I lightly kissed her lips. 'What's that?' I asked.
'I still want to go back to the room with you. Then we can go through all the dusty, musty files on the banks.'
I laughed. 'That sounds like a very wise plan. Especially the first part.'
Chapter One Hundred and Seven
We were back at the FBI field office by three that afternoon. Betsey had called ahead and the First Union files were waiting in her office. We dug into the files. And dug, and dug. We ordered sandwiches and iced tea from the deli on the corner.
Twice.
'Why are the two of us so driven to do this?' Betsey finally asked, looking over at me.
'He probably killed Walsh, and maybe Mike Doud. He's a really sick puppy and he's out there somewhere and that's scary as hell.'
She nodded solemnly. 'We're sick puppies and look where it got us. Pass me that stack, will you? God, it was so nice and restful and sunny at the Four Seasons.'
Around eleven o'clock I held up a small black-and-white photo. I was deep into the personnel files from First Union.
'Betsey?' I called out.
'Mmmm?' She was deep into her own stack of files.
'This guy was a security executive at the bank. Betsey, he's a patient on Five at Hazelwood. I know who he is. I've talked to him this week. There's no record at the hospital that he ever worked at First Union. This is our guy. He has to be. 'I passed her the picture.
We quickly agreed that Sampson and I would return to Hazelwood in the morning. In the meantime, Betsey tried to gather all the information she could on a patient named Frederic Szabo. Goddamn, nerdy Frederic Szabo!
It was possible that Szabo wasn't connected, but it didn't seem likely. Szabo had been the head of security at First Union Bank. He was a tall, bearded patient at Hazelwood. He fit Brian Macdougall's description. His psychiatric profile included recurring paranoid fantasies against
Fortune 500 companies. He'd just seemed too withdrawn and helpless to be the Mastermind.
The most telling evidence was that the hospital's records didn't show that he'd worked at First Union. Supposedly, Szabo had been an out-of-work drifter since Vietnam. Of course, we now knew that he'd been lying about those years.
According to his psychiatric profile, Szabo had a paranoid personality disorder. He had a severe distrust of people, especially business people, and believed that they were exploiting and trying to deceive him. He was sure that if he confided in someone, the information would be used against him. During a two-year marriage from '70 through '71, Szabo had been pathologically hypersensitive and jealous of his wife. When the marriage broke up, he supposedly hit the road. He eventually showed up at Hazelwood, seeking help three years before the robberies and a year after he'd been let go at First Union. During his frequent stays at Hazelwood he was always cold and aloof. He cut himself off from everyone at the hospital, both patients and staff. He never made a friend, but he basically seemed harmless to others; and he had grounds and town privileges most of the time.
After I read the profile again, it struck me that Szabo's job at the bank had been a perfect fit for his disorder. Like a lot of functioning paranoids, Szabo had sought out work where he could operate in a punitive and moralistic style that would be socially acceptable. As head of security at the bank, he could focus on his need to prevent attacks from anyone at any time. By protecting the perimeters of the bank, he was unconsciously protecting himself.
The irony was that, by setting up a series of successful bank robberies, he had proven, at least symbolically, that there was no way to protect himself from attack by others. Maybe that was his point.
His mistrustfulness made treatment at the hospital difficult, if not impossible. He had been in and out of Hazelwood four times in the past eighteen months. Had the veterans hospital been a front for his other activities? Had he chosen Hazelwood as his hideout?
And, most puzzling of all, why was he still there?
Chapter One Hundred and Eight
On Monday morning I went to work at Hazelwood again. I was outfitted in an overhanging white shirt and corduroy pants that were loose enough to hide the holster strapped on to my leg. An FBI agent named Jack Waterhouse had been added to the staff as an aide. Sampson continued on as a porter, but he was working only on Five now.
Frederic Szabo proceeded to do nothing to attract suspicion or reveal himself in any way. For three days straight, he never left the ward. He slept a lot in his room. He occasionally worked on an old Apple laptop.
What the hell was he doing? Did he know we were watching him?
Late on Wednesday after the work shift, I met up with Betsey inside the hospital's administration building. She had on a navy-blue suit and blue sling back heels, and she was all business again. She almost seemed like another person at times, preoccupied and distant.
She was clearly as frustrated as I was,' He worked on his master plan for at least three years, right? Presumably, he has fifteen million dollars stashed somewhere. He's killed a lot of people to get it. Now he's sitting on his ass at Hazelwood? Give me a break!'
I told her what I thought about Szabo. 'He's extremely paranoid. He's psychopathic. He may even know we're here. Maybe we should pull back from the hospital. Do surveillance from the outside. He has his full grounds and
