Deadly Cross (Alex Cross #28)(50)
“I love that guy.”
“Me too.”
We got off the highway and drove six miles on a county road to the entrance of West Briar, the private psychiatric facility where Kay had stayed on several different occasions over the years. A winding drive climbed up through thick woods, and then the trees thinned and ended, revealing an open, campus-like setting dominated by a large white, rambling structure — more like a country inn than an asylum — with well-kept lawns and gardens.
Arriving unannounced can often result in an initial strike-out for investigators, but sometimes when people are shown FBI credentials with no warning, there’s a valuable window of candor before their guards go up and they start posturing and lying to you. The more hardened the criminal or the smarter the sociopath, the narrower the window of candor. The opposite is also true; the more honest the person, the wider the window.
We got out of the car and were met by a temperature of over one hundred degrees and air that was thick with moisture.
“I’m going to need a shower by the time we get inside,” Mahoney grumbled.
“Two showers,” I said, wiping at the sweat rolling off my forehead.
Inside the building, the air was so cold, we shivered. The receptionist, an older woman with half-glasses, gave us such a frigid stare that I shivered again as Mahoney and I showed her our credentials.
“FBI?” she said. “What’s this about?”
“Please notify the administrator that we wish to speak to him or her as part of a federal investigation,” Mahoney said, ignoring her stare. “We also want to speak to whoever was medically in charge of the late Kay Willingham during her most recent stay.”
The receptionist’s eyes widened. She placed a murmured call.
Five minutes later, we were sent to see the psychiatrist who ran West Briar. He stood up behind his spotless desk as we entered his office. He was surrounded by dozens of leather books that looked like they had never been read, generic sailing photographs, and framed degrees from Rice and Baylor. He smiled unhappily as we approached. I couldn’t help suspecting we were about to see the smallest possible window of candor.
“I am Dr. Nathan Tolliver,” he said, reaching out to shake our hands limply. “To what do I owe the pleasure of a visit from the FBI?”
“We’d like to see any and all files regarding the late Kay Willingham’s stays here,” Mahoney said. “And we want to talk with everyone who interacted with her, especially her primary doctor, during her most recent stay.”
“That would be me,” said a woman entering behind us. “I’m Dr. Jeanne Hicks, and I’m sure we would both like to be of help, but our hands are tied under Alabama law. Kay opted, in writing, to keep her psychiatric files secret.”
“This is a federal murder investigation,” I said. “A federal murder investigation into Kay’s death.”
“We understand and we support what you are doing,” Dr. Tolliver said. “Kay was a special person. But legally there’s nothing we can do. To have access to those files, you’ll need a court order or the signature of the executor of Ms. Willingham’s estate.”
“Who is in Montgomery, where we just came from,” Mahoney said.
“Unfortunately, that is correct,” Dr. Hicks said.
CHAPTER 55
THE LAW OFFICES OF Carson and Knight were housed in a venerable Southern mansion on a side street not far from the Alabama state capitol. For the second time that day, we showed up unannounced. We presented our credentials to Reggie, the young man at the front desk of the busy legal enterprise.
The lobby was paneled in Alabama black oak and up high on one wall were two large paintings of the firm’s founders, Robert Carson and Claude Knight. Below them in rows were photographs of the various attorneys who’d been made partner since the firm’s inception nearly fifty years before.
While we waited, I studied the pictures and was surprised to see a photograph of a younger Claudette Barnes, the vice president’s chief of staff; her late husband, Kevin, who’d died in a biking accident; and, higher up on the wall, a picture of J. Walter Willingham himself.
“Willingham and Barnes both worked here?” I said to Mahoney.
“The VP for about six months after he left the prosecutor’s office,” boomed a man in a gray linen suit, a white shirt, and a bow tie coming down the staircase. “A great man, and his picture helps the firm’s image.”
He grinned and stuck out his hand to shake ours. “Robert Carson Jr. People call me Bobby. I understand you have a question about Kay Willingham’s estate.”
“Are you the executor, Mr. Carson?”
“I am not,” he said. “I am the son of one of the founders. I manage the firm and oversee the executor of her estate, Nina Larch, who is unfortunately away for the day taking a deposition in Valdosta. However, I am also Kay’s second cousin and am familiar with her estate, so I am hoping I can help. Let’s go into this conference room, gentlemen. It’s not in use, Reggie?”
The man at the front desk said, “No, Bobby.”
“Do not disturb, then,” he said and gestured us inside.
When the door shut, Mahoney said, “To avoid having to get a federal court order, we need the executor to sign a release allowing us to review Kay Willingham’s medical files from her time at West Briar psychiatric.”