Brannigan drove cautiously on county roads, lost in thought about the investigation. Hours spent at Orange County hospital had left him with memories of being met with blank stares from EMTs who dismissed the cell phone image of Manny Lopez but made a positive ID on Ronald Neyman, whom they’d treated for minor injuries and released from hospital care. Both EMTs swore they had no involvement in his escape or any notion of which direction he was headed. Neyman could have killed them, but he didn’t. The EMTs were a conduit to safe passage from Hudson Psychiatric and afforded Neyman access to temporary shelter, warm clothes, and food. The EMTs were not a threat. Assuming they were unwitting parties, Neyman needed new transportation from the hospital. But how? And to where?

Brannigan had detailed photos of the crime scene, an expedited autopsy report, victim profiles, and a statement from a doctor he suspected knew more about Ronald Neyman than he shared. In sum total, he had less than dick without a solid profile of a suspect who appeared more methodical and cunning than his IQ or his mental condition implied. The sloppy nature of the crime scene suggested a disorganized offender, more impulsive and less inclined to control the situation. A profile contradiction, or the modus operandi of an idiot savant who’d spent enough time in a psychiatric ward to feel neglected, forgotten, and eager to revisit his former life in the outside world?

* * *

Dr. Jenkins logged out of his PC at the Coma Recovery Center and returned to his analysis of Mira Galloway’s lab results, which looked better than he’d predicted but not without a few unexplained discrepancies. He glanced at his phone and read a text from Marvin Tibbs: Should I be worried? He typed a terse reply and engaged in a text dialogue until someone approached his open office.

“Can I help you?” he asked, rising from behind his computer desk. He recognized the disheveled FBI agent who looked as if he’d slept in the same clothes he’d worn the night before. “What can I do for you, Agent Brannigan?”

Brannigan unwrapped a fresh stick of spearmint gum and surveyed the sparsely furnished space, with a Harvard Medical School diploma prominently displayed against a backdrop of framed patents and prestigious medical achievement awards. On the opposite wall, a human anatomy chart depicted the brain and spinal column. “Permission to come aboard?”

Dr. Jenkins laid his phone face down on his desk. “I have rounds to attend.”

Brannigan deflected the doctor’s objection. “This won’t take long. I need more insight on Ronald Neyman.”

“Have you found him?”

“Not yet. How long have you worked with Neyman?”

“A few years.”

“So you would recognize him if you saw him again?”

“Of course I would. He was one of my patients.”

“Did you see him leave the hospital?”

“No.”

Brannigan stopped chewing. “Ronald Neyman didn’t sneak out an open window or crawl through a basement tunnel. He killed two people on New Year’s Eve and strolled out the same lobby through which you came in.”

Dr. Jenkins ignored Agent Brannigan to make eye contact with a curious colleague who hovered in the hallway outside. “I never saw Ronald Neyman that night.”

“But you were on duty?”

Jenkins stood from his desk, walked over and closed his door for privacy. “My shift started at midnight.”

“According to your security logs, you badged in at 11:35 p.m.” Brannigan studied Dr. Jenkins’ expression to read the stolid poker face with no obvious tell, at least none he could readily discern.

“That’s not a crime,” Dr. Jenkins replied in an overt attempt to sidestep the conversation with the FBI agent who dropped by unannounced. “Are you here to arrest me or harass me?”

“According to police records, state troopers responded to a 911 call from your phone at 11:46 that night. Eleven minutes after you swiped your badge to enter the building.”

“So?”

“I timed my steps from the Hudson Psychiatric lobby to the control room where your colleagues were found dead. It took me less than twenty seconds to cover the distance.”

“Like I told you,” Jenkins replied, “when I entered the building, the control room was empty. I went to my office to check email. I came downstairs for a snack from the vending machines and heard a scream. I went to investigate and found Darrell and Garrett dead.”

“Garrett Smitts called your number repeatedly that night, but his phone records indicate you never returned his call.”

“I was predisposed.”

“Where were you before you arrived at the hospital?”

“None of your business.” He moved back towards his desk.

“Who’s Marvin Tibbs, and why did you call him at 1:45 a.m. on New Year’s Day?”

“I was shaken by what happened. I needed a friend to talk to. If you have any more questions, you can contact my lawyer.”

Brannigan popped a bubble in his mouth. “Here’s the rub. If your lawyer’s involved, I have to make this official. Maybe have you arrested on suspicion of concealing evidence.”

“You have no probable cause. If you did, I’d already be in custody.”

“And if you’d answered your phone when Garrett Smitts tried to reach you three times in seven minutes, he might still be alive.”

“That’s a big leap.”

Brannigan motioned with his hands apart as if he were carrying an invisible beach ball. “What I can’t piece together is why Garrett called you instead of calling 911? If you were on duty, why didn’t he call your work phone or come find you in person?”

“Only Garrett would know the answer to that.”

“Who was the attending physician when you arrived at Hudson Psychiatric?”

“I was.”

“But before you arrived, who was in charge?”

“Darrell Jordan.”

“A registered nurse?”

“Yes.”

“By law, you’re required to have at least one medical doctor on the premises of a county-funded facility at all times.”

“It was New Year’s Eve. We were short-staffed.”

“Nonetheless, you failed to provide adequate medical supervision. The state attorney could argue culpability for the deaths of Darrell Jordan and Garrett Smitts.”

“You’d never convince a jury.”

Brannigan smiled broadly. “You’d be surprised.”

“What do you want from me, Agent Brannigan?”

“More background on Ronald Neyman.”

“I’ve already told you—”

“I’m not asking about his diagnosis. Tell me what drove him to murder two people.”

“I’d say that’s obvious. They got in his way.”

“Of what?”

“His freedom.”

“His freedom to leave or his freedom to kill again? I suspect there’s more to Ronald Neyman than you’re telling me. And the longer it takes me to find him, the more lives remain at risk.”

“Based on some contrived behavioral profile?”

“Based on my gut. And twenty-two years of hunting psychopaths who didn’t want to be found.”

Dr. Jenkins took off his glasses and used the bottom of his lab coat to erase a smudge. “What do you want to know?”

Brannigan took his phone out and searched photos of Neyman’s room with drawings scribbled in red crayon on the wall. He scrolled slowly for Dr. Jenkins to see. “What do you make of these?”

“Ronald Neyman has a penchant for stealing crayons from the recreation room and writing on the walls.”

Brannigan zoomed in on the electronically secured door. “We found no tool marks or any damage to the door frame. Either Neyman discovered a way to defeat the locking mechanism from inside his room, or someone let him out.”

“All patients are given their evening medication by 7:30 p.m. and returned to their rooms by 9:00 p.m. To the best of my knowledge, Neyman was secured like everyone else.”

“One of your nursing staff said she overheard an argument between Darrell Jordan and Ronald Neyman around 7:30 that evening. Were you aware?”

Jenkins shook his head. “I had no idea, but it doesn’t surprise me. Ronald Neyman can be one of our more difficult patients to manage.”

“What kind of medication was Neyman prescribed?”

“Selective serotonin reuptake inhibitors, tetracyclic antidepressants, amitriptyline, nortriptyline, thorazine—”

“Thorazine? For schizophrenia?”

“Yes. Ronald Neyman is a diagnosed schizophrenic. A savant who suffers from hallucinations and paranoid delusions.”

“How long have you treated him?”

“Since he was committed to Hudson Psychiatric ten years ago. He has a history of schizophrenia.”

“What about immediate relatives? Did anyone ever visit him?”

“Not that I’m aware of. Neyman was a product of the foster care system. His true family history is spotty.”

“And when he’s off his medication?”

Dr. Jenkins glanced at his watch. “His thoughts become increasingly illogical, his behavior more irrational as he loses touch with reality. Hallucinations, paranoia, and insomnia set in.”

Brannigan unlocked his phone to bring up another set of crime scene photos depicting charcoal sketches of a man with gangly arms clutching a Medusa-like head. “Have you seen these drawings before?”

“Neyman exhibits a propensity for the macabre.”

Brannigan skipped to the next photo and zoomed on the phrase Save Faith scrawled on the wall beneath the picture. “What can you tell me about this?”

Dr. Jenkins shrugged. “The ramblings of a madman I suppose.”

“You mean a savant with schizophrenic tendencies?”

“I stand by my diagnosis of Ronald Neyman. But part of him will forever remain an enigma.”

“What about Mira Galloway? Is she a mystery to you as well?”

Dr. Jenkins twitched an eyebrow. “I’ve never heard that name before.”

Brannigan nodded sagely. He’d hit a nerve with the Harvard doctor and exposed a chink in his otherwise impenetrable armor. “Are you sure?”

Dr. Jenkins stuffed his hands in his lab coat pockets. “Positive. If you’ll excuse me, I have rounds to attend.”