“They took him to the psych ward at St. Elizabeths,” I replied.
“You going to do the evaluation?”
“I would think so.”
“We need to go soon,” Bree said. “I’ve got a date with the couch and a big glass of wine. Maybe two.”
“One minute,” I said. “There’s someone I want to talk to before we go.”
Chapter
82
Cam Nguyen dozed, an IV in her arm, stitches in the back of her head, a cast around her broken hand.
Outside her room, I could hear the excited voices of the Bransons and the Lancasters celebrating their reunions with their babies. But here, around the college student turned prostitute, there was just the beeping of monitors and the dripping of whatever they’d put in her IV line.
I turned to leave, but she said behind me, “You’re the one who saved us.”
Going to stand by her, I said, “My wife did. We’re both with Metro police.”
“My head hurts.”
“You suffered a moderate concussion,” I said, and rubbed the back of my head where Carney had hit me. “Worse than mine.”
Nodding slowly, Cam said, “He wanted me to drown those babies.”
“I saw it, heard it. A horrible thing. But you’re safe now, all three of you. And Carney’s locked away in a padded room.”
“That’s his name, Carney?” she asked. “He talks like three or four
different people.”
“I’m beginning to understand that,” I said, and noticed her eyes drooping. “I’ll be back to talk to you tomorrow, okay?”
She nodded sleepily.
“Is there anyone I can call to say you’re okay?”
“My par…” she managed before drifting away.
Outside, Bree was waiting. So was Mahoney, who said he’d drive us home. Given the way my head was feeling, I wasn’t arguing. Neither was Bree.
Ten minutes later we were heading back into the city. I sat in the backseat. It was long past rush hour, but traffic was thick. Hundreds of cars went by us, each filled with their own drama, their own agenda, completely severed from the madness we’d been forced to confront and defeat that day.
It dawned on me then that the hardest part of my job was the separation from normal, the constant interaction with the bizarre and the troubling. At some point that had to affect you, had to twist your mind, even if you were a highly trained and experienced psychologist. It had to turn you into someone else.
But not today, I told myself. Not today.
I remembered that I had the number of the restaurant Cam Nguyen’s parents owned in California. I got out my cell, found the number in my recent contacts, and hit Call.
“Nguyen Pho Shop,” a man said.
“Mr. Nguyen?”
“Yes, who this?”
“Detective Cross, sir. I called a couple of weeks ago about your daughter being missing?”