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

6:15am

I run hard. My lungs burn; I reach the five-kilometer mark and turn back. Images of Monica’s tears flash into my head, the guilt cloys at my insides. I run harder trying to block what I’ve done—again.

By the time I finish my run, shower and organise my brief case, the worst of the guilt’s over. I recognise my pattern and know that within a day or two I’ll have
recovered.

8:05am

It’s late winter and the morning air feels clean and crisp. I watch the joggers, children and commuters bustling along the footpath as I drive into the city listening to the News Radio. Parking, I turn off the motor and sit in silence gazing at the turn-of-the-century cottage I restored when I opened the practice five years earlier. The paint’s still in good shape, but the newly installed security screens change its look and I don’t like it.

The gleam of something shining into my rearview mirror catches my attention and I notice a late model white Holden sedan parked across the road. Police surveillance. Another adjustment.

My head tightens as I think about Kyle Stevens. That fucked-up weed has encroached further than I thought he would. It still astounds me that it’s only been a week since I met up with Bob.

Getting out of my car I give the officer across the road a wave. He smiles and waves back. “Well might they smile,”I mutter to myself.

Phyllis is not supposed to get here before me. A necessary precaution since a 17-year-old jogger was raped late last week in a park only a few kilometers from Kyle’s new residence. My instincts tell me it’s Kyle’s work and Bob said the M.O. is very similar, but there was no evidence left behind. No witnesses. No clues. Typical Kyle.

Kyle is scheduled for his weekly session this afternoon. In the wake of his new crime the appointment’s been on my mind all week. He tried rescheduling to the end of the day but fortunately Phyllis got round him and I’ll see him after lunch.

9:00am

Mitch Evans sits across from me, he is dressed in his workman’s shorts and safety shirt—presumably he will go to work after our session. His knees are spread widely, affording me an uncomfortable view of his thick crotch and beer gut. I suspect he suffers chronic lower back pain.

He’s freshly shaved, 52 years old and recently separated. He tried to hang himself with an industrial extension cord in his shed almost six weeks ago.

“It’s good to see you’re ready for work Mitch.” There was a time I was worried he wouldn’t make it.

“I’m better than I was. A bit embarrassed by it all,” he confesses.

I like him. He’s honest and hardworking. Emotionally inept, which is probably what caused the separation. Sadly by the time he believed his wife’s threats to leave, it was too late.

“Last time we talked you were arranging to see the kids.” I hope it went well. The more connected he feels to his family, the less likely he is to kill himself.

“Yeah. It was good,” he replies simply. No elaboration...he has no words to help him express complex feelings. I have to do all the work for him, I think sympathising with his ex-wife.

“Tell me more Mitch, what was good about it?” I try again.

“Well, you know it was...good. Good to see them. We had a barbecue at Mum’s. Mattie brought his girlfriend. Chelsea was alright. Bit quiet. She gets moody,” he explains.

In Mitch’s simple world his daughter’s ‘moodiness’ is a mystery, “It sounds like a good day. It will take a while for everyone to get used to things.” I elaborate helpfully, trying to lead him to talk more about his grief.

“Yeah. We’ll be right though,” he’s trying to close the subject. It’s typical for him. Now we’ve started talking about pain, he wants to leave.

I decide to let him off the hook. As the discussion reverts to football I note that he’s increased his engagement in enjoyable activities and his motivation’s also improving.

I give him a new script for the same anti-depressant and arrange to see him in a fortnight.

9:30 am

“Hello Khia,” I say calmly.

She sits opposite. She’s changed the colour of her hair from jet black to fluorescent pink. Her eyes are a little glassy and she’s unusually quiet.

“Hello,” she answers.

She’s clearly stoned; I suspect she’s managed to get in touch with a new Valium supplier. “Are you stoned Khia?”

She snorts, “What the fuck do you care? You’ll pocket the $250 bucks for this shit, whether I’m stoned or not.”

“Yes I get paid for these sessions. If you want to talk to a volunteer, you’ll get what you pay for.” I enjoy giving her shit back to her and she does have a point, I get paid well whether she’s stoned or not. But she’s wrong about me not caring.

She smiles despite herself, “yeah, right.”

We talk about rehab again, but she’s uninterested and disengaged. By the time we finish the session I’m awash with frustration.

9:50am

Anxiety about Kyle’s appointment starts to make itself felt. I take half a Valium and wash my face before slogging through another ten appointments.

12:15pm

I stare into the antique mirror in my ensuite. I wash my face again. The half Valium can’t hold my anxiety; there’s sweat on my upper lip. “Fucking pull yourself together,” I whisper to my reflection.

I know Kyle’s sitting in the waiting room. I practice ‘the face,’ until I think I’m in the ballpark of nonchalant professionalism, but my safety glass eludes me. That hasn’t happened before. Finally I walk out anyway.

Kyle’s sitting quietly reading a magazine. He looks up when I open the door and takes his time to neatly return the magazine to the stack before preceding me into the consulting room. I know it’s an indirect attempt to take control. He’s letting me know the session will proceed at his leisure not mine.

Once we’re seated I draw on my reserves to open my body posture, “Hello Kyle. How are you this week?”

He sits back comfortably and looks directly into my eyes, “I’m well, John. It’s been a big week,” he replies.

Smarmy little bastard,
I think. But at least he’s pissing me off enough to drown out the anxiety. “How so?” I ask.

“I’m glad you asked that question John. It seems your good friend and mine, Detective Robert James, has been busy baby-sitting me,” he crosses his legs and continues, “I wouldn’t normally mind but it’s a little tedious.”

He’s being glib but the coldness in his eyes chills me, “I expect he’s concerned about a rape not far from your new home Kyle. Know anything about that?” I ask.

He smiles and I know he did it. A surge of anger pounds in my temples. Kyle looks at his fingernails, “Nothing to do with me. Heard she was only young too. What...a teenager?” he sighs, “I’ve already told you, I’ve changed.” He seems to be getting more frustrated, he doesn’t like that I’m not playing along with his ‘changed man’ routine.

“I hear your words Kyle but they don’t match the way your coming across,” I say.

“Again, as I’ve already told you, previous Psychological Assessments have shown my significant interpersonal difficulty.” He meets my eyes and we both know he’s challenging me. “That does not make me guilty John. You should know that,” he adds condescendingly.

He’s right. He plays the system like a master musician plays a favourite instrument. If I’m to succeed in sending him back to prison I need to follow a procedure. Signaling my ‘concerns’ along the way will add to my pool of evidence and strengthen my case against him.

I ignore his attempts to manipulate me, “I’m making note of your nonchalant attitude Kyle. I have reason to believe you’re not fully rehabilitated. I want you to attend sessions with the Sex Offender’s Community Program again,” sweat trickles down my back. The Sex Offender’s Program is the first step toward building my case. Kyle knows that. Effectively, I’ve just declared war.

Kyle rubs a hand quickly across his face signaling intense anger, but when he speaks his voice is quiet. “I’ll participate in the program John, but I’m letting you know I intend to see my lawyer about this. I feel uncomfortable in these sessions, I have the impression you’ve taken a set against me. I think your friendship with Bob James puts you in a position of conflict and I plan to change to another Psychiatrist,” he finishes calmly.

“I think you’ll find Corrections will be less than accommodating Kyle. In my opinion you’re simply annoyed because you can’t manipulate me. Your record speaks for itself and I
will
write a compelling report arguing for your return to prison.”

We lock eyes, eventually he smiles. “Have it your way John,” he says ominously.

“It’s time to end the session, see Phyllis for your next appointment on your way out.” I stand, walk to the door and hold it open for him to leave.

“I’ll be talking to my lawyer John,” he says.

I say nothing. When he’s gone I close the door behind him and collapse in the chair at my desk. After a while my heartbeat stabilises.

Earlier in the week, I contacted Dr. Ivan Stanley, my Therapist and Mentor and scheduled an appointment for tonight, knowing I would need more than my usual stress relief after seeing Kyle. I’m glad I thought ahead this time.