Shortly after the incident

Newspaper Headline

GRISLY TRIPLE MURDER
Did Hippie Girl Kill Parents and Detective?

Nana shrieked in rage and grief as she threw the paper across the room. It was a good thing that the size of the old house and its grounds kept the neighbors at a distance, because otherwise the authorities would most assuredly have been called.

Later Nana gathered herself, knowing that she couldn't be of any use to the girls if she was locked up somewhere. But it seemed that she couldn't be of any use, anyway. She tried. She wasn't a relative; she had no official relation to Kathleen. One of the doctors did agree to speak to her. But it became clear that he had no intention to allow her to visit the girl, and he asked questions--many questions. Nana wasn't about to give up the secrets that the girls had entrusted to her. She knew very well that they were more likely to condemn the girl than free her.

She tried to see Kathleen, but never even managed to get on the floor where they were keeping the girl--the security was too good. She didn't try again, knowing that at best she would be banned from the hospital, and at worst she would end up in jail.

Mourning as if she had lost children of her own, she resigned herself to waiting. As long as Acacia, Nareesha, and Milda lived, Nana would believe that there was hope that they might some day be free--and she would wait.

1965--two months later

Judge Howard Knightbridge adjusted his glasses wearily as he read the legal document. "Well, Charles," he sighed, "I have to admit that this is one of the most tangled messes I've ever seen come through."

Judge Charles Lewis looked up from the law book he was reading. "That's the Bernard case?"

"What else? I've been dealing with this for the last two months."

They were relaxing in Knightbridge's study, after their bi-weekly dinner. Since it was Thursday, they were at Howard's house--Monday's were Charles'. Charles shut the book, setting it aside. "The newspapers have been having a field day with it. It's even been in those disgusting tabloids. I'd sincerely like to know how one of them managed to get photos of the crime scene. Someone should be doing time behind bars for that."

"I agree, but that's not my problem. I have to make a decision on who gets the estate."

"Well, who looks like the clearest contender at the moment?"

Howard put down the paper, rubbing his forehead tiredly. "The stepdaughter."

Charles frowned. "Isn't she the murderer?"

"That hasn't been proven, though there is a lot of circumstantial evidence. Her only wounds were from the detective's gun, so it seems logical that he was shooting defensively. By the way, the detective, Lyons, was a thoroughly unsavory person. He'd been skating along the edges of the law for some time. We know that he'd been hired to find the girl and bring her back, and there were fresh bruises on her face and wrists, which might indicate she didn't come willingly." He shook his head. "And quite frankly, there doesn't seem to be any way she could have inflicted the wounds on the two men." He made a face. "The coroner's report said that cause of death was massive tissue damage and blood loss, most likely inflicted by an animal attack. Charles, they didn't even have a goldfish in that house."

"Bizarre," Charles agreed. "What about the mother?"

"Well, there's no doubt that she was done in by the poker. The trouble is that there were fingerprints on it from both the girl and the husband."

"Hm, yes. No witnesses, right?"

"The only survivor is the housekeeper, and she never went up to the second floor, where it all happened. Locked herself away when the manure hit the cooling device, and I can't say I blame her. It looks like she had good sense. She's of the opinion that the girl did it all, but I think we have to take that with a grain of salt. It seems that the girl had what could only be called a troubled childhood." He raised his eyebrows. "Not to put too fine a point on it, and you'll never hear this discussed openly, but it's a widely held belief that Bernard was WAY too fond of his stepdaughter, if you know what I mean. I have a hard time believing that the mother was unaware of what must have been going on."

Charles' expression hardened. "That," he said, "is nasty."

"I agree. Don't quote me, but there might have been a little poetic justice being meted out. Still, I can't let that affect my decision."

"What does the documentation say?"

"Bernard's will states unequivocally that on his death, half his assets go to Margaret, his wife, and the other half to his stepdaughter, Kathleen, to be held in trust till her twenty-first birthday. Margaret Bernard also had a will. If she pre-deceased her husband, he was to have her estate..." he snorted softly, "which I'm sure consisted of her wardrobe. If Bernard pre-deceased her, it was all to go to her only child--Kathleen."

"So where does it stand?"

Howard steepled his fingers in front of his chin. "Let me tell you, there was some fancy investigating done over this. Everyone died so closely together that there was no chance of going by body temperature, but they did a close examination of the blood splatters. The best they can figure it out is that Wallace Bernard was the first to die. We can be pretty sure that the detective was next, right after he shot the girl. This is from the housekeeper's testimony about what she heard. Then the wife."

"So--Bernard, the detective, the wife," Charles ticked off on his fingers. "If you're satisfied with that progression, Howard, even if the lag between deaths was only a matter of minutes, it seems pretty clear. Bernard died, and Mrs. Bernard and Kathleen inherited. Mrs. Bernard died, and Kathleen inherited it all."

Howard nodded. "That's relatively cut-and-dried. But if the girl committed the murders..."

"It bears no relation on the inheritance, unless the girl is convicted. Then she'd either be sentenced and spend the rest of her life in jail, or get out of prison as a very rich, very old lady, or she'd be executed, and the problem will be out of your hands. On an estate this size, they're going to want an upper level court to handle it."

The other man shrugged. "Perhaps you're right. I might be making more of this than I need to. Even if the girl does inherit, it isn't as if she's going to be jetting around, enjoying ill-gotten gains."

"Quiet type?"

"Charles, she was in a coma for a solid month, and she never entirely came out of it. She's catatonic now. She chews and swallows if they feed her. The doctor says she only messes herself occasionally, because they sit her on the toilet regularly, and she'll do her business then. But other than that... nothing. She stares, she drools a little. She'll shuffle along if someone starts her moving, but then she'll come up against a wall and just stand there, face flat against it, till someone moves her again." He ran a hand over his face. "In other words, she's basically a breathing turnip."

"And she couldn't be faking it?"

"Anything is possible, but the doctor doesn't think so. They've watched her closely, and it would be very difficult for her to keep up an act like this for as long as she has. They've done all sorts of tests. The doctor said you can jab her with a straight pin, and she never blinks, never flinches. The funny thing is, he's done an electroencephalogram on her, and there's brain activity--a lot of it. It just seems that none of it is cognitive, or practical. She could be living a hell of a life inside her own skull, but the outside world just isn't impacting on her."

"I guess you're right--she isn't going to profit from this, whether she did it or not."

Charles looked at the paper again. "The more I think about this, the more I'm sure that I don't really want to deal with it. I believe I'm going to rule that the estate be put in the control of Bernard's lawyers--they were named executors, but to be directed for the benefit and support of Kathleen, his stepdaughter. If she ever regains competence, and is not indicted for the murders of her stepfather and mother, then the estate is to pass into her possession. If at that time she is still incompetent, the money will remain under the control of the executors, and be used to maintain her in comfort for the remainder of her life."

"It's a good decision, Howard. I don't think anyone will be able to fault you on either the letter of the law, ethics, or mercy."

Howard got up and went to open his drinks cabinet. "I need a drink, Charles. You?"

"When have I ever turned down your brandy?"

They shared a quiet drink, and Charles noticed that his friend still looked troubled. "You're doing the right thing."

"I think so. But do you know, Charles? I almost wish there was something more I could give her."

Later That Month
St. Lucy of Syracuse Long Term Care Facility

Costas Veridun parked in his reserved space, near the front entrance of the main building. Even though his car would be readily visible to the security guard sitting at the front desk, he was still careful to lock his car. There were all sorts of undesirables roaming the night these days.

The guard had jumped up as soon as the sleek Cadillac pulled into place, and he had the door unlocked and held open by the time Costas approached. He nodded respectfully to the managing director as he strode into the lobby. As he relocked the door he said, "Good evening, sir. We don't often see you on the weekend."

Costas had gone to the desk, and he was signing his name on the record. "Evening, Simmons. We were supposed to have a new resident come in today, and I thought I'd come by for a look."

St. Lucy's, which was really nothing more than a very secure, high-end nursing home, had a low turn over of patients, so a new arrival was novel enough to draw interest. But still, Simmons was surprised that the director himself, who had no day-to-day contact with the clients, would be interested. Then he remembered what he'd heard about the new patient. Every resident at St. Lucy's had a family that was well able to pay lavish fees to keep their loved ones comfortable. St. Lucy's resembled a hospital in only the most basic manner.

The sterile, secure rooms were deep within the facility, well away from the public areas. Visitors met their loved ones in pleasant, well-appointed lounges. The quiet, easily controlled patients lived in rooms that resembled decent hotel rooms. Even the ones who required constant care, or were... obstreperous had surroundings that were several cuts above what was usually available in an institution.

These amenities, along with an ample staff of well trained professionals, didn't come cheap. There were no welfare cases at St. Lucy's. There weren't even any insurance paid cases--no insurance policy would foot such bills. Every inmate was either wealthy in their own right, or under the care of a family that was rich enough and felt guilty enough to have them stored somewhere comfortable. From the bits of gossip Simmons had heard, the new arrival was going to be fairly low maintenance, and her fees were going to be at the top of the scale.

Costas made his way back to his office and took a moment to look over the admissions paperwork. *Kathleen Bahste. Bills being paid by Foster and Foster at Law, from the estate of the late Wallace Bernard. Being paid, and being paid, and being paid. Oh, you're going to be a nice little moneymaker, Kathy.*

He made his way back into the depths of the building. He had to let himself through one set of security doors, and be buzzed through another, to reach his destination. The staff in typical hospital uniforms looked a little out of place in the carpeted halls. He asked the nurse there, "Where's Dr. Whyman?"

"Back in the break room," she informed him. She quirked an eyebrow significantly. "He's in a playful mood tonight."

Veridun sighed. "Bloody hell." He headed back to the break room.

The tall, reedy man wearing a doctor's coat over his suit was making notes on a clipboard. His rimless glasses had slid down near the tip of his nose, and he poked them back up absently as he glanced up. When he saw Veridun a bright, smile, perhaps a bit too bright, and too wide, broke over his face. "Costco!"

Veridun found himself frowning automatically. "Clyde, I've asked you not to do that."

"But you make the cutest expressions when I do. Can I assume that it isn't my own sparkling personality that brought you here?"

"I've come to check on the Bahste girl."

"Ah, of course!" He smiled again, and this time the grin was a little wolfish. "The new blood."

Veridun scowled. "Stop it. One of these days you're going to slip around a visitor, and the last thing we need is suspicion."

Clyde waved negligently. "I'm English, I'm supposed to be eccentric, remember?" He giggled--not laughed, or chuckled. "Quite a joke on them, isn't it? The lunatic helping run the asylum."

Veridun closed his eyes briefly. *It's what I get for making a Malkavian my chief psychiatrist. But he's good, damn it. Well, he's better than any of the others available.* "Clyde, please. If I still had blood pressure, you'd be sending it through the roof."

Clyde stuck out his tongue at him. "You're just a tight ass old Giovanni, that's what you are. Interested in nothing but what can put something in the black on your ledger." He tapped a manila folder lying on the table. "Of course you'd want to check on your newest acquisition. Ya know, Costly, I was a little surprised when I found out this was a Giovanni enterprise. I always figured you guys were into the more physical side of capitalism. You know--art, real estate..." he smiled again, "drugs, guns. But then I took a look at a few of the bills for the deluxe treatment around here." He whistled, eyes merry. "Damn! Yeah, medical care is where the money is. Talk about bleeding the public."

Costas gave up on trying to make Whyman act like anything approaching dignified. Actually the British born doctor was quite a high level functioning Malkavian. He did indeed come off as merely eccentric, instead of actually insane. Most importantly, he could pull it together for the few minutes he had to spend with the visitors, and he was good with the patients--very good. Costas had to wonder if Malkavians had some sort of insight that made it possible for them to be more in tune than most people with the unbalanced. He took a seat at the table. "I don't have the time or patience to slog through all the medical terminology in that folder. Just tell me about her in plain language." At the doctor's smirk he said sharply, "No obscenities."

"Drat. I could come up with a few, you know. She's very attractive--for a vegetable." He shrugged. "And considering what she's been through." He leaned back, lacing his hands over his lean belly. "We'll need to give her daily physical therapy to help with that shoulder wound, or there'll be severely limited motion, if she ever gets to the point where she moves it on her own."

"Is that likely?"

He shrugged again. "It's possible, but I wouldn't bet my future sex life on it. Once a catatonic state has gone on this long, it's likely to continue. The head wound seems to have healed up nicely, so I'm of the opinion that the cause might be more emotional and mental than physical."

"Is she going to require a lot of special care?"

"Don't get all stingy, Couscous. She'll need some, but then, it's being paid for. She won't be much trouble. She'll need to be put on the potty five or six times a day, nappies at night, someone to feed her and give her bathies on a regular basis. Other than that, you can pretty much stack her in a corner. In other words, unless things change drastically she's a nice little dolly that should pull in fat fees for years, and years, and years."

Costas hummed, looking thoughtful. Then he cleared his throat. "Is she... uh..."

Whyman nodded. "She'll make a perfect donor. She's healthy, and unlikely to raise any kind of fuss. We just have to be careful not to over do it."

"We always are."