Every Fifteen Minutes

by Lisa Scottoline

  “They were confused because I was at the mall, too.”

  “But why did you have your hands up? Were the police going to shoot you? Mommy said no, but I saw them, they took you and put you in the police car, then Mommy turned the TV off. They weren’t going to shoot you, were they? I started crying but Mommy said you were okay.”

  Eric’s heart broke for her. “Honey, you don’t have to worry about me. I’m fine. I was helping, not doing anything wrong. I’ll be home tomorrow—”

  “Aren’t you going to work, tomorrow? You didn’t get fired, did you? From the hospital?”

  “What makes you say that?” Eric didn’t understand how Hannah could have known about what had happened at work.

  “Mommy said you don’t have your job anymore, I heard her tell Brian. She told him that her friend Daniel called the hospital and the hospital said you got fired.”

  Eric rubbed his forehead, frustrated. Hannah heard everything that went on in that house. So Caitlin and Brian knew about his suspension. He prayed the hospital hadn’t said why.

  “You didn’t get fired, did you? You’re good at your job, aren’t you?”

  Eric punted. “I don’t want you to worry about any of this, please. It’s not your problem—”

  “Daddy, wait a minute. Mommy says I have to go to bed. I better go. Good night. I love you.”

  “I love you too, hon—” Eric said, feeling a pang, but the phone went dead.

  He hung up after a moment, eyeing his reflection in the observation window. He looked lost, he felt lost, and he was losing everything that mattered to him: his child, his job, his freedom, even his reputation.

  He could only bear his own reflection for a minute.

  Then he looked away.

  Chapter Forty-five

  Eric leaned back against the wall of his holding cell, having changed into a prison uniform, which was like hospital scrubs except for the orange color. His cell was hot and humid, the size of a large closet, with grimy white cinderblock on all sides except for the front, which had a locked door of thick Plexiglas, so that he could look out onto an empty hallway, also of cinderblock. The cell contained only an undersized stainless-steel toilet that reeked of urine, because it had no lid, and a stainless-steel wedge built into the wall, which made a seat for him. He had no handcuffs on, though there was a large metal ring welded onto his seat for leg shackles.

  The lights were dim, and the entire area quiet, and Eric felt a wave of fatigue wash over him. He closed his eyes and tried to clear his head, but couldn’t. He thought about Hannah, the hospital, and the questions they’d asked him in his interviews. Always in the back of his mind was Max and what was going to happen to him. Eric knew that Paul was right; he’d have to separate himself from Max from now on, given that there was a criminal proceeding. If the police were casting Eric as a Svengali in Max’s life, then any controlling role he took would only fuel their suspicions, even as his questions had.

  He flashed on Max in the video store, saying that he couldn’t remember if he killed Renée, but nevertheless blaming himself. Max took responsibility for Renée’s murder because he knew that he had feared harming her, but Eric knew that was only part of the OCD complex of symptoms. Even Arthur had agreed with him. Eric still couldn’t bring himself to believe that Max had killed Renée, nor could he be totally sure Max was guiltless.

  Eric raked back his hair, praying that he was doing the right thing in standing on principle. If he ended up going to prison, he would lose custody of Hannah, so he was trading off one child for another. He couldn’t do that, but he couldn’t make the opposite choice, either. It was no-win, wherever he turned.

  There was only one way to make things right.

  Eric had to find out who killed Renée Bevilacqua.

  And he had to do it before he went to prison for good.

  Chapter Forty-six

  6.I am cunning.

  Circle one: Doesn’t apply to me. Partially applies to me. Fully applies to me.

  Well.

  Remember how I said that not all sociopaths are killers?

  That was true.

  I was right about that.

  For once, I wasn’t lying.

  By the way, I’ve never killed anybody before.

  But now, it looks as if I’m going to have to kill somebody.

  Because I refuse to be thwarted.

  Because I have to get what I want.

  I know how to get what I want, and I’m not going to stop until I get what I want.

  I have to win, and I fully intend to win.

  By the time this is all over, there are going to be a lot of dead people, but the last body on the ground will be his.

  Eric Parrish’s.

  He’s proven that he’s an adversary worthy of me, and he’s fought back with a single-mindedness that I suppose I could admire, if I knew what admiration felt like.

  But mostly, it’s time for him to go down, and it looks like I’m going to have to do it myself.

  I feel supremely confident.

  I know I can do it.

  I don’t have a doubt.

  He’s actually perfectly positioned, he just doesn’t realize it. He thinks he’s making progress, but he’s only getting himself in deeper. He thinks he’s succeeding, but he’s failing.

  He’s trying to win, but he’ll lose to me.

  I’m already setting a new plan in motion, shifting in response to his moves, and developing new moves of my own.

  I will win in the end.

  I will crush him.

  I will destroy him.

  I will be the worthier adversary.

  I have set so many schemes in motion, pulled so many scams, tricked so many people that I couldn’t begin to detail them all.

  My life so far has been a series of lies, or maybe one big long continuous lie, it doesn’t matter.

  I’ve lied to everyone, even you.

  I’ve fooled you, even here.

  You’ll see what I mean, by the time it’s over.

  What’s to come is my biggest lie yet, my biggest scam yet, and my best scheme ever.

  It will be deadly and bloody, and in the end, I will emerge victorious.

  And the game will finally be over.

  Until the next one.

  Chapter Forty-seven

  The next morning, Eric stood with Paul in the large processing area, getting ready to leave. Two uniformed police talked quietly on the far side of the room, which had beige file cabinets, a long counter covered with wire baskets of multicolored forms, and stacked manila files. It had taken all night for Eric to be booked and arraigned for obstructing the administration of law, a misdemeanor under the Pennsylvania Crimes Code. He’d posed for a mug shot and didn’t need to see it to know that he looked mortified. His fingerpads bore black ink from the old-school inkpad used to fingerprint him. He’d changed into new clothes that Paul had brought for him: a fresh white shirt, gray slacks, and new loafers, so he was a well-dressed criminal.

  Paul turned to him, straightening his tie of navy silk, which he had on with a slate gray shirt with a cutaway collar and another closely tailored suit, of lightweight charcoal wool. “Eric, let’s bounce. I parked facing out so we can make a clean getaway. By the way, I got you another cell phone, but if you don’t hold on to this one, I’m taking it out of your allowance.”

  “Thanks.” Eric managed to smile.

  “I’m cheering you up.”

  “I know. I’m acting cheered up.”

  Paul looked him up and down, eyes narrowing like a custom tailor. “You look damn good. You should dress like that from now on.”

  “I look like you.”

  “Exactly.” Paul chuckled softly, then his smile vanished. “Before we leave, let’s talk a game plan for the media. They’re still out there, more than before because—”

  “Wait a second. Where’s Max? Where are they keeping him?”

  “I don’t know, and you don’t care. Get it?”

&n
bsp; “I’m just asking. There’s only one wing with holding cells, isn’t there? I kept expecting them to bring him in last night, but they didn’t. Did they take him to some juvenile detention center or something?”

  “Eric, really?” Paul flared his eyes meaningfully. “What about Max-is-not-your-business don’t you understand?”

  Eric forced himself to voice his fear. “I just want to know he’s alive.”

  “Oh. He’s fine.” Paul’s expression softened. “Sorry. He’s alive.”

  “Did they get him a lawyer and psychiatric help?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Have they charged him yet?”

  “Again, I don’t know, but I doubt it.”

  “I know that you want us to be officially separate, but is there a way we can find out?”

  “If you’re good. Maybe.” Paul rolled his eyes, then picked up his briefcase. “Now can we get going?”

  “Did Newmire say what he’s going to do? Does he know if the D.A.’s Office is going to court?”

  “I told you, I think that’s about to happen, but they don’t preview their sneak attacks.”

  “So, how long do you think it will take?”

  “For what?”

  “For them to go to court and get the order?”

  “It’s Thursday, and I’m thinking maybe Friday or Monday at the latest.”

  “That soon?”

  “Yes. They’ll want to keep the pressure on you.” Paul motioned him toward the door. “The A.D.A. and Newmire are giving a press conference out front in fifteen minutes.”

  “Really.” Eric was surprised, though he guessed that was naïve.

  “Yes, and I want you out of here before it starts. I think they timed it this way on purpose. And so it begins, the war of the press releases.”

  “What do you think he’ll say?”

  “We’ll listen in the car while Howard Stern is on break. Now, I told the press we wouldn’t make a statement and I let that be known around the station house, too.”

  “Good, I don’t want to make a statement.”

  “That’s what I figured, that’s why I’ll be making the statement.”

  Eric felt confused. “I thought you said we weren’t making a statement.”

  “No, I said I let them think we weren’t making a statement, but we are. I am.”

  “What will you say?”

  “I don’t know yet. Something incredible. I speak extemporaneously, so it looks like it’s coming from the heart.”

  “But it is.”

  “Yes, plus it looks that way.”

  Eric let it go.

  “I look slick, but I’m really not. You know, Eric, Harry Truman never said ‘Give ’em hell.’ He said, ‘I just told him the truth and they thought it was hell.’”

  “He said that?” Eric almost didn’t believe him.

  “Yes, he did. Don’t you read? You should read more, Eric. Enough talk, let’s roll.”

  Eric and Paul strode out the exit doors, stepping onto the concrete entrance area, in the bright sunlight. There was no barricade to protect them from the media, and a mob of reporters raced at them, brandishing videocameras, cameras, tape recorders, and microphones, and shouting questions.

  “Dr. Parrish, how did you end the standoff last night?” “Dr. Parrish!” “Doc, is Jakubowski your patient?” “Were you trying to save his life or the hostages?” “Did you know any of the hostages, are any of them your patients?” “Tell us the way it went down!”

  “Quiet, folks! Quiet, please!” Paul waved his hands for order, then commandeered the podium. “I’m Paul Fortunato, and I’d like to make a brief statement on behalf of my client Dr. Eric Parrish. Actions speak louder than words, and you saw Dr. Parrish’s actions last night. You saw him run into the mall during a hostage crisis, allegedly perpetrated by Max Jakubowski, and after Dr. Parrish went in to the mall, you saw the children being held hostage in the storeroom being released, running out happily into their parents’ waiting arms. After that, you saw Dr. Parrish escort Mr. Jakubowski from the mall, and Mr. Jakubowski voluntarily surrendered to police.”

  Eric noted the subtle way that Paul described his role, setting him up from the outset as not only separate from Max, but as someone helping him.

  The crowd interrupted, the reporters shouting questions: “Dr. Parrish, come on, is it true that you disobeyed direct police orders?” “What are you charged with?” “How did you do it, Doc?” “Give us a comment?” “Do you have negotiation training?” “Is it true that Max Jakubowski is your patient?” “Would you like to make a statement?”

  “Folks, quiet please!” Paul, waved his hands for order, then resumed, “So who is Dr. Parrish? By way of background, he’s a local boy, raised in Chadds Ford, risen to Chief of Psychiatry at Havemeyer General and is presently on indefinite leave from the hospital, dealing with this situation.”

  Eric felt his face flush, while a few reporters shouted random questions. He hadn’t realized that Paul was going to discuss his suspension, but then understood the lawyer was preempting it coming out later. It was a risk, but the hospital would probably back him up, because the reason Eric was on suspension was confidential and HGH had as much interest in keeping it quiet as he did.

  “Folks, let me get to the point. We all love this country, but we can’t deny its recent history has been marked by tragic shootings in malls, schools, and any other place where good people gather. Many of these dangerous acts are perpetrated by people who are in serious need of psychiatric help, the kind of help that Dr. Parrish provides. The only way to stop these tragic events is to get at the root of mental illness and treat these individuals, not only for their own sake, but for the safety of all of us and our children.”

  Eric couldn’t have said it better himself, but he was pretty sure he wouldn’t have, under the circumstances. The reporters quieted, holding up tape recorders and cameras to record Paul’s statement.

  “These people cannot be helped without professional counseling, such as Dr. Parrish provides, and essential to the therapeutic process is confidentiality. Patients will not open up about their emotions, fears, and thoughts to a psychiatrist, unless they can be sure the psychiatrist will not betray them and reveal those thoughts. Dr. Parrish takes his oath of confidentiality very seriously because he cares about his patients, and also because he cares about the common good.”

  Eric looked down, embarrassed. The camera lenses swung toward him, their lenses capped with rubber shades.

  “You saw no better representation of that last night, at the mall. He will not be taking any questions today because of the very same confidentiality, which he follows so strictly that he cannot even confirm or deny whether Max Jakubowski was his patient.” Paul paused. “Now. I understand that it’s in your blood, as members of the press, to want answers to your questions. But every one of you has a reporter’s privilege, and you would protect that as well, so you should understand. Therefore, Dr. Parrish will not take any questions today, nor will he take any in the days to come, so please don’t harass him. In fact, Dr. Parrish divulged no confidential information to the police last night, which set their badges spinning, as you can imagine.”

  The crowd laughed in response, and Eric realized Paul’s joke was perfectly timed.

  “Furthermore, folks, I’ll go out on a limb and predict that the D.A.’s Office is going to take Dr. Parrish to court, to try to force him to break his confidentiality and compel him to divulge a patient’s innermost thoughts, or face contempt of court.”

  The crowd erupted in shouted questions, “Which patient?” “You mean Jakubowski?” “It’s Jakubowski, right?”

  Eric remained calm, with effort. He hadn’t realized that Paul was going to go there, either, but he understood why the lawyer was doing it. Now the A.D.A. and the police would be in a defensive position when they made their statement, because Paul had gotten to them first.

  Paul waved the reporters into calm. “No matter what the D.A. t
hrows at him, Dr. Parrish will continue to protect the principles that safeguard the integrity of the therapeutic process. We will never solve the problems of lethal violence at our malls and schools until people stand up like Dr. Parrish does, not only risking life and limb, but even personal freedom. Thank you.” Paul turned to Eric, taking his arm. “Dr. Parrish, let’s go.”

  Eric turned to the lot, and he and Paul hustled to the black Mercedes SUV. The press chased them, calling out their questions and pleading for a comment. Eric jogged, making a fist with his hands, hiding his inked fingertips, maybe for himself. They reached the car, and as Paul chirped it unlocked on the fly, they both jumped in.

  Paul cranked the ignition, hit the gas, and steered straight out of the parking lot with Eric in the passenger seat, holding his head up the way he was supposed to, trying to act like a hero when he’d just been booked as a criminal. A few of the news vans gave chase, but Paul ignored them, entering the thick traffic in King of Prussia.

  “Well, Eric?” he asked, glancing over. “Like the statement?”

  “Yes.”

  “The best thing is, it was all true.” Paul steered up the street, stopped at a red light, and lowered the radio, which was playing Howard Stern’s distinctive voice. “I’ll drop you off at home, then I have to get to work.”

  “Sure, thanks.”

  “Anyway, I’m glad you’re pleased with the statement. I went off script when I got to the part about the motion to compel, but I think it was a good idea. I always think my ideas are good ones, in retrospect.”

  “Why was it a good idea?”

  “I like when we get the jump. The law is so scant on the issue, and if the judge is going to decide it in favor of business interests, our only counter to that is public opinion. If most people think you’re a hero, making Abercrombie & Fitch safe for Americans, then the judge is going to think twice before he issues an order compelling you to divulge.”

  “Good, and at the very least, I would think it buys me a little more time.”