A Winter's Keep: A Novel

A Winter’s Keep

© 2015 by David Cope

All Rights Reserved.

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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Names: Cope, David, 1941-

Title: A winter’s keep : a novel / by David Cope.

Description: Santa Fe : Sunstone Press, 2016. | "2015

Identifiers: LCCN 2015035697 | ISBN 9781632930965 (softcover : acid-free

paper)

Subjects: LCSH: Psychiatrists--Fiction. | Forensic psychiatry--Fiction. |

Mental status examination--Fiction. | GSAFD: Suspense fiction | Legal

stories.

Classification: LCC PS3603.O63 W56 2015 | DDC 813/.6--dc23

LC record available at http://lccn.loc.gov/2015035697

Acknowledgments

My sincere thanks go to my wife Mary Jane, without whose encouragement and patience this book could never have been completed, Keith Muscutt, whose expertise in writing has helped me immensely, Larry Prescott, whose editing is always spot on, and to the many others whose advice on this manuscript was extraordinarily helpful. I’d also like to thank all the authors whose books helped me find my way in unknown territory. Any mistakes of omission or commission in this book are entirely mine.

1

The buildings house the men and women of the Forensic Psychiatric Facility in eastern Washington State. This is where criminals judged incompetent to stand trial for crimes they’re accused of committing are kept under lock and key until such time as judged capable to stand trial by the psychiatrists to whom they report. Mostly that means they remain here for life.

Strangely, no windows let those inside look out. As if the mere observation of the meadows and forests beyond would provoke the prisoners to attempt escape.

Inside, where puce-colored walls exclusively pervade, the doctors, janitors, and guards suffer the unbearable ravings of the inmates, made worse by the strange acoustics that reverberate those ravings twenty-four seven.

Mister Barnum?

Yes.

Do you remember me?

No.

I visited you last week. We talked about why you’re here. Do you remember now?

No.

I’m Doctor Amador. A-M-A-D-O-R. Ring a bell?

No.

Well, can you spell it?

I-T.

Hmm. At least you’ve not lost your sense of humor. I meant, can you spell my name?

A-M-A-D-O-R. Amador.

Right. I’ve returned to speak with you a bit more. Is that all right?

Yes.

I see you’ve been taking your meds regularly.

Yes.

Any problems?

No.

Stomach aches or skin rashes?

No.

And how do you feel otherwise?

Fine.

Good. Anything else you want to tell me before we begin?

No.

Then let’s start. Do you know where you are?

Prison?

A kind of prison, yes. But this prison, as you call it, is for people with mental challenges.

Challenges?

Yes. People who’ve done things in their lives that are not acceptable, though for one reason or another are considered unfit to stand trial for doing those things. Incapable of understanding the criminality of what they’ve done. Do you understand?

Yes.

Very good. Many people in here have no idea what that means.

Why?

They’re incapable of doing so.

Why?

Either they don’t remember what they did, or they can’t understand that what they did was wrong. Thus, they’re here, but can’t figure out why. You, on the other hand, have told me you do understand, so that’s a step forward. See?

Yes.

So you remember what you did?

No.

You don’t remember?

No.

But you said you understood why you’re here.

I do understand that.

Okay. That means you understand you did something wrong, but don’t remember what it is. Right?

Yes.

What do you remember?

About what?

Anything, I suppose. Who you were before you came here. Who your friends are. That kind of thing.

I remember those.

Then let’s begin there. What do you remember about who you were before you arrived here?

I worked on a farm.

Your own farm, or someone else’s?

Not sure.

Why do you say that?

I lived on the farm, but had to pay someone else for it. Once a month.

Good. Renting the farm?

No. Or maybe, yes. I was paying off the loan on the farm.

To a bank?

Yes.

So you owned the farm, still had a mortgage, and thus had to pay off the bank?

Yes.

Was that the only job you had?

Yes.

This is going well, Mister Barnum. And that reminds me, would you object if I call you by your first name?

No.

‘No’ you wouldn’t mind, or ‘no’ I shouldn’t do it?

No, I wouldn’t mind.

You remember your first name?

Yes.

Could you tell me what it is?

Yes.

What is it?

Joe.

Good, Joe. Now, what exactly did you do on your farm?

Ran the tractor in the fields. Milked cows. Stuff like that.

How big was your farm?

Don’t remember.

An acre? Twenty acres? A hundred acres? Just a rough estimate will do.

A hundred acres. Maybe more.

So you’re a real farmer?

What do you mean?

Sell crops, raise cattle, that sort of thing.

Yes.

For profit?

Enough at least to keep things going. Pay the bills.

Good. Do you have a family?

You mean parents?

No. I know you must have parents. I mean a wife and kids.

A wife.

Where is she?

I don’t know.

Do you miss her?

Yes.

But you don’t know where she is?

No.

Where was she the last time you saw her?

At the farm.

So, maybe she’s still there?

Maybe.

Do you have kids?

One.

Girl or boy?

Girl. About six, I think.

You think? You don’t know?

No. When I last saw her she was six. Would be older now.

I see. What’s your wife’s name?

Missy.

Missy Barnum?

Yes.

Your daughter?

What about her?

Her name?

Carla.

With a ‘C’ or a ‘K?’

A ‘C.’

Carla Barnum?

Yes.

Good. Do you miss Carla?

Very much.

She’s about six?

Don’t know. Last time I saw her she was about six. Not sure any more.

Right. I remember that. Because you don’t know how long you’ve been here.

Yes.

Do you have friends in this place, Joe?

I don’t know.

You mean you might have some but don’t remember?

Something like that. Actually I do know that I don’t know.

Why don’t you know?

There are people I think who like me, though I can’t be sure they do.

Why is that?

Because they’re not exactly honest with me.

You mean they lie?

Yes. Or at least they don’t tell me the truth.

Isn’t that lying?

Not really, because I don’t think they’re doing it on purpose. They can’t help it.

Why is that do you think?

Because they’re in here, that’s why. Because they’re mentally challenged as you said.

Good point. So you might have friends, but you can’t depend on them.

Yes.

All right. Which of these ‘maybe’ friends can you depend on most?

None of them.

Not one?

No.

Why?

Because they can’t be trusted. None of them.

Does that disturb you?

No. It’s just the way it is.

How about people on the outside?

What about them?

Anybody you can trust there?

Sure.

Who?

My wife and little girl.

Missy and Carla?

Yes.

Do they come visit you here, Joe?

Missy and Carla?

Yes.

No.

Never?

Never.

Why do you suppose that is?

I don’t know.

Do you still love them?

Of course, I do.

Even though they don’t come visit you?

They probably have their reasons.

Does anybody come to visit you here, Joe?

You.

Besides me?

Other doctors.

Like me?

Yes.

That’s it? Just other doctors?

So far.

Does that bother you?

No.

Why not?

They must have their reasons.

What kinds of reasons might they have?

Don’t know. Maybe they’re too busy.

Too busy for one visit?

Yes.

That doesn’t make you angry?

No.

You seem like a generous man, Joe.

Generous?

I mean, not getting mad when no one besides other doctors come to visit you.

They must have their reasons.

They’re entitled to them?

Absolutely.

Good. Are my questions bothering you?

No.

Why not?

They’re only questions. Why should they bother me?

No reason. Just making sure. Some people might think I’m prying into things I shouldn’t be prying into.

Doesn’t bother me.

Everything’s pretty much open for me to ask you?

Pretty much.

Did you ever harm anyone, Joe?

What do you mean?

Only what I said.

Harm anyone?

Yes.

No. Not that I remember. Why would I?

Well, we’re both human, Joe. Sometimes people do things that make us angry. Human nature. You seem like an easygoing person. I myself can’t imagine anyone making you angry.

Well, you’re right. I don’t remember anyone making me angry.

That’s all I meant, Joe.

Okay.

Is the food good in here?

Fair, I guess.

For institutional food, that is?

Yes. Not bad, though not good either. Pretty much the same every day.

No special occasions?

Not that I remember.

No special desserts?

Don’t get desserts. Not allowed.

Why?

Never told us. Never serve them.

That make you angry, Joe?

No. Why should it?

Don’t you like desserts?

Sure.

Doesn’t it make you angry they don’t serve them?

No.

Because?

Must have their reasons.

I see. That’s an interesting reaction. You’ve said it before.

Said what?

That they must have their reasons.

Makes sense, though, doesn’t it?

Yes, it does. And it’s a very mature reaction.

I try to be mature whenever I can.

Does that mean you have times when you’re not mature?

Don’t know. I suppose I must have times like that.

Can you cite an instance when you’ve not been mature?

No.

Thank you for your time, Joe.

That it?

For now, yes. Though I’ll be coming back.

When?

Soon.

How soon?

Probably in the next couple of days. Is that okay?

Sure.

I enjoyed speaking with you.

I did, too.

Goodbye, Joe.

Goodbye.

2

The fluorescent lights throughout the building make a continuous buzzing sound. Day and night. Ever present. Never off.

This has the effect of causing some inmates to lose their bearings, wandering around as if in a coma, or following invisible beings. For others, this sound has a numbing effect, causing them not to hear anything at all.

The lights are also embedded in the walls so that they seem to glow rather than shine.

Joe.

Yes.

Do you remember me?

Yes.

Who am I?

You’re Doctor Amador.

Good. So you remember I’ve been here before?

Of course.

When?

A couple of days ago.

What did we talk about?

Lots of things. Missy and Carla, for example. Mostly about whether I was angry with someone.

Are you?

No.

So things haven’t changed since I was last here?

No.

Not one thing?

I guess I’ve gotten older by two days.

Very good. I again see that you’ve not lost your sense of humor.

No.

When I was here last, we’d begun talking about your not having any friends. At least ones you could trust. Has that changed?

No.

Would you like to have friends?

I guess.

Does that mean yes or no?

Yes, I guess I’d like to have friends.

But it would have to be someone you trust?

Yes.

Can you imagine trusting anybody?

Anybody at all?

Yes.

I think so. I mean, if they earned my trust. I’d like that.

How can someone earn your trust, Joe?

Not sure. I guess that would depend.

On what?

On whether they lied to me or not.

How would you determine that?

If they lied?

Yes.

Well, if they told me something and it proved untrue, they would have lied. If it proved true, they wouldn’t have lied.

Maybe they’d merely made a mistake.

That’s different.

So they could still be your friends?

Until they lied.

Until? You make it sound inevitable.

What do you mean?

You make it sound like they would eventually lie to you. Do you believe that?

No.

But you’d keep putting them to the test.

I’d have to. Otherwise I’d never know if they lied or not.

However, if you considered everything they said as a test, they could never be your friends. Isn’t that right?

I’m not sure I understand what you’re getting at.

Isn’t it like cheating? One may not be cheating at the moment, but having to check on them all the time means you think they might cheat at the next opportunity. Therefore, these people can never earn your trust. They’re always on trial, so to speak. Do you see now?

It’s confusing. But I think I understand what you mean.

Most people test others for a time, and then assume they can trust them from there on if they pass the tests. That’s how friends are made.

Yes. I can see that.

So the way you’ve got it set up, no one can be your friend. Ever.

Missy and Carla are my friends.

Even if they lied to you?

No, not if they lied.

But they’ve never lied to you before. Is that what you’re saying?

I’m getting confused here.

Sorry. I don’t mean to do that. We doctors sometimes get ourselves confused. Let’s change the subject.

Fine.

Your last name. Let’s talk about that.

What about it?

Have you ever heard of Barnum and Bailey?

No.

Well, P. T. Barnum, the first half of the duo, was a nineteenth-century showman responsible in part for founding the Barnum and Bailey Circus.

Circus, huh?

Yes. Really big stuff when I was a kid. They traveled around the world putting on shows.

What’s the P. T. for?

Phenias Taylor. His first and middle names. I think he was a magician, too. Some called him a scam artist. Quite a man. I thought you might be related to him in some way.

Don’t know.

Your parents never talked about him?

No. Not heard of him before now.

Just a thought. It would be something to talk about for sure. I’m pretty confident your parents would have said something about him if you were related.

I guess.

Do you have any enemies, Joe?

What do you mean?

Does anyone you know dislike you in any way?

Why?

We’re only talking here, Joe. I’ve asked you about your friends. Now it’s time for me to ask you about your enemies. If you have any, that is.

I suppose I do.

You suppose?

Yes. Though I don’t know anyone who I’d consider an enemy.

Not what I asked. Do you know anyone who’d consider you an enemy?

There must be someone.

Why do you say that?

Well, it only stands to reason there’d be someone that considered me an enemy.

So you don’t actually know of anyone?

No.

How about friends?

I thought we already covered that the last time you were here.

No. Then we talked about people you considered your friends. This question is about people who consider you their friend.

I see. Well, I’d have to give you the same answer.

You don’t know of anyone?

No I don’t.

All right. Let’s talk about Missy. She your friend?

She’s my wife.

Doesn’t that mean she’s your friend, too?

Sure, though I wasn’t counting her or Carla.

How about your parents?

My parents?

Yes. Are they your friends, too?

Don’t know.

You don’t know?

No. That was a long time ago. I don’t know them anymore.

You don’t know them?

No.

Why’s that? They dead?

My father is.

When did you last see him?

A long time ago.

How long?

A very long time ago. I can’t remember exactly when.

How about your mother?

She’s alive.

When you last saw her was she your friend?

Probably.

Why haven’t you seen her for so long?

She lives a long way from here.

Where?

New York.

New York City?

No. New York State.

Where? Exactly.

Somewhere upstate. Not a town.

They farmers too?

Yes.

Did you work with them on their farm when you were a boy?

Yes.

That where you learned how to work on a farm?

Most likely.

Why’d you leave home?

Who says I left home?

Well, you haven’t seen your parents in a long time. I presumed you left home. Didn’t you?

I guess I did.

You guess?

Yes.

Could you be more specific?

What’s this got to do with Missy? You said we were going to talk about Missy.

We’ll get to Missy. Trust me. For now, I’m interested in your parents.

I don’t like to talk about them.

Why not?

I guess I don’t remember much about them. Too far back in my life.

Well, what do you remember about them? Even something small would help me.

Help you what?

Help you.

Help you help me?

That’s right. Remember, I’m a psychiatrist. And you’re in a place where people are sent who need help. If I can help you, you’ll be able to leave this place. You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Stand trial and eventually go back home to your farm and see Missy and Carla again?

I guess so.

Well, what about your parents?

I remember my parents as being farmers.

Yes?

That’s all.

That’s all?

Yes.

These answers are what we psychiatrists call somewhat ambivalent.

Meaning?

Meaning that they’re neither one way or another. Even though you say ‘yes,’ I can’t tell whether you mean exactly that.

You think I’m lying?

No, it’s not that at all. I think you may be skirting the issue. You know, not telling me the whole truth. That’s quite different than lying. So, I guess I’ll ask my question again. Maybe in a different way. Did you like your parents?

They’re my parents. That’s all.

That’s what I mean by ambivalence. I don’t understand what you mean. Can you be more precise?

Like?

Well, did you and your father do things together? Go fishing or hunting? These are only suggestions, mind you, not specifics.

I understand now.

Well, did you?

Did I what?

Did you and your father do things together?

Yes.

Like what? Fishing or hunting?

No. But we farmed together.

All right. Did he teach you things about farming?

I’m sure he did.

For example?

How to operate a tractor.

Good. Now we’re getting somewhere. How did you two get along when he was teaching you?

Well, he didn’t actually teach me directly.

You mean he taught you more by example?

Yes.

So you watched him do something, and when you got the opportunity, you did it yourself?

Exactly.

Did you two talk much?

Not a lot, no.

Why was that do you think?

He didn’t talk much. A lot of work to be done. Too tired afterward to talk about it.

I see. That makes sense. How about your mother?

Same thing.

She was too busy to talk to you as well, and too tired afterward?

Yes.

So. You and your parents didn’t converse a lot when you were young. Is that it?

Yes.

But they were your friends?

They were my parents.

Fine. I get that. Were you an only child?

I think so.

What does that mean?

Means I don’t know of any brothers or sisters.

Don’t you think it’s obvious then? Rather than saying ‘I don’t think so,’ wouldn’t you more likely say ‘No?’

Then no. No brothers or sisters.

I’m still slightly confused over your initial response.

Why?

Indefinite. Did you ever in your life imagine that you might have had brothers or sisters that, for some reason or other, you’d never met?

Why would I imagine that?

Possibly your parents gave you the idea that one had died in childbirth. Or that they’d run away from home. Or maybe he or she had been sent away to a hospital somewhere before you were born. Things like that.

What makes you think those things?

Again. Your indefinite response to my initial question.

Then no, I never thought about any of those things.

Then you’re an only child?

Yes. As far as I know.

There you go again.

What?

Indefinite response. Can you give me a definite yes or no to the question?

Yes.

Yes you can give me a definite yes or no to the question, or yes you have a brother or sister?

I don’t have a brother or sister.

You’re sure of that?

I am now.

Good. Let’s go back to Missy.

What about her?

Did you talk to her much?

Some.

What does that mean, exactly?

Well, I spent a lot of time working the farm. She kept to herself mostly, cooking in the kitchen. We’d talk sometimes at dinner, though mostly we kept quiet. Especially around Carla.

Why was that?

We didn’t want her to hear about things adults do.

Interesting. Like what?

Like politics. Things like that.

So you talked about politics and things like that later on in the evenings?

Sometimes.

What did you say about those things?

What do you mean?

Give me a sample. Doesn’t have to be exact words or anything, just a sample short conversation.

That’s hard to do. We’d talk about upcoming elections. Stuff like that.

Did you agree about most of these things?

Like politics?

Yes.

Nothing to agree or disagree about. We reminded ourselves about them, and went to sleep.

Interesting.

How so?

It just is. Most couples talk about a lot of different things. You and Missy seem to have not talked about much.

We didn’t. Like I said, we were tired after working all day. Went to bed early.

You must have not gone to sleep early every night, or you wouldn’t have had Carla, right?

That’s none of your business.

Are you sensitive about issues regarding sex, Joe?

I am when it involves me and my wife.

I see. But not in general.

Don’t talk about it much, if that’s what you mean. Don’t think it’s proper to speak about such things to just anybody.

I’m not anybody, Joe. I’m the psychiatrist who’s working to get you released from this place. I need to know a lot about you in order to do so. Let’s forget that for the moment. We can come back to it later. That all right with you?

Maybe.

Maybe?

As I say, it likely isn’t proper.

Okay. Let’s get back to Missy in general then. Did you two fight a lot?

Fight?

Yes. I mean disagree, not fist fighting.

Did we disagree about things?

Yes. That’s what I mean.

No. We never disagreed.

Never?

No. Never.

That’s unusual for a married couple. To never argue. Did you know that?

No.

Yes. Most couples fight and then make up. It’s only reasonable for two people of the opposite gender to have their spats once in a while.

Oh.

You never did?

No. Not that I can remember we didn’t.

How about over issues of trust?

What do you mean?

I mean did you trust her? Did she trust you?

Sure. I guess.

Didn’t the issue ever come up?

Not that I remember.

Maybe because you saw one another every day and were both there on the farm together all the time.

Yes.

Didn’t that ever get on your nerves?

My nerves?

Yes. You know, day in and day out, always the same old thing. You and her. Her and you.

And Carla.

And Carla. With no break of any kind. Didn’t that get annoying some of the time?

No.

Absolutely never?

You don’t believe me?

I do believe you. But that’s the point. It’s unusual.

From my end, I was too busy to care.

That’s an interesting word to use, Joe.

What word?

Care.

How so?

Well, I assume you cared about your wife and daughter.

I did. Still do.

But you were too tired to show it?

Guess so.

I see.

What’s that mean?

It means ‘I see,’ Joe. Simply that. My evaluation is that you and your family had a very special arrangement. Rarely talked and were generally too tired to get involved in things together. Did you take drives in the country?

No need to.

Why not?

We lived in the country. Why drive to see more of it?

You’ve got a point there.

Yes, I do.

I enjoyed speaking with you today, Joe.

Me, too.

Goodbye, Joe. See you in a couple of days.

Bye.

3

The guards don’t carry guns since the Forensic Psychiatric Facility worries about inmates stealing them. This means these guards have to make up for their lack of weapons with brawn and skill. The guards wear red and