29
When it came to controlling its guests and visitors, Fort Leavenworth, the maximum-security federal prison located on the stark windswept plains of Kansas, had nothing on the River Run mental facility. After locking their weapons in the Crown Victoria’s trunk, Alexa and Manseur walked together up the wide stone stairs, stopping before a wide wood door with a thick glass panel that allowed them to see into a short hallway that ended at another security door. A buzzer sounded and the front door swung open to allow them to enter the hallway—the sides of which were floor-to-ceiling glass panels that, once they were inside, allowed them to be viewed like fish in an aquarium. They entered into the mantrap, whereupon the door behind them locked electronically with a loud snap. As the pair approached the second door, it unlocked and slid open to allow them into a vast lobby.
The hospital’s security was both comforting and mildly disturbing. Despite its pastoral setting and the antebellum architecture, it was obvious that River Run was not a country-club facility that pandered to the nervous conditions of the general populace.
Across the expanse of the lobby a man the size of a refrigerator, dressed in a white shirt and blue tie, waited for them with his meaty hands flat on a long, granite-topped counter in the manner of a store clerk awaiting customers. Alexa half expected to hear the screams of the insane echoing from the wards, but the space was silent, save the sounds made by Manseur and Alexa’s shoes on the polished stone floor and a radio playing a national public radio broadcast. As they approached, the receptionist smiled down at them and nodded.
“May I help you?” he said in a high-pitched voice that Alexa decided made Mike Tyson sound like Paul Robeson.
“NOPD Detective Manseur and FBI Special Agent Keen. We’re here to see the director.”
As the receptionist read their credentials, his lips actually moved. “The administrative director of the facility or the director of psychiatry?” he asked, smiling like a man eager to make a sale.
“The director who would control who is released from the facility,” Manseur told him.
“That would be Dr. Whitfield,” the receptionist said, lifting the telephone receiver. He said, “I have an NOPD Detective Manseur and an FBI Agent Keen here to see Dr. Whitfield.”
He replaced the receiver and told them, “Please have a seat. Ms. Malouf will be right out to show you to the director’s office.”
Alexa and Manseur sat in chairs that may have been original to the building. They had the appearance of furniture made of oak and leather in a time when quarter-sawn oak and cowhide were inexpensive and craftsmanship—perhaps from prison laborers—was in long supply. The mission-style side tables were barren of reading matter.
A young woman, no more substantial than a child of twelve, wearing a blazer over a cotton dress and running shoes that chirped when she walked, came out through a heavy wood door and tuned in a smile as she approached. Her dark hair was gathered into a tight bun and her heavy eyebrows looked as though they had once been united to form a protective hood over her prominent nose. The nose, when added to a weak chin, gave the woman’s profile a shape that suggested an arrowhead.
“I’m Veronica Malouf, Dr. Whitfield’s executive assistant. Sorry to have kept you waiting, but we didn’t have you on the director’s schedule.”
“I’m sorry for any inconvenience. We had no idea we were coming until a little while ago and we were close by.” Manseur’s Southern voice added a honey-flavored edge to his apology.
“May I inquire as to the purpose of your visit?” Ms. Malouf asked.
“It’s an official matter best kept between us and the director for the moment,” Manseur replied.
“Might I ask if it pertains to a resident inmate?” she persisted. “The director is an extremely busy man.”
Manseur nodded. “Yes, it does. If you don’t mind, we’re very short on time.”
Ms. Malouf’s smile froze in place. “Please follow me.”