My Lost Daughter (43 page)

Just then, Shana stopped laughing. She'd never seen Karen mad before. She waited a few moments to make sure, and then said, “I think it's over, Karen.”

“Are you certain? Because if you're not, I'll keep at them until they do something.”

Shana slipped her hand out of Karen's. “I'm going to my room. I appreciate what you did. It takes guts to butt heads with Peggy.”

Karen looked down at her shoes, her face flushed in embarrassment. “It was nothing. You've been wonderful to all of us. This place was the pits before you showed up.” She held up a palm. “Don't worry. I'm not going to ask you to stay. We all know you don't belong here.”

“Thanks,” Shana said, walking off toward her room.

THURSDAY, JANUARY 21
SAN FRANCISCO, CALIFORNIA

A loud clap of thunder rang out. A flash of lightning followed, visible through the plate-glass window. The sky opened up and rain poured down in transparent sheets. Shana watched as the others darted through the rain as they returned from the cafeteria.

Karen had wandered off somewhere, but Shana remained in the great room at the smokers' table, waiting for Alex to show up. Besides lunch, she hadn't seen or spoken to him since the night before, and a queasy sensation had developed in the pit of her stomach. Had he said things he didn't mean just to get her to have sex with him? She chastised herself for overreacting to the fact that he had a computer in his room. For all she knew, the hospital rules didn't preclude a patient from having a computer as long as it wasn't connected to the Internet. Her heart began to sink as the minutes clicked off on the big clock on the wall.

Another loud crack of thunder rang out, and a second later, the lights went out. Some of the patients panicked and began screaming. At least a third of the great room was plunged into near-total darkness. Shana stood up, put her hands out in front of her, and kept walking in the same direction until she felt what she thought
was her doorway. “Thank you, God,” she said, relieved that she had made it to her room. Not everyone at Whitehall was harmless. Being in a mental institution during a blackout was dangerous.

Trying to stay close to the wall, Shana felt her leg brush up against what she thought was a mattress. She tripped and fell forward. Her chest and elbows struck a soft surface. A noxious odor rose to her nostrils, far worse than Michaela's usual body odor. She pushed herself off whatever it was she had touched, and then slipped and fell in what she assumed was a puddle of water.

“Michaela,” Shana called out, scrambling back to her feet. “Is that you, Michaela? I'm sorry, but we're having a storm and the power went out. The roof must be leaking. There's water all over the floor.”

Was she in the wrong room? She heard people milling about outside, but inside the room, there was no sound whatsoever. She listened for Michaela's heavy breathing, holding her breath so she could hear. As her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she could see a form on the bed. There was no rocking, no squeaking bedsprings, no wheezing. She started to return to the great room to get away from the awful smell when an eerie feeling came over her and she returned to the edge of the bed.

“Michaela!” she said again, this time louder. “Answer me.” She reached out and nudged the body on the bed, hoping that what she feared wasn't true and Michaela was only sleeping. Leaning over the top of the bed, she turned her face sideways to where she thought Michaela's mouth was, waiting to feel the woman's breath on her cheek.

“Please help me!” Shana cried out. “Michaela's not breathing!” She wanted to run from the room and keep running, out the doors and as far away as she could get, but she was frozen in that one spot by Michaela's bed. How could she stand by and do nothing? Since she had taken a course in CPR, she might be able to save the woman's life. She placed her finger on Michaela's neck, searching for a pulse.

She was probably in cardiac arrest.

With her fingers, Shana pried open Michaela's mouth to begin
ventilating. At the same time, she touched the soft flesh of her abdomen, and then ran her fingers straight up to what she hoped was her sternum. Placing one hand on top of the other, she began the compressions.

A commotion broke out in the great room, followed by the sound of pounding feet. “Here!” Shana screamed. “I'm here. Follow the sound of my voice. Here! Here!”

Outside, Betsy was running with a flashlight. The patients were huddled together in small groups. “George!” Betsy shouted. “Call an ambulance. And bring another flashlight. Something has happened to Michaela Henderson.”

Betsy shoved aside several people in her path as she rushed into Shana's room. Shining the flashlight toward the bed, she saw it was empty. She quickly checked the other bed and found it empty as well. A second later, she heard Shana yelling again from what appeared to be a nearby room.

“Oh, my Jesus!” Betsy exclaimed as the beam of the flashlight struck Shana. She was covered in blood—her face, her hands, and her white cashmere sweater. Sitting astride Norman, Shana was pressing down on his chest. With the light from the flashlight, Shana saw Norman's charred face. Something silver protruded from his throat. On impulse, she reached to grab it, and then realized he would bleed to death if she pulled it out. Whatever the object was, it was in the same area as Norman's carotid artery.

“Norman's been stabbed in the throat,” Shana said rapidly. “I thought I was in my room. That's why I said it was Michaela.” She bent down to ventilate again. “Not sure . . . suicide or murder. Call the . . . paramedics.” She sucked in another deep breath. “Quick or he'll die.”

“Lord God Almighty, you've killed him!” With an enormous swing of her body, Betsy rammed the left side of Shana's rib cage, smashing her into the wall. The last thing Shana saw was Betsy bending down over Norman, his eyes open and empty.

“Ms. Forrester, can you hear me?”

A beam of light filled Shana's right eye. She saw an unknown male face peering down at her. The beam of light retreated and Shana saw a dark-haired doctor she'd never seen before standing next to Betsy. She watched as he placed the small penlight back in the pocket of his starched white coat.

“How do you feel?” he asked. “You appear to have suffered a mild concussion.”

Shana tried to raise her arm when she met resistance. “That doesn't explain why I'm tied to the bed.”

“I'm not on staff here,” the doctor said. “I'm Dr. Rolheiser. I was called in to take a look at you. Do you know where you are?”

“What happened to Norman? I was trying to resuscitate him. Instead of helping me, the woman standing next to you shoved me against the wall and knocked me unconscious.” Shana's head and left shoulder were throbbing.

Rolheiser remained expressionless. “You didn't answer my question.”

“I'm at Whitehall Hospital. I don't know the exact address but it's somewhere near San Francisco.”

“Correct,” he said, making a notation in his clipboard.

“Do you want me to recite the Pledge of Allegiance?” she said, thrashing against the restraints. “There's nothing wrong with my mind. If you aren't affiliated with Whitehall, for God's sake, get me out of here. They've been holding me against my will. They kidnap people to collect on their insurance.”

“Norman's dead,” Betsy said, stepping in front of the doctor. “You stabbed him. I saw the knife in your hands. Dr. Morrow warned us to keep an eye on you.”

Rolheiser's curiosity got the best of him. “Did you really kill someone?”

“What do you think?” Shana said, outraged that Betsy would make such an accusation. “Not many murderers try to resuscitate their victims.”

The doctor placed his hand on Betsy's back, steering her to a
corner of the room. “Neither of us should be asking Ms. Forrester questions about the crime,” he whispered. “Advise the police officers they can interrogate her now. She's alert and cognizant. I'll stop by later to check on her. I think she suffered a mild concussion.”

Betsy and Rolheiser left. A short time later, two men entered. One was a fresh-faced young officer in uniform, with short cropped hair and a squared-off jaw. The other man was in his late forties, had disheveled brown hair, and the ruddy complexion of a drinker. He had to be a detective, Shana told herself, as he was wearing a gray suit and looked the part. The younger officer was smacking a wad of chewing gum.

“San Francisco Sheriff's Office,” the plainclothes officer said. “I'm Detective Lindstrom. Officer Prescott and I need to ask you some questions about Norman Richardson.” He reached inside his pocket, removed a small card, and began reading Shana her rights. He ended by saying, “Do you understand?”

“Yes, damn it,” Shana shot out. She pulled hard against the restraints and then let her hands fall back to the bed. She felt as if someone had hit the rewind button, but this time the nightmare was worse. “I'm a law student at Stanford. My mother is a superior court judge in Ventura. These people tricked me into signing a voluntary commitment order. They gave me drugs . . .”

“I see.” Lindstrom's tone was flat and disinterested. “We'll verify your history once we complete our preliminary investigation.” He pulled out a microcassette player and pushed a button. “I need it on record that you are officially waiving your right to have an attorney present during questioning.”

“Ask me anything you want.” Shana was certain that once she told them the truth, they would no longer consider her a suspect. “I'll talk to you without legal representation as long as you promise to listen to my side of the story.”

Officer Prescott pulled out a small notebook and pen to take notes. Lindstrom placed the tape recorder on the end table beside the bed. “Tell us everything that happened from the time you went
to the cafeteria until you were discovered standing over Mr. Richardson's body.”

“Take off the restraints,” Shana demanded. “Otherwise I'll wait for an attorney.”

The two officers exchanged glances. Lindstrom nodded, watching as Prescott reached down and unfastened the arm restraints. “You can sit up,” the detective told her. “I'm not going to remove the leg restraints.”

Shana rubbed her wrists, first one and then the other. “Can I have a drink of water, please? My throat is parched.”

The younger officer left, returning with a pitcher of water and several plastic cups. After he handed her the water, Shana gulped it down and then held out her cup so he could refill it. She stared off into space as she tried to recall the events of the last few days. “Norman seemed depressed, but at the dance, he acted as if everything was okay. He didn't show up at lunch today. When I asked where he was, one of the other patients said he was either sleeping or his session with his psychiatrist had run over.”

“Let's backtrack to the dance last night,” Lindstrom said. “What time did you get back to your room?”

“I can't tell you the exact time. My guess is it was around midnight. The hospital generally requires that we be in our rooms by ten. Because of the dance, curfew was lifted, and patients were still in the gym when Alex and I left.”

“Who is Alex?”

“One of the patients.”

“What's his last name?”

Shana placed her palm on her forehead. “I don't remember. Maybe it's because of the concussion. I believe he gave me a telephone calling card. That should have his last name on it. Can't you get information on Alex from the hospital? He's been a patient here for several months. He practically runs the place.”

“Are you sure this man is a patient?” Lindstrom asked, placing his hands on his hips. “Could you be confusing him with a member of the staff?”

“Not at all,” Shana told him. “The staff is made up of idiots. Alex is a smart man. I even met his family. His mother is overbearing and rude, but that doesn't have any bearing on what happened to Norman.” She wondered if she should tell them that Alex had originally told her he was hiding from the IRS. Right now, she didn't know what to think about anything. She decided to keep her mouth shut. If she admitted that she was in Alex's room, Morrow might refuse to release her.

Officer Prescott flipped through his notebook. “We don't have anyone on the patient roster with the first name of Alex. Are you certain that was his name?”

“That's what everyone called him,” Shana said, reclining on the pillow. “Norman bled to death, didn't he? How long had he been dead?”

Lindstrom shuffled his feet around. “We'll know more after they complete the autopsy.”

“I woke up sometime during the night,” Shana said, interrupting him. “Dr. Morrow's been giving me enough dope to put me in a coma. What I'm trying to tell you is something must have caused me to wake up. I wish I'd looked at a clock so I could help you establish a time line. All I know is it was between two and seven this morning.”