Mary, Mary

Maybe Mary wasn’t the only person in denial around here.
    “If I were testifying in court, I’d have to say I can’t. Beyond that, though, I think eight years of interaction is worth something, Dr. Cross. Don’t you?”
    I did think so, of course. But only if the therapist showed me some insight.
    “What about her children?” I asked. “I didn’t find any mention of them in her journals. But for the short time I’ve known Mary, they’ve been all she can think about. They’re very much alive in her mind now. She’s obsessed with them.”
    Dr. Shapiro nodded while she looked at her watch. “That’s more difficult for me to reconcile. I could offer a theory, which is that maybe Mary’s therapy was finally actualizing. The memory of those children was slowly, slowly bubbling up.
    “As the children came into her consciousness, one way to avoid processing twenty years of repressed guilt all at once would be to keep the children alive, as you put it. It could explain what drove her to escape when she did—to get back to her life with them. Which, to Mary’s experience, is exactly what happened.”
    “And these murders in California?” I was going very quickly on purpose; Dr. Shapiro fidgeted as though she might jump up and leave at any moment.
    She shrugged, clearly impatient with the interview. I wondered if her therapy sessions felt like this to her patients. “I just don’t see it. It’s hard to know what might have happened to Mary once she left here, but as for the woman that I knew?” She shook her head back and forth several times. “The only part of the story that makes sense is Los Angeles.”
    “How so?” I asked.
    “There was some interest in her story a few years ago. Some movie people came and went. Mary permitted the interviews, but as a state’s ward, she didn’t have the autonomy to grant any farther-reaching permission. Eventually they lost interest and went away. During her last couple of years here, I think they were the only visitors she had.”
    “Who?” I took out my notebook, folded it open. “I need to know more about this. Are there records of the visits? Anything?”
    “I don’t actually recall any names,” she said. “And beyond that, I’m a bit uncomfortable with the level of disclosure here. I might refer you back to Dr. Blaisdale if you want more specific information. He’d be the one to release it.”
    I wondered if she was feeling protective of her patient, or maybe just late for something on her social calendar. The clock said 5:46.
    I realized I might do better elsewhere, in which case, I had to get going as well. I thanked Dr. Shapiro for her time, and help, and headed back to the administration building.
    I was running.

Chapter 114
    STILL AND ALL, I was feeling like a real cop again, and it didn’t seem half bad to me. The wall clock in the administrative office said 5:52 when I slipped in.
    I smiled across the counter at a young woman with pink-streaked blond hair and a lot of costume jewelry. She was draping a plastic cover over her typewriter.
    “Hi, I’ve got a really quick request for you. Really quick. I need it, though.”
    “Can it wait until tomorrow?” the woman asked, eyeing me up and down. “It can wait, right?”
    “Actually, no. I just spoke with Doctor Shapiro, and she asked me to run down here and catch you. I need to see the women’s forensic ward visitor’s log for the last few years. Specifically for Mary Constantine. It’s really important. I wouldn’t bother you otherwise.”
    The woman picked up her phone. “Doctor Shapiro sent you?”
    “That’s right. She just left for the day, but she told me this wouldn’t be a problem.” I held up my ID. “I’m with the FBI, Dr. Alex Cross. This is part of an ongoing murder investigation.”
    She didn’t hide her displeasure. “I just shut down the computer, and I have to pick up my daughter. I suppose I can get you the hard copy if you want.”
    Without waiting for an answer, she disappeared into another room and came back with a small stack of three-ring binders.
    “You can only stay as long as Beadsie’s here.” She waved to a woman in a goldfish-bowl office at the back. Then she left, without another word—to me, or to Beadsie.
    The pages of the visitor’s log were divided into columns. I worked from the back of the most recent book, looking for Mary’s name under
Who Are You Here to See?
    For two years’ worth of entries, there was nothing at all. It was