“I haven’t seen Parker since his trial two years ago,” Caden said at last. “He was out of his head then.”
“Probably still is.” If Caden was going to face the kid, it was best to state the ugly truth. “He might be a howling lunatic for all we know. But it would be worth learning if he’s connected to Jerome.”
“You’re right.” Caden nodded and headed for the door. “Let’s go. The sooner we talk to him, the sooner I can forget I’m the reason he’s there.”
Located forty minutes outside of Point Pleasant, the West Central Mental Health Institute was an unappealing five-story structure with rectangular windows and an austere-looking entrance recessed under a brick arch. Caden parked in small lot marked Visitors and killed the ignition.
“You sure you’re up for this?” Ryan asked.
Caden nodded but didn’t move. Odd how memories floundered awake when he preferred they remain dormant.
Parker Kline’s eyes had been oddly vacant the night he killed Hank, the whites glazed, the surrounding skin red and puffy as though he’d suffered some kind of burn. Caden had imagined the kid drunk or high on something, but toxicology reports later came back negative. It was the clearest memory he had of Parker, his face caught in the lamplight from Hank’s porch. A prank, the kid had mumbled over and over. It was just a stupid prank.
“Let’s get this over with.” He popped the door and stepped from the car.
Inside the hospital, he and Ryan went through several secure check-ins before arriving on Parker’s floor. The station nurse remembered Jerome and dug up the sign-in register for verification. According to the time sheet, he’d arrived at 7:33 and left at 7:47, staying just fourteen minutes.
“We don’t allow visits beyond a half hour,” the blond-haired woman explained. Short and muscular with a no-nonsense attitude and plain features, she wore a nametag that read L. Brenner. “With Parker, it’s sometimes better people don’t visit at all.”
“What does that mean?” Caden asked.
“Most of our patients—we prefer not to call them inmates—exist in their own worlds.” She led them to a set of double doors inset with square windows. The glass of each was double paned, reinforced with wire mesh between panels. Tugging a retractable cord hooked to her belt, she thumbed through several keys until she located the one she wanted. The action was mechanical as if performed routinely throughout the day. “Understand, Sergeant, a lot of our patients have given up on reality. We work to return them to competency, but remaining in a fantasy helps them stay ignorant of their crimes. Our worst offenders are on the upper levels.”
Motioning them forward, she led them down a bleak hallway, her rubber-soled shoes screeching against squares of black-speckled vinyl tile. Doors flanked each side of the corridor, some opened, others closed. All had the same double-paned glass windows inset with wire mesh. Caden spied a middle-aged man in a wheelchair, head tilted to the side as he stared blankly into space. In another room, a man rocked back and forth in a vinyl-padded chair, arms hugged to his chest as he hummed “Dixie” over and over.
“That’s Beau Hardy,” Nurse Brenner said when she noted Caden’s glance. “He’s convinced he’s a Confederate general, held in a Union prison during the Civil War. Most of these people aren’t violent—not on this floor—but they have their ups and downs. Some days they’re like children, others as disagreeable as billy goats.”
“What about Parker?” Caden asked.
“He pretends to listen to the radio.”
“Pretends?”
“No batteries,” Nurse Brenner said. “Who knows what trouble he might get up to with those.”
“Then why does he listen?”
“Because that’s how they talk to him.”
Ryan frowned. “Who?”
“See for yourself.” Drawing to a stop before an open doorway, she indicated they should enter. “We have closed-circuit monitors at the desk. I’ll be able to spot trouble and send an orderly to assist, though Parker rarely gives us problems. You’ll find a lounge at the end of the hall if he wants to stretch his legs.” She glanced at her watch. “Thirty minutes, gentlemen. Although, I suppose I could extend that limit for the sheriff’s office.”
Caden nodded, hoping a half hour would be plenty. He wanted to wrap the visit and get the hell out of the place. Vaguely conscious of Nurse Brenner’s shoes making the same squeaking sound as she moved off down the hall, he stepped into the room.
The space was small and somber with the same off-white walls and black-speckled flooring as the hallway. Three narrow windows, each plated with heavy wire mesh, allowed light into the room. A single bed with a nightstand and a small dresser occupied the space nearest the door, a square table and padded chair closer to the window. Parker sat at the table, a transistor radio and a roll of Scotch tape at his elbow. His fingers clenched the worn-down nub of a pencil, several other well-used nubs scattered nearby. Head bowed, he worked at shading an image on a piece of loose-leaf paper.
Ryan nudged Caden in the ribs. “Look.” A nod indicated the wall beside the window.
Caden followed his glance.
Similar squares of paper covered the blank wall, each block randomly shaded. The “drawings” had been taped in a disorganized fashion, some high, some low, some with only a fraction of coloring. Others were blacked end to end, not a speck of white visible on the page.
A sensation of cold trickled down Caden’s back. It had been two years since he’d last seen Parker. The boy was twenty now, much leaner than before, his hair cropped close to his head. He didn’t seem to notice them, his only focus the piece of paper on which he furiously scribbled. The fingernails of his right hand, chewed to a quick, were tinted black with the lead from his pencil.
Caden cleared his throat. “Parker?”
No reaction.