Psychiatric Nurse

by Dan Ross

  Dr. Breton gazed at her with the air of an ugly hippopotamus. "It seems that Maxwell regarded you as his champion, or he wouldn't have stopped to leave this touching memento at your door."

  Ken spoke up sharply. "I don't think there's any need for recriminations. We've all tried to do our best. Escapes of this sort happen in every hospital of this kind. With luck, Maxwell will be returned safely."

  Jean stared at Ken with concern. "It was a nasty night. Was he dressed for outdoors when he left?"

  "Not likely," Ken said. "As far as we know, he just slipped on his trousers over his pajamas and got by the orderly in Cottage C. Maxwell was too mixed up mentally to think of the cold."

  "He could die from exposure," Jean worried.

  Dr. Breton looked at her derisively. "A mental patient of his type thinks along animal lines. When he's cold, he soon seeks out a means of warmth. He's likely found some place and is hiding out there."

  "Have the police been notified?" she asked.

  "Yes. Dr. Werner sent out an alarm about fifteen minutes ago," Ken said. "All we can do now is wait."

  Dr. Breton went off to show the vase to Dr. Werner with a promise that he would return it to Jean later.

  She and Ken went into the cafeteria to have breakfast. As they selected the items for their trays, Jean saw Nurse Bertha Fraser seated at one of the tables with another nurse. And she was conscious of the gleam of hatred in the jealous nurse's eyes as Bertha watched them sit down together across the room.

  Without looking Bertha's way, she told Ken in a low voice, "We're being watched by a jealous admirer of yours. If looks could kill, I'd be a corpse this minute."

  Ken glanced at the table where Bertha was sitting. "I didn't see her when I came in," he admitted. "What's wrong with her?"

  "She thinks I robbed her of her job and you."

  Ken gave her a forlorn smile. "She's probably right on both points. But you did it because you're a superior person."

  "Please!" she begged him.

  "I wouldn't worry about her," Ken said. "She'll get over it. She likes to indulge in moods, but she quickly tires of them. Seriously, she couldn't handle your job, and as far as she and I are concerned, we were no more than casual friends."

  "Better make that clear to her sometime," Jean suggested.

  "I will," he said, sipping his coffee. "But at the moment I'm more concerned about Herman Maxwell. The poor old man made a dreadful mistake in trying to escape."

  "Was there any warning of it?"

  Ken looked thoughtful. "Now that I remember it, he was very despondent when I examined him the other day. He seemed to have lost all hope. So many of the patients have these occasional valleys of depression that I didn't pay much attention to him. But it could have been a warning sign."

  "I hope they find him unharmed."

  "So do I," Ken said, but there was something in his tone that struck an icy chill in her. She knew that the young doctor didn't have much hope that this would be the case. So the day after the storm had begun on a note of extreme tension.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The entire hospital was shadowed by the unfortunate event. When Jean went to her desk, she found Head Nurse Catherine Moore lost in a sea of gloom.

  "I suppose you've heard what happened?" she asked, giving Jean a doleful glance.

  "Yes. I'm shocked," Jean told her as she sat behind her desk.

  "We haven't had anything like this in ages," the head nurse complained. "Dr. Werner is terribly upset."

  "I can imagine."

  "If there should be a tragedy associated with the patient's escape and it gets into the press, it would be very bad publicity for the hospital," Head Nurse Moore went on. "Whenever anything like that happens, relatives often decide to transfer patients to other hospitals. It could be a dreadful financial setback."

  Jean tried to curb her shocked anger at the mercenary viewpoint. She said, "Surely Dr. Werner is more troubled about Herman Maxwell's safety than about any harm his escape can cause the hospital?"

  The sad-eyed woman nodded solemnly. "Naturally," she said. "But there is the other aspect to it."

  "I hate to think of that poor old man out there alone in that storm."

  "He can't have gone far," the head nurse said. "Perhaps we'll soon hear from the police."

  But the morning went on, and no news concerning the escapee broke. Jean went through her duties in an automatic way, as did most of the others. Then, perhaps because of the tension, there was a second incident between Morton and one of the patients. This time the patient was Frank Burns.

  The attitude toward Morton on the part of the patients was becoming increasingly sullen. When they gradually learned of Herman Maxwell's breaking out of the hospital, all those able to think coherently blamed it on his having been abused by the orderly. So the stage was set for new trouble. It happened when Frank left his guitar on the stage of the assembly hall. The guitar was connected to the amplifier he used for his appearances, and because he had left the hall hastily while rehearsing, he hadn't disconnected it or turned the power off.

  Morton, making a routine check of the hall had spied the turned-on amplifier by its red glass light and went up to the stage to turn the apparatus off. At that moment, Frank returned, and seeing the unpopular orderly tampering with his equipment, he became enraged. He rushed to the stage and shoved Morton aside, at the same time threatening him with violence if the orderly made any further move to interfere with his guitar. Morton made some angry retort and left the stage. He went straight to Dr. Werner and reported Frank's angry behavior and threatening remarks. Dr. Werner, delighted at this opportunity to place another black mark on the young millionaire's record, had called Frank to his office and given him a stern reprimand.

  Jean heard all this from Peggy Chase, who had come to her office in a state of agitation. Fortunately, Head Nurse Moore was away on an errand at the time, so Jean was able to talk plainly to the girl.

  "This should make you realize how dangerous it is for Frank to remain here. Even if nothing else happens, he could one day be goaded into a desperate situation."

  "I know," Peggy worried. "It almost happened this morning."

  "Warn Frank against violence," Jean told the girl. "It's the last thing we want to happen now. It could block any chance he has of getting free."

  "I'll talk to him," the petite dark girl promised.

  "Be sure to," Jean said. "What about yourself? How has your own health been?"

  "I've had no spells since I started taking Dr. Werner's medicine."

  "Then there is no reason for your remaining here."

  Peggy grimaced. "I spoke to him about that, and he said he wanted me here for observation. That he was gradually reducing the daily amount of the drug and wanted to see how small a dose I could manage on."

  "It's a logical-sounding excuse," was Jean's opinion. "But I still say that you could come in for treatment and live at home. Or have a regular doctor attend to you."

  "I'm waiting for word from my father," Peggy said. "I'm hoping he'll be reasonable and let me leave."

  "So do I."

  Their discussion was brought to an end by the head nurse's return. Peggy left, and Jean returned to her desk work. She was still at it when Ken Hastings appeared at the door. She took one look at him and knew that the word would be bad.

  The young doctor announced, "I'm sorry to say that Herman Maxwell is dead. They found him drowned in a tiny stream about a mile from here. He either stumbled in or fell through the light coating of ice. In any case, it's all over for him."

  "Dreadful!" Head Nurse Catherine Moore gasped.

  "I'm sorry," Jean said sincerely, picturing the forlorn little man and thinking of the gift he had left for her before running away from the hospital. She was deeply touched by this.

  Ken said, "It's a tragedy, no doubt of that. I'll let you know if any more details come in."

  It was after lunch that Jean encountered a distraught Frank Burns in the passagew
ay leading to the main building. The freckle-faced millionaire was very pale.

  "Have you heard about Herman Maxwell?" he asked her.

  "Yes. Isn't it awful?"

  "You shouldn't feel bad," he said. "You did all you could for him."

  "I'm afraid it wasn't enough."

  "Werner and Morton are to blame. And this morning Morton started on me!"

  Jean nodded. "Peggy told me. You must be careful."

  Frank's long face showed anger. "If I were on the outside, I'd like to get my hands on him for just a few minutes."

  "You mustn't think like that," she warned him. "You don't want to get in any trouble here. Werner will use it against you to keep you a patient!"

  "I know," he said grimly. "He made a big fuss about this morning, and it was really nothing."

  "Remember that."

  Frank's eyes fixed on her with a fond look. "I don't know how we managed before you came here. It seems that there wasn't anyone on the staff we felt was on our side."

  "Surely Ken Hastings has always been sympathetic," she said.

  "Dr. Hastings is okay," he agreed. "But he was different before you arrived. He didn't seem to have the interest in the patients that he does now. Not the same interest in me, anyway."

  "Watch your step," Jean said. "And concentrate on getting out of here. You don't belong in a hospital."

  Frank offered her a look of amused irony. "Better not say anything like that to Werner, or he'll have a fit."

  "I'm telling you," she said.

  The young millionaire nodded. "I have an idea you're on Werner's black list already for siding with Maxwell against Morton."

  Jean was to later decide that this was probably true. Just before she was due to leave for the day, she was summoned by Dr. Werner to his private office. When she entered, he was seated at his desk, and his look of greeting indicated that he was not in one of his better moods.

  "Sit down, Miss Shannon," he said, clearing his throat. After a moment, "I understand that this vase was left in your doorway this morning." He nodded to the gaily decorated vase on his desk.

  "Yes," she said quietly.

  "It was left there by Maxwell."

  "I suppose so."

  He glared at her. "Apparently he had an idea you were his champion."

  "I can't imagine why."

  "It's not difficult to understand," Dr. Werner said dryly. "You took his side in that argument with Morton. I wasn't too happy about that then, and, I may say, I'm less pleased now."

  "I did what I believed to be right."

  "It's dangerous to interfere with discipline at any time," Dr. Werner said. "Maxwell probably brooded over his grievance until it resulted in his escape attempt."

  "I hope I contributed nothing to that," she protested.

  "Only as I've outlined. I'm afraid the hospital will suffer badly from this. The media will play up the incident. They enjoy painting our type of private hospitals as snake pits."

  "I'd hardly call Tranquility Place that," she said. "Thank you, Miss Shannon," he said icily. "Are you sure you're happy here?"

  She was on her guard at once. "Why do you ask?"

  "Certain facets of your behavior and some things you've said have made me doubt it," he told her, his eyes fixed sharply on her. "You must be mistaken."

  His eyes didn't leave her face. "I know you get on well with Dr. Hastings. But you have had some differences with Dr. Breton."

  "Only in the regular routine of duty."

  "Don't remain here if you disapprove of us, Miss Shannon. I wouldn't want you to do that." Werner's face was grim.

  She rose. "When I feel I can't be useful here any longer, I'll go," she said quietly.

  He arched an eyebrow. "I hadn't thought of it in that light. A good point, Miss Shannon." He waved to the vase. "You may have that if you like. No doubt the police will be questioning you as to the time you think Maxwell brought it to your door."

  She went forward and picked up the vase.

  Dr. Werner was still watching her closely. "You worry me a little, Miss Shannon."

  Holding the vase, she said, "I do? Why?"

  "I still have reservations concerning your reasons for becoming a psychiatric nurse. I believe your unhappy background has weighed against you in this work. To put it bluntly, you have too much sympathy for the patients. Your attitude lacks professionalism."

  "I'm not aware of that."

  His smile was sour. "You wouldn't be. Thank you, Miss Shannon. Forgive my taking so much of your time."

  She left him with the feeling that he disliked her and was now searching for a reason to force her to leave. It was a game he played both ways. In the instance of a patient, he used the same methods to try to keep the unfortunate under his control. More and more she believed that her first impression of him had been correct. He was an evil man.

  As Dr. Werner had predicted, the police came and questioned her about the vase and the sounds she had heard in the night. After a few days, the hospital settled down again. The tragedy concerning Herman Maxwell almost seemed to be forgotten. But Jean was convinced that under the surface there still was a bitter resentment against Morton.

  Now that she had her office work in hand, she began to attempt to take a personal interest in the patients again. Dr. Breton made her paper work as difficult as he could. He still wasted a good portion of each day on the phone attending to his gambling bets. But she did force him to prepare his charts sooner or later.

  She tried to make regular afternoon visits to the therapy room. And one afternoon when Morton was on guard there, she talked with three of the patients she had come to know best. Victoria Wales was working on a hooked rug stretched across a frame, her lined face rapt with delight as she proceeded with her task. Steve Abrams was in one of his milder moods as he worked on a tooled leather book cover. Tom Crater had busied himself with a ceramic project.

  Morton gave her a sullen look of rebuke as she joined the group, but she paid no attention to him. She stopped first to chat with Tom Crater, who paused in his endeavors to give her his attention.

  "That's a very attractive mosaic you're creating," she remarked.

  "I think I have an eye for color," he said. "Crimson interests me. Blood color."

  Jean looked at his smiling face and knew he was baiting her again. She ignored the attempt and said, "I think your design is well balanced." Then she moved on to Steve Abrams.

  The husky young man who had once tried to strangle her smiled. "I'm not getting much done today," he said.

  "There's no need to hurry," she told him. "I suppose not," he said, staring vacantly at the simple design. "My head is aching today."

  "If you find yourself not feeling well, don't force yourself to work," she advised. "Tell one of the doctors."

  "Yes, Miss Shannon," he said meekly—an exact opposite of his violent self. She had heard of his being placed in the padded cell several times since her arrival at the hospital. Yet when he was in this mood, it was hard to believe that the brain damage caused by drugs had left him with spells of recurrent violence.

  She next stopped to chat with Victoria Wales. The old woman was delighted with Jean's admiration of the partly completed rug. "This one is for the wife of the President," she confided to Jean, her eyes twinkling. "But just as soon as I finish Mrs. Wilson's, I'll do one for you."

  "That would be wonderful." Jean smiled. The old woman tapped her with a skinny finger. "Make an ideal addition to your hope chest!"

  "Thank you," she said.

  A sigh escaped the lips of Victoria Wales. "Of course, the social life here has become extremely dull lately. No tone at all. I've spoken to Dr. Werner about it. There is no liveliness to our parties." She paused to give Jean a small smile. "I do trust you'll be attending the dance on Saturday night."

  "Perhaps," Jean said. On Saturday nights, a small orchestra was hired from the Portsmouth area to play in the assembly room. Patients and staff mixed on these occasions, and it was generally
thought that the music and gaiety did the patients good. It was a duty to attend these affairs every so often, and Jean had an idea her turn was coming on Saturday.

  "I'll look forward to introducing you to some of the truly social people," Victoria Wales said, her wrinkled face glowing. "We do have some charming folks here."

  There was another snowstorm, and Jean forgot all about the dance until Saturday morning when Ken Hastings came by her office and reminded her of it with a smile.

  "May I escort you to the dance tonight?" he asked.

  "It slipped my mind," she told him. "I suppose so."

  "You'd better be there," he said. "You're the most popular nurse in the place. If I'm not mistaken, you'll be asked for every dance."

  She laughed. "Victoria Wales has promised to introduce me to all the right people."

  "And she will." Ken laughed, too. "She presides over these dances as she used to over her Washington parties years ago."

  So on Saturday evening Jean put on a long gown and waited for Ken to call for her. He arrived promptly at seven and used the excuse that she looked especially pretty to give her a kiss. An easy comradeship had grown between them. Ken was still working to help get Peggy and Frank out of the hospital, and Jean was doing all she could to assist him. It gave them a joint project.

  Some of the staff had decorated the assembly room with streamers of colored crepe paper extending from the central light fixture to the walls of the big room. The four-piece orchestra was seated on the stage, and the chairs lined along the walls were beginning to fill up with patients, women on one side and men on the other. Several uniformed nurses presided over the event, and Jean saw that Bertha Fraser was one of them.

  When Bertha saw Jean and the young doctor enter together, she turned away and pretended to be busy so as to avoid greeting them. Soon after they arrived, the music began, and Jean and Ken had the first dance. After that, they had to give their attention to the various patients.

  Jean was standing away from the floor for a moment, watching Ken dancing with tiny Peggy Chase. The tall, handsome doctor and the pretty, dark girl seemed to be having a fine time. The lights had been dimmed a little to give the room a romantic atmosphere. These parties lasted until shortly after ten, and it was now only eight-thirty.