was ripped off. It would probably cost a grand to fix — money I didn't have. I pulled myself inside, picked up the phone and dialed Stonehill Hospital. The operator put me on hold while she paged Kathy.
"Dr. Singleton," she answered.
As soon as I heard her voice, I knew I wouldn’t be getting the comfort I longed for, but I stayed on the line. I wasn't willing yet to admit who alone in the world I really was. "Kathy, Frank," I managed.
No response.
My throat tightened. "I, uh..." I took a deep breath.
"What's wrong? Where are you?"
"Dunkin’ Donuts."
"What's wrong, no honey-dipped?"
I forced myself to chuckle. "I had an accident with the car. That's all. I stopped here."
"Are you hurt?"
"No." I took a deep breath.
"You're shaken up?"
"I'm fine," I lied.
"Frank. I've got three minutes before my next OR case. Why, exactly, did you page me?"
"I've been telling Emma Hancock she's got the wrong man, and now it looks like the guy might have done it."
"Well, he's still locked up, right? It's not like you let him go."
"He's locked up."
"I hope they—"
"I know. I know you do. The trouble is the evidence still doesn't make sense to me. And even if Westmoreland's guilty, that doesn't mean he's rational enough to confess. He's out in the stratosphere. If they'd let me give him one of the new antipsychotics, like Clozaril, he might have more to say."
"You'd go out of your way to give Sarah's murderer a hand?"
"He was abused half his life."
"Abused how?"
"Beaten."
"Spare me. Another killer as victim."
"I haven't met any killer yet who wasn't."
"Even Marcus Prescott?"
My stomach fell. "Why are you—"
"Even him?"
I closed my eyes. "Yes. Even Prescott."
"You know what? If you want to go on painting yourself as some sort of messiah to psychopaths, that's your business. But don't screw up Sarah's case over it. She's the victim. She paused. "The truth is, Westmoreland is just another of your addictions."
"Huh?"
"I don't think it much matters to you. Coke, booze, girls, the occasional mind-fuck with a patient. Me, when everything else runs out."
"You're not an addiction. Neither is Westmoreland."
"Oh, thank you. I'm in good company. Listen to me: You need to get yourself to a detox."
"I have to see this through."
"You're too polluted to be of any use to anyone — the police included."
"I don't know. The facts don't add up. I can't say it's the coke."
"Then you'll have to learn the hard way. Hitting bottom. Just don't expect me to pick up the pieces. I'm sick of playing second fiddle to your crazies."
"You really think I should go to another detox? Now?"
"I've said what I think."
"I can stop on my own."
She laughed. "‘The drug's not the problem. I can stop on my own.’ You sound like a junkie."
I did sound like a junkie. I let all my breath out. "I'll think about admitting myself to McLean."
"Don't think too long." She hung up.
I sat there a few minutes, planning my next move. I didn't think I'd be able to sit in therapy groups at McLean and pay attention while bankers started to foreclose on my house and repossess my car. I drove over to my mother's apartment building. I had to press the intercom button on the directory five times before she answered.
"Hello?" she sang. Her voice sounded tinny and distant.
"It's Frank." I stood there with my hand on the door, waiting for the lock to click open.
"Oh."
"The door isn't clicking open."
"Are you here for money again?"
I didn't have the energy to lie. And I didn't have the courage to tell her I needed much more than money from her. Things she'd never been able to give. "The three hundred you gave me doesn’t really make a dent. I've got a mortgage and—"
"Kathy told me to expect another demand for cash."
"Let me in."
"No."
I let out all my breath and leaned on the wall to get my mouth closer to the speaker. "You can send
"Dr. Singleton," she answered.
As soon as I heard her voice, I knew I wouldn’t be getting the comfort I longed for, but I stayed on the line. I wasn't willing yet to admit who alone in the world I really was. "Kathy, Frank," I managed.
No response.
My throat tightened. "I, uh..." I took a deep breath.
"What's wrong? Where are you?"
"Dunkin’ Donuts."
"What's wrong, no honey-dipped?"
I forced myself to chuckle. "I had an accident with the car. That's all. I stopped here."
"Are you hurt?"
"No." I took a deep breath.
"You're shaken up?"
"I'm fine," I lied.
"Frank. I've got three minutes before my next OR case. Why, exactly, did you page me?"
"I've been telling Emma Hancock she's got the wrong man, and now it looks like the guy might have done it."
"Well, he's still locked up, right? It's not like you let him go."
"He's locked up."
"I hope they—"
"I know. I know you do. The trouble is the evidence still doesn't make sense to me. And even if Westmoreland's guilty, that doesn't mean he's rational enough to confess. He's out in the stratosphere. If they'd let me give him one of the new antipsychotics, like Clozaril, he might have more to say."
"You'd go out of your way to give Sarah's murderer a hand?"
"He was abused half his life."
"Abused how?"
"Beaten."
"Spare me. Another killer as victim."
"I haven't met any killer yet who wasn't."
"Even Marcus Prescott?"
My stomach fell. "Why are you—"
"Even him?"
I closed my eyes. "Yes. Even Prescott."
"You know what? If you want to go on painting yourself as some sort of messiah to psychopaths, that's your business. But don't screw up Sarah's case over it. She's the victim. She paused. "The truth is, Westmoreland is just another of your addictions."
"Huh?"
"I don't think it much matters to you. Coke, booze, girls, the occasional mind-fuck with a patient. Me, when everything else runs out."
"You're not an addiction. Neither is Westmoreland."
"Oh, thank you. I'm in good company. Listen to me: You need to get yourself to a detox."
"I have to see this through."
"You're too polluted to be of any use to anyone — the police included."
"I don't know. The facts don't add up. I can't say it's the coke."
"Then you'll have to learn the hard way. Hitting bottom. Just don't expect me to pick up the pieces. I'm sick of playing second fiddle to your crazies."
"You really think I should go to another detox? Now?"
"I've said what I think."
"I can stop on my own."
She laughed. "‘The drug's not the problem. I can stop on my own.’ You sound like a junkie."
I did sound like a junkie. I let all my breath out. "I'll think about admitting myself to McLean."
"Don't think too long." She hung up.
I sat there a few minutes, planning my next move. I didn't think I'd be able to sit in therapy groups at McLean and pay attention while bankers started to foreclose on my house and repossess my car. I drove over to my mother's apartment building. I had to press the intercom button on the directory five times before she answered.
"Hello?" she sang. Her voice sounded tinny and distant.
"It's Frank." I stood there with my hand on the door, waiting for the lock to click open.
"Oh."
"The door isn't clicking open."
"Are you here for money again?"
I didn't have the energy to lie. And I didn't have the courage to tell her I needed much more than money from her. Things she'd never been able to give. "The three hundred you gave me doesn’t really make a dent. I've got a mortgage and—"
"Kathy told me to expect another demand for cash."
"Let me in."
"No."
I let out all my breath and leaned on the wall to get my mouth closer to the speaker. "You can send
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