by Brad Kelln
"What are you trying to prove Barry?"
"I'm not going to do this. It's not my fault. The disease is everywhere. It's not my fault. I have to kill it."
Moore closed his eyes and shook his head. Boseman didn't sound good.
"What's everywhere, Barry?"
"Disease! It's everywhere and I need to destroy it. I need to show her it's not my fault."
Whitley looked back at Wenton for guidance. Wenton shook his head, indicating that this was a topic best left alone during the negotiation. It would only agitate the subject. Before he could look away he noticed Wenton mouthing the words "do it."
"Okay, okay," Whitley continued. "But let's just put that rifle down and come on out now. You need to do the right thing before this gets in the newspapers."
"The newspapers! What?" Barry screamed.
"If you come out of there now, there won't be much of a news story. No one would have to know that you gave your wife herpes. No one would have to know that you have herpes."
"What? What the hell are you talking about? This isn't going in the news, is it?" Boseman's voice shook with panic.
"Not if you come out of there now. It's time to be a man, Barry. It's time to start fixing all the problems you've caused. Put the rifle down and come out of there." Whitley wiped beads of sweat off his forehead and closed his eyes. He thought Wenton's advice to threaten Boseman with public humiliation was a little risky. The strategy went against standard negotiation practices.
"What? Who are you to-"
"Barry, you've done a terrible thing. You've lost your wife and son because of your weakness. You need to start being strong. Get out of that house. Be a man before the news starts running stories on what a worthless punk you are." Whitley pushed the mute button on his console and turned to Weriton. "Are you sure about this? For fuck sake this guy might-"
"OKAY!" Boseman screamed.
Whitley turned back to his console and flipped the mute button off. "What's that, Barry?"
"I will do the right thing. I can be a man. I just don't want this in the newspaper. I'm coming out."
***
The police were placing Barry Boseman in the back of a police van while Wenton, Moore and Whitley watched from outside the communications van.
"That was a pretty good call there, Doc," Whitley finally said.
Wenton nodded.
Moore looked puzzled. "But it seemed a little unethical," he said.
"Couldn't pushing the guy like that have just as easily made him a suicide? Is that stuff kosher with you psychologists?"
Wenton stared hard at Moore. "Actually, I thought he would have killed himself. I'm surprised he came out."
Now Whitley looked surprised. "What does that mean? You weren't trying to get him out of the house?"
Wenton shrugged. "I said I had an idea on how to end this thing. That's all."
Moore looked at Whitley in disbelief as Wenton turned and walked away.
"If you ask me," Whitley said, "We oughta revisit using that guy. Ever since that Edward Carter case he's been a nasty son of a bitch."
Barely out of earshot, Wenton smiled.
NINE
What a day I Dr. Claric thought as he stepped through his front entrance. He lived in Cow Bay, a small beachside community on the outskirts of Dartmouth, bordering the entrance to Halifax's main harbour. People frequently looked for homes in this area because it provided the luxury of living on the ocean, yet it was located close to the city. Unfortunately, the Maximum Security Psychiatric Centre where Dr. Claric worked was on the opposite side of Dartmouth in the industrial park, which meant a half-hour commute. He hadn't worried about that when he'd purchased the house seven years ago. He liked the idea of leaving work behind him, far behind.
The house itself was quite modest and aptly captured Dr. Claric's approach to life. It was a three-bedroom, single-storey home with a.small front yard and a fenced-in backyard. He figured the previous owners must have had a dog because the grass out back was still struggling for roots.
His neighbours were mostly older and many of them were already retired. Although he knew a few by name, he had never grown close to any- one on the block.
After working on Catherine's report until almost 9 p.m., Dr. Claric planned on throwing something in the oven, opening a bottle of wine, and relaxing in front of the TV. He was still bothered by his session with her and the subsequent Internet search. But what upset him most was the mysterious e-mail. Especially because he couldn't prove it ever existed.
Don't think about it, he told himself. It's that kind of rumination that starts delusional thinking.
He chuckled at the thought of getting so wrapped up in a psychiatric case that it created mental illness in the therapist. He figured he'd been at this game too long to be vulnerable to something like that.
The oven dinged and he put in his frozen pasta dish. He'd made a large batch of macaroni and cheese the week before and had frozen the leftovers.
As a bachelor he found it was easiest to make double batches and keep some quick meals on hand.
With his dinner cooking, he scanned the small wooden wine rack on the kitchen counter. He selected a red wine and pulled open a drawer to find the corkscrew.
He took his wine to the living room and went across to the large picture window. It was his favourite spot to relax and watch the quiet street.
Dr. Claric took a sip and let his gaze drift down the road. He stopped. The wine glass was still resting against his bottom lip. He pulled the glass away and stared out the window.
There was a white van parked at the curb directly across from his house.
"What the hell?" he said out loud without even realizing.
Dr. Claric's eyes moved quickly to the roof of the van, there wasn't a satellite dish or any suspicious equipment. His eyes searched the side of the van. It was a plain white van. There were no distinguishing marks identifying it as "Eastlink Cable" or any other utility vehicle.
From this angle he wasn't able to see the back doors, and the only win- dow was on the driver's side door. The driver's window wasn't tinted and he could see there was no one in the van. Could someone be in the back with the monitoring the equipment?
"Don't be stupid," he said out loud.
He turned away from the window and walked back to the kitchen. He flicked the light on in the oven. The macaroni and cheese was still frozen. He went back to the living room, avoiding the window, and turned on the TV with the remote control. There was a program on African predators: a lion running alongside an antelope. He clicked past that and began running through his seventy-plus channels.
"Shit," he said to himself and dropped the remote control beside him. There was nothing on TV-at least nothing that could draw his attention away from the van parked across the street.
; He got up and went to the window for a second look. He wished he could see something that would explain the van's presence there-a familiar neighbour standing next to it, or maybe he missed the markings on the side of the van that would explain it as a service vehicle.
Dr. Claric looked across the street. He rubbed his eyes and looked again.
The van was gone.
TEN
The clinical team assembled in the back of the nursing station in South Bay. This unit held the long-term population that had been found Not Criminally Responsible for violent offenses. Each patient's progress was discussed in clinical rounds every six to eight weeks. The patient scheduled for today's rounds was Catherine Mercer.
Dr. Georgia O'Connors, Dr. Claric, Prime Nurse Murray Deschamp and the team social worker, Carla Raymond, were seated around a table. Dr. O'Connors began.
"Okay, we've had Catherine for just about three months. Where are we at?"
Murray opened the patient chart in front of him. He was flipping through the pages as he spoke. "She's not settling on the unit well. She stays in her room a lot. Doesn't talk to the other clients. Rarely talks to staff. We catch her crying quite a bit, but she's reluctant to talk about it. I've been able to probe a little on the delusions and they're still there, strong as ever."
Dr. Claric rubbed a hand across his forehead. He felt flushed. He wished that it wasn't Catherine Mercer on rounds. He felt awkward like he was hid- ing something from the team. It was stupid, he knew, but he couldn't help it. He couldn't get the image of the white van out of his head. He couldn't get rid of the thought of that e-mail he'd lost. He was rigid with anxiety because he knew the team would eventually turn to him for input. He didn't know what he'd say.
"So she hasn't talked to anyone on the unit?" Dr. O'Connors asked.
"She stays in her room so much that she doesn't have much of an opportunity to talk. She's even skipped some trays to avoid being in the dining room. We've talked to her about that and we're watching to make sure she doesn't starve herself." He paused and thought for a moment. "I guess the only person she's talked to is Max."
"Stetho-Man," Carla said absent-mindedly.
Murray nodded. "Stetho-Man" was what they called Max Thompson, a long-term patient who carried a stethoscope with him at all times. His psychosis proved resistant to medication. His major delusional theme was the idea that he would die and not realize it. The stethoscope allowed him to routinely check himself for a heartbeat. Attempts to take the stethoscope away were always met by such violent resistance that staff, and other patients, finally accepted it.
"Max has always been one of the soft-touches on the unit. I think a lot of people sympathize with him or think he's cute and harmless. Catherine has been observed talking to him in the TV room on occasion," Murray continued.
She identifies with his pain, Dr. Claric thought. They share a common desperation over their own existence. He frowned. He knew he should be sharing his thoughts with the team-after all, that was the whole point of the clinical rounds-but his mouth was frozen. He was afraid of what he would say. He wanted to tell the team about the e-mail but he had no proof. It would make it look like he was the one who needed medication. Besides, he knew that the e-mail story didn't make sense unless he explained the type of Web sites he was surfing at the time.
"Carla," Dr. O'Connors began. "Do we know if there's other family in the area? She could really use some personal support."
Carla's expression changed instantly to one of deep concern, which almost seemed like a trained display of emotion. "You aren't going to believe it, but it's horrible." She paused as if she expected to see the same dramatic emotional shift on the faces of the team. "The only family in the immediate area are relatives of the victims, her in-laws, her husband's brother and his family. I contacted them but they weren't very receptive. They're still dealing with the tragedy."
"Any chance of doing some education with them?" Murray asked, indicating that the team might help the family understand the mental illness and hopefully forgive Catherine.
"Well," she said as her expression changed yet again, "I sort of asked the brother-in-law something like that and he told me…to go to hell."
Dr. O'Connors sighed. "Is there anyone on her side of the family?"
"There's only a sister. Her parents are deceased. The sister, Wendy, lives somewhere in Ohio, I think. I'm still trying to track her down. Catherine and Wendy haven't really talked in some time. I think there was some issue about the wills when the parents passed away and a big blow-up. That was three or four years ago. Initially, Catherine wouldn't even give me the phone number."
Dr. O'Connors nodded and turned to Dr. Claric.
Dr. Claric was tempted to leave, to say he wasn't feeling well and get out. Funny thing was that he actually did feel physically ill. He had barely heard anything that was being discussed. He wanted to keep the conversation directed away from him, so he jumped in before Dr. O'Connors could speak again.
"So you'll get a hold of the parents then."
The team was silent, possibly waiting for Dr. Claric to clarify his question. He felt sweat bead on his forehead.
"Which parents?" Carla said with an almost comical look of confusion.
"Um, her parents?" Dr. Claric said with little confidence.
She shook her head and gave Dr. Claric an odd look. "I just said that her parents passed away. That's what she and her sister fought about."
Dr. Claric wiped his forehead. "I'm sorry. I was just thinking… Anyway…"
"Brian, you okay?" Dr. O'Connors asked.
He looked at her quickly. He felt an incredible urge to confess. To tell them about the Web sites, the e-mail, the van. He knew he'd sound crazy but at least someone else would know. If something did happen, he would have people who knew. That's always the problem with crazy people, he thought. They never tell anyone about what's going on until it's too late. Besides, these were his colleagues. They knew him and they knew he wasn't crazy. They'd believe him. He wasn't making anything up.
"No, I'm sorry. I'm okay," he said. "I don't know where my head is."
"You look a little flushed. Are you feeling okay?" Murray asked.
"I…I think so."
"Well let's wrap it up then," Dr. O'Connors said, refocusing the team on the rounds meeting. "You've met with Catherine, right, Brian?"
Dr. Claric took a deep breath. "Yes. She's still struggling. The delusions are still internal…! mean intact. You don't need to do any…I mean, there's not a lot…they're right there on the surface, I mean on top. Although, she's a bit of a tough nut to crack. Like to get rapport with. I think I'll need to go…I mean take it slow."
"Yeah," Murray jumped in. "She does focus on the delusions quite a bit. I've heard her mention electronic
weapons to co-clients. She and I have talked about it a little bit, but she's pretty tight-lipped with other staff. She doesn't like to tell us about that stuff."
"Same content?" Dr. O'Connors asked. "The 'zap' from the laser gun, the men in the white van, the suspicion about events at home?"
"It wasn't a laser," Dr. Claric whispered.
"What's that?"
"Nothing. Just it wasn't a laser. It was an electromagnetic weapon."
Murray frowned and then he smirked. "You're not going around zappin' people again, are you Bri?"
A few chuckles rose from around the room. Dr. O'Connors continued in a more serious tone. "What's your plan, Brian?"
"Just keep seeing her, I guess."
"What about suicide risk?" she asked
"She's on 'close obs,' now. We've got someone in there every five minutes," Murray announced.
"Brian, you think we should keep her on close?"
He was silent. He didn't know how to answer that. It was so hard to think. He could barely remember what "close obs" meant. "Um, I could do something more formal around suicide."
"I think that's good. Let's keep her on 'close' until Dr. Claric does a more formal suicide assessment."
Murray flipped the chart open to the clinical record section. He started making a chart note on the decisions coming out of rounds.
"When do you think you can get back to her?" Dr. O'Connors asked Dr. Claric.
"I guess I'll try to see her later today or something."
"Okay, sooner rather than later. We need to get a handle on the risk here. Thanks." She turned back to Murray. "Is there anyone else on rounds today?"
ELEVEN