The Other: (A Psychological Thriller) Page 3

  She and the director sat at a small plastic table with bench seats that seemed to be poured from a mold. No seams or screws. Furniture that couldn’t be destroyed or used as a weapon. Strada gave her a wide-eyed look and gestured with open hands. “What do you want to know?”

  “How do you feel about the governor’s decision to close the hospital?”

  He didn’t flinch. “It’s an economic decision. I’m sure she has no choice.”

  “But the facility is paid for. Won’t it bother you to see it sit empty?”

  He shrugged. “It’s just an outdated building. The patients are what’s important.”

  She wrote it down, thinking it would make a good quote. “But how can this be good for them?”

  “They’ll all be transferred to other facilities. Many will go to our campus in Salem, and others will be relocated to smaller clinics around the state.” The director paused and tried to soften his tone. “We’ll disrupt their lives as little as possible.”

  Lexa wanted to laugh. Moving was always stressful. Being forcibly moved to a place you didn’t choose had to be the worst. “What about you? Where will you end up?”

  “I’ve been offered a position in a small private clinic.”

  “And the rest of the staff?”

  “Quite a few will transfer to Salem.”

  “How many will be laid off?”

  He shook his head. “We don’t have exact numbers yet, but roughly half will remain employed by the state.”

  As he talked, Lexa took notes, glancing up as much as she could to maintain eye contact. She had a lot more questions and Strada looked ready to bolt. “Did Governor Palmer consult with you before making the decision to close this place?”

  “We had a phone call the week before she made the announcement.” His voice was deadpan.

  That didn’t sound as if she’d asked his opinion. “Did you try to talk her out of it?”

  “That wasn’t the nature of our conversation.”

  He wasn’t giving her anything. “What’s your overview of how the state should deal with the mentally ill population? Especially those who aren’t getting treatment?”

  A loaded question. While the director gave it some thought, a cell phone in his pocket beeped. Strada excused himself, pulled out the phone, and glanced at a text. He started to smile, then caught himself. Phone still in hand, he looked up at her. “Without proper funding, any kind of state-wide policy is—”

  A loud voice cut into Strada’s comment. They both turned to see the woman who’d been pacing earlier, now climbing the wire-mesh fence and shouting about ghosts following her. Strada set his personal cell phone down and pulled out a different device. He pressed a button, then shouted, “Security in the courtyard now!” The director jumped up and moved toward the woman, but didn’t get close enough to stop her.

  Impulsively, Lexa spun his phone toward her, pushed the text icon, and glanced at the last message: Rough day! Coming over this evening for some TLC. 7 ok?

  Tender loving care. That sounded sexual. Lexa glanced at the texter’s ID: Jill P.

  Jillian Palmer? The governor? Holy shit!

  A big male orderly burst out the exterior door and charged toward the action. Lexa turned the cell back around and stood. A second man in dark pants and a white shirt followed. By the time they reached the woman, she’d climbed just over their heads. Still, they were able to grab her ankles and yank her off the fence. They made no effort to be gentle, and the fat security guy called her a “stupid twat” as she hit the ground. The orderlies grabbed her by the armpits and dragged her toward the building. The woman screamed and cried as her bare feet scraped along the concrete.

  “Jeeze!” Lexa was appalled. “Does this happen often?”

  “No!” The director squeezed her shoulder and nudged her toward the door. “You have to go. But please don’t report the incident. It’s very rare that security has to respond aggressively.”

  “They could have handled it better.” Lexa pulled free but kept moving. “What kind of training does the staff get?”

  Strada opened the security door leading into the building. “I appreciate your interest in mental health issues, but I’m busy preparing for the closure and don’t have time to answer any more questions.” The director silently escorted her back to the lobby and waved her out.

  Lexa hurried to her car, no longer disappointed by not seeing the inside nor stressed about the long drive home. The governor was having an affair with the director of the mental hospital she was shutting down. Were those things connected? She sure as hell planned to find out. Palmer had been elected after stepping into the job when her governor husband died. Lexa had been assigned to write an in-depth profile of the head of state, but Jill Palmer refused to give interviews and never talked about her personal life. When she’d announced the closing of the hospital as part of her budget, Palmer had stirred up a hornet’s nest of controversy, and the scope of Lexa’s assignment had expanded. The affair was the first insight she’d uncovered. Clearly, there was more to the governor than anyone knew, and Lexa intended to dig deeper.

  Chapter 5

  Wednesday, October 10, 8:35 a.m., Portland

  After a motivational-size cup of coffee, Rox’s headache started to subside. The pain was always horrible first thing in the morning, then usually eased to a dull ache by noon, then worsened again in the evening. After two weeks of the routine, her patience was wearing thin. Aspirin didn’t seem to help, but she kept taking it anyway.

  She changed into workout clothes, danced until she was sweaty, then shut off her playlist of fusion funk and took a shower. Not bothering to blow-dry her short dark hair, she dressed in navy capris and a slate-blue sleeveless sweater. At the end of the magnet treatments, she’d had a week or so when she could wear the new green blouse she’d bought, but she was back to all blue now. She preferred the simplicity of choice and the way it looked against her Irish-rose skin. Besides, not one man she’d dated, except Kyle, had ever noticed the color of her clothing. Marty knew her quirk, but he’d raised her and long ago given up encouraging her to try new colors or new food. She liked what she liked. Rox checked herself in the mirror, frowned, and applied foundation to hide the exercise-induced pink in her cheeks.

  Twenty minutes later, she banged on Marty’s door, her free hand carrying a plate of bacon and two cinnamon rolls. From deep inside the house, she heard him yell “Clear,” so she walked in. From the hall, her stepdad hurried into the living room, wearing a stained T-shirt and a tool belt.

  Rox grinned. “What are you working on this time?”

  “New tile in the bathroom. I’ve wanted to replace that vinyl since we bought this fixer.”

  “I thought you remodeled that room already.” They’d purchased the duplex together when she’d returned home after nearly a decade in DC working as a CIA analyst. Marty had retired from the Portland Police Bureau shortly after and joined her investigator-extraction business as an unofficial partner. But she didn’t keep him busy enough to burn off his fix-it energy.

  “Everything but the floor. At the time, I couldn’t make up my mind about tile. It’s durable but cold on the toes.” Marty walked over and nodded at the breakfast in her hand. “I know what this is about.” He grinned and shrugged. “But bring it on. I’ll eat your bribe and still say no.”

  He was softening on the issue already. Rox let out a small laugh. Damn, she loved this guy. He’d raised her as his own child even after her mother had left, and he continued to be a way better parent and friend than Georgia. “We’ll see.” She set the plate on the table, poured herself a cup of coffee, and sat down.

  Marty took off his tool belt and joined her. He stared lovingly at the cinnamon rolls. “You picked these up from Sweet Oven.” He gave a mock shudder. “I still think it’s crazy to attempt an extraction from a crazy house. Word play intended.”

  “Hear me out.” Rox reached for a strip of bacon. “The boy is on the autism spectrum and shouldn’t be l
ocked up. You know how I feel about that.”

  “Yes, but he’s almost an adult. He can extract himself in a few years.”

  “His aunt says Logan will be there until he’s twenty-five—if he doesn’t kill himself first.”

  Marty’s eyes narrowed. “He must have committed some kind of crime. Tell me.”

  “A physical altercation with his mother. Something minor.”

  “That’s one side of the story. I’ll check the police logs.”

  He meant that he would get his ex-patrol partner to do it. “I can call Bowman,” she offered. “I’d like the details.” Rox ate half a roll, giving Marty time. She knew better than to pressure him. “Logan is also being verbally abused by some of his caretakers and becoming socially withdrawn. This is a critical point for him. The last thing someone with atypical neurology needs is to be alone.”

  They were both quiet, and Rox knew her stepdad was thinking about her own teenage years and how important it had been to keep working on her social skills, no matter how many painful setbacks.

  “I’m sure there are lots of people with spectrum disorder who are misdiagnosed and locked up,” Marty eventually said. “It’s tragic, but we can’t save everyone.” He gulped his coffee. “This client can’t even pay us.”

  “You don’t care about that. We both do this for Jolene.” Her half-sister, Marty’s only biological child, had died at the hands of a polygamous cult leader who’d brainwashed Jo into thinking her family was bad for her and that he was the only person she could trust. That kind of isolation was hard to break free from.

  “We try not to do anything illegal,” Marty reminded her. “And this one sounds like a go-straight-to-jail card.”

  As ex-cops, they wouldn’t fare well in prison. Still, Rox pressed on. “Here’s the interesting thing. Logan’s in the state hospital the governor is closing, so he’ll be transferred soon. We can intercept him during the changeover and never have to go into the facility.”

  “Slow down. I didn’t say I would do this.”

  She forced herself to stay quiet and wait him out.

  Finally he said, “I want to talk to this kid. I need to see if he really belongs out here in the wild.”

  That was progress. “I asked his aunt about that. She says it could take a while to get approved for visitation.”

  Marty looked at her with a side eye. “You’re not in a rush, are you?”

  “Except for the transfer issue. We don’t want to miss that opportunity. And I’m worried Logan will commit suicide.”

  Marty’s bushy gray brows came together. “I still want confirmation from someone that he’s stable and non-violent.”

  “We can get that. It’s just a phone call from another institution or psychiatrist.” Rox tried to make it sound easy, but she suspected it wouldn’t be.

  “Good luck. I’m still going to apply to visit him.” Marty gave her a long hard look. “If we prove he’s not a menace to society, what’s the game plan?”

  He’d said ‘we.’ Rox grinned. “I’m hoping you’ll help me with that.” She had some ideas, but her stepdad couldn’t resist a plea for strategic or mechanical help.

  “Hmm. We have to find out more about the transfer. Will they take patients in groups? Or a few at a time?”

  He was in! “Logan is probably going to a private facility, so he’ll likely be transported alone. Probably in a small van with only a driver. He might even be sedated.”

  “A roadside ruse of some kind should work.” Marty shoved another piece of bacon in his mouth and talked while he crunched it. “What facility is he going to?”

  “I don’t know yet.”

  “We need that info, so we can fake a call to Mt. Angel and find out Logan’s moving date.”

  Rox remembered her client’s skepticism. “I’m not counting on Shay coming through with that detail. We may have to get creative. Or hire a hacker. Or bribe an employee.”

  Marty rolled his eyes. “Let’s keep it simple, then come up with a Plan B.” He drummed his caffeine-buzzed fingers on the table. “People are upset about the closure. I’m sure the governor is getting an earful, so she may back down and keep it open.”

  “I hope she does. Experts say patients thrive better in smaller facilities, but we don’t have enough of them. And they don’t have fences and locks to keep the dangerous ones in check.”

  “Yeah, tell me about it.”

  She knew Marty’s last few years on the job had been rough. The number of mentally ill people on the streets seemed to grow exponentially.

  He was quiet for along moment. “Are we getting paid at all?”

  “Two thousand cash. I already have it.” Her client had returned in twenty minutes.

  Marty stood and poured himself more coffee. “I’ll help you, but I’m not taking stupid risks. I don’t have much time left, but I want to spend as much of it as I can with SiriKaren.” He grinned, obviously happy with his new girlfriend.

  “Have you told her?” He’d recently been diagnosed with an untreatable heart condition that caused arrhythmias—which could be fatal.

  “Sort of.” He shrugged. “I’m a sixty-seven-year-old man. She knows my days are numbered.”

  Rox didn’t want to think about what it would be like with him gone. He was the only real family she had. The occasional Skype chats with her mother were more annoying than enjoyable, and her on-again, off-again boyfriend was a police detective who worked all the time now that he’d been promoted to the Tri-County Major Crimes Division.

  Life without Marty would be bleak. Would she lose some of her grounding? Rox focused on him again. “Maybe you should skip that third cup of caffeine.”

  Marty winked. “No problem. I’m ready for a beer anyway.”

  Chapter 6

  After she left her stepdad’s, Rox got online to see what else she could learn about the state hospital. Most reports referred to it as the Mt. Angel campus to differentiate it from the facility in Salem. The surprising news was that with ninety-two patients, the facility was only half full. For the past few years, the state hadn’t allocated enough money to its budget to keep it full, and the bond measure funds were earmarked for security improvements, which had been put on hold. All good news for her.

  She made the mistake of reading a few comments to one news story and got sucked into a conversation-turned-argument about the appropriate housing for the mentally ill. Many of the posters supported the locked facility, claiming it was necessary to contain the criminally insane. But one articulate guy named Gary kept saying that releasing most of the patients to community-based housing posed no risk to anyone. The truth was probably somewhere in the middle, depending on whether the patients took their daily medication.

  Frustrated by a lack of real information, Rox called Mt. Angel, and while the phone rang, she scrambled for a cover story. She shouldn’t claim to be a reporter; the administrators were probably tired of the news coverage. A college student?

  After a minute, a receptionist answered and gave the institution’s full name. A male voice, middle-aged and confident.

  “This is Kay Smith. I’m doing research for a book, and I’d like to visit the facility. Is it open to the public?” She liked to keep her aliases simple too.

  “We sometimes give tours, but you’ll have to call the main office in Salem.”

  “What if I wanted to interview a patient?”

  “You would need their permission, and it would have to be during visiting hours. Also, you wouldn’t be allowed on the upper floor.”

  “If I wanted to learn more about the daily operation, who would I talk to?”

  “I would normally say the director, Roger Strada, but he’s a little frazzled. I’ll put you through to his assistant.”

  Frazzled? Not a reassuring frame of mind for someone in charge of an asylum. A moment later, a canned voicemail from a woman announced: “This is Lucy Canera, assistant director. Leave a message, and I’ll call you back at my earliest convenience.”
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  Rox hung up. She didn’t want to leave her personal or PI number, because neither matched the fake name she’d given. Besides, the odds of getting a return call were slim to none. She grabbed her denim shoulder bag and headed out. It was time to see the mental institution for herself. She would stop on the way and buy an anonymous burner phone for her future calls to Mt. Angel. She also planned to call Bowman, a friend of Marty’s who was still with the Portland police, and ask him to run Logan Wilmont’s name. If the kid was a danger to society, he would show up in patrol logs.

  In her car, Rox had second thoughts about walking into the hospital and letting the staff get a look at her. But she had to see the place. She hurried back inside, pulled out her box of disguises and selected a mousy brown wig that hung to her shoulders. She added oversized glasses and pink lipstick. A look in the mirror and she realized the capris and tank top had to go. Grudgingly, she pulled on her one green blouse and a black skirt, then traded her tennis shoes for black pumps. A moment later, she swapped out the shoes, sticking the pumps in her bag. She would put them on at the last minute. Not knowing what to expect at the hospital, she grabbed her fake Kay Smith ID with the photo that matched the wig and glasses.

  Rox hurried from the bedroom, not wanting to catch another glimpse of herself. In a different persona, she could tolerate the green, but only if she didn’t confront her image or think about it for long. The identity and details were important though, so on the trip down, she would practice saying the name Kay until it felt comfortable.

  As she turned on a private road called Recovery Lane, glimpses of the institution appeared through the trees. As she approached from an angle, she realized the concrete mass was really two side-by-side, but closely connected, buildings with a few smaller structures in the corner of the property. Were those transition housing? She assumed the separation of the main facility was likely for patients with different security risks.