Who was he kidding, anyway? He was a standard-issue copper, with a regulation, collar-length haircut, a mustache trimmed to the edge of his mouth, and a body nourished on a widower’s diet of beer, barbecue and half-off Happy Hours. What was he doing considering making small talk with a hot waitress?
“Maybe I’ll just pay her a nice compliment,” he thought to himself as she strolled toward him, bringing him his check. He looked up at her as she approached, praying his tongue wouldn’t tie on him. Just as she arrived at his table, and as he opened his mouth to say the perfect something that was going to sweep her off her feet, his cell phone rang.
“Are you freakin’ kidding me,” he said out loud—not the compliment he was hoping for.
Sabine laughed. “They are annoying, little fuckers, aren’t they?”
Mathis was stunned. She just said “fuckers.” And he may have just fallen completely in love.
The annoying, little fucker kept ringing.
“You gonna answer that, sweetheart? Or at least silence the damn thing?”
“Sorry,” he stammered as he flipped the little fucker open. “Mathis.”
“Mathis?”
“Yeah, that’s what I said.” He rolled his eyes at Sabine, knowing she’d understand.
She smiled and placed his check on the table. “I’ll pick this up in a bit,” she silently mouthed to him, with the most perfect lips he ever laid eyes on. Then she winked and moved on to the next table.
Sabine was the dame who inspired the saying “I hate to see you go, but love to watch you leave.” That waitress factory had created the perfect ass on that woman. And did she just wink at him?
The person on the phone had been talking the whole time, but Mathis, being completely distracted, had not heard a word they’d said.
“Uh...I’m sorry. My cell cut out. Who is this?”
“Bob, it’s Jackson. I’m calling from the A.R.C.”
Jackson was an old department buddy and the lead investigator on the Parrish case. Mathis had trained him when he had started at the department and Jackson still liked to call Mathis up to run work issues by him and get his input from time to time. Jackson was a good cop—with good instincts and the right personality. Nothing like the F’in G’s they’d been hiring lately.
“Yeah buddy, what’s up?”
“Absolutely nothin’. I am pretty much just babysitting over here. We ain’t gettin’ anywhere with this kid. He is still completely doofus, repeating the same “two sticks and a bucket” punch line. The doc won’t release him—and even if he did, I don’t think we have enough to book him on yet.”
“Then it’s probably a good thing he is so fucked up right now. It gives you a reason to hold him until the evidence is solid,” Mathis said. When young perps weren’t stable enough to be taken to Juvi, they were placed at Chrysalis’ Adolescent Resource Center for a few days, until the department could get a doctor’s clearance to book them. “Were you able to locate the mother?” Mathis asked.
“Oh yeah, we got a hold of his mother. She was out of town on business. Of course, now she’s hysterical and isn’t worth a damn as far as information goes. He also has an older sister who’s away at college, but once Mom got a hold of her, she wasn’t good for much either. Until the GSR test comes back, or we can get him to stop babbling and answer some questions, it’s just a babysitting gig.”
“Quite a pickle,” Mathis said.
“Seriously. There were no other signs of a disturbance. It looks like Dad was watching a movie and the kid came in with the gun and just blew him away.”
“A movie, huh? Was that what was on the television when we got there?”
“We assume so. The only thing on was the TV.”
“What about neighbors? Anyone hear or see anything?”
“Not last night, but the little old lady next door said that Mrs. Parrish had told her that they were having some trouble with Blake—that he was seeing a therapist for behavioral issues, problems at school, defiance, and an addiction to video games.”
“Did you get a hold of that therapist?”
“Yeah, he was called. He refused to disclose information regarding his patient without a subpoena. He works for Chrysalis as a therapist and leads a bunch of addiction programs. He said the video game addiction group is fairly new, but has become popular. He was hesitant, but finally agreed to come by and see Blake—not as a therapist, but just to see if seeing a familiar face would calm him down or snap him out of whatever it is he’s in. I thought it was worth a try since the mother or sister won’t be here until tomorrow. I’m hoping once everything is said and done, this will be a pretty cut and dry case.”
As if a twelve-year-old killing his dad could ever be cut and dry. Mathis left that unspoken. He wasn’t so sure about this case at all. Something about it wasn’t sitting right with him; an uneasy feeling twisted in his gut that he couldn’t shake.
When they took the boy into custody he lacked both the residual heat of homicidal rage and the bone-chilling stare of a cold-blooded psychopath. Mathis had expected a punk-ass perp, a fighter, all blame and no accountability. Instead, the boy seemed was like a wounded, traumatized creature; stains of tears dried into a salty rind on his face, lips sticky with a gloss of blood and matching, bloody kiss prints all over the father’s face. That didn’t add up to cut and dried to Mathis.
“Hey, Jackson. Whaddaya say I come down there and bring you a cup of coffee?”
“If you’re buying, I’ll take a grande, quad shot, skinny mocha with whipped cream.”
Mathis flipped the cell phone shut. It was a damn conspiracy.
He got his wallet out and put enough cash down to cover the tab plus a generous tip for Sabine, for both her service and the pleasure of watching her work. He looked around, trying to find her in the restaurant so he could at least say thank you, or see you later, or let me take you out to dinner; but she was nowhere to be found. Disappointed, Mathis headed out the door.
CHAPTER 6
Aislen clocked in at the hospital with less than a minute to spare. Since running was a no-no at the facility, Aislen did her fastest speed-walk down the hall, threw her bags into her locker, then speed-walked toward the nurse’s station. She hated feeling rushed, but hated being late even more. She was frazzled and edgy, a feeling she’d been fighting all day long. Out of sync with the world, she had dropped things, bumped into people, and hit every single red light on her way in to work.
She arrived at the counter out of breath, just in time to help the charge nurse prep medications for the residents.
“Well, there you are,” Rachel said when she got up to the med cart. “Running late isn’t like you. I was starting to worry.”
“I know. I’m so sorry. Today’s been insane.”
Rachel laughed, “Well, then you’ve come to the right place then, haven’t you?”
Aislen grimaced at her faux pas. When you worked in a mental health facility such as Chrysalis, using words like “crazy” and “insane” was pretty much frowned upon. “I’m sorry...I am so off today.”
“Need a cup?” Rachel gestured to the little pill cups filled with medication lined up on the cart and laughed again.
“Wow. You’re incorrigible,” Aislen responded, finally laughing a little.
“No different than any other day. After 20 years of working here, I’ve a well-developed, sick sense of humor. The cart is ready if you want to do the rounds.”
“Okay, thanks.” Aislen started to push the cart away from the nurse station.
“Oh! Before I forget,” said Rachel. “Troy was looking for you before his session started. He wanted to see if you could go with him to an appointment at A.R.C. I told him it was okay and that I’d cover for you as long as you were back by the end of my shift.”
“Do you know what that’s about?”
“He didn’t go into it with me. But, you know how he is, always trying to mentor you with your career,” said Rachel using her quote fingers around th
e word “mentor”.
“Yeah, right,” said Aislen, slightly embarrassed.
“I think he has a little more interest in you than career counseling...lucky girl.”
“Okay, stop. It’s not like that,” Aislen said, flushing a bit at the insinuation.
Troy Kellen was a fairly new therapist at Chrysalis. He was polite and professional, nothing but respectful to all the nurses and aides. He was completely guileless, without the enormous ego the nurses had come to expect from the other therapists and facility doctors. That alone scored him big points on the floor.
It didn’t hurt that he was also cute as hell. Troy wasn’t hot in a bulky, brawny, sex-god way. He was tall, with the lean and sinewy physique of a swimmer. Unlike many guys nowadays, he didn’t appear to put too much effort into his appearance—no long hours at the gym, no overly styled hair or mani-pedis for him. He was casual and relaxed, wearing khaki Dockers, long sleeved shirts rolled up to the elbows, and no tie.
But what made all the nurses practically swoon was the particular way he looked at you during a conversation—the steady gaze of his soft brown eyes that peeked out from beneath tousled, golden brown locks and the slight play of amusement on his lips. You could easily believe you were the only person in the world. He would listen attentively, respond with something insightful and interesting, then flash a warm smile that made you just want to grab his face and plant a huge, wet kiss on him.
Not Aislen, of course. She couldn’t get distracted by cute. All the flitting and primping that occurred when Troy walked in the door was enough to make her gag. It was especially annoying because he seemed completely unaware that his mere presence caused such a stir with the ladies.
Rachel’s comment was completely ridiculous. Yes, Troy had been very helpful to Aislen, providing her with information and encouragement about the wide variety of career paths she could take after graduation. During conversations in the break room and during quiet moments in the evening when residents had settled down for the night, Troy would hang out and do that thing that got the ladies’ panties damp—asking questions about her life and her goals, what had motivated her to become a nurse, what she liked about working in psychiatric care; and he listened to her answers as if he actually gave a shit.
Aislen had worked for Chrysalis Treatment and Residential Facility for four years. After slogging through a semester at the junior college with absolutely no idea of what she wanted to do with her life, she landed a job here as a nursing aide. The busy pace, wide variety of tasks, and satisfaction she got from helping her patients grew on her and she became an LVN. When she decided to continue with school and work on becoming an RN she thought the hard part was done. She had expected things to get easier once she made the decision about what to do with her life, but there were so many different avenues—specialties and advanced degrees available—she found herself even more overwhelmed now that she was nearing the end of her program.
Troy had been encouraging Aislen to pursue an advanced nursing degree in psychology, or her master’s degree, or even work toward becoming a nurse practitioner. It would have been easier for Aislen to just be satisfied with her achievement and settle into a secure career. But Troy touched on something within Aislen. As much as she loved her work, she did feel there was something more she was supposed to do with her life.
“Aislen, you are intelligent, capable and insightful,” Troy had said. “I would hate to see you settle because you think this is the best you could do. Not that being a nurse isn’t a great or fulfilling profession. I just think you have so much more to offer.”
Aislen had warmed under the compliment, flattered that he thought so highly of her; and although she’d never admit it, she was a little breathless listening to the praise he gave her with that...that look. But Aislen had quickly reminded herself that Troy seemed to engage like that with everybody, from aide, to nurse, to janitor, to the most delusional patient. It was just his manner; people shouldn’t take it personally. Aislen didn’t. Well, she tried not to. And besides, fraternization between co-workers, while not a violation of policy, was not professional. Troy was very mindful of that. Clear boundaries were important to him. Any kind of flirtation would have been out of character for him. He couldn’t help it if he was so freakin’ hot, Aislen thought.
She had a lot of respect for Troy. While most of the therapists did the minimum, led their sessions, completed rounds, recommended blood work, or asked doctors to reevaluate medication, Troy was young and still enthusiastic about his work. He had no delusions about curing all the people hospitalized for their disorders and addictions, but he was optimistic and felt that a compassionate ear helped ease his patients’ burdens. He didn’t just facilitate sessions and run out the door. He hung around, actually talked to the patients and listened to them. He told Aislen that there was a healing property in the idea that you had been really “heard.”
Aislen had rotated through the various wings of the hospital every few months; and she was currently rotating through the geriatric ward, caring for elderly patients suffering from dementia, Alzheimer’s, schizophrenia and other severe mental disorders. Many of Aislen’s patients had lived during a time when their illnesses were treated without their consent, with electroshock treatments and lobotomies that left them incapacitated for life. It wasn’t your everyday nursing home. These patients required more maintenance and structure than other facilities.
Aislen pushed the med cart in front of her going door to door. It was like reverse trick or treating. The residents in her wing knew the drill. Their internal clocks clambered “med time” as if it were lunch and they were already standing at their room doors waiting for their little, white cups of calm. She double checked Rachel’s doses, dispensed them to the correct patient, and documented it in their chart.
“Morning, Sigmund,” Aislen said to the elderly male sitting in his wheelchair outside room number 11.
“Good morning, Astrid,” Sigmund replied, reaching up with his ancient, spindly fingers. He called every female in the facility Astrid. Whether Astrid was a long-lost love, a departed sister, or a daughter, no one knew. Sigmund Lange had been a resident at Chrysalis for many years and he never had any visitors named Astrid or otherwise.
“No, Sigmund. It’s Aislen,” she said. It was important to be honest and try to remind the patients of reality, rather than support their delusions, although it wouldn’t do any good with Mr. Lange. Physically, he was actually holding up pretty well for an 86-year-old man, but his dementia was severe.
Besides thinking everyone was some woman from his past, he rambled in a language of numbers. He would sit in his chair, stare out his bedroom window reciting strings of integers that only an MIT grad could decipher and tap his fingers together as if counting to infinity. He looked like a nutty professor—the palest of gray-blond hair, wispy, long and astray in every direction. His once clear blue eyes clouded over like an overcast sky that never seemed to focus on anything but the equations and formulas in his own mind’s eye. Though Aislen was pretty good with math, this language was beyond her ability to translate.
Aislen handed Mr. Lange his med cup. He took it in his shaky hand and stared deeply into it for a few moments. Aislen watched him, wondering what he was looking for. Reading the tea leaves of his destiny, maybe?
She was curious as to what kind of assignment Troy had planned for her today. He was always requesting her assistance in different group sessions, exposing her to as many different levels of psychiatric care that he could. This appointment was new. Aislen had never been to the A.R.C. You couldn’t go in there without a special clearance, but you could accompany someone who had one. She was actually looking forward to seeing what the facility was about. And although it was sending a flutter of nervousness through her stomach, the opportunity of being alone with Troy outside the facility walls wasn’t an unappealing proposition.
Aislen looked down the main corridor toward the nurse’s station. Leaning back against the counte
r talking to Rachel was Troy. Aislen couldn’t help but marvel at the easy rapport he had with people. Rachel took a hard, intimidating stance in the presence of most doctors, but she treated Troy as she treated her nursing staff, with a good-natured warmth.
Troy laughed at something Rachel said and Aislen felt a pang of jealousy, which was completely ludicrous. Rachel was an awesome lady, but she was at least 20 years older than Troy, and married. And what did Aislen care anyway? She was losing it. It had been a slow spiral down into the crazies for her today. Maybe the stress of her upcoming finals really was getting to her. She didn’t feel that overwhelmed by her classes, but maybe she was more anxious about them than she realized. Maybe her “all work and no play” motto was taking a toll on her psyche. Maybe she could run some of this by Troy. He should have some expertise about stress, being a therapist and all.
She looked back down at Mr. Lange and found him staring back up at her. The clouds in his eyes had departed and they were a clear and bright blue.
“You aren’t Astrid,” he said.
Aislen was shocked. Never in the four years she’d worked here had he had a moment of clarity like this. “Uh, no, Mr. Lange. I’m not. My name is Aislen.”
“Ash-lynn,” he said, rolling it across his tongue as though he were correcting her. Her blood turned cold and a knot seized up in her stomach. The only person who had ever pronounced it that way was her father, all those years ago.
“It means ‘dream’ you know,” he continued.
No, she didn’t know. She didn’t know it even had a meaning. She could only stare at the old man, speechless.
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