by Ann Black
“Either way, I suspect he’ll turn up at the funeral just to show you that he can...and to let you know he was involved,” I answer evenly.
I’m almost home and I take a second to consider whether I need to get milk or not. Having decided, I park outside the struggling, family-owned corner grocery I make a point of giving my business to. I continue talking into the mobile as I step into the chilly night air.
“I’m working on my documentation, but we’ll need more. He’s clever and he knows the system. He watches what he says. I’m building a case but there aren’t any clues about past crimes.”
“No, it was a long shot anyway. I’m still working on that at my end,” Bob responds.
“He’s under pressure, Bob. He needs the feeling of control that killing gives him. Keep a close eye on him; he will strike again. Have a good look at your home security,” I add, knowing we’re both in danger.
“No need to worry about my fuckin’ home security. It’d take more than a weed like Kyle fuckin’ Stevens to break through my system. Bring it fuckin’ on,” he finishes in a fresh wave of anger.
Week Four
Tuesday August 15th, 10:35am
Glancing at my watch I hurriedly complete the end-of-session case notes for Sonia, “...good insight and awareness regarding anger management. Some continued vulnerability concerning boundaries. Agreed to continue professional development supervision to manage professional risk factors.”
Flicking quickly through her file, I’m satisfied she’s maintained most of her treatment gains. But she does still need someone to challenge her aggressive tendencies in the professional sphere. Just to help her keep it clean...and legal.
The reception phone line bleeps, “Yes?”
“Can I put you through to Ben at the Pharmacy?” Phyllis asks.
“Sure. How long until my next appointment?”
“Well, you’ve got Khia booked in, but she was a no-show last week and she didn’t confirm her reminder text. She’s not here now...and you’re running 15 minutes late,” Phyllis explains.
Annoyance pulses in my temples. Fucking hell, Khia. Probably back on the drugs again and full blown this time, I’d say. “Alright, thanks Phyllis. Cancel her ongoings and write to her Compensation lawyer. We’ll make further appointments when she gets back in touch.”
“Will do, putting Ben through now.”
I wait until I hear the line change. “Ben, how can I be of assistance?”
Ben took on his father’s pharmacy business twelve months ago. He’s still learning the ropes, but he’d developed a good reputation within the local medical community.
“John, how are you?” he asks amiably. We exchange the usual preamble before he continues. “I’m ringing because there seems to be an unusually large amount of prescriptions coming from you for benzo’s. Does that sound right?”
My stomach curls as I do some quick mental calculations. “No, it doesn’t. You know how I feel about handing that shit out,” I answer.
“Yeah, I know. What do you want us to do?” he asks.
“Can you send through the list of prescriptions and we’ll check it out at our end?” We exchange the usual niceties before I hang up.
My mind starts turning and I buzz Phyllis, “Did you end up finding those extra prescription pads?” I ask.
“No I didn’t. In fact when I went over the inventory, there were three I couldn’t account for. The supplier sent through an email and I ordered more a few weeks ago but they still haven’t arrived,” she adds with concern.
“Could you give them a call and find out everything you can? If they sent them, I want to know when and how many.”
“Sure, John. What’s going on?” She sounds a little anxious.
“Not sure. Ben will email us a list of patients getting scripts filled. Can you cross-reference with our appointment schedule and I’ll go through and check my patient records to confirm whether I’ve written them.” Even as I say the words I’m thinking about Kyle. “When is Kyle due this week?” I ask tightly.
Phyllis clicks her computer, “Not until tomorrow. He rescheduled.”
I’m distracted, but manage to finish the day’s appointments.
5:30pm
I’m sitting opposite Ivan in the deep armchair. The fire is flickering and the room is a mellow gold in the lamplight. It’s dark outside and he’s looking at me, waiting.
“I’m angrier than usual. It leaks out more often now,” I eventually say. It’s a small confession but it feels like I pried the information out of my soul.
Ivan nods as if he isn’t surprised, “Tell me more about the anger,” he says.
“I’m angry that I didn’t pay attention to Monica. She was in trouble. I could see it in her eyes. If I hadn’t been so afraid she was trying to lure me into a relationship, I might have seen what was really happening to her,” anger competes with guilt...I’m ashamed of myself for being a narcissistic prick.
“Given that your significant psychiatric talents don’t include mind reading, how could you know that she was in trouble or mixed up with Kyle?” he asks reasonably.
“It was subtle,” I argue, “it was in her tone, her look ...”
“Hardly evidentiary and given the superficial nature of your liaisons, it would have made more sense at the time to assume she was forming an attachment,” he responds.
He’s right. I breathe out, feeling a little relieved. After a while I continue, “I’m angry with Kyle. He’s poisoned my world and I can’t control him.” Emotions flood me; anger and helplessness chase each other, in what feels like a tornado of feeling. I want to hit someone.
Ivan moves fractionally closer and holds my gaze, steadying me. “What does this feeling remind you of?” he asks softly.
I blink hard and think back, oh fuck, here it is again. “Boarding School, Kirk Daniels. Again.”
Ivan nods. “How did that situation resolve?” he asks for my benefit rather than his.
“I beat the living shit out of him. Fractured his nose, jaw, two ribs, bruised his kidneys...but it was his head. If someone hadn’t stopped me I would have killed him.”
“What feeling do you notice now?”
I release a shaky breath and focus inward until I can identify it. “Fear, I wanted to kill that day. I visualised smashing his head into the concrete until he was a bloody mess...I have that in me.”
“Are you afraid of what you’re capable of doing to Kyle?” he asks.
I nod, “I want to hunt him down. I want him to attack me, so that I can destroy him.”
“Do you mean you want to destroy Kyle, or the killer in Kyle that reminds you of yourself?”
Comprehension dawns.
After a while I begin to speak again. “You’re right. It’s like if I got rid of Kyle I could right the wrong in myself...I could erase what happened to Monica. I’m not afraid of Kyle but looking at him is like looking in the mirror. A different home environment, a few different spins in the course of my life and I might have been Kyle.”
Ivan nods, “And how many of us don’t understand our own shadows well enough to comprehend that about ourselves? John, you’re not Kyle and never will be.”
As he intended, my mind ticks forward and I know where he is taking me. The more connected I can feel to others, the less like Kyle I’ll become—it should be easy but after years of avoiding intimacy, it’s nauseating.
Wednesday August 16th, 11:10am
Kyle is due at eleven-thirty, I stare at my desk phone, pick it up and put it down again. Taking a deep breath, I promise myself that I will keep it short. I can do this. I pick up the phone again and this time I manage to dial the number.
After a few short rings, my mother answers. “John! Lovely to hear from you, dear.” She sounds genuinely happy. There’s obviously some bond between us, despite her aversion to me throughout my childhood.
I manage to control my predictable irritation as we talk about her new kitchen, holiday to France in October and my f
ather’s heart symptoms. I agree to fly to Sydney to see them within the next couple of weeks and finish the call.
Phyllis buzzes, “No Kyle yet John, but a Social Worker from the Hospital called and wants you to contact her about Khia Morrison.”
I phone the number and ask to speak to the Social Worker, Michelle Graham. I wait a short while until she answers. “Hello, Michelle here,” she sounds a little breathless, as if she ran to the phone.
“Hello Michelle, John Epstein returning your call,” I answer.
“Hello, John. Thanks for getting back to me so quickly. I’m phoning because Khia Morrison has been admitted,” I expect her to say Khia has taken an overdose and begin to calculate whether I can finish a little early and drop in to see her on my way home tonight. “Khia has been raped and bashed and is asking to see you.”
I take a moment to adjust to what I have just heard. “When?” I croak out.
“Yesterday evening. Police have been informed but they haven’t sent anyone to take a statement yet,” she answers.
“I’ll be there as soon as possible—and will probably bring a Detective with me,” I add, taking down the ward number and the details of her Doctor before hanging up.
2:54pm
“Kyle didn’t attend,” I say by way of greeting as Bob climbs into my car. We’d agreed I’d collect him from the Police Station and see Khia together. I pull onto the road and continue. “Missing the session was a breach of his Parole and he knows I’ll write it up in the worst way possible. I’ll be surprised if he isn’t behind Khia’s attack, but I don’t understand why he missed his session. It doesn’t make any sense.”
Bob nods in agreement, “Don’t know what’s happened. But now that the prick’s breached his parole conditions, all we have to do is find him.” He checks his mobile and tucks it into his top pocket, “I’m waiting on a call from Monica’s mother,” he explains. “She tried to phone earlier but I was tied up.”
“Any idea what it’s about?” I ask.
Bob shakes his head and looks out the window. Glancing sideways I notice his skin tone is blotchy red. I worry vaguely about his cardiac risk factors, before deliberately putting the thoughts out of my head. He’s stressed. We both are. Now that Kyle has breached his parole conditions, he’s got nothing to lose and he’ll be more dangerous than ever.
“The Coroner’s backed up again. Word is, it’ll take him a couple of weeks to release Monica’s body for the funeral,” Bob says, still looking out the window. “My guess is that they’ll want to see if I can speed things up for them.” We both knew that wasn’t going to happen. “Poor bastards,” he finishes meaningfully.
Finally, we arrive at the Hospital. I find a park and we make our way up to the Women’s Ward. The Nurse at the desk tells us that Khia has been given her own room, a minor miracle given the shortage of beds. When Bob asks, she confirms that a Rape Kit was completed and the samples were sent for testing. She takes us down the corridor and knocks before opening the door.
Khia’s motley purple and black hair is the only part of her I recognise. Both her eyes are puffed almost completely shut from the bruising and swelling. Her nose has been fractured and there is a thin strip of gauze across it to keep it stabilised. The white hospital sheet is pulled up to her neck and she is lying flat on her back.
As I draw nearer to the bed I detect the merest movement of her eyes and realise she’s recognised me. “Hello, Khia,” I say and motion towards Bob. “This is Detective Bob James. He’s here to take your statement,” I explain.
Bob approaches and, since Khia doesn’t seem to be able to turn her head, leans in slightly so she can see his face. “Hello, Khia. I apologise, but there isn’t a female Detective available. You can have your statement taken tomorrow, but we would like to start looking for suspects as soon as possible. Also, the longer you wait to give your statement, the harder it’ll be to remember, which can undermine the strength of your evidence if you make a mistake.”
Khia wets her lips with her tongue. “No, fuck that. I want that prick to go down.” Her voice is a heart-breaking whisper.
I walk to the other side of the bed and lean across a little so she can see me, “Khia, do you want me to stay for this?”
Her eyes lock with mine. “No.”
“Can I phone a friend to be here for support?” I ask.
“No,” she croaks quietly again.
I nod. “Okay. Do you know who did this to you?”
She closes her eyes as if gathering the strength to answer my question, “Kyle Stevens,” she whispers. While I’m absorbing the confirmation of my worst fear, she continues on. “He wanted me to give you a message.”
My heart starts hammering. Of course. Kyle would only spare Khia if it suited his plans. She pauses again. It’s hard for her to talk. “He said he’s coming for you...he said he’s not going back behind bars...he said to tell you you’re a dead man.”
Week Five
Wednesday, August 23rd, 9:15am
I take a mouthful of coffee and watch while Phyllis gathers the last of the patient files corresponding to the list of prescriptions Ben sent through from the pharmacy. The practice is closed until we can be confident that patient security isn’t threatened.
I try not to think about what this is costing me. I have a comfortable contingency fund to draw on and Phyllis has agreed to take some of her holiday leave after tomorrow, but I’m not going to be able to keep it up for long.
Not that I have a choice, I remind myself. While I would welcome the opportunity to smash the smirk off Kyle’s face, the same people who’ve trusted me are now in danger because of me.
Khia and Monica...their faces regularly flash into my mind. I down the rest of the coffee and dump the takeaway cup in the bin. In a way, it feels good to be losing the money—at least I’m suffering in some way too. After all, why the fuck should I be sitting pretty when my actions have led to the destruction of at least two lives so far?
And it was the ‘so far’ bit that scared the shit out of me. We’ve all been wracking our minds to find out how Kyle managed to target Khia. But until we get that sorted out anyone close to me is at risk...and that includes my patients.
For now, the only solution is to stop feeding Kyle information. If he wants me he is going to have to come and get me...and I know that time is fast approaching.
“When is the IT specialist expected?” I ask as Phyllis hands me more files.
Phyllis looks at her watch, “About 11, I think.”
“Good. Let me know when he gets here would you?”
“Sure.”
I spend the next hour absorbed in my task. Working through the file notes, list of prescriptions and repeats, it becomes obvious that the missing prescription pads were stolen and someone has made thousands of dollars supplying drugs on the black market. That someone was obviously Kyle. Now I just had to try and work out how to prove it.
11:45am
Bob, Phyllis and I stand around the reception computer while Mark the I.T. Specialist, hacks our system at an insulting speed.
As he taps the keyboard the monitor flicks through confusing layers of data screens. Every now and then he pushes his over-sized glasses up his nose and makes a series of scoffing noises.
Finally he looks at Bob and says, “This system is shit. Seriously a twelve year old could get into this.”
I feel my hackles rise but manage to keep a lid on my anger. Mark is definitely on the Aspergers end of the spectrum; poor social skills, low empathy, obsessive interest and high capacity in one area, probably solitary and likes it that way.
Mark looks at Phyllis. “Did you open any strange emails lately?”
Phyllis is thoughtful for a moment and my heart goes out to her, “Um, no I don’t...wait. There was something odd, now that I think of it. It was the prescription pads. I received a re-order email, which was a bit strange, I completed it and sent it back but when our other pads went missing I was told the order hadn’t been receive
d.” She looked mortified, a hand went to the base of her throat and she looked from Mark to me and then to Bob, “Might that have had something to do with this?” she asks.
Mark rolled his eyes. “Yes, in a word. That email was probably a Trojan. To dumb it down for you,” he says cruelly, “as soon as you clicked the link, the hacker could send through the virus, which meant free access to your entire system,” he finishes condescendingly.
I digest what he is saying slowly, feeling a little numb. “You mean my patient list, their contact details, addresses, diagnoses, notes, reports, urinalysis...the lot?”
Mark nods. “Yep. I haven’t heard of that scam before, but it’s been effective.”
Bob starts scribbling on his note pad, “I’ll need the dates and location of the remote access computer.”
Mark taps and lists the dates of the remote access. He says he needs more time to track down the source of the virus and arrangements are made to take the hard drive out for further analysis.
12:30pm
Bob, Phyllis and I are sitting around the polished walnut table in the practice kitchen. A print-out of the fraudulent prescriptions sits neatly to one side of Bob. He scribbles on his battered notepad.
Phyllis has stopped crying, thank Christ, and she’s washed what remained of her make-up off her face. She’s watching Bob, quietly waiting for opportunities to help out with extra information.
Finally, Bob looks up. “You realise there are hundreds of these things unaccounted for, right?” I nod and he continues. “What we’ll do now is canvass other pharmacies for the scripts and check any CCTV footage we can. Did Kyle have the opportunity to take these from here?”
Phyllis nods. “Yes, I keep the pads in my desk drawer. I noticed he would often attend appointments very early. Sometimes I would have to leave my desk while he was here.” She draws a shaky breath. “Do you think there is anything else I can help you with, Detective?” she asks.