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.”
Chapter 41
Leaving Crinklaw’s office, Valentine got into his Pinto, and drove around the north end of the island. The doctor hadn’t called him crazy, but she’d come damn close. He was glad he hadn’t told her about his epiphanies. Hearing that, she probably would have called for the men with the butterfly nets to come and get him.
There were only so many places you could go in Atlantic City, and after a while he parked in the employee parking lot next to the casino, and let the heater run. Last night, sitting in his kitchen, he had told himself he wasn’t going crazy. A little frightened and bewildered, but not crazy. The voice he’d heard in his backyard had a real life person behind it, and the connection to his past was real as well. He was being tricked. That was what his gut was telling him, and his gut had never been wrong before.
But what if Crinklaw
He rubbed his face with his hands. If he started getting psychiatric treatment, he would have to tell Banko. And if he did that, he’d be finished as a detective, and put behind a desk, or forced into retirement on a disability.
