Not What it Seems by Nicky James

Ten

Cyrus

I stopped at New Horizon first to officially hand in my report, declaring River Jenkins of sound mind. The hospital was in a state of chaos. There were uniformed police officers on the premises, more nurses than usual, and reporters scattered throughout the parking lot by the dozens. I fought through a crowd of them, ignoring their barrage of questions. The reporters might not have known who I was, but since I was headed inside, they assumed I had information they didn’t.

At the front desk, Andy looked frazzled. He signed me in and handed me a key card with a trembling hand. My guilt mounted. Would Andy lose his job for something I’d done? It was he who was responsible for key card distribution.

River’s words came back to me. He was right. Just because he’d escaped last night didn’t mean he hadn’t been planning it for a long time. It didn’t mean he’d come into possession of the card the same day he’d walked out the door. For all anyone knew, he had a nurse accomplice and had been planning his escape for weeks.

My heart refused to calm. With sweaty palms, I slung the key card around my neck, and for the second day, it felt like a noose. The director’s office was crowded with police officers. Molly Steinway leaned against the front of her desk, arms crossed over her bosom as she pinched the bridge of her nose and spoke to a man in a suit.

When she saw me, she waved me forward. “Dr. Irvine. I assume you got a call?”

“I did.” I scanned the faces in the room, my internal temperature rising with my anxiety. “I was asked to submit a report.” I held out a brown folder.

Molly accepted it but didn’t break eye contact. “Was this premature?”

“No, ma’am. Had this not happened, I would have been prepared to end our sessions.” Not a lie.

She studied me for a long moment and sighed, glancing at the folder. “I should have known. The minute Dr. Kline admitted there were suspicions and the police suggested a second opinion, I should have known.”

“It was a complicated situation. Requesting a second opinion was valid and fair. I might have done the same had I been the diagnosing physician.” I wanted to make excuses and leave. My tie was too tight, and my skin buzzed. Any longer in the building with so many eyes on me and I’d crack.

“Are you the new psychiatrist they brought in?” the man in the suit asked. He had a harsh, no-nonsense glare aimed in my direction.

Molly straightened. “Apologies. Yes, this is Dr. Irvine, who we called to assist with a secondary evaluation of River Jenkins as per your superior’s recommendation. Doctor, this is Detective Rowan Anderson with the London Police.”

Detective Anderson held out a hand to shake. He was a sturdy man in his late thirties with cropped dirty-blond hair and a chiseled jaw that could cut diamonds. His eyes were intense, and I thought they could suck the truth out of anyone if he stared at them long enough. His presence put me on edge.

I paused, staring at the extended hand, knowing how shaky and sweaty mine was. In the end, I took the offer with as much confidence as I could muster, hoping he would chalk it up to nerves and not guilt.

“Detective.”

“Do you have a minute to chat?”

“Um… N-no.” I clenched my jaw, cursing the stutter. “I was asked to head to the St. Thomas precinct immediately after delivering my report. I don’t want to be late.”

Detective Anderson’s gaze was laser sharp. “Our guys have taken over. I’ll give Sergeant Helsinki a call and let him know I’ll do the interview personally.” He waved a hand at the door, insisting I follow.

I wasn’t ready.

This was it. In a matter of a few minutes, this man would see the truth plain as day on my face, and it would all be over. My career. My life. Everything.

For what?

For a man I’d shared a few nights of passion with once upon a time? For a man who had never thought twice about me and had moved on within days?

I’d probably end up sharing a cell with River before the end of the day.

I followed Detective Anderson to a vacant room down the hall. As I walked, I swallowed a whimper. I had no one to blame but myself. I’d made the choice. Was this the cost of bravery? Was this the price of justice? It seemed so unfair.

I thought of the two dead women at the morgue.

I thought about the speckles on the blouse and the blisters in both their mouths. Evidence? I wasn’t sure anymore.

I thought of River sitting in a prison cell while other people continued to die and the police refused to acknowledge it.

“Doctor?”

I gasped and popped my eyes open, unsure when they’d fallen shut. Detective Anderson waited at the doorway to a room, analysis ripe as he stared at me while I staggered down the hallway. I might as well dig my own grave for all I was able to hide my guilt.

“Sorry. I’m astonished.” At myself. “At all that’s happened,” I clarified.

Detective Anderson didn’t respond.

The room was bare save for two chairs that had been brought in from elsewhere. There was a layer of dust on the windowsill and tiling. Cobwebs decorated the corners of the ceiling. It was stuffy, and the casing over the fluorescent light was dingy, dampening its glow. It was a room that hadn’t seen use in many years. It felt like a dungeon.

“Have a seat. This won’t take long.”

We weren’t too different, the detective and me. We were both trained to observe and assess other people. Skilled at looking for minute clues that correlated with whatever it was we were hoping to find. I could only imagine the things the detective saw when he looked at me. Obvious distress. Agitation. Inability to maintain eye contact. Sweating. Irregular breathing patterns. I was the poster boy for guilt.

Once we were both comfortable, Detective Anderson took a small notebook from his shirt pocket. “I understand there will be an element of patient doctor confidentiality at play here, but I’d appreciate it if you could answer as many questions as possible.”

“Of course.”

I folded my hands together and kept my spine stiff, doing all I could not to bounce my knee.

“How long has River Jenkins been a patient of yours?”

“Only a few days. Since Monday. Technically, he was not my patient. Well, he is. Was, but… I was brought in for a second opinion.”

“Uh-huh. Regarding?”

He knew that answer, but I’d used the same tactic myself. Get the person talking. Use easy questions to break them out of their shell. Develop a rapport. Give them a false sense of security.

“Mr. Jenkins was arrested for a serious crime. There was concern raised over his mental health and whether or not he was of sound mind when the murders were committed. Schizophrenia can be a tricky disorder to diagnose. Psychosis itself isn’t a definitive indicator. The initial diagnosis was rocky at best. The treating doctor felt it necessary to get a second opinion before making any conclusive decisions. In this case, when accused of a serious crime, it wouldn’t be unheard of for a patient to fake symptoms to acquire a cushier sentence. It was imperative we didn’t make a mistake.”

“Uh-huh…” Detective Anderson scribbled on his notepad. “And what was your opinion about the diagnosis after meeting with the patient? Have you come to a conclusion?”

“Yes, and the director has my report. It is my professional opinion that the patient is not mentally ill and should be remanded to police custody.”

“Uh-huh. And the day you make that decision, the patient is nowhere to be found. Interesting.”

A lump formed in my throat, choking me. I didn’t speak. He hadn’t asked a question.

“When did you come to the conclusion that this patient was not mentally ill?”

“After our session yesterday.”

“Did you tell the patient your thoughts?”

“Absolutely not.” The temperature in the room skyrocketed. My brow beaded sweat, and Anderson’s gaze was all over my face. Did he see?

“Why not?”

“The second opinion would have been less effective if the patient knew why I was there. Besides, it wouldn’t have been in my best interest to tell a patient he was off to prison.”

Anderson’s pencil scratched his notepad.

He adjusted his seat and scrubbed his nose with the back of his hand. “Over the few days you met with River, did he give any indication he might be considering leaving the hospital?”

“No.”

“Did he seem overly agitated like he was planning something?”

“I can’t answer that. The emotional state of the patient and what he shares about his feelings is protected under doctor patient confidentiality.”

Anderson stopped short of rolling his eyes. “Did he talk about the three women he was accused of killing?”

“I can’t answer that.”

“Did he share with you that he was in possession of a key card?”

“Of course not. I would have alerted someone.”

“What did you talk about during your sessions?”

“Detective, discussions between a doctor and a patient are confidential in nature. If you want to view the files, you’ll need to request a warrant.”

Detective Anderson pursed his lips and stared at the notepad. “Why did you call the station yesterday morning and request that officers look into the death of two homeless women in the Masonville area?”

I froze, my insides turning to ice. “I… B-because… it seemed relevant.”

“Explain.”

I couldn’t help fidgeting, readjusting my ass in the uncomfortable chair to give myself time to formulate a response. “It was my professional opinion that River Jenkins wasn’t a killer. It made me think there could be someone out there still… killing. I saw their deaths in the paper and thought it could be connected.”

“Are you a detective?”

I fisted my hands. “No.”

“Are you in a position I’m unaware of that makes you qualified to determine if a person is guilty of a crime or not?”

My cheeks burned. “I’m a professional when it comes to evaluating a person’s psyche and the inner workings of their mind. River Jenkins didn’t display the attributes of a sociopath or a person with schizophrenia.”

Silence. I stared at my knees while Detective Anderson stared a hole through the top of my head.

“I don’t see the connection. With the homeless girls. Explain it.”

“They were both young, blonde, and petite, the same as the women killed at the hotel.”

“And?”

I shrugged. “And it’s not a stretch to assume they were prostitutes, same as the others.”

And the bleach. But I couldn’t tell him about that. If I did, I’d get more people in trouble. Dr. Brady had done me a favor. How could I throw him under the bus? Besides, it was conjecture. I didn’t have proof.

“I thought it would be worth looking into. Maybe there was more to their deaths. I only wanted to suggest that—”

“That the London Police didn’t know how to do their jobs?”

“No, sir.”

“When did you decide River Jenkins wasn’t guilty of murder?”

“I…” My voice hitched, and I cleared my throat before continuing. “I didn’t. Technically.”

“You said—”

“I said it was my professional opinion.”

“What made you come to that… opinion?”

I shrugged, unable to find the words to answer him without giving myself up. “A combination of things, but that would mean disclosing what we discussed in our sessions, which I can’t do.”

Detective Anderson sat forward, hard eyes drilling into me. Did he know? If he did, could he prove it? “Do you know where River Jenkins is?”

I wanted to cry. I wasn’t a liar. I was a good person. How had this happened to me?

“No,” I whispered, staring over the detective’s shoulder, knowing my inability to look him in the eye gave him more than enough reasons to doubt my honesty.

“This is an active investigation. We have a team here from London working in conjunction with the St. Thomas Police searching for River Jenkins. We will be reviewing all the camera feeds throughout the institute. We will be interviewing all the staff members. Someone helped River Jenkins escape. He did not do this on his own.”

The detective plucked a card from his breast pocket and held it out. “If you remember anything, Doctor, give me a call. I’ll be in touch. I assume you’re heading home to St. Catherines?”

“Yes.” I took the card, still looking everywhere but at the detective. “No reason for me to stay any longer.”

“All right. Thank you for your time. Be available in case I have more questions.”

“Yes, sir.”

I couldn’t escape New Horizon fast enough. My tremors had turned into a level eight earthquake, threatening to shatter me apart. When I made it to the front lobby and the administration desk, Andy looked worse for wear. He took back my key card with a strained smile on his pale face and mumbled for me to have a good day.

The parking lot was flooded with even more news reporters than when I’d arrived. They shoved microphones in my face, shouting rampant bursts of questions as I picked my way through the bustle of people toward my car. I hadn’t gone far when they lost interest in me and attacked someone new who’d come out of the building behind me. I didn’t stop to see who it was. For all I knew, it was Detective Anderson following me. All I wanted was to get as far away from New Horizon and St. Thomas as possible.

I wanted to go home and pretend the whole nightmare didn’t exist.

At my car, I sat in the driver’s seat for a long time as my runaway heart bruised my ribcage. My shirt stuck to me. Sweat rolled down my forehead. I could blame the heat and humidity, but I knew the truth.

And I feared Detective Anderson did too. He just couldn’t prove it.

Yet.

Maybe it was my guilty mind. Maybe I was wrong, but I couldn’t shake the sense that he knew. The way he’d looked at me. He’d picked up on all the tells of a guilty man. What had he seen when he’d looked into my eyes? Did he share the same inkling I did? Was my soul open for him to see?

I reached for the key in the ignition, ready to leave, when a small piece of paper tucked under the windshield wiper caught my eye.

“What the hell?”

Scanning the swarms of reporters, I didn’t see anyone looking my way. I got out of the car and plucked the paper from under the blade before getting back in my vehicle.

Frowning, I unfolded it. One simple sentence stared back at me, written in messy black ink.

If you know where he is, tell him he’s in danger.

It was signed C.J.

I didn’t think my heart could beat faster. Whipping my head up, I picked apart the crowd one person at a time. Who had left the note? How did they know to leave it for me?

I read it again, scrutinizing the initials. Who was C.J.? What did they mean he was in danger?

C.J.?

C.J.?

“No. It can’t be.”

I refolded the note and fit it inside my shirt pocket. Scanning one last time, not seeing anyone suspicious, I put the car in gear and drove too fast back to the hotel.

I hadn’t planned to return. My clothes weren’t worth the hassle. I had had every intention of abandoning River and running back to St. Catherines without looking back.

I couldn’t do that now.

He needed to know.