CHAPTER NINE
“This is fucking bullshit.”
Maria sat in her car, in the parking lot outside the White Rose Mental Health Facility, talking on her cell phone to her editor, Miles. Despite the fact that it was late October, it was a warm day. The sun beat down through the windshield, and Maria had rolled down her window. She was tired and the fresh air kept her awake.
“What can I tell you?” Miles said. “Come on. Did you really think you could just walk into a security hospital and speak with the guy?”
“No.” Maria pouted. “Not right away, at least. But I didn’t know I’d have to go through all of this crap.”
Miles laughed. “Listen, kiddo—”
“I hate it when you call me that. It’s demeaning.”
“You’re right. I’m sorry.”
“Me, too. And I’m not pissed at you. I’m just disappointed. I even called in a few favors with some contacts in the medical system.”
“And?”
“No dice.”
“Maria, it’s very tough for a reporter—any reporter—to legitimately get an interview with a patient in one of these facilities, let alone a freelancer for a local rag like ours. The last thing any psychiatric hospital wants is publicity. They don’t want a reporter sniffing around. They’re like a methadone clinic or a group home; they want to stay nestled in communities without people even knowing they exist. They like things kept quiet.”
“But I’m not writing about them. I’m writing about Adam Senft.”
“No therapist, and certainly no administrator, wants their patient exploited for a news story. I mean, can you imagine that headline? ‘Satyr Killer Still Believes Wife Was Pregnant with Anti-Christ.’ There’s no way they’d give a reporter free rein with something like that. And you’re not even there as a reporter. This isn’t on behalf of us. This is for a true-crime book you want to write.”
“I know,” Maria said. “I’m sorry.”
After her late-night dinner with Ken Ripple, Maria had returned home and found herself too wired to sleep. Instead of just lying in bed, tossing and turning, she got up and made herself a fresh pot of coffee. While it brewed, she set her iPod for random play. Then, armed with a cup of coffee and a can of Red Bull, she banged out the first draft of the feature article on the Ghost Walk while Usher sang in the background. The article clocked in at just over three thousand words—perfect for what Miles wanted. Finished with that and still wide-awake, she’d gone online and tried to track down Ramirez, the former police detective who’d been involved with Adam Senft and the last spate of murders in LeHorn’s Hollow. She was disappointed to learn that he’d apparently dropped completely off the grid. His last known address was in Florida, where he’d been working as a security guard for a private firm. Two early morning phone calls confirmed that he was no longer employed with the company, and that he’d moved out of his apartment six months ago and had left no forwarding address. There was a possibility that she could still find him—access driver’s records, employer databases, things like that. But doing so would take time, and the star of her story—Adam Senft—was right here in town. Plus, even if she did track Ramirez down, there was no guarantee he’d consent to be interviewed, or that he even had any pertinent information. She decided to find Ramirez later, and focus on Senft instead. She put out a few feelers to several of her contacts in law enforcement and private investigation, letting them know she was interested in information regarding Ramirez’s whereabouts. Then, still unable to sleep, she’d revised the Ghost Walk piece and e-mailed it to Miles. Finally, she’d showered, ate breakfast, chugged another Red Bull, and drove to the White Rose Mental Health Facility.
Where she’d hit a brick wall—rebuffed by the receptionist and ignored by the officials. When she raised a stink, she was escorted out by a smiling, uniformed guard.
“Can’t you pull some strings for me, Miles? Isn’t there somebody we can talk to?”
“No, there isn’t. And even if there was, it would still take time. First, we would have to get in direct contact with Senft and find out if he wants to be interviewed.”
“I know. They just told me that. They said I’d have to put in a request to get on his visitor’s list and that could take up to two weeks.”
“And they’re right,” Miles said. “But it would probably take even longer than that. Trust me. I know these things.”
“How?”
“I’m an editor. I know everything.”
Maria smiled, but refused to let him hear her laugh.
“Patients at mental hospitals,” Miles continued, “even murderers like Adam Senft, retain most of their rights. They can have visitors, but the tricky part is that all visitors, even their family members, have to be approved by the medical staff. This guy is criminally insane. His life hangs on the thread of a committee of professionals who decide when he can get off the ward, for how long, when he can go outside the facility, see a movie, visit the park. Whatever. So let’s say you contact Senft. You send him a letter, ask to be added to his visitor’s list, and arrange to interview him. And let’s say he agrees—”
“He will.”
“Say he does. Senft then has to take the request to his treatment team. We’re talking a psychologist, social worker, behavioral analyst, unit director, head of security, and a doctor or nurse. All of these people have to determine whether or not the visit would be detrimental to his current treatment plan. You know how long that would take?”
Maria sighed. “A lot longer than two weeks.”
“Exactly. And that’s just if Senft agrees to the interview. He might not, you know. If he wants to get discharged eventually, he wouldn’t want to make waves.”
“But I could get him to consent to an interview. I know I could.”
“And maybe you could. God knows you’ve convinced me to do stuff for you in the past. Things I took a lot of heat for. But even if you did convince him, there’s still no guarantee. Even if you get past the treatment committee, you then have to face the judge who was originally involved in the case. And he’s the one who is ultimately responsible for letting these people back into the community, so you can bet your byline that he’s going to have something to say about it. Senft’s lawyer would be involved, too—if he even has the money to afford a lawyer. State lawyers never get involved with things like this.”
“He was a novelist,” Maria pointed out. “He’s got money.”
“He was a midlist paperback genre writer. They get paid even less than you do. And whatever assets he
did
have are probably frozen. Either that, or they got sold to pay for his defense the first time around. His publisher isn’t going to help him out. But let’s say some well-meaning fan pays for his lawyer, and the lawyer convinces the judge to consider your request. Then you’ve got the hospital and their lawyers stepping in to ask the judge, ‘Why do you want a raving lunatic with paranoid delusions about half human, half goat monsters running around York County impregnating housewives to speak to a reporter?’ End of interview, Maria.”
“Goddamn it…”
“On top of that, there’s HIPPA regulations—those forms the doctors make you sign guaranteeing confidentiality? Those get taken very seriously. Technically, the staff can’t even confirm they have any particular patient in the facility without that patient’s signed consent.”
“I know,” Maria said. “They gave me that song and dance earlier, until the receptionist let it slip that Senft was there.”
“Well, there you go. What I don’t understand is this. Why is it such a big deal to just wait the two weeks—or however long it takes? After all, this is for a book, not an article. A book that you haven’t even pitched yet, let alone sold. Why the rush?”
“I just want to get started on it. I’m excited about the idea. I want to dive in while it’s still fresh.”
“You want some free advice? Sit on it and wait. What are you going to do if you sell this thing on proposal and then lose your sense of excitement halfway through? Then you’ve still got a book to finish. One that you no longer want to write.”
Yawning, Maria glanced around the parking lot, blinking at the bright glare coming through her windshield. It was deserted. Lots of cars and even an Amish horse and buggy parked at the rear, but no people. She assumed most of the vehicles belonged to the staff.
“Come on, Miles,” she pleaded one more time. “Isn’t there something you can do? Anything? Help me out here. Throw me a bone, for Christ’s sake.”
He laughed. “There’s no way I’m getting involved with this.”
“Thanks for nothing.”
“Look, Maria, for what it’s worth, I think you’ve got a solid idea. I think LeHorn and Senft and the whole weird story would be perfect for a true-crime book. It’s got sex, murder, and black magic. I think you’d sell a ton of copies. But my duties are to the newspaper. If you start rattling cages or getting into trouble, and it reflects badly on us, I’d have no choice but to cut you loose as a freelancer. And then, with you gone, they’d hold me responsible. Shit rolls downhill, right? You know what the own er is like. I like my job here. They pay me for it, and in turn I get to keep things like my house and my car and that goddamn inground pool my wife made me buy last summer—the one we never use. Those things cost money and I’m a big fan of money. Therefore, I’m a big proponent of keeping my job. I can’t help you with this.”
“Not even unofficially? Just whisper the name of someone that might be able to help? You owe me, Miles.”
“Nonsense.”
“Who covered that anti abortion rally for you when all your staffers called in sick?”
“You did. And if I remember correctly, we had to publish an official apology because you called that evangelical minister a fuck-head while you were interviewing him.”
“Well, he
was
a fuck-head. But never mind that.”
“Never mind? I
still
get my ass chewed out for that!”
“Who got the county commissioner to admit on tape that the County Parks Department’s public domain seizure of the Larue Farms property was wrong? Who got you that quote when no one else could?”
Miles sighed. “You did.”
“So hook me up.”
There was silence on the other end of the cell phone. Maria thought that maybe her call got dropped, and was ready to curse her service provider, when she heard Miles sigh again.
“Damn it, girl. Okay, look. This is off the record and completely unofficial.”
Maria smiled.
“Are you recording this?”
“You know I wouldn’t do that to you, Miles.”
“There’s a couple of things you could try. Let’s call them ‘backdoors.’ If Senft wants to meet with you, he could lie to his handlers about who you are. Remember, he’s got rights. In Pennsylvania, the staff aren’t permitted to read his mail or monitor his phone calls. So instead of telling his treatment team that you’re a reporter, he could say you’re an old friend or a fan of his books or something like that. They can’t eavesdrop on your conversation when you visit, so you could ask him questions then. But if you got caught doing that, no reputable newspaper, webzine or magazine in the country would ever let you freelance for them again. It would totally discredit you, and you’d be stuck doing blogs.”
“Not necessarily. Reporters do that kind of thing all the time. It’s just part of getting the story.”
“Not anymore. Not with the corporations in charge. This is the New Media. Welcome to the age of accountability to the shareholders.”
“Well, then is there anything else? Something that doesn’t involve me dropping a nuke on my career?”
“Sure. Here’s something else to consider—these facilities have fences, and people can talk through fences.”
“What do you mean?”
“Senft has to have fresh air, right? He has to have exercise. Are you still sitting in the parking lot?”
“Yeah.”
“See the double security fence going around the place? You could try sneaking up to that and talking to him through the mesh.”
“But that’s even riskier than the other method.”
“Correct. So why not just let this go? Move on?”
“Because that receptionist pissed me off. And because I’m stubborn.”
“Yes, you are, Maria. You’re like a goddamned pit bull when it comes to a story. That’s why you’re my favorite freelancer. And that’s why I wish you’d just walk away from this.”
“I can’t. But thanks, Miles. I really do appreciate your help.”
“Don’t mention it. And listen…I’ll ask around. See if I can’t find you someone more sympathetic. But it’s got to be totally on the down low, okay?”
“No worries. I promise.”
“I’ll call you if I hear anything. And again, good job on the Ghost Walk story. It’ll run in this afternoon’s edition. Hawkins got some great photos to go with it.”
“Awesome. Talk to you later, Miles.”
“Stay out of trouble.”
“There won’t be any trouble, as long as I can talk to Adam Senft.”
“Maria!”
“I’m kidding. Bye.”
Grinning, Maria disconnected the call and bent over, putting the cell phone back into its charger, which was plugged in to the car’s cigarette lighter. She yawned again, rubbing her tired eyes. She decided to go home and get some sleep. When she sat back up, a shadow fell over her. A dark-haired, bearded man stood next to the open window. Startled, Maria gasped. She reached for her purse, intent on grabbing her can of pepper spray.
“I’m sorry,” the man apologized, taking a step backward and holding up his hands. “I didn’t mean to startle you. Are you okay?”
Maria’s hand slipped inside her purse. She closed her fingers around the can of pepper spray and paused, studying him. To her surprise, the stranger was either Mennonite or Amish. She couldn’t be sure which. His clothing and hat were a dead giveaway, though, as was his long, bushy beard. When Maria was younger, her mother had liked a rock group called ZZ Top. The band members all had flowing beards. This guy reminded her of them. His age was hard to determine. She guessed that he might be in his early thirties. She remembered the Amish buggy she’d noticed earlier while talking to Miles. If it belonged to him—and she assumed it did—that made him Amish. People from the Mennonite faith drove cars and trucks. Only the Amish still insisted on horse-drawn buggies.