She sighed. "God. This is something. I haven't thought about all this in years. Frankie."
She shook her head. "I wonder what ever became of him."
"You have no idea?"
"Absolutely none."
She looked a long time at me, and it was coming to her. I could see the fear gathering behind her eyes. "The two people murdered. You don't think Frankie…"
I said nothing.
"He never was violent, not when I was working with him. He was very gentle, actually."
She waited. I did not respond.
"I mean, he was very sweet and polite to me, would watch me very closely, do everything I told him to do."
"He liked you, then," I said.
"He knitted a scarf for me. I just remembered. Red, white, and blue. I'd completely forgotten. I wonder what happened to it?"
Her voice trailed off. "I must have given it to the Salvation Army or something. I don't know. Frankie, well, I think he sort of had a crush on me." She laughed nervously.
"Mrs. Wilson, what did Frankie look like?"
"Tall, thin, with dark hair." She briefly shut her eyes.
"It was so long ago."
She was looking at me again. "He doesn't stand out. But I don't remember him as being particularly nice looking. You know, I would remember him better, maybe, if he had been really nice looking or really ugly. So I think he was kind of plain."
"Would your hospital have any photographs of him on file?"
"No."
Silence again. Then she looked at me with surprise.
"He stuttered," she said slowly, then again with conviction.
"Pardon?"
"Sometimes he stuttered. I remember. When Frankie got extremely excited or nervous, he stuttered."
Jim Jim.
Al Hunt had meant exactly what he had said. When Frankie was telling Hunt what Barnes had done or tried to do, Frankie would have been upset, agitated. He would have stuttered. He would have stuttered whenever he talked to Hunt about Jim Barnes. Jim Jim!
I hit the first pay phone after leaving Jeanie Wilson's house. Marino, the dope, had gone bowling.
14
Monday rolled in on a tide of clouds marbled an ominous gray that shrouded the Blue Ridge foothills and obscured Valhalla from view. Wind buffeted Marino's car, and by the time he parked at the hospital tiny flakes of snow were clicking against the windshield.
"Shit," he complained as we got out. "That's all we need."
"It's not supposed to amount to anything," I reassured him, flinching as icy flakes stung my cheeks. We bent our heads against the wind and hurried in frigid silence toward the front entrance.
Dr. Masterson was waiting for us in the lobby, his face as hard as stone behind his forced smile. When the two men shook hands, they eyed each other like unfriendly cats, and I did nothing to ease the tension, for I was frankly sick of the psychiatrist's games. He had information we wanted, and he would give it to us unvarnished and in its entirety by virtue of cooperation or a court order. He could take his pick. Without delay we accompanied him to his office, and this time he shut the door.
"Now, what may I help you with?" he asked right off as he took his chair.
"More information," I replied.
"Of course. But I must confess, Dr. Scarpetta," he went on as if Marino were not in the room, "I fail to see what else I can tell you about Al Hunt that might assist you in your cases. You've reviewed his record, and I've told you as much as I remember-"
Marino cut him off. "Yeah, well, we're here to massage that memory of yours," he said, getting out his cigarettes. "And it ain't Al Hunt we're all that interested in."
"I don't understand."
"We're more interested in his pal," Marino said.
"What pair' Dr. Masterson appraised him coldly.
"The name Frankie ring a bell?"
Dr. Masterson began cleaning his glasses, and I decided this was a favorite ploy of his for buying time to think.
"There was a patient here when Al Hunt was, a kid named Frankie," Marino added.
"I'm afraid I'm drawing a blank."
"Draw all the blanks you want, Doc. Just tell us who Frankie is."
"We have three hundred patients at Valhalla at any given time, Lieutenant," he answered. "It isn't possible for me to remember everybody who's been here, particularly those whose stay was of a brief duration."
"So, you're telling me this Frankie character didn't stay very long?"
Marino said.
Dr. Masterson reached for his pipe. He had made a slip, and I could see the anger in his eyes. "I'm not telling you anything of the sort, Lieutenant."
He began slowly tamping tobacco into the bowl. "But perhaps if you could give me a little more information about this patient, the young man you refer to as Frankie, I might at least have a glimmer. Can you tell me something about him other than that he was a 'kid'?"
I intervened. "Apparently, Al Hunt had a friend while he was here, someone he referred to as Frankie. Al mentioned him to me during our conversation. We believe this individual may have been restricted to Backhall after he was admitted, and then transferred to a different floor where he may have become acquainted with Al. Frankie has been described as tall, dark, slender. He also liked to knit, a hobby rather atypical among male patients, I should think."
"This is what Al Hunt told you?" Dr. Masterson asked unemphatically.
"Frankie was also obsessively neat," I said, evading the question.
"I'm afraid a patient's enjoyment of knitting isn't likely to be something brought to my attention," he commented, relighting his pipe.
"It's also possible he had a tendency to stutter when he was under stress," I added, controlling my impatience.
"Hmm. Perhaps someone with spastic dysphonia in his differential diagnosis. That might be a place to start-"
"The place to start is for you to cut the shit," Marino said rudely.
"Really, Lieutenant." Dr. Masterson gave him a condescending smile. "Your hostility is unwarranted."
"Yeah, yeah, and you're unwarranted at the moment, too. But I just might get the itch to change that in a minute, slap you with a warrant and haul your ass off to lockup for accessory to murder. How's that sound?" Marino glared at him.
"I think I've about had enough of your impertinence," he replied with maddening calm. "I don't respond well to threats, Lieutenant."
"And I don't respond well to someone jerking me around," Marino retorted.
"Who is Frankie?" I tried again.
"I assure you I don't know, offhand," Dr. Masterson replied. "But if you'll be so kind as to wait a few minutes, I'll go see what we can pull up on our computer."
"Thank you," I said. "We'll be right here."
The psychiatrist had barely gotten out the door before Marino started in.
"What a dirt bag."
"Marino," I said wearily.
"It ain't like this joint's overrun with kids. I'm willing to bet seventy-five percent of the patients here's over the age of sixty. You know, young people would stand out in your memory, right? He knows damn well who Frankie is, probably could tell us what size shoes the drone wears."
"Perhaps."
"There's nothing perhaps about it. I'm telling you the guy's jerking us around."
"And he'll continue to do so as long as you antagonize him, Marino."
"Shit."
He got up and went to the window behind Dr. Masterson's desk. Parting the curtains, he stared out into the bleak late morning. "I hate like shit when someone lies to me. Swear to God I'll pop 'im if I have to, nail his ass. That's the thing about shrinks that frosts me so bad. They can have Jack the Ripper for a patient and they don't care. They'll still lie to you, tuck the animal in bed and spoon-feed him chicken soup like he's Mr. Apple Pie America." He paused, mumbling inanely, "At least the snow's stopped."
Waiting until he sat back down, I said, "I think threatening to charge him with accessory to murder was a bit much."
"Got his attention, didn't I?"