Authors: David Eddings
“This has been one of the grossest miscarriages of justice in living memory!” he declared. “Judge Compson is obviously one of those bleeding heart liberals who turn cold-blooded murderers loose on society with absolutely no regard whatsoever about public safety. Worse yet, the prosecuting attorney was obviously in on the scam. He didn’t even bother to question the witnesses, for Chrissake!”
A brief shot of the reporter who was conducting the interview showed us a young fellow on the verge of collapse. His look of stunned chagrin was almost comical. Burpee had obviously caught him completely off guard.
Burpee ignored him and plowed on. “This so-called sanity hearing was nothing more than a cheap excuse to let some spoiled rich brat get off scot-free without ever taking the case to trial. That Greenleaf chippy butchered nine law-abiding citizens just for kicks. These were obviously thrill killings, and now the murderer’s going to get off with nothing more than a slap on the wrist. Well, I’m not going to let them get away with it. I’m blowing the whistle on them right here and now. There’s been a lot of secret manipulation by a bunch of crooked politicians to hush something up that’s so rotten that it makes me want to puke. They’re trying to sneak this thrill killer off to some country-club nunnery operated by a bunch of nuns who are on the take. If somebody offers those so-called Sisters of Hope a big enough bribe, they’ll set a female murderer up in luxurious surroundings and wait on her hand and foot for the rest of her life. That woman belongs in a prison—or at the very least in an institution for the criminally insane. She should be locked up behind bars permanently, for God’s sake, but no, she’ll get coddled and pampered instead. The criminal justice system just fell apart!”
Burpee’s eyes were bulging, and he was obviously totally out of it. Another quick shot of the reporter showed him making desperate gestures at the camera, but evidently the cameraman was either asleep, amused, or Burpee’s diatribe had caught him completely off guard and he’d frozen up.
Finally, somebody in the control room woke up and switched to a commercial.
“I wonder if Judge Compson’s schedule’s all filled up,” Charlie said. “I think it might be time for another sanity hearing.”
“Maybe after he gets out of jail,” Trish amended. “When Judge Compson hears about this, she’ll cite him for contempt of court.”
“Aw, gee,” Charlie said. “What a shame.”
“Meanwhile, you
do
realize that he just told the whole world about the Sisters of Hope, don’t you?” James asked. “The mother superior’s not going to be happy at all. She could very well tell the bishop to forget the whole thing.”
“Can she do that?” Charlie demanded. “I thought the bishop was the headman, and everybody’s supposed to take orders from him.”
“It doesn’t work that way, Charlie,” Sylvia told him. “The various religious orders have their own hierarchies. The bishop can’t just issue orders to the mother superior. He’d have to go through channels, and it could take years to get a ruling. I’m not sure, but this might even have to be settled by the Vatican.”
“I think we might be in trouble,” Erika said.
There was some late-breaking news that afternoon that brightened up our day: As soon as Judge Compson heard about Burpee’s little performance, she’d cited him for contempt of court, and now he was cooling his heels in jail. That made us all feel a little bit better.
Charlie was grinning broadly at breakfast on Saturday morning. “Well,” he said, “old Burpee’s history. I called Bob last night, and he told me that old blabbermouth has been suspended, and if Judge Compson ever lets him out of jail, he’ll get booted off the force. That fit of his yesterday
really
upset the higher-ups in the police department, and they’re going to dump him before he embarrasses the department any more.”
Aw,” Erika said, “poor baby.”
“Let’s not start gloating yet,” Trish told us. “All of Burpee’s blathering on camera might have closed the door of the convent for Renata. If it turns out that way, Doctor Fallon’s sanitarium might be the best we can hope for.”
“You always look on the dark side of things, Trish,” Erika complained. “You should really try to lighten up.”
Charlie had a meeting at Boeing that evening. I was more or less marking time until the Twinkie matter was settled once and for all, but life went on for the others.
It was about eight-thirty when James rapped on my door. “Are you busy, Mark?” he asked.
I set the book I’d been reading aside. “Not really,” I said. “What’s up?”
He came in and sat down. “Something’s been bothering me, and I thought maybe we could talk it out.”
“Sure,” I replied. “What’s the problem?”
“As I understood your testimony, the decision to call the surviving twin ‘Renata’ after the murder up in Everett in ’95 was pretty arbitrary, wasn’t it?”
I shrugged. “It sort of fit, that’s all. Nobody could tell the twins apart, so all we had to go on was the dominance of Regina. She was usually the one who made the decisions for the twins. Renata usually hung back.”
“It all comes down to ‘usually,’ then, doesn’t it?”
“Where are we going with this?” I asked him.
“It seems to me that ‘usually’ is pretty shaky ground to base a decision like that on. We’ve been operating on the notion that Renata’s undergoing a personality change before she goes hunting. She somehow turns herself into Regina. But just for the sake of argument, let’s look at an alternative. What if Renata was the victim, and Regina was the survivor?”
I nodded. “Okay, but it doesn’t fit their personalities, James,” I protested. “Regina was dominant.
She
would have been the one who’d have gone looking for a telephone.”
“Aren’t you assuming that the twins weren’t switching dominance back and forth the same way they switched hair ribbons? Were they ever really separate enough actually to have individual identities? You told us that they almost never used the words ‘you’ and ‘me.’ All they said was ‘we.’ Was there ever a
real
Regina or a
real
Renata?”
“Why are you doing this to me, James?” I demanded. “What set you off on this?”
“Complication, Mark. In my field, we’re supposed to look for the simplest answer. All of this ‘fugue’ or ‘multiple personality’ business steps around the possibility of a much simpler answer. If the twins didn’t have separate identities, it doesn’t matter
which
one was killed, does it? Stay with me here. The surviving Twinkie was shocked into a psychotic state by her sister’s murder, right?”
“That much is pretty certain,” I admitted.
“Then she spent six months in Fallon’s sanitarium talking to herself, right?”
“You’re being obvious, James.”
“Simple answers usually
are
obvious. She wasn’t in solitary confinement during that period, was she? That first paper she wrote for your class suggests that she was aware of her surroundings and of her fellow inmates, right?”
“Well, probably, yes.”
“Wouldn’t that have given the twins six months to develop their game plan?”
“There’s just one of her now, James,” I protested.
“I’m not so sure,” he disagreed, “and if you think about it a little, I don’t think you will be, either.”
“Are you saying that this has all been a put-up job? You seem to think that Twinkie—whichever one she is—has been faking insanity right from the start.”
“I didn’t say
faking
, Mark. The surviving Twinkie
is
profoundly disturbed—incurably disturbed, probably. ‘Insane’ doesn’t mean ‘stupid,’ though. Twinkie—whoever she is—has been cleverly manipulating all of us in order to get what she wants—revenge.” He made a sour face. “I don’t really think ‘revenge’ is the right word. I think ‘self-defense’ would come a lot closer. Fergusson attacked her, and then she struck back.”
“After
three years
?” I demanded incredulously.
“Would elapsed time have any meaning for her? I think she might be living in the perpetual ‘now.’ ”
“That’s crazy,” I objected.
“Interesting choice of words, Mark,” he said slyly. “We’ve all been assuming that sometimes Twinkie’s a normie, and other times she’s a loon. It’s simpler and more logical to believe that she’s insane all the time, isn’t it? Just because she’s faked us all out doesn’t put her into the normie column, does it? I’m almost positive that we’ll never really know for sure which twin was murdered or which twin survived, because as far as they’re concerned, there isn’t any difference. In a certain sense, they were
both
murdered, but they
both
survived. Life’s simpler for them now, though. They don’t have twenty fingers any more—just ten.”
“Why did she keep having those ‘bad days’ after she carved out some guy’s tripes, then?” I demanded.
“Just how bad were they, Mark?”
“Pretty damn bad. Haven’t you heard Sylvia’s tapes?”
“They were dramatic, certainly,” he agreed, “but didn’t they seem a trifle
over
dramatic?”
“You mean that she was laying a foundation for this insanity defense right from the start?”
“I didn’t say that. Isn’t it possible that she was bent on establishing her helplessness, her vulnerability? In a certain sense those episodes were analogous to the pose she’d assume when she was out hunting. She tricked
us
as much as she tricked her assorted victims. She tricked
us
with imitation psychosis, and she tricked
them
with curare. The result was the same—paralysis. Her victims couldn’t do anything, and neither could we.” He paused. “I’m obviously playing devil’s advocate here, Mark,” he said apologetically, “but I think it’s a possibility that we shouldn’t overlook. The ‘twin-game’ the girls played all through their childhood would have given them lots of practice. I’m not going to mention this to anybody else, but I thought that
you
, of all people, should be aware that this is a distinct possibility. No matter which twin survived, she’s been damaged beyond repair, and the cloister’s ultimately the best solution.”
“It’s the best one for Twinkie, that’s for sure. But after what you just unloaded on
me
, I might need some place to get
my
head on straight too, and I’m fairly sure the nuns wouldn’t accept my application.”
“You’re a nice guy, Mark,” he said, grinning. “Maybe they’ll bend a few rules for you.”
“Thanks a bunch,” I said sourly.
“Aw, forget it, good buddy.”
Mr. Rankin called Trish on Monday morning, and she came back into the kitchen with a troubled expression on her face. “Judge Compson’s going to announce her final decision this afternoon,” she told us. “I don’t think we’re going to like it very much, but we’d probably better be there.”
Maybe it was just me, but that morning seemed to drag on forever. It was raining and blustery outside and that seemed to make things worse.
We didn’t talk much on our way downtown to the courthouse. What was there to say?
I was surprised to see Father O’Donnell in the courtroom with Les Greenleaf when we entered. He gave me a quick grin, and then he winked at me.
What was
that
all about?
Then the two attendants brought Renata—assuming that she really
was
Renata—into the courtroom. She was still murmuring to herself and wasn’t paying the slightest bit of attention to anybody else in the room.
At one o’clock—on the dot as usual—the bailiff said, “All rise,” and we stood up as Judge Compson entered. Her face was set in a stern expression, but something seemed to be bothering her.
“You may be seated,” she told us. “This won’t take us very long.” Then she paused. “This case has troubled me greatly from the very beginning,” she told us all. “I can only hope that I’ve made the right decision. It’s been obvious that the defendant is not even aware of her surroundings and that she’s profoundly disturbed. This being the case, my judgment of her incompetence was obviously the correct one. The final disposition, however, was not quite so simple. Miss Greenleaf is beyond punishment, obviously. She must be placed somewhere where she can receive custodial care and attention of a sort that goes somewhat beyond the capabilities of an ordinary mental institution. It is, therefore, the judgment of this court that Miss Renata Greenleaf shall be placed in the care of a religious order of her faith for the balance of her life.” Then Judge Compson rapped down her gavel. “This court stands adjourned,” she declared.
That
really
jolted me. How was she going to force the sisters to take Renata in if they didn’t
want
to? Something strange was going on here, and I was fairly certain that I knew who might be able to explain it.
As soon as the judge left the courtroom I zeroed in on Father O’Donnell. “You’ve been pulling some strings again, haven’t you, Father?” I demanded.
“Oh, I wouldn’t go quite
that
far, Mark,’ he said. “The mother superior of the Sisters of Hope needed just a wee bit of information, that’s all, so I gave it to her.”
“You
told
her?” I exclaimed. “I thought your bishop ordered you to keep your mouth shut about it.”
“He was talking about outside the family, Mark. The mother superior and I are old friends, so I was almost obliged to let her know about something that significant. It helped her to make the right decision.”
“You guys play by a complicated set of rules, don’t you, Father?” I accused him.
“It’s OK as long as it gets the job done, Mark,” he said smugly. “I have it on the very highest authority that everything’s fine and dandy now, dontcha know.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
The press release Judge Compson issued that afternoon was very terse, and it made no mention of a religious order. That left the news media high and dry. There wasn’t going to be a trial or much of anything else for them to babble about. Burpee was still in jail for contempt of court, and nobody else involved would answer any questions.
The reporters didn’t think that was very nice at all.
To make things even worse for them, Renata was transferred from the university medical center to Doc Fallon’s sanitarium that same evening, before the reporters even knew what was going on. She was still technically being held in custody, but Fallon was now her custodian. The idea was to give the impression that Fallon’s institution was going to be her final home. Then things would have time to cool off before she was quietly transferred to the cloister.
It looked good on paper, but we started running into snags almost immediately. Some blabbermouth at the medical center told a reporter about the transfer the following morning, and a dozen or so reporters showed up at Doc Fallon’s gate. The guard wouldn’t let them into the courtyard, of course, but they camped outside and didn’t show any signs that they planned to leave at any time in the near future.
Fallon conferred with Les Greenleaf by phone, and on Wednesday morning several burly and unfriendly security guards showed up. They informed the reporters in no uncertain terms that they were trespassing on private property, and that they’d better get the hell off the grounds. The reporters sullenly retreated back down the driveway and reestablished their camp at the side of the public road beyond the sanitarium grounds—where they tried to stop every car that was entering or leaving.
Fallon told his entire staff that he’d fire anybody who talked to a reporter about anything—even the weather.
The reporters were still clustered around the entrance to the driveway, though, so Doc Fallon took the next logical step. One of his golf buddies was a Snohomish County judge, and he got a restraining order—no loitering within a quarter mile of the entrance to the sanitarium.
There was a lot of screaming about that, and several reporters, claiming “freedom of the press,” deliberately ignored the order. They ended up in jail for contempt of court.
The whole thing was starting to turn into a comedy—or even a farce.
I didn’t laugh very much, though. By Friday of that week, it was obvious that waiting the reporters out was going to take longer than any of us had anticipated. Father O’Donnell advised us that the mother superior of the Sisters of Hope was having second thoughts about the whole thing.
We’d hit the quarter break at the university, and I probably should have enrolled in a couple of seminars, but as long as this other thing was still hanging fire, I knew that there’d be no way that I could concentrate, so I took a pass for now. That gave me all kinds of time to worry about the possibility James had raised. “Either/Or” suddenly became very significant for me. It probably wouldn’t have made much difference in the final outcome. Twinkie—whichever one she was—would be quietly transferred to the cloister, and that’d be the end of it. Still—
Spring quarter classes were scheduled to begin on the sixth of April, and the rest of the gang was busy with registering, buying textbooks, and all the other minutiae that clutter up registration week. Oddly enough, though, we didn’t see much of Charlie. Knowing him as well as we did, we were all fairly sure that he was “up to something.” Charlie had almost made a career out of being “up to something.”
He showed up on the Sunday before classes began, and Trish immediately climbed all over him. “Where have you been, Charlie?” she demanded, “and what have you been doing?”
“Just working, Mama Trish,” he replied, faking wide-eyed innocence.
“Here we go again,” Erika said. “Give up, Charlie. We’re not going to let up on you until you come clean. You should know that by now.”
“You guys are taking the fun out of this,” he complained.
“Fun-schmun, Charlie,” Erika said bluntly. “Talk.”
“Well—” he said, “we seem to have this little problem with Twinkie.”
“No kidding,” I said dryly. “What a brilliant observation.”
“All right,” Charlie gave up. “Our problem has to do with logistics. Twinkie’s at point A—Fallon’s nuthouse—and we’ve got to move her to point B—the cloister.”
“All right,” James agreed. “That’s fairly specific.”
“The main problem is the pack of newshounds camped on Fallon’s front door, right?”
“You’re going to round them all up and put them in the dog pound?” Erika suggested.
“That’s a slick idea,” he said, “if we could get away with it. The pound would hold them for seven days, then put them to sleep.”
“I could live with that,” I said darkly.
“So could I, but we’d probably get yelled at if we tried it. I’ve been working on something that might just pull it off without too many fatalities.” Charlie frowned slightly. “I’m not too clear on a couple of technicalities, though.” He looked at Trish. “Maybe Rankin could give us an OK, but I’ve got a hunch that maybe we ought to clear it with Judge Compson before we jump in with both feet. My game plan has a couple things involved that might be technically illegal, so let’s not rock the boat if we don’t have to.”
“I’ll speak with Mr. Rankin,” Trish told him.
“That’s it? You’re not going to give us anything more specific?” Sylvia objected.
“I’m still working on a couple things, sweet cakes,” he said. “Give me some time to get it all down pat before I spread it out for you guys.”
“Sweet cakes?” she said archly.
“It’s an expression,” he replied defensively. “I’m not breaking any rules—yet.”
“Don’t even think about it,” Trish told him flatly.
It took Mr. Rankin a couple of days to set up an appointment with Judge Compson, and he finally passed the word that she wanted to see us in her office at the courthouse at seven-thirty on the evening of Tuesday, the seventh of April.
I went to the phone in the living room to check in with Les Greenleaf. “Charlie isn’t talking, boss,” I told him, “but he’s got something cooking that
might
get those damned reporters off our tails. If I know Charlie, it’s probably fairly complicated, and we might have trouble sneaking it past Judge Compson. Is the mother superior still willing to go along with this?”
“Only if we can guarantee the security of the cloister, Mark,” he told me. “That’s her major concern. If you and your friends show up at the gate with a dozen reporters hot on your trail, she won’t open the gates.”
“That’s what Charlie’s working on, I think. I’m sure he’s got some sort of scam cooked up that’ll confuse hell out of those reporters.”
“I certainly hope so.”
“How’s Inga doing?”
“Not good, Mark,” he told me sadly. “Her doctor’s got her on some heavy-duty tranquilizers. I think it’s going to take her a long time to come out of this.”
“She’s not alone there, boss. I doubt I’ll
ever
get over it.”
“We’ve lost both of my girls, haven’t we?” he said then, and there were tears in his voice.
What the hell could I say? I stepped around it. “Do you want to sit in, boss?” I asked him. “Judge Compson might want to ask you a few questions.”
“You’re right, Mark,” he agreed. “I guess I’d better be there.”
I tried to work on my Hemingway paper, to clear one of my incompletes from winter quarter, but I couldn’t concentrate, so I put it aside so that I could worry full-time. Every time I turned around, “Either/Or” kept hitting me in the face.
Charlie still wasn’t talking, and that irritated the hell out of me. I wasn’t in the mood for fun and games.
Tuesday rolled around—eventually—and by then we were all wired up pretty tight. Even now, Twinkie was at the center of our attention. The girls were waspish with Charlie at supper, but he still refused to give us any details.
“Let’s take the station wagon again,” James suggested after supper. “It’s sort of the official vehicle by now, and after Erika’s little demonstration with pepper spray, every reporter in King County knows that we’re loaded for bear.”
“Thou shalt not look, neither shall ye touch—lest ye die,” Erika announced.
“That’d make a great bumper sticker, wouldn’t it?” Charlie said with a certain enthusiasm.
Erika shrugged. “It gets right to the point,” she said.
The walls of Judge Compson’s office were lined from floor to ceiling with bookshelves and law books. Lawyers and judges don’t have to spend much money on wallpaper, that’s for sure.
Mr. Rankin, Les Greenleaf, and Mary were already there when we arrived, and Bob West showed up before we even got seated. “What are you up to now, kid?” he asked Charlie.
“Sit tight, Bob,” Charlie replied. “I want to dump it on everybody at the same time, so I won’t have to keep repeating myself.”
“It better be good,” Bob told him.
“Trust me.”
“Oh, sure.” Bob’s voice dripped with sarcasm.
“Is everyone here now?” Judge Compson asked us. She wasn’t wearing her black robe, and she looked almost motherly in her print dress.
Mr. Rankin looked around. “I think that’s everybody, Alice,” he said familiarly, “unless you think Mr. Fielding should sit in?”
“I think we can get along without him for now, John,” she replied. “If there’s anything you think he ought to know about, you can pass it on to him later.” She looked around at the rest of us. “This is an unofficial meeting,” she said. “I’m here to listen—and possibly to pass along some advice. Go ahead, John.”
“Bob West’s younger brother wanted to bounce an idea off you, Alice,” Rankin said. “He hasn’t given any of us the details, so we’re as much in the dark as you are.”
“It’s in your court, then, Mr. West,” the judge told Charlie. “Fire away.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said, grinning at her colloquialism. “I’ve been kicking this idea around since you handed down your decision. I
think
I’ve plugged up all the holes, but if anybody spots something I’ve missed, let me know. What this all boils down to is a security problem. We need to transfer Twinkie from Doc Fallon’s loony bin to that cloister, without picking up a convoy of reporters along the way. Is that pretty much the problem?”
“Yes,” the judge said. “If by ‘Twinkie,’ you’re referring to Miss Greenleaf. So what’s your solution, Mr. West?”
“Right at first, I thought that maybe a helicopter might be the best way to go,” Charlie replied, “but then I remembered that a couple of the TV stations have helicopters of their own. They might not be right there on the scene, but I didn’t want to take any chances. We’re probably going to have to stay on the ground, and that means that we’ll need decoys. An unmarked delivery truck
might
work, but that’s still a little risky. We’ll only have one shot at this, so we’ve got to get it right the first time.”
“I think we all get your point, Mr. West,” Rankin said.
“OK,” Charlie said, “let’s say that along toward evening on some rainy afternoon, five identical black limousines wheel into the courtyard of Doc Fallon’s place and stop there.”
“Wouldn’t it be better if they came in after dark?” Bob asked.
Charlie shook his head. “No. We
want
those reporters to see those limos. That’s part of the scam. A duck has to see the decoy before he’ll land on the pond where you and your shotgun are waiting. OK, we’ve got five identical limos in the courtyard. Next we’ll need five more or less identical tall blond girls to be led out through the front door of the nuthouse. They can all wear sweatshirts with the hoods pulled up but with a lock or two of blonde hair showing, so that the long-range TV cameras can pick it up. Then each girl gets into the backseat of a different limo. Are we OK so far?” He looked around.
“I still think you should wait until it gets dark,” Bob told him. “The reporters will just split up and follow every one of the limousines, won’t they?”
“I sure hope so,” Charlie said. “OK, now we’ve got five limos with those tinted windows that make sure that nobody can see inside. They drive out and scatter to the winds—one goes toward Snohomish, one to Everett, one heads north toward Bellingham, one goes east toward Stevens Pass, and the last one just wanders the back roads around the lake. The reporters have to split up to follow each one separately.”
“I don’t see where that’s going to make any difference, Charlie,” James said.
“I’m coming to that,” Charlie replied. “OK, now we’ve got five limos scattered all over the place, with a gang of reporters trailing each one. The idea here is to get those reporters away from any side roads or driveways. That way, they’ve
got
to stay on the road we want them to be on.”
“Right behind the limo that we
don’t
want them to be following,” Bob said. “Brilliant, kid. You’ve got a mind as sharp as a pile of limp spaghetti.”
“I ain’t done yet, big brother,” Charlie told him. “OK, we’re in Snohomish County, right? And Twinkie’s dad pulls a lot of weight up there, right? Doesn’t that mean that the sheriff and the state patrol are going to be on
our
side this time?”
“Maybe,” Bob admitted. “What difference will
that
make?”
“This is where it gets interesting,” Charlie said with a smug grin. “We tell the cops exactly which road each limo’s going to follow—like before noon on D-day. Then the cops ease quietly on out to some lonely spot on each one of those roads. They set up five of those ‘sobriety checkpoints.’ Each one has a roadblock with cops at the back end, to make damn sure that some smart reporter doesn’t wrap a U-turn and make a run for it. The cops wave the limo through, and then they check everybody in every single car behind the limo for blood-alcohol level. The cops don’t have to hurry. I mean, they’re protecting the public from drunk drivers, aren’t they? A well-run cop stop with breathalyzers and making everybody get out of the car to find out if he can walk a straight line should hold the vultures in place for a least a half hour, so all five limos get away clean. The reporters won’t have the foggiest idea which limo’s carrying Twinkie, and they won’t know where
any
of the limos have gone. The
real
Twinkie car can drop her off at the cloister and take off again. Then we have all five limos wander around western Washington until about noon on the following day—stopping for gas here, buying a Big Mac there, getting a ticket for speeding someplace else, and all kinds of stuff to attract attention to places that don’t mean a damn thing. Then they all go back to the limo garage, and we all go home and get some sleep. Can anybody see any holes in that one? The way I see it is that the news vultures are going to get so many conflicting reports that they won’t have the foggiest idea of where Twinkie went.”