The Secret Room

by Sandra Block

  “Not for certain, but we’re assuming he was putting the arsenic in Andre’s drinks during their visits. Unfortunately, the trash is emptied daily. So we might not be able to get that evidence.”

  “You could go to the dumpster,” I suggest.

  “Already being done, Zoe,” he says, a smile in his voice. “Don’t worry. We’re doing everything we can to nail this guy.”

  A guard walks by the room, whistling “Whistle While You Work,” which strikes me as overly self-referential. “What about his other phone?”

  “Getting a warrant for both phones,” he says. “That should be in place by end of day. We’ll know if he was the one sending the texts or not.”

  “Good.” For the first time in a long while, I feel as if things are falling into place. As if there is some semblance of order in my chaotic world. “Do you know anything about his girlfriend?”

  “Her name is Ms. Shonda Lee,” the detective says. “She didn’t think she was his girlfriend, though. She’s been his fiancée for years. She thought they were getting married this summer. They had Jermaine while he was still married to Charmayne.”

  “So she didn’t know about—”

  “No idea,” he says. “She didn’t even know Charmayne existed, let alone died. And she certainly didn’t know about Andre.”

  “Wow.” The whistling guard is heading toward me down the hall. “Speaking of which, did you get a chance to see Andre yet?”

  “Yes. He’s at the County.”

  “How’s he doing?”

  The detective doesn’t answer right away. “I don’t know, Zoe. It’s not my expertise, obviously, but he didn’t look good. He’s in the ICU. The nurse said he’s on dialysis.”

  “Oh.” The word is inadequate. I am engulfed by shame. I should have known. It was right in front of me the whole time. Hair loss, pale skin, hallucinations. Not schizophrenia. Arsenic poisoning. I just couldn’t see it through his gloves. “I’m going to see him as soon as I’m done here.”

  “Good.” The detective clears his throat then. “Zoe, I owe you an apology.”

  “No, no,” I break in. “You absolutely don’t. I know I haven’t seemed all that stable lately.”

  “I absolutely do. After all we’ve been through…I should have trusted you. And I’m sorry about that.”

  “Well,” I say with a sense of vindication, “I was a little beyond the pale there for a bit. But anyway, apology accepted.”

  “And if there’s anything I can do,” the detective continues.

  Then I think about it. “Actually, there is one thing.”

  “Name it.”

  “Talk to the warden for me,” I say. “Tell him I’m not crazy.”

  * * *

  “Oh, hey, you guys,” Logan says with cheer as, uninvited, he pulls up a chair next to me and Jason in the cafeteria. I don’t have time to linger, and he’s not a welcome sight. I just want to eat before racing over to the County to see Andre and then home to sleep. I’m running on fumes right now.

  “Heard some rumors,” Logan says. Neither of us answers, but I notice Jason preening his hair a bit. “They’re saying something about a poisoning?”

  “Probably best to talk to the warden,” I say.

  “I’m going to,” he assures me. “But from what I heard, you guys were the ones to discover it.”

  “Zoe was,” Jason says, and I shoot him a look, as he just fell for the oldest trick in the book.

  “So there was a poisoning,” Logan confirms, pulling out his notebook.

  Jason offers me a sheepish, apologetic smile. “We are suspecting poisoning,” I say, twirling my French fry in a pile of ketchup. “But it’s not been confirmed.”

  Logan leans back with a look of approbation. “So that seems like a feather in the cap of the forensic psych team, huh? Which would work nicely in the feature.”

  “I guess,” I allow, thinking of my own win-loss column. I can’t put Andre in the win column yet, though. Not until I see how he’s doing. Which sounds as if it’s not very good.

  “Don’t sell yourself short,” Logan says. “I hear they’re calling you Dr. House around here.” I try not to smile, well aware that he’s using flattery to butter me up.

  “Girl’s got some mad diagnostic skills,” Jason says.

  “No pun intended,” Logan says, and Jason laughs, too hard. There is silence then, as I finish off more than enough French fries for me and the lemon. I notice Logan stealing a glance at Jason, who fixes his eyebrow as if he’s in a Ralph Lauren ad while pretending not to notice.

  “Anyway,” Logan says, turning to me, “let’s get that interview done. We definitely have a positive slant at this point.”

  I half nod in answer, which I hope is enough to put him off for now. He pats both of our shoulders in a farewell gesture and walks off.

  “You know,” I say, “I think he might actually be into you.”

  “I know, right? I’ve been telling you.” Jason stands up with his tray. “I might ask him out, but not until after the article is done.”

  “Quite the restraint, Jason.”

  “Go to hell,” he says pleasantly, and goes to return his tray.

  After finishing every morsel on my plate, I return my tray a few minutes later, and leave the cafeteria. I’m heading to the clinic to grab my stuff when the overhead speaker comes on.

  Alert Delta A wing. Code 327. Alert Delta A wing. Code 327.

  No. Not again. Oh God, not again.

  A guard is running by me. “Where’s the code?” I ask him.

  “The kennels,” he calls back to me.

  * * *

  The wind is ferocious, whipping so hard it pushes me back.

  “Did she fall?” Maloney is asking Harry, the guard who was stationed there for the day.

  “I wasn’t even here,” he says breathlessly. “No one was scheduled for rec time right now. I just came up with the announcement.” We gaze around at the empty kennels. “She must have jumped.”

  “How did she even get up here?” Maloney peers over the rooftop edge and winces. I look over, too, and he pushes me back. “Be careful, Dr. Goldman.”

  “Who was it?” I ask, seeing only a body dressed in orange, in odd angles on the ground.

  “We have to get verification still,” he says. “But word is, Janaya Jones.”

  “Ol’ White Lady?” I gasp.

  Harry looks puzzled. “I’m pretty sure she’s black.”

  “No, I know. I just—” The wind swoops in again, knocking my breath away for a minute. “She said someone was after her. That someone wanted to kill her. But then she said she was okay again. That she was at peace. I just figured…” We look around at the scene. There’s snowy footprints everywhere from the prison-issued boots. “No one else was up here with her?” I ask.

  “Like I told him,” Harry says, “I wasn’t here. But there’s no one signed in on the logbook. I just checked.”

  “Did you tell anyone?” Maloney asks me. “That she said she was in danger?”

  “Yes.” I have to almost yell above the wind. “I told you, remember? I told a couple of the guards that very night. And I was going to tell the warden, but…” I don’t bother finishing the sentence. He wouldn’t have believed me.

  Then the inevitable text interrupts our conversation. And I know whom it will be from, and what it will say.

  Warden’s office. Right now.

  From Dr. Novaire.

  * * *

  “You,” the warden says, pointing a finger at me to clarify as I walk into the room.

  “I just saw her,” I say.

  “That’s right. Which is even more troubling.”

  “But she wasn’t suicidal. She was at peace, she said. She just told me that.”

  “I’ve heard it before from you, Dr. Goldman. Again and again.”

  “But really.” I turn for support to Dr. Novaire, who is looking away. He looks just plain worn out and ready to retire already. “She said someone was
after her.”

  “Who?” the warden asks.

  I pause. “She wasn’t sure. She said that was the rumor, though. Someone wanted to kill her.”

  “And did you tell someone about this?”

  “I-I…told the guard on duty that night. A couple of guards,” I say, realizing how lame this sounds. “Honestly, I thought she was just paranoid from her disorder.”

  “Which she may very well have been,” Dr. Novaire says, happy to be able to contribute to the conversation.

  The warden strides toward me. “Did it ever occur to you that this paranoia may have been what sent her over the edge? That she may have jumped because she was so frightened of whatever she thought was after her?”

  I consider this for a second.

  “And that she may, in fact, have required stronger medication for her disorder?”

  “That’s possible,” I say. “But she was being treated. Very appropriately. I mean, she didn’t always take her medications, but…”

  “Did we have a recent level?” Dr. Novaire asks.

  “Her last one was low. But she had just started taking it again.” Both Dr. Novaire and the warden look away in disgust. “But don’t you see a pattern here?” I ask. “The Elavil, which my patient wasn’t taking. Andre Green getting poisoned. And now this? A suspicious death?”

  “Suspicious?” The warden echoes with incredulity. “This is hardly suspicious, Dr. Goldman. The only thing that’s suspicious is that another one of your patients is dead.”

  Dr. Novaire rubs his hands together. “Until we can figure out what is happening, perhaps Dr. Goldman’s probation should be extended.”

  Warden Gardner lets out a stupefied laugh. “We’re way past probation here, Dr. Novaire.”

  “But what if someone pushed her?” I ask.

  “Dr. Goldman,” the warden says, his face serious, fully professional, “you are being placed on an unpaid leave of absence pending further investigation.”

  “I’m not sure…That might actually be a university decision,” Dr. Novaire protests, feebly.

  “The texts,” I say, grabbing for a life raft. “Detective Adams is still looking at them. We think they might be coming from Mr. Green. Did he talk to you about that?”

  The warden shakes his head in dismissal. “We’ve looked high and low to find out the origin of those texts,” he says. “And in the end, after too many man-hours, we have found absolutely no credible evidence that these are coming from within the prison.”

  “But maybe they’re not coming from within the prison,” I counter.

  “Do you want to know what conclusion I’ve reached?” the warden asks.

  “What?” I would honestly like to know.

  “My conclusion,” he says, pointing his finger at me again, “is that you have been the one sending the texts.” He pauses for effect. “For whatever sick reason or whatever weird thrill it might give you, Dr. Goldman, I believe that you, and only you, are sending them. Quite possibly trying to deflect attention from yourself.”

  “Me sending them?” My voice has risen an octave. “But what about Andre? His father’s been poisoning his own kid. Don’t you think maybe he could be related to all this?”

  “Interesting you should mention Andre Green,” the warden says. “I’m talking to Detective Adams about widening his search. And getting a warrant on the other person with complete access to him.”

  “Who?” I ask, then it hits me like a hammer. “Me?” He doesn’t bother to answer. “I didn’t have anything to do with hurting Andre…” I stammer. “I’m the one who figured it out!”

  A cell phone ringing interrupts my defense, and Warden Gardner grabs his phone out of his breast pocket and brings it to his ear. “Yeah, what is it?” He waits a second, then shakes his head in disbelief. “Jesus.”

  My knees are trembling.

  “What?” Dr. Novaire asks.

  “Another one of your patients, Dr. Goldman,” he says. “Timothy Gordon, remember him?”

  I flash back to Timothy Gordon, his freckly arm out of his cast. Body integrity identity disorder and the “healing tattoo” encircling his biceps. “Yes. I remember him.”

  “He’s at the County, barely alive. Just cut his own goddamn arm off.”

  * * *

  “Mike,” I say into the cell phone, though it’s just his voice mail, “I don’t know if you’ll be late tonight or what.” The evening darkens around me in the parking lot, snow sliding in wafts across the pavement. “I’m going to the County to visit Andre, but we need to talk.” I pause then, too long, and realize the voice mail might run out. “I don’t know what to say, Mike. I’m in trouble here. I need to talk to you.”

  I am saying, “I love you” into the phone just as I get into the lobby. I go up to see Timothy Gordon first, but find out he’s still in surgery, so I make my way to Andre’s room.

  He is barely recognizable. His face is bloated and patches of his hair are missing, showing dry, scaly scalp underneath. His face has a yellowish hue, which means he’s probably in liver failure by now. His chest puffs out rhythmically with the ventilator while five different IV bags hang from machines.

  I walk over and put my hand on his forehead, which is sweating.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, and as the words come out, I am overtaken by sobs. My body is heaving as I cry soundlessly, surprised by my own tears. I sit down, and a nurse walks by and glances at us, likely assuming I’m a family member or friend. Efficiently she changes the IV bag and straightens his ventilator tube, then touches my arm with a sympathetic smile on her way out.

  Sitting in the chair next to him, I watch Andre for I don’t know how long. Television shows blare in the next room. Patients are carted in and out beside me for testing. Doctors round, nurses fix up medications. And I just watch, until a shadow falls over the bed, and I look up.

  It’s Mike.

  He drags a chair up next to me and sits down, his warm fingers lacing through mine. “It’s not your fault, Zoe,” he says, his voice low and quiet.

  I nod, with new tears now, my nose running. “I should have looked at his nails.”

  “Nobody knew, Zoe. Who could have thought of that?”

  “I could have. I should have. I did the wrong tox screen. I should have checked for heavy metals.” He puts his arm around me, and I lean into him, still looking at the floor. “And did you hear the other big news?” I ask.

  “No, what is it?” The IV pole starts beeping.

  “I got fired.”

  He pulls away to look at me. “For what?” he asks with dismay. “For this? You were the one who diagnosed him.”

  “No, it wasn’t that. Another one of my patients jumped off the roof at the prison.” I wipe my nose with a soggy tissue. “But she might have been pushed. I swear she was pushed.”

  He stares at the blank wall, stroking my hand. “I can’t believe they didn’t even put you on probation, though.”

  “No,” I say with a sigh. “That was last week.”

  He turns to look at me again. “They did?”

  I slump over, putting my face in my hands. “I was going to tell you, Mike. But I was too…embarrassed. That’s the truth. I was too goddamn humiliated to tell you.”

  Again he puts his arm around me, handing me a tissue box. “We’ll get through this, Zoe. It’s okay. It’ll be all right.” We sit there watching Andre for a while then, the machines whirring and beeping around us.

  Finally I work up the courage and lean my head against his shoulder. “Mike, there’s something else I have to tell you.”

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  You finally told me. The last part of your grand plan, the final act.

  But I told you I couldn’t do it.

  No way, never. I offered to get you another name but you got annoyed and said we were done with all that. It was time for the next stage. But I couldn’t do it. I killed Janaya Jones for you, just like I promised. But I couldn’t do that. I begged you not to make me do tha
t.

  You’re no use to me, then, you said, turning away from me like a cloud blocking the sun.

  I was sick with the thought of losing you. But I couldn’t do that. She never hurt me. She helped me. Even when she knew everything, she still helped me. I wanted to cry, but you hate it when I cry, so I tugged on your arm, and you flicked me off. You whined at me, that I was supposed to be your soldier, that I was supposed to help you. Your expression was puppy-dog hurt. I said that I would help you, but I couldn’t do that. Anything else, just not that. You were chewing on your lip, looking like you might explode.

  I love you, I said, realizing that I had never said it before.

  But you shook your head. If you loved me, you would do this for me.

  I didn’t have an answer, just a churning in my stomach. So I lay down on the floor, in an obvious, pathetic invitation to sex, trying to make things better with you in the only way I knew how. But you just snickered and stood up. Then you opened the door, and I had no choice but to follow you.

  One week, you said. You have one week to decide.

  But what if I can’t? I asked, my voice shaking because I knew the answer already. No more poetry. No more hours making love in our ugly, beautiful room. The thought was unbearable.

  Maybe you can find some guard who’ll fuck you, you said with a shrug.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  I didn’t end up telling Mike about the lemon.

  I couldn’t. I don’t know why. I tried to, but I couldn’t.

  So the secret is still out there, taking up air between us. When it was bedtime, I pretended I was okay but didn’t sleep for a second. I went downstairs and watched infomercials for trimming your waist, kitchen splicers, and, ironically, miracle cures for insomnia while Arthur rested his head on my lap, every once in a while raising his head to lick my face.

  Checking with the receptionist, I find Sam is running behind, so I walk into the cold, maroon-walled vestibule and call the detective. “Any news?”

  “Yes,” he answers. “But I’m afraid it’s not exactly good news.”