Wild Card

Chapter 40

Bernard’s grandfather had chosen to die at home. He lay on a hospital bed in the apartment’s living room with a TV propped on a stand in front of him. The living room was tiny, and the bed and TV stand took up most of the floor space. A bag of morphine hung behind the bed, and dripped the precious fluid into his arm. He appeared comfortable, and his voice was sharp.

“How are you feeling?” Valentine asked.

“I’m managing,” Sampson said.

Valentine sat on a folding chair. Bernard’s mother had left within moments of his arrival, and seemed uncomfortable around him. Worse, she was dressed like a prostitute. “She working the street?” Valentine asked the old man.

“Is that what they call it these days?”

“Tell me she’s not bringing them back here.”

“Only when they can’t afford a motel room. How about some coffee?”

“Sure.”

Valentine went to the kitchen, and fixed a fresh pot. The pantry wall was scuffed where Sampson had kicked it before he’d become paralyzed. He called it his kicking wall. Valentine gave the wall a good kick himself. Then he poured two steaming mugs and took them back to the living room.

“She has the decency to put a towel against the door sill, if that helps soften the image,” Sampson said, sipping from the mug Valentine held to his lips.

“Is she on drugs?”

Sampson frowned. “I thought this was a social visit, Tony.”

“I didn’t stop being a policeman when I stepped through your front door. If I think Bernard’s health is in jeopardy — either by his mother or because of something his mother is doing — I’ll take him out of here.”

Sampson acted wounded by his comments. “But you care for the boy,” he said.

“Of course I care for him.”

“Then how can you suggest putting him in an orphanage, or some rotten foster care situation? His mother loves him. Doesn’t that count for something?”

Valentine realized his hand was trembling. Fearful of spilling the hot drink, he took the mug away, and placed it on the floor. Sitting on the folding chair, he put his hands on the metal arm of the bed, and looked Sampson square in the eye. “If your daughter keeps whoring and doing drugs, Bernard will end up a criminal, maybe worse.”

“What’s worse than being a criminal?”

“Plenty of things.”

“Name one.”

“A drug addict, or a sociopath.”

“And you’re saying people like that come from environments like this?”

“They sure do.”

Sampson looked out the window, his jaw tightening. “The boy needs love. Take his mother away from him, and he loses that.”

“Can’t she straighten up?”

“I doubt it.”

Valentine shook his head in resignation. Bernard’s mother loved her son when she wasn’t doing drugs. But when she was doing drugs, she didn’t love Bernard at all.

“You’re not giving me any other choice,” Valentine said.

“Can’t you just leave things the way they are?”

He shook his head. “Not when a kid’s involved.”

“I see. I could use some more of that coffee.”

Valentine picked the mug up and brought it to the old man’s lips. Sampson drank until the cup was empty, and Valentine went into the kitchen and placed both cups into the sink, then stared out the window at the fire escape where he’d shot the Prince. His life had changed so much since that night, and for a few moments he found himself wishing there was some way to set the clock back, and return to his old life.

When he returned to the living room, Sampson had closed his eyes and was feigning sleep. He made sure the apartment door was locked as he went out.

“So what seems to be the problem,” the psychologist said.

“I have a friend who’s having mental problems,” Valentine replied.

He was sitting in the office of Dr. Stacy Crinklaw. She looked about thirty-five, with short blond hair, a square chin, and eyes that held your face, and didn’t let go. Her desk was filled with photographs of panting canines, which was usually a good sign. He had found her name in the phonebook. She was new to the island, which was why he’d chosen her. That, and the fact that she’d been willing to see him right away.

“Why didn’t your friend come here himself?” Crinklaw asked.

Valentine sat in a stiff chair that faced her desk, his hands folded in his lap. Her office faced due east, and was very sunny. It also smelled heavily of lavender.

“My friend is in law enforcement. He’s afraid of the stigma.”

“You mean he’s a policeman.”

“A detective.”

“Can you describe your friend’s problems?” She had picked up a pencil and was chewing on the eraser. Sensing that it bothered him, she put the pencil on her desk.

“Sorry,” he said.

“There’s nothing to apologize for. It’s a bad habit. Please go on.”

“My friend is involved in a multiple homicide case,” Valentine said. “He’s seeing connections in the case that his superiors don’t see.”

“What kind of connections?”

“To his childhood.”

“Is there one?”

“Not that he’s been able to find,” Valentine said.

Crinklaw began taking notes on a legal pad. “Please go on.”

“He’s also hearing voices.”

She looked up, her expression one of deep concern. “When did this start?”

“Two days ago.”

“How many times has he heard these voices?”

“Twice.”

“Were you present when your friend had these episodes?”

Episodes. That was an interesting way to describe them.

“Yes,” he said.

“Is it always the same voice?”

Valentine hesitated. “I think so.”

Crinklaw resumed writing. “You said your friend is involved in a multiple homicide investigation. Is it safe to assume that he’s under a lot of pressure?”

“Yes.”

“Are his superiors aware of these problems?”

“Yes. His boss told him to stay off the case.”

She glanced up, and waited for an explanation. Lying had never been his strong suit, and he finally said, “It’s not his case. But the killer is contacting him, so he’s gotten himself involved. His boss is worried about him. So am I.”

“Does your friend have any family members who’ve had mental health issues?”

He stared over her shoulder at a college certificate hanging from the wall. He’d always wanted to go to college but there had been no money. His eyes shifted to her face.

“Yes.”

“Can you be more specific?”

“My friend’s father was a drunk who suffered a mental breakdown many years ago. My friend came downstairs one night, and found his father sitting in an armchair, having a conversation with someone who wasn’t in the room.”

“So your friend is fearful that this is now happening to him.”

“Yes.”

Crinklaw finished writing, then put her pen down and rose from her chair. Coming around the desk, she proceeded to sit on the edge of it. It gave her a vantage point of looking look straight down on him. It was a technique Valentine had used during interrogations for years, and now made him uncomfortable.

“Based upon what you’ve told me, you...” She coughed into her hand. “Excuse me, your friend is either suffering from a bi-polar disorder, and is going through a manic phase, or is a paranoid schizophrenic. Either condition lends itself to delusions, and hearing voices.”

Valentine felt himself growing warm. Crinklaw had seen right through his ruse.

“You mean he’s sick,” he said.

“Very sick. If not treated, your friend could plunge further into psychosis, and get much worse. I’d suggest he seek immediate help.” She crossed her arms in front of her chest, and gave him a long, thoughtful look. “He could come here and see me, or go directly to the psychiatric ward at the local hospital, and check himself in. Either way, your friend would get the proper attention that he needs.”

“My friend is stubborn. That’s why he sent me.”

“You mean, he may not take my advice.”

“Probably not,” he conceded.

Crinklaw unfolded her arms and let out an exasperated breath. “Then, I’d say your friend is in for real trouble.”