Too Far Gone

98

Alexa raced across town. Nobody had checked out Andy “Doc” Tinsdale’s place, and unless somebody did so tonight, the place might not still be there later. He was dead and it was a loose end that would bother her until she saw for herself what was there. She had no warrant and no way to get a warrant. Most of the judges who were smart enough to issue one had long ago left the city.

With her GPS lady’s assistance, she arrived at 912 Fulton, her wipers barely able to keep the rain cleared. The hurricane was closing in. If the storm had ever seemed an abstraction to her, it was as real to her now as a section of lead pipe.

She ran through the driving rain to the darkened house and stood on the porch. She picked the lock and let herself inside, slipping on gloves as she did so.

The living room and kitchen held only a recliner, a floor lamp beside it, bookshelves, and a television set with rabbit ears, perched on a spindle-legged table. There was no dining table or chairs, only a TV tray leaned against the wall. The bookcase was comprised of cinder blocks and planks. The shelves held only paperback novels, alphabetized by author. There was not room for one more book on the planks.

The bedroom contained a mattress on box springs. Tinsdale’s clothes were neatly folded and in stacks against a wall. A cheap Oriental carpet covered the floor.

The closet held a packed suitcase. Alexa took it to the bed and opened it. Inside, she found clothes, a wig, a passport in the name Douglas Winston, and a plane ticket to Madrid. There was also a brochure in Spanish that showed before-and-after examples of cosmetic surgery. No wonder he didn’t care if he was identified.

Alexa ran her hands over the lining. Using her pocketknife, she cut the lining open and took out a manila envelope. She reached in and removed three sheets of notebook paper, filled front and back with cursive script she now knew well. The pages were the ones that had been removed from Fugate’s spiral notebook.

Trembling with excitement, she sat on the edge of the mattress, and read the pages slowly, absorbing the words written by a woman who was stunningly candid, although completely deluded, and perhaps as insane as the people she had spent her career nursing. Alexa was amazed by the same brand of evil that had allowed the Nazis to commit their atrocities to paper and film.

Unbelievably, the entry was dated the night of the LePointe murders. It began, It was a dark and stormy night…

Before she finished the first page, she understood why Andy Tinsdale had torn these sheets from the diary.

These lone pages were worth many times what the notebook without them was. Anyone with half a brain would never have killed this golden goose.

Not in a million years.