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Authors: Neal Baer

BOOK: Kill Switch
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“Your dad and Sara.”
“Mommy, Mommy, come out here! Please ...”
“She was still on top of him. And blood's pouring out of her head. My father's head ... is gone. She takes this huge gun out of her purse. Points the gun at me. Pulls the trigger ...”
Claire's chest tightened. She couldn't breathe. It was hot and humid in the room. Like a storm was coming.
“Nothing happened,” Quimby sobbed. “She was out of bullets. So she threw the gun down and walked out.”
“Mommy! The man took Amy away... .”
Claire was lost. Quimby was staring at her.
“Say something! You put me through this bullshit, so why don't you tell me why I'm so screwed up?”
That brought her back. She chose her words carefully.
“Only a psychopath wouldn't be affected by what you went through, Todd.”
“That's it? That's all you got for me? That's why I keep getting into trouble?”
“I think that's why you have the attitude you do toward women.”
“Oh, now I have an attitude toward women?”
“Your father made you watch him masturbate and have sex. Your mother forced you to see how she shot him to death. These experiences made you into someone who likes to watch. To shock people. To look at them and make them have to look at you. Like you've been looking at me the whole time we've been together.”
Quimby's eyes filled with rage.
“I swear, as I'm sitting here right now, my mother should've shot me. I wish the bitch killed me too.”
Why not me? Why didn't Winslow take me?
Claire thought. Her skin suddenly grew cold. Her back stiffened. Something inside her switched off. “When was the last time you saw your mother?” Claire asked.
“The day I testified against her in court. Then I came here to live with my grandmother.”
“She never took you back to visit?”
“Once. But Mom wouldn't see me,” he said as he stopped crying.
“Why not?”
“She said I had his face. And she hated it. She said the whole thing was my fault.”
“Todd, it's not your fault that she murdered him.”
Mommy said it's not my fault. What happened to Amy was not my fault.
“Sure it is,” Quimby answered.
“Why? How could you possibly think it's your fault?” Claire replied softly.
“Because I didn't blow the whistle,” Quimby said. “He protected me from her. And when he really needed me the most, I wasn't there for him. I screwed up.”
Thunder. Claire could see Amy, in tears, peering at her through the window of Mr. Winslow's BMW. Somehow knowing they would never see each other again.
 
In the observation room, Fairborn waited for Claire to make her next move. But there was only silence.
“Something's wrong,” she said to Curtin. “Why isn't Claire saying anything?”
“After what she just got out of him, you're asking that?” demanded Curtin. “Are you serious?”
“Yes, I'm serious,” Fairborn shot back. “Look at her. She's as stiff as a piece of steel.”
Curtin looked at the monitor. Sure enough, Claire was staring into space. Then, through the speakers, they heard Claire say, “How did you feel when you saw your mother kill your father and his lover?”
 
Claire knew the words were wrong as they were leaving her mouth. But Quimby's story had shut her down.
“How do you think I felt? Are you blind or didn't you see what you made me go through?”
She picked up his file, reading to cover her discomfort. “I mean, was your heart racing? Were you sweating? Breathing hard?”
“I can't remember, okay? I was nine. What difference does it make?”
“Because that's a sign of an anxiety disorder. If you're anxious now, we have medication to help you with that.”
Amy, what did he do to you? Stop! Stop! I don't want to think about it....
“I've been on medication. Xanax, Klonopin. That shit didn't work.”
“From the looks of things, you've been self-medicating,” Claire said, her face buried in his medical records.
What is happening to me?
“You mean the dope? I was just having a good time.”
“Or were you trying to forget about a bad time.”
“What the hell kind of therapist are you?”
“Therapy doesn't work without the truth. Were you high when you exposed yourself to those women?”
Dammit! Focus on him
.
“No. I just had an urge. But I learned to stifle them in here.”
“Then why were you taking the drugs?”
Quimby's features tightened up. Now he leaned toward her. “You ever see something so horrible, that scared you so much you knew you'd spend the rest of your life trying to forget it?”
Claire sprang out of her chair. “I'll be seeing you once a week,” she said, her voice icy. “You must be on time. It's a condition of your parole that you come to all your appointments at my office in Manhattan City Hospital.”
Claire scribbled the building and room number on a slip of paper, handed it to Quimby, and without another word headed for the door.
“What's your first name?” came Quimby's voice.
Claire stopped, turned back to him. He was smiling.
“It's Claire,” she answered. “Why?”
“Claire Waters?
Clear
Waters?”
“So?”
“Your parents ever tell you why they named you that?”
He was still smiling. The same look as when she first came into the room.
He thinks he has me
.
He's right.
“This isn't about me.”
 
“What the hell happened to her?” Fairborn asked as she watched Claire on the monitor leave the room.
“I don't know,” said Curtin. “It's like she hit a brick wall.”
“In her head,” replied Fairborn. “Not in his. She was doing so well until she started looking for a chemical explanation for Mr. Quimby's problems.”
“I saw it, too, Lois,” Curtin replied, annoyed.
“She can't handle the stress, Paul,” Fairborn said. “She can't separate herself from what the patient is going through.”
“She'll learn.”
“You wanted her and I supported you,” Fairborn said. “But we don't need someone who dodges the truth by turning to pharmacology for answers. If she can't deal with sick, twisted people, she'll never be a star.”
Curtin stood up. The light from the monitor cast a metallic glint in his blue eyes. He looked down at Fairborn, still seated.
“I'll make her a star.”
C
HAPTER
3
T
he following morning, Claire and her colleagues in the fellowship gathered in the overly bright cafeteria for what Curtin called his “prerounds postmortem,” a ritual that would begin with a critique of his flock's performance from the previous day.
His students, however, saw it more like a daily beheading from the king, which had prompted them to derisively dub the exercise “the Last Supper,” even though it always took place over a rushed crack-of-dawn breakfast.
Today, Saturday, would be no different. Curtin demanded that his fellows see patients on weekends. “They don't choose when to get sick,” he told them, “and we don't choose when to see them.”
It started out benignly enough. Curtin arrived precisely at 6:15, drinking his protein smoothie. Claire's only discomfort was her attire; she wore a lab coat (having spent an hour in the lab), jeans, and sneakers in contrast to the ties and skirts worn by the others. Curtin went around the table, throwing various questions at the fellows, all of whom answered without spectacle. Claire knew her turn would come and was convinced she, too, would get through it unscathed. She was ready. Or so she thought.
“Dr. Waters, what's your diagnosis on Quimby?” Curtin asked.
“Schizoid personality disorder,” she replied, barely missing a beat.
“Based on what?” he asked.
“His description of his physiological reaction to his stressors and urges, and his profuse sweating while he recounted his story,” she said, deciding to go for it and continuing. “I'm prescribing Risperdal and an antidepressant.”
“And based on your assessment and treatment plan, do you think Quimby's ready to be released from jail?”
“In light of his past history and treatment, he appears stable.”
“I'm not asking you how he ‘appears,' Doctor,” Curtin responded, his eyes skewering her. “But since you brought it up, he sure as hell didn't ‘appear' stable in that room yesterday. So I'll ask you again: Is he ready for release?”
Claire fumbled. “I don't have enough facts and data to form an opinion.”
“Facts and data,” Curtin repeated mockingly, addressing the rest of the group, who also knew what was coming. “My point is, Dr. Waters, you're focusing on his physiological reaction. Blood pressure, respirations, and the heartbeat of a patient sitting in your office are not predictors of whether he'll get into trouble once he's on the street.”
“He has to see me once a week. I'll ... I'll evaluate him through therapy,” stammered Claire.
“Not if you handle him the way you did yesterday,” Curtin said.
“I got him to tell his story,” Claire said defensively.
“You got him to talk about his past,” Curtin chided her. “But the second he said he was afraid, you put up the white flag. You jumped on the pill wagon instead of asking follow-up questions. Instead of probing deeper to find out why your patient was scared.”
Curtin looked at the group, though she knew that what he was about to say was directed at her. “This isn't residency,” he began. “You're not treating children with ADD or housewives who think their hubbies are cheating on them and have an anxiety disorder you can correct with Xanax. We're the gatekeepers for the Todd Quimbys of the world.
We
decide whether they belong with the rest of us. This is the big leagues, folks. And we've got to hit a home run
every
time, with
every
patient, or someone out there could get hurt or killed.”
Curtin looked around the group to make sure his message sunk in. “Be upstairs in five minutes,” he said. “Except you, Dr. Waters.”
Claire was so wrapped up in her own head she barely saw the sympathetic glances from her colleagues.
When they were gone, Curtin looked her up and down disapprovingly. “What's that you're wearing?” he asked.
Claire wondered why that mattered, which she made clear with her tone. “I was working in the lab,” she said. “I didn't want to ruin a skirt and blouse with brain matter.”
Curtin sighed and looked at her with mock sympathy. “The lab,” he said. Then he asked, “Why did you accept this fellowship?”
“Because I want to understand what makes the criminal mind different,” she answered, looking him right in the eyes.
“I brought you here because you're brilliant,” he said, backing off.
“Nobody's questioning that. And I think deep down you have what it takes to do this work. But in this business, having what it takes isn't enough. You have to wear it.”
“Wear it?”
“Confidence. Extroversion. Even a little narcissism,” Curtin said.
“I'm not a game-show host,” she replied angrily. “I'm a psychiatrist.”
“Being a psychiatrist is more than waving a medical degree and a prescription pad in someone's face.”
“Excuse me?” she demanded.
“You can't just prescribe drugs as a crutch to avoid confronting your patients,” Curtin replied.
“A crutch?” Claire said, her voice rising. “I'm a
scientist
. I do research—which points to a neurochemical explanation for criminal behavior.”
“I don't care what it points to,” he said. “What I saw from you yesterday was reaction formation. A cover. Defense mechanism. And that's not going to fly here. You're excused from morning rounds.” Curtin stood up and turned to walk away.
Claire had enough. “Are you telling me I'm not cut out for this?”
Curtin turned back and smiled, as if he'd expected her to stop him. “I wouldn't send you packing after the first day. I talked this over with Dr. Fairborn, and she wants to see you.”
“Now? On Saturday?”
“She's waiting in her office.”
Curtin walked away. Claire couldn't help but think he had passive-aggressively passed the buck on her future to his boss. She hoped only that Fairborn wouldn't suck the blood out of her.
The Vampire was dressed in charcoal-colored slacks and a gray silk blouse that morning, her dark lipstick and nails making her look almost Goth. When Claire entered the office, she immediately felt at ease, noticing the surprising homey touches like cream-colored cashmere throws and a crystal vase filled with fragrant white roses. Fairborn couldn't have been nicer, greeting Claire like a long-lost friend, telling her how glad she was to have her on board as she guided Claire to a comfortable leather chair. Claire only then saw the lacquered Chinese fans that were splayed on the walls, a decorative message that said that everything discussed in the room would remain hidden from the world.
Fairborn began with small talk, asking Claire about her family and past, which disarmed her completely. She realized this would be less of a dressing-down than a therapy session. They were talking about Claire's childhood, which by and large had been a happy one, when Fairborn popped the question Claire knew was coming but dreaded nevertheless.
“Do you remember, as a child, being afraid of anything?”
Claire looked down. She liked this woman but wasn't ready to spill her innermost secrets. She tried to brush the question off.
“Sure. You know—monsters, snakes, the usual kid stuff.” Fairborn wasn't having it, though she remained friendly when she said, “Mr. Quimby asked you if you were ever afraid. You withdrew and changed the subject. I doubt the usual kid stuff would have made you do that.”
“I didn't answer him because the question wasn't relevant to his treatment,” Claire said, trying to sound as professional as she could. “We weren't there to talk about me.”
“But
we're
here to talk about you,” said Fairborn. “Dr. Curtin was pretty hard on you this morning, wasn't he,” she stated as fact.
Claire realized that Fairborn was playing the good cop. But Claire didn't want to play.
“I don't think the way I dress has any bearing on my effectiveness as a therapist,” she said defiantly.
If this bothered Fairborn, she gave away nothing. “Do you think you belong here?”
“I thought I did. But maybe I made a mistake.”
Fairborn tilted her head, fingering the strand of pearls around her neck, thinking about how to respond.
Thunder rumbled off in the distance, which startled Claire. She quickly covered her alarm, hoping Fairborn hadn't noticed.
“Storm's coming,” Fairborn said, eyeing Claire. “But it's supposed to blow over quickly.”
“I hope so,” Claire said, then added, “We don't need any more rain.”
Fairborn smiled. “In this program, we look at everything, Claire—the present and the past—in order to help our patients have a future. You're too focused on the present, on brain chemicals. I think you're running from the patient's history, his life story, and I want to know why.”
“All due respect, Doctor, I know the patient's past matters. Who we are is partly determined by our experiences. When Mr. Quimby didn't want to talk about his childhood, I got him to open up.”
Fairborn leaned in. “And then he asked you if you'd ever been afraid. And you shut down. Why?”
“I don't know,” said Claire, knowing Fairborn, a pro, wouldn't be fooled for a second.
Fairborn looked at her. “Dr. Waters ... Claire,” she began. “We come from different places, have different perspectives. But we're both shrinks. That's who and what we are. I'm not saying I have all the answers. But I've been doing this a long time. And one thing I know for certain is that you can't be a good shrink if you can't be truthful with yourself.”
“About what?” Claire asked, though she already knew the answer.
“Your past,” Fairborn replied without a hint of condescension. “Whatever it is that you don't want to relive through these patients.”
“My past has nothing to do with this,” Claire responded stubbornly.
“Of course it does, dear,” Fairborn said. “You need to decide whether you're ready to face your own demons. Because until you are, you may not be ready for this kind of responsibility.”
The thunder was louder, closer this time. Claire couldn't help but shudder slightly. “Maybe you're right,” she said. “Maybe I should talk to you about a few things that have been bothering me.”
“Good,” Fairborn said, standing up. “We'll make a time twice a week to talk.”
Claire stood up and Fairborn led her to the door.
“We've all got storms inside us, Claire. How we handle them is what counts.”
The storms inside us
. The words echoed in Claire's mind.
Maybe she'll help me find my way through them
.

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