Lady Justice and the Ghostly Treasure (7 page)

      It was never my intention to become involved with the Kansas City mafia, but on four different occasions, fate had brought Marchetti and me together. On two of those occasions, he had saved my life, and on the other two, I had saved his. We parted on good terms.

     Carmine was known to frequent Antonelli’s Italian Restaurant, so each time I wanted to talk to him, I tried there first.

     I took a deep breath and handed my card to the maître’d. “If Mr. Marchetti is in the restaurant, I’d like to have a word with him, please.”

    He left and a moment later one of Marchetti’s goombas appeared. “This way.”

    As always, Carmine had a gorgeous woman on each side.

    “Walt Williams! My favorite gumshoe. I didn’t think I’d be seeing you again so soon. To what do I owe this pleasure?”

    “Nice to see you too, Mr. Marchetti. Sammy Saldano. I’m guessing he works for you. A friend of mine owes him some money and, well, you know how Sammy can be when he doesn’t get it right away. The man’s name is James Walker. He fully intends to pay, but will need some time. I would be very grateful if you could persuade Sammy to cut him some slack.”

    “Ahh, a favor for an old friend. Of course. I’ll talk to Sammy. Consider it done.” He held up one finger. “Of course that means you owe me one.”

    “I assumed as much. Thank you. I’ll let you get back to your meal.”

    “If I need a gumshoe, I’ll give you a call,” he said, as I walked away.

   
Swell
, I thought.
James Walker is temporarily off the hook, but I’m back on.

    I dropped by the hotel to give Mary and James the news.

    Needless to say, they were both relieved.

    Dominick winced as he wrapped his wrist in ice. “That old bitch! She damn near broke my arm.”

    “Mine too,” Randy replied. “And she’s got my .380. What are we gonna do about it?”

    “Do? We’re gonna even the score. That’s what we’re gonna do.”

    “But Sammy said to lay off. Said it came straight from Marchetti. We don’t want to get crossways with the Don.”

    “We won’t. We’ll just bide our time and keep an eye on Walker and the old woman. Our time will come. You’ll see.”

CHAPTER 6

    The next day, Kevin and I were discussing how we were going to deal with Sammy the Shark’s two goons.

    “You think they’ll really back off?” Kevin asked.

    “I can’t believe they’d be dumb enough to disobey a direct order from Carmine Marchetti. He could make them disappear anytime he wanted.”

    “I get that, but they have to be really pissed. They got beat up by an old woman with a bat.”

    Just then, the phone rang.

    “Mr. Walt! I need to see you --- now!”

    “Mary? What’s going on? Did those two creeps come back?”

    “No, nothin’ like that. I got something you need to see. I want to come over.”

    “Do you want me to come get you?”

    “Nope, James is just leavin’ for work. He’ll drop me off. Oh yeah, if the Professor’s home, ask him to meet with us. See you soon.”

    “What was that all about?” Kevin asked.

    “It was Mary. She was all fired up about something. She’s on her way over.”

    “Want me to leave?”

    “No, stick around. If I know Mary, this will be quite interesting. Hang tight a minute. Mary wants the Professor to attend our little soiree.”

    Fifteen minutes later, the four of us were in my office.

    “Okay Mary, what’s your earth-shattering news?”

    She pulled the old leather-bound diary from a sack.

    “I told you I’d been reading Momma’s diary, and I told you she worked in the old hospital. She wasn’t a nurse or anything like that. She cleaned, changed sheets, emptied bed pans. That kind of stuff. It was pretty boring reading until I got to this part,” she said, handing me the open diary. “Here, you read it.”

    I took the book and started reading where she had pointed.

   
Monday. A new patient was admitted today. His name is Henry Sinclair. He was in a most agitated state when they brought him in. They tried to sedate him, but without success. He fought so strenuously, they finally had to bind his hands and feet to the bed. He wailed and thrashed unmercifully for several hours, then eventually became quiet and depressed. With more sedation, he rested through the night.

    Tuesday. Poor Mr. Sinclair. When I came to clean his room, he was weeping uncontrollably. He begged me to bring him a knife to slash his wrists and bring an end to his misery. Naturally, I did no such thing. I sat at his bed side until his melancholy passed. He fell into a deep stupor, so I left and continued my work. In the afternoon, he began thrashing and screaming again, which brought the doctor and orderlies to his room. It took three strong men to restrain him.

   “My God,” Kevin interrupted, “I can certainly see how the place got a reputation as an insane asylum.”

    “Exactly!” the Professor replied. “What Marie Carpenter describes sounds like a classic bipolar disorder. Back then, manic-depressives were often considered insane.”

    “And it gets worse,” Mary interjected. “Keep reading Mr. Walt.”

    Wednesday. I passed by Mr. Sinclair’s room while making my rounds. The doctor was entranced as Mr. Sinclair pointed across the room. ‘There!’ I heard him shout. ‘There --- in the corner. They’ve come for me! They’re just waiting for you to leave to take me. Please don’t let them --- PLEASE!’ He began wailing again and was placed in restraints.

    “Paranoid delusion,” the Professor said. “The poor fellow was having a psychotic break from reality and the doctor hadn’t a clue how to treat him.”

    “He had a clue all right,” Mary replied. “Just not a good one.”

    I continued reading.

   
That afternoon, I passed by Mr. Sinclair’s room again. The doctor and three orderlies were there. Wires leading to some kind of machine were attached to Mr. Sinclair’s head. Once he was securely restrained, the doctor said, ‘Stand back,’ and threw a switch on the machine. I heard a crackling sound and saw his body spasm and become rigid. A moment later, the doctor turned off the machine and Mr. Sinclair’s body became limp. After the doctor and orderlies left, I stayed with the patient until he regained consciousness.

   “Good Lord!” the Professor lamented, “Electroconvulsive therapy. Although refined today, it was barbaric in its infancy. No sedatives or muscle relaxants were administered and they had no idea how much voltage to shoot through the brain, or even what the end result might be.”

    “According to Mama, not a good result,” Mary replied.

   
Thursday. Mr. Sinclair’s symptoms showed no abatement, even after being shocked on several different occasions. After each treatment, I stayed with Mr. Sinclair, doing my best to ease his suffering.

   
Friday. I was pleased to see Mr. Sinclair better than he had been since his arrival. When I came to clean his room, he called me to his bedside. He begged me to sit, and in the next hour, he shared a tale I shall never forget. Like my dear departed husband, Carl, he was among the brave men who fought in that terrible war. He told me about a day when his company was going house-to-house in a bombed-out German village. ‘I had entered a chalet that had been devastated by our artillery. The letters on what was left of the front door told me the Hoffman’s had lived here. It was obvious the occupants had fled when the mortars started falling. Half the house was in ruins, but the dinner table was set and undisturbed. Finding no inhabitants, I was about to leave when I noticed a shiny object in the corner of a devastated room. Upon further inspection, I discovered a small cache of gold coins which had been exposed by the blast. I couldn’t help but wonder if the Hoffman family had perished or would eventually return, but I knew one thing, scavengers would have the coins before the day was out. Seeing no one around, I stuffed the treasure in my knapsack. Shortly after, my symptoms became acute and I was sent home with a medical discharge. I managed to conceal the coins in my gear and bring them back to the states. Unfortunately, my family found it impossible to deal with my frequent outbursts and depression. On the day I overheard them making arrangements for me to be committed to this facility, I hid the coins away, hoping to someday return in good health. I can see now, that will never come to pass.’ With that, he asked me to supply him with paper and pen. I obliged and he quickly scribbled a note and handed it to me. ‘The location of the coins. I want you to have it.’ But why me, I asked. ‘Because you, of all the people at this institution, have shown compassion and treated me with kindness.’ But surely you will mend in time, I said. ‘I’m afraid not. I overheard the doctor discussing my case. I am scheduled for a lobotomy, and I fear that will be the end of me.’

    “Holy crap!” Kevin exclaimed. “That’s pretty radical.”

    “What’s a lobotomy?” Mary asked, obviously confused.

    “It was another barbaric procedure used to control patients with mental disorders,” the Professor replied. “The purpose of the operation was to reduce the symptoms, but it was recognized that this was accomplished at the expense of a person's personality and intellect. Following the operation, spontaneity, responsiveness, self-awareness and self-control were reduced. Activity was replaced by inertia, and people were left emotionally blunted and restricted in their intellectual range. The consequences of the operation have been described as mixed. Some patients died as a result of the operation and others later committed suicide.”

    “What were they trying to accomplish?” I asked.

    “The procedure was designed to sever the connections between the frontal lobes and other parts of the brain. The first lobotomies were performed by boring small holes in the temple region of the scull and inserting an instrument called a leucotome that would sever the connecting tissue. Unfortunately, that procedure required a full hospital staff which most mental institutions didn’t have. Consequently, another method was introduced --- the transorbital lobotomy. The new transorbital lobotomy involved lifting the upper eyelid and placing the point of a thin surgical instrument under the eyelid and against the top of the eye socket. A mallet was used to drive the orbitoclast through the thin layer of bone and into the brain along the plane of the bridge of the nose. Once the orbitoclast was driven into the frontal cortex, it was pivoted back and forth to transect the fibrous tissue connecting the cortical tissue to the thalamus. Then the procedure was repeated through the other eye socket.”

    “Jesus! That’s inhuman!” Kevin said. “I’d heard of the operation, but I never realized how horrific it was. We’re talking mid-twentieth century. How many people suffered this torture?”

    “In all, over 40,000 people were lobotomized in the United States.”

    “Unbelievable!” I muttered. “I wonder how Henry Sinclair survived the ordeal.”

    “He didn’t,” Mary replied. “Keep reading.”

   
Saturday. Early this morning, Mr. Sinclair was taken from his room. By noon, he hadn’t returned, so I inquired of one of the attending nurses as to his condition. She said that, regrettably, Mr. Sinclair never regained consciousness and passed away. I never saw him again. That left me in a quandary as to the note he had given me. Should I turn it over to the administrators of the institution? Should I attempt to contact his family? That night, as I pondered these choices, a specter appeared to me. At first I was frightened, but some calming force gave me to understand I had nothing to fear. Though not a word was spoken, I was given the knowledge that I was to do neither of the choices I had contemplated. I was told that what I was given was for the betterment of myself and my progeny. Having no idea how I could possibly avail myself of this gift, I hid the note away in a wall crevice in the hospital. I had seen children hide their drawings from prying eyes thusly in the orphanage. Maybe one day, the message from the spirit that visited my room will come to light.

    We were all silent, contemplating the meaning of what I had just read.

    Finally, Mary spoke. “Mama took sick and died shortly after that. There’s no more mention of that note anywhere in her diary.”

    Then I recalled something we had seen on our tour of the winery. “Mary, do you remember the museum room at the winery?”

    She nodded.

    “On the wall, in a glass case, were drawings children at the orphanage hid away. You said you remember doing that yourself.”

    “I sure do. If we got caught doin’ frivolous stuff, they’d give us more work. Mama must have hid that note in a place like that.”

    Then she asked what we all were thinking. “Do you suppose it could still be there?”

    “I don’t see how it could possibly be,” I replied. “It’s been seventy years. Surely someone has found it. You saw the condition of the old hospital. It’s in ruins. It’s probably long gone.”

    “Yeah, maybe,” she replied, “but what if it isn’t?”