Hide (Detective D.D. Warren, #2)(39)

"So what happened to Christopher?"

"His fellow patients ratted him out, and given his history, Admin had enough to transfer him to Bridgewater, which handles the criminally insane. I never heard about him again. But Bridgewater is like that. This place here"—Charlie pointed to the ground beneath his feet—"was a treatment facility. Bridgewater… once you go in, no one expects to see you again."

Sergeant Warren raised a brow "Charming."

Charlie shrugged. "Just the way things were."

"But he could've been released," Dodge prodded. "By the late seventies, weren't patient populations shrinking everywhere? Deinstitutionalization didn't just close Boston Mental, it affected everyone."

Charlie was nodding. "True, true. Damn shame, if you ask me." He cocked his head. "You know what kept me here? Working for four years, volunteering for six years after that? I've told you the scary stuff, the stories people want to hear about a mental institution. But truth is, this was a good hospital. We had patients like Rob George, who, with proper treatment, emerged from a catatonic state and got to go home to his loved ones. Second guy who almost killed me was a street kid named Benji. He was a good-looking kid, handsome Italian stock, but feral as they came. Police brought him in. First week, Benji stayed in a seclusion room, stark naked. He'd painted the wall and his body with his own feces. All you could see were his white eyeballs glowing in the dark.

"One day, when I was tending him, he sprang onto my back and damn near strangled me before another AN pulled him off. But you know what? He turned out to be a good kid. Regression, the doctors called it. Some kind of trauma had reverted him to a nearly two-year-old state; he wouldn't talk, eat, use the toilet, or dress himself. But once we started treating him like a two-year-old, we all got along great. I'd come in on Sundays, read him children's books, play silly songs. With a little bit of time, treatment, and human kindness, Benji grew up again, right before our eyes. He started wearing clothes, using the toilet, eating with silverware, saying please and thank you. Two years later, he was doing so well, a member of our board got him enrolled in Boston Latin. He went to school during the day—and slept in his room here at night. You'd find him studying in the middle of complete chaos in the Day Room.

"Eventually Benji graduated, got a job, moved out on his own. None of that would've happened without this hospital." Charlie shook his head sadly. "People think it's a sign of accomplishment when a mental institute closes. Three thousand people used to receive treatment here. Do you really think it's all gone away? Mental illness has just moved underground, into the homeless shelters and the city parks. Out of sight, out of mind for the taxpayers. It's a crying shame."

Charlie sighed, shook his head again. Another moment passed. He squared his shoulders, holding out his paper. "I drew a map of the old compound," he told Sergeant Warren. "How it looked before they started tearing down the buildings. Don't know if it helps your investigation or not, but it sounded like the grave is old. That being the case, thought you might like to put the crime scene in the proper context."

Warren took the paper, glancing at its contents. "This is perfect, Charlie, very helpful. And I appreciate you taking the time to speak with us. You're a true gentleman."

Dodge took the man's contact information. Things seemed to be wrapping up.

At the last minute, as the police officer was escorting Charlie back to the cruiser, the older man happened to look my way. In my eavesdropping mode, I had risen up, until my face was in the window, my ear tilted toward the open slit.

The moment Charlie spotted me, he did a little double-take.

"Excuse me, miss," he called over. "Don't I know you?"

Immediately, Detective Dodge stepped between us. "Just another person assisting with the investigation," he murmured, directing the retired minister back to the police cruiser. Charlie turned away. I slumped down, quickly working the window back up. I didn't recognize Charlie Marvin. So why would he think he knew me?

The police cruiser drove off.

But my heart continued to pound too hard in my chest.




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Chapter 15


THEY WERE BOTH silent on the drive back to the North End: Annabelle staring out the side window, sliding the glass pendant back and forth on her necklace; Bobby staring out the windshield, drumming his fingers on the wheel.

Bobby thought he should say something. He tried out several lines in his head: Don't worry. Things will seem better in the morning. Life goes on.

It sounded like the same bullshit people had fed him after the shooting, so he kept his mouth shut. Truth of the matter was, Annabelle's life did suck, and he had a feeling things were only going to get worse. Particularly once she came face-to-face with Catherine Gagnon.

He'd first mentioned Annabelle's name to Catherine out of sheer curiosity; Annabelle claimed to not know Catherine, what was Catherine's impression? Catherine, it turned out, was as oblivious to Annabelle's existence as Annabelle was to hers.

Yet both women had been targeted by predators who favored underground chambers. Both women shared a close physical resemblance. And both had resided near Boston in the early eighties.

Bobby continued to believe, had to believe, there was a connection.

Apparently, the higher-ups had agreed, because they'd okayed the Arizona expedition. Theory was, if they could get Catherine and Annabelle together in a room, something was bound to shake loose. The connecting factor. The common denominator. The startling revelation that would break the case wide open, making the BPD look like heroes and allowing everyone to resume sleeping at night.