The Imposter (21 page)

Alex's
composure was dwindling.  She fought for control and said, "She was
stabbed many times.  I don't know for sure.  We'll know more when the police
and coroner’s reports come in.  I can assure you that …."

Alex
was interrupted when Dr. Desmonde entered the conference room and sat down
quietly next to Mr. Smithson.  Alex had to admire the man, his control, his
fortitude, and his determination.  Of course he was pissed -- she would be,
too!

Mr.
Smithson turned to Monique.  "Dr. Desmonde, you told me in the wee hours
of dawn this morning that my mother had died in a hospital accident.  You
didn't tell me she had been stabbed with a knitting needle!  Now, everyone
claims they don't know how many times she was stabbed!"  Mr. Smithson put
his elbow on the conference table and placed his chin on his hand so that he
was looking directly into the pale, wan face of the lovely, but very stressed,
psychiatrist.  “You need not repeat what Commander
Françoise
told
me.  I want to know about the hospital's role in the death of my mother.”

Monique
gave Mr. Smithson her full attention.  Their eyes were locked together. “Now,”
he continued, "I want to know everything you know about my mother's
death.  Do you understand?"  His voice was quiet, but demanding.

Monique
nodded at Mr. Smithson.  "Yes, I understand.   I know you must be very
upset over your mother's death and I understand that.   We all are.  But, we
are not sure what exactly happened.  Conjecture about her death will only be
more upsetting.   As soon as we know everything, the police will update you
again.  As soon as the investigation is complete, I'll speak with you again if
you would like.   Please let me know if I am repeating what the Commander told
you."

Mrs.
Smithson interjected, "Dr. Desmonde, we only want to know if our mother
suffered.   Did she?"

It
was so quiet in the room you could hear the clicking of Mona's computer two
rooms away.  You could also hear the distant linen carts and x-ray machines
rolling down the halls.   Far off, someone was laughing.   Alex wished she was
with them and not here in this room with these poor, sad, grief-stricken people
discussing the elderly Mrs. Smithson's horrific death.

Monique
remained silent and looked at her hands for several moments, then looked back
at the Smithsons.  Finally, slowly, she said, "Yes, it is possible your
mother may have suffered.  We'll know for sure when we get the autopsy
report."  Secretly, Monique hoped that the gentle, elderly lady had
suffered a stroke or a heart attack and had died instantly.  This thought was
helping her manage her own fragile emotional survival.  Although it was
unlikely, she was taking some comfort in the possibility.

Mrs. 
Smithson was crying softly into a tissue.  Mr. Smithson's eyes were red-rimmed
as he looked at Alex and Monique and said quietly, "I admitted my mother
because she was depressed over my father's death and my sister's illness.  She
was not chronically mentally ill, do you understand, she was
not mentally
ill
.  She'd never been depressed.  You, Dr. Desmonde, assured me that this
was the best hospital for her …."

A
sob escaped Mrs. Smithson's mouth and she said to her husband, "Please,
honey, let's not talk about this now.  There is nothing Dr. Desmonde can do. 
Let's just go home, I am so tired."

Mr.
Smithson turned to comfort his wife and said tearfully, "Two weeks later
she is stabbed to death in what is supposed to be the best hospital in New
Orleans.  I repeat,
how did this happen?
 I expected this hospital to
take care of her -- to help her.  Why didn't you?  I trusted you to make her
better!"

There
was silence.  No one spoke.  What was there to say?  Everyone just continued to
sit uncomfortably in the conference room.  

Mr.
Smithson tried to speak again, but his voice broke.  He stopped for several
seconds to catch his breath, composed himself, and then said, "My mother
was a gentle soul.  She never hurt anyone.  She didn't deserve to die like
this."

Alex
looked over at Whitset.  He was watching Mrs. Smithson cry softly.  He had a
pleased look on his face.  His mouth was turned up in a sly, half smile and he
looked as if he was worshipping her grief.  He was enjoying himself and was
enjoying being a part of this heartbreaking meeting! 
What the hell was
going on
?  Alex just couldn't understand Whitset.  It was like he got off
on grief, enjoyed it, relished it even.  A glance over at Monique confirmed to
Alex that she wasn't noticing Whitset's behavior.  Her attention was focused on
Mr.  Smithson who continued to ventilate his feelings.

"You
know," he said, "it seems to me that something's wrong here.  If my
mother suffered, that must be your fault.  If she was so brutally killed
…."  He looked towards his wife, as she was seized with a fresh torrent of
tears.  He took her hand, pressed it for comfort, and continued, "If she
was stabbed over and over, then why didn't somebody come to help her?  I'm sure
she cried for help."  Mr. Smithson looked back and forth between Monique
and Alex.   "
Why didn't somebody come help her?  Answer me!  I demand
an answer
!" His voice was loud and harsh.

Suddenly,
without warning, Lester Whitset jumped from his seat.  His tone was harsh,
cruel even, his face only inches from Mr. Smithson's, "Listen, Smithson,
we told you we were sorry.  Isn't that enough?  We don't make promises when we
admit people to the hospital.   Particularly old people …."  He stopped as
Alex kicked him hard in the leg.

Smithson
stood, faced the younger man, and raised his voice, "What did you say
?
What in the hell did you say about old people
?"  Mr. Smithson's voice
was getting louder.  "Say it again, dammit! What's this about promises and
old people?"  Mr. Smithson was taller and heavier than Lester Whitset and
Alex watched as a brief flicker of uncertainty crossed Whitset's face. 

Whitset
momentarily gained control of himself.  Then he lost it completely.   His
appearance changed and he looked like a pouty little boy.   His slicked-back,
G.Q. hair fell forward and he looked at his hands and smiled.   Then he began
to speak, his lips pouting as he began a singsong litany.   His head moved back
and forth, keeping time with his voice.

We're
so sorry, Mr. and Mrs. Smithson.

We're
so very sorry your mother was murdered in

Our
hospital.  Please, please forgive us…"

Whitset's
voice ended on a high note.  Alex was dumbfounded, paralyzed with shock at his
behavior.  Monique was speechless. 
What the hell was happening?  It seemed
like Whitset was making fun of the incident.  His words were rhymed and spoken
in iambic pentameter.  His voice was the voice of a child in kindergarten.  
Alex
couldn't figure out whether he was being rude and condescending or was just
crazy.  

The
Smithsons were flabbergasted by Whitset's behavior.  Dr. Desmonde stared at him
strangely.  She slipped Alex a note telling her to call the hospital chaplain. 
Alex rose to leave the room as Monique again turned to the Smithsons, who were
still shell-shocked by Whitset's words.  She sighed with fatigue.  She and Alex
would now have to deal with Whitset.

Monique
took Mrs. Smithson's hand and said to the older couple in a reassuring voice,
"We will tell you everything as soon as we get the information.  Is there
anything else you need?  Can I arrange for a cab to take you home?"

"Is
there anything else we need to know now?" Mr.  Smithson's voice was
morose.  He was grey with fatigue and grief.  Mrs. Smithson looked like a
shocked, broken puppet.

"Yeah,"
said Whitset, his voice loud and commanding.  "Yeah, you may want to know
that your mother was also raped."

Mrs.
Smithson responded with a bloodcurdling sound.  Mr. Smithson made the low
cultural sounds of a wild animal in intense pain.

Whitset
smiled his gleeful, enigmatic smile at the grieving couple, turned to Dr.
Desmonde, and simply said, "Well, they needed to know, didn't they?  They
did ask if there was anything else."

Monique
didn't reply.  She continued to stare at Whitset.  A realization about the man
was sending tingles up her spine.  He belonged on the Pavilion but not as the
administrator.

Whitset
flinched under her intense stare and looked at his watch.  When he looked back
at her, it began to happen.  Dr. Desmonde's face was turning to plastic.  My
God, the bitch is one of them, he thought!  Whitset could tell from the way the
florescent light highlighted the sheen of her pale face.  He felt a terrible
noise in his head and struggled for control.  He wanted to reach out and rip
her head off.  The bitch, he thought to himself.  How had she kept her secret
so long.   Was he losing his ability to identify
them?
  He stood
abruptly and said, "See you shortly in Montgomery's office."

Alex
was hanging up the phone when Whitset came into her office.   He grabbed her
shoulder and said gleefully, "I told them everything, it's all done.  See
you in a few minutes." Alex stared at him as he raced from her office. 
She couldn't decide whether he was happy or sad or just crazy.  She just
couldn't figure him out.

Alex
returned to the conference room and found both of the Smithsons in tears,
devastated over  their mother's death.  Monique was doing her best, but she too
was having difficulty keeping her composure.  Her eyes were full of tears. 
Alex supposed they were tears of frustration, as well as grief.  Alex and Monique
stayed with the Smithsons, offering as much comfort as they could until a
priest took the heartbroken couple away.

The
room was deathly quiet after the Smithsons left and Monique and Alex sat
quietly for a few minutes, each trying to figure out what had happened.  
Finally, Alex couldn't stand the silence any longer and spoke.

"Monique,
talk to me!  There's got to be something wrong with Whitset.  Did you see him
in here?  It was as if some type of transformation occurred and a kid broke
out!  It's like he went to another planet or something!  What's wrong with
him?  I think he's psycho!"

The
psychiatrist didn't respond, caught up in her own thoughts.  A dozen
possibilities were racing through her mind.  It was clear in her professional judgment
that Whitset had some sort of psychiatric disorder -- only she didn't know
what.  She'd never seen evidence of any overtly psychotic behavior.  He'd
always seem grounded in reality, although he was very strange.  Of course, her
interactions with him were limited and minimal because, truthfully, she didn't
like or trust him.   Monique knew that psychotic patients were often highly
manipulative and could cloak their behavior well.   The only clinical behavior
she had witnessed had only just happened a few minutes before and she couldn't
make a judgment based on just that one incident.  She needed verification and
validation of what she was thinking.  Somehow, she had to figure out a way to
corroborate her suspicions.  Of course, there was the sexual thing he seemed to
have with Alex, but that wasn't conclusive either.  Monique didn't know and
needed more time.

"Monique. 
For heaven's sake, what do you think?" Alex persisted and grabbed her arm,
pressing for an answer.

Dr. 
Desmonde shrugged her shoulders and shook her head.  "I don't know, Alex. 
It could be any number of things.  There's definitely something wrong, but I
just don't have enough information.  Anyway, I need to call Jack and find out
if he's checked Whitset out."

Alex
was not to be mollified.  "Do you think he has multiple personalities? 
That sure seemed like a child that came out in here!" Alex's voice was
shrill, as she looked speculatively at her friend.

"I
don't know, Alex.  It's possible, but multiple personality disorder is pretty
rare.  If he has it, I guess we've seen at least two of them -- the child and
the sensual adult.  Anyway, it's pure speculation on our part.  Multiple
personality disorder is extremely difficult to diagnose and treat.  I think
Whitset's more of a sociopath -- he has a sociopathic personality or an
antisocial personality disorder, as we call them now.  Anyway, I’ve got to get
out of here.  I want to check in with Jack and go over to the Pavilion to check
on things.  Then I'll meet you over in Don's office."

"Okay,
Monique.  We've got about 20 minutes.  Don't be late."

Monique
nodded her head and waved at Alex as she left her office.  Her mind was
troubled as she walked back to the Pavilion.  She was definitely suspicious of
Lester Whitset.   She couldn't casually blow him off anymore.  She didn't think
he was involved in the violence at the hospital, but she was troubled by the
fact that he spent so much time with the patients, not to mention that he was
her administrator.  Her intuition told her something was very wrong with the
man.  He gave her an intense feeling of fear and free floating anxiety, the
origins of which she could not explain or articulate.

As
she walked back to the Pavilion, Monique  worked up an intense sweat.   The
August heat was stifling -- it was hotter than hell.  Even though she was a
native of New Orleans, Monique could barely stand the heat.  It weakened her. 
Sometimes she was convinced that it actually crippled her physically and
emotionally.  It almost assuredly brought out the worst in everybody --
colleagues, patients, and families.  As she entered the Pavilion lobby, she
made a conscious decision.  She was going to search Lester Whitset's office. 
Who would know?  She'd never get caught if she planned it right!  Right?

Monique
used her unit keys to let herself into Pavilion I.  Things seemed almost
normal.  She checked with the charge nurse, who reported that Jim McMurdie had
remained in seclusion since he threatened suicide earlier in the day --
directly after Whitset had confronted him with the bloody shirt.  Monique knew
Jim thought he'd killed the elder Mrs. Smithson.  The police questioning had
been hard for him, even though the officers had been gentle with their
questions.  After all, he had been one of them!

On
the spur of the moment, Monique decided to check on him.  She walked down the
hall towards his seclusion room, where she ran smack into Anthony Gavette who
blocked her path in the hallway.  He looked belligerent.

"Hey
Doc.  What gives? They say you ain't coming to community today.  Why not?
Aren't we important to you anymore or are you more concerned with the dead
people?"

Dr.
Desmonde looked at Anthony.  His face was tight and threatening.  She said
quietly, "Of course you are important.  More important than ever.  It's just
that I have a meeting to go to, to see about getting more staff here so that we
can all feel safer."

"Don't
give me that crap, Doc.  I feel safe.  Plenty safe.  Besides, I ain’t afraid of
nobody.  Ain't nobody messin' with me.  I may mess with other people, but ain't
nobody messin' with me!" Anthony's body language was tense and angry.

Monique
looked up at Anthony, her heart pounding a little.  She decided to push the
envelope, asking him quietly, "What exactly are you saying? Have you been
hurting someone?"

"Hell
no, Doc.  I just want you at that meetin' today so I can get my privileges
raised another level.  I'm ready to be promoted to step three so I can get the
hell out of here.  The nurses say you got to sign off on it.  Right?"  He
looked at her expectantly.

"Yes,
that's right, but we're not raising anybody's privileges around here now. 
We've got to wait for things to settle down a little bit and …."  Monique
stopped for a second and looked straight at her often violent, schizophrenic
patient.   He was getting mad, really mad.  His face was red and his eyes were
glazed over.  He started moving towards her in a menacing manner.

"Listen
to me bitch, you useless, cold-blooded pig.  I'm going to kill you.  You hear,
you Dr.  Pig?" Anthony's voice was low, but threatening.  His eyes were
gleaming with an evil intent.

Monique
knew she was in trouble.  She felt her normal calm demeanor slip away.  She
knew she couldn't let him know she was scared.  She never took her eyes off of
Anthony's face as she felt around her for something to throw for help.  She
wasn't close at all to an ASA red button.  The nearest one was at least 3 feet
away.  She let her eyes wander for one brief second before she was convinced
that no one was nearby.  She only hoped someone was in the nursing station
watching the security monitors.

It
only took Anthony that one brief second to realize that Monique was
frightened.   Her fear gave him the edge he needed.  The moment her eyes left
his face, Anthony knew he was in charge.  Quick as a flash, he reached out for
the psychiatrist’s slender white throat and wrapped his huge hands around it.  
At first, he exerted only a little pressure on Monique's neck, enjoying the
fear and terror he saw in her eyes.  Anthony had a fleeting remembrance of how
much fun killing was.  He should do it more often.  He liked the sense of power
it gave him.  He applied a little more pressure, watching her eyes dilate with
fear at the certainty of her fate.

He
began to talk to her in a soft, sensual voice, "You're a pretty lady,
Doc.  Wish I had time to get a little piece, but I guess it's not much time
left in this life for us -- at least for you.  Maybe in another life.  That's
okay, though.  Squeezing your neck is almost as good as .…" Anthony's was
surprised that he was so sexually stimulated.  This killing thing felt good. 
He would do it more often, he thought, once he got out of this hell hole.  He'd
steal the shrink's keys and escape.  The thought gave him another pleasure
thrill.

Anthony
applied a little more pressure.  Monique began to feel dizzy and felt her body
grow weak.  Anthony moved his face in position to kiss her and Monique became
furious.  In a last ditch effort to free herself, she brought her knee up
sharply in between his legs.  He gave a yelp like a wounded dog when she kicked
him.  He grabbed his crotch, hurling profanities and vulgar epitaphs at her as
he lay writhing in pain on the floor.  Monique ran for the red button, pushed
it, and then threw a stainless steel bedpan down the hall to attract
attention.  Within several seconds, a powerful, young psych tech grabbed
Anthony from behind and wrestled him back down to the floor.  Anthony fell down
on his stomach, moaning and holding his testicles.

In
a matter of seconds, Donna Meade appeared with a syringe full of Haldol.  As
she squatted on her knees beside Anthony to inject his arm, the patient gave a
huge yell, let go of his testicles, and grabbed Donna's crotch.  In an instant,
he had ripped through her uniform pants and pantyhose, while Donna lay writhing
in pain on the cold linoleum floor. 

Monique
immediately retrieved the syringe and jammed it into Anthony's outstretched
arm, sighing with relief when several additional psychiatric aides showed up
and carted the angry patient off to the furthest seclusion room on the far
hall.

Dr.
Desmonde immediately ducked into the utility room and returned with a blanket,
which she placed over the moaning Donna Meade.  Monique tried to talk with her,
but the nurse manager was in too much pain.  She also appeared to be shocky. 
Monique checked her pulse, finding it weak and thready and her blood pressure
low.  She ordered a stretcher and waited until  two attendants had taken Donna
over to the main CCMC emergency room.  My God, what a day she thought.  And,
it's only 2:15 in the afternoon.  

Sensing
that the staff was now in control of the unit, Dr. Desmonde escaped to her
office and locked the door.  After forcing herself to calm down, she called
over to Don Montgomery's office to tell them she was running late and would be
over shortly.  She breathed a sigh of relief when Leticia told her they were
starting at 3 o'clock.  The meeting was delayed for an hour because Betty Favre
had a prior commitment -- probably at the hairdresser, Monique thought ruefully.  
What a bitch!  Thinking about Favre raised Monique's blood pressure and she
actually felt better.  She could handle Favre, no problem.  It was some of the
others that were scary.    Favre was passive aggressive and a pain in the ass,
but nothing like some of the other major players of the day.  

After
a few minutes, Monique’s thoughts returned to Lester Whitset.  She was still
tempted to search his office, but her eagerness had been waylaid by Anthony's
attempt on her life.  Besides, as Monique reviewed the scenario with Anthony,
she considered the possibility that Anthony was a more likely suspect in
Angela's rape and Mrs. Smithson's murder than either Whitset or Jim.  Anthony
was totally psychotic now.  God knows what he could do.

Monique
continued to think about Anthony.  Anthony Gavette did have a history of
malicious assault.   But, was it sexual assault?  Monique couldn't remember. 
Her heart fluttered once again when she allowed herself to realize how close
she'd come to death.  Another minute, and well …. 

Monique
shook off the thoughts and returned to Anthony.  He was a diagnosed
schizophrenic and did have delusional behavior.  Besides, this was the second
time in two days he had gone after a woman.  Yesterday he'd  tried to attack
Rose in the community meeting.   Monique had considered the behavior a
manifestation of Anthony's jealous rage, but then, an attack was an attack. 

Gosh,
Monique
continued to think to herself, w
as it only yesterday? 
It seemed like ages ago.   Then, today, he had attacked her
. 
That was certainly a notable escalation of psychotic behavior.  Both assaults
had been accompanied by profane sexual language.  She dared herself to look at
her hands -- they were still trembling.  She put her face into her hands to
make them stop.  She was still frightened, and she was frustrated, for tons of
reasons, and she was scared.   She'd never been scared on her own psychiatric
unit before.  These feelings were new and she didn't like them.  She needed to
talk to Jack, but she couldn't reach him.  She felt defenseless and very
vulnerable.  Monique didn't like vulnerability, not at all.