The Imposter (Alexandra Destephano Book 2)

by Judith Lucci

"Thanks. I'm gonna go by the cafeteria and pick up some donuts and cinnamon buns. You make the coffee, Alex. You gals want anything special?"

  "I'll eat whatever you bring, Jack," Monique said, as she smiled at him brightly.

  "Ditto for me," Alex said, deciding she deserved some junk food and carbs to get through her day."

  "I'm in, Commander, I'll take whatever," Elizabeth added.

  Thirty minutes later, seated at the conference table in Alex's office, they all felt better. After several cups of coffee and a little sugar buzz, Alex and Elizabeth were talking nonstop and Monique was less wan. Eventually, the conversation returned to the crime.

  "Where's Jim McMurdie in this, Jack? Do you think he's responsible for the murder?" Alex glanced at the Commander, who was slowly munching his third jelly donut.

  Jack was noncommittal, savoring his jelly donut. "I wish they'd learn to make low-fat, low-calorie donuts. Sure would help my weight and cholesterol. To answer your question, Alex, McMurdie's in chains in his room at the Pavilion. I don't know if he's guilty or not, but it looks bad for him. What do you think Monique?"

  "I don't know. He was covered with blood when we found him sleeping in his room. That was after we discovered Mrs. Smithson's body. At least, there was blood on his hands. We searched his room, but we didn't find anything. He became upset when he saw the blood and he started crying. He'd been heavily medicated both around dinner time and at bedtime. He had enough Thorazine to quiet an elephant. It's the heaviest dose he's had since admission. I don't know… he could have, but I'm not convinced. Most people would have slept for 48 hours after receiving that much Thorazine. Jim's not that big of a guy."

  "Does he have a history of violent outbursts," Elizabeth asked Dr. Desmonde.

  "Yep," said Monique. "He has delusional jealousy concerning his wife. I think he has Othello Syndrome – a syndrome named after Shakespeare's character who killed his wife in a jealous rage. I haven't made a final diagnosis yet. Jim's had several violent outbreaks during his admission and assaulted several men prior to coming in. He thought they were having affairs with his wife. He's very sick, psychotic, and delusional."

  "Why haven't you confirmed your diagnosis, Dr. Desmonde? What's holding you back," Elizabeth asked with growing curiosity. It wasn't like Monique to procrastinate about anything.

  Monique was quiet for a moment reflecting on how she had been asked the question the night before. "It's probably because I don't want to and I need more time to study his case. The syndrome has a poor prognosis. Another reason is that the violence is usually directed towards the spouse in Othello's – – not other people. Of course, Jim is delusional. Other than that, Liz, Jim McMurdie is a classic example of Othello." Monique's voice was sad and pensive.

  "So, Monique, do you think McMurdie could have been delusional and thought Mrs. Smithson was his wife? Would that be a possible motive for the crime?"

  Alex marveled at what a good thinker Liz was. It was a good question.

  Monique shrugged her shoulders helplessly. "Of course, that's possible, Elizabeth. I've thought about it myself."

  Françoise leaned forward expectantly. "Dr. Desmonde, do you think Jim McMurdie could be responsible for the rape and beating of Angie, as well as the attack and murder of Mrs. Smithson?"

  "Commander," Monique's tone was cool, aloof, "I told you yesterday and I'm telling you again today, I don't know! I just don't know! Do you understand that? If I knew, I'd tell you!" Her face was flushed with resentment.

  Alex gave Elizabeth a quick look and intervened to diffuse the situation. "Jack, there are 25 patients in the Pavilion who could be responsible for the rapes and deaths. Plenty of them are overtly psychotic. Besides, you said the forensic evidence would tell. And, it's possible it isn't a patient." Alex's voice was calm but her teeth were gritted and Jack understood the back off look she gave him.

  In a way, Jack Françoise was a little ashamed. "I accept your reprimand, Alex. You're right. Sorry, Monique. I'm having the department run a check on our local felons in the area. If the door of the unit was open Monday night, it could have been opened last night, too." He saw now that Monique's face was livid with anger. "Let me out of here before you're all mad at me. I can tell this isn't going well for me," Jack said plaintively as he rose to leave.

  Jack's departure was interrupted by the surprising appearance of Lester Whitset in Alex's office, unannounced and unwelcome. His shadow in the doorframe seemed to dim the beauty of Alex's well appointed inner sanctum.

  Alex loathed the sight of him, but remained fascinated with him -- a fact that totally disgusted her.

  "Oh, sorry if I interrupted anything. I didn't think of calling first." Whitset had the same angelic smile on his face as he looked around at the group, knowing they were shocked to see him. "I'm especially glad to see you, Commander. I found something you might be interested in. I was going to give it to Alex, but since you are here …." Whitset turned his head, gave Alex a sweet smile, and withdrew a shirt from a plastic bag -- it was covered with brown stains.

  The room was deathly silent. All eyes were focused on Whitset. He looked directly at Monique, his eyes cold and glaring. "I just found this shirt in the bottom of Jim McMurdie's locker on the unit. It looks like dried blood – – certainly older than today's massacre." Whitset turned towards Monique and said in a sneering voice, "Really, Dr. Desmonde, I expected more professional behavior from you.”

  Monique felt a flush come over her. Whitset's words stung her like the bite of a thousand fire ants. She didn't know if she was embarrassed or just enraged. She tried to will away the crimson in her cheeks. She muttered in a small voice, "I beg your pardon?"

  Whitset continued, sneering at Monique, who looked like a deer cornered in the headlights. "I thought you had the unit searched by the staff yesterday. And, Commander Françoise, I thought your men searched as well?"

  Jack stared at Whitset, his face impassive.

  Alex could see and feel the invisible steam of anger that poured from his ears.

  Jack's eyes cut into Whitset's face and he looked like he could kill him at any moment.

  Whitset stared back at him with his cold fish look, nonplussed, carefully surveying the reactions of the Commander and the CCMC group. "I'll leave this 'evidence 'with you, Commander. I trust you'll handle it appropriately. By the way, you may want to test it for the nurse's blood." Whitset's voice and manner were condescending as he handed the bloodied shirt to Commander Françoise. He turned to leave, but on his way out, said to Alex in his soft, sensual voice, "See you later, Alex, my pretty lass." He smiled his pure, beautiful smile at her and abruptly left the office.

  Alex shuddered in disgust. Françoise erupted. "That bastard boils my blood and gives me the creeps at the same time. There is something wrong with him. He's not human. He slithers around everywhere, just like a little worm. I think I'll rush that background check on him!"

  Monique was quiet. Finally she said, "Damnit! We did search the unit. Twice! We gave everything over to you all, Jack. Where on earth did he get that shirt?"

  "I don't know Monique, but my men searched as well." Jack's voice was irate. “I'm not sure the evidence wasn't planted."

  Alex intuitively knew there was more to Whitset than met the eye. She asked Monique if she knew anything about his background.

  Monique thought for a moment, then shook her head negatively. "Nope, I know nothing. Montgomery made the connection and hired him early in March. I wasn't even allowed to interview him." Monique tossed her head in anger. "If I'd interviewed him, we'd never have hired him!"

  Elizabeth changed the subject and asked, "Dr. Desmonde, since I'm not a clinical person, can you tell me what motivates a person to work in psychiatry?" Elizabeth's question was straightforward and Alex thought it was a darn good one. Jack looked at Elizabeth with renewed respect. Obviously after her experience on the unit today, Elizabeth was skeptical about why anyone would want to work with such patients.

  "That's a har
d one, Liz," Monique said in a bemused voice. "I have my own theory. It's not scientific, but I think it's pretty accurate."

  "Shoot," Françoise ordered, as he sat back down and sipped his cold coffee.

  "I think most people go into psychiatry because they want to know more about themselves. I certainly did. I grew up in a house full of hidden agendas that needed tending one way or another. My childhood was full of secrets. My mother was a socialite and a closet alcoholic. My father was a control freak. He thought he could control my mother by controlling her booze. He was wrong. Alcohol merely cloaked my mother's real illness. She was chronically depressed and suffered from major depressive disorder. When my father realized he couldn't control her, he concentrated on controlling his business. He spent 70 hours a week away from home. The three of us – – my sister, my brother, and me – – grew up with no parents to speak of, no emotional support, no strong relationships with anyone, and no one to listen to us. We took care of each other. There was no one to help us grow up strong and sound." Monique's voice faltered, she was becoming upset.

  Jack put both hands on his coffee mug. He was dying to hug Monique, but he didn't dare.

  "You certainly did well, Dr. Desmonde," Elizabeth said, trying hard to preserve the physician's waning self-esteem.

  "Yeah, at the time I think I did okay. I was the oldest and I remember some of the good times when my family wasn't so dysfunctional. My brother and sister weren't so lucky." Monique stopped for a few moments, thinking about her past. Then she continued, "You see, I had my grandmother. She was strong, wise, and loving. She was a positive influence in my life when I was very young. She helped me a lot in my early years. Unfortunately, she died when I was 11. My brother and sister didn't have her as a role model. They never knew families were supposed to love you, care for you, and nurture you. It was hard for them."

  "What about your brother and sister? How are they?" Alex was associating Monique's past with her own. Her own mother was mentally unstable and reclusive. Alex had never known her father, Louis, very well. He had deserted them when Alex was three years old, apparently unable to put up with her mother's behavior. Alex had felt deserted with no father. It was painful to think her father had left her and had not loved her enough to keep in touch. This was the same pain she'd felt after Robert's rejection of her. Now, two men had deserted her.

  Monique looked sad. She said with tears welling in her eyes, "My brother died 15 years ago in a drunk driving accident. He inherited my mother's booze genes, I guess. My sister lives somewhere in California. She's pretty whacked out. She still acts like it's the 1960s. I rarely hear from her."

  Françoise put his hand over Monique's. He'd known about her brother and sister, but didn't know how sad and lonely her childhood had been. It made his heart heavy and made him want to protect her even more.

  Monique dabbed her eyes with her sleeve and continued, "Anyway, when I took psychology in college, a light started going off for me. It was like,' yeah, I recognize this … yeah, that sounds familiar'. That's when I knew I'd try to spend my life helping other people build confidence, self-esteem, and positive coping skills. I guess I just want to help people find their way in life. So, getting back to your question, Liz, I think people choose psychiatry because they are also looking for help. In fact, some of them may be a little bit sick." All three of her friends were listening intently, nodding their heads in understanding

  Monique continued, "I'm not just talking about physicians and nurses. I also mean social workers, music therapists, and other caregivers. I think in some ways we're looking for validation that we’re not alone, that some of the things we do are okay and are done by other people, too." Monique gave a bright, false smile. "Anyway, that's my theory, such as it is."

  Alex asked cryptically, "Is this in any way akin to Whitset's imposter theory?"

  "Hell, no! It's not even close! That got my attention though," Monique said, shaking her head in reference to the imposter theory. "He is very strange and possibly pathological."

  Alex's thoughts returned to Lester Whitset. She thought about him for a few seconds. "I'm not sure Whitset's all he's cracked up to be. I think he's one of those 'little bit sick' people you mentioned who choose psych as a great place to hang out, possibly to hide."

  Françoise roared, "A little bit? Hell! That SOB is totally crazy!"

  Monique contemplated Alex's statement and arched her finely etched eyebrows. "Could be, Alex, could be. You never know. But, I hardly think he's responsible for these crimes and murders. Granted, he is a weird one. Probably has a personality disorder of some type. Forget him." She waved her arm in dismissal of Whitset. "Anyway, lots of bright and creative people suffer from various forms of mental illness."

  "Oh yeah, like who?" Jack roared in a deprecating voice. Jack's world was clearly defined in black and white. He couldn't imagine any nut bunnies being bright or creative.

  Monique glanced at him in disbelief. "Jack, really. Open your eyes. There are millions. Look at Winston Churchill and Edgar Allen Poe for starters. Also, Abraham Lincoln who, as history reports, was prone to melancholia. Lincoln was most likely bipolar, as was Churchill."

  "Weren't there lots of artists who had diagnosed mental illnesses," Elizabeth asked, fascinated.

  "Yes, many of them were also bipolar. Vincent van Gogh and Paul Gauguin, to name a couple. Certainly they were creative."

  Jack was not buying a word of it. "Is that why that dumb SOB cut off his ears," Jack inquired as he shook his head.

  Monique gave Jack a dirty look and continued, "I believe it was only a piece of one ear that he cut off. There are many famous writers who also had a diagnosed mental illness -- Walt Whitman, Mark Twain, Cole Porter, Ernest Hemingway, and our own Tennessee Williams suffered from major depressive syndrome, as did Virginia Woolf and Sylvia Plath. Who knows? If we'd had Lithium, Lamictal, and Prozac years ago, no telling what these artists' contributions to music, art, and literature would have been! Lots of severely ill patients are extremely talented," Monique added, finishing her diatribe on a high note.

  "This is very enlightening, but somehow, I don't think it's going to make Bridgett or the Smithsons feel better about their dead and/or maimed family members." Françoise 's voice was sarcastic, as he looked at his watch. "But, thanks for the review, Monique. I didn't know so many famous people were bipolar." Jack felt a bit guilty for demeaning Monique's profession. He would have to work through his opinions of and bias against psychiatric patients. After all, it was Monique's life work. He glanced over at Elizabeth and Alex. "Sorry to break up the party, but I need to get downtown and get some work done," Jack said.

  Monique stood and said, "I've got to go as well. I'll see you all later. I've got patients starting in a few minutes. Anyone free for lunch?"

  "Sure. Hospital cafeteria at 12:30 okay?" Alex asked, as she glanced at Jack and Monique. They both nodded and walked out of the hospital. Elizabeth declined, but walked outside with them. Alex, Monique, and Jack continued to the car and Alex watched as Jack gave Monique a quick peck on the cheek as he opened the door for her. He looked around quickly to see if anyone could have seen. No one was anywhere close to the Silver Caddy.

  "Give it up, Commander. The windows are tinted. You're safe," Alex teased him. Monique smiled up at him from the seat. Jack looked smug, embarrassed, and a little like the tomcat who stole the cream.

  Elizabeth smiled, looked at Alex, and said, "Well, this is news. It looks like the two of them are an item. That's pretty cool."

  Alex returned the smile. "Yes, it's very cool, but let's keep it quiet until these crimes are solved."

  "Gotcha, mum's the word," Elizabeth promised on her way out.

  Chapter 19

  Alex felt her armpits begin to sweat as she and Commander Françoise walked down the hallway to Pavilion II. She didn't want to do this, but she knew she had to. She knew there'd be a huge lawsuit against CCMC and she needed all the information she could get. This was absolutely a case
of wrongful death. CCMC would pay, the question was how much would it cost them. She would certainly sue if Mrs. Smithson was her relative and, as hospital attorney, she felt compelled to review the crime scene. They were about to enter the room when they ran smack into Nadine Wells in the hall. She looked disturbed, but crisply professional.

  "Have you been in, Nadine?" Jack asked.

  She shook her head.

  "Are you ready to go?" Jack looked carefully at the police expert.

  Nadine nodded her head, still not speaking.

  Jack was getting irritated and you could hear the impatience in his voice."What the hell – cat got your tongue, Nadine? This ain't going to be pretty, Alex, Nadine. It's pretty awful. One of the worst crime scenes I've ever seen. Just expect to see the worst.”

  Neither woman replied, so Jack continued, "You can't even imagine it, so don't try." Françoise looked hard at the young, beautiful attorney and the grim-faced forensic expert. Alex seemed to be wavering.

  Françoise scrutinized her and said, "You sure you want to go, Alex? You don't have to. We’ve got plenty of pictures."

  "Nope, I'm going," Alex said in a firm voice. "Got to. Remember, Jack, I've seen some pretty horrible things already this year."

  "Yeah, but this is worse, and no puking -- either one of you. I can't take any more of that today," Jack said, as he thought back to February. "You ready?"

  Alex nodded.

  Nadine opened the door and stepped into the alcove of the room. Both of them gasped at the smell that greeted them.

  Alex was assaulted by the stench of death. It enveloped her and caught her unaware. The metallic smell of old blood and decay entered her nostrils. She was overcome with wooziness. She felt cold and clammy. Even with the air-conditioning set at 50 degrees to delay decomposition, the smell was overwhelming. She looked at Nadine, who seemed to be struggling as well. After several moments, Alex plunged forward and peered around the curtain of the room.

  Alex could barely stifle the scream that came from her mouth as she viewed the remains of Mrs. Smithson. Her knees were weak. She felt dizzy and lightheaded. The room was covered in blood. It was all over the bed and the pale yellow walls. And the smell, it was even worse than the smell in the alcove. The smell, salty and fetid, turned Alex's stomach. It was like a scene from a horror movie. The room was a red print of destruction, the aftermath of a massacre. Alex couldn't look closely at Mrs. Smithson. She took some deep breaths and regrouped slowly. Finally, she turned to look down at the body. It was a hideous sight.