said firmly. “When there’s no choice, there’s always a way.”

Alexa returned to the hospital director’s office after her visit with Veronica Malouf, to find Dr. Whitfield expounding on the hospital and the role it played in not merely protecting society from the anti-social actions of the hospital’s residents, but, just as importantly, in protecting the residents from an ill-informed and suspicious society.

“Patient inmates are re-evaluated on a yearly basis. If Danielson was judged to be of less danger to herself or others, she would certainly have been moved progressively into less restrictive wards and eventually-as a result of successful therapies-she might have been released into a halfway house, or to her family if certain criteria were met, or into some other appropriate, and authorized, living situation. Do you know her original diagnosis?”

“Paranoid schizophrenia,” Alexa said. She didn’t want Dr. Whitfield getting curious and starting to dig into this patient the FBI found of interest. “Voices commanding her to kill. Standard diagnosis.”

“Ah, if she was delusional, it is generally accepted that she was not responsible for her actions,” Whitfield said.

“She’s here, by the way. Safe and sound,” Alexa said.

“That’s the end to our little mystery,” Whitfield announced.

“Looks that way,” Manseur said. When he looked at Alexa, she tilted her head to signal him that it was time to go. Dr. Whitfield stood when Manseur did.

“I’d love to pick your brain sometime,” Dr. Whitfield said. “I’m fascinated with police procedure as it relates to homicide cases and I’m sure you must have a plethora of tales in your grab bag. I’ve thought about writing a novel-more or less a fictionalized version of my own experiences with the criminally insane. We have to get together soon.”

“It would be my pleasure, Dr. Whitfield,” Manseur said, handing him one of his cards.

“Maybe we could schedule a round of golf,” Dr. Whitfield said.

“Absolutely. The frustration of chasing the ball around and making numerous attempts to steer it into a small hole relaxes me.”

“Frustration relaxes you? Now, that is interesting.”

“It’s great, since my life is nothing but frustration,” Manseur said, smiling. “Stress kills more cops than bullets. Me? I’m always loose as a goose.”

“And a sense of humor helps, I bet,” Whitfield said. “Doctors use humor in stressful situations, just like members of the Detective Bureau.”

“Thank you for your cooperation and insights into mental health,” Alexa said, shaking Dr. Whitfield’s hand.

“It’s what I know,” Whitfield replied. “Anytime. Let’s get together next week, Detective Manseur. You’ll join me at the Metarie Country Club for a round of golf?”

“Depending on what the hurricane does,” Manseur said.

“They’ll have any downed trees cleared from the fairways next day. Mark my word.”

After they left the building, Alexa said, “There’s a common theme in this case.”

“What?”

“Missing files.”

“The release form, you mean?”

“That, and there are no treatment records. I inspired Veronica to find them for us. She’s scared to death of crossing LePointe, but I think she’s more afraid of me at the moment. She told me that LePointe is still exerting influence over the place.”

After retrieving their weapons, they got in the car and Manseur started it. “At least we know Sibby Danielson is locked up.”

“She may indeed be locked up, but not here,” Alexa said.

“You just said…”

“Veronica was calling Decell. I interrogated her. She assured me Sibby isn’t here, despite what the lack of a release form indicates. I lied to Dr. Whitfield. I’m praying your brain-picking, future golfing partner doesn’t decide to check on her for himself.”

“How is Decell involved?”

Alexa explained what she’d learned from Veronica Malouf.

“That doesn’t mean the one thing has anything at all to do with the other. Sibby and Gary West.”

“Dr. LePointe was the director of the hospital just after his brother’s murderess was sent here. I can’t believe the obvious conflict of interest.”

“This is New Orleans. Conflict of interest has a different meaning here than most places.”

“I keep forgetting that the rules that govern the rest of us mortals don’t apply to Dr. LePointe,” she said, tasting acid in her throat. She fished an antacid from her purse and chewed it.

At the gate, a waiting guard asked them to open the car’s trunk. Manseur hit the button and the lid rose. They sat in silence while the guard looked inside, using a flashlight to illuminate the shadowy corners. After looking through the windows to make sure there were no inmates hiding in the car, he signaled for the gate to be opened and waved them on.

“It doesn’t mean anything,” Manseur told Alexa, “but Sibby was here while he was running the facility. We have to eliminate her as a possible participant in the abduction. I admit it’s somewhat strange on its face. He does have a degree in psychiatry and a well-documented social conscience.”

“I find it somewhat strange on any face that a wealthy physician like LePointe, who probably has a medical school degree from a no-doubt impressive medical school and an ego the size of the Great Pyramid would take on running an ancient, crumbling mental asylum out in the middle of nowhere. Social conscience or not, it’s odd.”

“I seriously doubt Dr. LePointe would commit a crime or otherwise risk his reputation. He’s a dedicated physician.”

“You might just think what he wants people to think. You don’t know him.”

“Neither do you,” Manseur said, bristling. “Let’s do some investigating before we get our panties in a bunch.”

“Michael, are you wearing panties?”

“I don’t believe Sibby Danielson is connected to Gary’s disappearance. She’s a side issue, and LePointe’s connection is better suited to investigation by the state medical ethics board than by the NOPD…or the FBI.”

“So you suggesting we drop Sibby?” Alexa asked.

“I didn’t say that,” Manseur said, defensively.

“We have to compile a list of individuals involved and run their phone records to look for call patterns that tie them to each other and the Gary West event.”

“That could be tricky for me,” Manseur said. “Soon as I ask for LePointe’s phone records, red flags are going to wave all through City Hall.”

“I wouldn’t dream of involving anybody local,” Alexa told him.

Manseur frowned.

“Anybody else, I mean.”

Because of the headache, Leland Ticholet was chewing up one aspirin tablet after another as he piloted the boat toward Doc’s place. He needed his good headache pills and a dark space until the lights in his brain stopped flashing. He was tempted to pull over and lie down on the bench with a burlap bag over his head, but he needed his pills bad. It had been a while since he’d had a migraine, because he had pills to take every day to keep them away. They had worked until he forgot to take one due to all the excitement of thumping that man for Doc and all.

As he turned into the channel toward the little house, he could barely focus his eyes ahead because the sunlight hitting the water shot right into his brain like a nail.