Michael Baden - Remains Silent

Other files contained more mundane records: an order for 150 sheets and pillowcases in 1916; prices paid for laboratory equipment in 1925; and- strange- a copy of the August 1963 Baxter County Daily Gazette. Unusual, Manny thought, for a newspaper to be included in medical files.

Ah. The front page was devoted to the upcoming Turner Mental Hospital summer picnic. A photograph of the grounds taken at a similar fкte in May showed women strolling in spring dresses, men in fine suits at their sides. A schedule noted the time for the opening ceremonies and promised a barbecue, ring-tossing contest, square dance, and other social events. The public was invited to attend: admission $1 “for the benefit of indigent patients.” There were several other photographs of the May event; some showed doctors, nurses, and patients posing with the patients.

It became clear to Manny that the Turner Mental Hospital, as it was called here, was more than a treatment center; it had been the social and economic core of Baxter County. Later files covered the final change of the hospital’s name, a near drowning in its pool, a power failure, the menace of a rabid dog. And then, sadly, the closing of the institute due to lack of funds

GRIM DAY FOR TURNER, a headline in the hospital newsletter proclaimed.

Finally, Manny came to a different set of files: patients’ records going back to the opening of the hospital. These she began to read with care, distracted from her search by accounts of the treatments for a variety of illnesses from dementia to alcoholism and how they changed over the years.

In all, Manny read for nearly five hours, spending just the last hour looking for the file on James Albert Lyons. She couldn’t find his name, not in any of the years between the end of the Korean war and 1964, the day he disappeared. Maybe I’ve looked too quickly, she thought, and was about to start again when she felt more than heard Lorna Meissen creeping up behind her.

“I’m afraid you’ll have to leave,” Lorna said. “I’m the only one here, and I’m finishing up for the day.”

Damn! “May I photocopy a couple of items?”

Lorna bridled. “I think you’ll have to come back, Ms. Manfreda. I’m not sure photocopying’s permitted.”

Manny was too tired to invent a law to cover the situation. “Then may I have fifteen more minutes?”

“You may. But I leave at four-fifteen sharp.”

Manny smiled at her. “Thanks. I’ll be downstairs in a few.” Indeed, she was already running late for her dinner date with Jake Rosen, and, having skipped lunch, she was famished.

When Lorna left, Manny rifled through the remaining files. She opened a cardboard cylinder labeled ARCHITECTURAL PLANS and stuffed it into her tote bag. None of the other files appeared to contain any information on the treatment of James Lyons. Manny justified her prospective action to herself. It’ll give me the feel of the place. She added a variety of files that might contain information on James Lyons, though they didn’t offer much hope. I’ll just take them home, look at them tonight, copy the ones I need in my office, and send them back. Lorna will be too terrified to tell her boss I took them, and no one else will miss this stuff for a few days- or a few years, for that matter.

She repacked the boxes, left them on the table, and headed out the door, taking the stairs down. She’d have stopped at the second floor to snoop, but she didn’t want to be late for Lorna. She heard the elevator rising as she reached the lobby and thought it was Lorna coming to look for her, but Lorna was waiting impatiently at the front desk. Perhaps the passenger was the mysterious Mr. Parklandius. Frustrated by the day, feeling she’d found nothing important, Manny fought the temptation to run back upstairs just to get a glimpse of him.

The air had turned cold. Manny put the top up on the Porsche and called her office.

“Dull day,” her assistant, Kenneth, reported. “Nothing new on Cabrera or Morales. Mr. Williams claims whiplash. And, bless the good Lord, Mrs. Livingston finally sent you her check. We eat for another month, and don’t forget the sale today at Bendel’s.”

Kenneth Medianos Boyd was a street kid who had earned his paralegal certification in jail. He dreamed of being a lawyer, but for that he needed a degree, and that meant money, which in turn necessitated two jobs: working for Manny and as a waitress named Princess K in the nightclub Changing Places. Princess K, fastidious about the cleanliness of the ladies’ room, printed out signs saying PLEASE MAKE SURE YOU FLUSH EVERYTHING DOWN THE TOILET and posted them in the stalls. He had been assigned to Manny as a pro bono client when he’d been arrested on charges of conspiracy to destroy evidence- drugs- by flushing it away. He spent the night in the men’s lockup dressed in five-inch platform heels of shiny turquoise patent leatherette, a bright-green string bikini with ruffles and a tail of peacock feathers, full makeup, and, of course, shaved underarms. The men in the holding pen were terrified of him.

Manny didn’t have to work hard to spring her client, despite his prior conviction on the same charges. The judge laughed so hysterically at the getup and the story he could barely gasp the words “Case dismissed.” But they’d spent enough time together to bond. Kenneth was bright and hard-working, and he needed a day job. She could keep an eye on him and he could double as her fashion consultant, given his talent for mixing and matching outrageous clothes with shoes, bags, and scarves. Every day he checked the paper for designer sample sales.

“There’s one thing more,” he said. “Dr. Rigor Mortis called.”

“You mean Rosen?”

“The very one. He’s at a crime scene, wants to make your dinner later, suggests meeting you at six-thirty at the corner of Sixty-sixth and Third. Says you and he can talk about the case while you walk to the restaurant.”

It’ll give me time to change. What does one wear to get his attention, a death mask? “Call him back and tell him fine. And give him my cell phone number in case he’s delayed again.”

If he is, I wonder who’ll do his autopsy.

It was dark when Manny got to the corner, but she could easily make out his slumped silhouette. He was standing under a streetlight, poring over papers he had obviously extracted from the briefcase at his feet. He certainly hadn’t gone home to change. His suit was wrinkled and he probably hadn’t combed his hair since he testified at the Carramia trial.

She snuck up behind him. “Good evening.”

Flustered, he put the papers away and faced her. “Ms. Manfreda, thanks for meeting me.” He gawked. “Didn’t you have red hair?”

“This week I’m blond,” she said with a shrug. “Didn’t want to clash with my new bag.” She displayed a red tote, a valise-sized affair with natural leather trim and gold hardware. “It’s a Vuitton. I was on the waiting list for nine months.”

He stared at the bag, then at her. What kind of lunatic…? An attractive one, he admitted. Her hair looked great, going nicely with the bag and her purple-and-red tweed suit. She had a full-voluptuous- figure, unlike the anorexics on TV and the streets of Manhattan, who all seemed in need of a big banana split. Her eyes were a shade between blue and gray, and her clear skin summoned up the usual comparison to porcelain. At least she didn’t layer on the makeup. If he had learned one thing from the autopsy table, it was that too many women weren’t content with the gifts nature had provided.

“See something interesting?” she asked.

He blushed, realizing he had stared too long and too hard. “I see what you mean about the bag and the hair.”

“What restaurant are we going to?”