Mother's Milk

Contents

Cover

Titles by Charles Atkins

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Acknowledgements

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

ASHES, ASHES *

THE CADAVER'S BALL

MOTHER'S MILK *

THE PORTRAIT

RISK FACTOR

The Campbell and Strauss Series

VULTURES AT TWILIGHT *

BEST PLACE TO DIE *

DONE TO DEATH *

 

* available from Severn House

 

 

This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author's and publisher's rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

 

This first world edition published 2009
in Great Britain and in the USA by
SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of
9–15 High Street, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM1 1DF.

This eBook edition first published in 2014 by Severn House Digital an imprint
of Severn House Publishers Limited

Copyright © 2009 by Charles Atkins.

The right of Charles Atkins to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

Atkins, Charles.
Mother's Milk.

1. Conyors, Barrett (Fictitious character)–Fiction.

2. Forensic psychiatrists–Fiction. 3. Drug abusers–Death– Fiction. 4. Schizophrenics–Fiction. 5. Suspense fiction.

I. Title

813.5'4-dc22

ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-6795-7 (cased)

ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-625-0 (ePub)

Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.

This ebook produced by
Palimpsest Book Production Limited,
Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland

To:

Lynn Zinno

Carol Genova

Marie Johnston

Mary Frigiani

For all of your skill, grace, humor, compassion and hope in the face of inestimable suffering.

I'd like to thank the following for all of their help, guidance and honest criticism. My agent Al Zuckerman, friend and freelance editor Elizabeth Fitzgerald and Gary S. Jayson, who always gets the first read. I'm indebted to Stacey Asip and daughter Nika Kneitschel, for helping me dress Barrett, and Doreen Elnitsky for steering me straight on the ins and outs of breast feeding. I'd also like to thank all those at Severn House, who helped polish this book into its final form – Edwin Buckhalter, Rachel Simpson Hutchens and Nick Blake. And of course my parents – Cynthia and Harvey Atkins for their unconditional and unwavering support.

Finally, and perhaps most importantly, to my patients, who over the years have taught me so much.

B
arrett gagged at the stench of death – a mix of escaped gases and something slightly sweet, even though the two teens, a boy and a girl, hadn't been that way long. To the tall, darkly beautiful, thirty-three-year-old forensic psychiatrist they looked asleep, slumped on a pile of decorative pillows like the fussy ones you get at discount stores with purple, hot pink, and wine-colored silk with exotic tassels and bits of gold and silver embroidery. Someone had tried to make this top-floor Alphabet City tenement apartment a home. Barrett struggled to push past the shock, the sheer waste of two young lives. She had to get her bearings and figure out what she'd stumbled into – the room had a purpose; mattresses heaped with pillows lined three walls, each separated from the next by an artistically stenciled and painted table – a twenty-first-century opium den with a do-it-yourself makeover.

As her nose, more acute since the birth of Max four months ago, took in the smells – Indian patchouli, a trace of pot, and that unmistakable reek, sweet, not yet rot – she touched the girl first, praying she was wrong.
So young, please let there be a pulse.
Two long fingers of her right hand homed in on the carotid, pushing in, the flesh still warm, her hair, streaked with honey highlights, soft and scented with a fruity conditioner … no pulse. The girl's eyes were open, the whites starting to dry, staring at the ceiling with its layers of flaked paint over zinc tiles. The boy was handsome, still with a bit of baby fat to his cheeks, dark curly hair, his brown-eyed gaze fixed on his arm where a spot of fresh dried blood showed his last injection site. The needle and the small alcohol burner they'd used to cook their dope lay on the floor between them. Barrett eyed the Ziploc bags on the table, some still filled with dirty white heroin – an overdose with dope to spare. She muttered and caught the panic-stricken expression of Lydia, the crisis outreach social worker from the forensic center and mother of four she'd dragged along after the call from Jerod.
And where the hell are you?
she thought, picturing the young man who'd been so frantic on the phone.

‘I'll call the cops,' Lydia said, pulling out her cell, her thick frame plastered against the far wall of the room.

Barrett crouched by the bodies and half-listened as Lydia phoned the crisis team and told them to send the police. Tears welled; these were just kids … so young … somebody's children.

She froze at the sound of footsteps in the hallway. She called out, ‘Jerod, is that you? It's Dr. Conyors … Show yourself.' She glanced toward the open door and saw movement in the shadows and a disturbance in the dust that glittered in the light. She wiped back a tear as fear throbbed and awful thoughts barreled into her brain, like if something should happen to her, who'd care for her baby? And shouldn't she have thought of that before coming on this outreach?
What am I doing here?

The footsteps stopped. Barrett slowed her breath, everything about this felt wrong; a set-up, but now was not the time to try and figure out why Jerod, a twenty-two-year-old homeless schizophrenic with a drug problem, would do this to her, one of the few people in his sad life who actually gave a damn. The fingers of her right hand snaked inside her shoulder bag and into the leather holster where she kept a small 9mm Kahr polymer handgun – a gift from Detective Ed Hobbs. She motioned for a wide-eyed Lydia to keep back as she pulled the slide on the pistol and edged flat-footed toward the door. She made no sound as she listened for whoever was outside. If it were Jerod, he'd make noise – almost couldn't stop himself, with his jangled energy and the voices inside his head that ordered him about whenever he stopped his medication, which was most of the time.

Her gut twisted at the hard-metal click of a safety not more than a few yards away on the other side of the door. She pictured her baby – Max – safe with her mother. She had a split-second recognition that once again she'd placed herself in mortal danger and could imagine what Hobbs would say, how she was supposed to be a ‘goddamn shrink and not Rambo'. A siren wailed from down the avenue, grew louder. Barrett held her position, the footsteps started again. She raised the pistol, aiming at the door frame. They were getting closer, moving faster, and then stopped. The siren pulsed louder; it was joined by a second.

She stood frozen, her gun raised, body tense, and then she both felt and heard footsteps running away. Carefully, she peered around the door. She spotted a man in jeans, sneakers, a leather coat, and short spiky blond hair running toward the stairwell – she couldn't see his face. ‘Jerod!' She sprinted after him, her heart pounding. It didn't look like him, unless he'd lopped off his trademark dreadlocks, and this man was shorter.

‘Barrett!' Lydia shrieked, her voice an octave higher than usual. ‘Where are you going? Don't leave me!'

Barrett stopped and looked back at Lydia, her chunky body in jeans and a green button-down blouse, one hand clutching the door and the other gripping her cell phone. Her dark eyes bore into Barrett's. ‘What are you doing?' she asked, her tone accusatory, angry and close to tears. ‘You're not a cop.' Lydia fixed on the gun. ‘Why are you carrying that? Please don't leave me. I'm so frightened.'

Barrett said nothing as they heard the commotion of heavy feet running up the stairs. A woman's voice called out, ‘Dr. Conyors, are you there?'

‘We're up here … top floor,' Barrett called, putting the safety back on the Kahr and slipping it into its holster. A female officer entered, followed a few steps later by her uniformed male counterpart. They looked at the dead teenagers, and the woman, looking to Barrett, commented, ‘They drop like flies … overdose?'

‘Seems like,' but something was off, she was finding it hard to think. ‘Problem is we came here to pick up one of our regulars at the forensic center. He said he needed to go into the hospital.'

‘Jerod hates the hospital,' Lydia said, talking fast. ‘We should have known something was wrong. He was different on the phone, not his usual. Scared … And you can't trust a thing out of a junkie's mouth. We should have brought an escort. I told you that. Oh my God. We could have been killed.'

‘Who's this Jerod?' the female cop asked, as her partner called for the crime-scene team.

‘Jerod Blank,' Barrett said, feeling bad for Lydia, who was shaking. ‘Twenty-two, raised mostly by the Department of Family and Youth Services and now pretty much living on the streets with occasional trips to psych hospitals … or jail, where he gets put on meds for his schizophrenia. But he never stays on them.'

‘So where is he? And why did he want you here?' the cop asked.

‘Good questions.' Barrett walked over to a boarded-up window and peered through a crack. She saw a bunch of kids shooting hoops in the pocket park between this building and the next. ‘There was someone else up here,' she said, ‘ran off when you all came.'

‘Your Jerod guy?'

‘I don't think so.' Barrett pictured Jerod – rail-thin, tall, weird tattoos on his arms, pale blue eyes, and a mass of dirty-blond dreads – and her last interaction with him a couple months back. He'd been arrested for shoplifting a cell phone and the judge had looked at his record of bouncing in and out of psychiatric hospitals, stabilizing, stopping his meds, doing drugs and petty crimes. He'd wanted to send the youth to prison for a few months to teach him a lesson. Jerod had been desperate, begging Barrett to help him. Frightened witless, he'd started to talk about killing himself, better to be dead than go to prison; he knew he wouldn't survive there. Barrett, who genuinely liked Jerod and saw in him a good heart, a twisted wit, and potential that might never get tapped because of his shitty birth family and all the bad things that had happened to him growing up as a ward of the state, had gone to bat with the judge, putting together yet another in-patient stay with the promise of a group home once he got out – problem was after two weeks in the hospital he'd been released and gone AWOL from his group home.