Patient_Crew

by Hannah Kaplan

  “Good job,” Tim said to me as he came into the room. “Always get more information than you give.”

  “Did you find out anything?” Marla asked.

  “It seems you have a small cultic following,” Tim said. “You, and your patient. It isn’t unusual for this to happen with these sorts of books. There’s a few blogs discussing it, nothing radical. I can’t see how it would hurt to write another. Try to keep it technical.”

  “People are blogging about the book?” Marla asked. “What kind of things are they saying?”

  “They speculate about the real patient and who it might be. Is it he or she? Stuff like that,” Tim said. “There are only a couple of blogs with a few followers. It’s not a mob of people, just a few. Nothing to worry about.” He looked worried to me. Then again Tim always looked worried.

  “I guess I shouldn’t be unhappy that people like the book. They are discussing it. That is a good thing, right?” Marla asked, seeking our approval.

  “Right,” Tim said. “You get that second book finished. Damn the torpedoes baby.”

  “What about you, Shanna? I won’t do this without your blessing.”

  “God knows we have to do something with all those notebooks piling up in my room,” I said. “Go ahead and write it just make sure no one knows I’m the patient.”

  It took three months for Marla to finish the second book; six months after being published—Ceely Masters, an ex-lawyer turned pop-culture courtroom sideshow host, called. The show’s producer explained that Marla would be their psychiatric expert. Marla was schmoozed to the point of no return, and by the time she was off the phone they had booked her for the live show via satellite link with a local Dallas-Fort Worth TV station.

  Marla spent six days straight in her office researching the defendant du jour and his crime. Tim and I took up the slack on cooking and cleaning. When the crew started talking I locked myself in the bedroom, Tim never questioned me. On the seventh day Marla emerged from her office.

  “I don’t believe my brain can handle another moment of Wayne Perkins.” She propped herself up against the kitchen wall. “What’s cooking? It smells fabulous.”

  “It’s called Shanna and Tim’s fabulous chicken,” Tim said and kissed Marla. “Tell me good Doctor, have you developed a theory?”

  “I believe I have,” Marla said. They hugged and kissed while I kept my attention on the pan of chicken and mushroom sauce.

  “Would you like to share your theory with us?” Tim asked.

  “No,” she said with a wink. “You’ll have to wait with the rest of the world”

  “Oh come on,” I argued. “Not even a hint?”

  “No,” she said. “How can it be a newsflash friend if the friends already know?”

  We had a good laugh. It was the last meal we three would share. The next evening a limo and driver were waiting at seven. Marla was driven to the studio where makeup and wardrobe was anxiously awaiting her arrival. The Ceely Masters Show spared no expense.

  “We’ve both watched this Ceely woman’s show,” I said. Tim and I were pacing the floor and chewing our nails. “She’s ruthless. What if she disagrees with Marla’s diagnosis?”

  “Her theory,” Tim corrected. “Marla doesn’t diagnose. She saves that for Doctors of the body. Marla treats the mind.”

  “Theory,” I said. “Whatever. What if that she-devil disagrees with her? She’ll gut her alive via satellite link.”

  “Marla’s a smart woman. She can hold her own,” Tim said. “But just in case it’s a boxing match we should make popcorn.”

  “It’s going to be a bloodbath,” I said.

  Fifteen minutes before the show was set to air we nuked a bag of popcorn. I was nervous and could see that Tim shared my fear. We both wanted the best for Marla. Her book could and would see bigger sales by virtue of her appearance alone on Ceely Masters. The show started after—much to Tim’s chagrin—a tampon commercial.

  “That’s why I don’t watch TV,” Tim quipped.

  “Most people just ignore stuff like that,” I said. Tim wasn’t anything like most people. Nothing escaped his notice. He questioned everything he encountered.

  The familiar sympathetic music played as the show began. Various pictures of Ceely Masters floated across the screen—Ceely interviews a grieving family while crying with them, Ceely grimly researches a crime scene over the Internet. The painfully sweet music turned to a rhythmic drumbeat. Ceely’s voice was stern.

  “Here are the facts: Wayne Perkins five feet six, one hundred eighty-pounds, white male brutally murdered his wife Lisa. He then butchered her with a chainsaw, put her body parts inside three trash bags and dumped her in the garbage bin.”

  The pre-taped opening was replaced by a live shot of Ceely Masters. “Newsflash friends! Today in the courtroom, Wayne Perkins pled guilty by reason of insanity,” her grimace turned into a smile.

  “Good evening, and thank you for inviting me into your home tonight. Wayne Perkins claims to hear voices. These voices, according to the defense’s theory, told him to kill his wife. When he refused to do what the voices had demanded of him, Wayne Perkins claims those voices took over his body, murdered, and slaughtered his wife while he was sleeping.” She dropped her head while her voice went soft. “Now I’ve heard my share of irrational stories, but this takes the cake.” She faced the side camera, and the grim face returned. “Tonight, we are throwing out the usual format. We have invited a special guest to our show,” she paused. “Doctor Marla Todd specializes in schizophrenia, i.e. hearing voices. Her book, the reason she is with us tonight, is Patient: Crew,” she paused again, and smiled. “We’ll be right back with the questions you want answered.”

  “Fuck me,” I said. The entire sequence took no more than a minute, and I found it impossible to look away.

  “It catches the attention,” Tim was not impressed. It was easy to see he wanted this whole nightmare over and done. Tim and Marla enjoyed a private life. They didn’t associate themselves with social clubs, religion or friends. They chose to remain childless and instead, dedicated their lives to each other and their careers. Tim didn’t have any family to speak of, and Marla’s parents were dead. Marla would say, we have each other and that’s all we need. While I was concerned with my own safety, Tim was worried about Marla’s. The show returned with a close-up of Ceely. Tim and I leaned forward with great interest as Marla was introduced.

  “With the help of our sister station WDFW in downtown Dallas, Texas, we now open our satellite link. Tonight we welcome Dr. Marla Todd to the show.” Marla appeared on the split screen opposite Ceely.

  “Thank you Ceely for having me on your show,” Marla said.

  “You are very welcome Doctor Todd. Now, let’s start with the books.” One at a time Ceely held up both Patient: Crew books for the TV audience to see. The books were the size of an average novel housing over six hundred pages between the two. “When were these books written?”

  “The first book was written mid-year two-thousand eight. The second book was written last year,” Marla said.

  “So the second book was written in two-thousand eleven?” Ceely asked.

  “Yes,” Marla said. “That’s right. The work was finished in January of two thousand eleven. I believe it was published in December.”

  “The twelfth of December to be exact,” Ceely said. “The first one was published on December eleventh of two thousand and nine.”

  “That sounds right,” Marla said.

  “It is right,” Ceely said with arrogance. “I have both books in front of me.”

  “Get to the point,” Tim said to the TV screen.

  “Shush,” I demanded.

  “All I’m saying is what the hell does it matter?” Tim argued.

  “You are familiar with the State of Texas vs. Perkins murder trial in the courts today, am I correct?” Ceely asked.

  “I am familiar through internet research,” Marla said, careful to cover her ass. “I have not followed
the trial daily.”

  “I see,” Ceely said. “Your book is based on a patient that hears voices.”

  “Yes,” Marla said. “The book is a guide for other Doctors and Therapists to use in their own clinical studies.”

  “You mean to use on their own patients,” Ceely corrected.

  “No, I mean as a guide.”

  “Is Patient Crew schizophrenic?” Ceely demanded.

  “My patient has not been diagnosed as schizophrenic,” Marla answered gracefully.

  “It’s a simple question,” Ceely laughed. “You claim to be a specialist in schizophrenia yet you don’t know if the subject of the book is schizophrenic?”

  “By definition, my patient shows symptoms of schizophrenia, but we control the voices. I don’t know of any schizophrenic patient that has achieved this level of control without medication.”

  “Well Doctor, that sounds like double speak to me. Tell me Doctor Todd was Patient Crew in your care on the night of June first, two-thousand and ten?”

  “Yes,” Marla said.

  “I’m going to read a paragraph from the first book of Patient: Crew,” Ceely said. “With your permission.”

  Marla was not seen but I could hear her muddled tone of agreement as Ceely continued. “Let me remind you friends that this book, the first book of Patient: Crew,” she held up the book. “This book was published on the eleventh of December, two-thousand and nine. The voice known as The Poet speaks: Give me peace. Let me be. Leave now Lisa or you will see devastation caused by the real me.” Ceely looked at the camera, “On the same page the voice known as The Singer says: Once there was a little girl who married whom she loved. Six and eight of forty-four North of thirty-two twenty-six with a point ninety-one six seventy-eight. She turned and found the one she loved was filled with nothing but hate. West of ninety-nine, and forty-three with a point ninety-eight and six eighty-four.

  I don’t know how this gibberish could be called a song but no matter, the words and numbers greatly concern us.” Ceely closed the book and looked through the camera lens at her television friends. “The video you will see is the first interview with Wayne Perkins. It was recorded on the second of June, two thousand and ten—the very night that he murdered and dismembered his young, beautiful wife Lisa.”

  The video began. Marla could be seen looking down at a monitor off camera. Ceely began to quote The Poet. “Give me peace. Let me be.”

  A detective interviewing Wayne Perkins was listening to his prisoner “I just wanted some peace and quite you know. I just wanted her to let me be, so I could get some sleep,” Wayne said while crying pitiful, selfish tears.

  Marla remained stoic as Ceely continued. “Leave now Lisa or you will see devastation caused by the real me.”

  “I warned her,” Wayne said. “How did you warn her?” the detective asked. “I told her if she kept on me she might push me too far, and I knew her life would be devastated if she saw the real me,” Wayne said. The video stopped.

  “Do you have a comment, Doctor Todd?” Ceely asked.

  “No,” Marla said. “I’m curious what the point you’re obviously trying to make, is.”

  “You are correct,” Ceely smirked. “Very observant of you, but I guess that’s why they call you Doctor.” Ceely twisted in the chair for her close-up. “The song that we read, of the voice called The Singer, included a series of numbers. Producer Ann studied those numbers, and has discovered they are the GPS coordinates for the very house Wayne Perkins shared with Lisa. The same house where he murdered Lisa, and blamed the voices. We’ll be back friends.

  ”Tim got up slowly, and looked straight through me. “Be back in a second. Don’t let it start without me.” He returned carrying his laptop.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked. “What does Wayne Perkins have to do with me, or the crew?”

  “Not sure,” Tim said while keeping one eye on the TV, and one on the laptop.

  The show returned. “Welcome back friends, and welcome back Doctor Todd,” Ceely said with a smirk that morphed into her usual sanctimonious smile. “Is Wayne Perkins Patient Crew? Did he tell you a year in advance of his plans to murder his wife?”

  “No!” Marla said. “I don’t understand what you are implying.”

  “I am not implying. I am inferring. I am stating a fact. Your book, Patient: Crew, either foretold or told of Wayne Perkins entire murderous plan even down to the GPS coordinates for the house in which the murder would take place.” Ceely looked at her TV friends. “Side note: Wayne and Lisa Perkins didn’t move into this house until February of two-thousand and ten. That is two months after the first book of, Patient: Crew, was published. Doctor Todd will you tell us how you came about this information? Who is Patient Crew?"

  “You are trying to fit a square peg into a round hole,” Marla said, her voice becoming weak.

  “Again Doctor Todd,” Ceely glared at her. “Are Wayne Perkins and Patient Crew one and the same?”

  The music from the commercial break started and Tim called Marla from his cell—it went straight to voicemail. He held the phone close to his face, typing on the screen with his thumbs and sent a text.

  “What did you say?” I asked.

  “Leave,” Tim answered.

  “You think it’s true, what she said?”

  “You need to pack light and fast.”

  “Why?”

  Tim moved the laptop enabling me to see its screen, and the Internet homepage of the Ceely Masters show. In the center of the page was an ongoing discussion about that night’s show.

  Tim’s phone rang. “It’s Marla,” he said, and went into the kitchen. I continued to read the discussion. One person’s comment said the voices had predicted the winning lottery numbers for every drawing held in the United States on March thirteenth, two thousand eleven. Another comment stated that The Professor foretold a massive earthquake in India a year before it happened. My heart was pounding. My breathing became shallow and cold.

  Tim came back in a panic. “Pack now!” he said.

  It took me ten minutes to pack a small suitcase. We left through the kitchen door that led to the garage. There were no windows, yet Tim cautiously unscrewed the light before leading me (wrapped in a blanket) to the backseat of his car.

  “Stay down until it’s safe,” he said with a calm voice. “Are you ok?”

  “I’m ok,” I said. Panic was swirling through my body. My life was changing, and again the voices were the cause of major upheaval. I could feel the car pick up speed as we entered a highway, and then my eyes closed. When I woke up the car had stopped, and Tim was patting my shoulder.

  “We’re here,” he said.

  “Where?” I asked.

  “It’s a safe place for a few days, and that’s all you need to know.”

  The garage was small and clean. The automatic door was closed and again, there were no windows or lights. We walked from there into a furnished room. On one wall was a kitchen, on the adjacent was a bed, and in the corner of the third wall was a small-enclosed toilet and shower. The fourth wall housed a desk where Tim had put his laptop. We were on the ground floor, and I could hear the sounds of people above and around us.

  “It’s an apartment,” I said.

  “I’ve taught you well,” Tim smiled. “Take a nap. I’ll be here at the desk when you wake up.”

  I rolled up into a fetal position deep inside the sheets, leaving only enough room for fresh air. Tim turned on some soft music, and I faded to sleep. It was early the next morning when I woke to the smell of burning coffee. Tim, slumped over the desk, jumped to his feet without so much as a groan when he heard me walking across the floor.

  “Good morning,” I said. I cleaned out the coffee pot and started some fresh.

  “You’ll be here for another day at the most. The kitchen’s stocked. I’ll cook up some eggs,” he said.

  “Then what?”

  “The good news is they don’t know what or who you are. The Agency’s on Marla like st
ink on shit. The law to a certain extent protects her, but I’ll have to lie.”

  “Have you spoken with her?” I asked. “When will she be here?”

  “She’s not coming,” he said. “It’s not safe. I’ve been blocked from the Agency’s Internet database, which means they want to talk to me. We have to put some distance between the two of you while I investigate.”

  “Why?”

  “The code and the key should never travel together,” he said.

  “I can talk to them and explain that we didn’t know anything about that murder, or that man. I can show them what I do, I’m sure they’ll understand.”

  Tim chuckled. “You’re a silly, little girl. Don’t you see that’s what they want? The only questions they will ask Marla are who and where are you. They don’t care what—you—have to say. They want to know what your crew has to say. They want the future. The whole goddam world wants to find you, and you want to explain. What the fuck is it that you’re going to explain?”

  “Ok! That’s enough, I get it.” I didn’t recognize Tim’s unfamiliar, intimidating tone. “Do I have to change my name?”

  “No,” he said sharply. “That would raise more flags than it’s worth. The Ceely Masters interview went viral overnight. It’s on every news station, TV and radio. It’s practically shut down the Internet. Marla will not give up a name, that’s a guarantee. I’ve erased any record of your ever being in Dallas. You’ve got to protect yourself and make sure no one finds out about the voices. Don’t let anyone see you write, act normal, make up a story and stick to it. I’ve arranged a place for you to live and supplies to last a year or more. There’s a bank account in your name, you’ll have enough money to sustain, and you have the deed to your grandparent’s farm.”

  “You’re sending me back?” I asked.

  “You’re going home,” he said.

  “This is my home. You and Marla are my home. I’m not ready for this to end, not yet.”

  “Shanna—move forward.”

  “I don’t want to,” I said. “Why don’t I have a choice or at least a say in all this? It’s my life, and I should have a choice.”

  “You need to suck it up girl,” he demanded.