Erin said nothing, but she couldn’t help thinking that, given the isolation, the phone and internet would offer little help in a crisis. ‘Would you consider allowing Tim to see the house, before anything is decided?’ If he didn’t like the place, it might have an impact on her assessment.
‘Normally, I would, but what Tim thinks about the house won’t make any difference now.’ Harrison loosened the knot on his tie.
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Greenlake has become another fiscal casualty, I’m afraid.
We’re slated for closure at the end of the year. Any patients not fit for release into the community will be transferred to other secure facilities in the state.’ He sat on one of the worn sofas and rubbed his knee. ‘If it were up to me, Dr Cartwright, he would remain at Greenlake for the remainder of his natural life. Since that’s no longer an option, we should all be grateful that Tim’s father has stepped forward.’
The news was like a blow. How long had he known? And why wait until now, when her evaluation was nearly finished, to drop the bombshell? If Tim were declared unfit for release, he would be shipped off to another facility. Even more crowded and grim than Greenlake, surely, with a different warden and staff and a new set of rules. So, regardless of her concerns about sending Tim to his father, she had no choice but to advocate for his release.
The room was stifling and she fanned her face. When her eyes met his, she saw sympathy in his look. In that moment, a light blinked on. Of course, he knew. He’d known all along about her role in the Leonard Whidby case. Hobart must have told him. So, he understood her dilemma, and that a heightened concern for the father’s safety was a significant factor in her decision.
*
As they walked back through the ward, Erin was beset with painful memories of the Whidby case. Two days after Leonard was released, on Erin’s recommendation, from the psych ward of a hospital in Sheffield, she had arrived home at her flat in the evening to find him standing in the bedroom, wielding one of her kitchen knives, blood seeping from a wound on his hand, and his eyes glinting with malice.
Erin had stood in the doorway, frozen in terror, until her training kicked in. She remembered to make eye contact and speak in a calm voice. ‘You seem upset, Leonard. Why don’t you put the knife down so we can talk about how you’re feeling.’ Trying to sound friendly and supportive, while agonisingly aware he might kill her if she made a sudden move. Putting on a bright voice, she had announced she was hungry and would like to order a pizza. He was welcome to share it with her. She’d smiled at him as she dialled the number of a psychiatrist friend. While fake ordering a cheese pizza, she had said their emergency code word, gripping the phone to keep her hand from shaking. That one word, heavenly, had saved her life.
After the police stormed through her door and took Leonard away, she had fallen to the floor in a heap, unable to stop shaking. Later, she learned that after savagely gunning down his parents in their home, he had dismembered the bodies with a butcher’s knife.
As a newly minted doctor, she’d been taken in by Leonard’s winning smile and beguiling charm, too naive to understand she was dealing with a psychopath. A skilled chameleon, he reflected back whatever she wanted to see and believe. After the Whidby case, notorious throughout the country, and her name in all the papers, she’d abruptly ended her career in forensic psychiatry.
No more criminally violent men.
Until now. Stern’s blood on her hands would be more than she could bear.
‘Yours is not an easy position to be in, Dr Cartwright,’ Harrison said, when they reached his office. ‘If it’s any consolation, it helps me to remember that we’re not gods but mere mortals with little control, if any, over the fate of our patients. Particularly after they leave our care.’ He laid a paternal hand on her shoulder. ‘Our best is all we can ever do. Everything else must be given up to fate.’
*
An attendant with a spider tattoo on his neck was Erin’s mute companion on the long trek to the isolation room. The paint on the heavy steel door, once white, had been scratched and clawed away. She stood on her toes to peer through the observation window, no bigger than the width of her hand. Welcome to hell. She closed her eyes, waiting for darkness to descend. But for Tim’s sake, she bit her lip and pulled herself together.
The room appeared empty, and her heart skipped a beat. Could he have escaped? But in the corner, she spotted what looked like a pile of rags. It was Tim, in white hospital garb, curled into a ball, rocking to and fro. A vision of despair.
Behind her, the attendant stood uncomfortably close. She could smell the stink of alcohol on his breath.
‘How long will he have to stay in there?’
The man grunted. ‘That’s for the docs to decide.’ He jangled a fistful of keys and unlocked the door.
She hesitated. Her last meeting with Tim didn’t end well. In the grip of a paranoid delusion, he might see her as the enemy, a co-conspirator behind his loss of freedom.
‘In or out?’ the attendant said. On his neck, the spider jerked with each beat of the man’s blood.
She stepped into the room, and the door slammed shut behind her. No going back now. Mould, stale urine, unwashed feet.
