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–”
Marino cut him off. “Yeah, well, we’re here to massage that memory of yours,” he said, getting out his cigarettes. “And it ain’t Al Hunt we’re all that interested in.”
“I don’t understand.”
“We’re more interested in his pal,” Marino said.
“What pair’ Dr. Masterson appraised him coldly.
“The name Frankie ring a bell?”
Dr. Masterson began cleaning his glasses, and I decided this was a favorite ploy of his for buying time to think.
“There was a patient here when Al Hunt was, a kid named Frankie,” Marino added.
“I’m afraid I’m drawing a blank.”
“Draw all the blanks you want, Doc. Just tell us who Frankie is.”
“We have three hundred patients at Valhalla at any given time, Lieutenant,” he answered. “It isn’t possible for me to remember everybody who’s been here, particularly those whose stay was of a brief duration.”
“So, you’re telling me this Frankie character didn’t stay very long?”
Marino said.
Dr. Masterson reached for his pipe. He had made a slip, and I could see the anger in his eyes. “I’m not telling you anything of the sort, Lieutenant.”
He began slowly tamping tobacco into the bowl. “But perhaps if you could give me a little more information about this patient, the young man you refer to as Frankie, I might at least have a glimmer. Can you tell me something about him other than that he was a ‘kid’?”
I intervened. “Apparently, Al Hunt had a friend while he was here, someone he referred to as Frankie. Al mentioned him to me during our conversation. We believe this individual may have been restricted to Backhall after he was admitted, and then transferred to a different floor where he may have become acquainted with Al. Frankie has been described as tall, dark, slender. He also liked to knit, a hobby rather atypical among male patients, I should think.”
“This is what Al Hunt told you?” Dr. Masterson asked unemphatically.
“Frankie was also obsessively neat,” I said, evading the question.
“I’m afraid a patient’s enjoyment of knitting isn’t likely to be something brought to my attention,” he commented, relighting his pipe.
“It’s also possible he had a tendency to stutter when he was under stress,” I added, controlling my impatience.
“Hmm. Perhaps someone with spastic dysphonia in his differential diagnosis. That might be a place to start–”
“The place to start is for you to cut the shit,” Marino said rudely.
“Really, Lieutenant.” Dr. Masterson gave him a condescending smile. “Your hostility is unwarranted.”
“Yeah, yeah, and you’re unwarranted at the moment, too. But I just might get the itch to change that in a minute, slap you with a warrant and haul your ass off to lockup for accessory to murder. How’s that sound?” Marino glared at him.