Despite all the smiling millionaires on TV talking about spikes in the stock market, times were hard for folks like Solomon. The days of tap dancing on bottle tops were long gone, and the nickels and dimes didn’t come easily. Without any marketable skills, jobs were scarce, and he couldn’t make rent at the shitty little hotel-apartment he’d been staying in.
So he wound up on the street. Spent some time wandering from shelter to shelter before migrating to the river bottom, where much of the city’s homeless lived.
Now here he stood, waiting in line for a plate of eggs he didn’t much feel like eating, thinking about the woman who wasn’t quite Myra and wondering where they’d take her.
She was dangerous, he knew that much. Hell, everybody did — but they didn’t really know what kind of danger. Not like Solomon.
Somewhere in his head he heard the beating of dark drums, and despite his fear, he wondered if he should do something about it. Warn somebody.
Because whoever had wronged that poor woman, whoever had caused the pain that was keeping her hostage to that unrelenting beat—
— was about to wish he’d never been born.
7
“Jane Doe number 314. Brought in on a 5150.”
Clayton Simm was at the tail end of his shift and looked it. His eyes were bloodshot and the circles under them were as dark as camouflage paint.
A native of Seattle, Simm had only recently moved to the Ocean City area. He’d been recommended for a staff position by an old Harvard classmate of Tolan’s and, in his short time here, had proven to have good diagnostic skills and even better instincts.
Tolan had quickly warmed to him. Especially after he’d agreed to work graveyard.
The three of them — Simm, Tolan, and Blackburn — stood near the EDU nurses’ station, where Simm stifled a small yawn and continued his recital of the facts.
“She was cleaned up and clothed by the nursing staff. I did a basic physical and found her to be malnourished but in fairly good health and free of injury, except for a few minor contusions on her arms and feet, and a pretty significant one near the right cheekbone. No sign of sexual assault. She appears to be about thirty-two years old, with a clear case of heterochromia.”
“Hetero what?” Blackburn asked.
“Heterochromia,” Simm said. “Her eyes are two different colors. Green and brown. It’s pretty rare in humans, but it does happen.”
“Any sign of glaucoma?” Tolan asked.
“Retinal exam came up negative, with no indication of hemorrhage or injury. If I had to guess, I’d say the etiology is genetic.”
“I don’t remember anything hinky about her eyes,” Blackburn said.
“It’s not always obvious,” Tolan told him. “Especially under less than optimal lighting conditions.”
“The patient has no other identifying marks or scars,” Simm continued, “except for a small tattoo of what looks to be a cartoon cat on her left shoulder. On arrival, she presented signs of mild catatonia. Offered no resistance to taking blood and urine samples, which were sent off for testing. The EMTs reported that just prior to transport she had an acute violent outburst accompanied by hysterical, disorganized speech.”
“A lie stands on one leg, the truth on two,” Blackburn said.
They both looked at him. “What?”
“That’s what she kept saying. A lie stands on one leg, the truth on two. Over and over again.”
It was a quote from one of Tolan’s favorite books. Abby had given him a copy for his thirty-seventh birthday.
“Poor Richard’s Almanac,” he said.
Blackburn shrugged. “You think her behavior could be caused by the drug abuse? Maybe she got hold of some bad powder or some PCP.”
“That’s always a possibility.”
“True,” Simm said. “But I didn’t notice any overt signs of drug use.”
Blackburn stared at him. “You’re kidding me, right? She’s a goddamn junkie. Got like a thousand needle marks on her arms.”
Simm’s gaze went to Tolan, then shifted back to Blackburn. “Are you sure we’re talking about the same woman?”
“I know who I’m talking about. Do you?”
“Sorry, Detective, but I examined her thoroughly. There was minor bruising, yes, but I didn’t see any needle marks.”
“Now, wait just a minute,” Blackburn said. “The eyes are one thing, I’ll give you that, but I know smack tracks when I see ’em.” He turned to Tolan. “What’s the story here, Doc? You letting the inmates run the asylum now?”
Tolan grimaced. If blunt were an art, they’d be calling this guy Picasso.
He exchanged looks with Simm, whose body language spoke of a sudden distaste for all things Blackburn. Tolan had a hard time believing Simm would make such a blatant error, but sent him an unspoken message to keep his cool.
It took obvious effort, but Simm complied.
After a moment, Tolan said, “I’m sure it’s a simple oversight. I’ll reexamine her once I get into the room.”
“She’s in SR-three,” Simm said. “Without the tox screen results it’s hard to rule out any possible organic causes, but judging by what the EMTs told me, I’d say she’s presenting all the characteristics of BRP.”
Brief Reactive Psychosis was a fairly common disorder brought on by sudden intense stress or psychological trauma. Aggressive behavior and nonsensical phrases were typical indicators. It usually didn’t last long, no more than a day or two, but sometimes the symptoms could take up to a month to clear. Anything beyond that and they’d have to start considering Schizophreniform Disorder or even schizophrenia itself.
Unfortunately, without a patient history, they had no way of knowing how long the symptoms had been present.
“You restrain her?”
Simm shook his head. “She hasn’t demonstrated any violent or self-destructive behavior since she was admitted. I didn’t see any reason to.”
“Mistake number two,” Blackburn said.
Tolan shot him a glance. Despite what Blackburn might think, he supported Simm’s decision. California statute prohibited the use of restraints unless the patient presented an immediate danger to herself or the staff, a law not everyone paid attention to.
But Tolan did. And he was glad Simm had made the right call.
“Thanks, Clayton. Go on home and get some sleep.”
“It’s early. I’ve still got an hour or so.”
Tolan appreciated the man’s dedication, but tried his own hand at bluntness.
“You look like hell,” he said, then patted Simm’s shoulder. “Now get out of here.”
8
The corridors of the detention unit were quiet at this time of morning.
That would change soon enough.
After the current roster of patients began to trickle awake and new patients were escorted in, the buzz of activity would rise to almost intolerable levels, making it nearly impossible to think, let alone work.
A colleague of Tolan’s had once asked him why he’d left the relative peace and quiet of private practice for the chaos of this place. He couldn’t really remember his answer. Something noble, no doubt. Truth be told, he was here for one simple reason:
Penance.
He led Blackburn down a wide, battle-scarred hallway past the windowed doors of the seclusion rooms. There were six rooms in all, each with an adjacent observation booth, each housing one of their more dangerous patients.
As they passed the door to SR-6, Tolan heard a loud pounding sound and turned to see the face of a young man framed in the small rectangle of safety glass in the upper half of the door.