“Brings back good memories of lots of sleepless nights,” said Mitch.
“Reminds me how lucky we are to have you,” Whitmore said. “The fact is that Edgewater needs people like you to look after our residents. But there’s a little thing in the way of your grand vision for how it should be done, and that is money.”
She paused here to let the non-newsflash sink in. “I’m assuming you’re not going to open your checkbook to provide the necessary funds, which I promise you are a substantial amount, so I suggest you speak to the guards involved and together come up with some new protocols for engaging our more—let’s call them overly exuberant—guests like … what was her name?”
“Darla Miller.”
She typed something else into her computer, and quietly read whatever appeared on her screen.
“Oh, she’s a tricky one, that Darla,” Whitmore noted with a sharp intake of breath. “Lots of demerits there, but thanks to you she’s not getting one for her confrontation with Ms. Francone.”
Mitch knew a demerit was code around here for solitary and he was glad he’d helped to spare Darla that pain.
“Speaking of Ms. Francone,” Whitmore continued on. “I heard a bit about your experiment. Ammonia. Quite inventive.”
Mitch had no idea how word of their ammonia experiment had gotten back to her, but no matter. He knew from her reputation that Whitmore kept a close watch on all happenings at her hospital, and no doubt any developments with one of her more notorious “guests,” as she liked to call them, would attract her attention.
“We sort of stumbled on the ammonia idea and thought it might trigger a switch, which it did.” Mitch rehashed the medical details on smell he had previously shared with Grace. “Penny told us things about that night she hadn’t revealed before.”
Whitmore’s eyes sparkled in a most delighted way. “So did she confess?”
Inwardly, Mitch bristled at the glee in her voice. “No, sort of the opposite,” he said. “She talked about there being an accomplice, maybe, or someone else in the house with her. She claims she didn’t do anything wrong. The mother thinks she may be innocent.”
“Oh dear,” said Whitmore, tapping her pen against her desk like a miniature drumstick. “Optimism can be such a dreadful thing in these situations. I do hope you’ll dispel that notion sooner rather than later. Save her the pain. How is everything else going for you, Mitch? I’m so glad you stopped by.”
Mitch was about to take that as his cue to leave when he remembered the second purpose of his visit here. He had with him the medical examiner’s report and wanted to get Whitmore’s take on it.
“Everything is fine, thank you. But before I go, I’m curious to know if there are other patients here, females like Penny, of similar height and build, who have killed with such savagery.”
Whitmore sent him a sideways glance.
“Are you suggesting a woman’s not capable of the same sort of viciousness as men? Tsk-tsk, Mitch. When it comes to equality, we women deserve more respect.”
“Right,” said Mitch, almost smiling, though he was feeling a bit hot under the collar. “It’s just I’ve never seen anything quite like it. I have the pictures in the file from the state medical examiner’s office.”
Whitmore took the file and flipped through the pages, pausing longer to study some of the more gruesome images.
“Are you trying to keep me from sleeping tonight, Dr. McHugh?” She turned the file folder around to show Mitch a colored photo of Rachel’s nearly decapitated head.
“Yeah, sorry, I probably should have warned you it was extremely graphic.”
She read on, flipping pages and studying photos, for a good five minutes. Judging from her sunken expression, it was more than enough time to gander.
“Well, this is not unprecedented. I could name five women off the top of my head that have done something equally violent. One who comes to mind used a hammer to do away with her uncle—who, by the way, had been abusing her. So, yes, with the right amount of combustible material, girls like Penny can kill just as savagely, or even more so, than any man.”
“Okay, that’s good to know,” Mitch said, a bit disappointed not to have a bombshell new theory to work with.
“However,” Whitmore said, tapping the file with one of her long, manicured fingernails. “This image sticks out to me.”
It was, of all things, a picture of Penny—a close-up of her wrists after she’d been scrubbed clean of blood.