The New Patient (Dr. Epstein's Couch: Criminal Minds Series) (2 page)

I freeze, trying to cage my anxiety. “Really Kyle?” I manage to say blandly. The possibility that he’s stalking me storms my mind. How could he know otherwise? I met Rachel at the Club and we drove to the bottle shop on the way back to my place. I scan my memory briefly but can’t recall anything unusual. He could have easily followed me.
But why and why let me know?

But I already know the answer. It’s his back up plan. If he can’t manage to persuade me with charm, he’s letting me know he could hurt me. The last time I worked with someone this dangerous, they were in prison. What the fuck led to his parole decision? Again, I already know the answer. I’m guessing the same strategies paid off with his assessors.

He gives a little laugh, “Are you a brunette man Doctor? Or do you prefer blondes?”

Better to challenge him and record it for the file, otherwise he’ll be walking all over me. “I’m curious why you should ask such a question Kyle? Have you been following me?”

He looks a little surprised but smiles like a cat toying with its next meal. “No John, no need to be paranoid I’m not following you. You should relax more. I happened to see you in the bottle-shop last night as I walked back from my AA meeting.” I don’t believe him. I know a warning when I hear one. He shrugs casually before continuing,

“I’m just trying to build a rapport with you. I know
I
used to prefer blondes. Don’t you want to ask me about my past?”

I know he’s referring to his last victim, Dana Edwards. She had just turned 18 and was on her way home from her birthday party when she met Kyle. It was a meeting she didn’t survive.

“Are you deriving enjoyment from trying to make me uncomfortable Kyle?” Anxiety evaporates under the rising heat of my anger—I watch the triumph play across his face. He’s trying to get a rise out of me and he’s observant enough to see it’s working.
You sick bastard, give me a reason to send you back.

“No John. I am genuinely sorry for what I’ve done. At night I see the look in that young girl’s eyes. I wish I could go back in time and change it but I can’t. I’m just trying to learn how to be normal. How to talk like a normal guy to another guy.”

His eyes actually tear up, but I know he’s trying to intimidate me—he’s clever. He’s letting me know he’s followed me
and
he’s capable of killing and getting away with it.

My anger mounts, “Don’t fuck around Kyle. If your threatening me, be man enough to come out with it.” I look him square in the eyes. The most dangerous place for me to be right now is in fear. If he thinks I’m an easy victim, I’m in real trouble.

Kyle laughs with genuine mirth. “Whoa! Slow down John!” He picks an imaginary speck off his jeans and smiles with satisfaction as he watches me. “If I’ve offended you today, I truly am sorry. We both know I’ve got problems dealing with people—that’s why I’m here, to get your help,” he finishes.

With effort I unbundle my face to form ‘the expression’ and hide behind my training. I allow myself a brief vision of punching him hard in the head, then I pretend to be behind safety glass where he can’t touch me—emotionally or physically.

The safety glass is another strategy. This one helped me survive five years of working in prisons and psychiatric hospitals, back when an easy patient was a less dangerous version of Kyle and it never lets me down. Anchored and back in control, I fix him with my best unflinching stare. “I’m recording your behavior today Kyle. The records are duplicated and lodged with Detective James. If anything goes wrong for me, my notes will leave you fully implicated.”

Kyle’s eyes deaden, “I understand John. You’re the boss.”

I sense I’ve hit home. He doesn’t want to go back to prison. It’s a trump card I can’t always be sure I have. Some career criminals want to go back behind bars; whether its to settle a score, or because they can’t handle life outside, or both—they’re always my most dangerous patients.

My head remembers to pound and I want him gone. “We have an appointment in a week Kyle. I’ll have the results of your weekly blood and urine screen. I expect you to stay on the anti-psychotics. Any side effects from the increased dosage I prescribed?”

“No,” he answers.

“Next week then. Phyllis will give you your appointment details.”

“I’ll be here John, like I said I want to change,” he responds.

Once he’s gone I take half a Valium. I spend the rest of the afternoon in brief sessions mainly reviewing patient adjustment to medication.

Kyle is never far from my mind, I resolve to visit Detective Bob James after work. Before Phyllis goes home I have her arrange for the building security to be checked and remind her about basic safety. She reassures me she will not enter the building after hours and will leave before me at night.

Given the severity of his psychopathy, treating Kyle was always going to be like playing with a funnel-web spider. I knew it when I took him on after reading the referral information, but the Corrections work is lucrative and it keeps my forensic skills sharp. Nothing comes for free, I remind myself.

I’m sure Bob knows more than he’s told me and far more than what can be found in the dodgy Police Event reports attached to the referral. Bob’s a prick, I tell myself as I gather my keys, a likeable prick but a prick just the same. He knows more.

6:00pm

I pull up in front of Bob James’ favourite haunt—an old pub in the city with a girly bar out the back.

I walk into the front bar and worry about my new Merc’s paint job. I gather the punters will be in a happy place since it’s still early, but it’d be asking for trouble to stick around for too long.

I look at the perky blond behind the bar, and she smiles when she sees me. Interest shines in her eyes but she’s not my type. “Hello Doctor,” she says. I don’t know how she knows who I am.

I offer a polite smile, “Hello. Seen Bob James about?” I ask getting straight to the point.

“Yeah, he’s out back,” she responds, eager to please. I’m half tempted.

“Thanks.”

I make my way down the paneled corridor, smelling carpet cleaner on top of old beer. The glass doors ahead lead me into the semi-deserted club.

A scantily clad stripper works her magic on one of the three poles set on the stage. I spot Bob at the bar in deep conversation with a man I don’t recognise.

“Bob, can I have a word?”

Bob seems unusually happy to see me, but conceals it quickly. “Sure Doc, step into my office.”

 We order drinks, then leaving his thick set companion at the bar, move to a booth.

“What can I do you for?” he jokes—it’s his coping strategy for handling pressure. Violent alcoholic father I guess, but his compassion toward women suggests he protected his mother. He also likes taking crooks down and forgets his boundaries...a lot.

So far he’s managed to avoid formal charges and his results keep him in a job that no longer tolerates his generation of policing methods. It’s a change that causes Bob a good deal of anger, but I suspect he enjoys having a reason to be pissed off with the powers that be.

There’s an eagerness about him as the waitress brings our drinks; a schooner for Bob and a whisky on the rocks for me. “Kyle Stevens,” I say simply.

Satisfaction spreads across his face, “Piece of shit of the first order.” He gulps at his beer. “How many times you seen him now?” he asks innocently. I suspect Bob knows full well how many times I’ve seen him, along with the dates of our ongoing appointments.

“It was the second session today. But I think you know that already,” I add.

He ignores the opportunity to fill me in. “And what’s your take on him?” he asks instead.

“Technically, he meets the criteria for high end Psychopathy. Charming, glib, callous, unempathic, shallowness of emotions, manipulative—and based on the file there’s no regard for the value of human life. He’s a very dangerous man,” I finish.

“No need to tell me that. The last murder was my investigation. Dana Edwards, 18 years old. When we got close to nailing him, bastard put a hit out on me. Thankfully, undercover Op’s,” he glances across at his friend at the bar, “were all over it. Couldn’t get the evidence together to have him charged. We got him for the rape, but not the murder,” he finishes.

“Can’t prove anything, but he’s following me. Why?”

Bob doesn’t seem surprised, “At a guess he knows you lodge progress reports with me...he hates me. Not as much as I hate him though. Probably wants to show me he’s in control.” Bob takes another chug at his beer and continues, “We gave him a bit of a shake up the other day. Just to let him know we’re keeping an eye on him,” he explains.

Oh fuck
. “Bit of unfinished business...revenge for the hit?” I ask, keeping my tone even.

Bob chuckles, but his eyes go flat, “Yep, I’m pissed off about the hit. But he killed that girl. The M.O. links him to other deaths too—no evidence and the brass wouldn’t let me recommend opening the cold case files. So fuck knows how many people he’s really done in. The prick ended up spending a grand total of three years behind bars.” He downs the rest of his beer before continuing, his voice hard, “Get this. While he was in there the taxpayer funded him to get a fuckin’ double degree in I.T. and Law.” He looked at me then, expecting me to share his outrage.

I nod, “All part of being rehabilitated back into society Bob,” I say, recognising my part in the well-worn bitch we’ve shared over the years. “We still don’t know what to do with the untreatable’s like Kyle. So we throw money and resources at it hand over fist. He shouldn’t be out.” I finish.

“Yeah I know that. But there’s only so long you can keep a rapist behind bars. But he’ll fuck up, I know his type. Can’t help himself.” Bob looked at me hard. “Put him under pressure, Doc. See what he does. He just needs to look like he’s breached parole conditions and he goes back. He’s not as smart as he thinks he is. He fucked up last time and now we’re onto him, we’ll get him.”

“Do you think he’s dumb enough to reoffend with half the Victorian Homicide Squad up his ass?” I ask.

Bob shrugged, “Stranger things have happened. The thing is Doc, this prick wants to show off. He’s pissed he spent the last three years behind bars. Getting caught last time made him look bad. In his head he’s got a score to settle with me. He wants to have the last word. We’ve got undercover Op’s
and
he’s being monitored 24/7. He makes his move on me and he goes down.”

Not for the first time, I admire Bob’s intuitive reading of the criminal mind—he works more like a clairvoyant than a copper. He’s often right, but he cares too much. To Bob it’s personal. Dana’s death and the collapse of justice is his to make right, and he plays hardball. Sometimes that meant other people became collateral damage—this time it could be him.

“What do you want from me Bob?” I ask, draining my whiskey.

“Just do your job. That’s all. No need to get too clever about it. If Kyle happens to say or do anything that may indicate he’s a risk to the public, you’ll need to let me know anyway. But I will ask you to let me know if you think I’m getting to him. If he mentions me. That sort of thing. We’ve still got evidence that could send him back, if he said something incriminating about his past, I might be able to get some of the old cases re-opened.”

Sounds simple enough.

The average short-term treatment program is six weeks. If I play this right, I can have him back behind bars by week six...before he gets Bob.

I purchase some good cocaine from Bob’s friend and phone Chloe from my car phone. Chloe’s blonde, average I.Q.
and enjoys dressing up.

Just what the Doctor ordered.

Week Two

Monday August 1st, 5:35am

I lay awake in bed staring at the dark pre-dawn ceiling. Monica stirs and runs a gentle hand across my body. I capture it as it travels lower and gently kiss her fingers.

“I need to get up,” I say, hoping she’ll realise I want her to leave.

She makes a muffled sound of disappointment and turns fully to face me. She’s naked and smells like sex. Her breasts are full and the curve of her body is magnetic
.
There’s neediness in her beautiful brown eyes; the unspoken question about when we’ll meet again hangs as she searches my face.

I feel something between pressure and panic. I realise the inevitable moment has come. The fun we’ve enjoyed occasionally and ‘without strings’ has ended. A bond has started to form and her hope that we might be something more sits between us.

It’s time to say goodbye.