Nikki had remained at the field office with Frank and most of the team, sifting through lists that extended beyond CWI to
other mental health care facilities that had discharged violent offenders in the last three years.
Kim Peterson, forensic pathologist, had joined him at the scene and was on one knee, peering under the victim’s right heel,
where a plug of putty sealed the hole.
“Now?” she asked. “Or in the—”
“Now,” Brad said.
She placed a large Baggie on the floor and pried the plug free. It dropped onto the plastic trailed by a thin string of blood.
The killer had likely waited fifteen or twenty minutes as gravity pulled most of the blood down, but pooling remained in the
fleshy sections of the body. Horizontal veins and capillaries would not drain easily, even if massaged or milked.
“Anything?”
In answer, Kim used her tweezers to withdraw a two-inch rolled tube of paper, covered in blood.
“Can you open it here?”
She delicately peeled open the note, careful not to disturb any latent prints on the paper, though they both knew none would
be found.
Kim read the message stoically. “‘Be careful who you love. I just might kill all the beautiful ones. I am more intelligent
than you. Bless me, Father, for I will sin. Oh yes, yes I will.’”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.” Kim looked up at him. “This is personal?”
“No. Not that I know, no, it couldn’t…”
Surely the killer wasn’t someone from his own past come back to haunt him. The killer had simply learned who was working the
case and was messing with him. Egging him on.
Be careful who you love. I just might kill all the beautiful ones.
“What else are you seeing?”
“The same as before.” She placed the note in an evidence bag and stood, motioning at the body. “Lactic acid is building, rigor
mortis is setting in, but not more than, oh, I’d say ten hours. She’s still pretty flexible. I’d say she died sometime last
night.”
“Four days since the last one.”
“Four days. There’s a nasty cut on her temple that he went to considerable lengths to cover up. Looks like she either hit
her head or he delivered a blow.”
“No, he wouldn’t risk wounding her. He wanted her clean. Okay, process the body and the scene. Let me know if you come up
with anything else. I’ll be on my phone.”
“Will do.”
Brad stepped out of the barn and flipped open his BlackBerry. It took him two minutes to get Allison Johnson at the Center
for Wellness and Intelligence on the line. She was evidently with a resident and required some urging to break away.
“Hello, FBI. Did you find your man yet?”
“No. He took another girl. She’s on the wall in the barn behind me.”
The line was silent for a moment. She sighed heavily.
“I would like to speak to one of your residents again, Miss Johnson. If you don’t mind.”
“No, of course not. I don’t mind at all. Like I said, Roudy is much better than his antics might suggest.”
“Actually, I would like to meet with Paradise.”
“Oh? Not Roudy?”
“No. Paradise, if you don’t mind.”
“Chasing ghosts now?”
“No. Chasing my gut. Is she available?”
“I’m sure she could be.”
“Good. I can be there in an hour. And Miss Johnson?”
“Yes?”
“I would like to speak to Paradise alone this time.”
“That could be a problem. She’s nervous to be alone with men, as I said.”
“I realize that. You could be nearby, but I really would like to talk to her without any… interference. If that’s not possible,
I’ll understand, of course.”
Allison hesitated.
“I’ll see what I can arrange.”
THE TALL SHRUB
that Flower had sculpted into a statue resembling Brad was completed, but no sign of the artist. The surprisingly realistic
likeness brought him to a stop for a second look on the driveway. He imagined what she could do with clay or stone. Flower
was truly talented.
A man dressed in plaid slacks met him in the reception area. “You’re with the FBI?” he asked, sticking his hand out. He had
a beak for a nose, but his eyes twinkled, which made him appear fun rather than snooty.
“Yes.” Brad took the hand.
“Jonathan Bryce. Allison’s waiting, follow me.”
He led Brad out to the back, where the massive maples spread their branches over the tranquil lawn, now nearly empty. They
walked toward the towering wing south of the main hub in which they’d met Roudy and company three days earlier.
What stories, what mysteries, what hauntings hid behind the brick walls ahead? So quiet and peaceful, yet so far removed from
normalcy. The world of the mentally ill. The gifted. A chill tickled his spine.
“You’re staff?”
“I’m one of the nurses,” the man said. “Medications mainly.”
“I thought CWI wasn’t big on medications.”
“We’re not. But sometimes it’s our best option.”
“Just not as often here as in other facilities,” Brad said.
“This way.” Jonathan turned on the sidewalk and waved at two women on a bench who were watching them with keen interest. They
both waved back and flashed big smiles. “The Pointer twins. There’s a story.”
“I’ll bet. Why not medicate the way most facilities do?”
“Think about it in terms of a broken leg. Someone breaks their leg and we know how to set it so the body can heal itself.
But mental illness is still a mystery.” He used his hand to form a ball, eyes bright. “First, we don’t necessarily know where
gifting leaves off and illness begins, so there’s that confusion. Even when we can make a diagnosis, say severe bipolar disorder,
no one knows how to set the bones, so to speak. We have no idea how to put the mind back in order. We can’t fix it, all we
can do is take away some of the pain, follow?”
“So you treat the symptoms, not the illness.”
“Exactly. Relatively speaking, at CWI we give aspirin where many psychiatrists might prescribe tranquilizers.”
“And that’s better for the patient?”
“Please. You know how these drugs work?”
“Not really, no.”
“There are no drugs that specifically treat mental illness as it was once believed. The so-called miracle antipsychotic drugs
like Abilify inhibit serotonin and dopamine in the brain, which can alleviate symptoms like delusions and hallucinations.
Fine. But the new drugs also come with a long list of adverse side effects that many patients—not all, mind you—find intolerable.”
“But at least they’re stable, right? Better.”
“Depends what you mean by stable. Depends on the person. For some, the meds are lifesavers. For others, their overall health
is worse off. A recent major study found that out of fifteen hundred schizophrenic patients, only about twenty-five percent
found the side effects tolerable over the long haul.”
“What kind of side effects?”
“You name it. Seizures, severe weight gain, cardiac problems, gastrointestinal complications, paralysis of the bowels, sexual
dysfunction, facial hair, skin rashes, eye disorders, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera.” He sounded like a medical dictionary.
Then again, despite the odd clothing he was a nurse. Or at least claimed to be.
And he wasn’t finished. “But the worst may actually be the emotional problems that often present. Toxic psychosis, delirium,
confusion, disorientation, hallucinations, depression, delusions. Point is, neuroleptic drugs inhibit the neural processes
like sleep inhibits activity. But a person’s gotta live. They can’t sleep away their lives.” He pointed to a glass door. “In
here.”
“Thank you.”
“So we use drugs, but we do so with a watchful eye, pray for better options to emerge quickly, and provide an environment
that helps each feel wanted and special.”
Jonathan stopped at the door. “Interesting fact that no one seems to know what to do with: In less industrialized countries,
like Colombia and India for example, over sixty percent of schizophrenic patients recover fully within two years. They depend
on family nurturing, religion, and other nonmedical treatment. No drugs. In America, the recovery rate is much less than a
third, and that’s using antipsychotic drugs. What does that tell you?”
“Hm.”
“She’ll meet you inside. Have a great day, sir.”
Brad thanked him again and walked into a small lobby, now vacant.
Allison walked out of a side door. “Hello, FBI.” She wore a blue dress today. Silver jewelry and cork wedges. She’d fixed
her hair differently, tied back in a ponytail but not haphazardly. Same contagious smile. An angel in her own right, in the
service of wounded souls.
“Well, well, well, isn’t this your lucky day?” she asked.
“Is it? I wish the same could be said for Melissa.”
Allison’s brow arched in question. “Oh?”
“The girl we found this morning.”
“Oh. Terrible. Awful. I suggest you say nothing of it to Paradise.”
“So she’s agreed?”
“She has. But it took some coaxing on my part. You have as much time as she will give you. Unfortunately I’m a bit shorter
on time and I’ll have to wait here while you talk to her. So why don’t we say fifteen minutes?”
“Half an hour.”
“What exactly do you plan on asking her?”
“You said she had a gift.”
Allison thought about that.
“Let’s just say I’m running out of options and time.”
She nodded. “Okay, FBI. Half an hour.”
Brad stepped through the door and entered a room with a large window, Coca-Cola and snack machines, and a sofa grouping that
faced a wall-mounted flat-screen television.
Paradise stood by a counter with a sink, watching him as he shut the door behind him. She wore the same too-short jeans and
canvas tennis shoes she’d had on the last time he’d seen her. A gray sweatshirt hung on her slight, five-foot frame. Her dark
hair still looked stringy—he suspected she looked the same every day of the week. Not unclean, but certainly not very attentive
to hygiene.
“Hello, Paradise. Good to see you again.”
“Hello.” Her voice was tight. Nervous.
He stood still for a moment, caught up in the little he knew about her history. Something in her childhood had broken her.
She was bipolar, but Allison had said that her initial diagnosis of schizophrenia could be wrong. That she might not suffer
from hallucinations but actually saw these ghosts. The notion seemed ridiculous now. Paradise didn’t look like anything more
than a damaged young woman who needed to be told when to shower.
“Thank you for agreeing to talk to me,” he said. “Do you mind if we sit?”
“Sure. Have a seat.”
He walked around the couch and sat down. She made no sign of joining him.
“Would you like to sit?”
“Not really,” she said.
“Okay. So you’re probably wondering why I want to talk to you.” The moment the words came out, he wanted to pull them back.
“Not that people wouldn’t want to talk to you, of course. It’s just that I’m an FBI agent and I’ve come back here asking specifically
to speak to you. I’m sure that’s a bit unnerving.”
“It’s okay, sir. I—”
“Call me Brad. My name is Brad Raines.”
She hesitated. “Well, then, Mr. Raines. It’s understandable why you think I’d be uncomfortable with your request to speak
with me. Or with any of us. Most people would rather we didn’t exist. It’s hard for us to trust people who don’t like us,
I’m sure you can understand that.”
He was surprised by how well spoken she was. Sounded a bit like Allison, clearly her mentor.
“I can understand that. Are you uncomfortable?”
“Yes. But I wouldn’t go as far as Andrea or Roudy.”
“Really? What did they say?”
“Roudy thinks you’re a conniving weasel who’s trying to cut him out. After all, he offered to help first, and everyone knows
he’s pretty good at what he does.”
“What does he do?”
“Connect dots that most people miss.”
Astute. Maybe he
should
talk to Roudy again.
“And what did Andrea say?”
Paradise crossed her arms. “She said you’re a handsome devil and that your only interest for wanting to see me alone is to
get into my pants.”
Brad failed to suppress a sharp chuckle. “Well, you can tell Andrea that I appreciate her flattery, but it won’t help her
get into mine.”
Again he wanted to take the words back. But a hint of a smile registered on Paradise’s face, so rather than pull back, he
pushed forward.
“On the other hand, if I wasn’t sworn off women, I might find either of you—”
“Don’t say it,” she snapped.
He blinked.
“The comment about Andrea was funny. Leave it at that. Now, please tell me what I can do for you. I’ll be as helpful as I
can be.”
“Well, dear, whatever you think I meant, you were likely wrong. I’m not here to take advantage of anybody, mind, body, or
spirit. I’m just trying to break the ice.”
She looked at him for a long while, and for a brief moment he wondered if she was seeing one of her hallucinations.
He let her stare. She finally lowered her arms and eased herself down onto the arm of a stuffed chair opposite him. “Sorry
for that. I’m not normally so”—she waved a limp hand—“edgy. Whatever you might think, Mr. Raines, I’m not like some of the
others here. Not that I’m proud of that. I wouldn’t mind having some of their gifts, schizophrenic or not. But the fact of
the matter is, I’m not schizophrenic. I do, however, struggle with bipolar disorder. I assume you know the difference.”
“I do. For the most part.”
“Bipolar disorder, once called manic-depressive illness, is a mood disorder that presents with quick onsets of manic highs
that yield to usually longer-lasting depressive lows. It’s inherited. Medication helps, but I hate the way the stuff messes
with me, so I avoid it and work through the cycles. Some people can’t cope. Fortunately, I can.”
“That’s good.”
“Clearly. Schizophrenia, on the other hand, is a thought disorder. A form of psychosis that typically presents itself in the
late teens and early twenties. It’s thought to be linked to the way dopamine and serotonin work in the brain, but no one really
knows whether it’s more about chemical imbalance or the receptors in the brain.”