Not What it Seems by Nicky James

Three

Cyrus

I read his file.

And I read it again.

Then again after that.

There was a modified police report attached. I reviewed it twice.

Leaning back against the headboard in my hotel room, I pinched the bridge of my nose and sighed.

The half-eaten tuna salad sandwich I’d bought at a local deli laid abandoned on the bedside table. A dinner I was no longer inclined to finish. My stomach was in a knot. I’d spent all afternoon and evening reading about River Jenkins, the man I’d let fuck me six ways to Sunday before he’d up and vanished without a see ya later.

I’d written out everything I’d learned during our session that morning. Every precise detail. His facial reactions. His words. His fidgeting. His random attempts to grab my attention with phony symptoms like I’d gotten my PhD from a Cracker Jack box and didn’t know any better.

Everything.

I’d requested a rush on his urinalysis, and the off-site lab had called me that afternoon with the results. As I’d suspected, there were no traces of antipsychotic medications in River’s system. He’d claimed as much before I’d walked out the door. But what did it all mean?

I’d been spinning ever since, trying to determine what the hell was going on.

I’d pulled my tie loose hours ago, and it hung limp around my neck. The top few buttons of my shirt were undone, my sleeves rolled, and I’d kicked my polished dress shoes over the edge of the bed. My unruly curls looked like I’d gone three rounds in bed with a hair-puller—I wished.

It was after midnight.

The aircon unit in the room hummed, pumping cool air while doing a poor job of drowning out the noise of traffic a few stories below. The chain hotel I’d chosen was located a stone’s throw from the main highway, so it was never quiet.

Travelers came and went at all hours of the night. The banging of doors and clunking of people walking in the hallway and stomping up and down the stairwell was steady, along with the shouts and cries of drunken wanderers, frustrated parents, and wailing children. At one point, a dog started barking in the room above me, and I’d had to listen to a screechy woman yell and stomp her foot at Rascal, telling her to shut the hell up. It had lasted over an hour before the dog settled.

The guy in the room next door must have had a bladder problem. He went to the bathroom hourly, and I had to listen to him snort phlegm and hock loogies as he pissed. Then the toilet would run for ages after he flushed, and I wanted to pound on the wall and tell him to jiggle the handle for fuck’s sake.

A scattering of notes and reports filled the king-sized bed, and my mind whirred and spun in every direction. I needed more coffee, but the closest place I could acquire a decent cup was three blocks away, and I didn’t feel like putting myself together and going out.

Tugging fingers through my curls, I scanned the pile of notes again. “Think.”

My brain was tired of thinking, and I didn’t know how to proceed.

“Dammit. Okay… focus.”

I scowled, my gaze skipping from one page to the next. If I didn’t organize my thoughts, I wouldn’t get anywhere. Earlier, I’d been determined to approach Molly Steinway, the director of New Horizon, and tell her to call the police and have River removed. He was a phony. He was the bullshitter of bullshitters. A liar. A fake.

But those were my instincts and our history together talking, not facts—despite all he’d admitted at the end.

I liked to consider myself a professional, but it was proving harder than I thought to keep in my lane. I wanted to bury this fucker and hurt him like he’d hurt me, which was immature.

Pulling out a notebook, I found an empty page. Twirling a pen between my fingers, I thought. Who was River Jenkins? That was the question that needed to be answered. Was he a sociopath? Was he experiencing a psychotic break? The former seemed more likely than the latter. Did he believe someone was out to get him? That someone had framed him for murder? Was it possible he was experiencing delusions? Or was he a poor schmuck who’d ended up in the middle of something that had nothing to do with him? I wasn’t buying it.

“Facts. Look at the facts.”

His recount of hearing rocks hitting his bedroom window and voices calling his name all matched what he’d told the police and his previous doctor. There was no variation in his story. The details were precise. In all the times he’d told the story, the dark figure at the end of the road was always a woman. He didn’t deny his frantic searches in the middle of the night. He openly admitted his neighbor had expressed concern.

The police report contained the more pertinent parts of interviews they’d conducted with River’s neighbor, Bethany Ann, and some guy named Dalton Edwards, the sweaty naked guy he’d woken up with the first time he’d heard the noise.

Dalton Edwards.

River’s hookup, who he’d claimed didn’t have a name. Another lie.

I hoped my cum was all over River’s bedspread when he’d invited Dalton to his house. The timing was such that all this must have happened within days of my having been there.

What was interesting in the police report was that Dalton and Bethany Ann had both claimed to have witnessed unusual behavior. They’d both claimed River had seen and heard things they hadn’t.

“He would pace the alley in the middle of the night, screaming at someone to show their face,” his neighbor had said. “When I approached him about it, he said he saw a lady. There was no lady, I’ll tell you that. That boy spends too much time at the bar. I know he does. He brings all those men home. Disgusting.”

All those men.

Lovely.

I should have known I was no one special.

I made a note to ask River if he’d ever taken recreational drugs. The beers he’d admitted to already caused concern.

Next, I read the statement taken from Sweaty Naked Guy Dalton.

“We’ve hooked up plenty of times. River’s a regular at the Tool Shack. He’s hot. What can I say? I’ve been to his place a fair bit. Anyhow, the last two times I stayed, he flew out of bed in the middle of the night, claiming someone was outside. The guy was smoking crack or something. There wasn’t anyone there. Hell, he followed me downstairs after kicking me out in the middle of the night and tore a strip up and down the alley. He was frantic and kept shouting, ‘I heard you, you motherfucker. I heard you.’ It’s not like him. He’s a cool guy most of the time. Anyhow, we were both pretty drunk, so it was probably in his head.”

Dr. Kline’s assessment was long and involved. I expected nothing less. She’d marked several instances of distracted behavior and evident confusion with her patient during their sessions. However, she emphasized that River’s speech patterns were clear and concise. According to her notes, River claimed to have seen and chased down the woman in the alley many times. On a few occasions, he’d gone several blocks, traversing into an entirely different neighborhood in his search.

That was where things got interesting. We hadn’t touched on the next part of the story during our session.

On a few occasions when River returned home after his failed searches, he claimed to have found things waiting for him at his doorstep.

The first time it was a saturated bandana hanging on the doorknob, dripping onto the floor. He said it was the scent that caught his attention first. It was potent and unmistakable.

Bleach.

Another time, he returned to find a lady’s scarf. Again, drenched and dripping bleach into a puddle. “The color was bleeding all down the wood frame of the door,” River had told the police. “Red. It looked like blood, but it wasn’t.”

On a third occasion, he’d found a woman’s slip-on canvas shoe. Same condition. Saturated with bleach. Color bleeding.

I flipped through the police report. Those three objects were later recovered inside River’s apartment when they’d searched it. They belonged to the three victims and were pinnacle to his arrest. Trophies? They’d also recovered a burner phone, which had driven the nail home.

According to the police report, all three victims had been found drowned in a tub of bleach on the fifth floor of one of the Destination Hotels in London’s Masonville area, a handful of blocks from River’s apartment complex.

The room was registered to River Jenkins. The phone had been wiped clean, but the police were able to recover what they needed. River had joined a Sugar Daddy/Sugar baby type of hookup app where he’d made arrangements with the women. It was a smokescreen. The app came across as a dating site but with a lewder purpose. In essence, the women were clandestine prostitutes looking to exchange sex for money. It was better than working a street corner, but in its simplest form, it was the exact same thing.

On paper, it looked like a closed case. Evidence in River’s apartment. A hotel room in his name where three women were found dead. A recovered dating app where River had communicated with these women in particular and had arranged to meet them at Destination.

I rolled off the bed and paced, threading fingers through my hair as I absorbed everything. “Okay. Disregard the crime. You’re not a detective. That’s not your concern. The question is, is the patient mentally ill? Focus.”

Of course, anyone who thought murder was okay had something going on in their head that didn’t line up. The question I needed to answer was, was River Jenkins suffering from psychosis as his original diagnosis claimed? Or was it all bullshit? It seemed obvious, but maybe it wasn’t.

I stopped and stared at the mess of papers lying across the duvet as though they would give me the answers I wanted.

“Talk it out. This is your bread and butter. You’ve been studying this your whole life. Look at what you know. Facts. Don’t think about him as anything more than a stranger.”

Inkling aside, if River’s recount of the situation was to be believed, then he displayed a mish-mash of contradictory symptoms. I was in danger of doing exactly what Dr. Kline hadn’t wanted to do: make a mistake. No wonder she’d called me.

I took out my handheld tape recorder—an old fashion device I still used when I needed to talk things out so I could better process them. I hit record and paced while I recounted what I knew.

“It’s Monday, July… No, it’s after midnight. Scratch that. It’s Tuesday, July sixth. The patient’s name is River Jenkins. Twenty-eight. Preliminary diagnosis: Borderline schizophrenia. Onset for males is typically late teens and early twenties. The patient exceeds this time frame. During my initial meeting with the patient, I did not observe any prodromal phase symptoms. The patient was able to maintain prolonged eye contact during the whole session. He was extremely animated in his facial expressions and mannerisms, his speech was clear, and his words were understandable, which tells me his thought process has not been compromised.”

I stopped pacing at the window and held the curtain aside. The highway in the distance wasn’t congested at this time of night. Random cars zipped by, their headlights shimmering with the moisture in the air.

“The patient presents with what could be auditory and visual hallucinations. He claims to have experienced repeated instances of someone disrupting his sleep by speaking and tossing rocks at his window. The experiences were stated factually. The patient was not confused by the validity of what he saw and heard. He was adamant the instances occurred.”

I thought of what River had shared about his mother in the yard.

That information felt different somehow. Why?

I shoved it aside for the time being and focused on compiling the primary data.

“The patient doesn’t claim the hallucinations are ongoing. According to the patient, all occurrences stopped five weeks ago.” That was a frequent mistake made by people who were faking symptoms. Malingerers often claimed hallucinations never stopped, which wasn’t the case with schizophrenia. But a five-week lull with no medication? It felt unlikely.

“The patient claims the voice he heard was muffled and unclear.”

Inaudible or distorted auditory hallucinations were often a sign of malingering.

The scale continually tipped back and forth.

“I requested a urinalysis to measure drug levels in his system. The patient admitted he was not taking the prescribed Risperidone, and results proved that to be the case. This begs the question of whether or not this is a case of malingering.”

It was highly unlikely a patient would go from an almost constant state of psychosis to a level playing field without some sort of intervention.

Which brought me to delusions. Psychosis in itself was not a defining symptom in schizophrenia. It was a symptom, sure. However, a patient required a lot more symptoms to be present for a proper diagnosis. So far, River might be considered to be ticking one of the four boxes.

“I don’t have enough information at this time to determine if the patient is showing signs of delusions. He has made a few claims that he isn’t responsible for the crimes committed. He claims he was set up. Someone is out to get him. Someone framed him. I need to explore this further.”

I left the window and sat on the edge of the bed, skimming my notes.

“I guess that brings me to the incident in the yard.”

I was starting to think River’s claim of seeing his mother was a lie, specifically contrived to throw me off. Along with his attempt at getting me to think he saw something over my shoulder.

“The patient claims to have seen his dead mother in a copse of trees beyond the yard. He claims to have smelled her perfume, although the distance would have made that impossible. The patient did show confusion at this point, but the reactions seemed to lean toward the incident’s validity more than anything.”

My head ached. I scrubbed my face and frowned. I clicked off the recorder and collapsed back on the bed, staring at the ceiling.

If River truly thought someone had set him up or framed him for murder, was that a delusion, or was he right?

Or had he killed three women because he believed someone guided him to do it? Was that the delusion? But where was the disorganized speech and thinking? Where were the negative symptoms?

They were absent.

“Or is he a sociopath actively playing everyone?”

Logically, as much as I wanted to, I couldn’t in good conscience claim River was malingering or schizophrenic or a sociopath. Not yet. Evidence suggested my instinct was correct. River was a fake, and everything I’d read and heard was a lie.

Which he’d basically admitted at the end of our session.

“Argh.” I launched off the bed, tore my tie over my head, and whipped it across the room as I made my way to the bathroom. “This is ridiculous.”

No wonder Dr. Kline had called me.

My job was to assess the patient and give an unbiased opinion about his condition. Fine. Sure. Well, I couldn’t do that yet. No doctor in their right mind would diagnose a patient after one session. Therefore, I had to continue to see the patient. It was easier to think of him that way.

River seemed to have ditched the pretense of being mentally ill. “Which could be a ruse as well,” I reminded myself.

I’d go back to New Horizon in the morning. I’d play it carefully. If River wanted to believe I was listening to his story for any other reason, so be it. I was doing my job and objectively assessing a patient.

He could talk, I would listen, and we’d go from there.

The minute I could conclusively say he wasn’t mentally ill, I was done. I’d write up a report and walk out the door.

I stood for a long minute, letting that decision absorb. It was rational. It was professional.

It made sense.

I wasn’t letting a patient guide me somewhere nefarious because I’d developed an unhealthy attachment to the way he’d fucked me into the mattress. No, I was doing my job.

“And I’ll do it without staring at his ass this time.”

* * *

I set my alarm so I would have an extra twenty minutes to grab coffee and food on my way to New Horizon. The trick was, getting my dad off the phone so I could get out the door on time.

Steam from my shower filled the room as Dad regaled me about his near win at Bingo the previous night. How he could play Bingo when he was so hard of hearing, I had no idea. Even with his hearing aids turned up to the max, he struggled.

The hearing loss meant he often shouted when he spoke to other people since he couldn’t hear himself either. I kept the phone on speaker as I knotted my tie—periwinkle today over a soft gray silk dress shirt—and tried to fix my unruly hair into some semblance of order.

“I kept telling your mother he was gonna call it. You know how you can just feel those types of things in your toes? Like a sixth sense or something. Well, that’s what I felt. I had the winning card, and I knew it. All I needed was B6. Well, guess what number that numbskull called?”

“I’m guessing it wasn’t B6.”

“What was that?”

“I said, I bet it wasn’t B6.”

“Well, you’re wrong. It wasn’t B6.”

I smiled to myself and shook my head. “Well, son of a gun.”

“He called B5,” Mom shouted in the background.

“He called B5,” Dad repeated as though she’d never spoken. “Lorraine McGillicuddy jumps up, flailing her arms, smacking Donald in the face as she yells bingo. That broad can’t hear a damn thing. I bet half her numbers are stamped wrong.”

“Pot meet kettle,” I mumbled under my breath, chuckling. “So your lucky card wasn’t so lucky then, huh?”

“Lucky? Aren’t you listening? That card was shit.”

This was how conversations with Dad went. He told stories, I attempted to engage, and we clashed with every detail since he didn’t hear half of what I said. Mom, bless her heart, did her best to bridge the gap.

Old age had taken its toll, but apart from his diminishing hearing, Dad was fit as a fiddle and never let me forget it. My parents were in their early eighties. They’d had me late in life and had doted on me from the day I took my first breath. I was their pride and joy. Or, as Dad often put it, the best thing he’d ever made. I’d grown up in a house filled with love and opportunity at my fingertips. Larry and Diane Irvine had only wanted the best for their son.

Maybe that was the problem. I’d grown up as the most important person in the world in my parents’ eyes. They’d lavished me with attention. Maybe I expected to sit on that same pedestal with lovers too. “Who knows?” I mumbled too low for Dad to hear.

As I collected and organized all the papers I’d shoved aside in the wee hours of the morning, I said, “Dad, can I talk to Mom for a few minutes. I have to get to work.”

“Wait, hold on. Don’t run off just yet. You should talk to your mother before you go. I’m hogging all the time.”

“Thanks.”

There was shuffling as the phone exchanged hands.

“Hi, sweetheart.”

My smile only grew with Mom’s gentler—quieter—tone. “I don’t know how you play bingo with him anymore. I’d go crazy.”

Mom chuckled. “He wouldn’t miss it for the world. Your father is a social butterfly. You know that. Besides, I convinced Leonard to hold up cards with the ball’s numbers written on them so your father had a visual while he played. Saves me shouting in his ear all night. Made a world of difference.”

“Good idea.”

“He’s not the only one who struggles to follow the game due to hearing loss. How are you, sweetie? I know you hate being away from home.”

Home was St. Catherines, Ontario, approximately two and a half hours northeast. I’d spent the two years of my failed relationship with Grant in London, Ontario, a few hours away, but I had been more than happy to relocate after we’d split up. London was a bigger city that meshed better with my job, but I’d taken the sacrifice and had moved back to St. Catherines, which meant more travel.

“I’m okay. I don’t think I’ll be here long.”

“Oh? Was this the second opinion you were called in for?”

“Yes, and I can’t talk about it, but I have a feeling after today I’ll be done.”

“That’s good. Let me know, sweetie, and I’ll make those lemon blueberry muffins you like, and we can have them with coffee in the morning. You’ll come for breakfast, right?”

“Always do.”

When I was home, I often forewent my daily phone call in place of dropping in to see my parents before work and enjoying a quick coffee and visit. Mom still insisted on pampering me with homemade treats, and Dad needed to share all the gossip he could dig up from the retirement village where they lived.

Since I had no one else in my life, I treasured those visits with my parents.

“Mom, I have to run. I’ll let you know if I’m heading home today.”

“Sounds good. Your dad and I send our love.”

“I love you too.”

I grabbed the pertinent information I needed for my session with River, scanned the room one last time, and headed out.

At the nearest coffee shop, I ordered a breakfast sandwich and a large coffee. While standing off to the side, waiting for them to prepare my order, I snagged an abandoned newspaper off a nearby table. London Free Press. I skimmed the front-page articles, and when my coffee and food were ready, I tucked the newspaper under my arm, figuring I’d have a few minutes to eat in the car before I had to head inside New Horizon, and it would give me something to read.

* * *

I picked up a key card from a pug-faced guy in scrubs who had an overbite, greasy black hair, and patchy stubble on his face. He worked the administration desk in the first-floor lobby and wore a nametag that read, Andy. Andy couldn’t have been more than twenty years old if a day. His lazy stare made him look bored, and I wondered if he’d rather be at home playing video games and eating Cheetos than running a desk in a psychiatric hospital.

“Sign here.” He shoved a clipboard forward and tugged open a drawer beneath the desk, pulling out a key card attached to a long navy-blue lanyard with the words New Horizon printed in white letters down its length.

I scribbled my illegible signature and accepted the key card. Andy was already busy at a computer, picking his teeth as I slung the lanyard around my neck and wandered down the hall toward the elevator, which would take me to the second floor and the room where I’d met River the previous day.

Again, the scent of breakfast drifted from the dining hall when I got to the west wing. It was a syrupy sweet smell today, and I guessed the patients had enjoyed pancakes or waffles.

I touched base with Molly when I arrived, and she let me know that River was waiting. Before I had a chance to slip away, she asked if I had a preliminary diagnosis. After my restless night, I smiled and shut her down with a simple, “It’s too soon.”

At the door to the lounge room where River and I were having our session, I paused and pulled my thoughts together. If he was playing a game with me, I couldn’t allow him the upper hand.

River Jenkins might be smart and manipulative, but I was smarter. And I knew my job.

And I was good at it.

I’d worked hard to get where I was. My job was the only solid thing in my life besides my parents. It meant everything to me.

I straightened my tie and took a leveling breath.

River was my focus today.

Assess. Analyze. Diagnose.

Simple.

I keyed into the room and found River in the same spot I’d found him the previous day. At the window, body turned in such a manner I was gifted with a pleasant view of his round ass, snug in yet another pair of ill-fitting sweatpants.

In less than three seconds, I broke the one and only rule I’d set for myself.

I stared at his ass.