The Bride Collector

5
ACCORDING TO COLORADO’S Department of Mental Health, the state’s organization had certified and currently regulated fifty-three facilities that cared for the mentally ill, ranging from state hospitals to residential care facilities and nursing homes.
The Center for Wellness and Intelligence was listed as a referral facility, privately run and uncertified.
State-by-state closure of state asylums and hospitals between 1960 and 1990 had flooded the streets with mentally ill patients who had no provider to take up their care or cause. Many, up to half by some estimates, wound up incarcerated.
Over time, a range of facilities began to take up the slack, but no national care system had yet replaced the atrociously run asylums that once blanketed the country. There was more to the story, much more according to what Brad had learned while in Miami. Some said that mistreatment of the mentally ill was one of the country’s few remaining dark secrets. No one wanted to lock them up in expensive institutions. Yet no one knew how to treat them effectively through any other means. Better to sweep them all under a rug, otherwise known as the streets and alleyways of the modern city.
They left Nikki’s car at the crime scene and headed east toward Eldorado Springs. The small town was nestled at the base of the Rocky Mountains, roughly six miles southwest of Boulder.
Eldorado Springs Drive wound through the foothills, populated by scrub oak and smaller pines. “Never been out here,” Nikki said.
“I haven’t, either.”
The wheels hummed on two-lane blacktop.
“Beautiful,” she said.
“Peaceful.”
“Hmmm.”
Mental illness. Brad mulled over the words. The mystery of the mind, hidden in the folds of hills beyond the tangles of life in the city. Nothing of the placid landscape spoke to him of the killer. Less than half an hour before, they’d stood before a wall on which a madman had glued a woman whose heels he’d drilled and drained. Now they rode through God’s country. The incongruity of the two images brought a faint buzz to Brad’s mind.
While Brad drove, Nikki glanced at the notebook where she’d jotted down notes from a conversation she’d had with the director of CWI, Allison Johnson.
“Something strange about her.”
“The director?”
Nikki stared ahead. “There’s our road. Before the village, she said. South on a dirt road two miles.”
Brad slowed, turned, and headed the BMW down a winding gravel road. “Isolated.”
“I think that’s the idea. It’s a privately run facility for families or patients who can afford a hefty room-and-board fee. Used to be a convent run by nuns. There’s a place like this in Colorado Springs, something about the healthy air that once attracted caregivers and patients.”
“It’s religious?”
“Actually, I’m not sure. Wouldn’t surprise me; health care administered by the Catholic Church has a strong history.”
“You said she was strange.”
Nikki nodded. “Maybe strange is the wrong word. Don’t get me wrong, she was delighted to have us. She just sounded rather eccentric.”
“Maybe she has a little of what they have,” Brad said, then added so that he didn’t sound demeaning, “Maybe we all do.”
“She said they only accept patients who display exceptional intelligence.”
Brad wasn’t sure what to make of that.
They rounded a bend and saw the large gated entrance immediately. A white sign above the heavy metal gates left no doubt: THE CENTER FOR WELLNESS AND INTELLIGENCE. And underneath, a motto of sorts: LIFE NEVER SHORTCHANGES.
A high fence ran in both directions away from the gate—the kind of fence that brought images of concentration camps to mind, complete with barbed wire and charged lines. Beyond lay a long paved driveway bordered by manicured lawns and tall pine trees. Brad chuckled appreciatively. The Center for Wellness and Intelligence might be mistaken for an upscale resort.
He rolled up to the guardhouse and presented his identification. “Brad Raines and Nikki Holden here to see Allison Johnson.”
The uniformed man with a badge that said he was Bob nodded and checked his log sheet.
Brad indicated the barbed wire. “Nice fence.”
“It’s not as threatening as it looks.” The guard handed the IDs back. “They installed the barbed wire and monitors last year after someone broke in and raped two of the residents.” He hit a switch and the gates rolled back. “Head up the driveway, visitor parking to the left. You’ll find Allison in the reception room.”
“Thank you, Bob.”
“No problem.” He sat down and picked up his phone, probably to report their arrival. A Brad Meltzer novel lay open at his fingertips. Plenty of time to read out here.
They rolled past the trees toward a circular driveway that rounded a white stone fountain. To their right, a woman wearing a yellow flowered dress and a large sun hat was trimming bushes that had been sculpted into perfectly formed poodles, a larger one trailed by three smaller puppies. She waved as they passed, then stopped to watch them.
“Nice,” Brad said.
“Very nice.”
“Is she…”
“Clearly.”
He pulled into a parking spot reserved for visitors and stepped out into clean, cool mountain air. Birds chirped above them. Shadowed by a cheerful sun, mountain ramparts towered against the near distance. A loud, distant voice carried to them from deeper inside the compound. With a glance back, Brad met the eyes of the woman in yellow, who was still staring at him with fixed interest.
She must have mistaken his glance as an invitation, because the moment she saw his look, she started to walk toward them. Nikki got out and the woman pulled up, looking from one to the other. Cheerful and harmless looking, she was maybe in her sixties, with gray hair and bright eyes.
Her eyes settled on Brad. “You are very wonderfully built. I could do you, right here in the bushes. Would you pose for me? You like my poodles? I started on them this morning, because Sami said he hated dogs. I love dogs and I love pigeons but it takes twenty-seven pigeons to fill one poodle. Poodles aren’t like rats, because rats breed quickly and eat crackers. My favorite crackers are sodium-free.”
She said it all with a warm smile.
“Thank you, Flower.” Another gray-haired woman, probably in her early fifties, had appeared from the administration building. She possessed the lean, compact features of so many foothills residents. Piercing blue eyes, slim wrists sporting a dozen silver bangles and bracelets of the most intricate design. She was dressed in jeans and a white blouse. Three silver chains, one supporting a rhinestone-studded cross, hung from her neck. She looked like someone who fully intended to take what life owed her, but she managed to pull it off without appearing gaudy.
“I think this kind gentleman would look wonderful on our front lawn. What a nice offer.” She looked at Brad with knowing eyes and winked. “What do you say, Mr. Raines? It would only take her half an hour, she’s quite skilled.”
He was caught flat-footed. This must be Allison Johnson. Was she serious?
“No?” she asked. “We’re in a bit of a rush, are we?”
“Actually, yes, we are a bit pressed for time.”
The administrator addressed Flower, who stared motionless, awaiting a verdict. “I’m sorry, Flower, he’s in a hurry. Can you do him from memory?”
A grin flashed on Flower’s face, and she spun away without another word. She marched toward the hedges, stopped after ten paces, and measured him up using her hands to approximate his height and dimensions, then continued in a brisk stride.
“Welcome to CWI,” Allison said. “Please come with me.”
Allison Johnson struck Brad as the kind of woman who’d seen it all and remained both uncompromised and unflappable, a wise woman who wore her experience with beauty and grace. He found himself immediately drawn in with an ease that unnerved him a little.
She led them into what looked more like a living room than a reception area. Two high-back chairs in plaid and a gold sofa surrounded an oval coffee table made of wood. An unlit fireplace beneath a large painting of a seaside Mediterranean village filled the brick wall adjacent the couch. Large windows looked out to the inner courtyard, and beyond that to a large lawn with another fountain, several wrought-iron benches, and two sprawling maples. A few residents loitered about the grounds, some dressed in jeans, others in slacks, one in what appeared to be night clothes or a smock.
Allison faced them. “Would you like to sit inside, or would you rather wander the grounds with me?”
“Well…” Brad still felt oddly off balance.
“They won’t bite, Special Agent Raines. My children are rarely violent.”
“Rarely?”
“Well, come on—we all like to throw a tantrum now and then.”
Brad nodded at the lawn. “After you, then.”
“A good choice.” She turned and pushed open a glass door. “We are very proud of our home.” A light breeze rustled through the massive maples’ leaves above them. The setting was entirely serene. Calming.
“So, Mr. Raines, tell me how I can help you.”
“This is Nikki—”
“A forensic psychologist who works with you, yes, she told me. I suspect she knows more than most about what goes on here.” She paused. “You’re looking for a killer?”
He felt an oddly unsettling sensation. Being stared at. He glanced around and saw that indeed, all eyes from the residents standing or sitting about the grounds were now fixed on them. It struck Brad that he and Nikki were the spectacle in the zoo at the moment, not the other way around. To the residents’ way of thinking, he was the intrusion into a perfectly normal world.
“Yes. A pattern killer we’ve dubbed the Bride Collector. He’s taken four women in the last month. We have reason to believe he intends to take three more. Our team cross-referenced a note he left with mental health care providers in the state and found a connection to your facility.”
“Residence,” she said. “And please don’t use the terms patient or mentally ill around them. It doesn’t sit well with the Monkeys.” She smiled and winked. “May I see it?”
“See what?”
“The note.”
Brad caught Nikki’s inquisitive eye. She seemed fascinated. Perhaps amused. He withdrew a copy from his pocket and handed it to the administrator. She read it as she strolled, then handed it back. Her smile softened, but he noted that her eyes had brightened.
“How does he kill them?” she asked.
“We haven’t shared any of this with—”
“Mum’s the word, FBI.”
“All right. It seems that he takes women he considers beautiful, fixes them up to appear without blemish, and then drills into their heels. He glues them to the wall and lets them bleed to death.”
“Dear me. That’s a ghastly image, isn’t it? The note would suggest classic schizophrenia. What makes you think he’s highly intelligent?”
Nikki responded. “Despite apparent delusions of grandeur indicated by his note, he’s clearly capable of avoiding the typical mistakes in cases like this. If not for the note, we wouldn’t at first focus on anyone with a history of mental illness. As you probably know, most pattern killers aren’t mentally ill.”
“Then apart from his use of the words center and intelligence, you have no reason to suspect any connection to the center,” Allison said. She pointed to a round building across the lawn. “That’s our hub. Game room, gathering room, television, the cafeteria, it’s all centrally located. On either side are two wings, one reserved for men, one for women. We run a structured schedule and environment to help our residents avoid any confusion. Our primary objective is to facilitate their reintegration by helping them learn to live with their gifts and challenges. The world’s a hostile environment. We hope to give them the skills they need to navigate it using all the brilliance God has gifted them with.”
“Gifted?” Nikki said. “Forgive my boldness, but isn’t that just a little naive? Most of humanity sees mental illness as a curse.”
“Exactly. That’s the whole point, now isn’t it? We cater to no more than thirty-six residents at any given time, and we are very careful about who joins us. No criminal records. They or their loved ones must be able to afford our room and board as well as the nurturing and medical care we give them. They must exhibit a high level of intelligence, indicated by a string of basic tests we administer ourselves. Currently, over half have tested with IQs that classify them as geniuses. Most are extraordinarily creative. To the world, they are crazy. In our minds, they are truly gifted individuals. Wouldn’t you agree?”
Nikki raised her brow. “Put like that… I see your point. Why only the intelligent?”
“Ah, why? Yes, of course, why.”
Allison stepped off the walkway and headed toward the trunk of the larger maple, nodding at a young man who stared at them from a park bench. His plaid shirt was buttoned all the way up. “Hello, Sam. How are you this morning?”
“Two hundred seventy-three thousand,” he said. “Plus or minus three hundred.”
“Wonderful.”
“Fewer leaves today. The wind. Yes, good, I’m good, Allison Johnson.”
Allison sighed. “Not that I didn’t wish we could take them all. Those considered mentally ill have been treated like refuse for far too long. First incarcerated in asylums, then in prisons. Reduced to shells of humanity through Thorazine in the fifties, now refused medication and left to fend for themselves until they prove a danger to others. In which case, they’re thrown behind bars. They say at least one-third of all people in prison today are so-called mentally ill. I’m not talking about early-onset disorders like autism or retardation. Strictly psychosis, which presents itself later. It’s quite widespread. Do you know what percentage of the world’s population suffers from some form of schizophrenia?”
“Nearly one out of a hundred,” Nikki said.
“Point seven percent, to be precise. In our country, nearly three million people suffer from chronic mental illness of some kind. In Colorado alone, we estimate seventy thousand untreated cases at any given time. Caring for the mentally ill is far too expensive and in the opinion of most, the illness is untreatable anyway. You can load them up with dopamine suppressors and send them away in a fog, but you can’t treat the illness. It’s like blinding the person who sees too much, or putting the person with a broken leg to sleep so they don’t stumble and fall. To date, only the mind itself can treat the mind. And that, FBI, is where we come in.”
“Their intelligence offsets their illness,” Nikki offered.
“Close, but not quite. Take Flower, whom you met outside. She has been diagnosed with schizoaffective disorder—both bipolar and psychotic, a thought disorder that sometimes presents in the flight of ideas you heard. Sometimes amusing, always fascinating. If Flower had typical intelligence, her gifting, as we like to call it, would make life very difficult for her. Without drugs and a caring family she might end up on the street, homeless like so many others in similar straits. But she is extremely intelligent, and her mind has the capacity to deal with her unusual skills. We coach her, help her deal with her gifting so that she not only copes, but can share her gift with the world.”
“Sculpting hedges.”
“Oh, that’s the least of Flower’s many talents. Many of the world’s greatest contributors find themselves in this group. John Nash, the schizophrenic professor from the movie A Beautiful Mind, is well known. But many have had mental illnesses. Abraham Lincoln, Virginia Woolf, Beethoven, Leo Tolstoy, Isaac Newton, Ernest Hemingway, Charles Dickens… you get the idea. At the Center for Wellness and Intelligence, we provide an environment that allows the John Nashes of the world to be themselves. Acceptance, facilitation, and very carefully regulated medication on a case-by-case basis.”
Brad took another appraising glance about him. The whole thing seemed too good to be true.
“I understand this used to be a convent,” Nikki said. “Are you still religious?”
“Religious? We do receive some supplemental funding from the Catholic Church, if that’s what you mean. But we’re not officially tied to any organization. The center is privately owned and run. The brainchild of Morton Anderson, a wealthy businessman. His son, Ethan, was thrown in prison at age twenty-one after a psychotic break compelled him to enter a home of a congressman and dress up in his wife’s clothes. They found him eating a candlelight dinner by himself, dressed as a woman. Before the episode, he was preparing to graduate summa cum laude from the University of Colorado. As they say, there is a fine line between insanity and genius.”
“And you’re suggesting that in some cases, no line,” Brad said.
“Of course. Unfortunately, the world has taken some of the greatest minds God has given us and locked them up in cages. Most very brilliant or creative people seem strange to ordinary people. Geniuses are almost always outcasts. The intelligent are bullied on the playground. They see the world differently and are shunned for it. They nearly all turn out to be lonely at the least, locked up at the worst. It’s human nature to encourage the status quo and shun those who see life differently.”
Allison sat on a bench and folded her hands on her lap. “That being said, several of our staff, including myself, were once nuns. So, back to your killer. How can I be of assistance?”
Brad eased down beside her, leaving Nikki to study the residents, who’d become bored with them and resumed their prior activities. A man in a blue-striped bathrobe was playing some sort of hopscotch game, enunciating each hop with a “Hup.” Hop. “Hup.” Hop. “Hup.”
The man stopped and pointed at the sky. “And that’s what I’m saying, you bunkered, commonwealth moron! I know when the sky is falling and I know how high I can jump!” Then a hop and a “Hup.” This was the man they’d heard from the parking lot.
“Assuming we’re dealing with an intelligent serial killer who is mentally ill,” Brad said, “and considering his choice of wording, we need to look at the possibility that he is somehow connected to the center.”
“You’re looking for a resident who may have left us and gone off to commit these brutal acts.”
“Something like that.”
“A psychotic male who suffers from delusions of grandeur. Someone with a propensity for violence, is that it?”
“Yes.”
Allison frowned, thinking. Brad noticed that even with a frown, she seemed to be smiling. “Hundreds have come and gone in our seven years here. Most residents leave within six months. Some have stayed longer. A handful have been here since the beginning. I can think of only seven or eight who ever showed any violent tendencies.”
“What about those who might have demonstrated a tendency for regression?” Nikki said.
“Well, that’s just it. Follow-up is voluntary, naturally, and the illness can grow over time. It’s difficult to predict without…”
She blinked and faced Brad, eyes bright.
“Detective work, huh? I think you might like to meet Roudy.”
“I’m sorry, Roudy?”
Allison stood, delighted by her own idea. “Of course! Roudy is one of our residents. He is quite the detective. And he’s been here since the beginning. He remembers everything about every resident who’s entered our gates.”
Nikki caught his eye and nodded. “Okay. Sounds promising.”
Brad wasn’t sure just how promising, for Allison seemed more fascinated with subjects in her field of study than in cracking the case. But he could see no harm in the notion.
“Or even better, Paradise,” Allison said, now fully engaged in the notion.
“Paradise?”
“Paradise. If you’re fortunate, she might even talk to you. Now, there’s a special one, my friends. She can see what many can’t.” Allison started for the round community building between both wings, glancing back as she walked. “You’re going to love them, I can promise you that. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”