Clara Baker is a nineteen-year-old girl from Marisburg, Washington, an old, small German immigrant town off the map southeast of Seattle.

  Found hysterical and wearing nothing but her white slip, the report states that she claims she was assaulted in a cabin outside Eatonville and that with no small amount of frantic panicking, she’d trudged through the forest in the black of morning after getting lost trying to escape the nightmare she’d encountered the evening before.

  A local handyman named Dale Carnegie saw Clara waving on the side of the road on his way into work at five in the morning. Shivering and alone, she was trying to walk to the Eatonville Police Department.

  Carnegie gave her a ride there in his pickup, lending her his own coat. At the police station, she made a report that, by our understanding, vaguely implicates Jack Wolfgang as the aggressor, though it makes no serious charges. According to the record, Clara had no clear description; there was only a man she didn’t recognize, and he did his best to hurt her.

  After she made her report, it seems her family saw fit to send her to an institution. I can only assume the nature of the event her broken up, as I imagine any young lady would be. An institution seems like the right decision.

  Now, we’re on our way to hear the story straight from her so we can piece this puzzling tragedy together.

  “Honestly,” I tell Joe, “I expect to hear something much different from what’s in the report: the record and reality don’t exactly line up.”

  “No, they don’t. The report makes it sound like a friendly little soiree. That looked like a den of heathens had surrendered to animal instinct and possessed themselves with all the demons in the third circle of Hell.”

  “That’s an interesting description. Third circle. Is that gluttony?”

  “Aye, boyo. Over indulgence.”

  “I get the sense that whatever cop wrote this, they were trying to tone things down either to protect her or someone else. Or, they were just being lazy. I’ve seen a lot of lazy cops in my career.”

  “Could be. Not all men are strong, sadly. And certainly, all of us could be stronger still.”

  “Do you think she’s lying?”

  Joe is silent for a moment.

  “No.”

  “How so?”

  “An old man’s instinct and a dash of hope in the girl. Truly, we have no idea who she is. No idea how she was raised. No idea what’s troubled in her life. Until something says otherwise, I have no reason to conclude she’s so troubled. My gut tells me we’re only seeing the tip of a very large iceberg.”

  “Anything is possible.”

  “Aye, and we get to the reality of it all by asking the right questions. And that’s the trick of it: asking the right questions.”

  St. Mary’s Women’s Mental Hospital is a short drive outside of Marisburg. The facility really functions to serve the city of Tacoma, from which it is a much longer drive. Over half an hour.

  People don’t like putting their trash next to where they eat, and the reality of it in this case is that women’s mental hospitals mostly house unwanted women, loony or not: young wives with husbands trying to divorce them, aged mothers with sons too callous to care for them, and many other cases. People want their refuse out of sight and out of mind.

  “Imagine,” I tell Joe, kind of thinking out loud, “driving by the institution you dumped your mother in because you couldn’t be bothered to take care of her in her dying years: people hide their shame, don’t they? Even from themselves.”

  “I couldn’t do it.”

  “I suppose you’d have to move then,” I say, trying to make light of things.

  “You can move all you like, but your real problem always follows you.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Your selfish heart. A real man spends his life trying to drive a stake through that cold, dead thing. He prepares to put everything and everyone he can on his back to carry them up the hill.”

  “Sounds like something a Christian would say.”

  “Do you think I’m wrong?”

  “No. You almost make me wish every man believed that.”

  “You can start with yourself, boyo. The list of Saints is long, but there’s always room for more.”

  “I’m sorry, Joe. It’s just not for me. It all seems so silly.”

  “You’ll come home one day, boyo. I have faith in you.”

  Where is home? I wonder. Is it not a place we build for ourselves?

  “We’ll talk about it more when we get this case figured out. Maybe I’ll let you buy me a drink.”

  “Looking for this Wolfgang fellow makes you thirsty for soda and lime, then?”

  “You could say that. I miss the talks I used to have with him. I’d forgotten all about it. I’d forgotten all about him.”

  “I can tell you why that is.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “Aye, but it’ll have to wait. Take a left up here. The hospital’s at the end of this long driveway.”

  “Nice looking place.”

  Most mental hospitals are self-sustaining like medieval monasteries, but without the trappings of religious delusion. They grow their own food, mend their own clothes, and produce a few goods to ‘take to market’ to sustain the doctors, nurses, and workers. The rest of their revenue comes from what monthly or yearly charges they can make and wealthy donors who support the cause of rehabilitation.

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  Despite the reality of abandonment, I find the mental hospitals to be a net positive for society; it’s essential to have places like this for women who really have nowhere else to go. It’s better than tossing them to the streets.

  On paper, the idea really doesn’t sound all that bad: get away from the dirt and grime of the cities; go live in the fresh, country air and focus on getting your health back.

  Unfortunately, once you enter the mental hospital, there’s a good chance you’re never going to leave. Maybe the medicine of psychology hasn’t progressed enough to fully heal people. Maybe the problems can never be healed. Or, maybe the people know something we don’t, and that’s what keeps them locked away in these mad palaces.

  I wonder if Clara Baker will ever see the outside world again.

  Maybe it’s best that she doesn’t; society can be a hideous thing. But, there’s a beauty to it all despite the failings of man.

  At the very least, I hope the hospital does what it’s intended to do: if there’s one thing I believe in, it’s not gods or angels. It’s humanity and our ability to help each other overcome. Society can be hideous, but the alternative is uglier still.

  The fact that we’ve even made it this far speaks to one thing: civilization serves as a light in the darkness. As Plato described it in The Republic, justice in a city is like the shining light of the sun.

  The ‘driveway’ to St. Mary’s is more like a mile-long country road. Surrounded by its fields of crops and livestock, the hospital looks almost like a nineteenth-century palace with Gothic flourishes. Spires abut pointed arch windows on either side as if they were gates, manning the entryway for light. Finial brattishing runs along the edge of the roof like a crown of thorns, and of course there’s the occasional gargoyle looking out over the bright, grassy field surrounding the institution with a rather mundane look of boredom carved into their faces as if this gig is all too easy for them and not exactly what they dreamed of doing.

  How many women do they need to house to maintain a place like this? This is incredible. Opulent, even. It’s incredible that we live in a country with so many resources as to be able to house troubled women in a place like this. What horrors would they have faced a century ago?

  We pull up to the gravel lot out front. The bright autumn sunlight falls on a focal point of purple lilies still in bloom. Rising above the lilies is a recreation of the Pieta: Mother Mary holding the bloody corpse of her scourged son, the Christ. Her face is gentle, strong, and stoic, and I imagine how soothed the tortured soul of woman might be to see this dramatic story told in a single image. Maybe society isn’t ready to do without the Church’s smells and bells. While it’s nonsense to me, it’s a psychic panacea to a lot of other people. I don’t understand that, but I at least respect it.

  One day, we’ll have the power to move beyond all these fairytales we tell ourselves. One day, we won’t need lies to find peace.

  I park, then Joe and I get out, put on our hats and coats, and slam the doors before heading to the stone gray steps up to the front door.

  Opening the front door, I walk in and take my hat off, holding the door for Joe as I throw a look around the foyer.

  The inside is more modern than I expect, eschewing the vaulted ribs of Gothic architecture for a more straight and clinical style.

  The mahogany wainscoting on the walls gives way to yellow wallpaper. The floor is hardwood with a Persian-style rug where you’d expect the heavy traffic to be. The rug is red and gold with accents of dark green.

  A few potted rubber trees loiter around the edges of the room beside these new mass-produced pictures imitating the style of Dutch oil painters. They all seem bland and muted, like sleepy ships sinking into a yellow sea to their eternal dreams.

  “This place being so nice and all,” I say to Joe in a hushed tone, “it must have a healthy impact on the psyche.”

  “Good architecture is good for the soul.”

  Straight ahead is the front desk. A young lady sits behind it and looks up from her book to welcome us with a kind smile. Her dark brown curls embellish her soft, kind, delicately painted face. She’s like a porcelain doll with the inviting warmth of a campfire on a cold night. A warm, caring demeanor and a little elegance: they remind me why I love this nation so much, why I want to see it bloom with safe, peaceful, and prosperous communities. I want to see young ladies like her get married and have kids, to turn houses into homes, and raise honest little boys and girls to share in this beautiful dream called America.

  And then, the somber reality strikes me like a heavy weight’s cross punch: it’s a damn shame we couldn’t protect Clara Baker. Hopefully, we can help her pick up the pieces. Hopefully, we can help her find some justice.

  “Good afternoon, gentlemen. How may I help you two today?”

  “Good afternoon, miss. I’m Det. Marlowe, and this is my partner, Det. McCoy. We’re with the Washington State Patrol,” I say, holding up my badge. “I was hoping I might be able to speak with a Ms. Clara Baker today about a recent incident.”

  “Oh, well…”

  “We understand the mental health of your guests is your utmost priority. We’re prepared to wait as long as we need to if she’s in some sort of treatment right now. There’s no rush, and I’ve no desire to upset Ms. Baker.”

  “Certainly. Of course, Detective. Let me go and fetch Dr. Steiner or Fr. Lupin. They’ll help set something up today.”

  “Thank you, Miss. Mind if I get your name?” I pull out my pen and notepad.

  She gives me a nervous look.

  “Don’t worry. There’s no trouble with you. I just like to try and remember everyone I talk to on a case, but with so many details, there’s no way I can keep everything straight. I have to write everything down.”

  “Yes, of course, Detective. My name is Liliana Bergman.”

  She spells it for me.

  “Thank you very much, Ms. Bergman. That’s a German name. I take it you’re from Marisburg?”

  “Yes.”

  “How’s the town over there? I’ve heard nothing but good things.”

  “Well, it’s hard to say. I’ve always lived there. They say it was much nicer before the Depression and got even worse during the War. But, I suppose everywhere was nicer before the War.”

  “Lot of young men missing, aren’t there?”

  “Yes, sir—eh, Detective.”

  “We all miss someone now.”

  “We’ll see them again one day though should we keep the Faith. We mustn’t forget that.”

  Will we?

  “Of course,” I say. “We can hope. Thank you, Ms. Bergman. We’ll wait here for the doctor or priest, whichever you send first.”

  “Yes, Detective. I’ll be right back.”

  And with that, she’s on her way.

  “Marlowe, you charmer, you!” says Joe in a hushed tone with an excited grin on his face.

  “What?” I ask as we start walking over to the bench against the wall.

  “Don’t pretend you don’t know. ‘How’s the town?’ and ‘We all miss someone now.’ She’s a pretty little lady. As polite as they come, too. You really ought to ask her out to tea or coffee.”

  “No, thanks. I was only making small talk because I remembered something.”

  “That you’re a man with red blood in your veins?”

  “No, that Jack Wolfgang grew up here.”

  “You really are always working, aren’t you?”

  “There’s a chance he’s taken to lying low around here. So, I figured I’d ask about the town.”

  I take a seat on a bench and pull out the paperback I’m carrying for some light reading.

  “What’s that you’re reading? A romance novel?”

  “Yes. Strangers in the Night by Ada Livingston. It’s quite good, actually.”

  “You really are a strange one, Marlowe. You’d rather read about it than live it.”

  “You have to pick your poisons in this life.”

  Joe sighs as he crosses his arms, leans back, and closes his eyes, a clear sign not that he’s trying to sleep, but that he’s sorting out details in his head.

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