‘Did you and your father have a good visit?’ She scanned his face for signs of distress.
‘I got a book of Sudoku. And the sweatshirt. He said places like this are always cold.’ A chill pricked her spine. Places like this are always cold. A perfect mimicry of Stern’s voice. Tim turned back to the window. ‘Winter’s over. Spring is here.’ He tapped his fingers on the glass. ‘He gave me a picture of his dog. She has silky hair. Her name is…’ He squeezed his eyes shut. ‘I don’t remember.’
‘Do you like dogs?’
He pulled a creased photo from the pocket of his jeans and held it out. She touched it with her fingertips, expecting resistance, but he released it willingly into her hand. Lulu, caught in mid-stride, as she lolloped across the lawn, with the pond and red barn in the background. Like a farm in a picture book. She turned it over to see if Stern had written anything on the back. No text, but someone – Tim? – had sketched a large birdlike creature with outstretched wings, its head shaped like an anvil.
‘What’s this… some kind of prehistoric bird?’
Sweat shone on his brow. ‘Scopus umbretta. Hamerkop.’
The drawing was accomplished, the winged creature so deftly executed it seemed poised to lift off the paper. Ruth Davis was right. As a bird artist, Tim clearly had a gift. He held out his hand, and she dropped the drawing into his palm.
‘Can we start now?’ He held his watch close to his face. ‘I need to get back to my Sudoku. I’ve done 31 out of 400 and I don’t want to get behind.’
He sat and wedged his hands between his knees. Erin noted the time and began the assessment, but with Tim distracted and unfocused, it was slow-going. After fifteen minutes, she suggested they take a break. She had him stand up, and together they did a few simple stretches, hands reaching to the ceiling, bending side to side, followed by a breathing exercise.
When she was ready to begin again, Tim had wandered back to the window.
‘Bed shed dead. Dud thud blood.’
She gripped the pencil and listened intently. Symptoms of psychosis? Or had Tim remembered something he’d seen?
‘Timothy?’
He turned away from the windows, his eyes flat. ‘Can I go now? Eleven more by lunchtime or they won’t count.’
Won’t count? It was impossible to follow the topography of this mind.
‘Twenty minutes. I promise.’
She gamely continued with the rest of the assessment, but struggled to concentrate, as her thoughts leapt ahead to the questions she wanted to ask Harrison about the change in Tim’s mood. His meds could have been altered again, or he might have stopped taking them. Patients could be notoriously clever at deceiving the nurses.
*
After debriefing Harrison on the day’s session, Erin stopped by the records department to check out Tim’s medical history from his first ten years at Greenlake. It wasn’t easy to persuade the staff to allow her to take the boxes offsite, but after endless promises to safeguard them, she loaded them into the boot of her car.
Bed shed dead. Dud thud blood. Classic clang symptoms of schizophrenia were often meaningless. But not this time, of that she was sure, especially with those particular words. His father’s visit had shaken something loose. Tim was starting to remember.
28
Lansford, New York
May, Present Day
Erin shut the blinds and switched on the light before dumping a box of Tim’s medical and legal records on the coffee table. She spread out the files and tilted her head to study the labels. Where to begin? The arrest, the police report, or the trial? Running her fingers over the folders, she paused at the police report.
She plumped the cushions and poured a glass of wine. Just dive right in. Curled up on the sofa in the living room, she went straight to the plastic sheaf of photos from the crime scene. Many more than provided in the summary of Tim’s case she’d received from Harrison. The mother’s head split open, her chest and abdomen stabbed repeatedly with a carving knife. According to the pathology report, the first blow was struck in the living room, but the body had been found in the kitchen, following an extended struggle. That meant the initial blow from the meat cleaver wasn’t enough to disable her, not if she had the strength to flee.
A logical scenario if Tim was hesitant and pulled back. Did that mean he wasn’t in a state of full-blown psychosis at the time? She scribbled a note on the yellow legal pad by her side. To complicate things further, Tim’s two sisters were not killed with the same weapons as the mother. They were found in their beds, their throats cut with a fish knife, discovered later by the police, stuffed under Tim’s mattress. The coroner’s report suggested they may also have been asphyxiated. Probably with the bed pillows. Though the investigation could not conclude who was killed first, Erin could only assume it was the two girls. If they’d been alive during the mayhem and bloodshed downstairs, wouldn’t they have run to help their mother when they heard her screams?
The downstairs rooms were marked off with yellow crime-scene tape and chalk from the forensics team. Modern furniture in the living room, a nubby carpet the colour of oatmeal, dark green curtains on the windows. A delicate spun-glass hummingbird with a tiny beak and scarlet throat lay broken on the floor. An amber hanging lamp over the dining table that resembled a flying saucer. Avocado-green appliances in the kitchen, and a brown-glazed cookie jar in the shape of an owl.
A typical suburban home. Except for one thing. Nothing was tacked to the refrigerator with cheerful magnets. No student artwork, notes or party invitations. No magazines or books strewn about, and no evidence of sporting equipment or gym kit tossed in the entryway. Except for the bodies, no
