Dan offered, “Or a client like our nameless Event Planner, maybe.”
Rafe was nodding. “Yeah, a good break-in man could come in real handy for a guy manipulating ‘events.’ ”
I admitted it made sense.
Rafe folded his arms and stared into the empty interview room. “Nothing in Ron’s package, though, pertaining to electronics....We know he was gonna switch that radio out. Somebody was wirelessly sending ‘voices’ into that woman’s bedroom. Screwing with her head.”
I shook my head. “But why was she so susceptible?”
Rafe rolled his eyes. “Michael, she’s a fuckin’ schizo!”
“Rafe, Marcy Addwatter is mentally ill, and—”
He threw his hands up. “Right, yeah, perfect time to go suddenly P.C. on me, Michael.”
I held up a palm. “That’s not it—my point is, Mrs. Addwatter had been functioning perfectly well, for years. Stabilized on her medication.”
But Rafe was too frustrated, with himself mostly, for any of my words to get through to him.
Just before he went out, he looked back to say, “I’m getting back to the lab—see if I can get lucky for a change, and find fingerprints or anything else we can track....”
When Rafe was gone, I turned to Dan. “I want you to check out that condo complex.”
That surprised him. “Haven’t we found what we were after? Proof our mysterious Event Planner prodded Marcy Addwatter into—”
“We’re only getting started. Just because our client has a history of mental illness that doesn’t mean she’d immediately accept voices coming from her clock radio as God talking. And why didn’t her husband, in the same bed, hear those broadcasts?”
Dan was frowning, studying me. “Where are you headed with this?”
“You’re headed to the condo. Wireless transmitters have limited range. Somebody in that building must have rented or sublet space or at the very least used the basement. Poke around.”
Obviously this didn’t sound like a good time to Dan, who asked, “Isn’t this more like Lt. Valer’s area?”
“Yeah, but he needs a warrant.”
And Dan beamed at me, and opened the door and we both stepped from darkness into light.
In the city jail visitor’s area, Marcy Addwatter—still in prison orange—sat across from me and we talked to each other on our phones through the Plexiglas. Still sans make-up and pale as death, the fright wig of permed hair unchanged, she was no longer in shock, though apparently still medicated, her eyes less than bright, her speech slow.
“Marcy, the last few months, was your husband away on business much?”
“Frequently.”
So they waited till she was sleeping alone to mess with her head.
“Marcy,” I said, “you were hearing voices, but they weren’t inside your head.”
“They weren’t?”
“Not hardly. They were inside your clock radio.”
She frowned. “I don’t understand....”
“Somebody was sending you messages, electronically, wirelessly, designed to control you. Manipulate you.”
For the first time, she gave me a smile, though of course it was a bitter one. “Wouldn’t I know if...if my radio was talking to me?”
I leaned forward, tried to pass my sense of urgency onto her. “Dark bedroom, middle of the night? Who could say where the voices were coming from?”
She wasn’t with me. “I don’t know....”
“Anyway, I have another theory that, if I’m right, would explain why you might be predisposed to believe in such voices. I’ve got Mr. Levine checking on it right now, and...speak of the devil.”
Bustling into the visitor’s area, Bernie Levine took the empty seat beside me. He was clearly excited, but whether in a good or bad way, I couldn’t tell.
“Ms. Tree,” he said sotto voce, “put the phone down.”
I made a “just a second” gesture to Marcy, and went to hang the phone up but Levine took it and spoke to his client: “Marcy, I need a few moments with Michael. Won’t take long.”
Then, as Marcy hung up, frowning in confusion, Bernie also hung up and leaned in to me, close. I could feel Marcy’s eyes on us as we spoke.
“You were right, Ms. Tree—the medication Marcy brought in with her, which she’s still been taking?... Placebos.”
Yes! I thought, and asked, “And her sleeping medication?”
Levine took a pill bottle from a pocket of his well-tailored tweed suitcoat and brandished it in my line of vision.
“Not her right prescription,” he said, “by a long shot.”
“What is it?”
“This junk makes you sleep, all right...and prone to hallucinate, and hyper-suggestive.”
This defined when bad news became good news—that somebody had put Marcy Addwatter through this was horrible; but that we’d caught them at it was wonderful.
“We’ve caught a break,” I said. “I was afraid somebody might’ve had a chance to swap her medication out, like they tried with the radio.”
Bernie gestured toward our mutual client, who clearly was wondering just what the hell was going on. “Marcy came straight from that motel crime scene to this lock-up—both her medication bottles in her purse.”
“Better to be lucky than smart. Is she on any real meds at the moment?”
“Sedatives provided in-house.”
I patted his sleeve. “Good work, Bern...I need to talk to Marcy.”
I got back on the phone and nodded to Marcy to do the same, which she did.
“Marcy,” I said, “I need you to give me permission, through Mr. Levine here, to do something....”
*
“My God,” the doctor said, “I hope you immediately informed the jail physicians and got the poor woman back on her anti-psychotics.”
“Bernie Levine was on top of that,” I said. “And we figured Marcy might do better with a sleeping pill prescription that didn’t include side effects of hallucinations.”
Dr. Cassel said nothing but, out of the corner of an eye, I saw him shuddering.
I went on: “But I also had to call on a...you should pardon the expression, Doc...head shrinker....”
The clinic was in upscale Oak Brook and I had to wonder if Marcy had chosen it so that she could do some shopping on the days she had her appointments. If so, that showed how casual her once critical condition had become over years of functional stability.
I promised the receptionist I needed only five minutes between patients to ask Dr. Sanders a handful of questions, calling it police business, flashing my Illinois private operator’s license with badge and, as usual, having it pass muster. If it hadn’t, I could have had a call put into Rafe, who would vouch that the Tree Agency was working with the police on the Addwatter matter.
And this was the first thing I explained to Dr. Sanders, an attractive brunette in her fifties in dark gray-framed designer glasses and a tailored gray suit and darker gray silk blouse that went with her striking gray eyes, though there was no gray in her hair, which she wore up.
As I settled into the client’s chair, I stayed in my blue trenchcoat, to send a message that I wouldn’t be here long. After explaining away my “police business” claim, I handed Dr. Sanders a single-spaced typed sheet on attorney Levine’s letterhead.
“Doctor, I think this affidavit signed by both Marcy Addwatter and her attorney should cut through any patient/doctor confidentiality concerns.”
Dr. Sanders did not respond; she was reading the affidavit—slowly.