The Imposter (18 page)

Monique
was quiet.  Finally she said, "Damnit! We did search the unit.  Twice!  We
gave everything over to you all, Jack.  Where on earth did he get that
shirt?"

"I
don't know Monique, but my men searched as well."  Jack's voice was
irate.  “I'm not sure the evidence wasn't planted."

 Alex
intuitively knew there was more to Whitset than met the eye.  She asked Monique
if she knew anything about his background.   Monique thought for a moment, then
shook her head negatively.

"Nope,
I know nothing.  Montgomery made the connection and hired him early in March. 
I wasn't even allowed to interview him." Monique tossed her head in
anger.  "If I'd interviewed him, we'd never have hired him!"

Elizabeth
changed the subject and asked, "Dr.  Desmonde, since I'm not a clinical
person, can you tell me what motivates a person to work in psychiatry?"
Elizabeth's question was straightforward and Alex thought it was a darn good
one.  Jack looked at Elizabeth with renewed respect.   Obviously after her
experience on the unit today, Elizabeth was skeptical about why anyone would
want to work with such patients.

"That's
a hard one, Liz," Monique said in a bemused voice.  "I have my own
theory.  It's not scientific, but I think it's pretty accurate."

"Shoot,"
Françoise ordered, as he sat back down and sipped his cold coffee.

"I
think most people go into psychiatry because they want to know more about
themselves.  I certainly did.  I grew up in a house full of hidden agendas that
needed tending one way or another.  My childhood was full of secrets.   My
mother was a socialite and a closet alcoholic.  My father was a control freak. 
He thought he could control my mother by controlling her booze.  He was wrong. 
Alcohol merely cloaked my mother's real illness.  She was chronically depressed
and suffered from major depressive disorder.  When my father realized he
couldn't control her, he concentrated on controlling his business.  He spent 70
hours a week away from home.  The three of us – – my sister, my brother, and me
– – grew up with no parents to speak of, no emotional support, no strong
relationships with anyone, and no one to listen to us.  We took care of each
other.  There was no one to help us grow up strong and sound." Monique's
voice faltered, she was becoming upset. 

Jack
put both hands on his coffee mug.  He was dying to hug Monique, but he didn't
dare.

"You
certainly did well, Dr.  Desmonde," Elizabeth said, trying hard to
preserve the physician's waning self-esteem.

"Yeah,
at the time I think I did okay.  I was the oldest and I remember some of the
good times when my family wasn't so dysfunctional.  My brother and sister
weren't so lucky."  Monique stopped for a few moments, thinking about her
past.  Then she continued, "You see, I had my grandmother.  She was a
strong, wise, and normal.  She was a positive influence in my life when I was
very young.  She helped me a lot in my early years.  Unfortunately, she died
when I was 11.  My brother and sister didn't have her as a role model.  They
never knew families were supposed to love you, care for you, and nurture you. 
It was hard for them."

"What
about your brother and sister? How are they?" Alex was associating
Monique's past with her own.  Her own mother was mentally unstable and
reclusive.  Alex had never known her father, Louis, very well.  He had deserted
them when Alex was three years old, apparently unable to put up with her
mother's behavior.  Alex had felt deserted with no father.  It was painful to
think her father had left her and had not loved her enough to keep in touch. 
This was the same pain she'd felt after Robert's rejection of her.  Now, two
men had deserted her.

Monique
looked sad.  She said with tears welling in her eyes, "My brother died 15
years ago in a drunk driving accident.  He inherited my mother's booze genes, I
guess.  My sister lives somewhere in California.  She's pretty whacked out. 
She still acts like it's the 1960s.  I rarely hear from her."

Françoise
put his hand over Monique's.  He'd known about her brother and sister, but
didn't know how sad and lonely her childhood had been.  It made his heart heavy
and made him want to protect her even more.

Monique
dabbed her eyes with her sleeve and continued "Anyway, when I took
psychology in college, a light started going off for me.  It was like,' yeah, I
recognize this … yeah, that sounds familiar.' That's when I knew I'd try to
spend my life helping other people build confidence, self-esteem, and positive
coping skills.  I guess I just want to help people find their way in life .... 
So, getting back to your question, Liz, I think people choose psychiatry
because they are also looking for help.  In fact, some of them may be a little
bit sick." All three of her friends were listening intently, nodding their
heads in understanding

Monique
continued, "I'm not just talking about physicians and nurses.  I also mean
social workers, music therapists, and other caregivers.  I think in some ways
we're looking for validation that we’re not alone, that some of the things we
do are okay and are done by other people, too." Monique gave a bright, false
smile.  "Anyway, that's my theory, such as it is."

Alex
asked cryptically, "Is this in any way akin to Whitset's imposter
theory?"

"Hell,
no! It's not even close! That got my attention though," Monique said,
shaking her head in reference to the imposter theory.  "He is very strange
and possibly pathological."

Alex's
thoughts returned to Lester Whitset.   She thought about him for a few
seconds.  "I'm not sure Whitset's all he's cracked up to be.  I think he's
one of those 'little bit sick' people you mentioned who choose psych as a great
place to hang out, possibly to hide."

Françoise
roared, "A little bit? Hell!  That SOB is totally crazy!"

Monique
contemplated Alex's statement and arched her finely etched eyebrows. 
"Could be, Alex, could be.  You never know.  But, I hardly think he's
responsible for these crimes and murders.  Granted, he is a weird one. 
Probably has a personality disorder of some type.  Forget him."  She waved
her arm in dismissal of Whitset.  "Anyway, lots of bright and creative people
suffer from various forms of mental illness."

"Oh
yeah, like who?" Jack roared in a deprecating voice.  Jack's world was
clearly defined in black and white.  He couldn't imagine any nut bunnies being
bright or creative.

Monique
glanced at him in disbelief.  "Jack, really.  Open your eyes.  There are
millions.  Look at Winston Churchill and Edgar Allen Poe for starters.  Also,
Abraham Lincoln who, as history reports, was prone to melancholia.  Lincoln was
most likely bipolar, as was Churchill."

"Weren't
there lots of artists who had diagnosed mental illnesses," Elizabeth
asked, fascinated.

"Yes,
many of them were also bipolar.  Vincent van Gogh and Paul Gauguin, to name a
couple.  Certainly they were creative."

Jack
was not buying a word of it.  "Is that why that dumb SOB cut off his
ears," Jack inquired as he shook his head.

Monique
gave Jack a dirty look and continued, "I believe it was only a piece of
one ear that he cut off.  There are many famous writers who also had a
diagnosed mental illness -- Walt Whitman, Mark Twain, Cole Porter, Ernest
Hemingway, and our own Tennessee Williams suffered from major depressive
syndrome, as did Virginia Woolf and Sylvia Plath.  Who knows? If we'd had
Lithium, Lamictal, and Prozac years ago, no telling what these artists'
contributions to music, art, and literature would have been!  Lots of severely
ill patients are extremely talented," Monique added, finishing her
diatribe on a high note.

"This
is very enlightening, but somehow, I don't think it's going to make Bridgett or
the Smithsons feel better about their dead and/or maimed family members." 
Françoise 's voice was sarcastic, as he looked at his watch.  "But, thanks
for the review, Monique.  I didn't know so many famous people were
bipolar."  Jack felt a bit guilty for demeaning Monique's profession.   He
would have to work through his opinions of and bias against psychiatric
patients.  After all, it was Monique's life work.  He glanced over at Elizabeth
and Alex.  "Sorry to break up the party, but I need to get downtown and
get some work done," Jack said.

Monique
stood and said, "I've got to go as well.  I'll see you all later.  I've
got patients starting in a few minutes.  Anyone free for lunch?"

"Sure. 
Hospital cafeteria at 12:30 okay?" Alex asked, as she glanced at Jack and
Monique.  They both nodded and walked out of the hospital.  Elizabeth declined,
but walked outside with them.   Alex, Monique, and Jack continued to the car
and Alex watched as Jack gave Monique a quick peck on the cheek as he opened
the door for her.  He looked around quickly to see if anyone could have seen. 
No one was anywhere close to the Silver Caddy.

"Give
it up, Commander.  The windows are tinted.  You're safe, "  Alex teased
him.   Monique smiled  up at him from the seat.   Jack looked smug,
embarrassed, and a little like the tomcat who stole the cream.

Elizabeth
smiled, looked at Alex, and said, "Well, this is news.  It looks like the
two of them are an item.  That's pretty cool."

Alex
returned the smile.  "Yes, it's very cool, but let's keep it quiet until
these crimes are solved."

"Gotcha,
mum's the word," Elizabeth promised on her way out.

Alex
felt her armpits begin to sweat as she and Commander Françoise walked down the
hallway to Pavilion II.  She didn't want to do this, but she knew she had to. 
She knew there'd be a huge lawsuit against CCMC and she needed all the
information she could get.  This was absolutely a case of wrongful death.  CCMC
would pay, the question was how much would it cost them.   She would certainly
sue if Mrs. Smithson was her relative and, as hospital attorney, she felt
compelled to review the crime scene.  They were about to enter the room when
they ran smack into Nadine Wells in the hall.  She looked disturbed, but
crisply professional.

"Have
you been in, Nadine?" Jack asked.

She
shook her head.

"Are
you ready to go?" Jack looked carefully at the police expert.

Nadine
nodded her head, still not speaking.

Jack
was getting irritated and you could hear the impatience in his voice."What
the hell – cat got your tongue, Nadine? This ain't going to be pretty, Alex,
Nadine.  It's pretty awful.  One of the worst crime scenes I've ever seen. 
Just expect to see the worst.”

Neither
woman replied, so Jack continued, "You can't even imagine it, so don't
try."  Françoise looked hard at the young, beautiful attorney and the
grim-faced forensic expert.  Alex seemed to be wavering.

Françoise
scrutinized her and said, "You sure you want to go, Alex?  You don't have
to.  We’ve got plenty of pictures."

"Nope,
I'm going," Alex said in a firm voice.  "Got to.   Remember, Jack,
I've seen some pretty horrible things already this year."

"Yeah,
but this is worse, and no puking -- either one of you.  I can't take any more
of that today," Jack said, as he thought back to February. "You
ready?"

Alex
nodded.  Nadine opened the door and stepped into the alcove of the room.  Both
of them gasped at the smell that greeted them.

Alex
was overcome by the stench of death.   It enveloped her and caught her
unaware.   The metallic smell of old blood and decay entered her nostrils.  She
was overcome with wooziness.   She felt cold and clammy.   Even with the
air-conditioning set at 50 degrees to delay decomposition, the smell was
overwhelming.   She looked at Nadine, who seemed to be struggling as well.  
After several moments, Alex plunged forward and peered around the curtain of
the room.

Alex
could barely stifle the scream that came from her mouth as she viewed the remains
of Mrs.  Smithson.  Her knees were weak.  She felt dizzy and lightheaded.   The
room was covered in blood.  It was all over the bed and the pale yellow walls. 
And the smell, it was even worse than the smell in the alcove.    The smell,
salty and fetid, turned Alex's stomach.  It was like a scene from a horror
movie.  The room was a red print of destruction, the aftermath of a massacre. 
Alex couldn't look closely at Mrs.  Smithson.  She took some deep breaths and
regrouped slowly.  Finally, she turned to look down at the body.  It was a
hideous sight. 

Alex,
incapacitated and paralyzed at the sight of the elderly lady, clutched futilely
at the air for support.  Emotions were clouding her objectivity.  These
emotions turned into distress and shock as she continued to look around the
room.

Mrs.
Smithson no longer had a face.  Her eyes had been completely gouged out by the
knitting needle.  Alex couldn't even tell if they were open or closed.  Her
nose was a torn piece of flesh that was barely connected to her face.  There
were numerous stab and puncture wounds all over her head.  Her ears had been
desecrated in the attack.  Most of her beautiful silver hair was matted with
blood.  The knitting needle protruded ominously from her mouth.  Alex felt her
knees buckle and Jack caught her.  With effortless ease, he held her up until
she felt strong enough to support herself.   Alex barely noticed when Nadine
left the room.

Alex
gasped.  "I can't believe this.  This is terrible -- horrible.  What kind
of a despicable, loathsome animal could mutilate a little old lady like this?
My Lord, Jack! This is …. There are no words to describe this."

Jack
stood silently next to Alex and nodded in agreement, his arm around her
shoulders for support.  He nodded his head silently, tears in his eyes.  Nadine
returned to the room and continued to view the body objectively.  She had said
nothing since reentering the room.  Alex was impressed by her dispassionate
inspection of the body or, at least, she thought she was.

Jack
said quietly, "I don't know, Alex.  It's bad.  The perp is… an animal.  No
human could create such brutal devastation."

Alex
rose from the chair and walked back to the bed.  She studied the body of Mrs. 
Smithson and noticed that the elderly lady's hospital gown was pulled up to her
chest.  Her small, frail hips were completely exposed.  With tears in her eyes,
she asked the Commander, "Can we cover her up, Jack?"

Jack
hesitated for a moment, unwilling to disturb the crime scene, and then
wavered.  "Yes, I'll cover her up.  She deserves that much dignity.  Okay
with you, Nadine?"

"Yeah,
Jack.  Trust me, I've seen enough.  We've got pictures, right?”  Nadine's voice
was terse and despondent.

 "Yeah,
got plenty of them."

As
Alex and Jack moved towards the bed, Alex saw that the patient’s call bell on
Mrs.  Smithson's right side was covered in blood.  It was clear to Alex that
Mrs.  Smithson had rung the call bell repeatedly for help.  Her trained eyes
immediately traveled the length of the electric cord to the wall outlet, where
the bell was connected to electrical power.  The bell cord had been pulled out
of the wall.  The alarm had long ceased ringing – perhaps even hours before the
patient had died.   Whoever did this was smart enough to disconnect the bell from
the wall.  But, who?  A patient?  A staff member?  Someone with knowledge of
hospital equipment had killed Mrs.  Santa Claus.  Alex just knew it.

"Jack,"
Alex said breathlessly at the upsetting discovery.  "Did you notice that
the call bell had been disconnected from the wall?  This call system is antique
and it won't ring if it has been disconnected from the wall.  So, even if
someone had been close to the nursing station, the bell would not have rung in
there.  It has been disconnected from the operating call system in the
patient's room!"

Jack
shook his head.   ”No, I hadn't noticed.  There were so many folks in here
earlier I didn't notice.   I am sure the CSI team picked it up.  Shit! 
Unbelievable.  This murdering SOB knew what he was doing!"  Jack's face
had taken on a fierce look.  His normally cautious eyes were dark and brooding
and as hard as black coal.  He trembled with anger and outrage at the pain and
fear Mrs.  Smithson must have endured.  

Alex
and Nadine watched quietly as Jack put the scene together.

"This
bastard knows hospitals.  This maniac restrained the poor lady in four-point
leather restraints and disconnected her call bell.  He knew his way around this
unit!” Jack's face was flushed with anger.  His eyes had turned into burning sockets
in his head.  He thought his head was about to explode.

Nadine
continued to quietly examine the body.  "Look here, Commander.  Check this
out." Nadine was pointing to an area on Mrs. Smithson's fragile right
shoulder.

Jack
crossed over to Nadine's side of the bed.  He looked at the mark.  Their eyes
met with recognition.  "Nadine, these look like puncture wounds on her
neck.   What do you think?

"What
is it?  What is it," Alex implored as she tried to see around the two
police officers.

Nadine
looked at Alex coldly.  "It's a bite mark, Alex.  Our killer here is the
same man who attacked, raped, and beat Angela.  He's probably already selected
his next victim."

This
was more than Alex could handle.  Her face immediately crumpled.  She left the
room and the locked unit and walked briskly back to her office on the main
hospital campus not even noticing the heat of the day.   She was still cold
with fright.   Sticky from the New Orleans heat, but cold on the inside.   Alex
shuddered as she passed the yellow-tagged crime scene where Angela was
assaulted. 

She
nodded briefly to Mona on the way in and then closed and locked her door.  Then
Alex cried and cried.  She cried for the violent acts committed against two
completely vulnerable and undeserving women.  She sobbed until there no more
tears would flow.  She vowed to herself that she would make every effort and
use every opportunity within her power to make Crescent City Medical Center a
safer place for patients and staff.  She also decided that she would no longer
compromise her own personal value system for the good of the hospital, no
matter what or who got in her way.  She would work based on her own values and
ethical beliefs.   The hell with Don!  For a short while, Alex sat at her desk,
oblivious to the world around her.  She began to wonder if she was losing her
own mind.