My frown slid further southward. “Dr. Peterson, art therapy provides opportunities for insight for both the patient and the therapist, and—”
“Of course,” he interrupted. “But even more important is your willingness to embrace your patients as people. That’s what I need right now.” He tapped the folder. “This case is yours, and it takes priority.”
I reached for the file. His hand did not move.
“You’ll be expected to follow up with your other patients, of course; we are spread far too thin to give you a reprieve. But I imagine you knew that.”
The understatement of the millennium. I nodded.
“I also imagine you wouldn’t want to forsake those other patients,” he said. “We’re all committed to quality care here at The Brink.”
His lips tugged upward into another smile, this one conspiratorial. The chief administrator had just committed the ultimate in-house faux pas. New employees learn two things their first day in this hole: where the toilets are, and that you never, ever call this place anything but Brinkvale Psychiatric in the presence of management.
He picked up the folder with a trembling hand and held it out to me. It bobbed in his hand, a boat floating over the sea of paperwork.
“Martin Grace. His transfer came down from County last night. He’s due in city court in less than a week. It is a murder trial, and Grace is the gentleman with whom the district attorney’s office has its grudge. He’s also the prime suspect in eleven other deaths. You will engage the patient, and deduce in the days ahead if he is psychologically fit for trial. Consider it a bonus if he confesses that he consciously, willfully killed Tanya Gold and those other people and deserves imprisonment… or another method of justice. This time next week, I expect to read your conclusions.”
I felt my lips moving, heard my voice before I knew what I was saying.
“What if he’s innocent?” I asked.
Peterson’s forehead crinkled as his gray eyebrows rose above his glasses. He glanced around in the dimness, at the walls. His smile didn’t falter.
“Zachary. He wouldn’t be here if he was innocent.”
I felt a bit sick as I accepted the folder. The thing felt cold in my hand.
Peterson’s expression suddenly brightened, and his voice became dismissive, perfunctory.
“I suggest you take the morning to review the file,” he said. “Conduct short sessions with your other patients after lunch. Then introduce yourself to Mister Grace. Leave the paint brushes and pencils in your office, if you please.”
“Why?”
“Because Martin Grace is blind.”
2
I don’t remember much after leaving Peterson’s office. I hope I appeared nonchalant as I performed my morning rituaclass="underline" waving to nurses and orderlies, stopping at the break room to pour bitter, nearly burned coffee into my extra-large ceramic mug, working my way past doctors’ and record keepers’ offices to The Brink’s sole, ancient elevator.
This didn’t feel right. I hadn’t yet read any of Martin Grace’s admittance papers, but I didn’t need to know his story to know I wasn’t the guy who should be talking to him. The people I work with at The Brink aren’t heading to trial. They’re never players in an unfolding criminal case. My people—my patients, as Peterson would say—have either been convicted and need solace and treatment, or they’re here because they’re ill and have nowhere else to go. If you’re at The Brink, you’re at the end of the line. Only dead-enders need apply.
Make no mistake: I’m good at what I do, which is convince crazy people to express themselves with art. The pay is for shit, and this place is rock-bottom, but I’m making a small difference in this world, one misunderstood person at a time, and I find some peace in that. I try to save people through art, because art saved me. Giddy-giddy, as Anti-Zach would say.
So while flattered by Peterson’s assignment on a certain level, I was also confused. Why would Peterson ask me, the proverbial new guy, to take this case? Enthusiasm, I got. Real-world life-and-death experience, not so much. And what in the hell was Grace doing here, in the ass-end of New York City’s public mental health system, anyway? Multiple homicides perpetrated by a blind man—and they pick me? I felt like Bogey in Casablanca: “Of all the gin joints, in all the towns, in all the world…”
Looking up, I realized I’d made my way to the elevator. I jabbed the metal “down” button and waited for the wheezing, hydraulic box to lurch to the surface.
I jerked sideways at the clap of a hand on my shoulder, nearly spilling my coffee. I turned around and faced a chest wider than a tree trunk. A name tag, yellowed and scuffed from abuse, met me at eye level. EMILIO.
I’m five-ten and change, but being in Emilio Wallace’s presence makes me feel like a member of the Lollipop Guild. I stared up at his square jaw. In a former life, Emilio had been a semi-famous pro wrestler on the Southwest circuit. If the comic book hero Superman were real, he’d use Emilio as his sans spit curl stunt man. That resemblance allowed him to play ironic villainous heavies during his wrestling career, like George “Super” Badman, Samson “Man of Steal” Kent, and my personal favorite: Maximillian von Nietzche, the Ubermensch.
These days, Emilio is a Brinkvale security guard, known for pulling as many hours of overtime as the law will allow in order to fund a very personal artistic work-in-progress. Emilio grinned down at me, displaying where most of his paychecks went: a mouthful of ruler-straight, toothpaste-commercial-white teeth… and a rogue gap here and there, the result of one folding chair to the face too many at the end of his former career.
Another unfortunate side effect of his days in the entertainment biz: mentally, the man’s a half-bubble off plumb. He’s got a thing for conspiracy theories and alien abduction stories. Hell, he believes vampires and werewolves are real.
Of course, maybe he’s always been that way. Par for the course, here at The Brink. We work with what the Lord provides.
“Yo, Z,” Emilio said. His voice was deep and low, an idling semi truck engine. “Just another manic Monday, yeah?”
“Right on, yeah,” I replied. “You got any big plans tonight? Xbox with the boys?”
Emilio shook his head. “I see ’em next week. Got the new Madden. It’s gonna be killer.”
I nodded at this. I hadn’t played a video game since college. My girlfriend Rachael was the gamer in my home. She played enough for the both of us—and probably the rest of the East Village, too.
“Clocking in some serious OT this week,” Emilo continued. “New rooster in the coop. Blind dude. Spooky as hell.”
My stomach tensed at this. The whine of the elevator was growing louder; it was almost topside.
“Spooky?” I said.
Emilio’s blue eyes widened. “As hell,” he affirmed. “Rolled in last night. I was there, took him to his digs in Max. He was mumbling to himself, those chains on his ankle cuffs scraping on the floor. Dude was like that Scrooge ghost, Bob Marley.”
Jacob Marley, I thought, but I didn’t correct him.
The elevator doors groaned open. Emilio and I waited for Malcolm Sashington, Brinkvale’s omnipresent janitor, to roll out his mop bucket before we entered. Malcolm tipped us a salute as the doors began to close. I returned the gesture.
Emilio smacked the button for my level, 3, and then another for himself. Level 5. Maximum security.