Palmer Entity: Asylum Series Book 2

Chapter 8

“Lucas Sharpe had a heart condition. Undiagnosed, it seems, but quite serious.”

Paul looked at the other man, could think of no reply. He was sitting opposite Detective Sergeant Farson. A microphone linked to an old-style cassette recorder was placed on a fixed-down table between them. The officer was dressed neatly in a short-sleeved white shirt, regulation dark tie, his face clean-shaven and almost unlined. It occurred to Paul that Farson must be around his age. He glanced past the detective at his reflection in the two-way glass of the interview room. Paul thought he looked about ten years older than Farson, maybe fifteen.

“He also had other health issues—drink, stress. Because he was in such poor shape, death is not being treated as suspicious, despite—some slight anomalies in the coroner’s report.”

Paul nodded, again unable to think of a response. He could hardly say the old actor had been possessed by the collective madness and rage of the old asylum, the psychic power marshaled by a long-dead psychiatrist with a god-complex. He had already given an official statement to the effect that Sharpe had ‘gone crazy’ and run away from Joe and himself. The police concluded the actor had died from over-exertion, trying to get out of a building that Sharpe had convinced himself was haunted.

“Then there are the corpses of those two teenagers,” Farson went on, shuffling files on the tabletop. “Dead bodies, dead for several weeks, in fact—which your friend Joe Durham claims attacked him. You didn’t see any of that?”

For a moment, Paul wanted to help Joe, offer some support to the cameraman. But he knew it would be futile, given his own record of mental health issues. He glanced at the mirror again, wondered who—if anybody—was watching. The police would presumably have a duty psychiatrist standing by for occasions like this.

“No,” he said slowly. “We all detected a foul smell, like rotting meat, so the bodies were clearly in the building. But I didn’t see them. I certainly didn’t see them move. Except—”

“Except what?” Farson asked quietly, his level gaze unblinking. “Please don’t omit any details that may help with this investigation, Paul.”

Paul hesitated, wondering if the video shot by the motion-sensor camera would count for anything. All it really showed was a person who didn’t belong to the TV team. Seeing Farson’s expression, Paul knew the officer would not let the point drop. He explained a stranger had been caught on film. If Farson wanted to go chasing that elusive individual, good luck to him.

“Yes,” Farson said calmly, “we have been reviewing files recorded by Mr. Durham and Ms. Blaine. Also, there’s some phone footage from Ms. Callan. All trustworthy individuals, would you say?”

“Compared to whom?” Paul shot back. “Come on, you cops all know how unreliable witnesses tend to be, it’s part of your basic training. You also know the more extreme the situation, the less you can trust people’s recollections. And this was a very extreme situation.”

Farson picked up a pen and made a note on a pad in front of him.

“True enough,” he said. “And we appreciate your talking to us now. According to the medical report, you were found unconscious, having been carried out of the building by Mr. Durham and Mr. Bryson. Do you recall any events leading up to your—accident?”

Paul shook his head. His first real-world recollection after being attacked by the Palmer entity was waking up in the ambulance on the way to the Royal Victoria Infirmary in Tynecastle. When he arrived, he had been diagnosed with shock and, to the bafflement of the ER doctor, a touch of frostbite. Another anomaly that would be quietly forgotten, he assumed.

“Mr. Sharpe was still quite famous,” Farson said, a remark that took Paul by surprise. But, when he considered the point, he appreciated the detective’s words. The survivors of the latest ‘incident’ at Rookwood would be of even more interest to the media, mainstream and otherwise.

“You mean I should get out of town, or hide somewhere?” Paul asked.

Farson shrugged.

“What with the mysterious death of ‘Inspector Grist’, you can’t blame people for being interested,” he said in a neutral voice. “This is the second year running that deaths at Rookwood have made headlines. The point is, we can’t really protect you from media attention. You’ll just have to wait for it all to blow over.”

Farson paused, then added, “There are a dozen reporters outside right now, pestering people wanting to report their neighbors’ noisy parties.”

Paul looked at his reflection again, saw a haggard, unshaven face. He began to imagine headlines about the American with ‘issues’ who had been present at the death of ‘TV’s much-loved Inspector Grist’.

“Your friend Mike is waiting at the rear exit,” Farson said, smiling. “We’re not monsters, after all. If you’ll come with me, I’ll show you out—this place is a bit of a labyrinth.”

“Has anybody ever died in this room?”