“Oh, my God,” she said again. “I bet it was him, then! And he committed suicide last week?”
“Yes.”
“Did he mention Jim to you?”
“He mentioned someone he called Jim Jim.”
“Jim Jim,” she repeated. “Jeez. I don’t know …”
“Whatever happened to Frankie?”
“He wasn’t there long, two or three months.”
“He went back home?” I asked.
“I would imagine so,” she said. “There was something about his mother. I think he lived with his father. Frankie’s mother deserted him when he was small–it was something like that, anyway. All I really remember is his family situation was sad. But then, I suppose you could say the same thing about most all the patients at Valhalla.”
She sighed. “God. This is something. I haven’t thought about all this in years. Frankie.”
She shook her head. “I wonder what ever became of him.”
“You have no idea?”
“Absolutely none.”
She looked a long time at me, and it was coming to her. I could see the fear gathering behind her eyes. “The two people murdered. You don’t think Frankie …”
I said nothing.
“He never was violent, not when I was working with him. He was very gentle, actually.”
She waited. I did not respond.
“I mean, he was very sweet and polite to me, would watch me very closely, do everything I told him to do.”
“He liked you, then,” I said.
“He knitted a scarf for me. I just remembered. Red, white, and blue. I’d completely forgotten. I wonder what happened to it?”
Her voice trailed off. “I must have given it to the Salvation Army or something. I don’t know. Frankie, well, I think he sort of had a crush on me.” She laughed nervously.
“Mrs. Wilson, what did Frankie look like?”
“Tall, thin, with dark hair.” She briefly shut her eyes.
“It was so long ago.”
She was looking at me again. “He doesn’t stand out. But I don’t remember him as being particularly nice looking. You know, I would remember him better, maybe, if he had been really nice looking or really ugly. So I think he was kind of plain.”
“Would your hospital have any photographs of him on file?”
“No.”
Silence again. Then she looked at me with surprise.
“He stuttered,” she said slowly, then again with conviction.
“Pardon?”
“Sometimes he stuttered. I remember. When Frankie got extremely excited or nervous, he stuttered.”
Jim Jim.
Al Hunt had meant exactly what he had said. When Frankie was telling Hunt what Barnes had done or tried to do, Frankie would have been upset, agitated. He would have stuttered. He would have stuttered whenever he talked to Hunt about Jim Barnes. Jim Jim!
I hit the first pay phone after leaving Jeanie Wilson’s house. Marino, the dope, had gone bowling.
14
Monday rolled in on a tide of clouds marbled an ominous gray that shrouded the Blue Ridge foothills and obscured Valhalla from view. Wind buffeted Marino’s car, and by the time he parked at the hospital tiny flakes of snow were clicking against the windshield.
“Shit,” he complained as we got out. “That’s all we need.”
“It’s not supposed to amount to anything,” I reassured him, flinching as icy flakes stung my cheeks. We bent our heads against the wind and hurried in frigid silence toward the front entrance.
Dr. Masterson was waiting for us in the lobby, his face as hard as stone behind his forced smile. When the two men shook hands, they eyed each other like unfriendly cats, and I did nothing to ease the tension, for I was frankly sick of the psychiatrist’s games. He had information we wanted, and he would give it to us unvarnished and in its entirety by virtue of cooperation or a court order. He could take his pick. Without delay we accompanied him to his office, and this time he shut the door.
“Now, what may I help you with?” he asked right off as he took his chair.
“More information,” I replied.
“Of course. But I must confess, Dr. Scarpetta,” he went on as if Marino were not in the room, “I fail to see what else I can tell you about Al Hunt that might assist you in your cases. You’ve reviewed his record, and I’ve told you as much as I remember–“