He’s full of crap, I thought to myself as we all patiently listened to Steve pathetically dribble his trip back to “feel sorry for me” land, “my dog died because my parents were yelling at each other.” And now he’s miraculously a schizoid. No, he’s just as clever like the Uni-bomber is what he is, but of course my opinion lay hidden beneath my benign expression. Professional without harsh judgment, I knew that’s what I needed for just these moments. If my ambition for psychology was genuine, I would need the ability to clear my current professional opinions from my past. But how could I do that when not long ago the patient was serious in his attempt to insert six inch deep slits into my body. I was glad Steve wasn’t my patient because discernment would be struggle, if it could be attained at all.

After Steve’s performance, Dr. Hawthorne had Lily sent back to her room and Steve locked up in a straight jacket and sent to his room. Hillary cried while they wrapped the many-times-used jacket. Old vomit and blood stains could easily be identified down the front. Funny, I thought, on TV those jackets always looked brand spanking new, you never imagined them used previously.

As Steve was guided out, he started to cry along with Hillary and as he passed her he said, “I guess as much as you try to prevent the obviousness of love for the ones you hate...you can’t. But I do hate you, I do hate you more than I love you.” Hillary fell back in an armed chair and wailed like a pro as Steve’s expression remained solemn as he left. He was working her like a monkey works a street crowd.

“There’s more,” Hillary barely got out between moans and weeping, almost as if she held a secret. “We’ve got to help him.”

Dr. Hawthorne sat at his desk, “I’m afraid it’s not up to us.”

“You’re his doctor, aren’t you in charge?”

“The police have to be notified.”

“He’s sick, isn’t that obvious?”

I could no longer hold my anxious opinion, “He tried to kill me, Hillary. And he admitted to...”

Hillary stared with tears in her confused eyes, hoping I was not about to say what I was about to say.

“What? What did he admit to?” Dr. Hawthorne said from the other side of the room.

Without turning my head away from Hillary I said with as much compassion as possible, “First, he’s been sleeping with Lily.”

Hillary rebuked, “That’s not a crime. Bad taste maybe, but--”

I continued, “He killed Barbra; he killed Peter too.”

“Peter’s death was self-defense. I was there. I saw--”

I continued, nodding no, “He’s a murderer.”

Indignantly she stood, pressing her tissue to her eyes, “Marcus did it!”

“The dog?” I asked.

“No, you know what I mean.” She sobbed harder and stood looking around the room for more tissues.

I handed her a box and apologized. “Hillary, we’ve known each other for a long time so I have to be honest.”

“I know and you should be. I’m mad at you, but I’m just telling you he’s sick. He’s hurt people because he’s sick.”

I rounded her shoulders and slid my hands down her back for a bear hug and said quietly, “You could absolutely be right.” When I released her body, she broke a small smile.

Dr. Hawthorne finally broke in, “It still doesn’t mean the police won’t be involved.”

A resolve bore Hillary and she confronted Dr. Hawthorne with a new confidence, “Excuse me, Doctor, but my partner Maxfield runs the medical corporation which just happens to be the biggest to stock holder to
Greystone?”

“What does that have...?”

“Please don’t be so naive.” I couldn’t believe what I was seeing and hearing. By the end of her threats and deals she had Dr. Hawthorne agreeing to recommend full evaluation before talking to a prosecutor,
along with full-time care with me reporting directly to her about Steve’s care with the possibility of full- time employment upon completion of my education. Did I think this was just? NO, but hey, I’m just the low guy on the totem pole.

But the feeling I couldn’t escape as I looked at Hillary was she was hiding something about Steve, about Marcus--- and was desperately holding onto it with great fear.