Addiction (6 page)
Authors: G. H. Ephron
I was relieved when he added, “Let's wait until her blood work comes back before we decide. She'll need to be off the benzos for at least twenty-four hours anyway.” He turned to Jess. “Dr. Dyer, please call the lab as soon as we're done here and make sure they get her test results to us, ASAP.” Jess took notes. “Then, if she's coherent, talk to her about the study and get her consent. In the meantime, find out who can give permission if she turns out not to be competent.”
Next, we discussed Matthew Farrell. Kwan said, “We've just started him on Adderall.” Jess looked up. “A-D-D-E-R-A-L-L. It's a fairly new psycho-stimulant. Supposed to be a more effective treatment for patients with Asperger's syndrome.”
I added, “Helps with concentration, anger control.”
Kwan doodled on his paper. “I wonder how he'd do on Zerenidine ⦠.”
I snapped the file shut. “He's only eighteen years old! And he doesn't fit the profile.”
Kwan raised one finger. “Bursts of anger.” Two fingers. “Out of touch with reality.”
“He's not out of touch with reality. You're the one who'sâ”
“Can we get on with rounds?” Gloria asked pointedly. “I thought we were supposed to be talking about patient care. You two are going at it like a pair of bull elephants.”
That brought the meeting to a full stop. “O-kay,” I said. “Point well taken.”
We resumed and got through the remaining patients on the unit without further acrimony. But the tension was still there. I knew it would be, until Kwan's Zerenidine trial ended and he could stop sizing up each new patient as a potential research subject.
Research had become a fact of life at the institute. The money, the prestige that came from being in the forefront in the
fight against mental illnessâit was all intoxicating. Individual doctors profited. The institute profited. We used to worry about the danger of finding ourselves in bed with our patients. Now we had an entirely different bed partner to worry aboutâthe drug companies.
fight against mental illnessâit was all intoxicating. Individual doctors profited. The institute profited. We used to worry about the danger of finding ourselves in bed with our patients. Now we had an entirely different bed partner to worry aboutâthe drug companies.
IT WAS after eleven by the time I got to the cafeteria to meet Channing and Olivia. The place smelled like Fridays at P.S. 181âbaked haddock and canned corn. I scanned the cavernous room. A squadron of Formica tables was arrayed on a field of putty-colored linoleum. I'd expected to see Channing sitting there tapping her fingers on the tabletop to get me to move along, move along. I'd expected to see Olivia looking self-conscious as only an adolescent girl can look when she has to be seen in public with her mother. But the place was deserted.
I went through the food line, bypassing a muffin that looked as if someone had sat on it. I got a cup of coffee and took it to a table near the entrance. I sat down to wait. The coffee tasted vile, but I drank it anyway.
I checked my watch. A quarter past. A little role reversal. I'd always been the late oneâonly one of our many incompatibilities that seemed, in retrospect, fairly trivial. For a woman with the soul of a rebel, Channing had very buttoned-down habits. Under the Indian-print bedspread in her incense-laden dorm room, the sheets had been tucked in with hospital corners, sharper than any drill
sergeant's. Shoddy research methods? Not likely. But then, it was unthinkable to me that she'd be late.
sergeant's. Shoddy research methods? Not likely. But then, it was unthinkable to me that she'd be late.
Now it was twenty past. I used the house phone in the lobby and called her office. It went directly to the automatic answering system. I hung up and called her beeper instead. I punched in my office number.
I hung up and stared out the window. It would soon be lunchtime. People were starting to drift toward the cafeteria in ones and twos, small groups, But none of them was Channing. The Drug and Alcohol Rehabilitation Unit was just across the lawn. Channing's office was one of the windows under the ornately trimmed roof overhang, just beyond the topmost branches of a magnificent, two-hundred-year-old oak.
I checked my voice mail. There was a message. But not in response to my beep. Channing left it while I was in morning meeting. I kicked myself for not checking my messages. It just hadn't occurred to me. When it's important, I usually get beeped.
“Peter, I'm running a bit late. Why don't you come over and find us in my office, instead of in the caf. I might need your help to extricate myself.”
I dumped out the remaining coffee and headed over to her office. The exterior of the building that was home to the Drug and Alcohol Rehabilitation Unit resembled the one that housed our unit. The interior was another story. The lobby's mahogany paneling glowed. The walls looked recently painted. An actual brass chandelier hung from the ceiling medallion, not the fluorescent boxes that hung from ours. No question about it, they were doing something right.
I pressed the elevator button and waited. No creaks and groans from ancient machinery heeding the call to action. I could barely hear anything. I waited. I pressed the button again. Then I punched it four times hard, as if that would make a difference. It was reassuring. With all the money they had for paint and chandeliers, the elevators still didn't work.
I followed the EXIT sign, entered a stairwell, and started up the
three flights of stairs. There were banister railings on the outer wall. On the inside, where the staircase wound around an air shaft, there was a wall of elaborately turned, closely set wooden spindles that ran from the treads to the ceiling. The spindles formed a wall preventing suicidal patients from flinging themselves off the steps and down to the basement floor. The central air shafts in our unit stairways were protected, too, but by a wall of ugly, prisonlike gray metal bars.
three flights of stairs. There were banister railings on the outer wall. On the inside, where the staircase wound around an air shaft, there was a wall of elaborately turned, closely set wooden spindles that ran from the treads to the ceiling. The spindles formed a wall preventing suicidal patients from flinging themselves off the steps and down to the basement floor. The central air shafts in our unit stairways were protected, too, but by a wall of ugly, prisonlike gray metal bars.
I took the stairs two at a time, pushed open the fourth-floor door, and tried to orient myself. Up here there were fresh carpeting and brass wall sconces as well as overhead lighting. No wonder the elevator hadn't come. The door was propped open with a wastebasket. Someone downstairs was banging on the elevator doors. I removed the basket and watched the doors slide soundlessly shut.
I continued along the hall of medical offices. A sign about halfway down said CHANNING TEMPLE, M.D. All staff offices had double oak doors, separated by an air pocket for soundproofing. The outer door was open. I listened. No voices. Whatever Channing needed extricating from was either over or taking place very quietly.
I knocked on the inner door. There was no answer. “Channing?” I said hesitantly. I turned the knob and pushed the door open. “You in there?”
There was a shrill, metallic sound, like feedback from a sound system. I froze. A tinny voice whined, “Please hang up and try your call again. If you need assistance, call the operator. Please hang up now. This is a recording.”
I exhaled. The phone was off the hook. I peered into the spacious office. Channing's desk was facing me in front of a pair of windows. The base of the phone was on the desk, alongside a laptop computer. I crossed the room and found the receiver, lying on the floor. I set it back into its base.
There was a sharp, metallic smell, almost like something was burning. But there wasn't even an ashtray on the desk. The laptop drive hummed.
The back of my neck prickled. I could hear rapid, shallow
breathing. I turned around slowly. Olivia was standing behind me, pressed against the opposite wall at the corner of the room. Between the black lipstick and the dark around her eyes, she looked like a scrawny wet raccoon in her skinny jeans and black T-shirt. She stared at me, her pupils dilated.
breathing. I turned around slowly. Olivia was standing behind me, pressed against the opposite wall at the corner of the room. Between the black lipstick and the dark around her eyes, she looked like a scrawny wet raccoon in her skinny jeans and black T-shirt. She stared at me, her pupils dilated.
Beside her, partially obscured now by the open door, Channing was sitting in a leather and teak chair that faced the desk. Her eyes were closed, and her blond hair hung loose and soft against a red headrest. In her lap were the ivory chopsticks she had used to anchor her hair.
My stomach turned over. I knew she wasn't resting. And only the chair's headrest was red. The seat and back were a creamy butterscotch.
“Kate?” I choked as I heard my wife's name emerge from my throat. I was looking at Channing, but I was seeing Kate, lying in a pool of blood on the floor of her studio. I felt as if I were captured in the merciless flash of a strobe light, my face held in a grimace of disbelief. Not dead. Please, God, not again! Why was I always too late?
I watched my hand reach out to touch Channing's face, as if the fingers, the slivers of white at the end of the nails, belonged to someone else. Her cheek was cool, soft, the flesh yielding. I wanted to back out of the room, reset the clock to when I was in the cafeteria, and start over.
As I drew my hand away, Channing tipped to one side. Olivia screamed as blood, bone, and brains smeared across the back of the chair.
I wanted to lash out, to strike whoever was responsible for this, the way I'd beaten and nearly killed my wife's murderer. I looked from Olivia to Channing, then back to Olivia. There was no one to beat on.
That's when I realized Olivia had her fingers wrapped around the barrel of a small silver handgun.
“Mom, I didn't mean for this to happen,” she whimpered. She
pressed herself against the wall and slid down to the floor, hugging her knees and rocking.
pressed herself against the wall and slid down to the floor, hugging her knees and rocking.
“Hullo?” It was a woman's voice from the hall. “Channing? Is everything all right?” A clipped British accent. It was Daphne. She started into the room and saw me. “Oh, that you, Peter? I thought I heardâ” She froze when she saw Olivia. Then Channing.
“What's happened?” she demanded. She put a trembling hand to her throat and stood very still. She seemed to shrink and grow hunched over. “Channing!” The word came out like a strangled cry.
Olivia made mewling noises and tucked her head down.
“Were you..?” Daphne started to ask Olivia, then thought better of it. She turned to me. “Was Olivia here when this happened?”
It took a few seconds to find my voice. “I don't know,” I said. “I just got here a minute ago myself.”
“Oh, God.”
“She and Channing were meeting me ⦔
“Meeting you?” she murmured. She steadied herself against the desk, drew herself up. “Have you rung up Security?”
“Not yet.” I picked up the phone.
Daphne went over to Olivia. She crouched alongside her. “Livvy. Let me have the gun,” she said firmly, placing a hand on Olivia's shoulder.
Olivia flinched. She tilted her head and looked at Daphne without expression.
“Please, Olivia,” Daphne coaxed, holding out her hand. Olivia seemed to shrink from it.
I dialed. The phone rang once.
“Give me the gun,” Daphne said, her voice steady.
Olivia looked at the gun, as if seeing it for the first time. Her fingers tightened around the barrel and the gun wavered.
The phone rang again.
With what seemed like extraordinary presence of mind, Daphne took off her sweater, wrapped it around her hand, and took hold
of the butt of the gun. With her other hand, Daphne pried loose Olivia's fingers. When she had the gun, Daphne stood, stepped over, and set it on the floor beside Channing.
of the butt of the gun. With her other hand, Daphne pried loose Olivia's fingers. When she had the gun, Daphne stood, stepped over, and set it on the floor beside Channing.
Security picked up after the fourth ring. “This is Dr. Zak,” I said. My voice sounded calm. “I'm in 407, the Drug and Alcohol Unit. There's been”âDaphne coughed and looked at me expectantlyâ“there's been an accident. Dr. Temple is dead. Call the police”âI felt my voice breaking upâ“and come right away.”
I hung up before they could ask any questions. I closed my eyes but opened them immediately. The horror in the room was preferable to the memory of Kate that came roaring back to me, her throat slit, her life's blood spilled on the cold cement floor of her studio.
“They're on their way,” I said.
I steadied the tremor in my shoulders. I tried to focus on the top of the deskâthe phone, the computer, a neat pile of purple file folders, the gleaming metal letter opener, its handle engraved with an elegant Gothic C, a glass paperweight with a miniature bouquet of glass flowers entombed inside, an empty white porcelain mug with the blue-and-white Acu-Med logo.
A beep from the computer cut the silence. Olivia's head jerked up. I rotated the laptop around to face us. Fat black words scrolled across a brilliant red background. “Can't live with myself. I'm so sorry.”
I touched the mouse. Instantly, the message disappeared, replaced by a sky-blue background, white clouds, and a white rectangle with the message
You have new mail
.
You have new mail
.
From the hall came the heavy sound of feet. A security guard arrived. The heavyset African American had a fist-size ring of keys jingling at his waist, his walkie-talkie squawking static. He scanned the room. When he saw Channing, he approached gingerly. Dealing with gunshot victims isn't exactly standard operating procedure for our security personnel. He touched her neck. Then he unhooked
the walkie-talkie and spoke into it. I caught the words
ambulance
and
police
.
the walkie-talkie and spoke into it. I caught the words
ambulance
and
police
.
“Has anyone touched anything?” he asked.
“I used the phone,” I said.
The guard glanced at Olivia, then raised his eyebrows to me in a question.
“Dr. Temple's daughter,” I said.
“Poor kid,” he replied. “She wasn't here when itâ?”
“No, no,” Daphne rushed in with the answer. “Thank heavens.”
“I think we should step outside and wait,” the security guard said.
Daphne crouched alongside Olivia and put her arm around her. Olivia pulled away. “Come on. Let's go outside and wait for the police,” Daphne said.
Daphne talked to her quietly and stroked her head. Olivia was dry-eyed, in shock, her face pale. She stared at her mother's lifeless body, then at me. Daphne pulled her to her feet and guided her from the room. Olivia submitted, stiff-legged. I followed them into the hall.
A few minutes later, I heard sirens approaching. Soon after that, there were footsteps on the stairs. The security guard met the two uniformed police officers and my old friend Detective Sergeant Joseph MacRae as they emerged from the stairs. MacRae, whose compact, powerful frame would have made better sense in jeans and a sweatshirt, wore a brown suit that puddled a bit at the ankle. His red crewcut might actually have acquired a fleck or two of gray in it since our last encounterâone in which we'd developed a grudging respect for each other. Our head-butting in the Sylvia Jackson case had convinced him that the memories of a victim with traumatic brain injury may not be what they appear to be. And he'd convinced me that not every cop is as clueless as he seems. He was the kind of guy I'd much rather have with me than against me.
MacRae gave me a surprised look of recognition. Our eyes locked briefly, and he gave a quarter-inch nod before he charged
the door. Daphne stood, blocking the way. She drew herself up, stiffened her face. “There's been a suicide,” she said firmly, clipping her words. It was the old Dr. Smythe-Gooding, scourge of hospital residents and senior administrators. “Dr. Temple has shot herself. Please, before all hell breaks loose, promise me that you'll handle this case without unnecessary grandstanding to the press. Her family and the institute will appreciate your discretion.”
the door. Daphne stood, blocking the way. She drew herself up, stiffened her face. “There's been a suicide,” she said firmly, clipping her words. It was the old Dr. Smythe-Gooding, scourge of hospital residents and senior administrators. “Dr. Temple has shot herself. Please, before all hell breaks loose, promise me that you'll handle this case without unnecessary grandstanding to the press. Her family and the institute will appreciate your discretion.”
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