Kill Switch (2 page)

Authors: Neal Baer

BOOK: Kill Switch

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But when pressed, even Curtin's detractors would admit his skill as a showman produced results. He'd convinced numerous juries in execution-happy states to spare the lives of capital defendants whose mental illness drove them to commit murder. And his honesty was without question. More than once, some shyster would try retaining Curtin to confirm a client's bogus insanity defense. Proving he was more than just a highly paid mercenary, Curtin would not only refuse to commit what amounted to perjury, but he also offered in each case to testify
against
the defendant.

Within his profession, however, Curtin's reputation as the real deal stemmed from something deeper. He believed he could prevent the mentally ill from committing crimes by attacking the problem at its source. And he had at his doorstep the perfect laboratory to prove it.

Curtin viewed the suicide rate among the prisoners at Rikers Island as a moral outrage, a failure of the profession he loved. He knew most of the Psychiatric Wing's inmates had never committed a violent crime and was convinced that early intervention could prevent them from ever doing so. Using his name and prestige to bombard politicians and bureaucrats, he offered the media his services with assurances that he and the students in his fellowship program could make a difference. The city, threatened with state and federal investigations and buried in a PR crisis, was hardly in a position to refuse.

Five years later, suicides at Rikers were at an all-time low, and the recidivism rate among Curtin's patients was one-tenth the jail average. Even the number of mentally ill inmates plummeted because Curtin had convinced the powers-that-be to parole many of his patients, with two conditions: They had to continue psychotherapy, and they had to stay on their meds. The plan seemed to be working, in no small part due to the quality of students Curtin chose for his fellowship.

As they stopped in front of a door marked P
ATIENT
I
NTERVIEW
, Claire Waters knew it was her chance to prove herself fit to reside among Curtin's worthy. This was the moment she had dreaded and driven herself toward for almost ten years. She was both exhilarated and terrified, which she somehow successfully hid under the thinnest veneer of calm. But she knew she'd be all right because she had the gift: the natural ability to put people at ease, to draw out their darkest secrets. Even those she barely knew would sense her deep empathy and open up to her. She was determined to show Curtin her power to connect with the sickest souls.

“What you're about to do is like nothing you've ever done as a psychiatrist before,” Curtin said. “Dr. Fairborn and I will be observing you.”

“I know,” answered Claire.

“Are you ready, Doctor?” Curtin asked.

“Yes, sir,” she replied.

Curtin smiled.

“Go get him.”

C
HAPTER
2

T
odd Quimby jerked his head up from the metal table when Claire walked into the windowless room. A fan in the corner stirred the air into a warm breeze.
Funny, he doesn't look like a scumbag
, Claire thought, wondering how the emotional trauma hadn't taken a toll on Quimby's boyish good looks. He was thin but not gaunt; he had some muscle on him. His short auburn hair crowned a freckled face with striking green eyes.

“You the shrink?” he asked halfheartedly.

His eyes locked on hers. Claire remembered the first lesson she learned in her psych residency: The patient who looks down or away doesn't give a shit. The ones who look you in the eye want help. It's like a first date, each person sizing up the other. Claire watched Quimby's eyes dart about, down to her hands, then back to her eyes.
He's checking out my body language, looking for weakness, an advantage,
Claire realized. She wasn't about to let him read between her lines.

“I'm Dr. Waters,” she said, trying to convey both authority and compassion. She wasn't sure she pulled either of them off convincingly. “I'll be your therapist while you're on parole.”

“Nobody said nothin' to me about parole.”

Claire tapped the folder in her hand. “It says in here you're eligible now. That's why I was brought in.” She sat down in the metal chair facing Quimby. The fluorescent lights above reflected off the shiny table, giving Quimby's face a ghostly glow.

“I don't need another therapist.”

“You do if you want to get out of here.”

“Talking to you ain't going to make me any more ready than I am right now.”

“Maybe. But after we talk, I'm going to write a report we call an
exit assessment.
The parole board will use that to decide whether you're ready.”

“And if you say I'm not, so what? I can do two more months in my sleep.”

Now Claire stared into
his
eyes. And she saw his bravado was covering up fear.
Use it
, she told herself.

“Once you're out, you want to stay out, right?”

“Who wouldn't?”

“You tell me. How many times have you been in here?”

“Four.”

“You want to come back again?”

“My last shrink tried that tough-love bullshit on me. Didn't help.”

But she got a response; he shifted uncomfortably in his chair.
Slowly,
Claire cautioned herself.
Seduce him
.

“Work with me, Todd. You've got nothing to lose and two extra months of freedom to gain.”

“If you like what I tell you.”

Claire leaned forward and stared right at him before she spoke. “Try me,” she said invitingly.

The hint of a wry smile appeared on Quimby's face. Women didn't usually talk to him this way.

“Where do we start?” Quimby asked.

“Get right to it,” said Curtin. He sat in another room several yards away, watching Claire's exchange with Quimby on three monitors. Hidden cameras were trained on each of their faces; a third camera concealed in a corner of the ceiling captured the scene from above.

“She's easing him in, Paul,” came a female voice from behind Curtin. “She's doing fine.”

The voice belonged to Dr. Lois Fairborn, chair of the Department of Psychiatry at Manhattan City University's School of Medicine. She was Curtin's boss, and perhaps the only person who had any sway over him. In her fifties and trying to look younger, she favored Calvin Klein suits and dark red on her lips and fingernails, maybe a shade too dark, prompting Curtin to call her “the Vampire” behind her back. Though she ran her program with iron fists, Fairborn knew full well that Curtin's fellowship was the butter on her bread. So she gave him a wide berth but made it her business to observe every new student.

“She's courting him. She'll lose him if she doesn't find a way in,” Curtin said to Fairborn.

They heard Claire's voice over the monitor: “You suffered quite a trauma as a child.”

Fairborn looked over at Curtin, who was smiling to himself. Both she and Curtin knew that Claire was winning. And so was Curtin, who relished the moment. His instincts about Claire were correctâhe'd made the right decision in bringing her into the program.

“Why do you people always have to go back to childhood?” Quimby asked Claire.

“Childhood makes us who we are.”

“I don't see why I have to talk about it,” Quimby said, scooting his chair back.

“You need to. Your mother murdered your father right in front of you.”

“Like father, like son. Our dicks got both of us into trouble.”

“You know there's more to it than that,” Claire said, leaning forward. “Tell me about that day.”

“I don't remember it.”

“You don't? Or don't want to?”

“Would
you
want to?” Quimby said defiantly, leaning toward her.

“I'd want to get on with my life,” Claire responded without missing a beat, her eyes boring into him.

“I don't have much of a life.”

“Why is that?”

“Why do
you
think?”

“Because you're afraid,” Claire said. Their faces were now inches apart. She could smell his hot, minty breath.
He must have brushed his teeth before he came in,
Claire thought.

“Bullshit,” Quimby muttered, lowering his head.

But not before Claire noticed the sweat beading above his upper lip.
He's the one who's bullshitting,
she thought.
Time to push
.

“What was that day like, Todd?”

“Huh?” Quimby asked, his head bobbing up. “I told you, I don't remember.”

“I meant the weather. What kind of day was it? Sunny? Rainy?”

“What the hell difference does it make?”

Claire sat back, giving him more space. “I'm trying to help you remember,” she offered.

“It's not working.”

“Close your eyes.”

“Why?”

“Why not?”

Quimby hesitated. “This is ridiculous.”

“Try again,” Claire said gently. “What was the weather like?”

“Who gives a crap about the weather?”

“I do. Come on. Humor me.” She tilted her head in a way she hoped would make it seem like she wasn't judging him. He closed his eyes. Claire knew she had to hide her excitement.

“I'm not seeing it,” he replied.

“What about noises? Sounds?”

“I hear musicâthe hurdy-gurdy organ pumping out ...” He didn't feel himself starting to sway. “Just the usual carnival bullshit,” Quimby said, trying to cover his trembling voice.

Claire knew she was close.

“What else?” Claire asked quietly.

“Pop. Pop. Pop. Pop. Pop. Pop. Pop. Pop. Pop. Like fireworksâonly it's not night.”

Claire leaned in, close to his ear, almost whispering. “What do you smell?”

“Cotton candy. Hot dogs. Burnt popcorn.”

At first he thought it smelled like burnt popcorn. But then he realized it was gunpowder. Singed flesh. Blood.

For an instant, Claire smelled rain.

She could see it on Quimby's face; the memories were rising up, seeping through the barrier between Quimby's subconscious and conscious. He didn't feel himself banging his fingertips together in front of him like an autistic child.

“Pop-pop-pop-pop-pop-pop-pop-pop-pop,” he sputtered, louder and faster, like darts piercing all the balloons at his favorite carnival game.

He was out of his chair, moving toward the corner of the room, his back against the wall. Claire rose, not sure what he was going to do. And then she realized.
He doesn't see me. He can see only that day.

She knew she had him.

Curtin and Fairborn were on their feet in he observation room.

“I'm calling security,” said Fairborn.

“No,” Curtin said. “She's okay.”

“What if he becomes psychotic?”

“He has no history of psychosis.”

Watching the monitors, they saw Quimby in the corner of the room, the weight of his memories pushing him to the floor as his back slid down the wall. Claire stood next to her chair, trying to figure out her next move.

“She doesn't know what to do,” Fairborn worried aloud.

“Give her a chance, Lois,” Curtin said to her. “She hasn't disappointed. Yet.”

And then Curtin talked to the monitor.

“Go to him, Claire,” he whispered. “Go to him.”

Quimby was shaking, sweating. Didn't know where he was or how he'd gotten there. But Claire knew. The way someone knows when they've found their true calling. The way, Claire realized, from that horrible day Mr. Winslow pulled up at her house two decades ago, that she could read him and others. Now her instincts kicked into high gear, and she moved slowly, carefully, unthreateningly, toward Quimby, who was sitting hunched with his knees to his chest.

His mother put her hand over his mouth. The blood was on her clothes. He could see it. Smell it. He couldn't breathe.

“Who are you?” he asked shakily.

“Dr. Waters, Todd. Are you still with me?” she asked, putting her hand on his shoulder.

Her touch calmed him, her voice so soft he could barely hear her. She held out a hand. Quimby took it and let her help him up, looking at her with a trust he hadn't felt in years.

She led him back to the table, pressing his shoulder blade. It felt sharp through his regulation jumpsuit, protruding from his skinny frame. He sat down, and Claire grabbed her chair, pulling it around the table to sit next to him.

“Tell me what happened,” she said, sitting down, knowing he was ready. “What you just saw.”

“I didn't see it,” he responded quickly. “I heard it. Pop-pop-pop-pop-pop.”

“Like a gun being fired.”

“Yeah, the old Thompson at the carnival shooting gallery,” Quimby said, relaxing a bit. “Thing held a hundred BBs. Sounded like the real deal.”

He's stalling,
Claire thought.
I almost had him, and now he doesn't want to go back. But at least he's still at the carnival.

“You liked going to the carnival,” she tried.

“I liked shooting the Thompson,” replied Quimby.

“Your mother would take you?”

Quimby looked at her, his eyes narrowing. “Never. That bitch cursed the day I was born.”

The words were out before Quimby realized he'd said them.
I've got him now.
“You think your mother hates you,” Claire pressed.

“You're just like all the other shrinks,” Quimby said. “I'm not some freak who wants to screw his mother.”

“I never said you were,” Claire replied evenly. “I just want to know why you feel this way.”

Her words calmed Quimby down. “Because of the flyswatter.”

“What did she do with the flyswatter?”

“Hit me.”

“Where?”

“On my penis. âThat's a nasty little fly,' she'd say.”

His mother abused him.
The realization made her mind wander.
Amy ... What terrible things did Winslow do to her?

She'd never been able to stop thinking about her best friend's last few hours. The terror she must have felt. For Claire it was the curse that came with her gift, the haunting memory that had both pushed her into becoming a therapist and pulled her back from fully engaging with her patients.

“Are you listening to me?” Quimby asked, pulling Claire out of her memories.

“Yes, your mother hit you,” she said, focusing back on Quimby.

“That's nothing. One time Mom said, âI'll snip the little bugger off. Then we'll see what kind of man you'll be.' ”

“How often did this happen?”

“Every time I did something wrong.”

“Did you tell anybody?”