Prodigy

by Charles Atkins

“What do you mean?”

  “Well, the whole psychiatrist gone bad. Supposedly, and I hate to gossip, but he was caught sleeping with a patient. I don’t know the details, but it’s the kind of thing that you’d lose your license over, at least today. Back then, it was looser. Maybe that’s who called.”

  “Interesting. So who was the allegedly slept-with patient?”

  “No clue. I don’t even know how much of that is accurate.”

  “Who would?” Barrett asked.

  Anton took a swig of his coffee. “You might give George Housmann a call.”

  Barrett’s interest perked at the name of the legendary forensic psychiatrist, who had recruited her, and then retired. “I didn’t know he was still around,” Barrett replied.

  “In a manner of speaking. They made him emeritus and put him out to pasture right before you came. But back then, if anyone was going to be disciplined, George would have been front and center holding the whip.”

  ___

  The second she was back in the office, she tracked down Housmann’s number. Three hours later she stood outside his Upper East Side apartment and rapped on the door.

  “Dr. Conyors,” a slight, silver-haired man dressed in gray flannel slacks, white shirt, navy blazer, and red silk tie greeted her in the hallway. “It’s so nice to see you.” He cocked his head forward, as though he were examining her through the thick lenses of his black-rimmed glasses. “Oh, but I’m forgetting … come in.” And as he turned to lead her into his apartment, he stopped. “Please wipe your feet.” He motioned toward a textured rubber pad in front of his door. Barrett stepped onto the soft squishy surface.

  “There’s a fast-drying fluid that destroys anything alive on the bottom of your shoes.” He explained. “People carry all sorts of disease on the bottoms of their feet; horrible things that can live as spores for decades, just waiting for their chance. I’d rather not have them in my home.”

  Barrett complied, and wondered if this man, who had been a trailblazer in the field, and whom she’d met only once before when she had interviewed for the fellowship at the clinic, would actually be of any use.

  “I’m so sorry to hear about your husband,” he offered.

  It surprised her that he even knew, “Thank you.”

  “He was a musician, wasn’t he?”

  “Yes.”

  “With the symphony?”

  “Yes,” she wondered at his interest. Had she mentioned Ralph at the interview those many years back? And then the smell hit, an antiseptic odor she associated with hospitals and prison infirmaries. She glanced down a long hallway, its floors covered in freshly waxed linoleum. Not what she expected in a pre-war building where hardwood floors were featured prominently in every real estate ad.

  “Tragic.” He led her inside. As she trailed behind the stooped octogenarian, she stole glances inside seamlessly joined glass-fronted bookcases that lined both walls. It reminded her of Jimmy’s magnificent library, only here the cases were made of steel and seemed more appropriate for an institution than someone’s home. Dr. Housmann stopped and turned back to face Barrett. “I don’t get many visitors these days, please forgive the mess.” And he slid back the paneled pocket doors that led into his living room.

  Barrett blinked as her pupils shrank to pinpoints under the assault of bright sun that spilled through eight floor-to-ceiling windows that faced east and south.

  Housmann watched his guest’s reaction, “It’s something isn’t it? My wife had the whole thing curtained off, but after she died, I did away with all that. Sunlight fights depression.”

  “You have amazing views,” she commented, taking in the vista that included the Empire State Building and the East River.

  “I’ve had this apartment for over fifty years,” he said. “We got it when we were married. Please sit.” He motioned toward a grouping of 1950s metal-framed leather chairs that had once been red and were now a sun-washed pink. “So, you had some questions about Dr. Mayfield?”

  “Yes, you were the director of the forensic center when he was there.”

  “Correct,” Housmann pursed his thin purplish lips together. “An unpleasant business.”

  “I’m working with one of the patients who I believe he interviewed for his studies on deviant sexual behavior.”

  “It’s interesting how someone’s research can mirror their own peculiarities,” he replied.

  “In what way?”

  “You’re quick. That’s good. I hope we have a chance to talk about some of your papers. I have to tell you that I think they’re quite good, but that there are areas where you’ve missed some fundamental causalities.” He pushed a strand of long white hair back over his thinning pate and tucked the end under his collar. “But I know that you’ve come for other reasons … curious, that after all these years, you’re the first to ask about Mayfield. I suppose that like myself, anyone who was around during that time would just as soon forget … Mayfield didn’t think that the rules applied to him. That was his undoing. All in all, a messy business. If I weren’t such a dinosaur I wouldn’t even talk to you about it, but at this point,” he clicked his tongue, “I can’t see that it matters. It’s ancient history. You said you’re meeting with one of his test subjects, which one?”

  Barrett hesitated.

  “Good girl,” Housmann remarked, “you’re wondering if this is a breach of confidentiality or not. Don’t worry, I’m still on faculty, we can look at this as supervision. What we say here goes no further, correct?”

  “Yes, and thank you. I’ve been meeting with James Cyrus Martin.”

  Housmann perked, his watery blue eyes peered intently at her through the magnifying surface of his convex lenses. He shook his head, about to say one thing, but only commenting, “Morris Kravitz was one of my students … I was so sorry to hear about his death; he wasn’t an old man.”

  “I’ve taken over the case,” Barrett replied, but not wanting to divulge the emerging facts around Morris Kravitz’s murder.

  “Why did you take it?”

  Housmann’s question stopped Barrett. “It seemed like an interesting case.”

  “If you’re going to lie to me, we should stop.”

  “The money.”

  “Thank you,” he said. “After all, we’re talking about one psychiatrist who went down a wrong road, and I have a sick feeling that before we’re done today, we’ll see that particular path is well traveled.” Housmann looked at the floor and then back at Barrett. He tapped a finger against the polished-chrome arm of his chair. “The question that I have to answer is, can you be trusted? I’d like you to start by presenting the case and then tell me exactly what brought you here.”

  Barrett wondered if this wasn’t a waste of time, and that all she was going to accomplish was filling a lonely old man’s afternoon.

  “Well?” he asked.

  And for the next fifteen minutes she presented a detailed account of her work with Jimmy Martin, ending with the late-night phone call that set her on the path of Gordon Mayfield.

  “That was very clear, and fascinating,” he said, having interrupted her only twice for minor points of clarification. “What is your diagnostic impression of your patient?” he asked.

  In spite of herself, Barrett warmed to Dr. Housmann. He reminded her of what she had most enjoyed about her training: the pursuit of knowledge for its own sake. “Jimmy’s diagnostic picture is complex,” she said. “From the time of his arrest through ten years at Croton he carried a diagnosis of schizophrenia and schizoaffective disorder—bipolar type.”

  Housmann snorted derisively. “What do you think?”

  “I think our DSMIV has a hard time with people like Jimmy,” she commented, citing the diagnostic manual used by all psychiatrists.

  “Having survived DSM versions one through four, you have to forgive me for taking a jaundiced view of the Chinese menu school of diagnosis. It’s fine for Egg Foo Young, but falls short when it comes to people. So tell me how you think abo
ut your patient, if you don’t believe he has schizophrenia or that other garbage-pail label.”

  Barrett cracked a smile as she listened to Housmann’s diatribe. “Jimmy has a core defect in his personality. As to whether it’s a nature or nurture thing, it’s impossible to separate, and purely academic in relevance. Both of his parents exhibited polymorphous perverse and antisocial behaviors. Did they teach him that or was he born that way?”

  “As you say,” Housmann commented, “it’s academic.”

  “Anyway, this gets coupled with severe post-trauma fragmentation and a high IQ and what I’m seeing is an extremely clever and narcissistic sociopath, who has some psychotic features, as well.”

  “But not psychotic in the way you think a schizophrenic is psychotic.”

  “No, Jimmy’s voices are much more in keeping with a type of almost-continuous flashback.”

  “And they don’t respond to the medication,” he offered.

  “I don’t think so.”

  “So you keep him on the pills because …”

  “To try and decrease his aggressive urges. But there’s more, too. Sitting with him I get this feeling of instability in his affect. His moods shift radically and are accompanied by significant changes in vocal pitch, body carriage, demeanor. I’m pretty certain that he dissociates, and if we were going with the DSM I’m certain he’d meet criteria for dissociative identity disorder—and trust me, I’m no fan of the multiple-personality quagmire.”

  “That makes two of us, but you can’t ignore either your gut or the facts … Okay, so far I’m agreeing with your treatment and your assessment. But I still think you’re overlooking something critically important. Or …” he peered at her intently, “you’re holding back. Tell me the thing you don’t want to say.”

  Barrett met Housmann’s gaze, and sucked in a deep breath, “I think Jimmy has an erotomanic fixation on me.”

  “That’s not good,” Housmann replied.

  “It gets worse.”

  “Tell me everything,” he directed, “and if you think something doesn’t matter, tell me anyway.”

  Casting aside any reticence, she gave him her suspicions, wondering if he’d think she was paranoid. She related the circumstances of Ralph’s death, the similarity to the accident that maimed the phlebotomist, the finding that Kravitz’s insulin had been tampered with, even the series of mysterious deaths that surrounded those who had interfered with Jimmy Martin at Croton.

  Housmann listened intently, occasionally nodding, or asking for further detail.

  When Barrett had unburdened herself fully, she paused, and looked up.

  Housmann pursed his lips and exhaled on a sigh. “Oh, my … where to begin? … I’ve admired your work, and I know that you’re a woman who looks for patterns. I’m similar. After fifty-odd years as a psychiatrist you realize that people, even very sick people, are more alike than they’re different. In the man you’ve just described, who seems to function with another—what Mayfield called a co-conspirator—there are some old truths that might be helpful.”

  Barrett pushed back, “You’re talking about anaclitic depression.”

  “Right, no one uses that term anymore, but essentially Jimmy Martin feels empty inside and he needs someone to complete him. I believe this role has been mostly filled by his sister, but apparently there may have been others, such as the woman who was killed … now he needs someone else.”

  “Not a comforting thought.”

  “Good. It shouldn’t be, but let’s push further. In a child who was as badly abused as your patient, it’s common to see these sorts of aberrations. It’s caused by a disruption and perversion of the attachment process. The child falls off the developmental curve in particular ways. What might those be?” he quizzed.

  “I think what you’re getting at has to do with trust.”

  “Keep going … how does the child fall behind?” he urged. “What patterns emerge from that early disruption?”

  “Aggression and an inability to handle frustration …”

  “Keep going.”

  Barrett looked out a window, and suddenly understood where Housmann was taking her, “Emptiness and an incredible desire to be completed, to not be abandoned.”

  “Yes,” he said, “now combine that unending emptiness and potent fear of abandonment and rejection with a brilliant sociopath and what do you get?”

  “He’s looking for someone.”

  “Yes!” Housmann agreed. “Probably for all of his life, Jimmy is looking for his other half. It’s the only way he knows to make himself feel alive, even if it’s only for a limited time, like a borderline who cuts or burns herself. But the big payoff for him, at least in his own mind, is finding the perfect somebody who will complete him.”

  “I left out something,” Barrett said, meeting Housmann’s gaze.

  “I know, I was hoping you’d give me the missing piece.”

  “When I was much younger, like Jimmy and his sister I was involved in competitive music programs. In fact, I even played in recitals with the Martin twins.”

  “You think he remembered you from that? I think it’s more likely with his narcissism than it’s your accomplishments as a psychiatrist that attracted him. You have a remarkable body of work for someone so young. And despite your attempts to downplay your physical attractiveness, you are a beautiful woman.”

  Barrett squirmed, never comfortable with these kinds of compliments. “There’s more,” she said. “The Martin twins were supposed to be the stars of the show. My first competition, I was nine, my teacher wanted me to play Für Elise—I thought it was too easy. I wanted to win.”

  “So what happened?”

  “I did a last-minute substitution and played something I liked, something harder—a Chopin etude.”

  “Which one?”

  “C minor.”

  Housmann snorted, “The Revolutionary … I imagine that raised a few eyebrows.”

  “I got a standing ovation.”

  He chuckled, “So Jimmy’s not the only one with a bit of narcissism.”

  “No.”

  “Nothing wrong with that, you wouldn’t have gotten as far as you had without it. Most physicians, as you’re well aware, have a healthy dose of self-admiration. Which leads us back to why you’ve come. While we all may be somewhat grandiose and self-important, most of us adhere to a strong moral code. Those of us who go into psychiatry generally have some degree of empathy, as well. And the few of us who pursue forensics have the added responsibility to accept a higher moral standard—similar in some ways to what you want to see in a police officer and why when a cop goes bad that’s such a violation of the public trust. Mayfield was morally unfit for his chosen career. You might find this harsh, but at the time I wasn’t sorry that he jumped. It was a messy end to a very messy business.”

  “Tell me about that?”

  “It’s like an onion, there’s always another layer. It doesn’t surprise me that years after the fact you’ve come to ask these questions. As for his articles, I only saw them after they were published. Mayfield was no fool. I would never have given the go-ahead for research that was so clearly identifiable. Martin’s sister was well within her rights to be upset.”

  “His sister?” she asked, flashing on that one curious line in the case study.

  “Oh yes. I had several unhappy discussions with his sister. That’s the part I most hated about being an administrator—all of the complaints. Ellen … yes that was her name. Ellen Martin had somehow gotten hold of Mayfield’s articles. Anyone who knew the case would have recognized Jimmy … and her. If Mayfield hadn’t jumped there could have been lawsuits.”

  “Do you think that’s why he did it?”

  “Hardly, at least not in full. Mayfield was slippery. Very glib, handsome, the kind of man who could get others to do the labor while he’d take the credit. Like a lot of our patients he believed the rules were made for other people.”

  “A sociopath?”

 
; “That might be a bit harsh—accurate, but harsh.” Housmann smiled wryly. “At the very least he was a malignant narcissist. No concept of other people’s feelings. I couldn’t blame her and I told her so.”

  “Who?”

  “Martin’s sister. The articles—at least the cases studies—were libelous.”

  “So you met Ellen Martin?”

  “On a number of occasions, although mostly she called. A few times she did little more than scream at me over the telephone.”

  “What did she want you to do?”

  “Punish Mayfield. Make certain he had no further contact with her brother.”

  “Did you?”

  “I didn’t have to, for Mayfield everything came to a head at the same time. There was the other, more pressing unpleasantness.”

  “Please, I need to know about that.”

  “Ethically, I shouldn’t. After all, that is what we’re talking about—a man who let his professional judgment erode, if in fact it was there in the first place.”

  Barrett opened her mouth.

  “But …” Housmann said raising his hand in front of him. “You put your trust in me, and I’ll do the same. What do you want to know?”

  “Is it true that he had an affair with a patient?”

  “Yes, at least one that we knew of.”

  “Was he going to lose his license?”

  “Not likely, back then, although I would have seen to it that he was terminated from the clinic.”

  “Who was the woman?” she asked, wondering if it was someone she’d met, or at least knew of, in the forensic system.

  Housmann pushed back. He looked hard at Barrett and said nothing.

  “Did you know who the woman was?” Barrett repeated.

  “I heard you the first time. Yes, I knew her,” he admitted. “But now I am in a quandary. You see, everything to this point doesn’t have much impact on the living; I don’t even see how this relates to the James Martin case. But we’ve just moved into something trickier.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Well for starters, the woman in question is very much alive. I doubt she’d want this to resurface.”

  “I thought she was in the system.”