The doorbell did not ring. Ray was only aware that facility security had been breached because the front door made an unmistakable thunking noise when it closed. He shot out of his chair and threw open the office door to the receptionist’s pod. The man who stood in the doorway was not a client, he knew that at once. He could not, however, place him other than that.
He was older, maybe fifty. Balding, graying. But there was a sense of athleticism about him despite his age. Someone who kept fit. That was Ray’s first clue. The man wore a gray suit jacket and matching pants, but no tie. He had on loafers. He also stood with his back to the door as though he was aware he could not or should not proceed further down the hall into the client areas.
Ray started to say something by way of greeting when the phone rang. He held up a finger to his visitor, indicating the man should wait and picked up the phone on the desk nearest to him.
“Ray, this is Bob Jenkins.”
“Yes.”
“I’m the attorney for the mental health center.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I wanted to call early to let you know that a representative from the police department will be coming in this morning to talk to you. A detective—” The sound of shuffling papers. Ray supposed it was a lawyer thing. “Caldwell. Detective Jon Caldwell. You are authorized to speak to him. He’s the case detective in the Donald Ackerman fiasco.”
Ray looked briefly toward his visitor. The man smiled at him. It figured.
“Yes, sir.”
“You can talk to him honestly, Ray. I’ve worked with him before, or at least around him. He’s a straight shooter.”
“I understand that.”
Bob Jenkins appeared to pick up on his tone. “Christ! He’s there now, isn’t he?”
“Yes, sir.”
For a lawyer, Jenkins managed to sound genuinely apologetic. “I’m sorry, Ray. I was hoping I would call early enough to let you get your thoughts together. I didn’t expect the PD to be so accommodating to your schedule.”
“Nor would I, Mr. Jenkins.”
“All right then. You know the drill. Tell him whatever you want, but stick to relevant information only. Stay close to the facts unless he specifically asks you for your impressions or your opinions. Under no circumstances should you allow him to view the client’s chart if it is still there on the premises—which it should not be, but you know how things are. If he wants to see that, he’ll have to produce a subpoena.”
“Okay.”
“And if he has a subpoena for the chart, call me and stall him until I get there. Is all of that clear?”
“I believe so.”
“A hell of a mess, Ray. Hell of a mess. Just do your best.”
“I’m sure everything will be fine.”
Jenkins hung up and Ray straightened himself. He tried to smile at the detective, but was sure he only managed a grimace.
“Detective Caldwell.”
The officer took a step forward, his hand extended. Ray clasped it firmly. Caldwell poked his head toward the phone.
“I’ll guess that was your warning that I was coming.”
“Elementary deduction, my dear Watson.”
Caldwell laughed and released Ray’s hand. He produced a badge, let Ray get a good look at it, then slipped it back into his suit coat.
“For my protection and yours,” he explained. “No tricks here. I’m not on anybody’s side. I’m not here to get you to slip up and help the other side prove that you were somehow negligent. I’m just trying to get the facts. You may assume that I’ve already heard their side, and I have a preliminary sketch of yours from your superiors.”
“You work fast.”
“Actually, Donovan—their lawyer—works fast. He’s been a regular mite in the prosecutor’s ear trying to get this case criminal to improve the outlook for civil litigation. I’ve been given the task of establishing whether or not the high and mighty should give a shit.”
“And currently you’re trying to make them look as bad as possible so I’ll think you’re really on my side in all of this. That way I might tell you more, say in the role of confidant, than I might otherwise.”
Caldwell whistled. “You’re pretty swift yourself, Ray.”
“Just experienced with manipulation, detective.”
“You’re going to make this hard on me.”
“No, sir. I’m going to answer your questions as I’ve been instructed by my attorney.”
“But you’re not going to volunteer any information my questions might miss.”
“That depends on how much it seems you might be trying to manipulate me.”
The detective nodded. “Fair enough.”
“Have you checked my background yet?”
Caldwell produced a black leather notebook from the same pocket which held his badge. Ray noted that he did not seem to be carrying a gun. He wasn’t sure what that meant about Detective Caldwell, or what it meant about the community in which the detective operated. It seemed like a positive sign either way.
“Let’s see. Graduate of Indiana University with a BA in English three years ago. You’ve been here for five years, did some restaurant work before that. A couple of speeding tickets when you were nineteen. You have religiously filed your taxes. No criminal record. You have been divorced. That’s about all the data the county records could muster. Pretty spotless.”
“What do you want to know about Donald Ackerman?”
“First of all, I want to know if anyone else has tried to contact you regarding this incident. Attempted to influence your testimony in any way.”
Ray noted that the notebook did not disappear as the badge had done. He thought about the chart organizational meeting the previous morning. He thought about Jennifer Ackerman. Very briefly, he thought about Sam and wondered if Caldwell would bother to get a copy of the phone records.
“Donovan called me early this morning. But he was just fishing, I think.”
The detective seemed satisfied with that. “Tell me about Donald Ackerman, then. Do it in your own way, whatever makes you comfortable. This is not an interrogation. I’m only going to ask questions if there are points I need clarification on.”
Ray told him essentially what he had written in the discharge note. He relied heavily upon the narrative as it appeared in the second one. It took all of about five minutes.
Caldwell wrote as he spoke. When he had finished, the detective scratched the top of his head with his pen and seemed to read over what he had just written.
“Do you mind if I sit down?”
Ray pulled out a chair from behind one of the desks. He sat down himself at the desk right next to it.
“Heroin, right?” Caldwell said.
“As far as I know. We didn’t urine screen him or anything that I’m aware of. We’re willing to take the client’s word about what they have been using. It’s a safe bet most of the time. If anything, they’re going to err on the more side rather than the less. That way they get more drugs.”
“You’ll have to forgive me, I don’t know a lot about this side of the dope system. On my end, they tend to err on the less side.”
“Understandable.”
“Was it your impression that Mr. Ackerman was in withdrawal from heroin while he was here?”
“Yes.”
“What does that look like?”
“Ugly. Heroin is an opiate based narcotic. Withdrawal usually begins three to ten hours after the administration of the last dose. The peak is expected within forty eight to seventy two hours and will generally last anywhere from three to five days thereafter. An individual experiencing opiate withdrawal can expect to suffer incidents of insomnia, anxiety, night sweats, tremors, cramps, nausea and diarrhea. In addition, they have to deal with chronic muscle and joint aches, fever and runny nose. It’s a lot like having a really nasty case of the flu. In severe cases, the individual can be at risk for convulsions.”
“And what do you do for them? Hand them some Dimetapp?”
“In some clinics, the recommended treatment is a methadone protocol to wean the addict. We use a propoxyphene protocol that lasts about six days. It gets them through the worst of it. I couldn’t tell you why one over the other. That’s a doctor thing, which I’m not. My sense is that our med intervention is solely to ease their physical discomfort so they’ll give treatment a chance. But that’s purely a guess. They are not going to die from opiate withdrawal. Successful detox could be performed with rest, fluids and vitamins…and maybe some of your Dimetapp.”
“So when the kid split from here at seventy two hours or so, he was feeling pretty lousy.”
“That’s a safe assumption.”
“Did he seem depressed at all? Mentally ill?”
“No more than most. I couldn’t give you a clinical diagnosis, even second hand. We don’t have the budget to order psych evals on everybody who walks through the door.”
“Was he on any medications that you’re aware of?”
“Other than the heroin?”
“Yes.”
“I couldn’t say.”
Caldwell blew out a long breath, like that answer had disappointed him. “Had he been here before?”
“Not to my knowledge.”
“You see much heroin withdrawal?”
Ray shook his head. “Not in this area. We do mostly alcohol. It seems to be a regional thing. Cocaine occasionally. Cat is picking up, but still not serious. We get a heroin addict maybe six times a year, and they’re invariably transplanted from Indianapolis. They get down here, can’t seem to find a line on any supply, and decide to go straight. A desperation decision.”
“Did Donald Ackerman seem desperate to you?”
“I couldn’t say.”
“Did you talk to him while he was here? I mean, other than the brief conversation right before he left. How did he seem?”
“Quiet, agitated, tense. That’s what I heard, anyway. I’m not sure how much of that is my personal impression, and how much is what I was told to look for from day and evening staff. I don’t generally see very much of the clients.”
“I suppose not.”
“As I said earlier, when he spoke to me the morning he decided to leave, he seemed a little anxious. I referred him to his counselor.”
“Yeah, but didn’t you, I mean, talk to him then?”
“No. That’s not my job. In fact, it’s a violation of professional guidelines. It would be like you giving legal advice as part of the Miranda rights.”
Caldwell accepted that with a nod and a brief smile. “Would you characterize him as troubled?”
A vague question. Ray immediately did not like it. “No more than most.”
“Did you expect him to harm himself?”
That was more to the point. “No more than most.”
“That seems to be a running theme.”
“Detective Caldwell, our population is a variation on a theme.”
“I understand that. Okay, no—what do you call it—suicidal ideations?”
“No plan stated, either. He presented no affect consistent with someone intending to harm either himself or someone else. In fact, he presented the affect consistent only with those who have the need to use. It was my impression that he was leaving treatment at that time to do just that.”
Abruptly, Caldwell flipped the cover on his notebook. He slid both it and the pen he had borrowed from the secretary’s desk into his pocket. He rubbed his forehead as though he suspected the approach of a migraine.
“Shit,” he said.
Ray just watched him.
Caldwell appeared to realize what he was doing, what he had said. He grinned at Ray, a look of self-deprecation.
“What a waste, right? Nineteen year old kid. Who knows? He probably could’ve gotten it together eventually.”
One in thirty, Ray thought, but chose not to disagree.
“How long did it say you’ve been doing this, Ray?”
“Five years.”
“Five years. How do you stand it? Seeing all of these lives go to waste, every day, over and over.”
“How do you do it?”
“Ah. But see, I get to put them in jail. You’ve got a rotating door of aggravations.”
“I work night shift. Minimal contact. Talk to the day techs if you really want to know about aggravation. Still, there are good stories. The job tends to make me popular at parties. Drunk people love to hear stories about people drunker and more stupid than they are.”
The detective chuckled. “Hell, I’m just trying to understand all of this. It helps, sometimes, if you can get inside people’s heads, know how they were thinking. But this kid, I just don’t get him. How does a healthy, happy midwestern boy in a relatively small town get into heroin? What’s the attraction? What can be so bad that heroin is a step up?”
“I don’t know.”
“I mean, I talked to his parents. They seemed level enough. No major animosities from their split. No outrageous problems financially, emotionally, physically. What about you? Did you get any impression of this kid’s background?”
Again, Ray thought of Jennifer Ackerman, of her grief. At least he tried to. The only image he could get in his mind of her was of purple flowers.
“None at all. But I think you’re looking too hard, digging for some obvious reason that he was messed up. Addicts come from good families and bad, preachers and pimps, positive environments and negative. Some factors seem to increase the likelihood, but it’s a toss up. Who can say? Twenty percent is what I know. Twenty percent of the human population is at risk for chemical dependency based on a variety of genetic and environmental factors. Addiction is the ultimate non-respecter of persons from what I can tell. Honestly, I don’t look at their backgrounds very much. I don’t try to analyze factors. I don’t ask and I don’t care. I deal with addictions, not family therapy. By the time they get here, what got them to our door is a moot point as far as my job description is concerned.”
“Not a very holistic approach, is it?”
“Sure it is, but that isn’t my job. I baby-sit. I call ambulances, give meds, shuffle paperwork.”
“So you don’t know any special reason he might have felt suicidal?”
“Not other than the basic psychology and physiology of heroin withdrawal. I’m sure he felt like shit. I’m sure he felt like he wanted to die, but he wasn’t going to.”
“You get many suicide attempts?”
“No. Suicidal gestures are against the rules.”
“Excuse me?”
“When anybody checks into treatment, it is explained to them that we are not a fully equipped medical facility. If they’re feeling suicidal or homicidal, they have to tell us so we can take the appropriate steps. It’s one of the community agreements, for what that’s worth—the rules they have to agree to live by if they’re going to stay here. We’re a voluntary program.”
“As in, ‘if you feel like whacking yourself, you have to tell us’?”
“And if you feel like whacking someone else.”
“What happens if they admit it?”
“We don’t do suicides here, even potential suicides. No specialized training. It’s purely common sense stuff. So, if they say they’re going to kill themselves, even if we know they’re just scamming to get meds or get whatever it is they happen to want at that moment, we have to believe them like it’s the God’s honest truth. They say the word ‘suicide’ and we call ES—emergency services—and get a licensed therapist here pronto or we ship them off to the hospital. I’ve got no leeway there. If they actually attempt a suicidal gesture, I send them immediately to the hospital if they need medical attention. If they don’t, as in they try and fail, we kick them out, hook them up with a therapist or something through outpatient services. I’m not real clear on that system. It’s not my call. By the same token, they say ‘not suicidal’ and we take them at their word.”
“You take them at their word.”
“Yes.”
“That, Ray, is the funniest thing I’ve heard in a long time.” Detective Caldwell stood up, adjusted his jacket, smoothed his pants. He gave every indication that he was preparing to leave. Ray rose also. “Though now that I think about it, it’s probably not any funnier than that dick Donovan trying to pin this on you. He makes it sound like you have all this power. That you make all these questionable judgment calls that put lives at risk. No offense, but it looks to me like you don’t do shit.”
Ray could not tell if that was a parting shot, or an attempt to bait him.
“I have very rigid job duties. I didn’t create the system. I can’t say I even dislike it all that much.”
Caldwell was already at the door, pushing against the bar. “That kid left no impression on you at all, did he?”
“I’m sorry he made the decision he made, if that’s what you mean.”
“Not really. It’s obvious Donovan doesn’t give a rat about the kid. The Dad wouldn’t know him on sight. The mother hadn’t seen him in three years. Nobody would’ve been seen with him on the street from what I gather, but now he’s a big deal, a moneymaker. As pathetic as he was, this all just seems pretty damned sad. I just thought maybe you’d manifest a little more compassion than the suits I’ve talked to so far. You being the last one to see him alive and all. Sometimes that gets to a person. Or maybe I was just hoping someone had actually cared about him before he kicked off, even if only a little.”
Ray could only shake his head. He crossed his arms over his chest, a defensive gesture. “Detective Caldwell, in this business, compassion is often a little too close to responsibility. You get wound up in other people’s problems and you start to blame yourself for their failures. You start to wonder what you did wrong, how you screwed up. That can paralyze you when you need to be able to look beyond the suffering of one person and realize you’ve got fourteen or fifteen others with just as serious a set of problems who are just as dependent on you for support. We can’t afford that type of caring.”
“They will suck you dry if you let them,” Caldwell said. “A sergeant of mine said that once. Protect and serve does not allow for therapy on the side.”
Ray remembered Hank, briefly. He thought about spark plugs. “You ever read about the Gnostics, detective?”
“The who?”
“Gnostics.”
“Can’t say as I have.”
“They said pretty much the same thing. Don’t let the bastards grind you down. Stay vigilant. The world is a shittier place than you have heretofore believed. That sort of thing.”
He grunted. “Meaning that compassion is not in your job description, huh.”
“Not at all.”
“Mine either, kid. You try to keep a level head through the next few days. If the lawyers keep hassling you, don’t hesitate to make a few phone calls to the department. We handle harassment cases too, you know.”
*
People were starting to move. Slowly, grudgingly. Ray’s watch told him it was almost eight, almost time to go home. Someone was taking a shower upstairs. In a few minutes, he would have to go get the mop bucket and put it in the hall by the client pay phone to catch the drips that came through the ceiling. Three months, they’d had that problem. The building was beginning to fall apart.
He tapped his fingers on the front section of the local newspaper. Inside was the obituary for one Donald Eric Ackerman, 19, of Bloomington, Indiana. It had said nothing about suicide. Nothing about heroin. Only that he had died at the hospital. It didn’t even say what had killed him, though that would have opened a debate on causal factors anyway, Ray supposed. A chicken and egg question. It was another form of myth making, that was all.
He elected not to post this obit on the bulletin board.