by Beth Manz
"But Doctor," Abby persisted, "his records indicate that he's been on antipsychotic medication up until he walked away from his group home several weeks ago. Shouldn't we get him back on a phenothiazine treatment of some sort--"
"Not until I think he's ready," Collins interrupted, his voice blunt. He reached out and lifted the young man's wrist, checked his pulse. "But I want him kept in restraints. Right now, I'm not sure what Mr. Jacobs' attitude might be when he wakes. He may be a threat to others or even to himself."
"All the more reason to return him to his regimen of medication--"
"Your point has been made and noted, Nurse Glover," Collins said coolly. "However, I have a little more information regarding this young man than you have at the present time." He gestured toward his patient. "Mr. Jacob's doesn't believe right now that he is David Jacobs.
Abby nodded sadly. "That information is on his chart. I realize he has a subset problem with identity."
Collins let out a huff of disdain. "Then you should also realize that when he's off his medication and the primary schizophrenia kicks in, he becomes agitated, tries to assume other people's identity...much to the chagrin of the family members of the people he tries to impersonate, I might add."
"Which only supports my suggestion that he be placed back on antipsychotics right away, Doctor." She knew she was treading on thin ice but she'd been nursing mentally ill patients when this upstart of a doctor was in diapers. She knew an odd medication regimen when she saw one--and keeping a paranoid schizophrenic on Ativan alone was an odd regimen if she'd ever seen one.
"You'll keep this patient on Ativan and nothing more until you receive further word from me. Is that understood?" Dr. Collins challenged.
Abby glared at the pompous young man, opened her mouth to protest, then thought better of it. Give it some time, Abby, she coached herself. "Understood." She walked around Collins and forcefully hung David's chart on the hook at the end of the bed. She looked up at the doctor and, forcing her voice to remain calm and level, asked, "Would you mind at least explaining your decision to keep Mr. Jacobs on Ativan alone?"
Collins shrugged. "No reason not to. It's for research."
"Research?"
"Yes." A strange expression made its way across the doctor's face. It was as if he were entranced with something. "Mr. Jacobs is going to be my opportunity to study paranoid schizophrenia in a manner I've never studied it before."
"I'm not sure I know what you mean, Doctor."
"I'm not surprised," Collins replied condescendingly. "It's rather complicated."
Abby gritted her teeth at the tone he used, a tone that suggested he didn't believe she would understand much of his work. She'd dealt with difficult doctors in her thirty-year career, but Dr. Collins really was in a class by himself. She'd often complained to her fellow nurses about the brash arrogance of the younger doctors who were coming to work in the mental health field, but Collins was by far the worst she'd seen.
Collins crossed his arms over his chest and continued: "You see, I believe that I can help Mr. Jacobs overcome much of his condition, but I can only accomplish that if we begin at square one, if you will. I need Mr. Jacobs' system kept free from antipsychotic drugs until I can fully evaluate him and then decide on the medication I believe will work best."
"But the drugs were working.... He only got into trouble when he went off them!"
"And he'll be placed on them again, Ms. Glover. Believe me, I don't intend to cause Mr. Jacobs any undue suffering. I only wish to observe his condition unfettered, then begin a treatment plan that I believe will work even better than the one he was on before."
"Very well," Abby acquiesced with reluctance. She didn't agree with the doctor's decision, but she'd keep silent and give Collins a few days to prove his methods. However, if the lack of medication caused her patient what she considered to be unjustified suffering, the doctor would hear from her again!
"Did you read all the details of Mr. Jacobs' last episode?" Collins was asking, his intense gaze locked on David again. Abby started to tell him she had not but before she could speak the doctor continued, "It's really quite fascinating. Don't be alarmed, Nurse Glover, if--when he awakes--Mr. Jacobs tells you his name is not David, but that it's Blair. Blair Sandburg to be exact. That's the identity he was rambling on about when he was found on the streets two nights ago."
He turned to the nurse. "You see, Mr. Jacobs reads obituaries and assumes the identity of one of the people he sees listed there. His latest obsession is with a Dr. Blair Sandburg, an anthropology professor who died recently under the most horrible of circumstances." He shook his head. "I was on call the evening when David was picked up by the police." The doctor laughed smugly. "Believe me, they were more than happy to release him to my care when I suggested he be hospitalized. When I visited David in his cell, I told him he'd been released into my care and that I was bringing him here, but he didn't understand a word I was saying. Kept rambling on and on about being Dr. Sandburg and having to get back to the university. I was trying to convince him of the truth when he went crazy. It took two of my orderlies and a couple of police officers to subdue Mr. Jacobs. That's when he got hurt." He let out a long, frustrated breath. "It's obvious he's in no shape to return to the group home any time soon. I've arranged to take full responsibility for his care and I don't intend to let him out of my care until I've come up with the best possible treatment."
Abby frowned as she looked at the young man in the bed. "Doesn't he have any family? Someone whose presence might help ground him in reality?"
Collins shook his head. "I think that's part of what contributes to his illness. He so badly wants to have a family, have friends, that he consumes the family and friends of others."
"The poor thing," Abby whispered, her heart going out to the young man now that she better understood his story.
"Don't feel sorry for him," Collins sniffed, his gaze boring into her. "Feel sorry for the people he's come into contact with since he first became ill. Can you imagine the emotional damage he's inflicted on the family and friends of the people he 'becomes'? They're still grieving the loss of their loved one, then Mr. Jacobs here shows up claiming to be that person. And in his mind, he is that person. He can't understand their anger, their rejection."
"You needn't worry," Abby assured the doctor. "I'll take special care of him."
"I don't need you to take special care of him," Collins spat out, his arrogance abruptly flaring into anger. "I just need you to follow my orders." He glanced at his watch. "I have to leave. I have a funeral to attend." His gaze shifted to David again. "A colleague's funeral."
"You have my condolences," Abby offered softly. But as she watched him, she couldn't help but think that the doctor seemed almost excited about the service he was attending.
"I'll be back first thing tomorrow morning," Collins said finally.
Abby nodded. "David should be awake by then."
"See that he is," Collins said, his voice tinged with impatience. "He's a special case and I want to get started with him just as soon as possible." After one last look at the young man in the bed, he turned and left the room.
/
/
/
A warm breeze scented with the first blossoms of spring wafted across Jim Ellison where he stood in Sacred Heart Cemetery. He drank in the aromas, able to distinguish not just the fragrance of the flowers, but also the different colognes the mourners were wearing, the smell of car polish from one of the vehicles parked at the curb, the fresh scent of bread from the bakery a mile up the road.
You taught me that, Chief. His gaze shifted to the casket before him. The polished oak surface gleamed in the brilliant sunshine. You taught me that and so much more.
The service had ended fifteen minutes ago and the crowd of mourners had moved away--back to their vehicles, on their way to Eli Stoddard's home for the wake. But Jim wasn't ready to leave yet. Wasn't ready to walk away from the young man who had changed his l
ife--the one person who had accepted him even at his worst and who had loved him with fierce, unwavering devotion.
He'd told Naomi that wearing a dress uniform didn't feel right for him and that had been a truthful statement. And Naomi's response was so apropos--there hadn't been any formality between himself and Sandburg. In fact, he'd never felt so comfortable or open with any other person in his entire life. Because Blair hadn't just been his partner, he'd been his friend, his brother. Yes, the uniform would have definitely been too formal.
The service had been pleasant, simple, just the way his partner would have wanted it. Jim hadn't recognized everyone who had come to pay last respects. The faces from the station he knew, but the people from Rainier? Some had obviously been students, the rest most likely fellow faculty members, friends. Jim had always known his partner touched every person he met in an unusual way. But the large outpouring of grief and support that he'd seen here today had demonstrated just how deep an impact Blair had made upon the people he knew.
Stepping forward, Jim placed a hand on the top of the casket. You know, Chief, as nutty as Hannah's idea about other lives was...I hope she was right. Because I so badly want to know I'll see you again...
His fingers swept over the polished surface then stilled suddenly. What was that? It sounded like the distant, lonesome cry of a wolf.... His head jerked up and his eyes scanned the trees at the far end of the cemetery. He extended his hearing, listening intently for movement in the underbrush, for anything that would indicate that an animal was nearby. But there was nothing. No movement, no sound of panting, no distinctive cry. You're hearing things, he chided himself.
"Detective Ellison?"
Jim spun toward the voice that came from behind him. A couple stood there and for a moment Jim didn't recognize them. But then he remembered--Paul and Linda Keller, the couple who had found Blair on the mountainside after the car-jacking. It was obvious from Mrs. Keller's red-rimmed eyes that she'd been crying. Mr. Keller held her close at his side, his own eyes bloodshot, sad.
"We just wanted to offer our condolences," Paul said, his gaze flicking briefly past Jim to the casket behind him. "We read about what happened in the papers and we just...we wanted to pay our respects."
"We wish," Linda added, her voice low, "that we could have met him just once."
Jim nodded. "He wanted that, too." Blair had called the Kellers to thank them for what they had done for him but he had never been able to actually meet them in person. He'd meant to get together with them several times but something always seemed to come up. Something at the station, usually, Jim thought sadly. "Are you coming to the wake?" he asked, trying to fill the silence that had descended upon the three of them.
Paul shook his head. "We don't want to impose."
"You wouldn't be imposing," Jim assured them.
"I can't," Linda whispered, lifting apologetic eyes to her husband. "I'm sorry, but I just can't." Slipping away from Paul's embrace, she shuffled haltingly to the casket and placed a trembling hand atop it. "To think that he survived that attack on the mountain only to have this happen...."
Paul moved to his wife's side and, slipping an arm around her shoulders, turned her toward their car. "I'm sorry," he apologized to Jim over his shoulder. "I hope we didn't make this worse for you."
Jim shook his head. Nothing could make this worse. Mr. Keller nodded his silent understanding, then led his wife away.
Beyond the Kellers, Jim could see his father and brother. They'd called the same day Blair's death had appeared in the paper. He knew he should have called them himself but he'd had so many other things to do, to think about. Their support and presence at the funeral of the young man they barely knew had been a welcome surprise.
Support. Presence. I wouldn't have had either if it hadn't been for Sandburg.
As he watched, his father leaned over and spoke briefly to Stephen then set off across the grass toward Jim. William's eyes were concealed behind dark sunglasses, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his dress pants.
"Ms. Sandburg wanted me to tell me that she left with your captain and his son," William said as he stopped before Jim. "She said something about giving you time alone with Blair."
Jim nodded. "Okay. Thanks, Dad."
William glanced back at Stephen but made no move to leave. "So...how are you holding up, Jimmy?"
Jim shrugged. "Not that great, I guess." He dropped his chin to his chest, embarrassed as a rattling breath escaped him. He knew how much his father hated displays of grief, how he saw them as a sign of weakness. He took another deep breath, trying to regain control, knowing his reaction was making his father uncomfortable.
He was surprised, then, when his father moved up beside him, slipped his arms around him, and drew him close. Caught off guard at the unexpected show of affection, Jim stiffened. But only for the briefest of moments. As William pulled him even closer, Jim relaxed into the embrace, allowed his father to hold him.
"I'm truly sorry, son," William whispered close to his ear.
Jim nodded against his father's shoulder but remained silent. They stood together for several minutes, neither speaking. Jim had been unaware of just how much he needed this kind of personal contact until it had been offered to him. Finally, the two men separated, William touching briefly, tenderly at Jim's cheek before he stepped back.
"Are you going to be all right?" he asked softly. "And I don't just mean just about losing Blair. I'm talking about this sentinel thing." The older man paused and looked back over his shoulder, obviously concerned that someone might be near enough to overhear their conversation. Turning back to Jim, William continued, "I know what Blair did for you and I'm worried that without him something might happen to you."
Jim nodded. "Don't worry, Dad. Blair taught me enough. I'll be fine."
But William shook his head. "Jimmy, I saw you in that cave. You were not fine. I couldn't get through to you. Believe me, I tried, but only Blair was able to reach you."
"I know, Dad." He really didn't want to have this conversation with his father, at least not at the present moment. Jim rubbed at his forehead, at the headache that was beginning to throb just below the surface.
"You know, but have you done anything about it?" his father was asking.
"I haven't really thought that far ahead yet."
"Jim, you can't put this off. With the work you do, you need to think about your safety. Whoever your new partner is, he has to know-"
Jim held up a hand to halt his father's words. "Can I at least have a chance to mourn Sandburg before you start replacing him!" he bit out, venting the anger that had boiled up inside of him. Immediately, he regretted the harsh tone he'd used. "I'm sorry, Dad. I know you're just worried but...but I just can't talk about this right now."
William reached up and removed his sunglasses. "I didn't mean to push, Jimmy," he apologized, glancing down at the ground, back toward Stephen, anywhere but at Jim. After several awkward moments, he finally lifted his gaze to Jim. "Listen, how about if I ride with you over to Dr. Stoddard's and Stephen follows us."
"Sure, Dad. That'd be fine."
William inclined his head toward the cars parked at the curb. "So, are you about ready to go then?"
"Yeah, I'll be there in minute."
William got the message. After taking one last look at Blair's casket, he turned and walked back toward Stephen.
Jim stepped forward and rested his hand gently atop the polished wood. "Well, Chief," he whispered. "I think I have to leave now. My dad and brother are waiting." He paused briefly. "But Blair, I want you to know something before I go. I want you to know that you'll always be with me. No matter where I go, no matter what I do, you'll always be right there with me. Always."
Swallowing against the painful tightness in his throat, Jim patted softly at the casket, then turned and slowly walked away.
---------------
Jim slipped into the wood-paneled study, seeking refuge from the crowd that was milling
through Eli Stoddard's home. The detective had quickly tired of the sad expressions, of the conversations spoken in hushed tones. But the worst part had been the almost constant deluge of people who had sought him out to offer their condolences. He was simply weary of hearing how sorry everyone was, of listening to them go on and on about what a great man Blair had been, sick of seeing the pity that shadowed their eyes.
Inwardly, he chided himself for the thoughts. He knew Blair's friends and colleagues meant well, but still.... It was all just a little too suffocating for him.
Moving to Eli's desk, Jim lifted a photograph from a side table and stared down at the image there. It was a picture of Blair and what appeared to be a group of students standing beside Eli, everyone smiling broadly. Jim touched the image of his partner, who stood at Dr. Stoddard's side, and a slight smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. Blair couldn't have been more than eighteen in this picture. His hair was much shorter, cut closer to his ears but still a mass of unruly curls. Jim's eyes misted as he took in the sight of his young friend. He had had his entire life ahead of him back then...a life that hadn't included Jim Ellison, hadn't included getting hurt or killed.
"Detective Ellison?"
He turned, annoyed at the interruption. Ryan Collins sat in his wheelchair just outside the study door. "Am I disturbing you?" the professor asked, his tone apologetic yet hopeful.
"No," Jim lied. He replaced the picture on the table and motioned Collins in. He straightened as Ryan wheeled toward him.
"I just wanted to tell you again how sorry I am about all this," Collins said when he had come to a stop in front of Jim. He spread his hands and looked up at the detective helplessly. "I still can't believe this happened."
Jim ran a hand over his face and through his hair. "I've already told you it's not your fault."
Collins nodded. "I know. Still, I must take some responsibility." The professor shook his head as if to drive the dark thoughts away. "Tell me, have you found out anything more? Anything about the accident, I mean."
