The Lost and the Damned (6 page)

“Almost. It was ordered to close, but it never closed. The state got an offer for purchase.”

I paused, a piece of pie on my fork halfway to my mouth. “Someone wanted to buy the place? Seriously?”

“Seriously,” she said with a smile. “A rich psychiatrist named Ernest Bellingham bought it and turned it private. And when I mean rich, I mean rich. The town did some research on him when he was going to buy. The man was loaded. Us businesses around here decided to stay just in case he wanted to spread a little of that around here.”

“Did he?” I asked.

“He didn’t invest or go around throwing money like some type of Santa Claus, if that’s what you’re thinking,” she said. “What he did bring were rich families of patients, with very rich tastes. I have to stock shitake mushrooms now just for them and their particular tastes. Not a problem for me, though, since they tip very well.

 “Anyway, where was I? Yes, so Sommersfield Mental Hospital was renamed to The Bellingham Psychiatric Institute. He kept most of it shut down, but ran the institute out of what he needed. He wanted a place for his own research, then hired like-minded doctors for similar research. The most important part was that it brought more doctors, more nurses, more maintenance people, more contractors, and more relatives, which was business. It was a real shot in the arm for this town.”

“I bet, it sounded pretty dire before that. But, let me ask,” I leaned closer, “Just what are they doing up there? I mean, the hospital part is pretty obvious. But what type of research?”

“That I couldn’t tell you, sugar,” she said, “I try not to pay attention to what they’re doing up there. I wasn’t curious about it when I was younger and I’m not curious about it now. Too much curiosity and I’ll find myself unable to sleep at night. It’s enough that I get the willies looking at that place.”

“Why not move away?” I asked. “It creeps you out, even after all these years. Why not start a business somewhere else?”

“You’re a little younger than me, so I’ll overlook such a silly question.”

“Surely that can’t be true,” I said in mock surprise.

“You’re sweet,” she said, “and a shameless flatterer. But it’s true. When someplace has been home for long enough, it’s hard to leave, even when it’s not perfect. And I love this diner. It’s not much, but I kept it through some pretty lean times. I’d feel bad if I abandoned it.”

“I can understand that,” I said. “So what type of patients do they get up there? It’s private, you said, so it’s not like the state is sending them. You see the relatives, so I bet you have some idea.”

“Rich,” she said simply. “There’s a lot of rich folks coming here to visit their niece or nephew or someone. Black sheep, I bet. Stick your undesirable family member in Bellingham, right in the heart of Vermont. Cheaper than sending them abroad and less embarrassing.”

“So a rich kid holding cell?” I said. “No real patients? Check-ins?”

“They take some others, I think. Ones for their research. Some occasional check-ins or transfers from other hospitals. Every so often someone rolls into town dragging some crazy teenager and wants to know where the hospital is. As if they can’t see it up there on the hill.”

“Interesting,” I said. “Have you had any within the last year? Say back a few months, around last winter.”

She gave me a long look. “Are you a cop? You don’t seem like a cop.”

“No, no, nothing of the sort,” I said.

“But you’re looking for someone?” she said suspiciously.

“Yeah, my niece,” I said.

I have a niece, actually. My brother’s little girl, Sarah. She’s about thirteen years old and the sweetest girl you’ve ever met. Big smiles, dimples, beautiful blonde hair. Every Christmas I spoil her. My brother tells me not to dote on her, but I can’t help it. I admit that since my relationships with women never go well, I have spent far too much time spoiling my niece. She's not missing, of course.

“Is your niece…” she asked, pausing until I understood what she was implying.

“Disturbed?” I suggested. “No. Or, she wasn’t. I’m not sure how she is now… She’s missing.”

“That’s horrible!” she said.

“Yeah,” I said. “She was out with friends and just disappeared. The friends disappeared too, but I don’t really care about them. It was in Vermont, we know that. We tried contacting authorities, but the cops are useless. She wasn’t mentally ill, but we’ve looked all over. When I saw… ‘The Beast’, I wondered. I hated that I wondered and thought such horrible things, but I still wondered. I remembered that she was always a fragile girl. But with her friends… They used drugs and already had criminal records. Once you get those types of things together with someone so fragile… Well, I worry about her and worry that maybe she hasn’t called home because her friends got her so messed up she doesn’t even know how to call home.” So it was all a lie. But I thought of my niece when I said it, imagining her missing, which helped me emotionally get into the role. Otherwise I feel like Lorraine would have seen right through me.

“That poor girl!” she said with a gasp. She put her hand over mine reassuringly. “That’s awful.”

“Yeah,” I said gloomily. “It’s been nearly a year, so I’ve lived with it for a while. I know that after this amount of time, the outlook isn’t good. I’ve tried to get past it in my mind. But I saw the hospital. If she was checked in there, maybe she’s being cared for. She might have… survived for a year.”

“Poor man,” she said, “I hope she’s okay. What did she look like? Maybe I saw her.”

“She was twenty-four,” I said solemnly, “Short blonde hair, beautiful green eyes, about five-foot-four. I have a picture, it’s a bit old.” I pulled a picture I had taken from the dossier. It was a high school picture of Katie. She’s gawkier looking, but it’s clear that it’s her. I didn’t want to use a newer picture because the connection to the photos for SVMM’s record would be too obvious. As Lorraine looked at the photo, I looked at it again. To be honest, in this picture she looked a great deal like my niece Sarah. Similar blonde hair, braces, goofy and hesitant smile. For a moment, I was scared and hoped nothing like this ever happened to Sarah.

“I can’t say that I’ve seen her,” Lorraine said with disappointment. “Very pretty girl. It’s sad she fell in with the wrong crowd.”

“She would have had shorter hair than in this picture. Spiky, actually. You know how kids are these days.”

“Yeah,” she said, “I do. Had one of my own at home. A boy. He used to help me here at the restaurant until…” She stared at the photo again.

“What is it?” I asked.

“It’s just… spiky hair,” she paused. “There was someone. Last winter. He wasn’t a young kid, but an older man. Forties at minimum. Looked rough for the road, five-o-clock shadow. He was asking about the hospital. It was the middle of the night; I remember the late night regulars looking at him funny. I looked in his car and saw a young man and young girl with spiky blonde hair. I thought it was just his daughter, but it could have been your niece. But an older man like that… Did she hangout with an older crowd?”

“I wasn’t aware of it, but it’s possible,” I said. I had a lead! “I wasn’t as familiar with her friends as her father was. Do you remember anything else? Anything they said? Anything about the car?”

“I wish I could, hon,” she said with a frown, “but it’s been a while and I didn’t think much of it. He was dressed well and his car was nice, but that’s all I can remember. I’m sorry, sugar.”

“Yeah,” I said. “But there’s a chance she was checked in.”

“True,” she said, “it’s something at least.” She grabbed my wrist gently. “Don’t give up hope, hon.”

I hung out for a few hours in the diner, thinking over a plan. I took a seat in a booth near the back and ordered myself a sandwich. Best Reuben I’ve had in a long time. The bread was nice, the sauerkraut not overpowering, the corned beef nice and lean. This blew away any sandwich shop in Austin by far and rivaled Manhattan deli level of Reuben perfection. Remote or not, Lorraine knew her business very well.

After the sandwich, I picked at my French fries and watched the diner, toying with the plan in the back of my head. I also enjoyed people watching, since I was killing time. From the booth I could see both the road and the entrance to the diner. My goal was to wait until after dinner, so I could watch who came in and how many cars passed by. I wanted to hit the hospital when it was the least staffed. Lorraine didn’t mind me spending hours in her restaurant. Periodically, she would come over, refill my coffee, and make sure I wasn’t “getting lonely.” I doubted anyone who came into Lorraine’s felt alone; every customer must be special to her.

As the dinner rush hit, the diner began to fill up. I saw the owner of the grocery come in and pick up an order, exchanging pleasantries with Lorraine. A group of big men in scrubs came in; orderlies, I assumed. At about five-thirty I saw the biggest rush of cars down the road. ‘Rush’ might be the wrong word, as there were not enough cars to cause any sort of traffic delay. But I saw the most cars drive down the road around that time, some stopping at the diner, but most driving on. This was what I was waiting for, the end of the day shift. The shift end meant fewer employees at the hospital. I wanted to count on a lack of authority when I went up there. But I didn’t want to head up there just yet, I wanted everyone to settle into a shift. I wanted night time. For the next hour and a half, I watched Lorraine make her way around the diner to each table. To some, she offered motherly wisdom and hospitality. To others, she flirted shamelessly, like a young schoolgirl. In each case, it was appropriate to the customer, provoking warm reactions. I could probably watch her for hours and learn so much; she had mastered the fine art of the social chameleon.

By seven, the sun had completely set and the cars had stopped passing. The diner had emptied out except for one nurse with a lazy eye and some strange kid with long hair in a leather jacket and Batman shirt that was talking way too fast for Lorraine to keep up with. I dropped a large tip at my table and then settled up at the register, rescuing Lorraine from the fast-talker. She wished me good luck as I left. I got into the car and started on the road to the hospital. Though not a very long drive, it wound up the hill with sparse trees on each side. I drove slow, using my headlights to scan the side of the road. I found a spot and pulled the car off the road, under the tree cover.

I opened the trunk and grabbed my suitcase. Typically I have three pieces of luggage I bring with me in the car on jobs. The suitcase has my regular clothes, specialized clothes for specialized occasions, and my toiletries. My backpack has my laptop, notebooks, files, chargers, calculators, microphones, and cameras. My emergency bag is always in the glove box of whatever I’m driving. It’s a black leather toiletry bag that looks suspiciously like a doctor’s valise. It contains my gun, a pocket knife, a small tape recorder, a pocket camera, a flashlight, a notepad, a pen, and a pack of stale cigarettes from before I stopped smoking. The backpack and emergency bag usually fit in luggage, but I take them out when driving. Right now, I was fishing in my suitcase for the right clothes for the job.

For this one, I wanted to wear a crisp suit and tie. Suits are an interesting thing. Everyone respects a suit. When you see someone you don’t know wearing a suit, you see the suit not the man. A suit equals respectability, a suit equals authority. A suit equals normality, formality. The response garnered from people is based on the suit, not your haircut, not your face. An unknown man in a suit is just a man in a suit. He is never “some guy”. He is the man who wore the suit. The suit changes a “no” to apologies and compromises, it transforms reluctance to a desire to do something for you even if they can’t. The suit is regal finery, a uniform of honor, a symbol of class and importance. More practically, you get more out of businesses and institutions with a suit. Receptionists talk to you differently. And if someone asks them later who they talked to, they’ll remember your suit first and your face second.

If I had more forethought, I would have grabbed a room at the motel and changed, but at this point I wanted to move forward and confirm my suspicion. Without a motel room, I was taking off my clothes in the dirt, hopping out of my pants by the red glow of my tail lights. I carefully pulled on my grey suit, taking extra care to not get it dirty. I grabbed the tie and put it on while staring into the darkness; I had tied a Windsor knot enough times in my life that I could do it on autopilot. I grabbed my travel mirror and opened the car door, trying best to see how I looked in the tiny mirror. I ran a comb through my hair and decided I was ready. I got back into the car and pulled out.

I drove up to the road, through the still-open gate for the hospital grounds and conspicuously parked in the largely empty parking lot. Carrying a manila folder full of largely meaningless papers, I got out of the car and turned toward the hospital. Up close, it was far more impressive, but it was impressive-bad, not impressive-good. They had washed off the main building of the hospital, but there was a dark dirtiness that came through. The wings of the hospital spread out to either side of the main building, giving the impression it hunched on the hill, breathing out a vile air that billowed across the parking lot, down the hill, and into the trees. A multitude of windows dotted the front of the building, light glowing out of many, giving the impression of a many eyed beast staring down at me, the glass doors of the hospital its small rectangular mouth. I could see why the locals would call this place The Beast. I stared through the mouth, to the entrance. I still saw a light inside. Someone would be there.

I flexed my shoulders and got into character. I took a deep breath and walked toward the glass doors, into the mouth of the Beast. I pushed the doors open and walked into a small reception area. There was an entry foyer where chairs were set on either side, two by two, a small table with out of date magazines between each pair. There was a door on either side of reception area, glass and possibly magnetically locked. The reception desk was a large white desk with a staircase curving behind it to the second floor. At the desk was a nurse, perhaps a receptionist. She wasn’t wearing scrubs, but she was wearing white. I adjusted my tie and my cover story, then walked up to her.