23
It took a couple of gallons of coffee for the two of them to chase the night away, but by the time they were on the road, they were sufficiently caffeinated to face whatever came next.
“When someone pleads guilty by reason of insanity,” Tina explained, “they’ll get assessed by professionals, then sent to a state psychiatric facility for an undetermined amount of time. They don’t get out until the doctors think it’s safe. They often end up confined for longer than they would have been in prison. As long as they’re considered a threat to public safety, they won’t be released.”
“Which explains why Mark Peterson is still there.” They’d confirmed that before they left the Spotted Owl.
“Correct. Life on a psych ward isn’t like the movies, you know. It’s very regulated and very boring. Long stretches of time with nothing to do. Limited contact with the outside, not much to do besides watch TV. Patients can feel very isolated. Set mealtimes, walks, a certain amount of treatment, a lot of meds. I’ll have to take the lead, because I doubt we’d be able to see Peterson without a badge.”
“I have no problem with that.”
The hospital was a large brick building with several wings, one of which held the psychiatric unit. Its decor was surprisingly pleasant, its walls a muted beige with touches of soothing blue-gray.
At the reception desk, Tina presented her badge, while Jack played the role of silent partner. No one questioned his presence. They were shown into a lounge, where a TV was playing a morning chat show, ignored by some patients, while others were glued to the moving images.
“Would we be able to talk to Mark Peterson in his room?” Tina politely asked the attendant, a burly Black man in scrubs.
“He’s having his morning exercise. He should be back in his room in fifteen minutes.”
She nodded her agreement. “We’ll wait here, thank you.”
When the orderly went to check on two patients getting into an argument, she whispered to Jack, “See if you can poke your head into his room. He might have photos or mail. Room twenty-six. I’m going to see what I can learn from this orderly.”
Of course she’d learned what room he was in, though he hadn’t seen it happen. Tina was exceptionally observant.
After making sure the attendant’s back was turned, he slipped out of the room. No one questioned him as he walked the long corridor. Presumably everyone who was permitted past the reception desk had been cleared.
The door of room twenty-six was propped open and he heard the sound of a vacuum cleaner just out of sight. The cleaning staff hard at work. He stepped inside, already concocting a cover story—oops, wrong room, he’d left behind a coffee cup and didn’t want to leave more mess to clean up, but all the rooms look the same.
As he came deeper into the room, a young woman in gray scrubs, wearing headphones, was vacuuming the far corner, her back to him. He calculated that he had less than a minute before she turned and spotted him. He scanned the room, which was minimally furnished, little more than a bed, a built-in desk, and a chair with the same nubby blue upholstery as those in the lounge. The only personal touch he noticed was a special extra pillow, red silk instead of the standard white pillowcases.
A whiteboard was mounted on one wall. Written in various colors of erasable marker were the names of that week’s nursing staff, along with times when appointments would be happening. A postcard was jammed under the metal edge in the lower corner. It practically glowed with that oversaturated blue that made an ordinary sky look like paradise.
He pulled out his phone, zoomed in, and took a quick photo of the postcard. The roar of the vacuum cleaner stopped and he swung around to see the cleaner staring at him. She had a green streak in her hair and a stud in one nostril.
He lifted his hands in apology. “Got the wrong room, sorry.”
“Wait…Denver Black?” She blinked at him.
Fuck. He really didn’t want to draw that kind of attention. He laughed and pitched his voice higher than Denver ever spoke. “I get that all the time, ohmigod. Doesn’t that dude have like, a scar or something?”
He watched her face as she shifted her perception of him, from brilliant detective to possibly gay dumbass.
“Can I help you? You’re not supposed to be in here.”
“I think I got the wrong room. Did you see a coffee flask in here? Bright yellow, like egg-yolk yellow, though I try not to think about that when I’m drinking my sixty-four ounces a day.” He shuddered. “Eggs, so cringe.”
“Nope.” She was ready to be done with him, so he obliged and backed out of the room with another bright, “Sorry!”
Back in the lounge, Tina was talking intently with the orderly. He hung back until another conflict between two patients drew the man’s attention and he hurried away.
Jack dropped into the chair next to Tina. “What did he have to say?”
“He said Mark Peterson used to be a handful, really aggressive. But he’s calmed down a lot in recent years and he’s quite mellow now.”
“Did they adjust his medication or what?”
“He thinks so. I asked about visitors and he said only his family visits, but he gets regular postcards from one of his old doctors. Did you find anything in his room?”
