The New Patient (Dr. Epstein's Couch: Criminal Minds Series) Page 3

  I get up, throw up in my toilet and wash my face. When I return Bob’s putting the kettle on.

  My head is thick with shock. Guilt twists inside my chest, “This is punishment,” I say quietly, “I told Kyle I’m referring him back to the Sex Offender’s Program and that I doubt his rehabilitation. He’d be aware of the CCTV footage. He wants me to know he’s involved with her. God knows what happened in that meeting.”

  Bob looks at me and nods. “Sick prick,” he says as he pours the tea, “I don’t know what he said to her, but she’d been taking anti-depressants for years. Family says she tried to kill herself and was hospitalised in Wyama as a teenager. I gotta tell you Doc, this is just the start. If we don’t get the bastard behind bars he’ll keep on killing.”

  How would Kyle know Monica’s vulnerability? For a split second hate surges in my veins, he is fox smart and has nothing but time on his hands. He could easily follow her from here. It wouldn’t take much for him to convince her to trust him. God knows what she’d disclosed to him.

  I become calm, distantly I feel my shock settle into something cold, “Don’t worry Bob. He’s going back.”

  Week Three

  Monday August 8th, 6:30am

  Nursing my morning coffee I scan the updated security monitors I’ve had installed. The black and white images provide reasonable resolution and afford me a 360-degree view around the bottom floor of my townhouse. The tree near the drive slightly obscures one corner during the day, but at night it’s a blind spot of shadow. I decide to have the branches lopped. I want to be ready for my intruder when he comes to get me.

  I down the rest of my coffee and make my way to work. I’m curious about how Kyle will present today. He wanted me to know he’s involved with Monica. Harder to know whether he knew she was going to kill herself. It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve seen the M.O...and I’ve no doubt Kyle’s capable of talking someone vulnerable into suicide.

  7:15am

  I park, lock up the car and wave to the on-duty officer across the road. He waves back, smiling tightly. I barely even register the security screens and Phyllis’ absence anymore as I open up the building and head straight to my consulting room.

  Almost immediately, the phone rings. “Hello, Bob.”

  “Morning, Doc. You’re up bright and early.” I realise he must have had a call from my friend across the street. “Ready to do business with our mate?” he asks.

  Visualising Kyle’s smug grin triggers a quick surge of contempt. “You could say that,” I respond evenly.

  “You sure you’re up for this, Doc?” I could tell Bob was starting to worry about me, “I mean, this type of thing isn’t exactly your area.”

  If only you knew, I think to myself. “Are you doubting me, Bob?”

  “I wouldn’t say its doubt, Doc. Think it through, that’s all I’m sayin’. There’s a shitload of shit coming your way, that’s all.”

  I chuckle, “that was almost poetry, Bob.”

  “Ah, fuck off,” he says.

  9:00am

  Evelyn Lyons walks in, sits carefully and offers me a watery smile.

  “Hello, Evelyn,” I respond. She’s modernized her hair; it’s darker, shorter, and makes her look like a woman in her fifties, rather than the sixty-three year old I know her to be. The attention to her appearance suggests she’s stabilising and I resolve to keep her on the same dosage of her antidepressant for a while longer.

  “Hello, Doctor.” She insists on calling me that, despite my numerous attempts to get her to refer to me as John. Part of her wants the safety of subjugation.

  “Evelyn. We’ve talked about this. I’m John. Your smart enough not to need me to tell you what to do.” I smile to soften the blow of my words.

  She smiles and nods, she takes criticism too easily, she’s always ready to blame herself. “I know. Sorry, it’s not how I was raised. It feels wrong somehow,” she explains.

  “And you’ve always done what others expect of you.”

  She nods and starts to cry, “Everything has changed. I used to know what was expected, what I had to do...so I did it. I was a good wife and mother. I can’t understand him leaving me.” She blows her nose, plucking multiple tissues from the box and dabbing her eyes .

  I move closer, “How are things going with Sonia?” I ask.

  She draws a shaky breath, “She certainly is thorough.”

  I smile inwardly. ‘Obsessed’ would be more accurate. I make a mental note to have Phyllis call Sonia for a check-up. Just to be sure she wasn’t forgetting her boundaries again. “Yes, she has an excellent reputation,” I lie smoothly.

  The next fifteen minutes are spent helping Evelyn to work through her guilt about the property settlement.

  I think about the whisky waiting for me at home. I think about punching Kyle Stevens in the face.

  11:00am

  I walk into the reception area, Phyllis sits at her desk talking into the hands free headset while she clicks and types into the appointment calendar. I wait for her to finish. “Phyllis, is Khia Morrison here?”

  She looks up and shakes her perfectly styled head, “No, I think she’s a no-show today. I tried her phone and left a message,” she explains.

  “Okay, thanks. Who do I have next?”

  She clicks her monitor and pulls the file as she answers, “Kyle Stevens at 11:30. Do you want me to phone for a coffee?”

  I’m a little surprised to feel excitement start to beat in my chest. I realise I’m looking forward to seeing him. No...it’s more than that. I want to do battle. “No thanks, would you just let me know when he gets here?” I snag the file from her and head toward my office.

  “Sure...John! Are you alright?” she asks as I turn to face her.

  “I’m fine Phyllis.” I give her what I hope will be a reassuring smile.

  I’m glad to have some extra time to take a more thorough look at Kyle’s file. I’d given it a quick flick through before our first session, but now I want to know as much as I can. Hopefully there will be something in there that can give me an edge over him. I go straight to the back and find the attachment documents that came with the original referral.

  I note that the copies of Psychiatric and Psychological assessments dating back to Kyle’s teen years follow the standard aetiology from child to psychopath.

  The earlier assessments cite numerous child protection reports and describe Kyle’s removal from his drug addicted mother as being ‘life-saving’. At the time Kyle was taken into State care he was seven years old.

  Hospital ex-rays revealed there were untreated fractures in his right wrist, three toes on the left foot and two on the right...which suggested torture.

  The hospital notes reported he was dehydrated, under weight and hadn’t eaten since breakfast the day before. Kyle had numerous bruises on his back, arms and legs and had told staff they were the result of being in trouble with his mother and her new boyfriend.

  I notice the time and flip quickly through the file. Multiple foster homes, one unsubstantiated report he’d been sexually abused by a carer, poor academic performance, frequent school detentions, suspensions for violence and eventually, at age 17, he was admitted to Wyama Adolescent Psychiatric Facility.

  I freeze.

  Wyama. I do some calculations and realise Kyle and Monica were roughly the same age. The possibility that they were in Wyama together hits me like an icy slap.

  My stomach churns. Images of Monica, sleepy-eyed and bringing our morning coffee back to bed, mingle with memories of the last night we were together. I shut my eyes but she’s still there, reaching for me in the night, moving with me as she orgasms, eyes drowsy with pleasure.

  She was warm, funny and smart. Nothing out of place, no glaring inconsistencies to tell me anything different. But I have to admit that I hadn’t looked too hard either. It was difficult to enjoy a few hours of uncomplicated pleasure when you took account of your playmate’s neuroses. In the interests of self-preservation I’d learne
d how to shelve my diagnostic manual long ago.

  But the question remained; what was the nature of Monica’s relationship with Kyle? The possibility that Monica was working with Kyle occurs to me but I can’t accept it—maybe I just don’t want to accept it.

  And not for the first time since working with Kyle, I feel deeply vulnerable. Monica had been in my house maybe a dozen times. There were plenty of opportunities for her to rifle through my personal effects while I slept or showered.

  But I still can’t believe she was actually working with Kyle. And if she was, then her death shows she’d gotten herself involved with a monster—and paid the ferryman with her life.

  A lump forms in my throat. Monica had her whole life ahead of her and I don’t believe she was disguising her true character during the time we spent together.

  Casting my mind back, I remember on one occasion we’d read the morning paper together. Her comments were intelligent and empathic and her politics more left wing than right.

  I remember that not long before her death, she said she’d like to have children one day, but worried about the kind of world she’d be raising them in. At the time I thought she’d make a good parent, but comments like that told me it was time to end it. Looking back, her words take on new meaning. I feel a chill working its way down my spine and my mouth dries up.

  She’d somehow become entangled with a master manipulator. She’d been in trouble. She’d died. But the question of what she’d told Kyle before she’d felt compelled to kill herself remained unanswered.

  She was sad and upset when I ended our...I still couldn’t bring myself to call it a relationship. But she’d also seemed to accept my position. After all, I had never lied to her. From where I’d sat at the time, it was better to end it. End it before it became messy. Whether that mess came in three or six months—there would be a time when I would feel tight and crowded. Suffocated by the strictures of a deepening relationship.

  I shake my head and ignore the weight in my chest as I close Kyle’s thick file. I had tried to prevent her pain. I had tried to prevent another Elaine. But if I’d paid more attention, maybe I would have noticed something wasn’t right. If I’d given her the chance to confide in me. Maybe she’d still be alive.

  The practice phone from reception bleeps; I know Phyllis is telling me Kyle is here. “Thanks, Phyllis, I’ll be right out,” I say before she has a chance to speak.

  “Okay. I’ll let him know,” she answers.

  I stretch and roll out my shoulders. After washing my face, I scrub it hard with the hand towel until I’m satisfied that I’m awake. I wonder how much of this Bob already knew. Rolling my shoulders as I walk to the door, I push the thought aside. I have a job to do.

  11:35am

  As Kyle walks ahead of me into the room, he’s quiet and calm. No false smile or rage. Just quiet. He watches.

  I decide not to mention his threat to change Psychiatrists. I can only assume he’s here because his lawyer advised against it. “Good morning, Kyle. Tell me about your week.” No preamble, no niceties. Start talking, give me something, I will him silently.

  He crosses his legs and checks his nails. “Well, sadly a close friend of mine has died.” He holds eye contact and watches me again. “Monica Riordan.”

  I didn’t expect this and it throws me. I fight for equilibrium while my heart pounds. I actually feel momentarily dizzy, but I force myself to hold his gaze. “How did you know Monica?” My voice sounds tight.

  “We were in Wyama together as kids. She was a sad piece even back then. Did you know her too, John?” he asks innocently. He was good. If I didn’t know what was going on I would never guess he was enjoying the idea of causing me pain.

  I make a note. Lacks emotion in response to death of a female friend.

  “You’re remarkably calm considering your loss,” I say, ignoring his question.

  His eyes well on cue and he mimics a brave smile. He disgusts me. I want to hit him. “I’ve learned to hide my feelings. Most people have trouble reading me,” he says.

  “So you’ve learned to mislead people and you enjoy deceiving them?” I deliberately twist what he’s said. I write, Admits to enjoying deceiving others.

  He watches me take notes and the tears dry up, “What are you writing there Doctor?” he asks softly.

  I’m cold with contempt but I manage to smile, “Your responses to a disturbing emotional event are abnormal, Kyle. Did you attend the Sex Offender’s Group meeting?” I ask.

  He smiles, “I did.”

  “I look forward to receiving their reports. Like I said last week, I have serious concerns about community safety.”

  “I can only continue to reassure you that I’m fully rehabilitated,” he says before adding, “I’ll be attending Monica’s funeral and her mother was pleased to hear I’m back in town. Having read the obituary, I let her know how sorry I am for the loss of her daughter.”

  And I’m done. I stand and lead him to the door. I look back at him while he deliberately takes his time to get up, “See you next week Kyle.” I hold eye contact and watch him take his next appointment card from Phyllis before leaving.

  “Are you alright, John?” Phyllis asks.

  “Reschedule my afternoon, Phyllis, and go home early.”

  She looks confused, but decides not to press for answers, “Of course. Can I order your lunch?”

  “No, I’ve got work to do. just make sure you buzz me when you’re leaving and I’ll lock up behind you.” I say as I take a wad of mail out of my in-tray.

  Closing the door softly behind me, I walk to the couch, dump the mail on the seat and stare at the space where Kyle had been sitting. Seeing his obnoxious grin, I lean in and punch the thick leather in a quick succession of lefts and rights, loading my blows with the full force of my rage—just like I’d done through my boarding school days.

  Except punching leather didn’t give quite the same satisfaction as connecting to the flesh and bone of my tormentors. I stop when I feel the pain in my knuckles.

  I hear Phyllis buzz and walk out to lock up behind her.

  She glances at me as she walks past, “Night, John. I’ll see you in the morning. Don’t forget to eat, will you?” she says.

  I smile. People like Phyllis allow me to believe in the better side of humanity. “Don’t worry about me Phyllis. You have a good afternoon and put this place out of your mind.”

  She nods and smiles. “Maybe you should take your own good advise?”

  After she leaves I lock up and look at the patrol vehicle sitting across the road. Poor bastard. Sitting outside a building for eight hours had to be the most boring way to make a living.

  But I am grateful for the additional security, and to Bob for agitating the “boss” for the man-hours. After today I expect Kyle will feel the pinch of my tactics. If we don’t send him back to prison soon, there will be more deaths.

  6:15pm

  I notice the time as I pull away from Ivan’s drive. Making my way down the darkened street, I check my mirrors and confirm that there is still no sign of being followed. I use the voice recognition on my phone to pull up Bob’s mobile and say “Voice Call” into my hands free.

  “Eeer, what’s up Doc?” Bob answers in his Bugs Bunny voice. It’s a joke that only slightly amused me the first time I heard it three years ago. While he stopped calling me the “Psycho” rather than the “Psychiatrist,” about eighteen months into our association, he is especially proud that he thought of a “Looney Tunes” character that also regularly uses the salutation of “Doc”. Judging by the way he is chuckling to himself, I’m not going to see the end of this stroke of genius for some time yet.

  Sighing inwardly I press on. “Bob, got a minute?” I ask, driving through leafy suburbs toward home.

  He drops the Bugs voice. I suspect it’s beyond his talents to continue the verbal intonation past the Bugs Bunny basics. “Sure, Doc. Did our mate turn up for his appointment today?” I can hear his voice harden.


  “Yeah. Listen, did you know he was in Wyama with Monica Riordan?”

  “No.” He answers with cross-examination succinctness.

  My antennae are up. I suspect he did know, but didn’t tell me. “Yes, well. It seems he’s also kept in touch with the family and he’ll be at the funeral.”

  “Fucking piece of shit! We’ll have him. We’ll have him. Cocky bastard,” he splutters.

  So he didn’t know the full extent of the association, but he had known about a relationship between Monica and Kyle. “Cut the shit, Bob. How long have you known that Monica knew Kyle?” I’m a bit surprised at the coldness I can hear in my own voice.

  “Take it down a notch, Doc. We found out about Wyama when we checked out her psychiatric history. That’s it. But I didn’t know Kyle knew the family until I questioned Monica’s parents after she’d died. They recognised a photo of Kyle,” I can hear him take a drink before continuing. “The family have agreed to play it cool and let us know if Kyle makes contact.”

  “You could have told me about it the night she died.” I’m pissed off and disappointed in Bob, but as much as I know he’s a prick, I need him.

  “You were already in shock and I didn’t see the point in confusing the situation. Monica was dead. The how’s and why’s were up to me and my boys to get right. If it helps, I’m sorry I didn’t give you the full story,” he finishes reluctantly.

  My annoyance eases, he’s a control freak, and in his own way he was trying to take care of me that night. I take a calming breath. “It’s over, but for fuck’s sake stop filtering information. Neither of us know what could be useful now.” My thoughts return to Monica’s funeral. “So, either he’s lied to me about the funeral, or the parents haven’t told you he’s been invited.”

  “Now I think about it, he’s probably bullshitting you. The parents gave the impression they didn’t like the scum-bag. I doubt they’ve opened their arms to him now.” Bob sounds calmer.