Vortex

Chapter Nine Sandra and Bose

After she left Bose’s condo Sandra had to drive to her apartment for fresh clothes, so she was most of an hour late for work. Not that she really cared, under the circumstances. Yesterday, Orrin Mather had been accused of a violent outburst—perhaps, or probably, if what Bose had told her was true, because Congreve or someone above him had been paid (in cash or longevity) to keep Orrin locked up. Sandra tried to contain her anger during the drive, but succeeded only in damping it down to a low simmer.

She had disliked Arthur Congreve since the day he was appointed supervisor, but it had never occurred to her that he might be as corrupt as he was unpleasant. But she knew Congreve had connections with municipal government—a cousin who was a sitting councilman—and although the street cops at HPD thought he was too stingy with admissions, the chief of police had made approving visits to State not once but twice since Congreve had been installed.

She parked carelessly and hurried through the metal detector at the building’s entrance. As soon as she was badged up, she walked directly to the isolation wing.

It looked like any other part of the State Care building. “Isolation” didn’t imply dank, sealed cells, as it might have in a federal prison. The isolation ward was just a little more generously supplied with locks and unbreakable furniture than the open wards, designed to segregate potentially violent patients from less aggressive inmates. Such cases were relatively few: the State system was empowered to deal with chronic homelessness, not outright psychosis. In a sense these were the least troublesome of the patients who passed through the system; they required little debate among the staff and were usually transferred to psychiatric hospitals in short order.

Whatever else Orrin Mather might be, he wasn’t a psychopath. Sandra would have bet her degree on it. She wanted him out of isolation as soon as possible, and she meant to begin by getting his side of the story.

It was sheer bad luck that Nurse Wattmore happened to be presiding over the entrance to the locked ward. She should have buzzed Sandra through without comment, but she didn’t. “Sorry, Dr. Cole, but I have my instructions,” and she proceeded to page Congreve while Sandra stood and helplessly fumed. Congreve appeared promptly. His office was only a few doors down the corridor, and he took Sandra by the arm and steered her there.

He closed the door behind him and folded his arms. His office was at least twenty degrees cooler than the temperature outside—the air-conditioning murmured stoically in its vents—but the air smelled stale and greasy. The empty wrappers of fast-food breakfast items littered his desk. Sandra started to speak, but Congreve held up his hand: “I want you to know, first of all, that I’m really disappointed by the unprofessional behavior you’ve been displaying lately.”

“I don’t know what you mean. What unprofessional behavior?”

“Talking to this patient, Orrin Mather, after I assigned the case to Dr. Fein. And I have to assume that’s where you were headed again this morning.”

“Follow-up with a patient is hardly unprofessional. When I conducted his intake interview, I told him I’d be working his case. I wanted to make sure he was okay with Fein and that he didn’t feel he’d been abandoned.”

“That ceased to be your concern when I pulled you off the file.”

“Pulled me off the file for no good reason.”

“I’m not obliged to justify that decision or any other I might happen to make. Not to you, Dr. Cole. When the board appoints you to a managerial position you can question my choices; until then you need to take care of the duties I assign to you. You might be better able to do that, by the way, if you show up on time.”

It was the first time she had been late in, what, a year and a half? But she was too angry to slow down. “And this story about Orrin assaulting an orderly—”

“Excuse me, were you a witness to that event? Do you know something you haven’t told me?”

“It can’t be true. Orrin wouldn’t hurt anyone.”

The objection was feeble and she knew she had made a mistake as soon as she said it. Congreve rolled his eyes. “You determined this after a twenty-minute interview? That makes you a pretty remarkable diagnostician. I guess we’re lucky to have you.”

Her cheeks were burning. “I talked to his sister—”

“You did? When? ”

“I met her outside the facility. But—”

“You’re telling me you consulted with the patient’s family on your own time? Then I guess you must have written up a formal report… or at least a memo to me and Dr. Fein. No?”

“No,” Sandra admitted.

“And you fail to see a pattern of unprofessional behavior here?”

“That doesn’t explain—”

“Stop! Just stop, before you make it worse.” Congreve softened his tone. “Look. I admit your work has been satisfactory up to this point. So I’m willing to write off recent events as stress-related. But you really need to step back and think about things. In fact, why don’t you take the rest of the week off?”

“That’s ridiculous.” She hadn’t anticipated this.

“I’m reassigning your caseload. All of it. Go home, Dr. Cole, calm down, and deal with whatever it is that’s distracting you from your duties. Take a week, minimum—more, if you like. But don’t come back until you’ve recovered some objectivity.”

Sandra was one of the most reliable employees at State and Congreve knew it. But he probably also knew she had been seen at lunch with Bose. Congreve simply wanted her out of the way until Orrin was dealt with. To whom had he retailed his conscience, Sandra wondered, and what was the going price these days?

She wanted to ask him these questions and might have done so even at the risk of her job, but she stopped herself. She was only digging herself in deeper, and in the end this wasn’t about her or Congreve, it was about Orrin. Fatally offending Congreve wouldn’t do Orrin any good at all. So she nodded curtly, trying not to register the triumphant glare he gave her.

“All right,” she said. She tried to sound plausibly compliant, if not cowed. A week. If he insisted.

Out the door, down the hallway, thinking furiously: she still had her pass and her credentials, should she need to come back… She paused at her own office to gather a few loose notes. Stepping into the corridor again she almost bounced off Jack Geddes, the orderly. “Come to escort you off the premises,” he said, obviously relishing the astonishment on her face.

This was beyond insulting. “I told Congreve I was leaving.”

“He asked me to make sure.”

Sandra was tempted to say something bitter in return, but it would probably be lost on the orderly. She shook his hand off her arm but forced a smile. “I’m not popular with management right now.”

“Yeah, well… I know that tune, I guess.”

“Dr. Congreve says there was some kind of an incident with Orrin Mather yesterday. You know Orrin? Skinny kid, he’s in the locked ward now?”

“Hell yeah I know him. And it wasn’t just an ‘incident,’ Dr. Cole. He’s stronger than he looks. He was making for the exit like his ass was on fire. I was the one who had to wrestle him down and hold him till he could be sedated.”

“Orrin was trying to escape?”

“I don’t know what else you’d call it. Dodging nurses like he was carrying the ball to the goal line.”

“So you, what, you tackled him?”

“Ma’am, no—I didn’t have to. I stood in front of him and told him to calm the fuck down. If anything, he tackled me.”

“You’re saying he initiated the violence?”

She must have sounded skeptical. Geddes stopped in midstride and rolled up the loose right-hand sleeve of his uniform. There was a thick bandage on his forearm, midway between wrist and elbow. “All due respect, but what’s that look like to you, Dr. Cole? The little shit bit me so hard I needed a dozen stitches and a fucking tetanus shot. Locked ward, yeah. A locked cage would be better.”

The heat enveloped Sandra like a clenched fist as she crossed the parking lot to her car.

Weather like this made it all too easy to imagine anaerobic bacteria blooming in the deeps of the sea, as in Orrin’s doomsday scenario. Out in the Gulf, Sandra had heard, there was already a deepwater anoxic zone that expanded every summer. The shrimping business had dried up and gone elsewhere, years since.

The sky was a sullen shade of blue. As yesterday, as the day before, cauliflower clouds stalked the horizon but brought no relief. When she opened the door of her car it released a gust of broiling air that smelled like molten plastic. She stood a while, letting the feeble breeze cool the interior.

When she climbed in she realized she had nowhere to go. Should she call Bose? But she was still thinking about what he had told her about himself before she left his apartment this morning. I guess you need to know this about me before we go any farther, he had said. Above all, she needed some time to think.

So she did what she almost always did whenever she had unscheduled free time and a problem on her mind: she drove out to Live Oaks to see her brother Kyle.