by Bella Knight
Dr. Guggenheim was an extremely squared-away professional woman with a wall full of degrees, brown hair pulled back into a bun, a flat face with big brown eyes, glasses, and an expressive mouth. She wore an almost-military-cut, dark blue pantsuit with a high collar in the special session with Wraith, Fire, Alvitr, and an ex-JAG lawyer named Mercedes Lopez, with Fire’s written permission to discuss her mental condition.
Dr. Guggenheim was literally shaking with rage after going over all the records. “That… person,” she said. “She was supposed to be treating an eating disorder, which, by the way, is not her specialty. You found me because I have successfully treated over fifty people, primarily young women, with the disorder, plus my service record, and an actual specialty treating PTSD. I have treated many soldiers, and other victims of PTSD, like police officers and first responders.” Dr. Guggenheim shook her finger at her screen. “This idiot literally attempted to gaslight Fire here, saying that things that happened to her didn’t happen. I suspect it was what she thought was ‘treatment.’” Guggenheim put air quotes with her fingers around the word “treatment.” “But, gaslighting someone in the hopes the nightmares and eating disorder would go away is… criminal.” She shook her head, and took off her stylish glasses with silver frames. “I must, I emphasize that I must, report this at once to the Review Board. This individual must not be permitted to practice psychology.” She tapped her screen and grunted. “I wouldn’t allow her near my dog, much less a human, and Rascal served as well. Retired from sniffing bombs.” She snorted. “This individual certainly doesn’t have sixty hours of clinical experience in hypnotherapy. She doesn’t even have that much time in a classroom!”
“We’d like to prosecute,” said Lopez. “I specialize in malpractice lawsuits against psychologists and psychiatrists. Not everyone has your impressive resume.”
“I will help you in any way I can,” said Dr. Guggenheim.
“Class action lawsuit,” added Lopez. “Unfortunately, we can’t afford to send all of Racano’s patients to you for your stellar care.”
Dr. Guggenheim rubbed her eyes and put her glasses back on. “Even after the lawsuit, which I gather will be successful after this single case I have seen, depending on the number of patients you uncover; I literally do not have enough hours in the day to treat them all.” She pointed at Lopez. “Ms. Lopez, I have four people I supervise. Greater workload, but it gives people the hours needed to be what I am. If I don’t do that, if I get hit by a truck tomorrow, my patients are screwed.” Fire and Wraith both grunted with amusement. Dr. Guggenheim smiled at them. “I can recommend them, and two other actual soldiers that have hung up their shingle here. One’s got as many hours in their specialties as me, and the other does not, but both of them are highly competent doctors. Not quacks like this individual.”
“Good,” said Wraith. “Be nice to get the nightmares, flashbacks, panic attacks, and all the rest significantly farther apart for PTSD victims.”
“Did you serve?” Dr. Guggenheim asked Wraith. “No, law enforcement. Probably undercover.” She narrowed her eyes. “How long since your last significant injury?”
“You mean after a homicidal man ran my motorcycle over with a truck?” asked Wraith. Alvitr snorted. Fire dropped her jaw. “I’m good for now. These other ladies come way ahead of me.”
Dr. Guggenheim pointed a finger at Wraith. “You come to one of my Fabulous Four, or I’ll hunt you down,” said the doctor.
“Yes, ma’am,” said Wraith. “After we’ve found them all.”
“No,” said the doctor. “Two weeks. No, three. Dr. Janelle Lewis. I’m sure you’ve got the insurance to cover it.” She checked a computer, tapped, wrote something down, and handed over a card to Wraith. “I’ll see as many of these victims of malpractice as I can. The Fab Four can do most of the rest.” She took off her glasses and pinched the bridge of her nose. “First, we have to undo the damage of this… individual,” she said. “Then, we get, as you say, the symptoms farther and farther apart.” She pointed at both Wraith and Fire. “Warrior Women meets on Tuesdays and Thursdays for one of you, and Mondays and Wednesdays for the other one, unless you want to attend the same one.” She wrote down the dates and times. “Dr. Mattie Pereira runs that one. She served, too.” She grinned. “She’s licensed, and has PTSD as her specialty. She’s one of the Fab Four.” She handed the cards to Fire and Wraith. “Now, the rest of you, go away. Fire gets my full attention for… thirty-three more minutes.”
Wraith stood, and started to walk out. “Gunny,” she said to Wraith. “I’d like you to stay.”
Wraith sat back down. “Anything you want,” she said to Fire.
“Gunny,” said Dr. Guggenheim. “But you’ve never served.”
“She’s ours,” said Fire. “The voice in our ear, telling us where to be, what to do. Gets us up and running and shipshape. High and tight, squared away. No excuses.” She smiled a watery smile. “She saved us during Fallujah Two. And she was being attacked as well. Kept talking the whole way to the saferoom, repelled the attacks, and kept all the pieces on the board moving.”
“Dinner,” said Wraith. “Two blocks away. The family… got them out, or hid them. All of them. Why the kids are still alive.” She grinned fiercely.
“She stops talking, people die,” said Fire. “That night, we all heard her, followed orders.” She grunted. “I’m the lieutenant, supposed to be in charge, but I shouldn’t be in charge of a pack of dogs.” Wraith grunted at her. “Major Radium and Staff Sergeant Trace got us on track during Fallujah Two, and we all heard Wraith in our ears. Got it squared away.”
“You should be in charge,” said Dr. Guggenheim. “If you want to be. If not, then, sure, Radium and Trace can do it.”
“Radium says her scars are on the outside, and mine are on the inside,” said Fire. “Major Rayne has two artificial hands, and she knifed one of our assailants during Fallujah Two.”
“What happened that night?” asked Dr. Guggenheim. “The notes Racano left are… bizarre. Your home was attacked?”
“Gunny,” said Fire.
“My office, several principals our security company was protecting, the Nighthawks farm, and the farm where the Soldier Pack —that’s where Fire and the other women live with some Valkyries, and the bar called Dirty Rock, owned by two Nighthawks, were all nearly simultaneously attacked. Except for Dirty Rock. We think it was a secondary target. Hit a little later.” Wraith grinned. “Look it up on Google using the address on Fire’s records.”
Dr. Guggenheim pulled up the first article, and read the first few paragraphs. “So High Desert Security and Protection, where the two of you work, was the target? And these motorcycle clubs the Nighthawks and the Valkyries were somehow allied with them, so they were also targeted?”
“Yes,” said Wraith. “Fire here, and I, we are Valkyries. The Soldier Pack are ex-soldiers that go through fixing Harleys and reselling them, or doing custom kits. They learn, and they either do that, or work for High Desert, or do something else.”
“Like Mike does hydroponics on the Nighthawks farm,” said Fire.
“And you’re repairing these Harleys?” Dr. Guggenheim asked Fire.
“And getting my PI license, and learning internet security and firewalls in school, from a friend of ours called Daisy Chain,” said Fire.
“Let me get this straight. Fire, you are literally learning three different professions at the same time, and you still think you shouldn’t even direct a pack of dogs?” Dr. Guggenheim made eye contact with Fire.
“I… food still tastes like ash,” said Fire.
“Are you at a normal weight for your height, age, and exercise?” asked Dr. Guggenheim.
“Not since I started seeing Ms. Ruden,” said Fire. “Was two above normal, now I’m six below.”
“Pounds?” asked Dr. Guggenheim.
“Kilos,” said Fire.
“I see,” said Dr. Guggenheim. “Go back to eating however you were before Ms. Racano,” she said.
&nb
sp; “Alvitr and the Soldier Pack are on it,” said Wraith. “Show her your packets.” Fire took three packets out of the left-hand pocket of her cargo shorts, for meal replacement shakes, chocolate, mint chocolate, and walnut. She also pulled out a collapsible cup, and a drink box of almond milk from another pocket.
“Good,” said Dr. Guggenheim. “Drink one now, and tell me how it tastes.”
“Yes, ma’am,” said Fire. She turned to Wraith. “If I drink one, do we still have to go to Sonic afterward?”
“One small sundae,” said Wraith. “And two orange carrots tonight. Or three purple. Whole, not juiced.”
“Agreed,” said Fire. They shook on it.
They finished with Dr. Guggenheim asking about the lawsuit. “Radium was the first one to tell me that the therapist was spouting bullshit, then Trace. We took it to Alvitr, who took it to Gunny.” Fire sighed. “I don’t wanna do this lawsuit thing, but Gunny says this woman will just keep going on and on, doing the same to more women. And that the other one’s she’s damaged like this deserve compensation, not just me. That it can pay for medical care for the rest of our lives.”
“It can,” said Dr. Guggenheim. “Now, here’s your homework. Go to a dollar store and get a cheap notebook and pen. Write down every symptom —food tastes like ashes, nightmares, any urge to hurt yourself, anxiety, trouble breathing, feeling like you’re falling, anxiety attacks. I’ll see you at the end of the week. We’ll go over the notebook, and get you on track. Then, we’ll fight back, in here, against the scars in your head.” She held out her own right arm, crisscrossed with a fine webbing of scars. “I have them, too. Good thing I’m a lefty.” She grinned. “I made lieutenant, just like you.” She smiled. “Got a lot of medical school and specialties paid for that way.”
Fire nodded. “I’m on it.” She grinned. “Nice to move forward instead of backward.”
“Sometimes you’ll fall down, cry, throw a temper tantrum,” said Dr. Guggenheim. “Then, you’ll stand up, wipe the gravel out of your knees and hands, clean off the blood, and keep walking. The travel is straight up a hill, soldier, but it’s a walk, not a race. And, we all walk it every day.”
“Word,” said Wraith.
They had to move up their timetable, because Dr. Guggenheim had to approach the review board within a very short timeframe. Six other women turned into seven, then eight, all soldiers. Wraith’s operative Daniela Valance slipped in and removed the hidden camera just outside Racano’s office they used to find her patients, then they reviewed the tapes and found the patients using their driver’s license photos. Dr. Guggenheim and her Fab Four took all nine women, and got the medical records before Racano could find out from her receptionist, either about the cancellations and medical records transfer, or give her time to figure out that they were all military and all victims of her hypnotherapy scam to defraud the US government. Wraith and the lawyer, Mercedes Lopez, together contacted a federal prosecutor, and when Racano went to lunch, they came in and took all ten women’s records and the billing records into custody.
Dr. Guggenheim and Wraith were at another table in Racano’s favorite coffee-and-quiche restaurant when she was served twice in four minutes, once to appear in civil court about the malpractice lawsuit, and the next to appear before the medical board. Racano had just called her lawyer, drunk half her hazelnut coffee, and consumed three-fourths of her spinach cheddar quiche when she was arrested for medical malpractice. She was taken to jail.
Racano’s lawyer, Bettina “Tiny” Thona, made a fatal mistake. She didn’t think anyone in the military would testify about overseas events. She had a malpractice suit to prepare for, as well as criminal prosecution. Her specialty was criminal prosecution, so she defended Racano against that first, asking for a speedy trial, and relying on the fact that Racano had dutifully had all her diplomas and certifications on her wall and on her website. She didn’t have to state her number of hours in anything. She tried to get the digital files erased, but all nine women had them, thanks to the now-fired medical office receptionist and filer, Minnie Alvarez. Her medical biller, Crystal Mathers, was also arrested. Crystal Mathers turned state’s evidence against Racano and gave depositions for the civil trial, as did Minnie Alvarez.
Racano lost her license to practice psychology two days before her trial. Tiny Thona begged Racano to plead guilty, but Racano was terrified of medical liability and of a stint in prison where she could not receive manicures or restaurant meals, so she pleaded innocent.
On the third day of the criminal trial, JAG lawyer Major Martin Ramirez was called to the stand. The prosecuting attorney for the federal government, Ariella “Zig” Ziegler, asked, “Lieutenant Ramirez, Lieutenant Ruben stated to her therapist, Ms. Racano, the defendant, that Staff Sergeant Thomas Rimsey was killed in front of her. Was she there, in the same place, at the same date and time, and did she eyewitness the events of that day?”
Tiny Thona stood, looking like a staid, sober matron in a black pantsuit, her black hair pulled back in a bun. “Objection. It should not be a military secret to say where and when something took place.”
“Overruled,” said the federal judge, Tony Bianchi. “I have already made my ruling that it is, indeed, a matter of national security. This gentleman is verifying accuracy based on military records, something your client disputed in her sessions.” Tiny Thona sat down. “The witness may answer.”
“Yes, she was there, and did witness that event,” said Major Martinez.
“And did she witness the deaths of Privates Rumio and Price?”
“She did,” said Major Martinez.
“Did she witness the kidnapping and subsequent rescue of Major Warren Stockton?”
“She did,” said Major Martinez.
“Let’s switch soldiers, Major. Did Sergeant Martina Lobovitz see the death of Privates Rockholder and Davidson?”
“She did,” said Major Martinez.
Bit by bit, every single instance of Racano’s gaslighting came out in open court. At lunch, a white-faced Tiny Thona squared off against Racano. “My god,” she said. “They have you. You billed the military for, essentially, gaslighting their soldiers. Instance after instance. You’ll be up against every single instance in the medical malpractice suit.”
“Get that major’s stuff thrown out,” said Racano. She was shaken, but still believed she could win. “They won’t give dates or times. Or eyewitness testimony. It’s not real proof.”
“If a judge allows it, it’s real.” Tiny stared at Racano. “You thought you could get away with it. You thought that since the military doesn’t release information, even if it came out you were gaslighting those soldiers, you counted on the military not backing up their soldiers with proof.” She grimaced. “You also counted on guidelines being guidelines about hypnotherapy and specialties, and on the federal government looking too hard, which they didn’t. But now, right now, in federal court, you have been proven incompetent, over and over. You can’t win the malpractice suit.”
“I can,” said Racano. “And who cares? The insurance company will pay for it.”
“I care,” said Tiny. “You pay me, and after the civil case, you will be charged court costs and legal fees. I’m going to get diddly and squat of my last payment.” She glared at Racano. “I suggest you plead guilty. Now. And tell your malpractice insurance company to settle. You’re going to end up fighting it from prison which, I may add, is a poor place to fight anything.”
“You’re my attorney, and you have to do as I say,” said Racano.
“Your ass is grass,” said Tiny. “It’s over except for the long prison sentence. Plead guilty and make it as short as you can.”
“I helped those women,” said Racano. She slid her fingertips over her perfect manicure.
“I’ve read the depositions,” said Tiny, furious with her client. “Losing weight, more nightmares and anxiety, panic attacks in public that other people can testify about.”
“Easy to fake,” said Racano. “Ha
rd to prove.”
Tiny narrowed her eyes. “I will fight this losing battle,” she said. “I will offer you plea agreements, too. But, I guarantee you, the judge will be furious that you conned military veterans and the US government. These are federal charges. Five years and two hundred and fifty thousand dollars, per charge. I guarantee they will go, line by line, and prove every one of them. That’s not just malpractice, Racano. That’s abuse. I foresee more charges based on gaslighting patients. Not sure what charges, exactly, probably patient abuse or neglect. But when they go to court, people will be furious with you. Hate you.” She stared as Racano fiddled with a button on her conservative blue suit. “Actually, jail may be the safest place for you. Military people stick to each other like glue. If by some bizarre set of conditions, which I guarantee won’t happen because Ariella Ziegler is the best damn federal prosecutor I’ve ever been up against, you go home after this, your life won’t be worth much.”
“Are you threatening me?” asked Racano. She pushed away her chicken salad. “I can sue you for that, you know. Get the case thrown out.”
Tiny sighed. “No, I’m talking about the leather jackets in the courtroom. When people in motorcycle jackets behind you stand up, look back over your shoulder.”
“What?” asked Racano, confused.
“The first woman, she calls herself Fire. She’s a Valkyrie. That’s what brought you down, remember? She told you about some men coming in to shoot up the farm where she and the other soldiers she’s living with now live.”
“Brought me down?” said Racano, offended.
“You told her it was all in her head. But it was in the newspapers. Didn’t see them?”
“No,” said Racano.
“A simple search using the information on her medical file was all it took me to find out everything,” said Tiny. “You didn’t bother verifying something the military had no part of, something you could verify easily.”
Racano shrugged. “She was delusional.” She grinned. “Woman won’t even eat. Obviously disturbed.”