“Well,” Ethan said as he returned to his notes, “I now have more questions than I have answers.” Tobias’s suicide goes further down the rabbit hole than I imagined. He stood from the chair and slid it back beneath the table. “I appreciate your time and help in this investigation, Mrs. Frasier. And again, I apologize for the intrusion.”
Why was he apologizing? This woman had been complicit in serious illegal activities; what he knew could do permanent damage to her budding career.
The mournful expression on her face said she knew this. “But you didn’t even drink your coffee.”
“I only drink Folgers or Dunkin’ Donuts.” Ethan headed for the door. He didn’t bother looking back.
22
The Anguished Patient
Having exhausted his other options, Ethan headed for the next lead on his list: the patient at St. Jeremiah’s.
St Jeremiah’s was an old institution, having been built back in 1907, when construction on such buildings was simple brick and mortar. While still a solid structure on the outside, the inside gave away its age. The original white floor tiles were still in place but with time had morphed into a cream corn yellow streaked with black shoe scuffs. And the smell — that was another thing entirely. The air held a thick odor of old urine mixed with the harsh chemical rank of bleach. Ethan had to breathe through his mouth to avoid gagging on the stench.
Dr. Cunningham walked beside him down the east ward hallway, shooting off rapid-fire information about the individual Ethan had tracked down here: Patient 3944. Behind them, two orderlies trailed at a respectful distance.
“It’s quite normal in these cases for the cranial damage to not destroy every facet of the human mind,” Dr. Cunningham was saying, an almost fevered look in his eyes. “It is truly a remarkable thing.”
Ethan noticed two staffers talking over a dirty mop and bucket. When they caught sight of Dr. Cunningham rounding the corner they grabbed their cleaning equipment and went back to their duties. The doctor was so engrossed in his one-sided conversation that he didn’t spot the idle employees. When Cunningham paused for breath Ethan asked, “So you’re saying it’s remarkable he survived from the head trauma?”
The man flapped his hands in dismissal. “No, that is fairly typical. The mind — the mind is what is remarkable. It’s like a giant video camera that is constantly set to record.”
“Uh-huh.”
“You must think about how amazing the brain is. From the moment of memory recollection, all information is stored. And at an instant —” he snapped his fingers for dramatic effect, “it can recall with intimate detail a memory long ago that had not been there a second before.
“Keep in mind that when thinking about a past event, you are technically just recalling the last time you remembered the memory itself, not the actual incident. With each recollection, the data can grow less precise — to the point that it could eventually become a false memory upon its retrieval. It is like the past, unchangeable the moment it happens, but over time the brain can fool us into remembering a contradictory version. This is why eyewitness testimony in court cases can be a dangerous thing to rely upon.”
“Yes, that is pretty riveting,” Ethan drawled. “I’m sure I won’t be able to sleep tonight with this new revelation.”
Cunningham threw him a pinched look, mouth tight with agitation. “I may be old, Detective, but I do sense sarcasm when I hear it.”
“Noted. No disrespect, but this talk of memories is not why I’m here. I just need information about the patient.”
“I understand.” The doctor looked so crestfallen Ethan almost felt a twinge of pity. But then he started up again as if having his own contradictory relapse. “I can get carried away by the intensity of this subject matter. It boggles my mind. For example, a friend or colleague tells you a story of his life, and during his conversation perhaps some image or word sparks one of your own memories — one that had not been on your mind for years, yet you can remember with the greatest precision like it were yesterday and not five, ten or twenty years ago.”
Ethan ground his teeth. “You know what? I’m remembering something now. On April 23, 1986, thirty seconds ago, I told you I didn’t care. I just came to see the man I inquired about, not for a science lesson.”
Cunningham sniffed and cleared his throat. “This way then.”
Blessed silence was granted for the next several moments of their walk until they came to a gray metal door.
“Why is this type of confinement needed?” Ethan asked. “I thought he was a harmless man with memory loss.”
The doctor pursed his lips. “He … has demonstrated instability in the past. Steve and Luke will be outside if you need assistance. I’m not sure if you’ll get the information you came for, but take as long as you like.”
Steve and Luke, the muscle enforcement of St. Jeremiah’s who had traveled the hallways with Ethan and the doctor, now stood by the door to the solitary wing. They both wore scowls that seemed to have been permanently transfixed on their faces.
Where’s Nurse Ratchet?
“I can’t guarantee the patient will be helpful in answering your questions; he has primarily been unresponsive. You may reclaim your gun at the front desk when you’re ready to leave. Good luck and good day, Detective.” Cunningham gave a perfunctory nod to the two beefy bouncers and left, humming a merry tune as he traversed back down the east ward.
One of the musclemen pulled on the metal door. It screeched and grated outward with reluctance, as though unaccustomed to being opened.
Inside the room, an elderly man, gaunt and sickly white, rocked back and forth on the edge of a small bed. His ginger colored facial hair magnified the pasty paleness of his skin. He stopped rocking and craned his thin neck, staring at Ethan with distant eyes. There were several missing teeth in the man’s mouth, and his shoulder was misshapen — like a bone had broken long ago and hadn’t seated correctly into place as it healed. It was painful to look upon. Ethan averted his eyes, forcing them back to the man’s skeletal face. Despite Patient 3944’s dead features, his eyes seemed to hold an eerie, knowing expression. Like recognition.
“Hello, traveler,” the patient rasped through dry, cracked lips. “Has it been averted yet?”
So a conversation had been initiated. This was a good start. The bad part was it made as much sense as a rubber crutch. “My name is Ethan Tannor. I’m a detective with the NYPD.”
“Ethan? Ethan? No, you have no name now. You are a traveler, a lonely traveler like me. You must be careful what you say, and more careful what you do.” He raised a bony finger in warning, and Ethan could see faded scars, infected scabs, and fresh cuts all along his arm.
“Okay.” This was going nowhere quick, but Ethan soldiered on. “I have some questions about a visit you may have received from my uncle. Do you remember a man named Tobias Keane?”
“No other visitors, only you.” The old man squinted a filmy eye at Ethan. “Has it been averted?”
“Has what been averted?” Ethan was beginning to think he should have heeded Cunningham’s earlier advice. This was a waste of time; the Skeletor look-a-like was giving him nothing to go on.
“The War.”
War? Which war? It could be any — World War I, World War II, Korean, Vietnam? The Cold War? Well, that one’s still in play. But Ethan didn’t think the Cold War was what this disturbed man was referring to, and all of the other ones had ended. Best to just play along. “Yes, it has been averted.” He wasn’t good at talking out of his ass, but if it got the man back on topic he would attempt anything for answers.