Personal Effects: Dark Art

29

I sank into the black vinyl chair, relishing its aged padding. I’d been nearly dead on my feet for the past two days, so I dared not close my eyes; this moment of being literally “at rest” would likely take me over the edge. The office’s dim lighting—and its oppressive scent of coffee and old books—was comforting, too. I ached for sleep. I ached, all over.

The pain meds I’d received in the infirmary weren’t helping. The pencil holes in my arm and chest had required stitches, as had one of the gashes on my face from Daniel’s attack. I’d come back from Hell, and would have the scars to prove it.

I bit my tongue, opened my eyes wide, tapped my fingers, one after another, against my thumb. Anything to stay awake.

Dr. Peterson closed the door behind me and stepped to his desk. He sat and stared at me with his owlish eyes. His round face glowed pale from the nearby gooseneck lamp. The towers of desk paperwork were a city skyline, it seemed, and Peterson was the moon, judging me from on high, from orbit, ready to mete out my punishment.

He placed the thick folder I’d given him on the desk. Inside was the “Martin Grace” file: the original admittance report, my official conclusions from our therapy sessions, my statement of his competence to stand trial, photocopies of my patient’s confessions to the twelve murders—and finally, the transfer documents that released him from Brinkvale care. Noon was three hours gone, and so was Richard Drake.

And now, it was my turn.

“There are things to discuss, Zachary,” Peterson said, “the most important being: Are you all right?”

I frowned and sighed. I wanted to say no, no, I wasn’t all right; that Peterson’s assignment and my crusade—he’s blind, but help him see—had wreaked a special breed of havoc on my mind and body; that during this adventure, I’d destroyed parts of myself, my job, my family, my relationships; that I’d sacrificed damned-near every shred of myself for a stranger who didn’t want my help; that darkness can be a living thing, a midnight-ocean shark attack, not a great white, but a Great Black; and oh the things I’ve seen/not seen in the past week, Dr. Peterson, it’s just like Henry said: there’s a very large world beside—and beneath and above—this one, and it scraped against me. It changed me.

And for what? I wondered here, as the old man scrutinized me. In so many ways, I hadn’t saved Richard Drake at all. He’d be convicted, slam-dunk, just like Uncle Henry’s case, twenty years ago.

But I think… I think I might have saved his soul.

And wasn’t that enough? Wasn’t that—as I’d said to Drake the day I’d met him—“the goddamned point?”

“I’m all right,” I replied, and smiled softly. “I think everything’s going to be all right.”

Peterson’s mouth was a narrow line. He shook his head slowly.

“I disagree, Zachary. I chose you for the Grace case because of your brilliance with patients: your unconventional ability to connect with them. Defying convention is one matter. Being reckless is another.”

As his eyes continued to probe mine, his hand slid from the desk surface, out of view. He tugged open a drawer and then placed four videocassettes atop Grace’s folder. A three-digit number was written on their labels. Upon each was also scrawled a date from the past week. I noticed that Thursday’s date was not represented here.

It was footage from Room 507’s security camera.

Whatever glint of hope I’d had of keeping my job died right there. This was no longer about my job at The Brink. This was, quite suddenly, about my career as an art therapist.

My stomach churned, turned sour and acidic. He’d seen it all. I’d damned it all.

“Yesterday’s incident with Emilio Wallace forced me to take a closer look at how you interacted with the patient,” Peterson said. His voice was grave. “Martin Grace was a determined man. You were equally determined. There are a great many inexplicable moments on these tapes, Zachary. Your relentless questioning, for instance. Actually, I’m well within my right to call it ‘interrogation.’ During Wednesday’s session alone, your patient said…”

He glanced at a nearby sheet of paper. His voice dispassionately recited the notes as if they were from a play. I remained silent, sickened.

“…‘No. God damn you, stop. Stop. Leave me alone. Don’t. No. Oh no, Almighty God, no.’”

Peterson’s gray eyes flicked back to mine.

“And yet you persisted, Zachary.”

I wanted to throw up. I wanted to give him a reason, to tell him why. I knew I couldn’t.

“There are more than a dozen moments like this,” Peterson continues, “and as the week progressed, you appeared to descend further and further into what I’ll charitably call ‘inexcusably cavalier’ engagements with the patient. This… is very troubling.”

His mouth now sank into a frown. He tapped the cassettes with a wrinkled hand. Cufflinks glinted at his wrists.

“Equally inexplicable and troubling is what’s not on these tapes. Hours of footage is missing, or garbled. Any record of Martin Grace during the nighttime hours is gone, as if they were never recorded. His drawing of the wall murals, for instance. Also missing are moments of your sessions together. It appears that the electrical malfunctions on Level 5 affected more than the room’s lighting.”

I gaped at him, not understanding—and yet understanding perfectly. Perhaps it was the ancient Brinkvale wiring system that caused these blackouts. Perhaps it was something else.

“This footage,” Peterson said, “is an incomplete record of your interaction with the patient.”

He slid the tapes aside with his hand, making room for another piece of notepaper, which he now placed in the center of the desk. It was covered in his elegant handwriting.

“I have also received information that may interest you,” he said. “Despite the District Attorney’s office’s—and police department’s—attempts to quash this rumor, it appears that an individual illegally entered Martin Grace’s apartment on Tuesday. This individual was arrested. He was released without criminal charges.”

The vinyl around me groaned as I shifted in my seat. All of Richard Drake’s personal effects—including the items from the The Brink, the lockbox and his son’s home—were inside the manila envelope, locked in my office desk. I’d left them there after I’d filed my report today, not wanting to touch them, not ever again. If Peterson ordered a search of my office…

This couldn’t get any worse, simply couldn’t.

“I also received a phone call this morning from the Haverstraw Sheriff’s Department,” Peterson reported. “Apparently, a Brinkvale employee assaulted a resident of that county. This resident could not recall the name of his assailant, who allegedly visited the day before to question him about his father, a Brinkvale patient. According to the officer, this employee broke into the man’s home last night—and quite literally buried a hatchet into the man’s leg.”

Peterson did not smile at his joke. His eyes slowly, deliberately, cataloged my appearance. He knew, knew everything. Bile rushed to my mouth. I pined for a wastebasket. I was going to puke.

“The deputy asked me if Brinkvale was housing a patient by the name of ‘Drake,’” Peterson said. “He also asked me if I knew why the alleged assailant might anonymously report the man’s wound from a pay phone at Claytonville Prison.”

I stared at my boss. The silence was a roar, if that were possible.

Peterson finally spoke.

“I told the deputy we were not treating a man named ‘Drake,’” he said.

The old man pushed the paper across the desk, to where the videocassettes rested. He removed his glasses and began to polish them with his tie. His eyes were tiny things now, pebble-sized.

“There is a difference between ‘want’ and ‘need,’ Zachary,” he said, his thumb working the fabric. “Is there something you want to tell me? Something I want to hear?”

I had to clear my throat to speak.

“Uh… no, Dr. Peterson.”

The old man placed the spectacles on his face. He nodded.

“Is there anything you need to tell me? Anything I need to hear?”

My mind danced and raced and played hopscotch, calculating this, wondering what—if anything—I should say. Peterson wasn’t an administrator anymore. He was my judge, my jury, my executioner. I don’t know how long I sat there, my mind screaming in the impenetrable silence of the room—but when the words eventually came, they flowed out as my brain formed them, a manic data dump.

“I… I try to make a difference, a positive difference, with what I do here,” I whispered. “I try to save my people—ah, my patients—from themselves, from their torment. I do everything… everything I can to help them. It’s what I’m built to do. It’s…”

I looked into Peterson’s eyes. My voice was louder now.

“…It’s what you hired me to do. That’s what I did with Martin Grace. I helped him. I saved him from himself. I… I think that’s something we both needed to hear.”

A smirk flashed onto the doctor’s face, and then was gone. I wasn’t actually sure I’d seen it. He picked up the videotapes and his notes with both hands. They trembled slightly above the desk, and then slid away from the gooseneck lamp’s glare. He released them.

They clattered into the wastebasket behind the desk.

“The footage was compromised, Zachary,” he said, “and any additional information outside of your report is innuendo. Aside from Thursday’s tape—which must be archived to accompany the Emilio Wallace incident report—there is no record beyond what you’ve told me, and what you’ve filed. This leaves me with your conclusions. I asked you to determine if Martin Grace was fit to stand trial. You did that.”

His eyes narrowed now, knowing.

“Your findings were precisely what I anticipated,” he said. “Weren’t they?”

I recalled what Peterson had said in his office, a million Mondays ago.

“‘He wouldn’t be here if he was innocent,’” I quoted.

Peterson didn’t blink, didn’t breathe, for a moment.

“And yet, the patient seems at peace now,” he said. “Amazing.”

“Amazing Grace,” I agreed. I felt stupid, as if I were missing the punch line to a very long, very funny joke.

Peterson leaned back in his chair. He folded his hands, placing them on his belly.

“I want you to go home, Zachary. You’re on leave until further notice. I’ll review your report—and your conduct—and will soon notify you of your professional standing here at Brinkvale Psychiatric. But in the meantime, rest. I want you to rest. Will you do that”

I opened my mouth to speak, to plead my case… but I’d already done that. I nodded.

“That is all, then.”

I stood up, quietly grimacing as my body shrieked its pain. I walked to the door, opened it, stepped beyond into the reception area. Lina Velasquez blasted rapid-fire words into her computer keyboard. A hundred-twenty a minute, easy.

“Zachary.”

I turned back toward the doorway. Peterson’s face was half-lit in the lamplight. He opened another desk drawer and removed a ring of keys. They clinked merrily, in the dim room. He eyed them.

“I acquired these keys through an acquaintance,” he said. “There are Braille stickers on every one.”

His eyes turned to me now. “Do these belong to Martin Grace”

I paused.

“No sir,” I replied. And that was true.

“Very well then,” he said, and tossed them into the wastebasket. “Goodbye, Zachary.”

I gave a wordless wave and strode out of the Administrator’s Office, down the hall, and out into the world beyond The Brink.

I descended Brinkvale’s front steps, cringing slightly at the chilly air. Malcolm waited for me at the bottom.

“Zach T,” the janitor said, and gave a little salute. He held a rake in his other gloved hand; Primoris had decided to begin its annual shedding during the past hour, it seemed.

“Two bottles, Grey Goose,” I said. “I don’t know when I’ll get ’em to you, but you’ll get ’em. I’ve been suspended, maybe fired. But I’m good for it. Promise.”

Malcolm didn’t smile. His voice was serious, conspiratorial.

“That’s not all you’re giving me, is it”

I nodded, knowing what he meant.

“Didn’t forget about that, either,” I said. “Tell me. What’s going to happen to his effects”

Malcolm shrugged. The large ring of Brinkvale keys jingled on his hip.

“Nothing, Zach T. Absolutely nothing. The Sub might as well be the deep blue sea. Toss something in, it sinks to the bottom, never seen again. The Brink’s basement is where paperwork goes to die.”

“Sounds like that warehouse at the end of that Indiana Jones movie,” I said. “The one where they put the Ark of the Covenant. I wish I could see it.”

Malcolm shuddered; I couldn’t tell if it was the wind, or something else.

“It ain’t,” he said. “You don’t.”

“The folder’s locked in my desk,” I told him. “Make sure it sinks.”

I extended my other hand. The janitor shook it.

“It was a pleasure working with you,” I said.

“Likewise. I always liked you, Zach T. You kept things… interesting… around here.”

He eyed me for a moment and then smiled.

“Looks like you learned to pitch after all, huh, kid”

I grinned back, gave a silent salute, and walked in silence to the parking lot.

Dad was waiting for me there.

He stood by Rachael’s red Saturn, hands buried in his overcoat pockets, the same undertaker pose he’d had in the 67th Precinct’s parking lot. The wind gusted around him, whipped and tugged at his collar, as if unhappy with his presence here. I could sympathize.

“Son,” he said.

I glanced around, searching for a police cruiser. There wasn’t one. An official-looking black Lincoln was parked nearby; presumably a D.A. office loaner, since my father’s BMW was most certainly in a repair shop. The car was empty. My father had made the trek here alone.

“He’s gone,” I said.

“Gone,” Dad affirmed. “Noon sharp. I believe you were in the infirmary. I’m… I’m sorry you didn’t see him off.”

I raised my chin, and looked into his eyes.

“I said all I needed to say to him.”

“Why, Zachary”

My father’s expression had gone from impassive slate to pained curiosity. I waited for more.

“Why? Why didn’t you drop it? Why did you—there’s no other word for it—why did you defy me? Why, especially now, at the end, when you see that I was right? When you see I wanted to protect you? I… I don’t… ″

I watched him as his voice trailed off, remembering the moment back in the precinct lot when he’d lost control—when he’d screamed his confession to me, his primal snarl, his reason for pursuing the blind man like a junkyard dog. It was then that I’d finally seen my father as a mortal, capable of frailty. The tumblers had fallen then, and he had, too. It had been a painful, necessary thing. It was evolution.

I couldn’t tell him that, and I wouldn’t expect Dad to understand it. I’d have to learn to live with it.

“I guess you were right,” I said. “I’m like Mom. Caring to a fault. Curious, too. Rushing in, asking questions only after it’s all done. It’s like you said. I needed history.”

Dad smiled slightly. It was confident again.

“Context,” he said.

I suppressed many things at that moment: The urge to tell him how disappointed I was in him; how I knew the things he’d done two decades ago… the sins against his brother and sons; how I loathed-yet-still-loved him; how I would silently continue to defy him and visit the imprisoned man who was proud of me, the father-f igure I barely remembered, the buried man who lived on.

“Taylor Family Loyalty,” I whispered. I glanced from the horizon back to my father. “What’s going to happen to Grace”

His smile faded. His blue eyes went ice-cold, full-bore D.A.

“The confession speeds up everything,” he replied. “If he pleads no contest—and there’s no reason to think that he won’t—the trial will be short. I won’t push for the death penalty. The confession, his regret for the murders and this ‘conflict of interest’ business between us would make that… strategically difficult.”

I ground my teeth. I wanted to grab his fluttering coat collar and shake a sliver of compassion into his obsessed brain. Fucking strategy. I could bombard him with so much goddamned “history” and “context” right now his head would spin off his shoulders.

I closed my eyes and sucked in a deep lungful of air. Dad would deliver that which Drake craved. The price his soul demanded. Justice.

I exhaled, and opened my eyes.

“I’m sorry she was killed, Dad. I’m sorry you lost her.”

My father blinked. He turned his face away.

“She was beautiful and brilliant,” he whispered. “I think… No. I know you would’ve liked her.”

I thought of last night’s madness in my Alphabet City apartment, and at Daniel Drake’s house—and how that “very large world” above ours had spilled over, if only for a few moments, into this one. I didn’t want to know why Drake’s cell phone rang when it had. I didn’t want to know if it was the corroded battery or something else. I knew only the name on its screen, and that it had been angelic, and that it was now buried with the past, where it belonged.

“I think you’re right,” I said.

I hugged him and loved him the best I could.