The New Patient (Dr. Epstein's Couch: Criminal Minds Series)

  Copyright © 2014 Ann Black

  This short story is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved.

  Cover Art & interior formatting by Indie Designz

  Author’s Note

  New writers often describe the paralysing self-doubt that comes with putting one’s thoughts onto paper. The perennial question of whether the work is interesting to others, or just a load of rubbish can leave a multitude of works unfinished.

  Fortunately for me, Joe Konrath challenged other writers to write and self publish a piece of work in eight hours. My contribution to the Eight Hour Challenge was “Dr. Epstein’s Couch: The New Patient” and a follow up piece called “Dr. Epstein’s Couch: Pressure” by Alex Sturm.

  The pseudonym “Alex Sturm” was chosen because it was the only pen name I could come up with quickly, that hadn’t already been taken by someone published through Amazon.

  As a result of the kind feedback and number of downloads of the first two vignettes, I decided to un-publish the pieces and re-write a series of short stories; “Dr. Epstein’s Couch: The Criminal Minds Series.”

  I want to thank all the people who downloaded the first two vignettes. Because of you I have achieved enough confidence to just keep going with my writing. I also want to thank Jack for his excellent dumbing down of I.T. information and Amanda for her awesome editing and attention to detail.

  I love to hear from people who have read my work. I can be contacted by email: ann.black45@yahoo.com.au.

  I hope you enjoy the series!

  Dedication

  This book is dedicated to my life partner, whose belief in me seems never-ending.

  Week One

  Monday July 25th, 9:45am

  Parking at my consulting rooms I glance at my mobile and realise I’ve forgotten to take it off silent...I’ve missed seven calls from Phyllis. Wincing against the sun I step reluctantly out of the car, which causes my head to start throbbing.

  I’m foggy from last night’s self-medication; a full bodied Shiraz...the whole bottle, enjoyed with a thick porterhouse steak and a body dysmorphic brunette—pretty, great boob job and the scarring was almost negligible.

  Distantly, I hope she calls the specialist I recommended. In full lighting it’s clear the progressive surgeries are leaving their mark. Without intervention I suspect she’ll become a patchwork of strained skin, puffy lips and even bigger boobs—crossing that line between the centerfold she is now, into a plastic surgeon’s freakish masterpiece.

  But by the time I gather my briefcase and open the front door to face Phyllis and the teary gaze of my 9am, Rachel’s forgotten.

  Phyllis stands and hands me my first appointment folder, “Mrs. Lyons,” she clips out, parental disapproval in her normally compassionate eyes. I hired a mother, I remind myself, this is the down side. Crushing the impulse to apologise I walk into my office.

  9:50am

  Evelyn Lyons sits anxiously on the edge of my two thousand dollar leather couch. She’s immaculately dressed, in her mid sixties; today her cleverly coloured roots conceal the grey that occasionally manages to crawl back. Her make-up is a little runny but she dabs excessively at her eyes, clearly terrified of ruining her perfectly painted face.

  “Thank you for seeing me at such short notice, Dr. Epstein,” she gushes, “I just really needed to talk to you.”

  I sit forward in an effort to reassure her. “How can I help?” I ask softly, ignoring the pressure building in my temples.

  “It’s Alfred. He is having an affair—and he’s told me to vacate the house within seven days, I think... she’s moving in,” her efforts to remain contained are overwhelmed as she bursts into a fresh wave of tears.

  She’s grieving but I know she’s also afraid. She met Alfred when they were both at University. It’d been agreed after they’d married, that Evelyn would take care of the home, her husband and their four children. My observations of Evelyn over these past two years told me her emotional attachments ranked in that order as well.

  Despite her chronic dissatisfaction, together they’d enjoyed a life of holidays abroad and society prestige. But now, without her husband’s accomplishments to lean on, she is dispossessed of both her status and financial security. She’s an aging woman who’s never worked. Her understanding of the world is as naïve as it is inflexible—making her poorly equipped to rise to the demands of her current situation.

  We sit for the next 30 minutes while I reassure and comfort her, working to stabilise her emotional lability. By the time we finish she’s tucked the number of a ruthless divorce lawyer, Sonia, into her handbag and the tears have stopped flowing.

  Although Sonia’s also a patient, I’m confident she’s a good choice—Evelyn will need a bull terrier in her corner. And Sonia’s overcompensation ran deep. Abandoned by her father, then raised by her single mother in poverty while he married his twenty-something secretary and lived like a king, Sonia had spent five years in therapy working out how to direct her rage against men in more pro-social ways. It was either that or risk losing her rights to practice...and she had made good progress.

  Evelyn was going to need Sonia’s skills, and by the time Sonia finishes with him, Alfred will be fortunate to keep 40% of everything he owns.

  10.30 am

  Phyllis is pleased with me as I begin to make up time on my schedule. I down two paracetamol and walk out to greet my 10am.

  Khia Morrison. My temples beat hard.

  Khia is an angry mass of tattoos, piercings, gelled hair and tight clothes. Her sessions are covered by the compensation claim she won several years ago.

  She glares at me as she storms past and flops onto the couch. She sits back and tucks her worn Doc Marten’s under her. Visions of torn two thousand dollar leather dance in my head.

  “Hello Khia.”

  “Fuck. As if your foyer music doesn’t suck enough. I had to listen to that shit for half an hour.”

  I indulge the small fantasy of telling her to fuck off before sitting back in my well-practiced “open” body posture. “You seem upset this morning Khia. Care to tell me about it?” I ask, drawing on my well-rehearsed ‘soothing therapist’ tone.

  “The new medication isn’t working,” she answers accusingly.

  I realise she’s angling to go back on the Valium and I get it. Her life has been one traumatic mess after another. A series of foster homes and a gang rape at 14 had toughened her, but when our sessions occasionally scratched at her defenses, it was clear she lived with enormous unexpressed pain. Her last psychiatrist was a dinosaur and rather than treat her underlying trauma, had her hooked on benzo’s.

  “No, I’m not prescribing your old medication,” I state simply.

  “What? I didn’t even say anything about Benzo’s. Everyone thinks the worst of me.”

  I know she’s angling since emotional manipulation is part of her arsenal. It comes with the territory. I spend the next thirty minutes in psychological battle before she finally leaves with my referral to a drug rehab facility. No promises, but it was a small victory.

  I’m drained.

  11:10am

  “Last one before break,” Phyllis says as she hands me the thick folder. Not for the first time I’m pleased I saw the compassion in her eyes when I interviewed her for the job five years ago.

  “You’re an angel,” I say as I glance at the name on the file.

  Kyle Stevens. Psychopath. He’s
a referral from Corrections and these sessions are part of his parole obligations. Today we have session two.

  My heart pounds, the headache disappears. “Give me a minute will you?” I call to Phyllis walking back into my office and shutting the door behind me.

  I slap the heavy file down on my desk and go to the ensuite. Washing my face, I look at myself in the mirror above the sink. My eyes are a little bloodshot, nothing I can do about that now, but I school my face into distant neutrality. I need to keep this look, no matter how rattled I get.

  When I invite him into my office, he greets me warmly and shakes my hand. I make eye contact and force a smile. “Hello Kyle. Take a seat.” I motion toward the couch.

  I sit opposite, pull my face into position and get ready to defend my secrets. Kyle’s wearing new jeans and his clean blue shirt compliments his eyes...it’s an effect I’m sure he was aiming for.

  He’s a handsome man, 26 years old with a superior range I.Q., particularly on the verbal subscales. He’s muscular thanks to the prison gymnasium and while his record shows the most recent incarceration was due to a rape conviction, it’s only because the Police couldn’t get the murder charge to stick. I have no doubt he’s a Psychopath and his traits place him in the most dangerous category of the disorder. My skin crawls, but I maintain a steady gaze.

  “You look a little tired today John. What did you do last night?” he asks conversationally. He’s trying to ingratiate himself with me, but his question advertises his lack of respect for the doctor-patient boundary and by inference, his continued disregard for socially acceptable norms.

  “More to the point Kyle, what did you do last night?” I counter.

  Kyle smiles smoothly but I know I’ve annoyed him. He wanted me to be charmed by him, to like him, to believe his remorse and ultimately to write a report saying he’s no longer a risk to society, “You’re the expert. Why don’t you tell me?” he asks.

  I push, deciding to call an end to the bullshit early. “Are you trying to control our session Kyle?”

  He shrugs and crosses his legs, but the charm slips and he looks bored. His gaze takes in my desk and I suspect he’s trying to find personal clues about me. It’s the main reason I never keep photo’s in my office.

  He looks at me again. “What if I told you I got myself a pretty little brunette and a bottle of Shiraz last night?” he watches me intently, looking to read my response.

  I freeze, trying to cage my anxiety. “Really Kyle?” I manage to say blandly. The possibility that he’s stalking me storms my mind. How could he know otherwise? I met Rachel at the Club and we drove to the bottle shop on the way back to my place. I scan my memory briefly but can’t recall anything unusual. He could have easily followed me. But why and why let me know?

  But I already know the answer. It’s his back up plan. If he can’t manage to persuade me with charm, he’s letting me know he could hurt me. The last time I worked with someone this dangerous, they were in prison. What the fuck led to his parole decision? Again, I already know the answer. I’m guessing the same strategies paid off with his assessors.

  He gives a little laugh, “Are you a brunette man Doctor? Or do you prefer blondes?”

  Better to challenge him and record it for the file, otherwise he’ll be walking all over me. “I’m curious why you should ask such a question Kyle? Have you been following me?”

  He looks a little surprised but smiles like a cat toying with its next meal. “No John, no need to be paranoid I’m not following you. You should relax more. I happened to see you in the bottle-shop last night as I walked back from my AA meeting.” I don’t believe him. I know a warning when I hear one. He shrugs casually before continuing,

  “I’m just trying to build a rapport with you. I know I used to prefer blondes. Don’t you want to ask me about my past?”

  I know he’s referring to his last victim, Dana Edwards. She had just turned 18 and was on her way home from her birthday party when she met Kyle. It was a meeting she didn’t survive.

  “Are you deriving enjoyment from trying to make me uncomfortable Kyle?” Anxiety evaporates under the rising heat of my anger—I watch the triumph play across his face. He’s trying to get a rise out of me and he’s observant enough to see it’s working. You sick bastard, give me a reason to send you back.

  “No John. I am genuinely sorry for what I’ve done. At night I see the look in that young girl’s eyes. I wish I could go back in time and change it but I can’t. I’m just trying to learn how to be normal. How to talk like a normal guy to another guy.”

  His eyes actually tear up, but I know he’s trying to intimidate me—he’s clever. He’s letting me know he’s followed me and he’s capable of killing and getting away with it.

  My anger mounts, “Don’t fuck around Kyle. If your threatening me, be man enough to come out with it.” I look him square in the eyes. The most dangerous place for me to be right now is in fear. If he thinks I’m an easy victim, I’m in real trouble.

  Kyle laughs with genuine mirth. “Whoa! Slow down John!” He picks an imaginary speck off his jeans and smiles with satisfaction as he watches me. “If I’ve offended you today, I truly am sorry. We both know I’ve got problems dealing with people—that’s why I’m here, to get your help,” he finishes.

  With effort I unbundle my face to form ‘the expression’ and hide behind my training. I allow myself a brief vision of punching him hard in the head, then I pretend to be behind safety glass where he can’t touch me—emotionally or physically.

  The safety glass is another strategy. This one helped me survive five years of working in prisons and psychiatric hospitals, back when an easy patient was a less dangerous version of Kyle and it never lets me down. Anchored and back in control, I fix him with my best unflinching stare. “I’m recording your behavior today Kyle. The records are duplicated and lodged with Detective James. If anything goes wrong for me, my notes will leave you fully implicated.”

  Kyle’s eyes deaden, “I understand John. You’re the boss.”

  I sense I’ve hit home. He doesn’t want to go back to prison. It’s a trump card I can’t always be sure I have. Some career criminals want to go back behind bars; whether its to settle a score, or because they can’t handle life outside, or both—they’re always my most dangerous patients.

  My head remembers to pound and I want him gone. “We have an appointment in a week Kyle. I’ll have the results of your weekly blood and urine screen. I expect you to stay on the anti-psychotics. Any side effects from the increased dosage I prescribed?”

  “No,” he answers.

  “Next week then. Phyllis will give you your appointment details.”

  “I’ll be here John, like I said I want to change,” he responds.

  Once he’s gone I take half a Valium. I spend the rest of the afternoon in brief sessions mainly reviewing patient adjustment to medication.

  Kyle is never far from my mind, I resolve to visit Detective Bob James after work. Before Phyllis goes home I have her arrange for the building security to be checked and remind her about basic safety. She reassures me she will not enter the building after hours and will leave before me at night.

  Given the severity of his psychopathy, treating Kyle was always going to be like playing with a funnel-web spider. I knew it when I took him on after reading the referral information, but the Corrections work is lucrative and it keeps my forensic skills sharp. Nothing comes for free, I remind myself.

  I’m sure Bob knows more than he’s told me and far more than what can be found in the dodgy Police Event reports attached to the referral. Bob’s a prick, I tell myself as I gather my keys, a likeable prick but a prick just the same. He knows more.

  6:00pm

  I pull up in front of Bob James’ favourite haunt—an old pub in the city with a girly bar out the back.

  I walk into the front bar and worry about my new Merc’s paint job. I gather the punters will be in a happy place since it’s still early, but it’d be
asking for trouble to stick around for too long.

  I look at the perky blond behind the bar, and she smiles when she sees me. Interest shines in her eyes but she’s not my type. “Hello Doctor,” she says. I don’t know how she knows who I am.

  I offer a polite smile, “Hello. Seen Bob James about?” I ask getting straight to the point.

  “Yeah, he’s out back,” she responds, eager to please. I’m half tempted.

  “Thanks.”

  I make my way down the paneled corridor, smelling carpet cleaner on top of old beer. The glass doors ahead lead me into the semi-deserted club.

  A scantily clad stripper works her magic on one of the three poles set on the stage. I spot Bob at the bar in deep conversation with a man I don’t recognise.

  “Bob, can I have a word?”

  Bob seems unusually happy to see me, but conceals it quickly. “Sure Doc, step into my office.”

  We order drinks, then leaving his thick set companion at the bar, move to a booth.

  “What can I do you for?” he jokes—it’s his coping strategy for handling pressure. Violent alcoholic father I guess, but his compassion toward women suggests he protected his mother. He also likes taking crooks down and forgets his boundaries...a lot.

  So far he’s managed to avoid formal charges and his results keep him in a job that no longer tolerates his generation of policing methods. It’s a change that causes Bob a good deal of anger, but I suspect he enjoys having a reason to be pissed off with the powers that be.

  There’s an eagerness about him as the waitress brings our drinks; a schooner for Bob and a whisky on the rocks for me. “Kyle Stevens,” I say simply.

  Satisfaction spreads across his face, “Piece of shit of the first order.” He gulps at his beer. “How many times you seen him now?” he asks innocently. I suspect Bob knows full well how many times I’ve seen him, along with the dates of our ongoing appointments.