5 - Briarwood Children's Home

Briarwood was founded only a few years after Gloryhill itself.  Something about the city gave it more than its' fair share of "special" children - anklebiters who thought they could fly, or would only eat paint, or were otherwise not alright in the head.  There needed to be a place to put these unfortunate souls until a time as they could be cured - and James Briar stepped up to the plate.

The original Briar was a famous French brain surgeon who fell from grace in 1914 for his experiments on live subjects.  He founded Briarwood shortly after, as a way to continue doing his experiments in a country more tolerant of scientific progress.

Briarwood Children's Home has today become an institute for the unfit - the outcast and alone.  A basic investigation reveals to me that there are those sent here by family members, thinking they are giving their loved ones a luxurious new home.  They pay great sums of money for the "luxuries" of torture devices and false promises.

When the Gloryhill Maximum Security Penitentiary was constructed in 1965, the director used this as an excuse to surround Briarwood with even more security.  Today the building is surrounded by a rusty metal security fence.  I don't know if it's to prevent the inmates getting in, or the patients getting out.  Probably both.

Briarwood itself cuts an imposing silhouette - the long, gothic mansion, and its' statue in front are lit from inside by only a few lights.  The statue is of a fatherly, doting priest with one hand raised in supplication, and the other on the top of a young girl's head who is kneeling before him to receive healing.

The five of us bundle into the entryway, and ring the doorbell.

"Hello?  W...who are you?" a voice comes over the intercom.

I answer immediately, holding up a police badge.  "Gloryhill Police Department, ma'am.  We're here to talk about a girl who was admitted here a few weeks ago."

"Oh, officer.  I'll come let you in.  These cameras seem to not be working too well."

She comes to the door a moment later, her thick round glasses making her head appear even smaller than it is.

"Hi, I'm Isabel, the night nurse.  Come in, please..." she says, trailing off as she looks at the five of us.

She continues, walking towards the reception desk.  "Are all of you police?  You certainly don't loo-"

I cut her off.  "No, just Mr. X...avier and I.  These three are merely concerned citizens."

"Oh...okay..." she says, trying to keep a straight face.  Must maintain her professionalism.  Very diligent of her.

I explain the situation, giving an exacting description of the girl.  Isabel seems to know exactly who I'm talking about, and in fact the attending physician is in the hospital presently.

She calls him down to the front desk, and after a long wait, Dr. Fontavian appears out of a darkened hallway.  He's a disgusting example of sloth and reckless gluttony.  His fat cascades down over his thighs like he's been disemboweled, and I briefly wonder how his legs even support such a body.

Not very well, it appears, because he angrily tells us to come back in two days with a warrant if we want release documents before waddling off back where he came.

Looking around, I'm just about to head back to the car myself, when I notice Jimmy Vellum isn't with us anymore.

He meets us later in the parking lot.  Apparently, Jimmy really put the screws on Fontavian.  He tells us that the good doctor sweat more than a locomotive.  He tells us he has a name, too: Dr. Hoff.

Now that's a name I know.