"Explaining why he could get his master's degree but then be unable to function in the setting of a psychotherapy practice," I conjectured.
"Exactly."
"What about his relationship with his father?"
"It was dysfunctional, abusive," he replied. "Mr. Hunt is a hard, overbearing man. His idea of raising a son was to beat him into manhood. Al simply did not have the emotional makeup to withstand the bullying, the manhandling, the mental boot camp that was supposed to prepare him for life. It sent him fleeing to his mother's camp, where his image of himself became increasingly confused. I'm sure it comes as no surprise to you, Dr. Scarpetta, that many homosexual males are the sons of big brutes who drive pickups with gun racks and Confederate flag bumper stickers."
Marino came to mind. I knew he had a grown son. It had never occurred to me before this moment that Marino never talked about this only son, who lived out west somewhere.
I asked, "Are you suggesting that Al was homosexual?"
"I'm suggesting he was too insecure, his feelings of inadequacy too great, for him to respond to anyone, for him to form intimate relationships of any nature. To my knowledge, he never had a homosexual encounter."
His face was unreadable as he gazed over my head and sucked on his pipe.
"What happened in psychodrama that day, Dr. Masterson? What was the small miracle you mentioned? His imitation of a pansy? Was that it?"
"It cracked the lid," he said. "But the miracle, if you will, was an intense and volatile dialogue he got into with his father, who was imagined to be sitting in an empty chair in the center of the room. As this dialogue intensified, the therapist sensed what was happening and slipped into the chair and began playing the part of Al's father. By now Al was so involved he was almost in a trance. He could not distinguish the real from the imagined, and finally his rage broke."
"How did it manifest itself? Did he become violent?"
"He began to weep uncontrollably," Dr. Masterson replied.
"What was his 'father' saying to him?"
"He was assaulting him with the usual brickbats, being critical, telling him how worthless he was as a man, as a human being. Al was hypersensitive to criticism, Dr. Scarpetta. This was, in part, the root of his confusion. He thought he was sensitive to others, when, in truth, he was sensitive only to himself."
"Was Al assigned a social worker?"
I asked, continuing to flip through pages and finding no entries made by any therapists.
"Of course."
"Who was it?" There appeared to be pages missing from the record.
"The therapist I just mentioned," he replied blandly.
"The therapist from psychodrama?"
He nodded.
"Is he still employed by this hospital?"
"No," Dr. Masterson said. "Jim is no longer with us-"
"Jim?" I interrupted.
He began knocking burnt tobacco out of his pipe.
"What is his last name and where is he now?" I asked.
"I regret to say that Jim Barnes died in a car accident many years ago."
"How many years ago?"
Dr. Masterson began cleaning his glasses again. "I suppose it was eight, nine years ago."
"How did it happen, and where?"
"I don't recall the details."
"How tragic," I said, as if the matter were no longer of any interest to me.
"Am I to assume you are considering Al Hunt a suspect in your case?"
he asked.
"There are two cases. Two homicides," I said.
"Very well. Two cases."
"To answer your question, Dr. Masterson, it isn't my business to consider anyone a suspect in anything. That's up to the police. My interest is in gathering information about Al Hunt that might assist me in verifying that he had a history of suicidal ideations."
"Is there any question about that, Dr. Scarpetta? He hanged himself, didn't he? Could that be anything other than a suicide?"
"He was dressed oddly. A shirt and his boxer shorts," I responded matter-of-factly. "Such things often lead to speculations."
"Are you suggesting autoerotic asphyxiation?"
He raised his eyebrows in surprise. "An accidental death that occurred while he was masturbating?"
"I'm doing my best to obviate that question, should it ever be asked."
"I see. For insurance reasons. In the event his family might contest what you put down on the death certificate."
"For any reason," I said.
"Are you really in doubt as to what happened?" He frowned.
"No," I replied. "I think he took his own life, Dr. Masterson. I think this was his intention when he went down to the basement, and that he may have taken his pants off when he removed his belt. The belt he used to hang himself."
"Very well. And perhaps I can clear up another matter for you, Dr. Scarpetta. Al never demonstrated violent tendencies. The only individual he ever inflicted harm upon, to my knowledge, was himself."
I believed him. I also believed there was much he wasn't telling me, that his memory lapses and vagueness were patently deliberate. Jim Barnes, I thought. Jim Jim.
"How long was Al's stay here?" I changed the subject.
"Four months, I believe."
"Did he ever spend time in your forensic unit?"
"Valhalla doesn't have a forensic unit per se. We have a ward called Backhall for patients who are psychotic, suffering the DTs, a danger to themselves. We don't warehouse the criminally insane."
"Was Al ever on this ward?" I asked again.
"It was never necessary."
"Thank you for your time," I said, getting up. "If you would simply mail a photocopy of this record to me, that will be fine."
"It will be my pleasure."
He smiled his broad smile again, but he would not look at me. "Don't hesitate to call if there's anything further I can do."
It nagged at me as I followed the long, empty corridor to the lobby, but my instinct was not to ask about Frankie or even mention the name. Backhall. Patients who are psychotic or suffering the DTs. Al Hunt had mentioned interviewing patients confined to the forensic unit. Was this a figment of his imagination or confusion? There was no forensic unit at Valhalla. Yet there very well may have been someone named Frankie locked up on Backhall. Maybe Frankie had improved and was later moved to a different ward while Al was a patient at Valhalla? Maybe Frankie had imagined he had murdered his mother, or maybe he had wished he could?
Frankie beat his mother to death with a stick of firewood. The killer beat Gary Harper to death with a segment of metal pipe.
By the time I got to my office it was dark out and the custodians had come and gone.
Seating myself at my desk, I swiveled around to face the computer terminal. After several commands, the amber screen was before me, and moments later I was staring at Jim Barnes's case. Nine years ago on April twenty-first, he had been in a single-car accident in Albemarle County, the cause of death "closed head injuries."
His blood alcohol was.18, almost twice the legal limit, and he had nortriptyline and amitriptyline on board. Jim Barnes was a man with a problem.
In the computer analyst's office down the hall, the archaic, boxy microfilm machine sat squarely on a back table like a Buddha. My audiovisual skills have never been extraordinary. After an impatient search through the film library, I found the roll I was looking for and somehow managed to thread it properly into the machine. With lights out, I watched an endless stream of fuzzy black-on-white print flow by. My eyes were beginning to ache by the time I found the case. Film quietly creaked as I worked a knob and centered the handwritten police report on the screen. At approximately ten forty-five on a Friday night, Barnes's 1973 BMW was traveling east on 1-64 at a high rate of speed. When his right wheel left the pavement, he overcorrected, hit the median strip, and became airborne. Advancing the film, I found the medical examiner's initial report of investigation. In the comments section a Dr. Brown had written that the decedent was fired that afternoon from Valhalla Hospital, where he had been employed as a social worker. When he left Valhalla at approximately five P.M. that day, he was noted to be extremely agitated and angry. Barnes was unmarried when he died, and he was only thirty-one years old.