13
Greenlake Psychiatric Facility
Atherton, New York
March, Present Day
Seated near the window in the dayroom, his shoulders hunched protectively over his Sudoku, Tim chewed on a pencil stub as he drummed his fingers on the table. A skeletal man with a shaved head stood like a sentinel in the back corner, his arms flung out, dark eyes fixed on the water stains on the ceiling.
A male attendant with a pockmarked face strolled over to the table, repeating himself twice before Tim closed his book and reluctantly stood. In response to Erin’s greeting, he mumbled something indistinct and turned away. Wearing the stained green sweatshirt and baggy jeans from the week before, his unfortunate aroma reminded her of an overripe Camembert.
They followed the attendant, single file, down the corridor to the visitors’ room, with its tube lighting and smeary window. Tim dropped heavily into the chair and stared at his shoes. A carbon copy of their first visit, though he seemed more withdrawn this time, less willing to engage. Had something happened since their last meeting?
‘So, Tim. How are you today?’
‘My name’s Timothy.’
‘I’m sorry.’ She tried again. ‘Timothy. Did you sleep well?’
Collapsed inside his body, Tim was a picture of dejection. He stared at the wall behind her, his mood even flatter than last week. Was it a side effect of his meds? A poor night’s sleep? Or had his personality been erased by years of living in what amounted to a rat cage. He was a cipher. Anything was possible.
‘Can you tell me how your thoughts are this morning?’
His chin lifted a fraction of an inch. ‘Thoughts?’ He patted the side of his head. ‘You mean in here?’
‘Yes, in your head. Are they quiet, or do you have racing thoughts?’
‘Racing? Like cars?’ She nodded. ‘They don’t race like cars.’
‘Have you been hearing voices since we last met?’
He stood and moved to the window, pressing his hands against the glass.
Outside, a flock of starlings squabbled on the frozen ground. Tim tapped the window as if trying to get their attention.
Erin removed the workbook for the MMPI-2 from her bag. The standard amongst personality assessments, this would be her first formal evaluation of Tim’s mental state.
‘Okay, Timothy.’ Perched on the edge of the straight-backed chair, she balanced a clipboard on her lap. ‘We’re going to play a kind of game, now. I’ll say a series of statements out loud, and for each statement, you’ll answer true or false. For example, if I say the sky is blue, you’ll say…’
He peered through the window. ‘False.’
The sky was indeed a sullen grey. Bad example. ‘Excellent.’ She smiled. ‘Just like that. If you feel tired, or need a break, just let me know and we’ll stop. Okay?’
With more than five hundred items, the Minnesota Multiphasic Personality Inventory could take up to four hours to complete. Her plan was to administer the assessment over the course of two days, in four short sessions, with a break in between.
She asked Tim to take a seat, noted the time and launched into it. He was surprisingly cooperative, and she marked his answers as they progressed. Twice before, he’d undergone an earlier version of the same assessment. The first time, soon after his arrest, and the second, five years later. It would be interesting to compare his score with the previous results. As she worked her way through the items, she spoke in a neutral voice, and kept her face as expressionless as possible, so as not to bias the result.
‘Most people are liars.’
He shifted in the chair. ‘True.’
‘Sometimes the top of your skull feels painful.’
A shuffling of feet. ‘True.’
‘All food tastes the same.’
‘True. No, false. True.’
‘Your sleep is fitful and disturbed.’
His eyes flicked about the room. ‘I don’t know. Sometimes.’
The five hundred items and ten different scales were designed to prevent faking. Deliberately false answers would show up like red poppies on a field of green. And a whole section was dedicated to teasing out psychopathic traits. Any time Tim hesitated or changed his answer, she made a note.
After he completed a hundred and twenty-five items, Erin marked the time and closed the booklet. ‘Great work, Timothy. We’re done for now. Would you like a glass of water?’
He held his watch, a chunky octagon of cheap plastic, close to his face. ‘It’s almost time for lunch. Nineteen minutes.’
She studied his face. ‘Did Dr Harrison mention that I’m taking you out for lunch today?
Tim’s head jerked up. His hands twitched. ‘You mean, go outside?’
‘Yes. Didn’t he tell you?’ That was odd. How could Harrison have forgotten? Though it might be deliberate, to see how Tim would manage outside Greenlake’s walls without mentally preparing beforehand.
‘You’ve been given a day pass for the afternoon,’ she said, in the bright voice of a camp counsellor. ‘I thought we could have lunch in town, and maybe go for a drive afterwards, depending on the weather. The countryside is pretty up here.’
Tim tugged at the frayed edge of his sweatshirt. She could practically see the words ‘lunch’ and ‘countryside’ scuttle through his brain. He clenched his hands in his lap, his face slick with sweat. As the minutes ticked by, her doubts about the wisdom of this arrangement grew. Like a runway train, his anxiety could derail at any point. Harrison had provided her with a pager in case of trouble, but with neither an attendant nor an emergency sedative on hand, what could she realistically do if he decided to bolt?
She smiled broadly, hoping to put him at ease. ‘So, lunch for two it is then.’ With a matter-of-fact air, she stood and busied herself with her papers. ‘I’ll meet you in the dayroom in ten minutes. Is that all right? You’ll want to put a jacket on. It’s chilly out.’
Tim examined his watch. ‘11:43. What time do you have?’
‘My watch isn’t digital like yours,’ Erin said, holding out her wrist, ‘but it looks like 11:43 to me. So, we’re all set. I’ll see you in ten minutes.’
14
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