"Why are you afraid?"
His face animated for a moment, and then went as blank as the
featureless walls of his room. The silence spun out.
My anger rose as it always did. He never answered my questions
directly.
Outside, day was ending. January wind lifted snow devils
in an undulating danse macabre through the forlorn markers
of the Institute's Potters Field. Occasionally, veils of ice
crystals clawed a hollow summons at the windowpane.
In a swift motion he rose from the bed and was abruptly in
front of me, eyes flicking from my face, around the room and back
again. Sunset's afterglow rendered his features into a dark
shadowed, ethereal mask. Again I understood why the staff
insisted on the restraints during our sessions: 'beset by demons
they'd said'. Beset by, or possessed by? Tell me . . .
A rictus contorted his face. He turned away from the
glass rectangle that both promised and denied his freedom and—so
I'd been told—channeled his delusions.
"The dead in winter. Never rest. Never."
A non-answer. After weeks of non-answers.
At each session I tried to get close to him to understand and
allay his fears. But as earnestly as I'd reached out, I'd
been unable to guide him to safety through the hellish fog that
possessed his mind. His behavior was as unvarying as it was
frustrating: when the room's fluorescent lighting overrode the
daylight, he'd retreat to the bed and remain there. Silent.
Unmoving. Staring. And ignore me.
His stolid resistance angered me in a way I'd never thought
possible, and for which my medical training had not prepared me.
***
For a time the outward demeanor of fellow associates at the
Institute had remained respectful, but I knew that my inability to
reach him had become a standing joke among the ward staff.
In the last three weeks they hadn't even bothered to hide their
amusement at my professional failure: "The psych-out strikeout"
was the joke of the floor. It hurt. But in the end,
their contempt only increased my resolve. I swore to myself
that eventually they would all witness my success. One day I
would triumph. One day soon.
***
The swath of blood below the window hung like a scarlet shadow
over the body. The periodic flash of the camera strobe made
it jibber obscenely over its former host.
"I don't give a rat's ass what the surveillance camera
shows, this has to be homicide. For Christ's sake
he's in a straitjacket! What do you think? He ripped
his own throat out, and then put the restraints back on like some
reverse fucking Houdini? Horseshit!"
"Deputy, the camera shows him struggling at the window.
He obviously has a seizure. Then he collapses with an
impressive loss of blood. As you see. But the camera
angle is oblique; it's positioned to cover the entire room, not
specifically to focus on the window. And the window is
triple-glazed, reinforced safety glass. Nothing comes or
goes through it besides light. It can't even be opened.
During his seizure the patient, violently and involuntarily,
strikes his throat on the window ledge, thereby crushing his
larynx and rupturing the carotids. Death follows almost
immediately. No intruder. No assailant. End of
mystery."
The director had lost count of the times he'd given that
explanation since the arrival of law enforcement. Not that
it seemed to have made any impression. The questioning had
lasted through the night. Now dawn was beginning to pale the
frost on the window.
The deputy stepped carefully over the body to examine the
window. Again.
"No blood on the ledge."
"No doubt due to a small delay as the body collapsed. It
would have taken a second for the blood flow to begin after the
arteries ruptured. The wound area would have been below the
ledge as he fell." The explanation elicited a skeptical
grunt.
"If this is such a hot-shit sealed window, why is there frost
on the inside?" The deputy's hand traced a pattern of melted
finger swirls on the glass.
"It's not a perfect world, officer. Things wear out.
Budgets are tight. Maintenance will check it after your forensic
team is satisfied."
Two guys. A camera. A greasy notepad.
Forensic team? What a joke! But the director withheld his
observation. The process had already dragged too long.
"Your examiner can do the autopsy here?" His face clearly
reflected unhappiness at the prospect of an outside—and probably
cursory—examination, but the deputy knew the cash-strapped county
ME would approve and welcome the charity.
"Certainly. The institute has adequate mortuary
facilities, including storage for the remains. Resident
deaths are a natural occurrence. We have to be prepared."
"Storage?"
The director's tolerance evaporated. "Good God!
Look outside! The ground is like concrete! He'll be
buried in springtime, probably alongside the staff member who
passed away three weeks ago. I assure you the patient will
not be inconvenienced! In fact, he may finally be able to
explore his dementia at leisure: the other deceased was his
cardiac-challenged psychiatrist!" He continued irritably.
"Or maybe not. My staff said their sessions were less than
productive. In any case, I have a facility to run. You can
find your own way out."
***
So. You see? I was finally able to reach him, just
as I promised. He thought the window could protect him so he
let down his guard.
But reinforced glass is only a barrier to flesh and blood.
You should have seen his eyes when my hands closed on his
throat. Squeezing. Crushing. Tearing. You would
have seen the last of his breath freeze on the window. And
maybe you could have seen the terror in his face fade to nothing
through that bright crimson.
I did.
Less than productive sessions? Oh no, Mr. Director—quite
the contrary. Very productive. Eminently satisfying.
Nothing rewards a psychiatrist more than being able to finally
reach a difficult patient.
