Mirror Image (9 page)
Later that morning, under a patchwork sky heavy with the threat of more rain, Sgt. Polk and I drove through the wrought-iron front gates and up the curving driveway to the entrance of Ten Oaks.
Nestled in the bank of trees that inspired its name, surrounded by ten acres of landscaped lawns and gardens, the gable-roofed building looked more like a private boarding school than a psychiatric clinic.
Which, in fact, it had been, until some thirty years ago. Prior to that, it had been the home of one of the city’s lesser robber barons, who’d made his millions out of what little industry was left after the Scaifes, Mellons, and Carnegies took their sizeable cuts.
His fortunes declined somewhat after he was found guilty of strangling his mistress with one of her own panties and burying her body under the gardener’s shed. In the ensuing years, the family lost most of its wealth and holdings, including this house, to legal fees.
We drove past the massive, gilt-framed double front doors, and into a small lot on the side of the building. Getting out of Polk’s car, I could see through the sculpted hedges onto the muddy recreation field, where some patients and staff—indistinguishable in assorted t-shirts, jeans, and sweat shirts—were tossing a football around.
Polk followed my gaze, mumbled something, and shook his head. I knew better than to ask.
Our feet crunched on damp gravel as we made our way back to the entrance. As we approached the doors, whose brass fittings gleamed, a glance at Polk confirmed my hunch that Ten Oaks was not exactly what he’d expected.
I paused at the doors, noting a change in the plaque set discreetly in the rich red brick. It read: “Ten Oaks. A Private Psychiatric Facility.” Under these familiar words, new gold-plated lettering added “Part of the UniHealth Family.”
Funny how much things can change in just one week.
Polk and I pushed through the doors and entered the egg-shell white reception area, an expensively-decorated room whose high walls always drew my eye up to the circular skylight. Varnished oak beams crisscrossed the ceiling.
In the middle of the room stood a massive oak desk, behind which sat the receptionist, a college-aged Asian girl I didn’t recognize. Her name tag read “Amy.”
“I’m Dr. Rinaldi,” I said, smiling. “You’re new?”
“Just two days. Are you on staff, Doctor?”
“Not anymore. But I have visiting privileges.” I took out my hospital ID badge and clipped it to my jacket. “Can you tell me if Dr. Garman is free?”
Polk flashed
his
badge. “And if he ain’t, tell him to get out here anyway.”
Amy’s face paled. “Just let me buzz him.”
I noticed a new clinic brochure and flipped through it. Nice full-color photos. Smiling patients, concerned doctors. On the back, the tasteful UniHealth logo.
Polk lit up a Camel and squinted around at the walls, covered with drawings done by the patients. Some were colorful, spirited, bravely assertive; most were not.
“I’m sorry, sir,” Amy said, an ashtray suddenly appearing in her hand. “Smoking is not permitted.”
Her implacable smile was probably an attempt to regain some authority, and he knew it. Polk dutifully took a long last drag of his Camel, then stubbed it out.
The door to our left opened and Garman came out, in a tan shirt and dark blazer. His smile had too many teeth.
“Dan,” he said, shaking my hand. “What a shame, you just missed Elaine. Sometimes she pops in to check up on me. Wives, eh?” The smile stayed intact.
“Bert, this is Sergeant Polk, my new dancing partner.”
“Nice place ya got here,” Polk said dryly.
Garman’s watery eyes blinked a couple times. “I understand you need Dr. Rinaldi’s old patient files.”
“It’s just standard procedure, Bert,” I said. “Cop-think. I can’t believe it’s someone I ever treated.”
His face was unreadable for a long moment. Then he gave a shrug. “Better safe than sorry, right?”
He led Polk and me back through the door he’d entered, into the main corridor on the first floor. I had to smile, as I often did back when I was on the payroll, at the difference between the cheery reception area out front and the sober reality of the rest of the facility.
Reception was where the family visited, assured by the rich décor and subdued ambiance that their guilt was unjustified. That what they were doing for their children or parents was an act of kindness. That, if anything, choosing a fine facility like Ten Oaks was proof of this.
But back here in the main building, in place of Tiffany-style lamps and hardwood floors, was the track lighting and linoleum of a typical psychiatric clinic. Where, regardless of the fresh paint and cheerful Muzak, the walls were still reinforced to muffle the screaming, and all the doors had locks.
I gave Polk a sidelong glance as we threaded our way through the place. The detective had the stiff walk and feigned attentiveness to detail that most people have in a hospital, particularly a “mental” hospital.
Until we rounded a corner and almost collided with a thin, flaccid man in hospital flannels. He wore blue eye shadow and hoop earrings.
“I’m such a faggot,” he said, clutching Polk’s forearm. “A stench in the nostrils of God.”
“Whatever you say, pal.” Polk pulled his arm away, and watched as the patient drifted on down the corridor, sliding along the wall. Quietly sobbing.
“You remember Tina,” Garman said to me, nodding toward the fragile-looking woman in her forties coming out of the ladies room. She wore a plain cotton dress and held her hand protectively over her belly.
“Little guy’s really kicking today,” she said, smiling shyly at us as she disappeared into the kitchen.
I turned to Polk. “Tina. She’s been pregnant with Bruce Springsteen’s baby for the past fifteen years.”
Polk just gave me a sour squint, then fell into step behind Garman again. The sergeant was wearing his palpable discomfort like a badge of honor.
But for me, since grad school Ten Oaks had been pretty much a second home. Even now, I felt a nostalgic tug, the remembrance of a youthful idealism that lingered in these pale green halls, the rows of doors leading to the various day rooms. Dining hall, arts and crafts. One door, marked “GROUP,” had a little sign that read “In Session.”
Years before, I’d begun my clinical training by leading similar groups, many labeled with such hopeful, poignant names as “Dating and Relating” and “Winning Friends on the Job.”
The painful reality, as I came to learn, was that most of Ten Oaks’ patients were never going to have much opportunity to date, let alone relate, or to hold down any but the most menial of jobs.
But then, as I also learned, sometimes you’d reach a patient. Or, more accurately, the patient would reach you. Through the fog of medication and delusion would come an amazing insight, a dead-on joke. And you’d connect with the person he or she was
behind
the illness, behind the barriers that separated your disparate views of reality.
As an intern, and then as a clinical member on staff, I gradually understood the wisdom of letting my patients teach me how to be their therapist.
“You with us, Dan?” I heard Garman say. He and Polk stood in the doorway to another, smaller corridor. This led to the offices. Staff lounge. Conference room.
“Right behind you.”
I noticed that the conference room door was ajar. One of the staff therapists was alone at the table, filling out some forms. It was where we held our peer reviews, and she was sitting in the corner chair I often used. Where I’d sat the last time I was here, presenting Kevin’s case.
Only a month ago. Seemed like a million years.
Garman ushered Polk and me into his office. We each found seats in the stuffed leather chairs facing an ornate lacquered desk. On the walls behind where Garman sat were framed photos of the clinical director shaking hands with the mayor, the governor, and some young corporate type in a Hugo Boss suit that I didn’t recognize.
Suddenly, before anyone could say anything, a heavy tread of footsteps halted outside the door.
I looked up to find Dr. Brooks Riley standing there, arms folded. The lower half of his face still sagged, but looked a bit less swollen. His dark eyes found mine.
“You fuck.” He squinted in pain.
Garman sat forward in his chair. Voice sharp. “If you’re looking for a rematch, Brooks, you’re out of luck. We have police on the premises.”
Riley barely acknowledged Polk’s existence. His angry gaze was trained only on me.
“I meant what I said last night, Danny boy. I’m gonna have your
license
because of Kevin Merrick, and your ass because of
this
.” He pointed to his jaw.
Polk looked over at me. “
You
did that?” The trace of a smile. “Son of a bitch.”
I waved him off. “Look, Riley—” I began.
Riley turned to Garman, chuckling. “Shit, I didn’t even know they
let
white guys box anymore…”
Garman sighed. “That’ll be enough, Brooks. Jesus.”
I stood up then and glared at Riley.
“You want to do something,
do
it, okay? Get all the lawyers you can buy and come after me. Till then, better stay out of my face.”
“Is that a threat?” His eyes narrowed. “Right in front of a police officer, you’re
threatening
me?
”
Riley’s glance went from Polk to Garman, then back to me. I didn’t budge. His face got two shades darker.
Finally, he pushed off from the doorframe and walked briskly down the hall. As he turned a corner, his fist slammed against the wall. A vase of cut flowers teetered on its spindly stand and fell over with a crash.
Garman, hands running through his thinning hair, looked helplessly at Polk.
“Sorry, Sergeant. Sometimes you can’t tell the patients from the doctors around here.”
Polk shrugged. “Not my problem. All I want is those files.
Now
would be good.”
“I’ll just need a minute.”
He disappeared through a side door, leaving Polk and me to sit in a strained silence. A
long
sixty seconds. Then Garman shuffled back in, carrying a thick stack of folders.
“Sorry about the dust, but we haven’t gotten around to down-loading all these old records yet,” he said.
As Polk gathered up the stacks, Garman looked at me.
“Most of these cases go back to before I took over as director,” he explained. “Our patient base has changed a great deal since then. Frankly, many of the people in those files couldn’t afford to come to Ten Oaks now.”
Polk snorted. “So I guess I can forget about sendin’ my ex-wife here for a brain overhaul?”
Garman looked pained. “I didn’t mean to sound patronizing. We
do
have a number of patients from typical middleclass families. But they have adequate private insurance, or other assets.”
“Which buys ’em what, exactly? Gucci straightjackets? Perrier water with their little yellow pills?”
Garman let out a long, slow breath. “You have to understand, Sergeant, it takes considerable resources to run a total-care facility like Ten Oaks. Our patients
and
their loved ones have the right to expect state-of-the-art treatment. The best in custodial and clinical care.”
“Jesus, Bert,” I said, “you’re starting to sound like the brochure.”
A sheepish smile. “Yeah, I know. Sometimes I just—”
Suddenly, an alarm bell clanged, echoing down the halls. Garman glanced at a console on his desk. One of the lights was blinking.
“Rec yard,” he said, voice tight. He bolted out of his chair, heading for the door.
Polk turned to me. “What is it?”
“Nothing good.” I was right on Garman’s heels.
“
Fucking bitch!!
”
The girls looked to be in their late teens. The bigger of the two had the smaller, black one pinned against the chain link fence with a thick, fleshy shoulder. Face bloated with rage, she was screaming obscenities as she clumsily flailed at the other girl with her fists.
Polk and I had bolted into the rec yard, following behind Garman. A throng of patients, mostly male, immediately blocked us while they laughed and shouted encouragement to the girls. Misting rain shrouded the whole yard, making the grass slick as ice beneath our feet.
In a far corner, an older patient with a full beard stood on a bench, yelling, “Chick fight! Chick fight!”
“My God,” Garman gasped, trying vainly to get past the human barrier. “Break it up! Stop!”
I glanced at Polk. “Little help?”
Then I waded in.
Following my lead, Polk plunged headlong into the thick knot of patients, jabbing hard with his elbows.
I tried circling the crowd from the other direction, pushing against a growing wave of bodies. Patients were pouring out of the main building now, voices adding to the din, a rising crescendo of pent-up rage and unfettered panic.
This set off a chain reaction, people twisting and slamming against each other, others shrinking back in horror. Everywhere I turned, haunted faces jutted toward mine in the misty rain.
Suddenly I saw an opening and slipped through. I whirled, getting my bearings.
A tight semi-circle of patients had formed around the two fighting girls. The black girl had wriggled free of her tormentor, and was viciously slamming her head into the chain link. Her audience cheered.
By now, I could see burly staffers and a few clinic docs threading their way toward us. They too were shouting and waving their arms, trying to separate the crowd. But I’d lost all track of Polk in the sea of faces.
From somewhere behind me, Garman’s voice rose above the din. “Lucy, no!”
The black girl, Lucy, had the bigger girl on the ground now. The white girl was screaming and crying at the same time. Her blouse had torn open, exposing a pendulous breast. Lucy was bent over her, fingers cruelly twisting the big girl’s swollen nipple.
“
This
is comin’ off, slut,” Lucy taunted, bearing down. “Comin’ the fuck
off!”
Over the heads of the crowd, I could see the bearded guy still up on the bench. He had his hand jammed in his jeans, furiously masturbating.
“Lucy!” Garman cried out again.
Suddenly, somebody’s swinging fist clubbed me behind the ear, and I staggered a few feet in the mud. Struggling to stay upright, arms outstretched, I collided with another cluster of patients. We collapsed to the ground in a heap.
A rage of my own boiled up inside me. I clawed my way out from under the tangle of arms and legs. Peeling grasping hands off me, ignoring the yelps of outrage and protest, I clambered toward the chain link just beyond.
I’d almost reached the girls, shouldering past a heavy-set patient in overalls, when a familiar guy in thick eyeglasses leapt in front of me and made a lunge for Lucy.
It was Richie Ellner, a patient in his twenties who’d been at Ten Oaks since before I’d first arrived. Gasping from the effort, he was trying to pull Lucy off the other girl when she deftly pivoted and punched him right in the face.
“Richie!” I yelled, catching him as he fell backwards. He collapsed in my arms, blubbering.
The crowd roared its approval, even as more clinic personnel swarmed into the yard. This seemed to turn the tide. As I helped Richie to his feet, I could feel the chaos around us diminishing. It took another five or ten minutes, but some semblance of order was finally restored.
By then, I’d spotted Polk. He and a couple male staffers had reached the two girls and separated them. The bigger girl was hysterical, frantically covering her breasts, tears and blood streaking her face.
Meanwhile, Lucy struggled, screaming and cursing, in the huge arms of a veteran orderly. But since he outweighed her by about 150 pounds, she wasn’t getting anywhere.
Richie shook himself out of my own arms and faced me, glowering. “Look, man! Look what she did to my glasses!”
He held them up, showing me the broken frames.
Before I could respond, a stocky, gray-haired nurse came up to us and peered at Richie’s face. An ugly bruise had already sprouted on his cheek.
“We better get you inside and take a look at that,” she said brusquely, taking his elbow.
Richie frowned at me, crestfallen. “Hey, Doc, we didn’t even get a chance to catch up, ya know? Long time, no see.” Like nothing had happened. Like we were two old buddies who’d bumped into each other at a ball game.
I smiled. “Go on in, Richie. I’ll be there in a sec.”
Richie gave me the “thumb’s up” sign and went off with the nurse, affording me the chance to look around and survey the damage.
With military precision, the practiced staff had begun herding the patients toward the rear doors, back to their rooms. Bert Garman was standing in the middle of the yard, barking orders to his people. Some of the staff therapists—including the young woman I’d seen making notes in the conference room—were talking individually to the more agitated patients, trying to calm them.
The rain had worsened, fat drops pelting the yard, churning the dirt pathways into mud. I saw Harry Polk slogging toward me. He didn’t look too happy.
“Great little clinic you got here,” he said. “Weren’t you the guy who told me these wackos aren’t violent?”
“They’re
not
. Trust me, this kind of thing almost never happens. Few patients ever do any physical harm, except maybe to themselves.”
“So this must be my lucky day, right?”
I pulled him away from the others. “Harry, just think about it. They’re confined, bored, agitated…with pretty much nothing to do between getting pumped full of meds. You don’t think they’re going to boil over, get into fights?”
“Maybe. But, still, any of these crazies got a grudge against you?”
“Not that kind of grudge. Besides, if you think the killer could be someone from my professional life, why just consider patients? I’ve got colleagues, former teachers—”
“Don’t worry. We’ll get to ’em all, sooner or later.”
Polk looked down at his muddy shoes, growled something unintelligible and stomped off toward the building.
I held back a moment as Bert Garman came over, hand over his face to shield it from the rain.
He bristled with anger. “Jesus Christ, what happened?” He craned his neck around. “And where’s Dr. Riley?”
“Knowing Brooks, he’s probably having tea in the staff lounge,” I said. “He sure as hell isn’t going to get his designer threads dirty wrestling with patients.”
He managed a smile. “You’re probably right.”
I saw him visibly trying to calm himself. “By the way, is this your first encounter with Lucy?”
“Is she a new patient? She looks familiar, somehow.”
“Only been here two weeks.”
As we walked through the building’s double doors, he told me her last name, and I realized why she’d looked so familiar. Her older sister was a major pop singer, an MTV diva with two Grammys to her credit and a steady stream of gangsta boyfriends.
“Lucy’s got to be handled carefully, as you can well imagine,” Garman was saying as we headed down the hall. “The other one—Helen Frazier—she’s been here over a year. Never had any trouble from her before. I mean, I just don’t understand this.”
I could only nod. Because despite what I’d told Polk, neither did I.
***
Within a few minutes, staffers were going into patient rooms, carrying little paper cups. After a major incident like this one, there’d be Thorazine cocktails all around.
Just then, a clatter of heels on the linoleum made me turn my head. Dr. Nancy Mendors, small and dark-haired, was hurrying in our direction.
A year or so older than me, her body was still trim and compact. But her face was drawn, eyes red-rimmed with exhaustion. Her worn white coat and faded ID badge were testimony to the many years she’d been on staff.
“Nancy,” Garman said tersely, raking his wet hair down with a slender hand. “You missed all the excitement.”
“Sorry, Bert,” she said, catching her breath. “I was in the ladies’ room when the alarm went off.”
She touched my arm. “Hey, Danny.”
“Hey.”
Garman gave us a guarded look, then smiled grimly. “I better go check up on Lucy. We don’t want some over-eager intern putting our newest VIP in restraints.”
Nancy and I watched him walk away, our shoulders just touching as we stood together.
A thick silence hung between us.
Finally, I made a gesture that took in all the hurried activity in the hall. “Another day at the office, eh?”
She spoke without turning. “Let’s hope it doesn’t start a trend. By the way, how’s Noah?”
“Okay, I think.”
“Good. I adjusted his meds a couple weeks back. Put him on Adnorfex. Did he tell you?”
“Nope.” Adnorfex was a promising new anti-psychotic.
“Oh.”
We always handled these first awkward moments by talking about Noah, his meds, the bar.
“So.” She finally faced me. Those dark eyes. Always so frank, so solemn. “How’re you handling everything?”
“I guess you’ve heard, eh?”
“Who hasn’t? Hell, you’re all over the news.” She lowered her eyes. “Sorry about your patient.”
“Thanks. Me, too.”
“Speaking of which, I want to check up on Richie. I’m his case manager now.”
We started down the hall toward the patient quarters.
Nancy and I had known each other since my days as an intern at Ten Oaks. Barbara’s death had come just a few months after Nancy’s bitter divorce, and we were kind of thrown into each other’s arms by loss and regret. As lovers, we’d spent countless nights desperately clinging to one another, between bouts of equally desperate sex.
When it ended as quickly and unexpectedly as it had begun, we were like drunks after a three-day binge, gazing bleary-eyed at each other, each hoping the other would make some sense out of what had happened.
Since then, unless we run into each other when I’m visiting the clinic, or when she’s shown up at the bar to check on Noah, we didn’t have much contact. But I’d always be grateful to her for being there when I needed someone.
I hoped she felt the same way toward me.
