Destination, Wedding!

by Xavier Mayne

  “Are you familiar with the work that he does?”

  “My familiarity with the work of any particular doctor who happens to contract with this clinic is immaterial, Mr. Brandt. I do not review his work, nor am I in any way responsible for the results of it.”

  “So you’re saying you are not aware of the nature of the work that Rauthmann does here?” Exasperation was creeping into Brandt’s voice.

  “We have quite stringent patient privacy rules here. I’m afraid I am not at liberty to discuss anything related to Dr. Rauthmann’s work.”

  “Then let me provide some of the details for you,” Brandt replied. “About a year ago, when Dr. Rauthmann was practicing in a clinic outside Mexico City, a young man was brought to him by his family. They claimed to have a diagnosis of psychiatric illness, and Dr. Rauthmann treated him with a regimen of psychotropic drugs that involved dosages far in excess of those considered safe by the drug’s manufacturer. The result was that the young man was, in the eyes of his parents, cured of the persistent delusions that had been haunting him, and he returned home.”

  Schwegler sighed. “And this is the part of the story where you tell me that all was not well and it was entirely Dr. Rauthmann’s fault.”

  “Dr. Schwegler, the persistent delusion that the young man was treated for happened to be that he believed himself to be homosexual. His ‘cure’ entailed the complete eradication of any sexual identity, whether physical or emotional. His parents considered him cured and were certain Rauthmann had worked a miracle. The patient, however, had a different interpretation. Six weeks after his return from Mexico City, he walked in front of a train and was killed.”

  “And for this unfortunate accident you blame Dr. Rauthmann?” Schwegler’s tone was again dismissive.

  “No. The young man did that himself. In the note he left before his suicide, he made it very clear that Rauthmann’s treatment had destroyed any hope he had of happiness.”

  Schwegler’s expression turned to one he had likely learned in medical school: professional compassion that admits no responsibility for the loss experienced by another. “That is indeed a tragic outcome. But as I have already made clear, when one works at the frontiers of medicine, one must expect that on occasion—”

  “It wasn’t one occasion, Doctor.” Brandt pulled himself upright—he was taller by a head than the other man, and even sitting was the more imposing figure. “We know of seven more ‘tragic outcomes’ from Dr. Rauthmann’s treatment. And those are just the cases that have been made public. There are very likely more.” He took a breath, let this information sink in. “And so I ask you again, Dr. Schwegler, how many patients have to die before you are willing to step in?”

  Schwegler took a long moment, staring at his hands as he brought his fingertips together slowly, in a rhythm only he heard.

  “What you must remember is this,” the doctor began, his voice once again clear and definite. It was the tone of a professor. “People are only likely to seek out radical therapies when they have exhausted all other avenues of treatment. These unfortunate eight patients you speak of were very likely distraught and perhaps presuicidal at the time they sought out Dr. Rauthmann. We cannot necessarily blame him for their outcomes.”

  Brandt sat back. “Do you believe that homosexuality is something that should be treated as a delusion or a psychiatric disorder?”

  “Of course not. You may not be aware that Switzerland was the first country in Europe to remove legal strictures on homosexuality. The vast majority of our citizens believe in equal rights for homosexuals, as do I.”

  “So it is not illegal. I’m happy to hear that. But would you consider it a disorder?”

  “No, I would not.”

  “And yet you provide Dr. Rauthmann the facilities to perform a clearly dangerous therapy in an effort to cure a disorder that does not exist?”

  Schwegler was silent.

  “Let’s suppose that Dr. Rauthmann was in the habit of providing dangerous doses of psychotropic drugs in an effort to cure illnesses that resulted from patients being born under the wrong astrological sign.”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  “Why?”

  “Because astrology has no basis in reality.”

  “Granted. But would you allow Dr. Rauthmann to perform his therapies on those afflicted by astrological disorders?”

  “I don’t see how this is relevant—”

  “It is perfectly relevant, Doctor, because it makes no more sense to treat astrological disorders than it does to treat homosexuality.”

  Schwegler fell silent. Brandt pushed ahead.

  “The pharmaceutical company that makes the drug Dr. Rauthmann uses is suing him. They want to keep him from having access to it. They will have their day in court next month, and they will very likely succeed, as they have with a dozen or more physicians in the past who have misused the drug.”

  Schwegler held up his hands in an exasperated gesture. “Then that will solve your problem with Dr. Rauthmann. I don’t see why you would need to involve me or the clinic at all.”

  “Because next month will be too late for the patients already under Rauthmann’s ‘care.’ He’s seeing patients right now—patients who are suffering from no disorder. Patients who will be irreparably harmed by his treatment.”

  “And would you happen to be personally acquainted with one of these patients?” Schwegler’s eye was sharply trained on Brandt, clearly evaluating his reaction.

  “Let’s say one of them is a friend of a friend.”

  “So this is personal for you.”

  “That doesn’t mean it’s not the right thing to do. He needs to be stopped before he drives anyone else to suicide.”

  The doctor looked down and began to carefully align the pads of paper on his desk and then tidy a cup full of identical black pens. He surveyed the order he had brought to his desk, lips pursed in thought. Then, after sitting motionless for longer than Brandt thought sane, he picked up the sleek telephone that sat to his left. Without any hint of salutation, he uttered two or three sentences. Brandt thought he heard Rauthmann’s name once or twice, but he couldn’t be sure. He wasn’t even sure what language Schwegler spoke.

  Schwegler set the phone down silently and turned back to Brandt. “I will meet with Dr. Rauthmann. I will look into the allegations you have made.” He picked up a pen from the cup. “How may I reach you should I have questions?”

  He told Schwegler the name of their hotel. “But I’m not staying in Geneva long,” he said. “I’ll be here for two days. After that I can leave my contact information, but I have a commitment in England this weekend.”

  “Harassing clinic directors there as well?” Schwegler replied, the barest hint of irony in his voice.

  “No. I’m getting married.”

  Schwegler gave a little shake of the head, as if he were sure he had heard incorrectly. Then some reserve of courtesy welled up. “Congratulations,” he said, haltingly. “I wish you and your bride every happiness.”

  Brandt stood. “It’s a two-groom wedding, but I appreciate your good wishes.”

  “Ah,” Schwegler said, nodding. The pieces seemed to have fallen into place for him. “Thank you for coming to see me, Mr. Brandt.”

  “And thank you for helping prevent Dr. Rauthmann from harming anyone else.” Brandt extended his hand.

  Schwegler nodded as he shook Brandt’s hand, but his face clearly conveyed that he was not looking forward to having to deal with the Rauthmann issue.

  Brandt walked from the clinic director’s office with a smile on his face. Things were looking up.

  Another hotel

  DONNELLY TOOK a deep breath and got into character. Sandler had given him all he needed to know about the role, but stage fright always reared its ugly head before he did anything remotely undercover. He just needed to stay calm.

  From the concierge at their hotel, he’d been able to find out the location of the hotel where patients coming to the clinic
most often stayed. Conveniently located across the street from the facility, the hotel was far more modern than the one Donnelly and the rest of the foursome were staying in. Donnelly had made an inquiry at the desk about the Hendricks family and found out that they were in fact staying there.

  Through the magic of social media, he had reasonably recent photographs of both parents (though he came across no visual evidence that Trevor even existed). He was pretty confident he would be able to recognize them, so he settled himself in the lobby—in a chair facing the elevators—to wait.

  He was just finishing his second cappuccino when one of the elevators opened to reveal Mrs. Hendricks, who made her way across the lobby with deliberate steps, eyes straight ahead as if she had blinders on. She didn’t seem to notice Donnelly as he approached.

  “Mrs.… Hendricks?” Donnelly exclaimed, planting himself directly in front of the scowling woman. “Is that really you?” He smiled as if finding a long-lost relative.

  Her facial expression didn’t shift, but she did come to a halt. She looked him up and down. “Who are you?” she demanded.

  “Randy Filkins. Wow, it’s been years. It’s so good to see you.”

  “I’m sorry…,” she said, though her brusque tone belied her apology. “I don’t think I—”

  “We only met once, when you picked up Trevor after one of our forensics competitions. That was the year we went to State, remember?”

  Whether she actually remembered or not, she nodded vaguely. Donnelly felt relief waft through him—Sandler’s backstory had felt solid, but until it was believed there was always the risk that it wouldn’t work.

  “I never got to tell you how sorry I was about what happened to Trevor,” Donnelly continued somberly. “That must have been terrible for you.”

  “It’s not something one ever gets over,” she replied, her dour look starting finally to fade. She did not, however, offer any hint of what happened to Trevor after the accident. Then, as if she had flipped a switch, her expression changed to one open to grudging small talk. “What an interesting coincidence that we should meet here of all places. What brings you to Geneva, Randy?”

  “I’m looking at graduate programs,” Donnelly replied smoothly. “Some of the best schools are here, so I wanted to come take a look. And what about you? On vacation?”

  Her lips pursed a bit, as if she were debating internally. She was silent long enough for Donnelly to worry that she was on the verge of dismissing him completely.

  “Can I buy you a cup of coffee, Mrs. Hendricks?” he asked, putting on his best innocent, high-school-debate-student smile. “Unless you have somewhere to be…?”

  His kind offer seemed to surprise her into courtesy. “I would like that. Thank you,” she said with a smile that looked like it didn’t get much use. “I don’t think I’ve talked to anyone who knew Trevor since… well, in a very long time.”

  Donnelly led the way to the café, where he purchased two coffees and found them a table near the far wall, away from the traffic of midmorning in the lobby. She sat opposite him, and sipped the coffee that she had filled with milk and artificial sweetener. He struggled not to wince at the grave injustice done to the drink.

  “You asked what brings me to Geneva,” she said after setting her coffee cup down on its saucer.

  He nodded encouragingly.

  “We’re here to see a specialist about Trevor,” she said quietly.

  Donnelly leaned forward. “Trev’s alive?” His voice was shocked unto hoarseness; this, combined with the nickname that Sandler had told him the forensics team always used, seemed to have the desired effect.

  Mrs. Hendricks nodded. “We always felt badly about how we had to leave town so suddenly, but the medical services available in the city were just so much better. And Trevor needed so many specialists.” She closed her eyes stoically.

  “We all thought he never woke up from the coma,” Donnelly said, reminding himself to speak on behalf of his high school class. “How is he now?”

  She sighed. “He’s never really recovered from the accident. Once he was freed from the coma, we were able to bring him home and care for him, but I’m afraid the effects—physical and mental—have persisted.”

  Donnelly the police officer would have made a gentler approach in his questioning, but as Randy Filkins, who had just discovered that a friend from high school long presumed dead was actually alive, he forged ahead. “So, is he in a wheelchair, or a vegetable, or what?” He suspected that Trevor was frozen in time for her as he was at the time of the accident, so he tried to communicate as a high school junior might—clumsy and a little overwhelmed.

  Mrs. Hendricks flinched as if he had slapped her.

  “I’m sorry, I don’t know the right words for any of this—it’s all so bizarre. Please don’t think me rude.”

  She managed a weak smile. “No, not at all. As I said, I haven’t talked to anyone about Trevor outside of our little circle of doctors and support groups in so long, I forget what a shock it can be.” She took a sip of coffee and composed herself. “Trevor is conscious, and often aware of his surroundings, but he is… limited, in some ways. We’re hoping that a specialist we’re here to see will be able to take care of the psychological issues that have been holding him back from making a fuller recovery.”

  “So, he’s physically okay? Is it posttraumatic stress or something?”

  “Something like that.”

  “And you’re saying he’s here, in Geneva?”

  “He’s here in the hotel. I was just going out to sign some papers at the clinic, and then I’ll be going up to relieve Mr. Hendricks so he can take a little rest. Caring for Trevor is a twenty-four hour a day job, I’m afraid.” She sighed again, this time a little more dramatically.

  “Trevor’s really that bad off?” Donnelly shook his head sadly. “He was always so… so strong, I guess is the word I’d use. Can’t believe he’s been like this for so long.”

  “It’s not as bad as all that, most days,” she said with something that was probably supposed to sound like comfort in her voice.

  “Do you think… do you think I could… see him?” Donnelly asked this with downcast eyes, exactly how he’d imagine a seventeen-year-old buddy of her son’s might ask if he could come see a movie on a school night. He saw on her face that it had worked—at least a little.

  “Well, I don’t know about that,” she said, creasing the corner of her napkin thoughtfully. “We’re trying to keep him calm before he goes to the clinic tomorrow.”

  Tomorrow! He needed to pull out all the stops. He sat back in his chair as if the tragedy of Trevor’s situation had finally hit him. “I can’t believe he’s here. Seems like just yesterday we were in the bus on the way back from a forensics meet and I was telling him that my sister had a wicked crush on him. He laughed it off, but he blushed like a fire hydrant. My sister was heartbroken by the accident. I don’t think she ever really got over him.”

  He looked up to see if it was working. He had dangled heterosexuality in front of her and now could only wait to see if she would take the bait.

  She looked a little misty at the mention of Trevor’s high school days, her face softening. “I suppose it wouldn’t hurt if you came up for a couple of minutes. Just to say hello.”

  It’s lucky bigots are usually stupid. “That would be so nice. But weren’t you on your way somewhere?”

  “Oh, that can wait a bit. Would you like to come up now?”

  He nodded, beaming at her, though he felt a shiver of trepidation down his spine as they stood. Getting this far had been easy compared to what lay ahead. He had no idea what to expect, nor what would happen if Trevor saw through the paper-thin ruse that he and Sandler had concocted. Though Sandler assured him that Randy Filkins was practically his doppelgänger, there was still a chance that Trevor wouldn’t buy it. Worse still would be finding him in such bad shape that he couldn’t be reached at all. There were many ways for this to go wrong.

 
Donnelly swallowed his anxiety and followed Mrs. Hendricks to the elevator. They rode in polite silence.

  “Would you mind waiting out here for a moment? I want to be sure he’s not in one of his moods this morning. Seeing someone from high school may be a bit shocking, and he won’t handle it well unless he’s perfectly calm.” He nodded, and she opened the door to the hotel room, nearly the last in the long hallway. She slipped inside.

  Putting his ear close to the door, Donnelly could hear quiet conversation between Mrs. Hendricks and a deeper voice that he assumed belonged to Mr. Hendricks. He listened hard but couldn’t make out a third voice. He stepped back from the door when the voices began to rise in volume.

  “He was a friend from high school,” Mrs. Hendricks spat, her voice angry. “I think it would do him some good to see someone from a happier time.”

  Mr. Hendricks’s response was muffled, composed only of furious mumbling.

  Their conversation concluded without Donnelly being able to make out any more words, and he retreated to a more casual stance in the hallway as he heard her footsteps approach. She opened the door, wearing a smile that nearly scared him with its breadth and intensity, as if she were positively willing the entire situation to a successful conclusion.

  “Please, come in, Randy.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Hendricks.” He stepped into the hotel room. “Mr. Hendricks,” he said with a respectful nod.

  Mr. Hendricks took two purposeful strides toward him, eyes narrowed, brow creased. “Randy… Fisker, is it?”

  The bastard was testing him. “Filkins, sir,” Donnelly replied, extending his hand. Certainly the real Randy Filkins wouldn’t even consider the possibility that the mistaking of his name would be a gambit to rattle an imposter.

  Mr. Hendricks grudgingly took Donnelly’s hand and shook it. “Quite a coincidence, isn’t it, all of us being in Geneva at the same time.”

  Donnelly’s heart pounded as the possibility of the charade unraveling yawned wide in front of him. What would Brandt do, he wondered? He knew immediately. He would double down.