Split Second skamm-1 Read online

  “I need to get going on this. And you never know, we might just find out the real truth about Clyde Ritter.”

  He stared defiantly at her. “Yeah, we just might,” he shot back.

  “So you’re in? I need to know. Right now.”

  After a moment he nodded. “I’m in.”

  38

  They flew via private plane to Dayton, Ohio, and then drove to a state mental facility that was about thirty minutes north. Joan had called ahead and gotten the necessary approvals to visit Sidney Morse.

  “It wasn’t as difficult as I would have thought,” she told King on the drive there. “Although when I told the woman whom I wanted to see, she laughed. Said we could come if we wanted, but it wouldn’t do us much good.”

  “How long has Morse been there?” King asked.

  “About a year or so. He was committed by his family. Or rather his brother, Peter Morse. I guess that’s all the family he had left.”

  “I thought Peter Morse was in trouble with the police. And wasn’t he a druggie?”

  “‘Was’ being the operative word. He never went to prison, probably due to his brother’s influence. He apparently cleaned up his act and when his older brother went nuts, put him in the state mental hospital.”

  “Why in Ohio?”

  “It seems that prior to being committed, Sidney was living with his brother here. I guess he was so far gone he couldn’t live by himself.”

  King shook his head. “Talk about your reversal of fortune. In less than ten years the guy goes from king of the hill to permanent residence in a nuthouse.”

  A little while later King and Joan were sitting in a small room at the bleak institution. The sounds of wails and cries and sobbing filtered down the hallways. People whose minds had long since left them were hunched over in wheelchairs in the corridors. In a recreation room off the main reception area a small group of patients watched a show on TV. Nurses, doctors and attendants slowly moved up and down the halls in their scrubs, their energy seemingly sapped by the depressing surroundings.

  King and Joan both stood as the man was wheeled into the room by one of the attendants. The young man nodded to them. “Okay, here’s Sid.”

  The young man knelt down in front of Morse and patted him on the shoulder. “Okay, Sid, these people want to talk to you, okay, you hear me? It’s cool, just talk.” The attendant grinned when he said this.

  He stood and Joan said, “Um, is there anything we should know, anything to avoid?”

  The man smiled, showing a row of crooked teeth. “Not with Sid. It really doesn’t matter.”

  King hadn’t been able to take his gaze off the wreck of a man who eight years ago had nearly pulled off one of the most impressive feats in American politics. Morse had lost some weight but was still chubby. His hair had been shaved off, although he had a short beard shot with gray. King had remembered his eyes being laser sharp, missing nothing. Now those eyes were clearly lifeless. It was Sidney Morse, but just barely, only the shell really.

  He said, “So what’s the diagnosis?”

  “That he ain’t never leaving here, that’s what,” said the attendant, who introduced himself as Carl. “His mind’s totally gone. Cracked out and ain’t coming back. Look, I’ll be down the hall. You can just come get me when you’re done.” Carl walked off.

  Joan glanced at King. “I can’t believe it’s him,” she said. “I know his rep and career took a big hit after Ritter was killed, but you’d think it wouldn’t come to this.”

  “Maybe it happened in stages. And I guess a lot can happen in eight years. I mean look at me. He was shattered after the Ritter debacle. Nobody wanted him. He grew depressed. And maybe his younger brother introduced a very vulnerable Sidney to some heavy drugs while they were living together. I recall during the campaign that Sidney said his brother’s drug habit had gotten him into a lot of trouble. He said his brother was pretty creative in coming up with ways to get the cash to support his habit. Quite the con man.”

  King knelt in front of Morse. “Sidney, Sidney, do you remember me? I’m Sean King. Agent Sean King,” he added.

  There was no reaction. A bit of spittle oozed out of the man’s mouth and clung to his lip. King glanced at Joan. “His father was a well-known lawyer,” he said, “and his mother was some kind of heiress. I wonder where all that money went?”

  “Maybe it’s used to support him here.”

  “No, this is a state institution. It’s not some fancy private place.”

  “Well, maybe his brother has control of it. I guess they each inherited and now he has both shares. And who cares about the Morse brothers? I’m here to find John Bruno.”

  King turned to look back at Morse. The man hadn’t moved. “God, look at those knife marks on his face.”

  “Self-mutilation. Sometimes that goes with being unbalanced.”

  King rose, shaking his head.

  “Hey, have you played the game with him?” said a high-pitched voice.

  They both turned and looked at the short, skinny man standing behind them holding a ragged stuffed rabbit. His features were so tiny he looked like a leprechaun. He wore a ratty bathrobe and apparently little else. Joan averted her gaze.

  “The game,” said the man, who looked at them with a childlike expression. “Have you played it yet?”

  “What, with him?” asked King, pointing to Morse.

  “I’m Buddy,” said the man, “and this is Buddy too,” he said, holding up the ragged rabbit.

  “Nice to meet you, Buddy,” said King. He looked at the rabbit. “And you too, Buddy. So you know Sid?”

  Buddy nodded vigorously. “Play the game.”

  “The game, right, why don’t you show me? Can you do that?”

  Again Buddy nodded his head, and smiled. He ran to the corner of the room where there was a box of stuff. He pulled out a tennis ball and came back to them.

  He stood in front of Morse and held up the ball. “Okay, I’m pitching the…”

  Buddy’s focus seemed to wander, and he just stood there holding the ball and his rabbit with his mouth wide open and his eyes expressionless.

  King prompted, “The ball. You’re pitching the ball, Buddy.”

  Buddy came back to life. “Okay, I’m pitching the ball.” He made a great show of a major league windup that exposed far more of his anatomy than either King or Joan cared to see. As he let the ball go, however, it was in a slow, underhand style.

  It was heading right for Morse’s head. A second before it hit him, Morse’s right hand shot up and caught the ball. Then the hand dropped, the ball still clenched there. Buddy hopped ’round and then took a bow. “The game,” he said.

  He went over to Morse and tried to get the ball back, but Morse’s fingers remained clenched around it. Buddy turned to them with a pathetic expression. “He never gives it back. He’s mean! Mean, mean, mean!”

  Carl popped his head in. “Everything cool? Oh, hey, Buddy.”

  “He won’t give the ball back,” Buddy cried out.

  “No problem. Calm down.” Carl strode over, took the ball out of Morse’s hand and gave it back to Buddy. Buddy turned to King and held out the ball. “Your turn!”

  King looked at Carl, who smiled and said, “It’s okay. It’s just a reflex action. Docs here have a long name for it, but that’s the only thing Sid does. The others get a big kick out of it.”

  King shrugged and gently tossed the ball to Morse, who caught it again.

  “So, does anyone ever visit Sid?” Joan asked Carl.

  “Brother used to when he first got here, but he ain’t been around for a long time now. I guess Sid was some big deal years ago ’cause we had some reporters come by when he was admitted. But that didn’t last long after they saw what shape he was in. Now nobody comes. He just sits in that chair.”

  “And catches the ball,” added Joan.

  “Right.”

  As they were leaving, Buddy came racing up after Joan and King. He had the tennis
ball in his hand. “You can have this if you want to. I have lots of others.”

  King took the ball. “Thanks, Buddy.”

  Buddy held up his rabbit. “Thank Buddy too.”

  “Thanks, Buddy.”

  He looked at Joan and held up the rabbit even higher. “Kiss Buddy?”

  King nudged Joan with his elbow. “Go ahead, he’s cute.”

  “What, I don’t even get dinner first?”

  Joan pecked the rabbit on the cheek. Then she said, “So are you good friends with Sidney? I mean Sid.”

  Buddy nodded so hard his chin hit his chest.

  “His room’s right next to mine. Wanna see?”

  King looked at Joan. “We’re here.”

  “In for a dime, in for a dollar,” she replied with a shrug.

  Buddy took Joan’s hand and led them down a hallway. King and Joan weren’t sure they were supposed to be in this area without an attendant, but no one stopped them.

  Buddy halted in front of one room and slapped the door. “This is my room! Wanna see? It’s cool.”

  “Sure,” said Joan. “Maybe you have some more Buddys in there.”

  Buddy opened the door and then immediately closed it. “I don’t like people looking at my stuff,” he said, staring at them anxiously.

  King let out a long, exasperated sigh. “Okay, Buddy, your house, your rules.”

  “Is this Sid’s room?” Joan was pointing to the door to the left of Buddy’s.

  “Nope, this one.” Buddy opened the door to the right.

  “Is this okay, Buddy?” asked King. “Can we go in?”

  “Is this okay, Buddy? Can we go in?” Buddy repeated, looking at the two with a big smile.

  Joan was scanning the hallway and saw no one watching. “I think it’s okay, Buddy. Why don’t you keep watch outside?” She slipped inside, and King followed and closed the door. A suddenly panicked-looking Buddy stood by the door.

  Inside they looked around the Spartan quarters. “Sidney Morse’s fall was long and complete,” commented Joan.

  “They often are,” King said distractedly as he examined the place. The smell of urine was very strong in here. King wondered how often the sheets were changed. There was a small table in the corner. On it were several photographs, all without frames. King picked them up. “I guess no sharp objects in the room like glass and metal.”

  “Morse doesn’t look capable of suicide, or anything else for that matter.”

  “You never know, he could swallow that tennis ball and choke to death.” King examined the pictures. There was one of two young men in their teens. One held a baseball bat. He said, “The Morse brothers. They look to be around high school age.” He held up another photo. “And I guess these are their parents.”

  Joan joined him and looked at the photos. “Their mother was pretty homely.”

  “Homely but rich. That makes a big difference to a lot of people.”

  “The dad was very handsome.”

  “As I said, the prominent lawyer.”

  Joan took the photo and held it up. “Both boys took after their father. Sidney was chunky even back then but nice-looking. Peter was good-looking too… nice build, with the same eyes as his brother.” She studied the confident way he held the baseball bat. “He was probably a jock in high school who hit his peak at eighteen and went rapidly downhill from there. Drugs and bad news.”

  “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

  “How old would Peter be now?”

  “A little younger than Sidney, so early fifties maybe.”

  She gazed at Peter’s face. “Sort of a Ted Bundy type. Good looking and charming, and he’ll slit your throat the minute you let your guard down.”

  “Reminds me of some women I’ve known.”

  There was a small box in the corner. King went over and sifted through the contents. They included a number of old, yellowed newspaper clippings. Most chronicled Sidney Morse’s career.

  Joan was peering over his shoulder. “Nice of his brother to bring this scrapbook of sorts along. Even if Sidney can’t read it.” King didn’t answer. He kept going through the pages.

  King held up one very curled newspaper article. “This talks about Morse’s early career staging plays. I remember him telling me about it. He really put together these elaborate productions. I don’t think any of them made any money, though.”

  “Not that he probably cared. The son of a rich mom can afford to dally like that.”

  “Well, he gave it up at some point and started to really work for a living. Although you could say he ran Ritter’s campaign like a stage production.”

  “Anything else before we officially rule Sidney Morse a complete and total dead end?” she asked.

  “Shouldn’t we look under the bed?” asked King.

  Joan eyed him disdainfully. “That’s a boy job.”

  King sighed and cautiously peered under the bed. He rose quickly.

  “Well?” she asked.

  “You don’t want to know. Let’s get out of here.”

  As they left the room, Buddy was right there waiting.

  “Thanks for your help, Buddy,” Joan said. “You’ve been a real peach.”

  He looked at Joan excitedly. “Kiss Buddy?”

  “I already did, Buddy,” she reminded him politely.

  Buddy suddenly looked ready to cry. “No, this Buddy.” He pointed to himself.

  Joan’s mouth dropped, and she glanced at King, obviously looking for help.

  “Sorry, that’s a girl job,” he said, grinning.

  Joan gazed at the pitiful Buddy, swore under her breath and then suddenly grabbed him and planted a big one right on the little man’s lips.

  She turned, wiped her face and muttered to King, “The things I do for a million bucks.” Then she stalked out.

  “Bye, Buddy,” said King, and he left.

  A very happy Buddy waved frantically and said, “Bye, Buddy.”

  39

  The private plane landed in Philadelphia, and thirty minutes later King and Joan were nearing the home of John and Catherine Bruno in an affluent suburb, along the city’s famed Main Line. As they passed the brick-and-ivy-clad homes and stately grounds, King looked over at Joan. “So, old money here?”

  “Strictly from the wife’s side. John Bruno grew up poor in Queens, and then his family moved to Washington, D.C. He went to law school at Georgetown and started working as a prosecutor in D.C. right after graduation.”

  “Have you met Mrs. Bruno?”

  “No. I wanted you with me. First impressions, you know.”

  A Hispanic maid in a starched uniform complete with frilly apron and subservient demeanor showed them into the large living room. The woman almost curtsied as she left. King shook his head at this antiquated spectacle and then refocused when the small woman entered the room.

  Catherine Bruno would have made an excellent first lady, was his preliminary opinion. In her mid-forties she was petite, refined, dignified, sophisticated, the very essence of blue blood and good manners. His second opinion was that she was far too full of herself. This was bolstered by the woman’s habit of looking over your shoulder when she spoke to you. As though she couldn’t waste her precious eyesight on anything below aristocracy. She never even asked King why his head was bandaged.

  Joan, however, made the woman focus very quickly. She’d always had that way about her, sort of like a tornado in a can. King had to suppress a smile as his partner bored in.

  Joan said, “Time is not on our side, Mrs. Bruno. The police and the FBI have done all the right things, but their results have been negligible. The longer your husband remains missing, the less chance there is of getting him back alive.”

  The haughty eyes came back to terra firma. “Well, that’s why you were hired by John’s people, wasn’t it? To get him back safe?”

  “Precisely. I have a number of inquiries going, but I need your help.”

  “I’ve told the police all I know. Ask them.” />
  “I’d prefer to hear it from you.”

  “Why?”

  “Because depending on your answers, I might have follow-up questions that the police didn’t think to ask.”

  And, King thought to himself, we want to see for ourselves if you’re lying your little stuck-up ass off.

  “All right, go ahead.” She looked so put off by the whole process that King suddenly suspected her of having an affair, the recovery of her husband being the last thing she wanted.

  “Did you support your husband’s political campaign?” Joan asked.

  “What kind of question is that?”

  “The kind we’d like an answer to,” Joan said pleasantly. “You see, what we’re trying to narrow down are motives, potential suspects and promising lines of investigation.”

  “And what does my support of John’s political career have to do with that?”

  “Well, if you were supporting his political ambitions, then you might have access to names, private discussions with your husband, things that might have concerned him from that part of his life. If, however, you weren’t in the loop, we’ll have to look elsewhere.”

  “Oh, well, I can’t say I was delighted that John was pursuing a political career. I mean he had no chance; we all knew that. And my family…”

  “Didn’t approve?” coaxed King.

  “We’re not a political family. We have a spotless reputation. It practically gave my mother a heart attack when I married a criminal prosecutor who grew up on the wrong side of the tracks and was over ten years my senior. But I love John. Still, you have to balance things and it hasn’t been easy. These sorts of things aren’t exactly looked upon with favor among my circle. So I can’t say I was his political intimate. However, he had a sterling reputation as a lawyer. He prosecuted some of the toughest cases in Washington and later in Philadelphia, where we met. That gave him a national reputation. Being around all those politicians in D.C., I suppose he got the itch to jump into the fray, even after we moved to Philadelphia. I didn’t agree with his political ambition, but I’m his wife, so I supported him publicly.”