Ghost Walk

“Patients at mental hospitals,” Miles continued, “even murderers like Adam Senft, retain most of their rights. They can have visitors, but the tricky part is that all visitors, even their family members, have to be approved by the medical staff. This guy is criminally insane. His life hangs on the thread of a committee of professionals who decide when he can get off the ward, for how long, when he can go outside the facility, see a movie, visit the park. Whatever. So let’s say you contact Senft. You send him a letter, ask to be added to his visitor’s list, and arrange to interview him. And let’s say he agrees—”

“He will.”

“Say he does. Senft then has to take the request to his treatment team. We’re talking a psychologist, social worker, behavioral analyst, unit director, head of security, and a doctor or nurse. All of these people have to determine whether or not the visit would be detrimental to his current treatment plan. You know how long that would take?”

Maria sighed. “A lot longer than two weeks.”

“Exactly. And that’s just if Senft agrees to the interview. He might not, you know. If he wants to get discharged eventually, he wouldn’t want to make waves.”

“But I could get him to consent to an interview. I know I could.”

“And maybe you could. God knows you’ve convinced me to do stuff for you in the past. Things I took a lot of heat for. But even if you did convince him, there’s still no guarantee. Even if you get past the treatment committee, you then have to face the judge who was originally involved in the case. And he’s the one who is ultimately responsible for letting these people back into the community, so you can bet your byline that he’s going to have something to say about it. Senft’s lawyer would be involved, too—if he even has the money to afford a lawyer. State lawyers never get involved with things like this.”

“He was a novelist,” Maria pointed out. “He’s got money.”

“He was a midlist paperback genre writer. They get paid even less than you do. And whatever assets he did have are probably frozen. Either that, or they got sold to pay for his defense the first time around. His publisher isn’t going to help him out. But let’s say some well-meaning fan pays for his lawyer, and the lawyer convinces the judge to consider your request. Then you’ve got the hospital and their lawyers stepping in to ask the judge, ‘Why do you want a raving lunatic with paranoid delusions about half human, half goat monsters running around York County impregnating housewives to speak to a reporter?’ End of interview, Maria.”

“Goddamn it…”

“On top of that, there’s HIPPA regulations—those forms the doctors make you sign guaranteeing confidentiality? Those get taken very seriously. Technically, the staff can’t even confirm they have any particular patient in the facility without that patient’s signed consent.”

“I know,” Maria said. “They gave me that song and dance earlier, until the receptionist let it slip that Senft was there.”

“Well, there you go. What I don’t understand is this. Why is it such a big deal to just wait the two weeks—or however long it takes? After all, this is for a book, not an article. A book that you haven’t even pitched yet, let alone sold. Why the rush?”

“I just want to get started on it. I’m excited about the idea. I want to dive in while it’s still fresh.”

“You want some free advice? Sit on it and wait. What are you going to do if you sell this thing on proposal and then lose your sense of excitement halfway through? Then you’ve still got a book to finish. One that you no longer want to write.”

Yawning, Maria glanced around the parking lot, blinking at the bright glare coming through her windshield. It was deserted. Lots of cars and even an Amish horse and buggy parked at the rear, but no people. She assumed most of the vehicles belonged to the staff.

“Come on, Miles,” she pleaded one more time. “Isn’t there something you can do? Anything? Help me out here. Throw me a bone, for Christ’s sake.”

He laughed. “There’s no way I’m getting involved with this.”

“Thanks for nothing.”

“Look, Maria, for what it’s worth, I think you’ve got a solid idea. I think LeHorn and Senft and the whole weird story would be perfect for a true-crime book. It’s got sex, murder, and black magic. I think you’d sell a ton of copies. But my duties are to the newspaper. If you start rattling cages or getting into trouble, and it reflects badly on us, I’d have no choice but to cut you loose as a freelancer. And then, with you gone, they’d hold me responsible. Shit rolls downhill, right? You know what the own er is like. I like my job here. They pay me for it, and in turn I get to keep things like my house and my car and that goddamn inground pool my wife made me buy last summer—the one we never use. Those things cost money and I’m a big fan of money. Therefore, I’m a big proponent of keeping my job. I can’t help you with this.”

“Not even unofficially? Just whisper the name of someone that might be able to help? You owe me, Miles.”

“Nonsense.”

“Who covered that anti abortion rally for you when all your staffers called in sick?”

“You did. And if I remember correctly, we had to publish an official apology because you called that evangelical minister a fuck-head while you were interviewing him.”

“Well, he was a fuck-head. But never mind that.”

“Never mind? I still get my ass chewed out for that!”

“Who got the county commissioner to admit on tape that the County Parks Department’s public domain seizure of the Larue Farms property was wrong? Who got you that quote when no one else could?”

Miles sighed. “You did.”

“So hook me up.”

There was silence on the other end of the cell phone. Maria thought that maybe her call got dropped, and was