“Just a place in your shriveled heart?” Geena grinned.
“Don’t be greedy. In its vicinity.”
George started the car with a soft sigh of relief. If Andi was willing to bicker with Geena, and Geena was taking it so well, there was hope they could get through this case without it becoming an absolute catastrophe. Actually, he had to admire Andi’s tactic. He was establishing his unapproachability from day one, thus preparing Geena for the situations when he would inevitably push her away. George only hoped their visit to House Cusabo wouldn’t be the first time they had to do it. As understanding as Geena tried to be, George didn’t want to test her patience on the first day.
The drive to Cottageville was uneventful. Andi was staring out the window, no doubt preparing himself for whatever the arthropods would throw at him once they reached the facility. George made polite conversation with Geena, telling her about his brother Daniel who was currently stationed in Arkansas. When House Cusabo came into view after a long, winding road flanked by angel oaks, all conversation died.
“Wow.” Geena leaned forward to look at the mansion through the windshield. “I did have pictures of Arkham in mind when I heard the word mental health facility, but I wouldn’t have thought they’d be accurate. This thing is huge!”
“Lots of people, so many drugs, making it all wrong, the stench is terrible, altered,krrt,krrt, it’s….”
“What did you say?” Luckily Geena seemed to have been distracted by the sheer size of House Cusabo, which had once been a typical Southern Belle, as was evident in the huge porch at the entrance, but had been added to, most probably in the late sixties or early seventies, given the ugly rectangular buildings to both sides, connected via tunnel-like constructions with the main house. The garden, as far as George could see from the car, was extensive, several acres surrounded by a six-foot chain-link fence that was more symbolic than anything else. Climbing over it would have been child’s play, and as far as George knew, keeping people hospitalized against their will had become a lot more difficult in the last two decades or so. He parked his beautiful Escalade in one of the parking slots markedVisitors. Geena was already out of the car, still assessing the huge monster of a building. So far they hadn’t seen anybody outside. Given the weather—not really cold but cloudy with a promise of rain later—he wasn’t surprised. George opened Andi’s door, taking in his partner’s complexion. Andi was pale, which made the circles under his eyes even darker. His cheeks were hollow because food had been low on his list of priorities in the last weeks. George suspected his partner didn’t eat all that much when he wasn’t there to feed him. Another reason they had needed this holiday so badly. His eyes were glazed over, but there was still a certain awareness telling George Andi was present enough to keep it together. For the time being.
Andi left the car and turned toward the building, his mouth in a grim line. George remembered what Andi had told him about how difficult hospitals were for him, not because of the diseases but because of the drugs that altered a person’s pheromones. From the little George knew about mental illnesses, many were linked with changes in the body’s chemical reactions, which in turn were then treated with drugs that influenced said reactions, which played havoc with Andi’s perception. According to his partner, it was like suddenly being forced to think in a language you knew the basics of but without context. And each person in this building who was here for treatment would be like a flip image for Andi. Frayed at the edges, the core a cluster of colors dissolving into each other, making it hard to read them. Luckily, they weren’t here to talk to patients. They were here to talk to Dr. Graham Blackton, the director of House Cusabo.
Geena was holding the door open for them when they reached the porch, the short look she gave Andi not lost on George. He knew he had to tread carefully. Geena might come across as friendly, laid-back, and caring, but he didn’t know her, and at her heart she was a detective, just like them, even if her title was ex-military and now FBI. You didn’t get into this line of work if your curiosity wasn’t way above the levels of most civilian people. Keeping one hand at Andi’s lower back, George guided him inside, where a man of perhaps fifty years was standing behind a broad reception desk. He wore a green uniform and greeted them with a smile.
“Welcome to House Cusabo. How can I help you?”
Geena stepped forward, showing her badge. “Hello. I’m FBI Agent Geena Davis, and these are Detectives George Donovan and Andrew Hayes from the Charleston PD. We have a meeting with Dr. Blackton.”
“Ah yes, I was informed of it. Please, follow me.” With his pleasant smile still in place, the man left his spot behind the counter and led them toward a grand staircase that dominated the hall. Everywhere George looked, he saw a disturbing mixture of old and new, of representative and practical. While the floor at the hall had been tiled, they were now walking over green linoleum that had seen better days. For a moment George felt as if he were in a horror movie, the camera on female legs in flat white sneakers, frayed in some places, following them along a seemingly endless corridor. They were only missing the half-open doors allowing glimpses into rooms where the same linoleum sported smudges of dubious origin. Sometimes he hated his imagination.
Paintings, done by patients, as announced by a note at the entrance of the corridor, hung in regular spaces on the wainscoted walls, the dark of the wood giving the entire floor a gloomy atmosphere. The motifs of the paintings didn’t help either. Most were monochromatic or generally done in dark colors with only two lighter ones of sunsets spaced between. How a patient with depression was supposed to find a more positive outlook on life here George didn’t know.
Their guide stopped in front of a door made of the same dark wood as was plastered on the walls. He knocked, and after an unfriendly female voice asked them to come in, he opened the door for them, not stepping in himself. Once they were all inside the office, where a middle-aged woman behind a broad desk was glaring at them, the man closed the door and was gone. George couldn’t fault him for it. The old saying of dragon secretaries defending the boss’s door came to mind. Before George could put on his charming smile reserved for older women, Geena was at the desk, showing the woman her badge. Her brisk attitude clearly rubbed the secretary the wrong way, as she bristled in her seat, taking her time to inspect Geena’s badge. Both women radiated animosity and the willingness to fight. A smart man kept his mouth shut when such situations occurred. He used the time to check on Andi, who was standing slightly back and to his right, using George as his shield. His mouth was moving almost imperceptibly. George leaned a bit closer.
“Angry, always angry, spike,klck,klck, hungry, wobble, wobble, termites in the foundation,chrt,chrt,chrt, eating, gnawing, can’t move, so many eggs in my body, cold, close the door, the net is destroyed,shkr, need….”
George touched Andi’s forearm, which jolted his partner out of whatever stream of information he had been caught in. Termites, spiders, and silverfish was George’s guess. Theshkrsound was typical for silverfish, and net usually meant spiders. It could have been caterpillars, though not at this time of year, and not inside a house.
He lifted one brow, his way of asking Andi if he was okay. Andi rolled his eyes, which was his way of saying George shouldn’t be such a mother hen but that he appreciated it nonetheless.
“Dr. Blackton will see you now.” The haughty voice of the secretary—Regina Miles, as a discreet sign on her desk announced—commandeered their attention toward a door to her left. Geena’s body was tense like an elastic spring. The thunderous look in her eyes promised death to anybody in her way. George let her open the door, deciding to see how this would play out. Andi stayed behind him, assessing quietly.
Dr. Blackton was a good-looking man in his late thirties, with the first streaks of gray at his temples. His dark brown eyes looked kind, with a certain sharpness George expected from somebody in his position. His smile seemed genuine. George hadn’t gone into details during their short call, just asking the man if it was okay to swing by. Geena did the introductions a third time with a note of steel in her voice. Mrs. Miles must have really gotten on her nerves. Like the pro he was, Dr. Blackton ignored her thinly veiled hostility and greeted them all with a handshake before inviting them to sit down on the comfy guest chairs in front of his desk.
“I must say, I was surprised when I got your call, Detective Donovan. How can I be of help?”
George glanced at Geena, who nodded, leaving the playing field to him. “First of all, thank you for seeing us on such short notice, Dr. Blackton. We really appreciate it.”
The man grinned a little self-deprecatingly. “I’d say it’s my pleasure, but to be honest, your visit has given me an excuse to be late for yet another board meeting where I have to explain to the big bosses why treating patients with mental illnesses is not the gold mine they thought it would be.”
From the short summary Shireen had sent them, George knew House Cusabo belonged to Green Oaks Group, a company that owned countless hospitals in the US and South America and offered other medical services like eldercare as well. The Green Oaks Group had purchased House Cusabo only two years ago, shortly after the former director, Dr. Silvana Grassen, had died.
“I don’t envy you.” George gave the man his best polite smile. “We’re here because of a former patient in your facility, Staff Sergeant Kesha Raport, who was reported missing by House Cusabo about four years ago. We wondered if you still have her medical files.”
Dr. Blackton furrowed his brows. “I’m afraid that was two years before I took the position as director here. I’ll have to ask Mrs. Miles if we have anything about her. Do you have a warrant? Otherwise, I have to get permission from her next of kin to share the files with you, as I assume she’s no longer alive?”
“You assume correctly. And there is no next of kin, which means you can show us the files since we represent the state.” George was very careful not to put any pressure on Dr. Blackton. The laws regarding the release of the medical files of a deceased person were complicated. Without any next of kin or officially named representatives, they had a theoretical claim on seeing the files, especially since they were investigating a serial killer case, but if Dr. Blackton dug his heels in, he could make their lives miserable. And with potentially six more victims coming from House Cusabo, George wanted to stay on the man’s good side. Of course, Shireen had already hacked the files, but they needed them officially in case they found evidence the state attorney needed for court. “We would also appreciate it if we could perhaps talk to some of your staff who knew Kesha Raport.”
Dr. Blackton was tapping his desktop with his index finger. “Hmm. You have proof there is no next of kin?”
“Yes. If you wish, I can send you the part of her military file where her family status is noted.” Geena already had her cell out, swiping at the screen. It seemed her ties to the military were still tight despite her being now FBI.
Dr. Blackton nodded, obviously relieved. “That would be wonderful. I’m all for helping the police with an investigation, but you understand, I have to keep in mind that House Cusabo is now part of Green Oaks Group. They can get testy when they think they’re in legal jeopardy.”
“I can assure you everything is above reproach.” George smiled reassuringly while Geena typed on her cell. Blackton told her his email address, and after reading whatever Geena had sent him, he used his office phone to tell Mrs. Miles to get him Kesha Raport’s file.
