with Weston's name on it, and he'd decide to search a little further.
There was only one interruption. About two hours into his search, right after he had found a big chunk of Weston's drug records, the door had creaked open behind him and he'd turned to behold a member of the Wu-Tang Clan.
Or so it seemed. Matt supposed that the guy was probably an aide, just one whose official uniform consisted of a black hoodie with a red Chinese-dragon print, and a do-rag covered in dollar signs. He had a yin-yang symbol tattooed to his neck, a Black Belt magazine in one hand, and a bag of Famous Amos cookies in the other. Clearly looking for a place to kill a few hours.
''Sup,' the aide said.
'Hi. I'm Matt.' Matt held out his hand. The aide stared at it blankly, like he had no idea what Matt wanted him to do with it. Matt cleared his throat. 'I'm the swing. And you're, uh…?'
The aide glowered at him. 'Darak.'
'Right. Maloria asked me to organize these files.'
Darak quirked one corner of his lips and gave a bored shrug. 'Fine with me,' he said, and made as if to come in and kick back.
'Actually, Maloria mentioned that you might show up. She said that if you did, I was supposed to tell you to go clean the men's washroom in Module One.'
Darak stared at him with eyes as dull and hard as ball bearings. A muscle in his jaw twitched, and just for a second, Matt thought there'd be trouble.
But Darak just slapped the Black Belt magazine against his thigh, gave a tight smile, and said, 'Well, ain't that a bitch.' And left.
Matt let out a relieved breath and dumped the file into his rucksack.
He hadn't read most of the files he found-there would be time for that later. For now, he skimmed them to see if Weston's name was on them, and if it was, it went in his bag. There wasn't time for anything else.
He made an exception, however, for a partial case file with 'Dindren' typed at the top. Instead of being in the D s, he'd found it in the X s. Flipping through it, he found multiple references to persecution complex, paranoia, 'gender disorder,' and pica. He riffled the pages, looking for a definition of pica. Towards the middle he found it described as a pathological desire to put nonfood items in one's mouth. Towards the end he found out which 'nonfood items' Dindren had gobbled.
It turned out that Dindren's pica had changed over time. It had begun, several months ago, with eating erasers, paper clips, and plastic straws. Eventually he had graduated to paint and safety scissors, and soon after that to lightbulb glass and feces. And as recently as last month, his diet had expanded again, this time to include the thumb, index finger, and nose of Jesse Weston.
Goddamn. Matt's stomach felt queasy. Towards the end of Dindren's file, inexplicably, were several documents that belonged in Jesse Weston's psychopathy profile. The most recent one was from ten days before Matt's arrival. It was a hastily written incident report. Besides the signature (which was illegible), all it said was
3/22/11 2:20 AM-Herd a yell form forensic 9 amp; came in. Found residant on floor real bad shape
No employee-of-the-month award for that report, Matt thought, adding it to his findings. He'd look at the rest of the reports later.
But then, just as he was about to zip up his file-filled rucksack and head out of this godforsaken place, his eye fell on a cardboard box beneath the control panel.
It was filled with videotapes.
Matt looked down at the incident report again, found the date: March 22. Then got up and went over to the box. Pulled it out. Sure enough, all of the tapes had dates on them. He dug through them, and there at the bottom of the box was 'Forensic 3/22/11-3rd Shift.'
Matt picked it out and was about to put it in his rucksack, then stopped.
When was the next time he was going to have access to an actual VCR? At the hotels he was staying at, he was lucky if the toilet flushed.
Matt walked over to the TV/VCR on the rolling metal rack and pushed the tape in, wondering if the incident had been taped over or if it would be too hard to find.
He didn't have to wait long.
As soon as he put the tape in, the crackling snow of the monitor was replaced by a grainy, low-resolution shot of a small room. The camera was obviously set in an upper corner, near the ceiling. Its range was not wide, but it still managed to capture a piece of the ceiling, all of the gray, carpeted floor, and three of the four padded walls. In the middle of the left wall was a closed metal door. At the foot of the center wall was a mattress with a crumpled sheet on it. And in the middle of the right wall was Jesse, acting nuts.
A thick, dark horizontal band of static rose slowly from the bottom of the screen to the top. When it passed, the monitor showed a bearded Jesse in pajama bottoms and white T-shirt, standing against a wall on his tiptoes, like a ballerina en pointe. He was pressing the tops of his fists against the underside of his jaw. His eyes were clenched shut. He had white bandages plastered over his nose and his right hand, where Dindren had munched him, apparently. It was hard to read his expression from the downward angle, but he didn't look happy. His mouth was moving, but no sounds came out.
Was he talking or singing to himself? Matt couldn't tell. He adjusted the volume, but all he heard was the soft roar of static.
On the monitor, Jesse sank to his heels, then stood on his tiptoes again. Then did it again. And again. His eyes never opened. His mouth worked silently.
What am I seeing? Matt wondered. Is he having some kind of fit-or just goofing around? Maybe having a bad reaction to his meds?
Matt hit the 'rewind' button.
The fat horizontal line of static appeared again, this time scrolling quickly from the top of the screen to the bottom. When it was gone, Matt watched as Jesse dropped quickly into a sitting position and flung out his arms, flattening them against the wall Jesus-like. Now his mouth was mashed shut, but his eyes were wide open: and not just normal wide open, but crazy wide open, like the eyes of Rasputin or Charles Manson or the bald wack job that shot that senator in Arizona.
As the rewinding continued, Jesse quickly began scooting on his butt-arms still stretched cruciform-down the right-hand wall to the corner, then halfway across the central wall, until he was sitting on the mattress with the crumpled sheet. There he stopped. Mouth still clenched shut, bug eyes still watching the left wall, where there was nothing to see but a closed door.
Insane, Matt thought, and the word gave him a chill. If this was what Rotting Jack had done to Jesse Weston, how long would it be before Mr. Dark had the same effect on-
He saw something.
'What the hell?'
On the grainy screen, the door in the left wall had quickly swung open, then shut. Now that it was shut, Jesse slumped suddenly into a sleeping position on the mattress.
Matt's heart started to pound. What had he just seen?
He hit 'pause,' then 'fast forward.'
Jesse sleeping on the mattress. The door in the left wall swinging open. The door swinging closed. When it closed, Jesse jerking upright, eyes widening, hands flattening against the wall.
… the fuck?
Matt's mind raced. Maybe the door was unlocked, had just opened on its own, and then an air current shut it. Or maybe-much more likely-someone in the hall was trying to freak out Jesse.
He rewound it again, and this time hit 'play.'
When the door swung open in real time, he watched carefully to see if he could glimpse someone opening it. But the angle of the camera didn't allow it to see out into the hall.
Must be someone out there, Matt thought. Unlock the door and kick it open-that'd be easy enough-they'd probably yelled at Jesse, or taunted him, then…
Then how did they close the door, once it was open?
Rewind. Play.
