The Bride Collector Page 6

  She led them into what looked more like a living room than a reception area. Two high-back chairs in plaid and a gold sofa surrounded an oval coffee table made of wood. An unlit fireplace beneath a large painting of a seaside Mediterranean village filled the brick wall adjacent the couch. Large windows looked out to the inner courtyard, and beyond that to a large lawn with another fountain, several wrought-iron benches, and two sprawling maples. A few residents loitered about the grounds, some dressed in jeans, others in slacks, one in what appeared to be night clothes or a smock.

  Allison faced them. “Would you like to sit inside, or would you rather wander the grounds with me?”

  “Well…” Brad still felt oddly off balance.

  “They won’t bite, Special Agent Raines. My children are rarely violent.”

  “Rarely?”

  “Well, come on-we all like to throw a tantrum now and then.”

  Brad nodded at the lawn. “After you, then.”

  “A good choice.” She turned and pushed open a glass door. “We are very proud of our home.” A light breeze rustled through the massive maples’ leaves above them. The setting was entirely serene. Calming.

  “So, Mr. Raines, tell me how I can help you.”

  “This is Nikki-”

  “A forensic psychologist who works with you, yes, she told me. I suspect she knows more than most about what goes on here.” She paused. “You’re looking for a killer?”

  He felt an oddly unsettling sensation. Being stared at. He glanced around and saw that indeed, all eyes from the residents standing or sitting about the grounds were now fixed on them. It struck Brad that he and Nikki were the spectacle in the zoo at the moment, not the other way around. To the residents’ way of thinking, he was the intrusion into a perfectly normal world.

  “Yes. A pattern killer we’ve dubbed the Bride Collector. He’s taken four women in the last month. We have reason to believe he intends to take three more. Our team cross-referenced a note he left with mental health care providers in the state and found a connection to your facility.”

  “Residence,” she said. “And please don’t use the terms patient or mentally ill around them. It doesn’t sit well with the Monkeys.” She smiled and winked. “May I see it?”

  “See what?”

  “The note.”

  Brad caught Nikki’s inquisitive eye. She seemed fascinated. Perhaps amused. He withdrew a copy from his pocket and handed it to the administrator. She read it as she strolled, then handed it back. Her smile softened, but he noted that her eyes had brightened.

  “How does he kill them?” she asked.

  “We haven’t shared any of this with-”

  “Mum’s the word, FBI.”

  “All right. It seems that he takes women he considers beautiful, fixes them up to appear without blemish, and then drills into their heels. He glues them to the wall and lets them bleed to death.”

  “Dear me. That’s a ghastly image, isn’t it? The note would suggest classic schizophrenia. What makes you think he’s highly intelligent?”

  Nikki responded. “Despite apparent delusions of grandeur indicated by his note, he’s clearly capable of avoiding the typical mistakes in cases like this. If not for the note, we wouldn’t at first focus on anyone with a history of mental illness. As you probably know, most pattern killers aren’t mentally ill.”

  “Then apart from his use of the words center and intelligence, you have no reason to suspect any connection to the center,” Allison said. She pointed to a round building across the lawn. “That’s our hub. Game room, gathering room, television, the cafeteria, it’s all centrally located. On either side are two wings, one reserved for men, one for women. We run a structured schedule and environment to help our residents avoid any confusion. Our primary objective is to facilitate their reintegration by helping them learn to live with their gifts and challenges. The world’s a hostile environment. We hope to give them the skills they need to navigate it using all the brilliance God has gifted them with.”

  “Gifted?” Nikki said. “Forgive my boldness, but isn’t that just a little naive? Most of humanity sees mental illness as a curse.”

  “Exactly. That’s the whole point, now isn’t it? We cater to no more than thirty-six residents at any given time, and we are very careful about who joins us. No criminal records. They or their loved ones must be able to afford our room and board as well as the nurturing and medical care we give them. They must exhibit a high level of intelligence, indicated by a string of basic tests we administer ourselves. Currently, over half have tested with IQs that classify them as geniuses. Most are extraordinarily creative. To the world, they are crazy. In our minds, they are truly gifted individuals. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  Nikki raised her brow. “Put like that… I see your point. Why only the intelligent?”

  “Ah, why? Yes, of course, why.”

  Allison stepped off the walkway and headed toward the trunk of the larger maple, nodding at a young man who stared at them from a park bench. His plaid shirt was buttoned all the way up. “Hello, Sam. How are you this morning?”

  “Two hundred seventy-three thousand,” he said. “Plus or minus three hundred.”

  “Wonderful.”

  “Fewer leaves today. The wind. Yes, good, I’m good, Allison Johnson.”

  Allison sighed. “Not that I didn’t wish we could take them all. Those considered mentally ill have been treated like refuse for far too long. First incarcerated in asylums, then in prisons. Reduced to shells of humanity through Thorazine in the fifties, now refused medication and left to fend for themselves until they prove a danger to others. In which case, they’re thrown behind bars. They say at least one-third of all people in prison today are so-called mentally ill. I’m not talking about early-onset disorders like autism or retardation. Strictly psychosis, which presents itself later. It’s quite widespread. Do you know what percentage of the world’s population suffers from some form of schizophrenia?”

  “Nearly one out of a hundred,” Nikki said.

  “Point seven percent, to be precise. In our country, nearly three million people suffer from chronic mental illness of some kind. In Colorado alone, we estimate seventy thousand untreated cases at any given time. Caring for the mentally ill is far too expensive and in the opinion of most, the illness is untreatable anyway. You can load them up with dopamine suppressors and send them away in a fog, but you can’t treat the illness. It’s like blinding the person who sees too much, or putting the person with a broken leg to sleep so they don’t stumble and fall. To date, only the mind itself can treat the mind. And that, FBI, is where we come in.”

  “Their intelligence offsets their illness,” Nikki offered.

  “Close, but not quite. Take Flower, whom you met outside. She has been diagnosed with schizoaffective disorder-both bipolar and psychotic, a thought disorder that sometimes presents in the flight of ideas you heard. Sometimes amusing, always fascinating. If Flower had typical intelligence, her gifting, as we like to call it, would make life very difficult for her. Without drugs and a caring family she might end up on the street, homeless like so many others in similar straits. But she is extremely intelligent, and her mind has the capacity to deal with her unusual skills. We coach her, help her deal with her gifting so that she not only copes, but can share her gift with the world.”

  “Sculpting hedges.”

  “Oh, that’s the least of Flower’s many talents. Many of the world’s greatest contributors find themselves in this group. John Nash, the schizophrenic professor from the movie A Beautiful Mind, is well known. But many have had mental illnesses. Abraham Lincoln, Virginia Woolf, Beethoven, Leo Tolstoy, Isaac Newton, Ernest Hemingway, Charles Dickens… you get the idea. At the Center for Wellness and Intelligence, we provide an environment that allows the John Nashes of the world to be themselves. Acceptance, facilitation, and very carefully regulated medication on a case-by-case basis.”

  Brad took another appraising glance about him. Th
e whole thing seemed too good to be true.

  “I understand this used to be a convent,” Nikki said. “Are you still religious?”

  “Religious? We do receive some supplemental funding from the Catholic Church, if that’s what you mean. But we’re not officially tied to any organization. The center is privately owned and run. The brainchild of Morton Anderson, a wealthy businessman. His son, Ethan, was thrown in prison at age twenty-one after a psychotic break compelled him to enter a home of a congressman and dress up in his wife’s clothes. They found him eating a candlelight dinner by himself, dressed as a woman. Before the episode, he was preparing to graduate summa cum laude from the University of Colorado. As they say, there is a fine line between insanity and genius.”

  “And you’re suggesting that in some cases, no line,” Brad said.

  “Of course. Unfortunately, the world has taken some of the greatest minds God has given us and locked them up in cages. Most very brilliant or creative people seem strange to ordinary people. Geniuses are almost always outcasts. The intelligent are bullied on the playground. They see the world differently and are shunned for it. They nearly all turn out to be lonely at the least, locked up at the worst. It’s human nature to encourage the status quo and shun those who see life differently.”

  Allison sat on a bench and folded her hands on her lap. “That being said, several of our staff, including myself, were once nuns. So, back to your killer. How can I be of assistance?”

  Brad eased down beside her, leaving Nikki to study the residents, who’d become bored with them and resumed their prior activities. A man in a blue-striped bathrobe was playing some sort of hopscotch game, enunciating each hop with a “Hup.” Hop. “Hup.” Hop. “Hup.”

  The man stopped and pointed at the sky. “And that’s what I’m saying, you bunkered, commonwealth moron! I know when the sky is falling and I know how high I can jump!” Then a hop and a “Hup.” This was the man they’d heard from the parking lot.

  “Assuming we’re dealing with an intelligent serial killer who is mentally ill,” Brad said, “and considering his choice of wording, we need to look at the possibility that he is somehow connected to the center.”

  “You’re looking for a resident who may have left us and gone off to commit these brutal acts.”

  “Something like that.”

  “A psychotic male who suffers from delusions of grandeur. Someone with a propensity for violence, is that it?”

  “Yes.”

  Allison frowned, thinking. Brad noticed that even with a frown, she seemed to be smiling. “Hundreds have come and gone in our seven years here. Most residents leave within six months. Some have stayed longer. A handful have been here since the beginning. I can think of only seven or eight who ever showed any violent tendencies.”

  “What about those who might have demonstrated a tendency for regression?” Nikki said.

  “Well, that’s just it. Follow-up is voluntary, naturally, and the illness can grow over time. It’s difficult to predict without…”

  She blinked and faced Brad, eyes bright.

  “Detective work, huh? I think you might like to meet Roudy.”

  “I’m sorry, Roudy?”

  Allison stood, delighted by her own idea. “Of course! Roudy is one of our residents. He is quite the detective. And he’s been here since the beginning. He remembers everything about every resident who’s entered our gates.”

  Nikki caught his eye and nodded. “Okay. Sounds promising.”

  Brad wasn’t sure just how promising, for Allison seemed more fascinated with subjects in her field of study than in cracking the case. But he could see no harm in the notion.

  “Or even better, Paradise,” Allison said, now fully engaged in the notion.

  “Paradise?”

  “Paradise. If you’re fortunate, she might even talk to you. Now, there’s a special one, my friends. She can see what many can’t.” Allison started for the round community building between both wings, glancing back as she walked. “You’re going to love them, I can promise you that. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  6

  THE HUB, as Allison had referred to the central gathering place, was an atrium with couches, stuffed chairs, snack machines, floral paintings on the wall, and two flat plasma televisions glowing manically on opposite walls. Round tables with wooden chairs sat in groupings about the large room. A central gas fireplace that, according to Allison, never really got hot, and two snack stands completed the area.

  On one end, a sign over an arched door indicated that a cafeteria lay beyond. A wide hallway ran into the other end of the building. Out back in the sunlight, a gleaming fishpond was sealed off for the residents’ safety.

  A dozen residents hung around the main room at the round tables, near the televisions-which were both playing I Love Lucy reruns-and at a long snack bar. Half turned and stared at Brad and Nikki as they entered. The rest were too engrossed to pay attention.

  “People, say hello to our guests,” Allison called out.

  As one, clearly rehearsed, they all spoke in unison. “Hello, guests.”

  A black man larger than most football players looked up from where he sat hunched over a chess match at one of the round tables. “Hello, guests.” His voice rumbled like a bass guitar. Several snickered.

  “Way to go, Goliath,” a thin man called out from the group collected around the television. “Way to greet the guests three and a half seconds after they wanted to be greeted.”

  “That’ll do, Nick,” Allison said. “You don’t think Goliath is stupid, do you?”

  “I didn’t say he was stupid.”

  “You looking for a rematch?”

  Silence.

  “He’s not so bad himself,” Goliath said. He faced Nick and broke out into a wide grin. “But I got you right, Nick. You was the best and I beat you ten straight games.”

  A woman howled with laughter at the television, provoking Nick to whirl around to see what he’d missed. Goliath hunched back over his chess game; moved a pawn.

  “Anyone see Roudy or Paradise?” Allison asked.

  “Roudy is in his office,” someone said.

  Allison led them across the room toward the hallway. An older woman, whose dark hair looked as if it doubled for a rat’s nest at night, followed Brad with her eyes.

  Brad searched within himself and finally realized what about the place unnerved him the most. Somehow, the center’s oddity didn’t arise from the residents’ strangeness, but from the lack of it. Each person’s behavior plucked at a well-worn string in his own mind and resonated in countless familiar strains. He could call them childish or loud or quirky or obnoxious or a hundred other things, but these were all tendencies he recognized in himself.

  “He’s good?” Brad asked.

  “Goliath? World-class. He plays chess ten hours a day on a slow day. Our challenge is helping him apply his skill to other pursuits.”

  “And how’s that going?”

  She chuckled. “He’s been communicating with a lab doing cancer research. Turns out some parts of medicine aren’t unlike a chess game. Go figure.”

  “Where are all the staff?” Nikki asked.

  “Everywhere. They fit in. Here we are.”

  They entered a small classroom with a whiteboard and ten desks. A couch sat beneath a window that looked out to the fountain on the lawn. Three people sat in the room: a middle-aged man lounging on the couch, dressed in a black silk bathrobe and fluffy white slippers. A young blond woman, hardly twenty, pacing by the whiteboard and biting her nails. And a goateed man dressed in corduroy pants and a bow tie, sitting back against the teacher’s desk.

  The three clearly had not expected to be interrupted. For a moment, the trio stared at Allison and her two guests as though they were spotting aliens who’d landed the mother ship. The two men slowly straightened. The girl grinned.

  “Hello, friends,” Allison said. “I’d like you to meet our guests.”

  “H
ello, guests.”

  “Any concern of ours?” The one with the goatee stroked his beard.

  “Why, yes, Roudy. They would like to speak to you.”

  “They would? But of course they would. Did you hear that, Cass? They’ve come to speak to me.”

  Cass, the man in the silk bathrobe, stood and smoothed his robe, eyes on Nikki. “She’s more interested in what I have to say.” He stepped forward, eyeing Nikki with a raised brow and crooked grin.

  “This isn’t about you, Cass,” Roudy chided. “Step back, man. Show some respect. About what? Speak to me about what? Are you saying this fine gentleman and woman are with the Federal Bureau of Investigation?”

  The girl by the whiteboard giggled, then lifted a hand to her mouth to cover the sound. “I’m Andrea,” she said sweetly.

  “We call her Brains,” Roudy said. “But I don’t suppose that plays any factor in your judgment, now does it? You’ve come to speak to me and I will decide if you interest me enough to offer my assistance.”

  “What’s the matter, Sherlock?” Allison asked, entering their flow of speech as if it was wholly to her liking. “You no longer trust me? I wouldn’t have brought them if I didn’t think they would interest you.”

  “True. I do trust you, madam. And they do interest me.” He toyed with his bow tie. “It was merely a figure of speech, a delaying tactic to put them on guard while I sought to ascertain whether my deduction was correct. So was it?”

  Brad found it difficult to suppress a grin, but he managed. “How did you know?”

  “Aha!” Roudy snapped his fingers. “I knew it! The FBI has come calling yet again. And how could I not guess? You come every day, begging for my opinion. Are we British really so clever? Is there something missing from the American mind that compels you to look across the pond?”

  The man in the silk robe was interested only in Nikki, and he’d approached her while Roudy said his piece. He now took her hand, lifted it while his eyes remained fixed on hers, and kissed it.