dangerous prisoners in the country. It’s federal, so there are psychotics and serial killers from all over the USA.”
“Great.”
“It’s not called Sherbourne Institute for the Criminally Insane for fun.”
A few minutes later the building’s wide road frontage came into view. The grounds were completely surrounded by three very high chain-mesh fences, each with razor wire at top and bottom. Towering turrets were strategically placed to observe every inch of the compound, each manned by three armed guards. The intricately devised security entrance came into view as Foxx guided their SUV into a vacant spot in the parking lot.
“Damn – you weren’t kidding about high security.”
“They take it very seriously – but if it keeps freaks like Adler safely locked away, I don’t have a problem.”
As the agents made their way toward the outer gate, two exterior guards brought their hands up to caress their sidearms.
“State your business, please,” one of them called.
“Even more strict than last time,” Beach said quietly to Foxx, before addressing the guards. “FBI Agents Foxx and Beach – we have an appointment with Dr. Tinsley.”
The guards leaned in to confer with one another. Then one held his hand up, indicating for the agents to wait where they were, while the other guard went to the first security booth.
“This happen last time?” Foxx whispered.
Alan looked disconcerted. “No – there must be something wrong.”
Less than a minute later the guard returned to his post. An older man followed close behind, continuing to where Beach and Foxx stood.
“Sorry for the extra caution, agents. I’ve checked the log and found your appointment with Dr. Tinsley, but I’m afraid you’ve come a long way for nothing. Dr. Tinsley passed away this morning.”
A chill ran up Alan’s spine, accompanied by an involuntary look of disbelief, as his mind wrestled for control. “Tinsley’s dead? How did he die?”
“Single vehicle collision – about ten miles from the institution. The coroner’s got the body, but initial indications point to him falling asleep at the wheel. They estimate his car was doing about fifty when it left the road and rammed straight into a tree. He died on impact. Protocol requires us to increase security until the coroner declares cause of death, so Sherbourne’s closed to all visitors until then.”
Alan shook his head as though trying to wake from a daydream. Foxx stepped in to cover. “Can you tell us where to find the coroner’s office?”
The guard gave them instructions, and Foxx nudged his partner back toward their car. Alan leaned against the hood for a few seconds before breaking the silence. “This can’t be right – I’ve got a bad feeling.”
“Seems like one hell of a coincidence.”
“I don’t believe in coincidences. Let’s go see what the coroner has to say.”
Twenty minutes later they’d arrived at a small clinic belonging to the local doctor who doubled as the small county’s coroner. It was a typical small town affair with stark fluorescent lighting, vinyl chairs, a magazine rack, polished linoleum tiled floor, and the pungent reek of antiseptic cleaners. The waiting room was full of townspeople waiting for their turn to see the town’s only medical doctor. Beach and Foxx approached the reception desk where a woman in her late thirties sat, filing her nails.
Foxx produced his badge. “Good afternoon, ma’am. We’re federal agents, here to see the coroner, please.”
The woman looked up from her nails in surprise. “FBI? What’s going on – did someone escape from the nuthouse? I knew something like this would happen someday. Never did want that darned place near our town.”
Beach smiled patiently. “Nothing like that, ma’am. We need to speak with the coroner about the car accident. If you could let him know we’re here, please.”
Her anxiety still obvious, she tentatively picked up the phone and pressed the intercom
“Great.”
“It’s not called Sherbourne Institute for the Criminally Insane for fun.”
A few minutes later the building’s wide road frontage came into view. The grounds were completely surrounded by three very high chain-mesh fences, each with razor wire at top and bottom. Towering turrets were strategically placed to observe every inch of the compound, each manned by three armed guards. The intricately devised security entrance came into view as Foxx guided their SUV into a vacant spot in the parking lot.
“Damn – you weren’t kidding about high security.”
“They take it very seriously – but if it keeps freaks like Adler safely locked away, I don’t have a problem.”
As the agents made their way toward the outer gate, two exterior guards brought their hands up to caress their sidearms.
“State your business, please,” one of them called.
“Even more strict than last time,” Beach said quietly to Foxx, before addressing the guards. “FBI Agents Foxx and Beach – we have an appointment with Dr. Tinsley.”
The guards leaned in to confer with one another. Then one held his hand up, indicating for the agents to wait where they were, while the other guard went to the first security booth.
“This happen last time?” Foxx whispered.
Alan looked disconcerted. “No – there must be something wrong.”
Less than a minute later the guard returned to his post. An older man followed close behind, continuing to where Beach and Foxx stood.
“Sorry for the extra caution, agents. I’ve checked the log and found your appointment with Dr. Tinsley, but I’m afraid you’ve come a long way for nothing. Dr. Tinsley passed away this morning.”
A chill ran up Alan’s spine, accompanied by an involuntary look of disbelief, as his mind wrestled for control. “Tinsley’s dead? How did he die?”
“Single vehicle collision – about ten miles from the institution. The coroner’s got the body, but initial indications point to him falling asleep at the wheel. They estimate his car was doing about fifty when it left the road and rammed straight into a tree. He died on impact. Protocol requires us to increase security until the coroner declares cause of death, so Sherbourne’s closed to all visitors until then.”
Alan shook his head as though trying to wake from a daydream. Foxx stepped in to cover. “Can you tell us where to find the coroner’s office?”
The guard gave them instructions, and Foxx nudged his partner back toward their car. Alan leaned against the hood for a few seconds before breaking the silence. “This can’t be right – I’ve got a bad feeling.”
“Seems like one hell of a coincidence.”
“I don’t believe in coincidences. Let’s go see what the coroner has to say.”
Twenty minutes later they’d arrived at a small clinic belonging to the local doctor who doubled as the small county’s coroner. It was a typical small town affair with stark fluorescent lighting, vinyl chairs, a magazine rack, polished linoleum tiled floor, and the pungent reek of antiseptic cleaners. The waiting room was full of townspeople waiting for their turn to see the town’s only medical doctor. Beach and Foxx approached the reception desk where a woman in her late thirties sat, filing her nails.
Foxx produced his badge. “Good afternoon, ma’am. We’re federal agents, here to see the coroner, please.”
The woman looked up from her nails in surprise. “FBI? What’s going on – did someone escape from the nuthouse? I knew something like this would happen someday. Never did want that darned place near our town.”
Beach smiled patiently. “Nothing like that, ma’am. We need to speak with the coroner about the car accident. If you could let him know we’re here, please.”
Her anxiety still obvious, she tentatively picked up the phone and pressed the intercom
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