Dead and Gone

by Tina Glasneck

  "Your secretary just took them into the conference room. She's getting them coffee. She seems to be obedient enough – she a good worker?" Whitset smiled balefully at Alex.

  "Obedient? What do you mean by obedient?" Alex looked suspiciously at the administrator. Obedience was becoming a theme in Lester's conversations.

  "You know what obedient means, Alex dear." Whitset's voice was soft, almost hedonistic. "It means that she did what I asked her to do as soon as I asked her to do it. She scurried right out of here. I like that!" Lester had a half smile on his face and his dark glittering eyes were locked with Alex's blue ones. He moved closer to her. She could feel his breath on her cheek, and for some reason, she was powerless to move back. It was if he had a strange hold over her. Whitset continued to talk with her in the same soft voice. “Another pretty girl. Mona is her name, isn't it? She looks like a darker version of your regular secretary, Bridgett. They're the same size … just the hair is different. Isn't that correct?" He continued to stare at Alex, his dark eyes raking her face as his look commanded her attention.

  Alex could barely suppress the shudder she felt crawling up her spine. And yet, there was something about him that fascinated her and made her feel powerless. It was almost as if there was an electric energy between them. She was startled. A dozen thoughts were dancing through her head. How did Lester Whitset know Bridgett? Did he know she was Angie's twin sister? Did all of these things mean something? She was frantically trying to sort the information through her tired brain as Whitset continued to leer at her.

  Just at that moment, the door opened and Bridgett walked in. She looked terrible. Her face was streaked with tears. She had a gold cross in her hand.

  "Oh, Alex. It's so horrible. This is all been so dreadful." Bridgett was crying pitifully. Her voice coming out in gasps. "The nurse in the ICU just gave me Angie's cross. She's not doing well at all. She still won't talk to me – they say she can't! I don't think she is conscious, but her eyes are open and she stares at the wall. Alex, will she get well?" Bridgett burst into fresh tears.

  Alex walked over to hug Bridgett. "Sure she will, Bridge. She'll be okay in a few days. It'll take some time." Alex continued to hug Bridgett, conscious of the gaping, sly smile Whitset was giving them. It was almost pornographic, she thought. Whitset was relishing Bridgett's pain. Bridgett seemed unaware of him. Alex doubted that Bridgett had noticed him in her grief.

  She held Bridgett close for a few more moments, becoming more and more uncomfortable with the effect Whitset was having on her. He was openly smiling at both of them. He looked pleased with himself and Alex didn't understand why. He seemed to enjoy the secretary's grief. He was enjoying it – feeding on it! It was as if he were a voyeur, basking in Bridgett's abject misery. His smile turned benignly gleeful, and once again, spittle formed in the side of his mouth. He continued to leer at them, as the two women comforted each other.

  Finally, Alex broke the embrace. "Bridgett, this is Lester Whitset. He's the contract administrator for psychiatry."

  Whitset stepped forward and took Bridgett's hand.

  Bridgett visibly flinched when he touched her.

  An involuntary reaction, Alex guessed.

  She said, "Oh yes, Mr. Whitset. My sister mentioned you to me. I'm pleased to meet you." Instantly, Bridgett dropped Whitset hand, as if touching him was unpleasant to her.

  Whitset seemed to pick up on Bridgett's feelings toward him. "Sorry if my hands are cold, my dear Bridgett. Poor circulation, I suppose. But you know what they say about that ...." His eyes gleamed at her as he continued, "Cold hands, very warm, warm heart."

  Bridgett just stared at him, speechless.

  Whitset was nonplussed and continued, "I liked your sister. She seemed to be a competent nurse, although she was not as obedient as I would've liked. I do hope she improves soon."

  Obedient, obedient. There was that word again, Alex thought. The word continued to frighten and grab at her, but Alex remained silent. Alex was also troubled by Whitset's use of the past tense, “liked your sister” and “seemed to be competent” – it gave her a sick feeling in her stomach.

  Bridgett said nothing, but nodded her head. She turned to Alex, "Do you know where I could get another chain for this necklace? I have a feeling that if I could fix it and get it back on Angie, she will get better. She got this cross and a St. Christopher's medal when we were confirmed at St. Anthony's as children. She always felt it protected her. See, I have one just like it." Bridgett opened the neck of her blouse to show Alex.

  Alex heard an unusual noise. She turned sharply towards Whitset. She thought she heard a giggle come from his mouth. He was leering at both of them, his mouth open and his eyes bright with a strange light in the fervor of his enjoyment of the scene. He looked insane, crazed.

  Alex turned to Bridgett. "Yes, I'll get it fixed this afternoon and bring it back this evening. Trust me, I promise," she reassured Bridgett. "I'm going to get Mona so she can be with you for a while. Mr. Whitset and I have a meeting to go to. Wait for me here."

  Bridgett looked around frantically. She saw Whitset staring at her. His cold black eyes were raking her body with a sense of familiarity.

  Alex saw his eyes rest on Bridgett's right shoulder. Oh My God, Alex thought. What is wrong with this man? Whitset was licking his lips. Then, Alex chided herself. She had to be imagining these things, but she was alarmed at the attention and reaction Bridgett was getting from Lester Whitset.

  Bridgett noticed his gawking as well. She clung to Alex and said quickly, "No. No, Alex. I'll come with you. I want to catch Mona up on a few things in your office."

  Alex picked up on Bridgett's discomfort. She took her arm and ushered her into the private office. She examined Bridgett carefully. Bridgett's eyes were wide with fright. She feels it, too, Alex thought.

  Mona entered Alex's office from the conference room on the right. She stared at both of them with surprise. "What's with you two? You look like you've seen a ghost." Mona eyed them cautiously.

  Neither woman was able to speak. Both were tied up in their own thoughts.

  Bridgett, her fear subsiding, began to cry again, her shoulders shaking as her blue eyes welled over with tears.

  Alex took charge, sending Mona numerous messages with her eyes. "Mona, show Mr. Whitset into the conference room. I presume the Smithsons are already in there?"

  Mona nodded affirmatively.

  "Then, take Bridgett out through the back door for coffee. Put the phones on forward. Still better, Bridgett, go on over to the coffee shop. Mona will meet you in five minutes – okay? Can you do that?"

  Bridgett seemed to be in a trance, but she nodded her head. She said quietly to Alex, "Angie didn't like him. She said he was trouble in the Pavilion and that he stirred up the patients. He gives me the creeps. I think he's bad."

  Alex held up her hand to stop her. "I know, Bridgett. We'll talk later. Now go! Mona will be there soon."

  Bridgett left the office via the back conference room’s door, as Mona went to get Whitset.

  Alex attempted to compose herself and went into the conference room.

  Mr. and Mrs. Smithson were seated at the far end of the table in Alex's conference room. They were dressed in the same clothes they'd been in at 5 a.m. and both looked worn and sad. Mrs. Smithson was drinking black coffee and Mr. Smithson had a can of diet Sprite. He stood deferentially as Alex entered the room.

  Alex smiled once again, thinking how handsome Mr. Smithson was. She walked towards the distinguished gentleman. "Mr. Smithson, I am Alexandra Destephano. I am the legal counsel for the hospital and I want you to know that—”

  "Legal counsel? So you're the hospital lawyer? I thought we were meeting with administration. Does anyone know anything that is happening around here?" Mr. Smithson's voice was deep and his face was flushed. He was impatient and angry.

  Alex tried to ease his concerns. She said softly, "I'm representing administration. Mr. Whitset will be joining us and I believe D
r. Desmonde will be coming, as well."

  Alex turned as Whitset entered the room. She watched him stand to the side of the table, glaring at the weary, older couple. There was no concern or compassion in his face for the Smithson family. His face was set in an ominous scowl and he looked prepared for battle.

  Alex introduced Whitset to the Smithsons and was appalled when Whitset ignored Mr. Smithson's outstretched hand. He waved it aside and sat down. He turned his glittering cold eyes towards Mrs. Smithson and stared at her. The gentle-faced woman seemed nervous at his look and her hands fell to her lap, where she began to play with the catch on her pocketbook.

  Alex began, "Mr. and Mrs. Smithson, on behalf of the hospital, I'd like to tell you how very, very distressed and sad we are over your mother's death. We're very sorry about the circumstances and hope that—”

  Mr. Smithson, still smarting from the rebuke by Lester Whitset, interrupted her. "Thank you, Ms. Destephano. I understand that. My wife and I want some answers."

  Alex nodded, urging him to continue.

  “We want to know precisely how my mother died, and we want to know exactly why my mother died. We've had no information at all. When Dr. Desmonde talked with us this morning, she only told us that my mother had died – that she had been murdered!"

  Alex felt her heart sink. She hadn't wanted to do this. She began, "I understand that Dr. Desmonde told you this morning that your mother had been attacked and murdered by someone, possibly another patient and—”

  "Yes, yes, we know that." Mr. Smithson was clearly impatient. "How did she die? By what manner did she die? Did someone shoot her? I don't mean to sound short, but you've jerked us around since 4 o'clock this morning. I tried to see your CEO, Mr. Montgomery, and he literally threw me out of his office. I don't mind telling you, Ms. Destephano, that didn't sit well with me." Mr. Smithson sat back in his chair tiredly. He looked exhausted.

  Alex took a deep breath and said clearly, "Mr. Smithson, your mother was stabbed – with a knitting needle."

  There was a silence that seemed to last for hours.

  After an audible gasp, Mrs. Smithson ventured a few words. "A knitting needle? Her knitting needle?" Her voice sounded incredulous. "Could being stabbed with a knitting needle kill you? It seems impossible. Are you sure?"

  "She was stabbed more than once," Alex said, wishing she had someone there she could count on for support. She looked over at Whitset who was staring at the wall, smiling to himself. The wheels seemed to be turning in his brain. Alex prayed he kept quiet and behaved.

  "How many times?" Mr. Smithson looked directly at Alex.

  Alex didn't respond. She was thinking.

  "Ms. Destephano, I asked you, how many times?" Smithson's voice was loud and demanding.

  Alex's composure was dwindling. She fought for control and said, "She was stabbed many times. I don't know for sure. We'll know more when the police and coroner’s reports come in. I can assure you that—”

  Alex was interrupted when Dr. Desmonde entered the conference room and sat down quietly next to Mr. Smithson. Alex had to admire the man, his control, his fortitude, and his determination. Of course, he was pissed – she would be, too!

  Mr. Smithson turned to Monique. "Dr. Desmonde, you told me in the wee hours of dawn this morning that my mother had died in a hospital accident. You didn't tell me she had been stabbed with a knitting needle! Now, everyone claims they don't know how many times she was stabbed!" Mr. Smithson put his elbow on the conference table and placed his chin on his hand so that he was looking directly into the pale, wan face of the lovely, but very stressed, psychiatrist. “You need not repeat what Commander Françoise told me. I want to know about the hospital's role in the death of my mother.”

  Monique gave Mr. Smithson her full attention. Their eyes were locked together.

  “Now,” he continued, "I want to know everything you know about my mother's death. Do you understand?" His voice was quiet, but demanding.

  Monique nodded at Mr. Smithson. "Yes, I understand. I know you must be very upset over your mother's death and I understand that. We all are. But, we are not sure what exactly happened. Conjecture about her death will only be more upsetting. As soon as we know everything, the police will update you again. As soon as the investigation is complete, I'll speak with you again if you would like. Please let me know if I am repeating what the commander told you."

  Mrs. Smithson interjected, "Dr. Desmonde, we only want to know if our mother suffered. Did she?"

  It was so quiet in the room you could hear the clicking of Mona's computer two rooms away. You could also hear the distant linen carts and x-ray machines rolling down the halls. Far off, someone was laughing. Alex wished she were with them and not here in this room with these poor, sad, grief-stricken people discussing the elderly Mrs. Smithson's horrific death.

  Monique remained silent and looked at her hands for several moments, then looked back at the Smithsons. Finally, slowly, she said, "Yes, it is possible your mother may have suffered. We'll know for sure when we get the autopsy report." Secretly, Monique hoped that the gentle, elderly lady had suffered a stroke or a heart attack and had died instantly. This thought was helping her manage her own fragile emotional survival. Although it was unlikely, she was taking some comfort in the possibility.

  Mrs. Smithson was crying softly into a tissue.

  Mr. Smithson's eyes were red-rimmed as he looked at Alex and Monique and said quietly, "I admitted my mother because she was depressed over my father's death and my sister's illness. She was not chronically mentally ill, do you understand, she was not mentally ill. She'd never been depressed. You, Dr. Desmonde, assured me that this was the best hospital for her—”

  A sob escaped Mrs. Smithson's mouth and she said to her husband, "Please, honey, let's not talk about this now. There is nothing Dr. Desmonde can do. Let's just go home, I am so tired."

  Mr. Smithson turned to comfort his wife and said tearfully, "Two weeks later, she's stabbed to death in what is supposed to be the best hospital in New Orleans. I repeat, how did this happen? I expected this hospital to take care of her – to help her. Why didn't you? I trusted you to make her better!"

  There was silence. No one spoke. What was there to say? Everyone just continued to sit uncomfortably in the conference room.

  Mr. Smithson tried to speak again, but his voice broke. He stopped for several seconds to catch his breath, composed himself, and then said, "My mother was a gentle soul. She never hurt anyone. She didn't deserve to die like this."

  Alex looked over at Whitset. He was watching Mrs. Smithson cry softly. He had a pleased look on his face. His mouth was turned up in a sly, half smile and he looked as if he was worshipping her grief. He was enjoying himself and was enjoying being a part of this heartbreaking meeting! What the hell was going on? Alex just couldn't understand Whitset. It was like he got off on grief, enjoyed it, and even relished it. A glance over at Monique confirmed to Alex that she wasn't noticing Whitset's behavior. Her attention was focused on Mr. Smithson who continued to vent his feelings.

  "You know," he said, "it seems to me that something's wrong here. If my mother suffered, that must be your fault. If she was so brutally killed …." He looked towards his wife, as she was seized with a fresh torrent of tears. He took her hand, pressed it for comfort, and continued, "If she was stabbed over and over, then why didn't somebody come to help her? I'm sure she cried for help." Mr. Smithson looked back and forth between Monique and Alex. "Why didn't somebody come help her? Answer me! I demand an answer!" His voice was loud and harsh.

  Suddenly, without warning, Lester Whitset jumped from his seat. His tone was harsh, cruel even, his face only inches from Mr. Smithson's, "Listen, Smithson, we told you we were sorry. Isn't that enough? We don't make promises when we admit people to the hospital. Particularly old people—” He stopped as Alex kicked him hard in the leg.

  Smithson stood, faced the younger man, and raised his voice, "What did you say? What in the hell did you
say about old people?" Mr. Smithson's voice was getting louder. "Say it again, dammit! What's this about promises and old people?" Mr. Smithson was taller and heavier than Lester Whitset and Alex watched as a brief flicker of uncertainty crossed Whitset's face.

  Whitset momentarily gained control of himself. Then he lost it completely. His appearance changed and he looked like a pouty little boy. His slicked-back, G.Q. hair fell forward and he looked at his hands and smiled. Then he began to speak, his lips pouting as he began a singsong litany. His head moved back and forth, keeping time with his voice, “We're so sorry, Mr. and Mrs. Smithson. We're so very sorry your mother was murdered in – our hospital. Please, please forgive us.” Whitset's voice ended on a high note.

  Alex was dumbfounded, paralyzed with shock at his behavior. Monique was speechless. What the hell was happening? It seemed like Whitset was making fun of the incident. His words were rhymed and spoken in iambic pentameter. His voice was the voice of a child in kindergarten. Alex couldn't figure out whether he was being rude and condescending or was just crazy.

  The Smithsons were flabbergasted by Whitset's behavior.

  Dr. Desmonde stared at him strangely. She slipped Alex a note telling her to call the hospital chaplain. Alex rose to leave the room as Monique again turned to the Smithsons, who were still shell-shocked by Whitset's words. She sighed with fatigue. She and Alex would now have to deal with Whitset.

  Monique took Mrs. Smithson's hand and said to the older couple in a reassuring voice, "We will tell you everything as soon as we get the information. Is there anything else you need? Can I arrange for a cab to take you home?"

  "Is there anything else we need to know now?" Mr. Smithson's voice was morose. He was grey with fatigue and grief. Mrs. Smithson looked like a shocked, broken puppet.

  "Yeah," said Whitset, his voice loud and commanding. "Yeah, you may want to know that your mother was also raped."

  Mrs. Smithson responded with a bloodcurdling sound. Mr. Smithson made the low guttural sounds of a wild animal in intense pain.

  Whitset smiled his gleeful, enigmatic smile at the grieving couple, turned to Dr. Desmonde, and simply said, "Well, they needed to know, didn't they? They did ask if there was anything else."