I packed up my computer as everyone headed back to work.
I really wasn’t sure what to think. Yeah, I’d plugged in some numbers, given us a starting point, but it was all preliminary. I’d just used the info they gave me. Without visiting the sites I had no idea if we were even on the right track.
Lunch. That’s what I needed. Food and some fresh air. Clear my head. Besides, there was a certain tree I wanted to check out. See if it was real or if it only existed in the mind of a crazy woman.
I grabbed my computer and headed for the door.
One of Christie’s favorite paintings at the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York City had been a piece called “Hospital Slope,” a painting of a huge spreading beech tree done by Zelda Sayre Fitzgerald, wife of novelist F. Scott Fitzgerald, and sometime schizophrenic. According to the tour guide at the art museum, Zelda had painted the picture back in the 1940s while spending time at the Highland Mental Hospital, a sanitarium in Asheville, North Carolina, where she was being treated for schizophrenia. In those days Asheville was famous for the healing power of its fresh mountain air as a remedy for all kinds of diseases, but especially tuberculosis, which they called consumption. The tour guide said the tree was still there today.
Highland Park was less than two miles from the federal building. I grabbed some Mexican food and hit the street, welcoming the chance to stretch my legs.
As I walked through town I tried to get a feel for the vibe of the different neighborhoods-demographics, income level, attitude, that sort of thing. Just like every person, every neighborhood has a different temperament. As I neared Highland Hill, the mood of the neighborhood began to shift from stylish and sophisticated to melancholy and grim. And then I saw why.
As I turned the corner, Highland Hall rose ominously from the hill: brick, square, imposing, institutional. Its dark, weather-stained walls seemed to drain sunlight out of air. And sure enough, beside the old sanitarium grew a beech tree that looked old enough to be the actual tree Zelda Fitzgerald had painted more than fifty years ago. At the base of the tree I found a plaque:
In memory of Zelda Sayre Fitzgerald 1900-1948 “I don’t need anything except hope, which I can’t find by looking backwards or forwards, so I suppose the thing is to shut my eyes.”
– Zelda Sayre Fitzgerald
Zelda perished in 1948 along with eight other women when their wing of the sanitarium caught on fire. They all died of smoke inhalation. A bland stretch of gray concrete to the west of the building gave testimony to the lost wing.
I could only imagine what it was like for them. Trapped, dying, knowing there was no way past the flames. Shutting their eyes, screaming for help. Realizing no one could hear them. No one would ever hear them again. Never experiencing the hope they’d been trying so desperately to find.
I sat by the tree for a while, finishing my meal, thinking of Zelda and Christie and this case. I noticed a raven land on the roof of the old asylum, and it reminded me of Tessa. For some reason, she’d always made me think of a raven trying to spread its wings. But maybe instead, she was a dove covered with soot, looking for a safe place to land.
It was hard to know what to think.
After half an hour I walked back to the federal building. There wasn’t enough time left in the day to visit the crime scenes, but maybe I could work on a linkage analysis of the crimes and then walk around the killer’s downtown hunting grounds. I’d seen a climbing gym there on our drive into town; maybe I could even slip in a workout.
I left the tree behind, but the ghosts of Zelda and those other women followed me. The echo of their screams and the scorched smell of dying hope accompanied me all the way back to work.