I nodded.
“Yeah, I know of him. He was doing some bad-ass experiments on a miracle memory pill. Didn’t work, I hear. Had to shut it down.” He laughed in a moment of pure schadenfreude. I gagged on a sudden intake of breath.
“Too bad about his wife,” he said after my coughing fit died down. “She was the best part of him. When his patient’s husband slit her throat in the waiting room, he almost quit psychiatry.”
“What stopped him?” I asked, trying not to gag again on the image he had given me.
“His son, I think. There was something funny there, just rumours, so I can’t say, but I think his son kept him going.”
“Little children can do that,” I said, fishing.
“Oh, no, his son is in his late teens, maybe twenties by now. And Osborn remarried.”
He stopped talking and so did I. We almost glared at each other until he gave in first.
“I’m not a gossip,” he said, “and why are you so interested?”
“He’s a business colleague of mine,” I said, improvising. “He’s been acting a bit odd lately and I was worried.”
“I wouldn’t be. He’s a tough nut.”
“But I thought you said he almost quit psychiatry.”
“Yeah, he almost quit psychiatry because of his almost uncontrollable anger, but not life. There is a difference and he’s a survivor.” On that note Brent Sebastien saluted me and left, and I was all alone in a houseful of people.
Ryan found me about an hour later and asked me if I was all right. I wanted to make him happy. To make myself happy and say it was the best birthday party ever, but the truth was, it was not. It was probably the worst because I’d been unable to take part in any of it in any meaningful way and it made me feel bitchy. Even my conversation with the noted psychiatrist — I’d forgotten to ask him why he was noted — had been frustrating. But it had intrigued me and made me think.
Ryan drove me back to the hospital in silence and I gave him a hug and climbed out of the car. I knew he was watching me as I walked up to the entrance, so I tried to make my stride strong and confident, which wasn’t difficult because I was feeling so frustrated and irritated at myself and everyone else.
Chapter Twenty-Three
When I reached my room it occurred to me that I had to worry about Lucy and Kit murdering me in my sleep because I knew their secret. I was sitting alone on my bed and I was having that unnerving thought when Ella breezed in.
“Dr. Osborn has asked that you not leave the hospital until he sees you again.”
“Why would he ask that?” I said.
“I’m sorry, but I’m afraid I don’t know what he’s thinking.”
“But you’re lovers, so you have a good chance of knowing.” I watched her closely to see her reaction to my bald statement.
She was on her way out of the room, but she stopped and looked back at me, her face at first shocked and then angry and then both.
“Is that what Mavis found out?” I asked. “That you were lovers?”
“And why would that make the least bit of difference to anyone?”
“I doubt that Osborn’s wife would like it. She has good reason to get rid of Mavis.”
“Osborn’s wife left him nine months ago!” she snapped, then spun on her heel and left the room.
Jesus, I thought. What did that mean? I paced the floor for a while, my thoughts wild in my head, and then I remembered the photocopies I had of Osborn’s research papers and the “noted” psychiatrist’s mention of a miracle memory pill. I read all four papers and then sat on my bed gazing out of the window. I wondered if the squirrel would appear. There was a fly caught between the two panes of glass trying desperately to find a way out, seeing freedom but being denied it by every bash of its body against the window. Sort of like me.
“What’s up?” A familiar voice. I looked around as Martha came and sat down beside me on my bed. Her voice sounded thin and weak, but when I looked at her eyes they were clear and sharp. No fog. How many times had I been told that my eyes told the world whether or not I was well? When I was sick they weren’t clear, they weren’t bright, they were just dead.
I told her I’d been reading Osborn’s research papers. “He did a small study with a new drug on rats and memory loss, and it looked promising for Alzheimer’s patients.”
“But?”
“There are no follow-up studies. All the research seems to have dried up for some reason”
I repeated what Brent Sebastien had said about Osborn’s research being shut down. “I have a theory that makes Osborn my number-one suspect, but I need access to his computer to get answers.”
“Answers to what?” asked Martha.
“To Mavis. To the relationship, if any, of his research to Mavis. To motive. To whether he killed her.”
“You think he was ridding society of the weak and the sick?”
That dreadful thought hadn’t occurred to me. “I don’t know,” I said. “His stalled research is a new lead. Maybe he didn’t stop his research. Maybe he’s still conducting it on the sly somehow.”
“You mean he’s experimenting on people and the drug may be killing them?”
“Don’t know. That’s why I need to get into his computer,” I said. “Have you got your key-chain flash drive with you?”
Martha looked incredulous but nodded and went to get it from under her mattress — keys were definitely taboo in our rooms. As she took it off her key ring and gave it to me she said, “And just how are you going to access it?”
I just looked at her and smiled.
I lay in wait in the hall for Ella to appear and when she did I asked her if I could see Dr. Osborn, that it was urgent. She disappeared and I lounged against the wall outside the meds room. I could see Martha doing the same thing just down the hall. Ten minutes later Ella came back and said Dr. Osborn could see me. I followed her and she let me in through the door from the cafeteria, and then went back to the nursing station, knowing I knew the way.
I waited for two minutes and then opened the door to let Martha in. She placed the wooden wedge under the door to keep it ajar, in case anyone asked how she gained access. She went into the ladies’ washroom while I went and knocked on Osborn’s door. When I entered he got up and waved his hand to indicate that I should sit on the chair across from his desk. I’d never done that before and I guess my confusion showed.
“I have to go for dinner soon,” he said, “so I can’t take long with you.”
I was about to reply when we both heard somebody crying. It was unmistakable, the kind of crying that comes from the heart, from the very soul of a person in agony.
With a glance at me, Dr. Osborn said, “Wait here, please,” and he left the room.
I turned his laptop computer to face me and looked at his desktop. It was the cleanest desktop I’d ever seen. There were just four folders, all in Word or Excel, which I had on my computer: Research, Patients, Finances, and Hospital. I plugged my flash drive in and dragged the Research file over. But the patient files were too big. I looked through the directory of names and copied mine, Mavis’s, and Minnie’s, the patient with Alzheimer’s who’d died in hospital. Martha was still sobbing in the hall as I pulled out the flash drive, returned the computer to its spot, and sat down again. I was looking at his family portrait when he came back in.
“I’m terribly sorry, Cordi. So, what was on your mind?” He sat down behind his desk. I was impressed. He was on a time constraint and he hadn’t tried to shoo me out or use what had happened in the hall as an excuse to cut our meeting short.
So I said, “Too much,” and should have known better. He was a psychiatrist, after all.
“Your mind’s racing?”
I nodded. Didn’t hurt to humour him, and besides, my mind was racing.
“We’ve just changed your meds. I don’t want
to try something else until we’ve given this a chance. You have to be patient.”
“So why don’t you want me to leave the hospital?”
“I just want to keep an eye on you with the new medication. But it’s okay for you to go home tomorrow with your brother for a couple of hours.”
Had Ryan invited me somewhere? I wondered. If he had I couldn’t remember. Or had Osborn and Ryan been talking behind my back again? I didn’t call the doctor on it and we talked about my meds for a while and then he gently disengaged by getting up and walking me to the door.
I went looking for Martha and found her in bed.
“You owe me one,” she said thickly. “They jabbed me with a sedative and I’ve probably set back my discharge date by days.”
“You can leave any time you want. You weren’t committed.” And then, more sympathetically, “You sounded so desperately unhappy! How the hell did you turn on the tears?”
“I recite the alphabet and think of all the sad things that have ever happened to me. I was crying by M.”
How could Martha know that many sad things? She, who was always so happy?
Martha was really groggy, so I let her be and went to the nursing station to retrieve my computer. All our valuables were kept there, as well as power cords and anything we could use to harm ourselves. Spotty, though, because Martha hung on to her keys and keys could cause a lot of damage. But there was no one at the station, so I went back and got some money to buy a sandwich at the downstairs hospital cafeteria, which technically wasn’t outside the hospital, so I figured it was all right.
As I was getting on the elevator Austin got on with me and we travelled down in our little box to somewhere between the second and the third floor, when it stopped. We were stuck and I used the intercom to find out what was wrong. A voice on the other end assured me that they were working on it. Austin and I stood in almost total silence for five minutes. He was congested and every time he breathed in, there was a little squeaky noise.
“It was for my father,” he said out of the blue.
“What was?”
“The marijuana you saw me buy. It was for my father.”
I didn’t say anything.
“He’s dying of cancer. There’s a lot of pain. It helps.”
Shit. I felt like a jerk and tried to apologize, but it sounded hollow even to me. But then again, maybe he was lying.
“You know what Mavis said to me the day before she supposedly died?” he said, changing the subject.
I waited.
“That she caught Ella stealing drugs from the medication room.”
I rolled my eyes at the ceiling. Yet another motive for Ella. Which was more likely — that she gave Mavis the wrong medication and it killed her, or that she was stealing drugs for her own purposes? Why not both? I thought, feeling light-headed and frustrated. But in that moment I was suddenly pretty sure who’d killed Mavis. I just needed the why to tie it all up.
The elevator finally jerked to life and spat us out in the lobby, where we went our separate ways. I got a BLT and a chocolate milkshake and went to eat at the long counter by the windows. I wasn’t keen on getting stuck in the elevator again, so I walked up the stairs.
By the time I opened the door to the seventh-floor lobby I was thoroughly winded, and the last thing I expected to see was Martha and my brother deep in conversation. She didn’t look any the worse for wear and I marvelled at how fast the drug used to calm her had got out of her system. I wondered why the nurses had let her see Ryan at all.
I heard Ryan say, “Stop encouraging her,” or something like that. I wasn’t sure and it didn’t make any sense. What were they really saying? I wondered. Ryan looked up and saw me and he put a hand on Martha’s sleeve. She stopped talking and then they both smiled. The smiles looked forced, as though their mouths were stiff from too much talking.
Ryan gave me a hug.
“How’s it going, Cordi?” he said lightly.
“Okay,” I said. “Now you’ve got both of us in here. Whatever did you do to deserve that?”
His laughter, when it came, was overloud. “I just came to see how you and Martha were doing,” he said.
“Does he know you’re just acting?” I said to Martha.
She glanced at Ryan. “How else could I explain my being in here?”
Ryan was quiet and I wondered what he was thinking. I had a pretty good idea.
He perked up again and said, “We’re having a small dinner party tomorrow night and wanted you both to come. I’ll come and pick you up at six. I’ve cleared it with Dr. Osborn.”
He gave me a quick hug and waved at Martha and then disappeared down the stairs I’d come up, leaving me feeling apprehensive and angry.
Chapter Twenty-Four
When I pushed through the glass door to the seventh-floor common room, Martha was with me.
“When did Ryan clear it with Osborn and why did he feel he had to?” I asked her.
“I don’t know,” she replied.
I was not happy to hear that Ryan and Osborn had been talking about me again. The last time that had happened I’d ended up getting an ECT.
Martha let out a little whoop and I turned to see what had caused it. A big four-legged blond furball, a.k.a. a golden retriever, was sitting in the middle of the common room being mauled by Bradley and enjoying every minute. Bradley reminded me of someone, vaguely, as he buried his face in the dog’s fur.
Lucy and Kit were hovering nearby and even Leo was there, keeping his distance, but watching intently. Austin was there, too, reading a book, pretending not to notice, but I saw him stealing a glance at the dog every now and then. Even Ella was there and smiling. It was a nice little vignette, all soft and warm and cuddly, just like the dog. It was amazing to watch the effect that the animal had on people. Everybody seemed relaxed and eager to befriend the beautifully groomed retriever with the long golden coat, lush-feathered tail, curly chest fur, and long silky floppy ears. The dog’s handler was letting everyone have one-on-one time, and when it was Martha’s turn, she asked, “What’s its name?”
“Minnie,” said the handler.
I saw Ella jerk like a puppet and struggle to keep the smile on her face. Minnie, the name of the Alzheimer’s patient. Interesting, I thought. What did Ella know about Minnie?
Martha hogged the dog’s time and I found myself becoming awfully impatient. I wanted to thrust Martha aside and have the dog all to myself. And I told her as much.
She let go of Minnie and I knelt down and hugged the dog as if my life depended on her accepting me. When I pulled back, she licked my face and I laughed and the sun broke through a cloud. A dog and a woman, caught in time.
I happened to look up and notice Jacques walking through the doorway of the common room. He stopped abruptly, then glanced at the handler with an odd expression on his face, or maybe I just imagined it, because it was so fleeting and was replaced by a smile at the scene before him. So odd to see so many smiles on a psychiatric ward. I was glad we were not considered dangerous because they would never have allowed the dog otherwise. But then again, someone was dangerous. And I was pretty sure that someone was Dr. Osborn.
I left Minnie and her admirers, collected my computer, and went back to my room, where I booted up the flash drive. And what I found there in Osborn’s files made me shiver. So I lay down on my bed to think about it and fell asleep.
Something caught my attention. I sat up in bed and saw Kit standing by the door, immobile. I watched her as she opened the door and walked out, but this time she didn’t open and close it nine times. She seemed strangely vacant and I got out of bed and opened the door to watch her walk down the hall, stepping on the lines without even noticing them. Something was wrong. I caught up to her and looked at her face. Her eyes were unblinking and I realized that she was sleepwalking. I knew enough to not try to wake her, at
least that is what I had been taught. I stayed with her to make sure she didn’t hurt herself. We passed by the nursing station but there was nobody there. I followed her into the cafe-teria, hoping she would lie down on the sofa, but the door to the offices was ajar and she went through it, with me behind her. The corridor was dimly lit and as I walked toward Osborn’s office, I felt suddenly disoriented, because Kit had disappeared.
I wasn’t sure what to do when something was done to me. An arm snaked around my neck from behind and a hand clamped some tape over my mouth. I was pinned to the chest of my assailant and I struggled to get free. But I felt so weak, so strangely weak, and I knew I was in deep trouble. That awful sinking feeling you get when you know you are going down.
“It’s okay, Cordi. This won’t take long.” I knew the voice, sickly, soothing. Osborn.
He was strong and he frogmarched me into the room where I had seen Mavis’s running shoes under the bed so long ago. He wrestled me onto a metal bed and into some arm restraints and then had difficulty fastening the leg restraints because I was kicking like crazy. But he won and I lay there looking at him. He seemed so ordinary to be a killer. He started attaching electrodes to my head and I struggled to scream against the tape over my mouth. This couldn’t be happening to me! I thought as my fear blossomed into full-blown terror.
He approached me with a shiny green pill in one hand and a scalpel in the other. “You have to swallow this pill, Cordi, before I paralyze you for the ECT.”
I felt woozy from hyperventilating and desperate to keep the pill out of my mouth. The killer pill. If he got it into my mouth the tape would prevent me from spitting it out and it would slowly dissolve, while he waited patiently to zap me with electricity.
He peeled back part of the tape and I screamed. But he was fast and he was smart. As I screamed he shoved the pill into my open mouth and replaced the tape just as the door crashed open and Jacques came charging in. He caught Osborn off guard, butting his head into Osborn’s stomach and taking him down. The pair were out of my line of sight now, but I could hear Jacques’s fists making contact with Osborn’s body, sickening thuds that seemed to go on and on.
Crazy Dead (A Cordi O'Callaghan Mystery) Page 19