“You’re still not ready,” she said matter-of-factly.
“You’re right. . . . I’m not ready.”
“But you’re close.” She smiled, then entered her hotel room and shut the door. “Don’t know what you’re missing,” she called from inside.
I smiled all the way back to my hotel room. I think I did know what I was missing.
Chapter 97
“HERE WE GO!” John Sampson said, and clapped his hands together. “Bad boys, bad boys, where you gonna hide?”
At 6:00 A.M. on Tuesday morning, Sampson and I climbed out of my old Porsche in the staff parking lot of the Hazelwood Veterans Hospital on North Capitol Street in D.C. The large, sprawling hospital was situated a ways south of Walter Reed Army Medical Center, just north of the Soldiers’ and Airmen’s Home.
Home of the Mastermind? I wondered. Could that be? According to Brian Macdougall it could — and he had a lot riding on it.
John and I were dressed in sport shirts, baggy khaki trousers, and high-topped sneakers. We were going to work for a day or two at the hospital. So far, the FBI hadn’t been able to identify the Mastermind among the patients or staff members.
The grounds of Hazelwood were surrounded by high fieldstone walls covered with ivy. The landscaping was sparse: a few deciduous and evergreen shrubs and trees, artificial berms that were evocative of wartime bunkers.
“That’s the main hospital,” I said, and pointed to a nearby building that was painted pale yellow and rose six stories above us. There were a half dozen smaller, bunkerlike buildings on the grounds.
“I’ve been here before,” Sampson said. His eyes narrowed. “Knew a couple of guys from Vietnam who wound up at Hazelwood. They didn’t heap high praise on the institution. Place always makes me think of that documentary Titicut Follies. You remember that scene where a patient is refusing to eat? So they force a hose down his nose?”
I looked at Sampson and shook my head. “You really don’t like Hazelwood.”
“Don’t like the system of dispensing medical care to veterans. Don’t like what happens to men and women who get hurt in foreign wars. The people who work here are mostly all right, though. They probably don’t even use nose hoses anymore.”
“We might need to,” I told him, “if we find our guy.”
“We find the Mastermind, sugar, we’ll definitely use nose hoses.”
Chapter 98
WE CLIMBED STEEP STONE STAIRS, then entered the hospital’s administration building. We were shown the way to the inner office of Colonel Daniel Schofield, the director of the unit.
Colonel Schofield was there to meet us outside a small private room. Two other men and a petite blond woman were already inside. “Let’s go right in,” Schofield said. He appeared anxious and upset. What a surprise.
He made stiff, very formal introductions around the room, starting with Sampson and me, then going on to his staff. None of them looked happy to see us.
“This is Ms. Kathleen McGuigan. She’s the head nurse on Four and Five, where you and Mr. Sampson will be working. This is Dr. Padraic Cioffi. Dr. Cioffi is the psychiatrist in charge of the mental health units. And Dr. Marcuse, one of the five excellent therapists who work at the hospital.”
Dr. Marcuse nodded benignly in our direction. He seemed a pleasant enough man, but nurse McGuigan and Dr. Cioffi sat there stone-faced.
“I’ve explained the very delicate situation to Ms. McGuigan, Dr. Cioffi, and Dr. Marcuse. To be candid with you, nobody is completely comfortable with this, but we understand that we don’t have a choice. If this suspected killer is hiding out here, our concern is for everyone’s safety. He must be caught, of course. No one disagrees with that.”
“He was here,” I said, “at least for a while. He might be here now.”
“I don’t believe he’s here,” Dr. Cioffi spoke up. “I’m sorry. I just don’t see it. I know all of our patients and believe me, none of them is a mastermind. Not even close. The men and women here are deeply, deeply disturbed.”
“It could also be a staff member,” I told him, then watched his reaction.
“My opinion remains unchanged, Detective.”
I needed their cooperation, so I figured it was a good idea to try to make friends, if I could. “Detective Sampson and I will be in and out of here as quickly as is humanly possible,” I said. “We do have reason to believe that the killer is, or at least was, a patient at the hospital. I don’t know if this makes it better or worse, but I’m a psychologist. I went to Hopkins. I worked as a psych aide at McLean Hospital and also the Institute for Living. I think I’ll fit in on the wards.”
Sampson spoke up. “Oh, yes, I was once a porter at Union Station. I’ll fit in all right, too. Carry that load.”
The executive staff didn’t laugh and didn’t say a word. Nurse McGuigan and Dr. Cioffi glared at Sampson, who’d had the nerve to make light of the seriousness of the situation, heaven forbid.