The Imposter (Alexandra Destephano Book 2) Page 19

  Alex attempted to compose herself and went into the conference room.

  Mr. and Mrs. Smithson were seated at the far end of the table in Alex's conference room. They were dressed in the same clothes they'd been in at 5 am and both looked worn and sad. Mrs. Smithson was drinking black coffee and Mr. Smithson had a can of diet Sprite. He stood deferentially as Alex entered the room.

  Alex smiled once again, thinking how handsome Mr. Smithson was. She walked toward the distinguished gentleman. "Mr. Smithson, I am Alexandra Destephano. I am the legal counsel for the hospital and I want you to know that …."

  "Legal counsel? So you're the hospital lawyer? I thought we were meeting with administration. Does anyone know anything that is happening around here?" Mr. Smithson's voice was deep and his face was flushed. He was impatient and angry.

  Alex tried to ease his concerns. She said softly, "I'm representing administration. Mr. Whitset will be joining us and I believe Dr. Desmonde will be coming, as well."

  Alex turned as Whitset entered the room. She watched him stand to the side of the table, glaring at the weary, older couple. There was no concern or compassion in his face for the Smithson family. His face was set in an ominous scowl and he looked prepared for battle.

  Alex introduced Whitset to the Smithsons and was appalled when Whitset ignored Mr. Smithson's outstretched hand. He waved it aside and sat down. He turned his glittering cold eyes toward Mrs. Smithson and stared at her. The gentle-faced woman seemed nervous at his look and her hands fell to her lap, where she began to play with the catch on her pocketbook.

  Alex began, "Mr. and Mrs. Smithson, on behalf of the hospital, I'd like to tell you how very, very distressed and sad we are over your mother's death. We're very sorry about the circumstances and hope that …."

  Mr. Smithson, still smarting from the rebuke by Lester Whitset, interrupted her. "Thank you, Ms. Destephano. I understand that. My wife and I want some answers."

  Alex nodded, urging him to continue.

  “We want to know precisely how my mother died, and we want to know exactly why my mother died. We've had no information at all. When Dr. Desmonde talked with us this morning, she only told us that my mother had died – that she had been murdered!"

  Alex felt her heart sink. She hadn't wanted to do this. She began, "I understand that Dr. Desmonde told you this morning that your mother had been attacked and murdered by someone, possibly another patient and .…"

  "Yes, yes, we know that." Mr. Smithson was clearly impatient. "How did she die? By what manner did she die? Did someone shoot her? I don't mean to sound short, but you've jerked us around since 4 o'clock this morning. I tried to see your CEO, Mr. Montgomery, and he literally threw me out of his office. I don't mind telling you, Ms. Destephano, that didn't sit well with me." Mr. Smithson sat back in his chair tiredly. He looked exhausted.

  Alex took a deep breath and said clearly, "Mr. Smithson, your mother was stabbed -- with a knitting needle."

  There was a silence that seemed to last for hours.

  After an audible gasp, Mrs. Smithson ventured a few words. "A knitting needle? Her knitting needle?" Her voice sounded incredulous. "Could being stabbed with a knitting needle kill you? It seems impossible. Are you sure?"

  "She was stabbed more than once," Alex said, wishing she had someone there she could count on for support. She looked over at Whitset who was staring at the wall, smiling to himself. The wheels seemed to be turning in his brain. Alex prayed he kept quiet and behaved.

  "How many times?" Mr. Smithson looked directly at Alex.

  Alex didn't respond. She was thinking.

  "Ms. Destephano, I asked you, how many times?" Smithson's voice was loud and demanding.

  Alex's composure was dwindling. She fought for control and said, "She was stabbed many times. I don't know for sure. We'll know more when the police and coroner’s reports come in. I can assure you that …."

  Alex was interrupted when Dr. Desmonde entered the conference room and sat down quietly next to Mr. Smithson. Alex had to admire the man, his control, his fortitude, and his determination. Of course he was pissed -- she would be, too!

  Mr. Smithson turned to Monique. "Dr. Desmonde, you told me in the wee hours of dawn this morning that my mother had died in a hospital accident. You didn't tell me she had been stabbed with a knitting needle! Now, everyone claims they don't know how many times she was stabbed!" Mr. Smithson put his elbow on the conference table and placed his chin on his hand so that he was looking directly into the pale, wan face of the lovely, but very stressed, psychiatrist. “You need not repeat what Commander Françoise told me. I want to know about the hospital's role in the death of my mother.”

  Monique gave Mr. Smithson her full attention. Their eyes were locked together.

  “Now,” he continued, "I want to know everything you know about my mother's death. Do you understand?" His voice was quiet, but demanding.

  Monique nodded at Mr. Smithson. "Yes, I understand. I know you must be very upset over your mother's death and I understand that. We all are. But, we are not sure what exactly happened. Conjecture about her death will only be more upsetting. As soon as we know everything, the police will update you again. As soon as the investigation is complete, I'll speak with you again if you would like. Please let me know if I am repeating what the Commander told you."

  Mrs. Smithson interjected, "Dr. Desmonde, we only want to know if our mother suffered. Did she?"

  It was so quiet in the room you could hear the clicking of Mona's computer two rooms away. You could also hear the distant linen carts and x-ray machines rolling down the halls. Far off, someone was laughing. Alex wished she was with them and not here in this room with these poor, sad, grief-stricken people discussing the elderly Mrs. Smithson's horrific death.

  Monique remained silent and looked at her hands for several moments, then looked back at the Smithsons. Finally, slowly, she said, "Yes, it is possible your mother may have suffered. We'll know for sure when we get the autopsy report." Secretly, Monique hoped that the gentle, elderly lady had suffered a stroke or a heart attack and had died instantly. This thought was helping her manage her own fragile emotional survival. Although it was unlikely, she was taking some comfort in the possibility.

  Mrs. Smithson was crying softly into a tissue.

  Mr. Smithson's eyes were red-rimmed as he looked at Alex and Monique and said quietly, "I admitted my mother because she was depressed over my father's death and my sister's illness. She was not chronically mentally ill, do you understand, she was not mentally ill. She'd never been depressed. You, Dr. Desmonde, assured me that this was the best hospital for her …."

  A sob escaped Mrs. Smithson's mouth and she said to her husband, "Please, honey, let's not talk about this now. There is nothing Dr. Desmonde can do. Let's just go home, I am so tired."

  Mr. Smithson turned to comfort his wife and said tearfully, "Two weeks later she is stabbed to death in what is supposed to be the best hospital in New Orleans. I repeat, how did this happen? I expected this hospital to take care of her -- to help her. Why didn't you? I trusted you to make her better!"

  There was silence. No one spoke. What was there to say? Everyone just continued to sit uncomfortably in the conference room.

  Mr. Smithson tried to speak again, but his voice broke. He stopped for several seconds to catch his breath, composed himself, and then said, "My mother was a gentle soul. She never hurt anyone. She didn't deserve to die like this."

  Alex looked over at Whitset. He was watching Mrs. Smithson cry softly. He had a pleased look on his face. His mouth was turned up in a sly, half smile and he looked as if he was worshipping her grief. He was enjoying himself and was enjoying being a part of this heartbreaking meeting! What the hell was going on? Alex just couldn't understand Whitset. It was like he got off on grief, enjoyed it, relished it even. A glance over at Monique confirmed to Alex that she wasn't noticing Whitset's behavior. Her attention was focused on Mr. Smithson who continued to vent his fee
lings.

  "You know," he said, "it seems to me that something's wrong here. If my mother suffered, that must be your fault. If she was so brutally killed …." He looked towards his wife, as she was seized with a fresh torrent of tears. He took her hand, pressed it for comfort, and continued, "If she was stabbed over and over, then why didn't somebody come to help her? I'm sure she cried for help." Mr. Smithson looked back and forth between Monique and Alex. "Why didn't somebody come help her? Answer me! I demand an answer!" His voice was loud and harsh.

  Suddenly, without warning, Lester Whitset jumped from his seat. His tone was harsh, cruel even, his face only inches from Mr. Smithson's, "Listen, Smithson, we told you we were sorry. Isn't that enough? We don't make promises when we admit people to the hospital. Particularly old people …." He stopped as Alex kicked him hard in the leg.

  Smithson stood, faced the younger man, and raised his voice, "What did you say? What in the hell did you say about old people?" Mr. Smithson's voice was getting louder. "Say it again, dammit! What's this about promises and old people?" Mr. Smithson was taller and heavier than Lester Whitset and Alex watched as a brief flicker of uncertainty crossed Whitset's face.

  Whitset momentarily gained control of himself. Then he lost it completely. His appearance changed and he looked like a pouty little boy. His slicked-back, G.Q. hair fell forward and he looked at his hands and smiled. Then he began to speak, his lips pouting as he began a singsong litany. His head moved back and forth, keeping time with his voice, “We're so sorry, Mr. and Mrs. Smithson. We're so very sorry your mother was murdered in -- Our hospital. Please, please forgive us.” Whitset's voice ended on a high note.

  Alex was dumbfounded, paralyzed with shock at his behavior. Monique was speechless. What the hell was happening? It seemed like Whitset was making fun of the incident. His words were rhymed and spoken in iambic pentameter. His voice was the voice of a child in kindergarten. Alex couldn't figure out whether he was being rude and condescending or was just crazy.

  The Smithsons were flabbergasted by Whitset's behavior.

  Dr. Desmonde stared at him strangely. She slipped Alex a note telling her to call the hospital chaplain. Alex rose to leave the room as Monique again turned to the Smithsons, who were still shell-shocked by Whitset's words. She sighed with fatigue. She and Alex would now have to deal with Whitset.

  Monique took Mrs. Smithson's hand and said to the older couple in a reassuring voice, "We will tell you everything as soon as we get the information. Is there anything else you need? Can I arrange for a cab to take you home?"

  "Is there anything else we need to know now?" Mr. Smithson's voice was morose. He was grey with fatigue and grief. Mrs. Smithson looked like a shocked, broken puppet.

  "Yeah," said Whitset, his voice loud and commanding. "Yeah, you may want to know that your mother was also raped."

  Mrs. Smithson responded with a bloodcurdling sound. Mr. Smithson made the low guttural sounds of a wild animal in intense pain.

  Whitset smiled his gleeful, enigmatic smile at the grieving couple, turned to Dr. Desmonde, and simply said, "Well, they needed to know, didn't they? They did ask if there was anything else."

  Monique didn't reply. She continued to stare at Whitset. A realization about the man was sending tingles up her spine. He belonged on the Pavilion but not as the administrator.

  Whitset flinched under her intense stare and looked at his watch. When he looked back at her, it began to happen. Dr. Desmonde's face was turning to plastic. My God, the bitch is one of them, he thought! Whitset could tell from the way the florescent light highlighted the sheen of her pale face. He felt a terrible noise in his head and struggled for control. He wanted to reach out and rip her head off. The bitch, he thought to himself. How had she kept her secret so long. Was he losing his ability to identify them? He stood abruptly and said, "See you shortly in Montgomery's office."

  Alex was hanging up the phone when Whitset came into her office.

  He grabbed her shoulder and said gleefully, "I told them everything, it's all done. See you in a few minutes."

  Alex stared at him as he raced from her office. She couldn't decide whether he was happy or sad or just crazy. She just couldn't figure him out.

  Alex returned to the conference room and found both of the Smithsons in tears, devastated over their mother's death. Monique was doing her best, but she too was having difficulty keeping her composure. Her eyes were full of tears. Alex supposed they were tears of frustration, as well as grief. Alex and Monique stayed with the Smithsons, offering as much comfort as they could until a priest took the heartbroken couple away.

  Chapter 23

  The room was deathly quiet after the Smithsons left. Monique and Alex sat quietly for a few minutes, each trying to figure out what had happened. Finally, Alex couldn't stand the silence any longer and spoke.

  "Monique, talk to me! There's got to be something wrong with Whitset. Did you see him in here? It was as if some type of transformation occurred and a kid broke out! It's like he went to another planet or something! What's wrong with him? I think he's psycho!"

  The psychiatrist didn't respond, caught up in her own thoughts. A dozen possibilities were racing through her mind. It was clear in her professional judgment that Whitset had some sort of psychiatric disorder -- only she didn't know what. She'd never seen evidence of any overtly psychotic behavior. He'd always seem grounded in reality, although he was very strange. Of course, her interactions with him were limited and minimal because, truthfully, she didn't like or trust him. Monique knew that psychotic patients were often highly manipulative and could cloak their behavior well. The only clinical behavior she had witnessed had only just happened a few minutes before and she couldn't make a judgment based on just that one incident. She needed verification and validation of what she was thinking. Somehow, she had to figure out a way to corroborate her suspicions. Of course, there was the sexual thing he seemed to have with Alex, but that wasn't conclusive either. Monique didn't know and needed more time.

  "Monique. For heaven's sake, what do you think?" Alex persisted and grabbed her arm, pressing for an answer.

  Dr. Desmonde shrugged her shoulders and shook her head. "I don't know, Alex. It could be any number of things. There's definitely something wrong, but I just don't have enough information. Anyway, I need to call Jack and find out if he's checked Whitset out."

  Alex was not to be mollified. "Do you think he has multiple personalities? That sure seemed like a child that came out in here!" Alex's voice was shrill, as she looked speculatively at her friend.

  "I don't know, Alex. It's possible, but multiple personality disorder is pretty rare. If he has it, I guess we've seen at least two of them -- the child and the sensual adult. Anyway, it's pure speculation on our part. Multiple personality disorder is extremely difficult to diagnose and treat. I think Whitset's more of a sociopath -- he has a sociopathic personality or an antisocial personality disorder, as we call them now. Anyway, I’ve got to get out of here. I want to check in with Jack and go over to the Pavilion to check on things. Then I'll meet you over in Don's office."

  "Okay, Monique. We've got about 20 minutes. Don't be late."

  Monique nodded her head and waved at Alex as she left her office. Her mind was troubled as she walked back to the Pavilion. She was definitely suspicious of Lester Whitset. She couldn't casually blow him off anymore. She didn't think he was involved in the violence at the hospital, but she was troubled by the fact that he spent so much time with the patients, not to mention that he was her administrator. Her intuition told her something was very wrong with the man. He gave her an intense feeling of fear and free floating anxiety, the origins of which she could not explain or articulate.

  As she walked back to the Pavilion, Monique worked up an intense sweat. The August heat was stifling -- it was hotter than hell. Even though she was a native of New Orleans, Monique could barely stand the heat. It weakened her. Sometimes she was convinced that it actually crippled her physi
cally and emotionally. It almost assuredly brought out the worst in everybody -- colleagues, patients, and families. As she entered the Pavilion lobby, she made a conscious decision. She was going to search Lester Whitset's office. Who would know? She'd never get caught if she planned it right! Right?

  Monique used her unit keys to let herself into Pavilion I. Things seemed almost normal. She checked with the charge nurse, who reported that Jim McMurdie had remained in seclusion since he threatened suicide earlier in the day -- directly after Whitset had confronted him with the bloody shirt. Monique knew Jim thought he'd killed the elder Mrs. Smithson. The police questioning had been hard for him, even though the officers had been gentle with their questions. After all, he had been one of them!

  On the spur of the moment, Monique decided to check on him. She walked down the hall towards his seclusion room, where she ran smack into Anthony Gavette who blocked her path in the hallway. He looked belligerent.

  "Hey Doc. What gives? They say you ain't coming to community today. Why not? Aren't we important to you anymore or are you more concerned with the dead people?"

  Dr. Desmonde looked at Anthony. His face was tight and threatening. She said quietly, "Of course you are important. More important than ever. It's just that I have a meeting to go to, to see about getting more staff here so that we can all feel safer."

  "Don't give me that crap, Doc. I feel safe. Plenty safe. Besides, I ain’t afraid of nobody. Ain't nobody messin' with me. I may mess with other people, but ain't nobody messin' with me!" Anthony's body language was tense and angry.

  Monique looked up at Anthony, her heart pounding a little. She decided to push the envelope, asking him quietly, "What exactly are you saying? Have you been hurting someone?"

  "Hell no, Doc. I just want you at that meetin' today so I can get my privileges raised another level. I'm ready to be promoted to step three so I can get the hell out of here. The nurses say you got to sign off on it. Right?" He looked at her expectantly.