Roses Are Red (Alex Cross 6)

Shifts at the veterans hospital began with a thirty-minute nursing-report-cum-coffee-klatch. During the meeting each patient was talked about briefly, and privilege changes noted. The report buzzwords were affect, compliance, interaction, and, of course, PTSD. At least half the men on the wards suffered from post-traumatic stress disorder.

The shift report ended, and my day began. The psychiatric aide’s main duty is to interact with patients. I was doing that, and it reminded me of why I’d gone into psychology in the first place.

Actually, a lot of my past life was rushing back, especially my feelings for and understanding of the terrible power of trauma. So many of these men suffered from it. For them, the world no longer seemed safe or manageable. People around them didn’t seem trustworthy or dependable. Self-doubt and guilt were always present. Faith and spirituality were nonexistent. Why had the Mastermind chosen this place to hide?

During the eight-hour shift I had a number of specific duties: sharps check at seven (I had to count all the silverware in the kitchen; if anything was missing, which was rare, rooms would be searched); one-on-one specials at eight with a patient named Copeland, who was considered extremely suicidal; fifteen-minute checks starting at nine, checking the whereabouts of all the patients every fifteen minut

es and putting a mark by their names on a blackboard in the hallway outside the nurses’ station); and baskets (somebody had to empty the garbage).

Each time I went to the blackboard I gave the most likely suspects a slightly bolder chalk mark. At the end of my hour on checks, I found that I had seven candidates on my hot list.

A patient named James Gallagher was on the list simply because he roughly fit the physical description of the Mastermind. He was tall enough, thick chested, and seemed reasonably alert and bright. That alone made him a suspect.

Frederic Szabo had full town privileges, but he was a timid soul and I doubted that he was a killer. Since Vietnam he’d been drifting around the country and had never held a job for more than a few weeks. Occasionally, he spit at hospital staff, but that was the worst offense he seemed capable of.

Stephen Bowen had full town privileges and had once been a promising infantry captain in Vietnam. He suffered from PTSD and had been in and out of veterans hospitals since 1971. He took pride in saying that he’d never held a “real job” since he left the military.

David Hale had been a policeman in Maryland for two years, before he began having paranoid thoughts that every Asian person he saw on the streets had been put there to kill him.

Michael Fescoe had worked for two banks in Washington, but he seemed too spaced-out to balance his own checkbook. Maybe he was faking PTSD, but his therapist at the hospital didn’t think so.

Cletus Anderson fit the Mastermind’s general physical description. I didn’t like him. And he was violent. But Anderson hadn’t done a thing to make me suspect he could actually be the Mastermind. Quite the contrary.

Just before shift change, Betsey Cavalierre reached me on the ward. I took the call in the small staff room at the rear of the nurses’ station. “Betsey? What’s up?”

“Alex, something very strange has happened,” she said, and sounded rattled. I asked her what, and her answer gave me a nasty shock.

“Mike Doud is missing. He didn’t come in to work this morning. We called his wife, but she said he left at the usual time.”

“What is the Bureau doing about it?” I asked.

“We don’t think he was in an automobile accident. It’s too soon to put out an APB. Except this isn’t like Doud. He’s a really straight guy, family man, totally dependable. First Walsh,” she said. “Now this. What the hell is going on Alex? It’s him, isn’t it?”

Chapter 102

WAS HE HUNTING US? First Agent James Walsh dead, now Doud missing. There was no way to tell if the events were connected, but we had to assume they were. It’s him, isn’t it?

I had set up time to interview Dr. Cioffi at the hospital’s administration building, so I kept the appointment. I’d done some background work on Cioffi and a few of the other psychiatrists at Hazelwood. Cioffi was an army veteran himself; he’d done two tours in Vietnam, then he’d worked in seven veterans hospitals before this one. Could he be the Mastermind? He certainly had the background in abnormal psychology. But then again, so did I.

When I was shown into his office, Dr. Cioffi was writing at a pinewood partner’s table. His back was to the window. He sat in a cane-and-wood chair covered with a yellow striped fabric that matched the drapes.

I couldn’t see him very well, but I knew he could see me. Oh, the games we play — even we doctors of the mind.

Eventually, he looked up, pretending to be surprised that I was there. “Detective Cross, I’m sorry. I guess the time got away from me.”

He shot his cuffs, then rose from his chair and indicated a general sitting area against the far wall. “Dr. Marcuse and I were talking about you the other night. We realized we were pretty tough the day that you and the other detective arrived. I guess we found the idea of the police wandering around the wards a little troubling. Anyway, I’ve heard rumors that you’re an excellent mental health counselor.”

I refused to rise to the bait. He was a doctor; I was a mental health counselor I told Cioffi about the list of suspects I had compiled. He took the list from me. Quickly looked over the names.

“I know all of these patients, of course. I’m sure that some are angry enough to be violent. Anderson and Hale have actually committed murders in the past. It’s still hard to imagine any of these men organizing a series of daring robberies. And then, of course, why would they still be here if they had all that money?” He laughed. “I certainly wouldn’t be.” Is that so, Dr Cioffi? I had to wonder.

Next, I spent nearly an hour with Dr. Marcuse, who had a smaller office right next to Cioffi’s. I enjoyed his company, and the time flew by. Marcuse was energetic, bright, and trying to be cooperative with the investigation. Or so he made it seem.

“How did you wind up here at Hazelwood?” I eventually asked him.

“Good question, complicated answer. My father was an army pilot. Lost both his legs in the Second World War. I spent time around veterans hospitals from the time I was seven. Hated them with a passion, and with good reason. I guess I wanted to make them better places than what my father knew.”

“You succeeding?” I asked.