EITHER THE REST OF THE RESTAURANT WAS EMPTY, OR EVERYONE SEATED IN the upper level chose not to hear anything. Other than what Broderick had just said.
The expressions on the faces of Damien, Father Damien, Jones, and Temple were the most shocked.
"Mabarak?" Damien stammered.
"That nutcase?" Jones squawked.
"You actually let him participate in this investigation?" Temple's voice was near deadly.
"He wasn't exactly a 'nutcase' back then," Broderick replied evenly. "He was my partner."
A brief pause. Then, instantly, the other four were talking all at once.
"How on Earth did you let him get involved!"
"What'd he do? Put one of his fancy switchblades to your throat?!"
"I can't believe you actually trusted that scum!"
Broderick weathered it all in silence, waiting for them to quiet down. It was Father Damien who waved his hands at them, slicing through the air in an "Enough is enough" gesture. Eventually the other three's protests died down, though they still stared at the trooper with open bewilderment and hostility. The same looks were being shot at Mulroy as well. The detective looked like he wanted to crawl under the table and die.
"How come you didn't mention this before?" Damien demanded.
"It didn't seem necessary," Mulroy answered. He was just about squirming, his eyes evading everyone else's. "There was no need to bring it up. He's dead, and that's that."
"We were told not to talk about the original cases," Broderick said.
"Why not? By who?"
"You've already said by who," Broderick told him. "Chief Jones. The City Police told us to shut down and keep quiet."
"But why?" If Damien didn't get any answers soon, he was going to go through the ceiling.
The trooper shrugged. "We were never informed why. We were just told what to do."
"But you're the State Police," Father Damien persisted. "What was the City Police doing shutting you down?"
"Chief Jones has jurisdiction over the city," Mulroy said. "At first it seemed Cheboygan was where the murders were contained. The County Police didn't even want to get involved. So the City and the State took over. We were doing a good job, too," he snorted, "till someone decided to butt in."
"I suppose Chief Jones wasn't exactly 'pleased' about what we were digging up," Broderick finished. "Scorpio has people everywhere, in every walk of life. The only thing I can think of is that we were actually getting close to something."
Close to what? Close to who? That was what Damien was thinking; however, he knew it would be better not to ask those questions. Not right now. "So what did you find?" he asked.
Broderick shook his head. "I've told you. The files are locked up. I can't tell you what was in them. I don't even know all they contained. Mabarak was the one who kept track of all that."
Well, that was extremely lucky for them. "You mean you won't tell us? All because of some stupid priority?"
"It's that or our jobs," Mulroy replied, his voice pure ice. "We keep working on this present case or we're out. It's your choice."
They couldn't win either way; keep quiet and never find out just how to stop Scorpio, or spill it all and get kicked off the case. Damien knew it well. But that didn't mean he had to like it. He sighed and dropped his head onto the table with a thud.
"Maybe we could convince Chief Jones to let us reopen the files," Father Damien suggested.
Mulroy snorted again. "Good luck. B already tried that before they were shut down. He used just about everything short of death threats to try to sway him. But he wouldn't."
"Then maybe we'll just have to talk with someone else who was on the case," Damien said, and they knew he meant Felman. It was a desperate situation, asking for help from a cop stuck in a mental institution; yet he could think of nothing else to do.
"Felman?" Broderick looked at him. "You mean Officer Felman? What are you talking about?"
Evidently Mulroy hadn't told him what he planned to do. Broderick's eyes followed Damien's to the detective's face. Mulroy smiled nervously.
"I meant to tell you," he said. "I was planning on going up to Northampton to pay Officer Felman a visit. Maybe he'd have something to say."
Broderick frowned and his eyes narrowed slightly; Damien had to force himself not to shudder. He was looking like his nephew again. "The order stands for him too."
"No. I believe it stands for cops. As of his commitment Felman is an ex-cop. I really don't think he'll be out of that place for a while."
"What makes you so sure?" Bowen snorted. It was the first time he'd entered the conversation, and Mulroy looked over at him and Kincaid uneasily.
"It's nothing personal," he added. [Note--does Mulroy know yet about Kincaid...? Hm.] "But Felman was in pretty bad shape. He was committed voluntarily. If he were doing any better he'd be out by now. No one's forcing him to stay."
"That much is true," Temple murmured, half to himself. "No one can be committed involuntarily in this state without the permission of a judge or psychiatrist. It causes too much trouble. If Officer Felman wanted his job back he could come out and get it. I'm sure it would still be waiting for him." And he looked straight at Mulroy. The detective avoided eye contact again.
"Well, we'll find out tomorrow," he informed them. "That's when I'm going up there. Who'd like to come with me?"
"We will," Damien said, indicating himself and his uncle. Mulroy glanced around at them. Temple indicated he would go with a nod of his head; then Kincaid. Bowen looked at his lieutenant as if he were nuts (which Damien was wondering was the right term), then sighed and nodded as well.
"I'll go with you," Broderick finally said. "But if Felman is in as bad shape as you say, don't be expecting a miracle."
The drive to Northampton was over three hours long. By the time they got there they were cranky and fidgety, and certainly didn't wish to enter the forbidding-looking building. The weather was dreary, so there were no patients allowed on the grounds outside. Mulroy led the way at first; then he started to trail back, uncertain of what to do or where to go. His position was taken up by Kincaid, who headed straight into the building. He evidently had enough experience to know what he was doing. The others followed, more than a little anxiously.
There was a main desk, as in any normal hospital; the woman there listened as they explained what they wanted. She pointed down the hallway to the left and told them to see a Dr. Joyce, Room 107.
"Goodie. Two minutes in here and already we're being directed to the shrink," Mulroy muttered, but no one replied.
He allowed Temple to take his place now, as of the seven of them he looked the most official, despite Broderick's uniform. The lawyer knocked on the door and a moment later was told to come in.
"Here goes," Temple murmured, and they entered.
The man whom the secretary had called Dr. Joyce was busy straightening out reports. As soon as he saw them his hands froze and he gaped.
"Y-yes?" he managed.
"Hello, Dr. Joyce? I'm Davison Temple." He held out his hand and gave that charming smile of his. Dr. Joyce accepted it, as well as his card, and the expression on his face grew even more alarmed as he saw the attorney's credentials. "We were wondering if we could chat with you for a moment."
"This isn't about any of my patients, is it?"
"As a matter of fact, it is. We--"
"Has someone escaped?" The psychiatrist looked absolutely appalled. "Why haven't I been told? Marie! Marie! Come here!" He started looking wildly for his secretary.
"No, no, Dr. Joyce, no one's escaped. Yet." Temple caught his arm and smiled reassuringly. The doctor calmed down, but he still looked uneasy.
"Then why are you all here? Cops? A lawyer? A priest? What's going on?"
"We just wanted to talk with one of your patients. A Mr. Felman."
"Oh." Dr. Joyce's face relaxed into a relieved smile. "You just want to talk."
"Yes, that's it. May we see him?"
The smile faded away. "Well...yes, I suppose you can. I'm not holding you back. Are you here as visitors?"
"Actually, we're investigating a crime, and we were wondering if we could ask him for some information."
"Oh." A frown. "I don't think it would be in Mr. Felman's best interests if you were to ask him about a crime. It was dealing with crimes that landed him here."
So he's going to make this difficult, is he? Damien found himself thinking. Temple, however, just continued smiling. As a defense attorney, it was one of his best defenses.
"It's only a little talk. That can't hurt him, can it?"
"As a matter of fact, I believe it could. Someone who's been through as much emotional shock as he has shouldn't be brought back into contact with the original shock. It could literally destroy him. He should avoid anything related to police work at all costs."
Kincaid stepped forward and picked up a bottle sitting on Dr. Joyce's desk, turning it in his hand, pretending to examine it. Dr. Joyce cast an uneasy glance at him.
"Mellaril," Kincaid said, as if reciting something in his head. "Successful for treating positive symptoms of schizophrenia, yet with possible debilitating side effects, such as tardive dyskinesia. Clozaril works so much better. Especially on the negative symptoms. Perhaps you should try some sometime." His eyes locked on Dr. Joyce's and he smiled.
Dr. Joyce's face was frozen, his eyes almost as wide open as his mouth. It was as if he could see what was going on in Kincaid's mind. Whether he could or not, he immediately got the point. "Yeah," he whispered. "Maybe I should." He turned for the door, gesturing vaguely at the air. "Follow me."
The psychiatrist led them down a long hallway, through the office area to the back of the building, to the ground level patient area. "We keep low-risk and voluntary inpatients down here," he explained as he pushed open the doors into the dayroom. Several patients looked up as they entered; most of them went back to what they were doing, though a few eyes followed them across the room. Dr. Joyce stopped in the middle of the room and pointed towards the windows. "There he is, over there. I'll be in my office if you need me." Immediately he was gone.
"Just like home," Kincaid said to himself. None of the others could tell if he were joking or not. Damien led the group over to the couch fronting the windows, ignoring the other patients as he went.
There was one person seated on the couch, and as Damien approached he could see he was painting a carved wooden bird. It was a bluejay, and the craftsmanship was awe-inspiring. Its head was cocked under its wing, as if it were cleaning. As his shadow fell across the light blue of the paint, turning it dark, the man froze; he turned his head up to look at him. Then his eyes widened, and a smile spread across his face.
"Damien? Is that you?" Damien had hardly recognized Felman, and wouldn't even have thought it was him had he not spoken. The singer smiled, suddenly very self-conscious, and nodded. Felman laughed and stood up. He was a lot thinner than he'd been in 1989, seven years ago; he looked like he hadn't been getting much sleep either, as his eyes were shadowed. Damien was thinking of photos of concentration camp survivors when Felman stepped forward, took his hand, and started shaking it with a strength his frail frame belied, and then he realized that this was indeed the same person he'd last seen so long ago--a little thinner, yes, but the same person nonetheless.
"How have you been?" Felman cried, laughing as he spoke. "Visitors! I've never had visitors!" [Note--in a rewrite, I doubt Felman would have been self-committed for so long! I also think I would make him a little less...well...crazy.]
"Hi, Felman," Mulroy said. He came forward with a strained smile, and offered his hand as well. Felman took it, and gave him a big hug. Damien could see the detective's eyes over the other officer's shoulder. They looked slightly panicked, as if he expected Felman to start chewing on his neck. Being in a mental institution could give those thoughts to you.
Felman finally let go of him, turning to each one and offering his hand. One could almost forget they were in a mental ward with his exuberant attitude. Obviously his statement about the lack of visitors had been right. It seemed as if this place lacked everything.
Felman was joggling Kincaid's arm up and down without even asking who he was when Damien quit trying to introduce them all, stepped forward, and put a hand on his shoulder, hoping he wouldn't appear too paternal. Felman let go of the lieutenant's hand and turned to the singer, just in time to miss Kincaid rubbing his strained wrist. "It's been so long!" he exclaimed. "I must look horrible--" he very briefly attempted to smooth out his clothes "--come over here and sit down!" He led them to a table, meant for patients to play games at; he gestured to it and proceeded to pull out all the chairs for them. "I'm sorry it's not very private," he apologized, smiling sheepishly at the surroundings, "but the docs frown on us being left to ourselves." Us? Damien thought. There's more than one of him? His mind was put to rest as soon as he figured Felman meant the other patients. "Please, sit down! This is wonderful! You'd be surprised how many people here never get visitors!"
"Maybe not," Bowen muttered, just loud enough for the others at the table to hear. Felman didn't hear him, or else ignored him completely. He drew forward a chair from near the couch, and sat down to join them.
"This is so wonderful," he echoed himself, looking at each of them as if trying to burn their faces into his memory. "I never get visitors. What's your name again?" he asked Bowen.
"Bowen," the police chief replied, wondering why Felman was singling him out.
"And this is--what? Kin-what?"
"Kincaid."
"You're police, too?"
Too? He still considers--Damien cut his own thought off when he saw the way Kincaid was looking at him. It was almost like the lieutenant was reading his mind! Embarrassed, he turned away.
"Yeah."
"What kind of badge is that? It's not Michigan." Before Bowen could say anything Felman's fingers were exploring his chief of police badge. Bowen just sat and endured it. "'Minot City Police.' Minot, North Dakota?"
"Yeah. How'd--"
"When you're cooped up this long, you get to read a lot," Felman explained with a smile. "I've practically memorized the whole Funk & Wagnalls series. Including the maps." He glanced at Broderick. "BB! You're finally getting out some more?"
Broderick simply nodded and didn't elaborate on what Felman meant. Damien decided he'd have to ask later. He'd have to ask everything later, waiting for Felman to quit chattering. He thought it might be rude to interrupt him; he must not get much of a chance to talk as it was. The other patients wouldn't make good companions, and it didn't look as if the psychiatrists were very interested either. Dr. Joyce had vanished immediately after entering, as if the patients were all carrying the plague.
But weren't they, in a way?
"--it gets annoying in a way," Felman was saying. Damien forced his mind to come back to the one-sided conversation. "It's kind of like an invasion of privacy, only no one's actually invading anything. That's the problem. No one really gets the chance to anyway! They don't like us to be alone in our rooms, maybe because we might off ourselves, or maybe it has something to do with interpatient communication. Not that much of that happens around here." He waved his hand to indicate the other reticent patients on the ward. "So they stick us all in the dayroom. Doesn't it have a pleasant sound, 'dayroom'? Almost like a daycare center, and in a way it is. But daycare centers are supposed to be fun colorful places." He snorted. "Yeah, right. I guess that got lost somewhere in translation." He sighed and offered a tired smile. "You know that I've actually talked to myself? It doesn't really bother anybody, I mean, look at where we are, anyway. But it's a little scary sometimes when you find yourself doing it. Especially whenever I'm reading. I read out loud for some reason. Lately I've been trying to break myself of the habit, conditioning as the docs call it..."
It took Damien several minutes to realize Felman wasn't talking anymore. He looked up, startled. Everyone was staring at him. Including Felman. He suddenly realized they were waiting for him to say something.
And he didn't know what to say.
Felman broke the silence. "I know you all must be here for some reason," he said, his voice quiet. Immediately all eyes were elsewhere, exploring the walls, the floor, the ceiling. "And it wasn't to come talk to me. Or hear me rattle on. So what is it?"
No one answered. Several of them were thinking it would have been better had Felman been crazy. Then they wouldn't have to explain all of this.
"It has to do with them, doesn't it?" Felman finally answered himself. He stared at Broderick.
"'Them'--?" Mulroy attempted, lamely.
"Yeah, them. They're doing things again, aren't they?" He stressed the word so much Damien had the ludicrous thought he was talking about voices in his head. He'd heard somewhere that every schizophrenic had a "they." But Felman wasn't schizophrenic...
"Well--it all depends on how--"
Felman waved his hand. "Just because I'm in here, don't assume I have no idea what's going on out there," he said. "They don't let me read very many newspapers. Especially the bad parts. They give me their own special watered-down edited version. Just so I won't suspect them of holding things back. But I know they are. And I know they must still be out there. So am I right? Is it them?"
"Yeah," Damien said. Everyone looked at him. He decided against using "their" name; Felman didn't, so maybe saying it would send him off the deep end, which was the last thing they needed. "It's them."
Felman chewed his lip. He was wringing his hands but he continued.
"What've they done now?"
"We're not sure yet. But they might've been connected in a murder."
His eyes widened. "A murder? Who? When?"
"A week or two ago. A young woman. We don't know who she is, yet. No relatives've stepped forward."
"But are you positive it was them? Did they leave the sign?"
"No. That's why we're not sure what's going on."
A very long, uncomfortable pause. It was Felman who broke it again.
"Are you here to ask me for help?"
Damien looked at him. The former police officer stared back; Damien could tell he was forcing himself to remain level, but he must be scared witless inside. And he knew exactly how that felt.
He finally nodded. Mulroy looked a little sheepish at having to ask a mental patient for help in a murder case.
Felman let out his breath. "Well! It's about time we got this cleared up." There was a faint quaver to his voice, but he appeared to be taking it rather well. He stood, and automatically everybody else stood up with him. "If you'll come with me to Dr. Joyce's office," he offered, "I'll get this cleared up. I can be out of here in maybe a week."
"Just like that?" Mulroy asked, incredulous.
Kincaid gave him a look. Felman just smiled.
"Yeah, pretty much. They're not gonna put me in a straitjacket if I try to escape. But I mean my papers. Dr. Joyce has them. I have to ask him. Then they'll review my case, have me take a few tests. Technically, they can't keep me here if I don't want them to. They'd have to find some problem with me."
"So why're you still here?" Mulroy still wasn't getting it. Damien felt like ripping his tongue out. He opened his mouth to yell back when Felman answered, and he checked himself. Felman, so far, had remained rational; Damien thought it only right that he do the same.
"It was all voluntary, you know," he said, his voice even. "I signed the papers that let them put me in. Now I sign the papers that make them let me go. They can't hold me here anymore. The reason I came was because I thought it was in my best interest--and I've been thinking the same thing ever since. Until you guys came." He shrugged, and his smile changed; now it was conspiratorial, as if he was in on some big secret. "Admit it, you want my help, don't you? I admit to you I don't know much, but I'll do whatever I can. This place has been stifling me." He yawned and stretched now, as if just waking up. "Well, come on! I can't wait. The sooner I talk to the shrinks, the sooner I can leave this nuthouse!"
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