It’s easy to get lost in any big city hospital, but Hodges has made this trip plenty of times, and these days he’s more apt to give directions than ask for them. The garage elevator takes him down to a covered walkway; the walkway takes him to a lobby the size of a train terminal; the Corridor A elevator takes him up to the third floor; a skyway takes him across Kiner Boulevard to his final destination, where the walls are painted a soothing pink and the atmosphere is hushed. The sign above the reception desk reads:
WELCOME TO LAKES REGION TRAUMATIC BRAIN INJURY CLINIC
NO CELL PHONES OR TELECOMMUNICATIONS DEVICES ALLOWED
HELP US MAINTAIN A QUIET ENVIRONMENT
WE APPRECIATE YOUR COOPERATION
Hodges goes to the desk, where his visitor’s badge is already waiting. The head nurse knows him; after four years, they are almost old friends.
“How’s your family, Becky?”
She says they are fine.
“Son’s broken arm mending?”
She says it is. The cast is off and he’ll be out of the sling in another week, two at most.
“That’s fine. Is my boy in his room or physical therapy?”
She says he’s in his room.
Hodges ambles down the hall toward Room 217, where a certain patient resides at state expense. Before Hodges gets there, he meets the orderly the nurses call Library Al. He’s in his sixties, and—as usual—he’s pushing a trolley cart packed with paperbacks and newspapers. These days there’s a new addition to his little arsenal of diversions: a small plastic tub filled with handheld e-readers.
“Hey, Al,” Hodges says. “How you doin?”
Although Al is ordinarily garrulous, this afternoon he seems half asleep, and there are purple circles under his eyes. Somebody had a hard night, Hodges thinks with amusement. He knows the symptoms, having had a few hard ones himself. He thinks of snapping his fingers in front of Al’s eyes, sort of like a stage hypnotist, then decides that would be mean. Let the man suffer the tail end of his hangover in peace. If it’s this bad in the afternoon, Hodges hates to think of what it must have been like this morning.
But Al comes to and smiles before Hodges can pass by. “Hey there, Detective! Haven’t seen your face in the place for awhile.”
“It’s just plain old mister these days, Al. You feeling okay?”
“Sure. Just thinking about . . .” Al shrugs. “Jeez, I dunno what I was thinking about.” He laughs. “Getting old is no job for sissies.”
“You’re not old,” Hodges says. “Somebody forgot to give you the news—sixty’s the new forty.”
Al snorts. “Ain’t that a crock of you-know-what.”
Hodges couldn’t agree more. He points to the cart. “Don’t suppose my boy ever asks for a book, does he?”
Al gives another snort. “Hartsfield? He couldn’t read a Berenstain Bears book these days.” He taps his forehead gravely. “Nothing left but oatmeal up top. Although sometimes he does hold out his hand for one of these.” He picks up a Zappit e-reader. It’s a bright girly pink. “These jobbies have games on em.”
“He plays games?” Hodges is astounded.
“Oh God no. His motor control is shot. But if I turn on one of the demos, like Barbie Fashion Walk or Fishin’ Hole, he stares at it for hours. The demos do the same thing over and over, but does he know that?”
“I’m guessing not.”
“Good guess. I think he likes the noises, too—the beeps and boops and goinks. I come back two hours later, the reader’s layin on his bed or windowsill, screen dark, battery flat as a pancake. But what the hell, that don’t hurt em, three hours on the charger and they’re ready to go again. He don’t recharge, though. Probably a good thing.” Al wrinkles his nose, as at a bad smell.
Maybe, maybe not, Hodges thinks. As long as he’s not better, he’s here, in a nice hospital room. Not much of a view, but there’s air-conditioning, color TV, and every now and then a bright pink Zappit to stare at. If he was compos mentis—able to assist in his own defense, as the law has it—he’d have to stand trial for a dozen offenses, including nine counts of murder. Ten, if the DA decided to add in the asshole’s mother, who died of poisoning. Then it would be Waynesville State Prison for the rest of his life.
No air-conditioning there.
“Take it easy, Al. You look tired.”
“Nah, I’m fine, Detective Hutchinson. Enjoy your visit.”
Al rolls on, and Hodges looks after him, brow furrowed. Hutchinson? Where the hell did that come from? Hodges has been coming here for years now, and Al knows his name perfectly well. Or did. Jesus, he hopes the guy isn’t suffering from early-onset dementia.
For the first four months or so, there were two guards on the door of 217. Then one. Now there are none, because guarding Brady is a waste of time and money. There’s not much danger of escape when the perp can’t even make it to the bathroom by himself. Each year there’s talk of transferring him to a cheaper institution upstate, and each year the prosecutor reminds all and sundry that this gentleman, brain-damaged or not, is technically still awaiting trial. It’s easy to keep him here because the clinic foots a large portion of the bills. The neurological team—especially Dr. Felix Babineau, the Head of Department—finds Brady Hartsfield an extremely interesting case.
This afternoon he sits by the window, dressed in jeans and a checked shirt. His hair is long and needs cutting, but it’s been washed and shines golden in the sunlight. Hair some girl would love to run her fingers through, Hodges thinks. If she didn’t know what a monster he was.
“Hello, Brady.”
Hartsfield doesn’t stir. He’s looking out the window, yes, but is he seeing the brick wall of the parking garage, which is his only view? Does he know it’s Hodges in the room with him? Does he know anybody is in the room with him? These are questions to which a whole team of neuro guys would like answers. So would Hodges, who sits on the end of the bed, thinking Was a monster? Or still is?
“Long time no see, as the landlocked sailor said to the chorus girl.”
Hartsfield makes no reply.
“I know, that’s an oldie. I got hundreds, ask my daughter. How are you feeling?”
Hartsfield makes no reply. His hands are in his lap, the long white fingers loosely clasped.
In April of 2009, Brady Hartsfield stole a Mercedes-Benz belonging to Holly’s aunt, and deliberately drove at high speed into a crowd of job-seekers at City Center. He killed eight and seriously injured twelve, including Thomas Saubers, father of Peter and Tina. He got away with it, too. Hartsfield’s mistake was to write Hodges, by then retired, a taunting letter.