Bobby shrugged. Why not?
He opened the first box. Jill Cochran was an organized kind of gal. She had divvied up the information by decade, then by building, each decade holding multiple building files. Bobby tried to remember what Charlie Marvin had told them about the hospital's organization. Maximum security had been in I-Building, something like that.
He went to the seventies and pulled the file for I-Building. Each patient had been distilled to a single page. It still made an impressive weight in his hand.
He came upon the name Christopher Eola first and skimmed Cochran's notes. Date of admittance, brief family history, a bunch of clinical terms that meant nothing to Bobby, then apparently the head nurse's own impression—"extrem. dangerous, extrem. sneaky, stronger than he looks."
Bobby stuck a yellow sticky tab on the page, for future reference. He was confident that the crime scene at Mattapan was the work of Annabelle's uncle. Having decided that, he was equally confident that somewhere at some time, Christopher Eola had performed his own "vile acts against God." Regardless of the resolution of the Mattapan case, he had a feeling the task force would agree to continue tracking down Mr. Eola.
He skimmed through other patient files, waiting for something to leap out at him. A neon Post-it screaming, I am the madman. A doctor's note: This patient is the most likely to have kidnapped and tortured six girls.
Many of the patients came with notes documenting a history of violence, as well as extensive criminal activity At least half, however, had no background at all. Admitted by police."
"Discovered vagrant" were very common phrases. Even before the homeless crisis made headlines in the eighties, it was clear the homeless were in crisis in Boston.
Bobby made it through the whole stack and realized it had become one long, depressing blur. He stopped, backed up, tried again.
"Whatya looking for?" Sinkus asked.
"Don't know."
"That makes it hard."
"What are you doing?"
Sinkus held up his own bulging file. "Staff."
"Ah. Any of them look good?"
"Only Adam Schmidt, the perverted AN."
"Bummer. Track him down yet?"
"Working on it. What about age?"
"What?"
"Age. You're looking for a patient who might be Tommy Grayson, yes? You said he was seven years younger than Russell Granger. Had been in and out of prison and/or hospitals since he was what, sixteen?"
"That Russell knew of."
"So, if he was admitted to Boston State Mental, you're talking a young man. Teens to early twenties."
Bobby considered the logic. "Yeah, good guess."
He started sorting through the patient sheets again, culling down the entire file to fourteen men, including Eola and another case Charlie Marvin had told him about, the street kid named Benji who'd attended Boston Latin while living in the dying mental institute.
Now what?
Bobby glanced at his watch, winced. He'd already burned up an hour and a half. Time to find a dog-friendly hotel and return to Annabelle.
He picked up the fourteen sheets. "Mind if I make copies of these?"
"Be my guest. Hey, didn't you say Charlie Marvin worked at Boston State Mental?"
"He was an AN," Bobby supplied. "During his college days. Then volunteered his time as a minister until it closed down."
"Sure about that?"
"It's what the man said. Why?"
Sinkus finally looked up. "Bobby, I got decades of payroll ledgers in front of me. Nineteen-fifties till closing. I'm telling you, no Charlie Marvin ever made a dime."
Chapter 35
WOULD YOU LIKE some help?" Charlie called down to me.
"Oh, ummm, that's okay I'm coming up." Bella was already bounding up the stairs. Whereas I found Charlie's sudden appearance disquieting, she was overjoyed to see her newest best friend.
She hopped, leapt, and licked. I lugged the three bags up the stairs, thinking fast. Last I knew, Charlie didn't have my address. Where in God's name had I put my Taser?
Then I remembered. I'd set it down. On the shelf. Inside my storage unit, while I'd pulled out the suitcases. My locked storage unit. I almost turned away, headed back down the stairs. Almost.
"Sounds like you had quite a morning," Charlie commented cheerfully as Bella and I emerged into the gray light of the building's lobby. I saw now that one of my neighbors had propped open both front doors. Unloading groceries, no doubt. It would make an excellent headline for the Boston Herald: "Young Woman Brutally Stabbed to Death While Fellow Tenant Stocks Fridge."
I needed to calm down. I was jumping at shadows again. According to Bobby, Charlie had spent last night at the Pine Street Inn. Meaning he couldn't have delivered my latest gift. At eye level again, I realized that Charlie wasn't really that tall, nor large, nor, at his advanced age, threatening. In fact, as I gingerly set down my luggage so I'd be free for defensive measures, Charlie was kneeling and scratching my dog under the chin.
"Some officer called at the shelter, asking about me," he said matter-of-factly.