Richard stared out his office window, picking at his lunch and thinking about Moira. The mention of the death at Mrs. Cook’s seemed to upset her today. It was something they would need to revisit next session. There was pressure from the hospital higher ups to get her on medication and on the road to recovery, especially since this was a criminal case. But they had done two weeks of sessions and Moira didn’t strike him as schizophrenic, even with the auditory delusions and blackouts. Her thought processes weren’t disorganized, she wasn’t suicidal or depressed, and the voices she described weren’t telling her anything negative about herself. In fact, he found Moira to be a breath of fresh air; a very pragmatic and intelligent young woman.
He rubbed distractedly at his collarbone as he paged through her file again. There was a missing piece to this puzzle he had yet to uncover. He spent the previous evening making phone calls and digging up any new information he could find on her. He had lucked out, to some degree. The small town of Woodland being what it was, he’d been able to contact several people who had been quite happy to share information with him, or at least point him in the right direction. The untimely death of both parents due to an earthquake and subsequent building collapse had been well documented. With no money, will, or extended family, both children had gone straight into the foster care system. One he knew only too well.
It was at that point, the details concerning the siblings became sketchy. The children had, indeed, been sent to three different foster homes that hadn’t worked out. The year they landed at Mrs. Cook’s, there was a death, an accident of some kind. There had been no record of the event at the previous foster home, however. That had taken him by surprise. It had also left him wondering what else had been left out of the records.
His phone rang. “Hello?”
“Richard.” An overly-smooth voice spoke from the other end.
“Dr. Blinderman.” He felt his jaw tighten. “Something I can help you with?”
“I trust you’re having a productive day, Dr. Cassano?” Dr. Blinderman’s voice quickly shifted from pleasant to businesslike. “I’m calling about your criminal case patient.”
“Moira Flynn.”
“I understand there was some resistance on her blood draw?”
“There was a misunderstanding about not eating after six PM,” he replied slowly. “But test results should be in by tomorrow.”
“A simple prescription will work wonders with violent or uncooperative patients. You know my motto—medicate the patient so they’re happy and complacent.”
“No need,” he said. “Moira isn’t violent. Or uncooperative.”
“You’re new to Baycrest, but I know you understand the weight of the situation,” the director said. “We need results. Happy endings. The hospital has come under board scrutiny, as of late. Which means your job is at stake. Do you get my drift?”
“I understand, Dr. Blinderman,” Richard said. “I’m working through which medication would suit her. Or if she even needs any.”
“Just get her treated,” Dr. Blinderman said brusquely. “I’ve discussed patient results with the other doctors. As the director of Baycrest, I want this hospital to shine. No excuses.” The line went dead.
Richard hung up the phone with a grimace and picked up Moira’s file. If her blood test results looked good, there was no reason not to start her on medication, no reason at all.
The rest of his day was uneventful, filled with appointments and paperwork. The sun had already set before it registered it was time to go home. He downed the last of his cold coffee from a Styrofoam cup and checked the clock on his wall. Seven-thirty PM. Gathering his things, he locked the office door behind him.
“‘Night Dr. Cassano,” said the nurse at the front reception desk.
“Goodnight, Lily.”
She twirled a strand of blonde hair around her finger. “Got any plans this evening?”
“No. It’s been a long day.” He took the sign-out sheet from her.
“Yeah. Nursing school was never like this,” she complained. “The shifts are so long and we’re so understaffed.”
“We do seem to be understaffed,” he said. “Hopefully, it’s temporary.”
“I’m off in a half hour.” She dragged the elastic from her hair and shook it out. “I’ll probably go home and have a glass of wine. All by myself. Maybe watch some television?” The invite hung in the air.
“Have a good evening then.” He avoided her disappointed look and left.
Once home, Richard immediately turned on the radio. He felt the tension ease from his body. Classical music echoed off the walls of the one-bedroom house. Forgoing his usual routine of a microwave meal and some reading, he turned in for the night.
He lay awake, his mind spinning in circles. The red digital read out on his clock glared the minutes as they ticked by. He rolled over onto his other side. I’ll get up early so I can look over Moira’s blood test results before her session. His thoughts sunk and surfaced as he tried to fit pieces of her puzzle together. I’ll need to start her on medication…I want to touch base on that death at Mrs. Cook’s too. He turned to his other side. I don’t know why this case bothers me so much. He opened his eyes. You do, Richard, his thoughts whispered.
Resigned, Richard got out of bed again. He poured himself a glass of wine and turned the music down. For the next hour, he sat on his couch and read through Moira’s file. By midnight, he had turned on his computer and was scouring through several psychiatry databases.