Out of the Fog

By C. R. Lawrence

Leyland knows, but cannot talk. Leyland Hume, the only witness to the murder, is profoundly autistic. Jessie Hunter, State Investigator, knows this is a murder, even if no one else does. Did the psychologist Dawson kill his client? If not, can he help Hunter find her way through the mazes of autism? Only by travelling through the inner world of aut

• Language: English
• Publisher: Out of the Onion Books
• Release date: Jun 4, 2015
• ISBN: 9780986351617

Book preview

Acknowledgments

Stephanie Marohn served as the

original editing guide, and helped move one overly long book into two. Theodore Robert Deppe provided the decisive editing guidance and specific details required to bring

Out of the Fog to its last draft. Annie Lynn Deppe gave expert opinions at crucial points. Lisa Floyd provided careful line editing of the grammar and content, and helped me balance writing and work. Ken Jacobs’ humor and expertise produced the book’s cover. Ellie Searl formatted the book. Bill Quinn’s friendship made the author photography a pleasure. This work has benefited from careful reading by Rebecca and Kay Christiansen, Bruce Robinson, Ronald Jones, Eddie Graham and Bryan Rich.

Author’s Note

Out of the Fog

is a work of fiction, and Pomo County, Dexter Developmental Center, and the Sumonju order of dervishes are fictional creations. Out of respect for the author’s workplace and dervish order, all names, places, and events have been changed. While this work is fiction, it is based on the author’s personal and professional experience. C. R. Lawrence is not a spokesperson for anyone other than himself. Any error in fact or traditional knowledge is the responsibility of the author, not of his teachers or colleagues.

The root inspiration for

Out Of the Fog

was a period from 1989 through 1994, when the author served as the psychologist for thirty institutionalized autistic men and women with severe behavioral challenges. That period had the intensity of active duty in a war zone—exhausting, exhilarating, and always interesting. It is and was a great pleasure to work as part of a well-functioning interdisciplinary clinical team.

The Blood

Leyland was a veteran of many wars with himself and it showed. His ears were permanently swollen, the cartilage long ago expanded from frequent injury. His hands showed horny scarring, as did his wrists. He was usually either sitting on his hands or had bound them together with a string. Leyland knew many ways to keep from hitting himself. Most of his behavior was an effort to prevent hitting himself. But since last night, Leyland’s self-restraint was not enough to keep him safe. 

Leyland cannot stop seeing the blood! Leyland pushes knuckles hard against eyes to push it away. The lean thirty-four-year-old autistic man trembled. The blood, the blood!

It was the last day of June on a quiet sunlit afternoon on Clawitter, the home of twenty adult autistic men and women, part of the Dexter Developmental Center the residence of five hundred clients and workplace for fifteen hundred staff. Clawitter was nestled into the bluff overlooking the ocean. It was one of the twenty-five Dexter homes, each one a unique world with its own set of problems and its own team to solve them. The Center grounds itself encompassed twelve hundred acres. Its campus perched on a rolling plateau two hundred yards wide and a thousand long. It sat on one of the last ridges of the coastal mountain range before the land sloped down into the crashing waves and jagged rocks of the Northern California coastline. At three in the afternoon, the summer fog had burned off and the day was clear, bright and glistening. The clients had briefly been left on their own, while the morning staff gave the afternoon staff the report of the day’s events and each client’s condition. Leyland Hume was alone in the C Group’s living room, a twenty-by-twenty foot room with chairs and sofas around three walls and a big Plexiglas-protected TV. 

Leyland was a peculiar sight, a long, sinewy man probably at least six foot two maybe even six foot four. His actual height was undetermined. He stayed so curled up and entwined in furniture, he never stretched out or stood up completely. Everything was large about Leyland. Big head, broad hands, long feet, large penis, broad shoulders, long arms and legs. It was as if he got an extra shot of growth hormone growing up, his puberty spurts going a bit too far. Leyland’s features were male plus. The craggy look on him was exaggerated, his brows and cheek bones very prominent, making his eye sockets deep.

Leyland rocks back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. Better. Calmer. Rocking back and forth helps. Leyland makes a tentative fog horn sound HHHNNNNNNHH. The rocking slows down and each HHNNHH becomes a long exhale as he rocks forward.

Soon peaceful again, out of time, away from the hard flat surfaces of the Clawitter living room, rocking with the tone; Leyland has been here forever, this is home. So long as Leyland stays here, Leyland is safe.

Leyland jerked. NOOOOOOOOOO!!! Rocking harder again now. Blood, pain, throbbing in head. Somehow it’s there inside again. Fleetingly, Leyland realized that this hurting kept happening. More and more Leyland has to go away, go home and rock and rock. Even eating wasn’t safe anymore. A gnawing in the gut joined the throbbing in the head.

Leyland made the foghorn sound. HHHNNNHHH, HHHHNNNHHH, HHHNNNHHH.  Louder usually helped but not today. Leyland sat on his hands to keep safe.

Leyland was thrown back, back where Leyland didn’t want to go. Where Leyland never wanted to be. Last night Leyland was the only one up, one gaunt, profoundly autistic man from the group housed in Clawitter residence. It was a cool, Northern California summer night. Fog surrounded the squat concrete, stucco and brick buildings that formed the main quadrangle of Dexter Developmental Center. At four a.m., little moved.  Even the developmental center police car was simply parked on the frontage road with its lights off. Great horned owls hooted to each other in the distance.

The Clawitter night shift staff all took horizontal lunch hours at this time, against policy to sleep during their shift, but no one ever showed up to enforce it. Leyland heard their sleep breathing come from the staff break room.  Fitz, the man who should report it, was probably asleep himself.

Leyland never slept at night, mostly day naps. Press face against metal-framed windows—fog.  Nothing outside window, no buildings, no cars, no street. All fog. Cold shivers—so delicious. Now craving warm snuggle. Slipping into Moaner’s room, hands grasp bedding, then her quilt over arm. Get warm now. Hear ocean close, waves on beach. Out of Moaner’s room.  Chill up back, no matter. Will be warm under friend Horse’s bed.

The Clawitter B Group hallway loomed empty with slick tan linoleum floors and concrete walls.

Leyland’s favorite spots to hide. Favorite snuggles. During the day he lolled on the main heating grate. At night Leyland liked the space under beds or slipped in with others for their warmth.

Now quiet. Whole pen quiet. Soothing. In his head Leyland sees Horse running—a lithe man running free. Horse’s room—end of hall. Horse snoring.

Horse’s door, Leyland’s friend’s door, was open; the single room was quiet except for Joshua asleep in his bed. No one around— slide under bed. Horse’s bed best. Bolted to floor. So strong. Close under bed—wrap in quilt, snug, safe. Going away, body quiet. Away inside. Empty. Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhh . . . Long . . .  quiet . . .  empty . . .

Slow careful footsteps came across the hall. Getting louder.  The footsteps stopped.

Will man see Leyland? No—going to Horse.

Get up you big lunk, man’s voice said. Horse yawned. Get up now! Horse stood. Four legs now—Horse’s feet, man’s feet.

Horse whined.

Quiet, voice commanded.

Horse’s legs moved toward back wall, other legs followed.

A tense whisper. Damn it Josh come here!

Thump. Good idea, hit your head! Again thump.

Leyland saw them at the end of the room. The man held Horse by hair at back of head; stuffed rolled sock in Horse’s mouth. Pulled head back, then jerked head toward wall.

Oh!  Oh! Must go away, far away! Leyland’s hands crush into ears—still hear thump and thump and breaking, crunching. No, no.

Quiet! Quiet! Must stay quiet! Push wall.

Beneath the bed Leyland thrust against the wall. The pressure, please feel solid, calmer, doesn’t work! Not now!

Man—quick footsteps, breathing heavy. Stopped. Nothing.

Leyland must make sound! Go away inside! Hide! . . . .  No!  Quiet, quiet, only safe if quiet.

Leyland heard a key in the lock. The door across the hall opened, closed. Faint footsteps.

Man leaving?

Look out.

Horse on floor, not moving. Thick, curly blond hair framed the face now broken and bleeding.

Horse’s head strange.

Eyes empty. Mouth open. Breath leaked in and out.

Dark flowing out.

Blood! Blood, Oh the blood!

The dark pool grew larger. Joshua Tiber Junior, Leyland’s friend Horse, lay sprawled against the concrete wall of his room, his life draining out of him.

Re-living last night was too much for Leyland. Hands down! No hitting! Leyland screamed. Hands Downnnnnnn! It wasn’t enough and the hands are out. Hands struck.

A burst of color and pain filled his head as hands hit both sides of forehead. Now hands take up the rhythm with the horning. With each HHHNNNHH, hands come slamming into head. Leyland tries to stop. Some part knows, head will be so sore later, have such pain. But hands start and Leyland can’t stop them.

Now Leyland’s blood is flowing. Somehow that eases the pain. Sound and hit, sound and hit. Leyland is going away. Sound and hit, sound and hit. Far away. Sound and hit. Away where it’s safe, where the pain inside cannot reach. Where Leyland no longer sees the blood, no longer relives that night.

Chapter One: Day One

Frank Dawson stopped at the

ridge above his workplace, Dexter Development Center, and looked out along the coastline. Dawson’s body was light and wiry. Little extra weight survived his bicycle commute to work and back. Fifteen miles each way through the steep coastal hills of Pomo County kept him thin. Cloaked by fog at five a.m., Dexter was visible more as a looming presence than the campus of a large institution. Late June, it was the time when all things change; the weather having shifted from the rain-soaked spring to the cold overcast of a Northern California summer.

The quiet before the world awakens is such a pleasure, he was thinking as he walked his bike slowly down to the Clawitter building. He knew most of his clients would be asleep. It was a good time for paperwork and analysis. It was also a good time to catch up with the night shift. Nights were different. It was an altered (work) state in itself, Dawson reflected. 

Stretching on the wheelchair ramp before the front door after his morning ride, Dawson lingered on the threshold between his two worlds. There was a special intensity about this particular morning. Looking out into the diffuse early morning light, he felt the foggy mist caress his cheek. May I be of service today, he murmured softly and opened the door. 

Dawson made quiet rounds to see what his clients were doing at daybreak. Clawitter had three group areas, A, B and C. A was straight ahead from the front door, and beyond the nurses’ station. The nurses’ station was at the hub of the two crossed hallways. B Group was to the right from the main hall and C Group to the left. At the end of B Group’s hallway, he stopped, looking into the last bedroom. Joshua’s crumpled body lay against the concrete wall, head broken in at the brow and blood running in dark streamers down the beige wall. Alone with Joshua, Dawson went quickly and searched for a pulse that he knew was not there. This can’t be, thudded dully in the back of Dawson’s mind.  He smelled the salty sweet savor of fresh blood. He did not touch Joshua further once it was clear that there was no carotid pulse in Josh’s neck, his skin cold to the touch. There was no immediate need to call for help. Joshua was beyond all help now. Getting up he scanned the scene. The furniture was all in place, but there was a coverlet on the floor under Josh’s bed and a puddle of pee. The unit was very quiet this early in the morning. Usually there were several guys in the B Group living room by this time.

Seizure or self-abuse, Dawson wondered vacantly. Josh’s seizures, once severe and out of control, were less violent this year. His medications were working, that was the irony. Was Josh’s self-abuse still severe when he was having a bad cycle? Dawson could not remember the last bad episode. That must be it, Dawson moaned to himself. I have failed him. He knew it was useless, but couldn’t help feeling that there must have been something he could have done. Each time one of his guys’ profound behavioral challenges went really sour, it left its own scar on Dawson’s heart.

Working with adult men and women struggling with the challenges of autism was Dawson’s work at Dexter and had been for years now. He did not train for this work originally. But you could say he was born to do this work. His older brother Larrie Dawson was very autistic and very bright. Larrie had spent twenty years of his life in state hospitals and developmental centers. Only in the last decade had his brother been living successfully in a community group home. Larrie cast a long shadow over Dawson’s life. During the last couple years Frank and Larrie Dawson had reconnected through their mutual work to bring their nephew Chad back from the brink of autism. Each brother considered the other his consultant. Frank consulted Larrie on people with autism and Larrie consulted Frank about how to live with neurotypicals, the so-called normals. 

When Dawson had started working with autism professionally twelve years earlier, it was at once new, exciting and bewildering. He was glad to learn the particular behavioral approaches that were the most successful. What he had not been ready for was how deeply he was drawn to these haunted souls. Many of his guys were physically beautiful. Frank Dawson couldn’t shake the feeling that there were active worlds of experience and intelligence locked beyond some door if he could find the key. He knew this was a common response from parents and caregivers alike. There must be a way . . . 

Memories of Joshua running flashed into Dawson’s mind. Josh was one of the beautiful ones. Unconcerned about the rules society burnt into the rest of us, Joshua was always getting out, getting naked and running. His body was strong and golden. His face—clear, chiseled. Like a mustang, Dawson thought. A wild thing, never tamed or broken . . . . Well, he was broken now, came the sardonic thought. The young man who seemed so free from the trammels of convention and conditioning was gone. Perhaps now he was really free?

Each new death in Dawson’s life was an aftershock from the earthquake of losing Anne to cancer. Anne had been his college sweetheart, his mentor’s daughter, his heart. Dawson carried Anne with him: her wool socks on his feet, her wallet in his pocket. He always wore the hat Anne gave him. She insisted that the Tilley hat, insured against loss and nearly indestructible, was what her forgetful husband needed.

Dr. Jeremy Tatum stretched and yawned. He rolled over on the stiff twin bed reserved for overnight calls. Well, overnight call was not about sleeping anyway.  His once strong physique had dwindled from inattention and bad habits. Where he once had been a solid two hundred twenty pounds, and could throw off a hundred pushups at a time, he had wasted down to one eighty, and could only manage fifteen pushups, and then only if he were desperate. The man, who in med school had looked more like a buff wrestler, was now gaunt and frayed. Already, Dr. Tatum had been called to two residences during the night. Working the MOD (doctor on duty) overnight shift was still a bitch, even if he had chosen to do it himself. He knew that the way things had been going he needed to lie low, underneath the social radar. A doctor working the night shift is nearly invisible, he thought to himself with satisfaction. Ever since Switzer was put on probation for yelling at Clawitter staff, Jeremy Tatum had known that he too was at risk. Better to stay under cover for a while. Maybe he could handle his own difficulties and return to a regular assignment later. He could handle having thirty to fifty clients again, later. Right? Maybe even try for medical director again. That retired military asshole, Simon, couldn’t last and no one else seemed to really want that position. Medical director was more money and less clinical hassle. He could do the bureaucratic bullshit if he had to, or probably he could.

Still foggy!  Jeremy spat into his bedside sink. Of course it was foggy. Dexter never got free of the fog that clung to the edge of Northern California during the summer. Come to sunny California, he mocked himself. His life had soured and stopped since he had taken this job. He had been here how long, ten . . . . no eleven years. 

BRRINGGGGG!!! The damn phone, the bane of his existence. At least it was only the third call this night shift. Glancing at the bedside clock Five thirty-five a.m.! he said like a curse. Couldn’t they wait another hour until the unit doctor came in? Oh no, not with his luck.

Yes, what do you want? he said dully. It was that damn Dawson. Where did he get off calling him now? Dr. Tatum had known psychologist Dawson for years from a professional distance. He had even had a few verbal skirmishes with the jerk. Why was he even at work this early anyway? Okay he’s dead so what’s the hurry? Can’t Winston handle this when he gets in? . . .  He’s on vacation. Yeah right. Okay, I’ll be over in a few minutes. He did not want to go back to Clawitter; he had just been there the other night.

Dr. Tatum assembled his clothes into a facsimile of order, shaved and drank a bit of last night’s coffee. It was cold and nasty. It did not do the trick. So, he pulled a small vial of anesthetic cocaine out of his pocket. Nothing like medical quality, he murmured to himself as he laid out a line and then snorted it. The change was quick. The focus, the clarity, the energy returned to his brain and to his movements. He was alive again. He was ready, ready for anything. Carefully returning the vial of cocaine to its hiding place in the inner pocket under his white shirt, he scanned the room. He crumpled the paper he used for the line and flushed it. The bed he stripped and threw the linen in the laundry hamper outside the door. He wiped the table down with toilet paper and flushed that as well. There must be nothing, no traces of his habit and there weren’t. He walked out to see what damage Joshua T. had done to himself.

Dr. Tatum, Dawson had said, We need someone with medical expertise. Was he playing with him? That might be sarcasm in his voice? With Dawson it was hard to tell. Jeremy Tatum couldn’t read Frank Dawson. The gangly psychologist was always going off on strange tangents. Was he the one who turned Switzer in to the administration? No that was the residence manager, Marilyn, that tough old broad wasn’t afraid of anyone. In fact most everyone was afraid of her.

The fog left Jeremy’s hair covered with a sheen of moisture and rivulets flowed down Clawitter’s heavy metal door. Dr. Tatum’s key was bent. Damn, it barely worked. I’ll have to remember to get a new one, but he knew he wouldn’t, at least not for a while. So many things were slipping away from him lately; he could hardly do his job. Remembering to get a new key made during the day, when he was working night shift, was not going to happen.

He closed the door with a thump. Locked in, he thought, I‘d hardly be more shut away if I were in prison. The Clawitter hallway had a handful of clients in the chairs along the walls. The broad hallway gave him plenty of space to pass without being concerned about being hit or slimed. B wing, Dawson had said, so he turned the corner and there he was, the creep himself.

In here, Dawson said pointing to the bedroom at the end of the hall.

Jeremy Tatum found Joshua Tiber slumped against the wall. His forehead was obviously fractured. Probably died of a massive subdural hematoma, Dr. Tatum murmured. His hands had a haptic intelligence of their own from years of emergency room work. Joshua’s skin was cold and clay-like. Dr. Tatum reported to Dr. Dawson. No carotid, brachial, femoral or apical pulse. I can feel the edges of the fractured skull clearly. He has two black eyes of course. That is the least of his problems. His limbs are mobile; no rigor has started, so he could not have been dead longer than a couple of hours. There is clearly nothing I can do to help. This is now a job for the police and the coroner.

Could he have done this to himself?  Dawson asked.

I suppose so. Jeremy Tatum had never seen any self-injurious behavior, any SIB, that was this severe, but he had heard that it happened occasionally. Perhaps he was running before he hit the wall.

Do you think a seizure could have done this to him?

Yes, I’ve seen atonic seizures give a person two black eyes like this. Perhaps a seizure threw him straight into the wall. Yes, that’s probably what it was.

Dr. Tatum completed his examination. Nothing more I can do here. Where do you keep the charts around here?

As they walked back down the hall, developmental center police were coming up the hall to make their report. Fractured skull, probable subdural, likely due to an atonic seizure. He’s been dead for more than an hour but less than six hours. You can take it from here, he told the officer.

When Jeremy Tatum finished his progress notes and came out of the charting room, Clawitter had come to life. The hall was now brimming with large men on their way to breakfast, some twirling, and some stepping out patterns on the floor or bumping up against the drinking fountain over and over. Damnedest thing, these autistics and their rituals, Tatum thought as he edged by, along the wall, and slipped out. Once the solid door clanked shut behind him with the satisfying click of the lock, he sighed and took a deep breath. Another day, another night shift done, another death, he thought to himself, one more in the series of days to which he could see no end, and no meaning.

In the Dexter Developmental Center police station at eight a.m., Chief Warren was giving the duty officers their assignments and sending them on their way. He gestured to a tall woman in plain clothes to stay and join him in his office. Hunter, he said, we have an unobserved injury, leading to a fatality. This occurred on Clawitter residence between twelve midnight and four a.m. The deceased, Joshua Tiber, a thirty-eight-year-old white male, was found by the unit psychologist at five thirty when he came in to work.

Jessie Hunter, developmental services special investigator, was solid the way a tree trunk is solid. As the only girl in a family with older and younger brothers, she had learned early to defend herself. Years of intense martial arts workouts had made her strong and limber. At six feet and a hundred seventy pounds, Hunter had passed the physical challenges of police academy without difficulty. Her chestnut hair fell just short of shoulder length. Years outdoors walking a beat left her skin a freckled bronze. Hunter carried her strength in a quiet relaxed way, as if physically ready for anything.

How would you like me to handle this Chief? she said.

"Go now and check the scene where the client died. He apparently had a bad seizure that bashed his head in, but you had better look it over carefully. Start by talking to the psychologist, Frank Dawson, who found the body, and the unit manager, Marilyn Foster. Then get the staff roster and set up appointments to question the night shift and those who worked with Tiber. 

"Then go to the morgue and check the body. The coroner has already been by and certified the death and that it’s apparently accidental. Since this was a case of unobserved injury, Tiber’s body will be sent out later this afternoon for an autopsy by the Pomo County Medical Examiner. So this will be your chance to see the victim.

Besides being a fatality, this is a high-profile case. The deceased’s father is General Joshua Tiber, the Gulf War hero. He’s retired from the army, but he pulls a lot of weight around here. This will be your first fatality investigation here. Don’t mess it up.

Chief Warren looked and was an aging muscle man gone thick through the middle. He was nearly bald and his brown mustache was turning gray. At this point in his career, he was resigned to his supervisory job with its bureaucratic hassles.

Yes, Chief. Anything else about the Tibers or Clawitter? Hunter asked.

The Tibers are very involved parents and politically they’re well connected. The mother is Meredith Melissa Tiber.

Melissa?

"Yeah, that Melissa family." Everyone knew the story of the millionaire Melissas, who turned from robber barons in one generation to politicians and national leaders in the next.

Hunter was new to the developmental service police force, though not new to violence. She had started as a street cop in San Francisco. After getting shot seven years ago, she had transferred north to the Pomo County Sheriff’s Department. Five years later, she had shifted to Pomo County’s youth probation for two years. Her recent transfer from county to state work went easily and the accompanying promotion to special investigator gave her more income, less stress, and less danger on the job.

As for Clawitter, Warren continued, it has a badass reputation. There have been a lot of unexplained injuries over the years I’ve been here. The reputation is probably partly earned and partly that a large part of what we do here is make sure that the clients are fed, clothed and sheltered and cared for medically. Overall Dexter is mostly a caretaking model.

And Clawitter isn’t? Hunter asked.

Clawitter tends to push the limits. It’s one of the heavy hitter residences. They work with autistic adults with behavior problems. The clients have problems with self-injury, assault or property destruction, or all three. Clawitter has some of our most dangerous clients. And the staff tend to be bikers and on the macho side—over six foot and two-hundred-plus pounds. People that don’t mind getting hit or spit on as part of their job.

Not caretakers.

No, not caretakers. They’re risk takers. Then the chief added as an afterthought, and they do good work. They have helped change clients we used to have to handcuff and drag into the patrol cars on a weekly basis into people with grounds privileges who can go wherever they want and never get into trouble.

Okay, thanks, Chief, Hunter said. This should be interesting, she thought. Clawitter sounds like my kind of place.

Danger used to enliven Jessica Hunter’s life. Now in her thirties, she no longer required daily doses of adrenalin to feel adequately alive, but she missed the danger element of her previous jobs. After five years of marriage to a cranky asshole policeman, which ended in divorce and a change of job, her life energy was less focused on police work. She was looking for something more.

The developmental center police and investigators were basically cops, but the culture was different. The us and them were different. Here the clients were always right and the staff always suspect. Good clients, bad staff. She knew it was too simple, especially when the clients usually hit the staff first before the staff did anything back. She kept thinking that it must be like general police work where the situation changed minute by minute and no two cases were the same, but after investigating her first ten unexplained and unobserved bruisings, it all felt repetitive.

As Hunter approached Clawitter residence, she studied the single-story stucco building, wondering if its thick walls, reinforced windows, and locked metal doors were there to protect those within from the external world or vice versa. Probably it worked both ways, she thought. She pulled out her keys, only to discover that the external door into Clawitter was unlocked. Inside, another door ten feet from the first, bore a sign that read, Please make sure this door is closed and locked to prevent client AWOL. Hunter noted the heft of both doors. Both were made of heavy metal and had a single peephole, a four-by-six-inch pane of Plexiglas. She unlocked the inner door, stepped through, and closed it behind her, trying the doorknob to confirm that it was locked.

At nine in the morning, the hall in front of her was empty. The clients were apparently already gone to their day program elsewhere. Hunter had called ahead to let staff know she was coming. The hallway was fifteen feet wide with institutional beige linoleum flooring. The walls were also beige and the ceiling covered with off-white acoustical tile. Directly ahead was a room with Plexiglas from the waist-high dividing wall up to the ten-foot ceiling. Hunter recognized the nursing station. It looked the same as those on the other residences to which she had been except none of those were encased in Plexiglas. As she came down the hall a tall black man looked up from the desk of the nursing station and pointed down the hallway to her right.

On the wall near her was a floor plan of the residence to facilitate emergency evacuation. She looked for Joshua Tiber’s room, number 131. It was the last room on the left in the B Group hallway, which branched off to the right from the nursing station. All the rooms in the B Group hall were on the left. The right side of the hallway had windows that looked out onto a central concrete patio.

Joshua Tiber’s room was locked when Hunter got there. Although it was not considered a crime scene, it was the site of a fatal accident. All fatalities, especially those not witnessed, were investigated. On opening the door Hunter noticed a slight locker-room odor combined with the smell of urine. The room was about fifteen by twenty feet, large for a single client, Hunter thought. Apparently, General Tiber had clout. To the left, along the wall, was a single bed. The covers were bunched at the bottom of the mattress. Kneeling, Hunter saw a large puddle of urine that extended under the bed to the wall. 

Scanning, Hunter saw three streaks on the wall at the back of the room. On closer inspection, the streaks appeared to be dried blood. Each started at about five feet, well below Hunter’s eye level. Have to check how tall Tiber was and from where he was bleeding, she thought. She noticed that each line was similar and that there was a faint horizontal smear above where the blood streaks began. The horizontal patch was about eight inches side-to-side and three inches top-to-bottom. Thicker on the left than on the right; it looked like there was more than one layer of blood on the left and only one layer on the right. The vertical streaks were each about an inch apart. The lines were similar, but the one on the right was shorter and the other two were longer, running a foot farther down the wall. It looked to Hunter like whatever had hit the wall there had hit three or more times, each time moving an inch to the left. There was a large pool of dried blood on the floor below the streaks. There were several thick blond hairs stuck in the dried blood and a pattern suggesting the position of the victim’s head at the edge of the blood pool.

Hunter examined the walls around the whole room and then crossed back and forth, using the foot-square Linoleum blocks to make sure she saw every inch of the floor. No further blood, smudges, or signs of movement showed on the floor.

Across from the bed was a six-foot-high and four-foot-wide lockable clothes wardrobe. Pictures were mounted and screwed into the walls. One showed a large man in a full-dress military uniform with his arm around a woman in a wedding dress. They looked to be in their late twenties. There was a picture of the same man looking slightly older. He was smiling at a blond infant as he threw the child into the air; the child was laughing. Another picture, a posed family portrait, showed two boys; the blond one looked vacantly away from the camera while the shorter dark boy looked directly at the camera with an angry expression. It looked like General and Mrs. Tiber had had two sons. The only other picture showed two men in uniform, one much older than the other. The older man was recognizable as the same one pictured in the earlier pictures. Hunter supposed that these were all Tiber family portraits. When she had finished looking the room over, she relocked it and yellow taped it. Now it was time to start interviewing the staff.

Any time things go wrong in state service one or more reports have to be submitted. When an injury is involved, let alone a fatality, the report has to be done in depth. So, since Dr. Frank Dawson was the first one on the scene of Joshua Tiber’s death, by nine a.m. that morning he was given the task of completing the first report.  At ten thirty, Frank Dawson submitted his preliminary report to the Chief Psychologist’s office in the Shipley Administration Building.

As Dawson turned the corner into the building’s main hall he could see two figures silhouetted against the far wall of windows outside the medical director’s office. The male figure leaned forward and jabbed his finger at the woman who stood legs braced hands on hips. As he neared them, he recognized first the Clawitter manager, Marilyn Foster’s broad shoulders and wide hips and then the angular face and body of Richard Simon, the medical director. Physically, at six foot four Simon overmatched Foster’s five foot eight. But emotionally, she seemed more than his equal. Medical Director Simon, had recently retired from active military service. A man used to getting his way by command, he also looked like someone capable of forcing others to his will physically. Dawson noticed Simon’s large right hand clench into a fist. For a moment it seemed he even might strike out, but then director Simon backed away as Dawson came up. He overheard their final interchange before the door was slammed.

You will do as I say! Director Simon said.

I’ll do what is in the best interest of my clients and my staff! Marilyn shot back.

Ms. Foster, you forget yourself and who runs this organization, Simon said.

You seem to have forgotten for whom this organization is run, Sir! she said, twisting the Sir into a verbal slap. When Licensing arrives to investigate Joshua Tiber’s death, I’m sure they’ll be interested to note that there has been grossly inadequate medical coverage on Clawitter with no regularly assigned physician for the last ten months. Marilyn’s naturally light complexion was flushed and fierce.

You will make no such comment, manager Foster, Simon said.

Marilyn’s voice went cold. I’ll do what I think best for my clients and staff, which will include the truth about how well the facility is providing services. If a regular physician is not assigned immediately, expect to be explaining that to Licensing this week. At that, the door slammed in her face and she backed up bumping into Dawson.

Dawson waited while the steam rose from Marilyn. He was glad to see her. He knew she cared as much as he did for their autistic clients, their guys on Clawitter. Since he had found Joshua dead several hours earlier, he had seen no one who really cared about Joshua. If there was anything Marilyn was strong in, it was caring. Known as the Dragon Lady to her staff, she was a tall, big-boned woman, no longer young, but still powerful. She had been with this group of clients and staff for years now. She had worked her way up from psychiatric technician to shift lead to unit manager right there on Clawitter. No one got away with mistreating the Clawitter clients; Marilyn made sure of that.

Trouble? Dawson asked. He did not want to re-light Marilyn’s fire. One did not choose to walk through those flames unless it was absolutely necessary.

Trouble? No not really. I needed some bastard to get angry at, she said. Since I can’t strangle Joshua for being dead, yelling at the head Medical Asshole helped.

You were fierce, but in control, Dawson said. I heard your final exchange.

Yeah? Well it’s fortunate he’s not my boss or my boss’s boss or I might worry. If he complains to my bosses or tries to blackball me with Sloan or Riley, they’ll tell him to get lost.

You didn’t expect to get support from director Simon, Dawson said.

Not really. I could have predicted that he would be in ‘cover your ass’ mode by now. I know that the Clawitter team is going to be held responsible for Josh’s death. If they can, they’ll scapegoat us. This is one of those rare times when the honchos really get scared; only a scandal or budget crisis ever fazes them. Marilyn turned to Dawson and smiled grimly. So what are we going to do now Doc, have you got any ideas? We have nineteen clients and fifty staff to serve. Probably we should do some kind of de-briefing or brainstorm or something this afternoon.

Right, I’ll call Paul at Employee Assistance and get him to come down at inter-shift and we’ll let people talk, Dawson said.

That’s a start, Marilyn said and clapping Dawson hard on the back, walked away head down.

Late morning after returning to Clawitter, Dawson knocked on the unit manager’s door and heard, Wait a minute! in Marilyn’s gruff voice. She sounded tense. Dawson settled against the concrete wall to wait, breathing quietly.  He was reviewing what he knew of Joshua’s death, when Marilyn’s volume rose again.

No, I don’t think so! I trust my staff. They do a hard job well. Dawson could not hear the next responses, but Marilyn continued in the same irate tone. No, go ask them yourself. There was an edge to Marilyn’s voice that Dawson hadn’t heard before. Through many crises together, Dawson had heard Marilyn loud and commanding, but never so strained.

Dawson wondered, could this be an administrator, maybe even Riley himself? No. He’d heard Marilyn face off director Riley. Fiery, but not stressed, he thought. What if she were being re-assigned or sent somewhere else . . . 

The squeal of a chair pushed back interrupted Dawson’s conjectures.

That’s it. I don’t know any more. Go ahead. Find out what happened. I want to know!

As the door opened, Dawson heard a calm voice say simply, I will.

Marilyn obviously had forgotten that Dawson was there in the hall. Seeing him she said. Oh Good! Frank meet Officer Hunter, she’s assigned to investigate Joshua’s death.

Reaching out, Dawson’s hand was held in a large hand that was hard and firm. Officer Hunter was about six foot, but seemed larger. She looked young but there was a solid quietness about her that was not young. As Officer Hunter calmly looked him over, the image of a great cat came to Dawson’s mind.

Dr. Frank Dawson is our psychologist here. He is the one who found Joshua Tiber’s body early this morning. I’m sure you’ll want to talk to him as well.

Yes, if you would be so kind.

"Sure, when would you