by Neal Baer
“I don’t know,” said Curtin. “It’s like she hit a brick wall.”
“In her head,” replied Fairborn. “Not in his. She was doing so well until she started looking for a chemical explanation for Mr. Quimby’s problems.”
“I saw it, too, Lois,” Curtin replied, annoyed.
“She can’t handle the stress, Paul,” Fairborn said. “She can’t separate herself from what the patient is going through.”
“She’ll learn.”
“You wanted her and I supported you,” Fairborn said. “But we don’t need someone who dodges the truth by turning to pharmacology for answers. If she can’t deal with sick, twisted people, she’ll never be a star.”
Curtin stood up. The light from the monitor cast a metallic glint in his blue eyes. He looked down at Fairborn, still seated.
“I’ll make her a star.”
CHAPTER 3
The following morning, Claire and her colleagues in the fellowship gathered in the overly bright cafeteria for what Curtin called his “prerounds post-mortem,” a ritual that would begin with a critique of his flock’s performance from the previous day.
His students, however, saw it more like a daily beheading from the king, which had prompted them to derisively dub the exercise “the Last Supper,” even though it always took place over a rushed crack-of-dawn breakfast.
Today, Saturday, would be no different. Curtin demanded that his fellows see patients on weekends. “They don’t choose when to get sick,” he told them, “and we don’t choose when to see them.”
It started out benignly enough. Curtin arrived precisely at 6:15, drinking his protein smoothie. Claire’s only discomfort was her attire; she wore a lab coat (having spent an hour in the lab), jeans, and sneakers in contrast to the ties and skirts worn by the others. Curtin went around the table, throwing various questions at the fellows, all of whom answered without spectacle. Claire knew her turn would come and was convinced she, too, would get through it unscathed. She was ready. Or so she thought.
“Dr. Waters, what’s your diagnosis on Quimby?” Curtin asked.
“Schizoid personality disorder,” she replied, barely missing a beat.
“Based on what?” he asked.
“His description of his physiological reaction to his stressors and urges, and his profuse sweating while he recounted his story,” she said, deciding to go for it and continuing. “I’m prescribing Risperdal and an antidepressant.”
“And based on your assessment and treatment plan, do you think Quimby’s ready to be released from jail?”
“In light of his past history and treatment, he appears stable.”
“I’m not asking you how he ‘appears,’ Doctor,” Curtin responded, his eyes skewering her. “But since you brought it up, he sure as hell didn’t ‘appear’ stable in that room yesterday. So I’ll ask you again: Is he ready for release?”
Claire fumbled. “I don’t have enough facts and data to form an opinion.”
“Facts and data,” Curtin repeated mockingly, addressing the rest of the group, who also knew what was coming. “My point is, Dr. Waters, you’re focusing on his physiological reaction. Blood pressure, respirations, and the heartbeat of a patient sitting in your office are not predictors of whether he’ll get into trouble once he’s on the street.”
“He has to see me once a week. I’ll . . . I’ll evaluate him through therapy,” stammered Claire.
“Not if you handle him the way you did yesterday,” Curtin said.
“I got him to tell his story,” Claire said defensively.
“You got him to talk about his past,” Curtin chided her. “But the second he said he was afraid, you put up the white flag. You jumped on the pill wagon instead of asking follow-up questions. Instead of probing deeper to find out why your patient was scared.”
Curtin looked at the group, though she knew that what he was about to say was directed at her. “This isn’t residency,” he began. “You’re not treating children with ADD or housewives who think their hubbies are cheating on them and have an anxiety disorder you can correct with Xanax. We’re the gatekeepers for the Todd Quimbys of the world. We decide whether they belong with the rest of us. This is the big leagues, folks. And we’ve got to hit a home run every time, with every patient, or someone out there could get hurt or killed.”
Curtin looked around the group to make sure his message sunk in. “Be upstairs in five minutes,” he said. “Except you, Dr. Waters.”
Claire was so wrapped up in her own head she barely saw the sympathetic glances from her colleagues.
When they were gone, Curtin looked her up and down disapprovingly. “What’s that you’re wearing?” he asked.
Claire wondered why that mattered, which she made clear with her tone. “I was working in the lab,” she said. “I didn’t want to ruin a skirt and blouse with brain matter.”
Curtin sighed and looked at her with mock sympathy. “The lab,” he said. Then he asked, “Why did you accept this fellowship?”
“Because I want to understand what makes the criminal mind different,” she answered, looking him right in the eyes.
“I brought you here because you’re brilliant,” he said, backing off. “Nobody’s questioning that. And I think deep down you have what it takes to do this work. But in this business, having what it takes isn’t enough. You have to wear it.”
“Wear it?”
“Confidence. Extroversion. Even a little narcissism,” Curtin said.
“I’m not a game-show host,” she replied angrily. “I’m a psychiatrist.”
“Being a psychiatrist is more than waving a medical degree and a prescription pad in someone’s face.”
“Excuse me?” she demanded.
“You can’t just prescribe drugs as a crutch to avoid confronting your patients,” Curtin replied.
“A crutch?” Claire said, her voice rising. “I’m a scientist. I do research—which points to a neurochemical explanation for criminal behavior.”
“I don’t care what it points to,” he said. “What I saw from you yesterday was reaction formation. A cover. Defense mechanism. And that’s not going to fly here. You’re excused from morning rounds.” Curtin stood up and turned to walk away.
Claire had enough. “Are you telling me I’m not cut out for this?”
Curtin turned back and smiled, as if he’d expected her to stop him. “I wouldn’t send you packing after the first day. I talked this over with Dr. Fairborn, and she wants to see you.”
“Now? On Saturday?”
“She’s waiting in her office.”
Curtin walked away. Claire couldn’t help but think he had passive-aggressively passed the buck on her future to his boss. She hoped only that Fairborn wouldn’t suck the blood out of her.
The Vampire was dressed in charcoal-colored slacks and a gray silk blouse that morning, her dark lipstick and nails making her look almost Goth. When Claire entered the office, she immediately felt at ease, noticing the surprising homey touches like cream-colored cashmere throws and a crystal vase filled with fragrant white roses. Fairborn couldn’t have been nicer, greeting Claire like a long-lost friend, telling her how glad she was to have her on board as she guided Claire to a comfortable leather chair. Claire only then saw the lacquered Chinese fans that were splayed on the walls, a decorative message that said that everything discussed in the room would remain hidden from the world.
Fairborn began with small talk, asking Claire about her family and past, which disarmed her completely. She realized this would be less of a dressing-down than a therapy session. They were talking about Claire’s childhood, which by and large had been a happy one, when Fairborn popped the question Claire knew was coming but dreaded nevertheless.
“Do you remember, as a child, being afraid of anything?”
Claire looked down. She liked this woman but wasn’t ready to spill her innermost secrets. She tried to brush the question off.
“Sure. You know—monsters, snakes, the
usual kid stuff.”
Fairborn wasn’t having it, though she remained friendly when she said, “Mr. Quimby asked you if you were ever afraid. You withdrew and changed the subject. I doubt the usual kid stuff would have made you do that.”
“I didn’t answer him because the question wasn’t relevant to his treatment,” Claire said, trying to sound as professional as she could. “We weren’t there to talk about me.”
“But we’re here to talk about you,” said Fairborn. “Dr. Curtin was pretty hard on you this morning, wasn’t he,” she stated as fact.
Claire realized that Fairborn was playing the good cop. But Claire didn’t want to play.
“I don’t think the way I dress has any bearing on my effectiveness as a therapist,” she said defiantly.
If this bothered Fairborn, she gave away nothing. “Do you think you belong here?”
“I thought I did. But maybe I made a mistake.”
Fairborn tilted her head, fingering the strand of pearls around her neck, thinking about how to respond.
Thunder rumbled off in the distance, which startled Claire. She quickly covered her alarm, hoping Fairborn hadn’t noticed.
“Storm’s coming,” Fairborn said, eyeing Claire. “But it’s supposed to blow over quickly.”
“I hope so,” Claire said, then added, “We don’t need any more rain.”
Fairborn smiled. “In this program, we look at everything, Claire—the present and the past—in order to help our patients have a future. You’re too focused on the present, on brain chemicals. I think you’re running from the patient’s history, his life story, and I want to know why.”
“All due respect, Doctor, I know the patient’s past matters. Who we are is partly determined by our experiences. When Mr. Quimby didn’t want to talk about his childhood, I got him to open up.”
Fairborn leaned in. “And then he asked you if you’d ever been afraid. And you shut down. Why?”
“I don’t know,” said Claire, knowing Fairborn, a pro, wouldn’t be fooled for a second.
Fairborn looked at her. “Dr. Waters . . . Claire,” she began. “We come from different places, have different perspectives. But we’re both shrinks. That’s who and what we are. I’m not saying I have all the answers. But I’ve been doing this a long time. And one thing I know for certain is that you can’t be a good shrink if you can’t be truthful with yourself.”
“About what?” Claire asked, though she already knew the answer.
“Your past,” Fairborn replied without a hint of condescension. “Whatever it is that you don’t want to relive through these patients.”
“My past has nothing to do with this,” Claire responded stubbornly.
“Of course it does, dear,” Fairborn said. “You need to decide whether you’re ready to face your own demons. Because until you are, you may not be ready for this kind of responsibility.”
The thunder was louder, closer this time. Claire couldn’t help but shudder slightly. “Maybe you’re right,” she said. “Maybe I should talk to you about a few things that have been bothering me.”
“Good,” Fairborn said, standing up. “We’ll make a time twice a week to talk.”
Claire stood up and Fairborn led her to the door.
“We’ve all got storms inside us, Claire. How we handle them is what counts.”
The storms inside us. The words echoed in Claire’s mind. Maybe she’ll help me find my way through them.
CHAPTER 4
Another hot, miserable Saturday night, Nick Lawler thought. At six-one, he towered over the five other cops who together were wrestling down a filthy, violent drunk in Central Booking, the hellhole Nick had been reassigned to seven months earlier. Beads of sweat formed on his forehead under the shock of brown hair that hung over one eye. At forty-two, Nick looked ten years younger, having kept himself in good physical condition. The drunk bucked like a raging bronco, until Nick was finally able to get the cuffs on the bastard.
“Good job, Nick,” said a throaty voice behind him.
Nick turned and saw his former boss, Detective Lieutenant Brian Wilkes, smiling at him with a grin that revealed a missing upper molar on each side. Nick thought he looked like a jack-o’-lantern with his round face and flaming red hair.
“We’re going to Coney Island,” Wilkes said. “You got your old job back. Let’s go.”
“You sure?” Nick asked. The last thing he ever expected was to go back to Manhattan South Homicide as a second-grade detective of the New York City Police Department.
“Believe it, my friend,” Wilkes said. “We got a homicide, and the chief of detectives wants you there.”
The Big Man himself, Nick thought. And without wasting a second, Nick followed Wilkes out the door.
In the car, Wilkes handed Nick back his Glock nine millimeter, the one he’d been stripped of when he was exiled to Central Booking. The ride down the Belt Parkway was mostly silent, Nick fixating on the pulsing of the red bubble light on the dash reflected in the windshield and the rhythm of the blaring siren. As they passed under the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge, Wilkes could stand it no longer.
“Aren’t you even going to ask what this is about?”
“What’s this about?” Nick deadpanned.
It made Wilkes smile as he told Nick about the body on Coney Island. “Got a call from the assistant medical examiner. Says you were on a case last year that looks a helluva lot like this one.”
“Why not just pull Frankie in?” Nick asked.
“Because the only thing your ex-partner can find without directions is in his pants,” Wilkes said. “Idiot didn’t remember anything about the church carnival job when I called him. He off with a badge bunny when you were working that one too?”
“I don’t remember,” Nick said. “Frankie got laid an awful lot.”
He stared at the headlights of oncoming cars whizzing past them in the opposite direction as he said it. Flash. Flash. Flash.
He ran down the hallway. “Jenny, I’m coming!” he screamed. . . .
“Chief of d’s is all in a tizzy about how this could be a repeater . . . ,” Wilkes droned on as Nick stared into the oncoming lights. Flash. Flash. Flash.
He took the steps two at a time. Missed one. Fell flat on his face. Felt the blood pouring from his nose as he got up . . .
“. . . and we can’t have people afraid to go to Coney Island. He wants someone who knows last year’s case. . . .”
Bang! Flash! He heard the gun go off as he staggered through the dark into the room. He ran to check her. But he knew the chest wound was fatal the second he saw it. She was gasping for her last breaths. . . .
“Where the hell are you?” he heard Wilkes ask.
“Right here, Boss,” Nick said as he shook off the image.
“You listen to me,” Wilkes warned him. “I went to bat for you on this. It’s provisional, you being back in the Bureau. So don’t screw it up.”
The neon of Coney Island’s Wonder Wheel cast a sickly glow on Nick as he wove through the summer night crowd and headed toward the beach. The night was hot and humid. Nick’s shirt was soaked through and his hair was matted down. As he ducked under the yellow crime scene tape, the hurdy-gurdy music and raucous laughter only made him more tense about what he was about to find.
The assistant medical examiner, Ross, pulled back the white sheet covering the victim as Wilkes and Nick approached. Nick immediately saw that her eyes were white. Completely white. At first he thought he’d been blinded by the flash of the crime scene detective’s camera. But as Nick knelt beside the body, his sight returned and he noticed the red splotches around both of the victim’s eyes and quickly realized what had happened.
“Crazy bastard burned her irises away,” he said to Ross, who stood behind him next to Wilkes. “Some kind of acid?”
“Won’t know till I crack her,” Ross replied dryly, in mid-yawn. Then he added, “Perp didn’t do that last year, did he?”
“No, last year he duct
-taped the victim’s eyes shut,” Nick said. “If it’s the same guy.”
“I had them call you because the victims sure look the same,” Ross said defensively.
About that he was correct, Nick thought, studying the naked girl in front of him. She looked to be in her late teens or early twenties, short blond hair, strikingly beautiful despite the burns. Tapered, smooth legs leading up to a Brazilian wax. Above that, a slim waist and breasts that Nick could tell would be more than ample if she were standing. Atop one of them dangled a frayed end of the rope the killer used to strangle her.
Nearly a year earlier, Nick had caught the homicide of a young blond girl who looked much like this one, except for the Brazilian wax. She was discovered in similar repose just a few yards from a carnival operating in the schoolyard of St. Jude on Manhattan’s Upper West Side. Ross was the cutter on that one as well. And though Nick never thought much of his skills, tonight Ross was his savior, for he had delivered Nick from cop purgatory to the Promised Land, which in this case was the ass end of Brooklyn. All because a beautiful blond girl had been found murdered with a similar signature and modus operandi within spitting distance of the legendary Cyclone roller coaster, marking what remained of Coney Island Amusement Park.
“You got a helluva memory, pal,” Nick said to Ross, sounding almost complimentary. “The victims look alike. So do the details.”
Ross caught the friendlier-than-usual tone of Nick’s praise. “Last thing I needed, being dragged out to this dump on a Saturday night,” he said.
Score another point for Ross. Nick had forgotten that last year’s carnival killing also occurred on a Saturday night. As the thought registered, he jerked his head down toward the body.
“Anyone besides me smell something like bitter almonds?”
Ross and Lieutenant Wilkes looked at each other. Sniffed around.
“All I smell is burnt popcorn and cotton candy from the vendors’ carts,” Wilkes said.
“I got a cold. But I’ll check her for cyanide on the tox screen if it’ll make you happy,” Ross offered.