Cold Hit

Chapter 23

Are you with the family?" the county psychiatric evaluator asked, looking down at a clipboard with all of Zack's pertinent information. We were standing in the lobby just outside the secure psychiatric wing of the Queen of Angels Hospital. The doctor was tall and bald, peering at me through rose-colored lenses, which seemed to me like a bad visual metaphor in the sensitive field of mental health. His name tag identified him as Leonard M. Pepper, M. D., but he was pure vanilla.

"I'm Don Farrell. Zack's brother," I lied.

He found Zack's brother's name on the clipboard. "Okay." He had that kind of spacey, nonconfrontational manner usually found in westside head shops.

"I'm just wondering how he's doing."

"How he's doing is a subjective measure of what he's willing to accept minus what he's willing to admit to." Oh, brother.

"Is he suicidal, for instance?"

"I'm not sure. He's very depressed."

I tried the direct approach. "Is it possible for me to see him?"

After a long moment, he nodded and punched a code into the electric door we were standing next to. Once it kicked open he motioned for me to follow him down a narrow corridor that had rooms every thirty feet or so on both sides. The doors were solid metal. Each had an eight-by-ten, green tinted, wire and glass window. As we walked, he droned on.

"Has your brother ever undergone psychiatric analysis before?" he asked.

"No, I don't think so."

"He said he went through it once in the army."

I didn't know Zack was ever in the army. He'd never mentioned it. I wondered why. But of course I couldn't say any of that. I was supposed to be his brother. "He never mentioned undergoing analysis in the service," I dodged.

Dr. Pepper turned to face me, taking a gold pen out of his pocket. "Was he truant a lot when he was in lower school?"

"Once or twice, maybe."

I was flying blind here. I didn't want to contribute to an incorrect diagnosis, but a brother couldn't be completely ignorant, either. I decided to just vague this guy out.

"Was he often engaged in fights as a child?" "No more than anyone."

"What kind of answer is that?" The doctor peered over his rose lenses at me.

"It's my answer, Doctor." Now he was pissing me off.

"He indicated he had problems with bed-wetting into middle school," Pepper said. "Do you recall when it stopped happening?"

"What is this?"

"Just answer me."

"I don' t remember. . I don' t think so. . I don' t know. I had my own problems. I wasn't paying attention." The asshole actually noted that down. "Why don't you just tell me what the hell you're getting at?" I demanded.

He clicked his pen closed. "This is still very preliminary. He's only been here six or seven hours, but your brother exhibits signs of cognitive disassociative disorder, along with what might be described as massive clinical depression. The depression is so strong I'm wondering if it might be a calendar reaction stemming from some event in his childhood. Often our subconscious stores dates and revisits them annually through bouts of depression, even though the event itself may be blocked in our memory. Do you remember something severe in his youth that might have caused that?"

"No," I said. "All I know is, right now he's under a lot of stress with his upcoming divorce. He's having money problems. He's also afraid he's losing his relationship with his sons."

"If my diagnosis is right, I would doubt any of that is responsible for the depression. Cognitive disassociates don't treasure emotional relationships. It's what that behavior is all about. But it's hard to tell, because right now, he's just trying to bullshit his way out of here."

"But you're not going to let go of him, are you?" I said, getting this guy's drift. He was bored with the endless drug overdoses and soccer moms who felt trapped by the monotony of carpools and Saturday sex. He wanted to hang some high-drama diagnosis on Zack, add some excitement to the revolving door litany of petty complaints he was forced to deal with daily.

"Your brother also may be a narcissistic personality," he added, really piling it on. "It's characterized by a predominate focus on self and a lack of remorse or empathy. This is only a preliminary diagnosis, and mind you, I could be wrong, but I want to keep him here for a while to sort it out."

He turned and led me further down the hall, stopping in front of a locked door. "Tell your brother he needs to cooperate with me if he wants to go home."

Then he took out a keycard and zapped the door open, letting me pass inside alone. I heard the door close and lock behind me.

Zack was slumped in a white plastic chair next to the window. The cell-like room was a concrete box painted dull white. In a salute to insanity, the bed and dresser were both bolted to the floor. Zack turned his swollen face to look at me. Without saying anything, he returned his gaze to the window and the distant traffic on the 101 freeway half a mile down the gentle slope from the hospital.

I motioned to the room. "This seems pleasant and clean," sounding like a friendly realtor instead of the traitorous bastard who put him here.

He wouldn't look at me.

"I just talked to your psychiatric evaluator," I continued. "He says you can work your way out of this, but he wants you to open up to him more."

Nothing from Zack.

"He also said you gotta come to grips with the divorce. Once that happens things are gonna get better, the depression will go away."

He hadn't mentioned any of that, but I was on a roll, here. I waited for Zack to say something like, 'Gee, that's swell, Shane,' or 'I don't blame you for ratting me out and ruining my life.' But he just sat there. Over three hundred pounds of Irish anger stuffed in a too-small hospital gown.

"It's hard," I monologued. "I know how much this is ripping you up. . but the thing you gotta know, Zack, is I'm in your corner. A lot of people are."

He scooted his plastic chair further away from me, giving me almost his whole back now.

"Listen, Zack, I know you think I sold you out, but I was only trying to. ." His shoulders slumped so I stopped.

I grabbed a chair and brought it closer. I sat next to him but I couldn't engage his eyes. I was talking to the side of his head. "Zack. . listen to me, Zack. I'm really worried about you. I know it's hard for you to understand, but this is the best course. You can get help here."

He turned his chair even further away.

"I've got a plan, Zack. Will you listen to me?" I was starting to sweat, but I kept going. "This doesn't have to be as bad as it seems. We've got Alexa on our side and I'm about to split Forrest out of the Fingertip case. I think I can fix it so we can work on that murder and get off the task force. I'm pretty sure now that Forrest is a copycat. He was a Mossad agent named Andrazack, in this country illegally. I think he was killed by some foreign agent, not the Fingertip unsub. You're gonna be getting a clean bill in a few days, but in the meantime, I wanta come by and run some of this stuff by you, get your take on it. That sound like a plan?"

He just sat there.

"Zack, don't give up here, buddy. Zack? Hey, come on man, look at me."

Nothing.

I wondered if I was getting a look at cognitive disassociative disorder.