Ellen looked away to hide her smile. “Okay by me” she said. Then she looked back at Mark. “I take it you never got into the locked building?”
“No. At least I don’t think so.”
“You don’t think so?” Ellen asked.
“Like I told you, I must have blacked out or something.”
“Right. Xenia. Orphanage.” Ellen leaned forward. “Look, Mark. Is any of this related?”
“What?” Mark asked. Mark could tell what Ellen was implying, and he didn’t like it a bit.
“You’ve been acting pretty strange. The fainting yesterday, now this blackout thing.”
Mark stood to leave. “I’m fine. You ready?”
Mark walked away without waiting for Ellen.
Mark approached the entrance to the hospital. Ellen followed, carrying the camera.
Mark glanced back at her. They hadn’t said a word to each other on the ride over. Mark was still angry over what she had said. He wasn’t sure if he was mad that she implied there was something wrong with him, or if he was worried she might be right. “Rule number one…” Mark said over his shoulder.
“I know, I know. You do all the talking. I run the camera,” Ellen said.
Mark opened the door and held it for her to step inside first this time. He followed her in.
Mark slowed down a bit and looked around. He sure as hell didn’t want to pass out again. He glanced over at the darkened hallway on the right as he approached the receptionist. He felt some jitters, but nothing like he had experienced the day before.
“Can I help you?” the receptionist asked.
“Yes, please. Mark Wilcox, Channel Seven News. I’d like to see Dr. Drexel.”
The receptionist turned to her monitor, pecked at her keyboard. She frowned. “Do you have an appointment?”
“No, but I have some follow-up questions from our interview yesterday,” Mark said.
“She’s pretty booked this morning,” the receptionist said. “If you want, you can have a seat and I’ll try and get in touch with her to let her know you’re here.”
Mark and Ellen sat in the lobby, in two chairs against the wall.
Ellen’s head was leaned back against the wall, her eyes closed.
Mark checked his watch. It had been almost half an hour. He was considering checking with the receptionist again when Dr. Drexel walked up.
Mark stood up, when he saw her.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Wilcox,” Dr. Drexel said. “I have appointments all morning.”
Ellen’s head popped up, eyes open. She stood as well, popping the camera up on her shoulder, searching for the power switch.
“I just need a few minutes, Dr. Drexel,” Mark said. “I found the names of a few doctors who worked here in the past and I wondered if you could tell me anything about them?”
Dr. Drexel glanced at her watch, then crossed her arms. “I guess that all depends…”
Mark consulted his notebook. “Doctor Walls? Ernie Walls?”
“Doesn’t ring a bell. When did he work here?”
“He was here in seventy-seven,” Mark answered.
Dr. Drexel laughed. “Way before my time,” Drexel said. “I’m afraid I can’t help you, Mr. Wilcox. I have patients…”
She turned to walk away.
Mark stepped forward to follow Dr. Drexel. He wasn’t about to let Drexel avoid his questions. He signaled Ellen to come along, to keep rolling. “How about Dr. Willis Maddox?”
Dr. Drexel continued to walk away. She answered over her shoulder: “Another old timer, I suppose. I don’t know the name.”
“Maybe you know this one, then,” Mark said as they approached the receptionist. “Dr. Hans Drexel?”
Natalie Drexel slowed to a stop near the receptionist. She turned to face them. “I’m guessing you already know Hans Drexel is my father.”
“I guessed he might be. He made the paper quite a few times.”
Dr. Drexel glanced around.
The receptionist was watching all of them closely.
“My office. Please?” Dr. Drexel said. She led them down the hallway to her office.
Ellen kept the camera running as they made the brief trek down the hallway to Drexel’s office.
Drexel walked quickly, her heels making rapid tapping sounds against the tile floor. She unlocked the door, then held it open to allow Mark and Ellen enter. Drexel slowed as she stepped around Mark and toward her desk. She stopped and turned, looking at him closely. “Your eyes are very bloodshot. Baggy. You haven’t slept well.”
Mark was taken aback. Was she trying to change the subject? “I’m okay. About your father…”
Dr. Drexel lifted her hands to Mark’s neck.
Mark pulled back, alarmed. It wasn’t the first time a subject of one of his stories had threatened him, but she was a doctor, for crying out loud.
“Easy,” Dr. Drexel said.
Mark relaxed as Dr. Drexel’s soft, warm hands first squeezed the muscles at the base of his neck, then continued to massage his neck and shoulders in her skilled hands.
“Hmmm,” Dr. Drexel said. She released his neck and went around to her desk chair.
At first Mark hadn’t realized he had closed his eyes at her gentle, relaxing manipulation. He opened them quickly when she stopped. Much too soon.
Dr. Drexel waved at the other chairs. “Please. Sit.” As she sat, Dr. Drexel pulled a prescription pad and ink-stamp from her lab coat pocket. “I don’t usually do this without a full exam, but it’s obvious you need something.” She wrote something, then pressed the ink-stamp on it. She tore the prescription from the pad and handed it to Mark. “Should help you sleep.”
Mark reached for the paper, but Dr. Drexel pulled it back before he could take it. “You have to promise me you’ll get that check-up, though.”
“Thanks, and I will,” Mark said.
Drexel gave Mark the prescription.
Mark folded the paper and stuffed it into his pocket. “About your father…”
“Again with the rumors?” Dr. Drexel cut him off. “It sounds like you’d rather rehash old stories than talk about the closing of this great institution.”
“Sorry, but I have to go where the story leads,” Mark said.
“I’m afraid I can’t discuss my father. Particularly anything that resulted in litigation. Lawyers, you know. They have rules.”
“Can you tell me anything about his time here? When did he start?” Mark asked.
“He started as an intern in seventy-two. He spent his entire career here. Retired in two-thousand-seven.”
“A psychologist?” Mark asked.
“Psychiatrist. He specialized in what we now call post-traumatic stress disorder. Back then, it didn’t even have a name.”
“Isn’t that mostly a problem soldiers have?” Mark asked.
“You’ve heard of the Vietnam war?” Drexel answered. “He had no shortage of patients.”
Mark glanced back at Ellen. The light on the camera indicated it was still running. “What about his treatment techniques?” Mark asked Drexel.
Dr. Drexel’s phone beeped. “I can’t discuss my father’s treatments,” she said. She took her phone out of her other lab coat pocket to check it. “His treatments were often ground-breaking, but a bit controversial.” She looked at her phone. “I have to go.”
“They were never approved, were they? His procedures?” Mark asked.
Drexel stood and urged Mark and Ellen toward the office door. She followed them out and closed her door behind them.
Dr. Drexel stared hard at Mark: “Given where this so-called ‘report’ of yours about the closing of this great hospital appears to be headed, I’m afraid I have to limit your access. You’ll need to have an escort if you want to look around anymore.” Drexel typed in a quick text to the receptionist, ordering her to make sure the reporters were escorted at all times while in the hospital, then pointed down the hall toward the receptionist area. “Please check with the receptionist on your way out. She’s expecting you.”