Speaking Evil

by Jason Parent

  Sam glared at her, and Paltrow’s smile vanished. She swallowed hard.

  “Make some calls. Compile for me the exact addresses for where they lived, went to school, and worked, together with anything else you can find. I want as much detail on the kid and his parents as you can get.” She turned to Tag. “You said his father works at the hospital? An administrator?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Sam knew she was being catty, unfair even, and tried to rein it in. She’d never been the possessive or jealous type, but the man she’d slept with the night before calling her “ma’am” was enough to put a sour taste in her mouth, particularly when he was partnered up with a much prettier younger woman. She grimaced. “Well, I’m off to see if I can’t meet the man now. If you see Agent Spinney, let him know where I went.”

  “Will do,” Tag said. Officer Paltrow nodded.

  Sam turned to leave when she heard Paltrow say softly, “Um, Detective?”

  “Yes?”

  “People say that... that your boy sees things when someone touches him.” Eyes downcast, she twiddled her thumbs. “Bad things. I was wondering if he saw something when I touched him.”

  Sam sighed then leaned in so she could speak in a hushed voice to the two of them. “Listen to me closely. If you see anyone with an Indian mask, do not engage them. Just stay on high alert and stay the hell away from them. And maybe stay out of the woods for a while too. All right?”

  Paltrow nodded.

  “And you—” Sam pointed a finger at Tag. “Be careful. Watch her back.”

  All cattiness aside, Sam hated having to share that with Paltrow. Telling her exactly what Michael had seen would have been too much, made Paltrow spend the rest of her life looking over her shoulder in fear of what might never come true. As she walked out to her car, scared for the woman and queasy from having put a scare in her, her hands shook. She considered having Paltrow go on leave, but, not really understanding how Michael’s visions worked, she didn’t know if she would be preventing or causing the peril. From her experience, the visions always found a way to come true, and the best Paltrow could do was recognize the danger coming and react first. Knowledge was power, but foreknowledge was awareness. Best to give her the warning and pray her extra caution will prevent the future from happening.

  She thought about Paltrow the whole way over to the hospital. There, she drove around the building to the back entrance, hoping to have more luck with the staff than she’d had with Dr. Horvat. She needed an in, to see what was happening behind the scenes. Frank had his man, but neither of them were talking—at least not to her. She needed to find something that would get her a warrant. Maybe another round with Bowes would help.

  But Bowes was at Ash Street, charged with attempted murder and denied bail. He wasn’t going anywhere. She considered talking to Tessa or Jimmy to see what they knew. Sitting in her parked car, engine idling, she shook her head, pressing a palm into her temple. And risk endangering them? I can’t do that. Then again, maybe they already were in danger. She scanned the parking lot before heading inside Brentworth.

  Sam grumbled to herself when she noticed the Barbie receptionist behind the glass, chewing on a massive wad of gum like a cow chewing its cud. She bet the woman rolled out of bed in the morning looking like a ten when everyone else needed a little work and a pot of coffee to get going.

  The eye roll the woman gave Sam as she approached let the detective know that the disdain was mutual. “How may I help you?” the receptionist asked without the slightest amount of helpfulness in her tone.

  “I’m here to see Dr. Horvat.”

  The receptionist checked her monitor. “Do you have an appointment?” She blew a bubble then popped it with her teeth, only to continue chewing the gum with her mouth open, her lips smacking loud enough to be heard through the divider.

  Sam huffed and crossed her arms. “Just buzz the fucking doctor.”

  The receptionist chewed her gum much slower at that, like a camel wadding up spit. “One moment please.”

  She hit a button on the base of the phone, grabbed the earpiece, then turned her back to Sam, speaking to whoever had answered in hushed tones. Sam caught a few words here and there, a “that detective” and “her away” and maybe even a “bitch.” But that was all right with Sam, so long as the bitch in front of her got her Dr. Horvat.

  “The doctor will see you now,” the receptionist said, donning a false smile. “Someone will be here to escort you to her office shortly.” She turned to her monitor and pretended to read something.

  “Thank you.” Sam’s own smile was as smug as she could make it.

  A buzz sounded from the door, and she could hear its locking mechanism whirring. Finally, Sam was getting someone’s attention.

  That someone was a fair-skinned fellow with a slightly upturned nose, closely cropped dark hair, and an inviting smile, easy on the eyes if not a little too GQ. He wore light-blue scrubs that looked brand new. Sam was unable to find a wrinkle on them or his face, though the number of grays over his ears suggested either he was graying prematurely or older than the thirty-something he appeared to be. The name tag pinned to his chest read Curtis.

  For a roadblock, he greeted Sam pleasantly and offered his hand. His handshake was as firm as the rest of him looked. “Curtis Smales, orderly extraordinaire. How may I be of assistance?”

  “She’s meeting with Dr. Horvat,” the receptionist whined.

  “Oh.” Curtis smiled, the only one of the three who seemed genuine about it. “Follow me, Ms...?”

  Sam placed her hands on her hips, pushing back her open coat to give him a clear view of the badge clipped to her belt. His gaze lowered to it. “I assume you are here in a professional capacity, officer—”

  “Detective.”

  “Detective, then.” Curtis chuckled and threw up his hands as if in apology, the pads under his fingers calloused either from plenty of hard labor or hours in the gym. They seemed the only part of him that wasn’t perfectly kept up. He turned and walked back through the door. “Right this way, please.”

  Sam followed him down a white hallway cast in yellow light. Both floor and walls shined as if covered with enamel, and her loafers squeaked if she didn’t walk exactly heel to toe. The hospital hall was immaculate, unvarnished and unblemished, until she looked closer. Thin cracks and chipped paint hid in plain sight. She wondered what else—or perhaps who else—at Brentworth might reveal flaws under closer inspection.

  Averting her attention back to Curtis, Sam noticed a line of discolored skin—purplish-black, almost like a stretch mark—about an inch long where the orderly’s left ear met his scalp. A similar line ran behind his right ear. Scars? They gave him an air of mystery, somehow raising the level of his attractiveness. She let her eyes linger on his ass. Hardly a reason to condemn him.

  They reached a nurse’s station where a dark-skinned woman sat behind a computer. She didn’t even glance up as they circled it and headed down an identical corridor. Every fourteen feet or so, they passed a small office with a window on each side of the hall, usually with its shades drawn. Sam noted the nameplates on each door but didn’t recognize any of the names.

  Curtis stopped. “Dr. Horvat’s office is just up ahead on the right,” he said, ushering her toward an open door.

  When he started to go back in the other direction, Sam called out to him. “Do you have an administrator or doctor here by the name of Jefferson? I’d like to speak with him when I’m done with Dr. Horvat.”

  “There are no doctors here by that name.” Curtis tapped his chin. “As for administrators, I’m not sure, but their information should be on the website. We don’t schedule appointments with them here. You’ll have to call them or their assistants directly.”

  Sam threw a softball to check Curtis’s veracity. “Do you know anyone here whose last name is Jefferson?”

  “No, I don’t think—” Curtis scratched his chin. “Wait, I think there might be a kid working in the da
ycare by that name. I’m not sure, though. I don’t know everyone who works here.”

  “Does that boy’s father work here?”

  “That, I don’t know. I don’t think so.”

  Sam reached into her coat pocket and pulled out Bowes’ signed medical record release form. She handed it to Curtis. “Can you pull these for me while I’m in with the doctor?”

  Curtis took the form from her and scanned it. “I’ll have to check with the head nurse, but this looks to be in order. I’ll see what records I can pull together and make you copies. If it’s light, I should have them for you by the time you’re done with Dr. Horvat.”

  Sam checked her enthusiasm. Someone at Brentworth was actually going to cooperate with her. “Sounds good. Thanks.”

  Curtis disappeared into the hospital’s inner sanctum, the consent form in hand. Sam headed to Dr. Horvat’s open door.

  She paused in front of the window, watching Dr. Horvat as she sat behind her desk, penciling some notes onto a legal pad. The doctor was dressed in an airy white blouse, her long straight hair resting over her shoulder. As if sensing Sam’s presence, she looked up, smiled, and stood, beckoning Sam into her office with a wave.

  Dr. Horvat pushed back her seat, bumping a closet door behind her in the cramped space. Maneuvering with the grace and flow of a figure skater, she came around her desk to meet Sam. Beaming, the doctor extended her hand. “Detective! It’s so nice to speak with you under less chaotic circumstances.”

  Sam’s phone vibrated in her pocket, momentarily distracting her. She reached in and hit a button to silence it. “Uh, thank you for taking the time to speak with me today, Doctor.”

  “Please, Mira is fine. And Samantha, is it? May I call you that?”

  “You can call me whatever you’d like so long as you answer my questions.”

  “Where are my manners?” She pointed at the chairs opposite to her own. “Please, have a seat. I trust you found your way here all right?”

  Sam moved one of the chairs closer to the front of the desk and sat across from Dr. Horvat. “Yes. Thank you. That Curtis is... a delight.” Her phone buzzed again in her pocket, and she pulled it out. Frank’s name appeared on the screen. Huffing, she sent him to voicemail and pressed down hard on the Power button, then she returned the phone to her pocket while listening to Dr. Horvat.

  “Oh? I didn’t send Curtis.” Dr. Horvat cleared her throat. “Yes, I suppose, if you’re into that sort of thing. To be honest, I hardly even notice him anymore—too wrapped up in my work.

  “Anyway, how is the boy doing? Michael, right? Such a nice young man.” She propped her elbows on her desk and leaned in conspiratorially. “I know I shouldn’t say this, but if a little marijuana is all he’s into, it could be worse. It’s not the stepping-stone drug we used to think it was. Please let him know I’m sorry if I got him in trouble. I don’t always have the bedside manner I should have.”

  Sam stared down her nose at the doctor. “It’s against the law. He knows better.”

  “Sometimes we do a little crime to prevent a bigger one.” Dr. Horvat offered a wry smile, then continued as an afterthought, “The benefits of marijuana with respect to anxiety management are undeniable. A new school year is bound to come with many new stressors. What is he? A freshman? Sophomore? If he needs to talk to someone, I offer after-hour—”

  Sam snorted. “No. He’s fine, Doctor.” When her phone vibrated again, she ripped it from her pocket and powered it down, holding it extra long to make sure it shut off that time. Clenching her jaw, she leaned forward, unable to mask the tension in her tone. “Why do you know so much about Michael?”

  The wry smile didn’t waver. “One of your officers filled me in while we helped them locate Michael’s friend.” She ran her finger across a desk calendar, her eyes following. “Anyway, I’m sure you’re not here to discuss the medical applications of marijuana or even your boy.” She looked up as she ended her sentence, a glint of challenge in her eyes.

  Sam squinted, sensing an implied threat, but unsure if she was just being paranoid. After all, she’d been assaulted outside that very hospital. She had a right to be on edge.

  “I have a session in a few minutes, so I suppose we should get right to it. I presume you’re here for information on Bowes. I haven’t seen a subpoena, and I doubt you could have received a court order already. I’m sorry, Detective, but I cannot just parcel out patient—”

  “Let’s hold off on Bowes for the moment.” Sam clasped her hands in front of her. “Tell me about yourself, Doctor.”

  Dr. Horvat’s eyebrows arched. “What is it you wish to know?”

  “Who are you, Dr. Horvat? For starters, you clearly weren’t born here. Your accent sounds Eastern European, if I had to guess. How’d you end up in a shithole like Fall River?”

  “I don’t think any of the doctors here are from Fall River, and many of us have accents, which is probably the case in most hospitals across the U.S.” She blew out a sigh. “But I’ll humor you. I was born in Lithuania. Most of my childhood was spent there before a family crisis bounced me from one place to another. But you are correct—Eastern Europe, and I presume my accent is a hodgepodge of several dialects I picked up along the way.”

  Dr. Horvat stopped to point to the framed degrees hanging on the wall. “But as you can see, I am trained in American medicine in both adult and pediatric psychiatry.”

  Sam scanned the wall, noting documents from John Hopkins, NYU Langone/Bellevue Hospitals, and Brown. Horvat was also apparently a Diplomate of the American Board of Psychiatry and Neurology, whatever that meant. “Looks impressive,” she muttered half-heartedly.

  “I’ve devoted my life to treating mental illness in all of its ugly forms. So in a way, we are on the same side, Detective, except I hope to prevent crimes before they happen by curing the disease before it festers.”

  “Is that what you do here, treat mental illness?” The answer was obvious, but Sam wanted to hear it anyway, to keep her talking and see if any nugget of truth would drop. Something shady was happening behind those walls, and it had been Horvat who showed up to treat Bowes. Perhaps she’d been sent by someone else, was an unwitting pawn, but Dr. Horvat seemed too shrewd to be used in such a way. No, whatever the reason Bowes, a man with no history of violence and no evidence of gun ownership, would take a shot at her—actually, several shots—the doctor knew something about it. Police work was like poker. Every player’s story had to add up. Find a few gaps and you unravel the bluff. But first, you have to get the story told.

  “I and three other doctors in the Psych Department treat all who are sent here, some on a rotation basis while more difficult cases are sorted against our skill sets. Also, one doctor here focuses entirely on pediatric care and another entirely on adult care, while myself and the fourth treat both.” She glanced at her watch. “So, as you might imagine, we all have very busy schedules. I really must be—”

  “Who treated Harlan Bowes? You?”

  “I can’t answer that with any certainty, Detective. We see hundreds of patients every year, not all court-mandated. But I believe the answer is yes, that I treated Mr. Bowes, at least primarily.” She rose, smiled, and waved to someone behind Sam. “Now, if you’ll excuse me—”

  Sam stood and stepped in front of the doctor while glancing back to see Curtis standing in the doorway, a manila folder tucked under his arm. “If I could just ask you a few more questions—”

  Dr. Horvat placed her hand on Sam’s arm and gently but firmly pushed her aside. “I’m sorry, Detective, but my commitment to my patients comes first. That said, I am happy to continue our conversation at a more convenient time. Please set up an appointment with the receptionist. Book as much time as you need, and I promise I’ll be all yours.”

  Lightly stroking the orderly’s arm, she said, “Curtis, will you please escort Detective Reilly out?”

  Curtis nodded and faced Sam. He waved his arm and smiled. “Detective.”

  Sam follo
wed him back out the way they’d come in. On the way, he handed her the folder, which felt as empty as she knew its sparse contents would be. “Here’s all we had on that patient. Sorry I couldn’t find more, but it looks like he wasn’t here very long.”

  “Thanks,” Sam said flatly. She stopped, an idea exploding like a firework in her mind. “Hey, do you think I could speak with a patient? If you just point me in the right direction, I promise I’ll be quick—”

  “You know I can’t let you back there. The patients are kept secluded from the general public for everyone’s safety. Any form of stress or anxiety you carry with you in there may be extremely detrimental to their treatment or the progress they’ve made.”

  Sam crossed her arms and pretended to pout, playing to his machismo with what hopefully passed for a damsel-in-distress routine. “Come on, Curtis.”

  The orderly shook his head. “The doctors are already committed to their rounds and don’t have time for interruptions except in the case of absolute emergencies. I’m sure I don’t have to tell you about HIPAA and other laws protecting the patients and requiring us to always conform to a professional standard of care.”

  “Please?” She let her arms drop by her sides to appear softer. “I’m a cop, so you know I’ll be discreet. Five minutes. That’s all I’m asking.”

  “I’m sorry, Detective, but my hands are tied.”

  “Screw it.” She huffed. “Brentworth’s blocking my access to information relevant to an ongoing investigation, refusing to provide me with Harlan Bowes’s medical records—his real medical records—despite my having his signed consent, and are stonewalling law enforcement in every way imaginable. Can’t you see how incredibly suspicious that makes this place look?” She sighed. “Look, I know you’re just doing your job. Maybe there’s someone higher up I can speak with?”

  Curtis kept his inviting smile. “I’m sorry, Detective. I’m just the low man on the totem pole. You can speak with anyone here, by appointment.”

  Sam had no choice but to relent. She fumed silently as they walked into the waiting area, planning to come back with enough warrants and court orders to fill a filing cabinet. Before Curtis could turn to leave, she tried one more tactic, betting on having better luck with the orderly than the bitchy Barbie behind the front desk. “Okay, so when are visiting hours today? I’d like to set up a time to speak with a patient.”