The Prodigy Part 20

Hobbs gently patted her back and waited for her to regain control. "Did you get your locks changed?" He asked.

"No."

"Do it." He shook his head and looked at her. "Barrett, you need to get away from here."

"No."

"This is not good."

"I'll be okay," she said. "At least I know what I'm dealing with."

"You're not making sense. If what you're telling me adds up, and I think it does, Martin could be behind your husband's death."

"I think he is," she replied dully. "He has to be locked up, and he can't ever come out again. I have to make sure that happens."

SEVENTEEN.

She slept little, her mind racing from Ralph to Jimmy, to guilt over her attraction to Hobbs. And how could she hang onto the condo without Ralph's income to help with the mortgage? And then scolding herself for being mercenary. She'd picture Ralph, and remember the feel of him next to her in bed, and the tears would start. It was a horrible night, and what little sleep came was twisted with dreams, where she'd be running for her life, and then wake in a panic, not certain what-or who-was chasing her.

As she dressed, she thought about Hobbs' warnings. Jimmy Martin was bad news, and if he had an erotomanic fixation on her, nothing short of incarceration or death would stop him. She thought about other times when she'd encountered violent erotomaniacs-always her advice to the target was "have no contact." So why wouldn't she take her own advice?

Pumping herself with black coffee, she'd headed toward the office, needing the daily grind, the time to plow through Martin's records, to find the thing that had been missed, the thing that would get him sent back to Croton.

"Marla," she pressed down on the intercom, "my schedule's all messed up, what do I have this morning?"

"What are you doing here?" the clinic secretary asked.

Not again, Barrett thought, tired of everyone telling her she should stay home, take some time off. "Excuse me? I thought I worked here."

"G.o.d," the wispy voiced secretary sighed, "both you and Dr. Fielding forgot you're expected at Croton for a provisional release hearing on client GF."

"s.h.i.+t!" Barrett flipped open her date book; there was nothing there. Then she remembered an e-mail a couple weeks back. "I didn't think they'd scheduled it."

"Tell it to the judge."

"What time was I supposed to be there?"

"Ten."

"I have other appointments this afternoon."

"I'll cancel them." Marla said.

"There's no way I'll make it. My car's on the other side of town and it's an hour's drive-and that's speeding."

Barrett turned as a sharp knock came.

Dr. Fielding's carefully arranged combed-over pate peeped through the opening. He grinned sheepishly, "We screwed up."

"Someone did," Barrett replied. "Can you give me a ride?"

"Of course, I was going to ask if you wanted one."

"See," Marla said over the phone, "it all works out. And I get stuck calling both of your appointments for the afternoon and telling them that their wise-and-wonderful psychiatrists can't keep their dates straight."

"Thanks, Marla."

"Thanks are cheap," she quipped in her little-girl voice, "a raise is forever."

"Don't hang up," Anton interjected. He took the receiver from Barrett, "Marla, be a sweetheart and call ahead to Dr. Morgan let her know we'll be ..." he glanced at his wrist, "twenty maybe thirty minutes late."

"Yeah right. More like an hour," the receptionist replied. "What excuse would you like?"

"The truth, of course."

"An unexpected crisis at the clinic?" she suggested.

"Works for me."

Fielding hung up, "You ready?"

Barrett looked around her office, the voice mail b.u.t.ton was blinking and her list of unread e-mails was a page and a half deep.

"There's always Monday," he said, intuiting her hesitation. "In my experience, if someone truly wants to get in touch, they call back."

She grabbed her briefcase and closed the door behind them. "So who's GF?" she asked as they headed to the underground garage.

"George Fitzsimmons," Anton replied, pus.h.i.+ng the b.u.t.ton for the automatic door opener on his midnight blue Jaguar XJR.

Barrett settled back into the tan leather and pushed away the hovering image of Ralph's bruised face, and the stench of the morgue. "So what did Mr. Fitzsimmons do?" she asked, trying to focus.

"Quite a bit. He's been bouncing in and out of Croton ever since he was in his teens. Before that it was Brighton Hall."

"What offenses?"

"There's a spread," Anton replied as he nosed the roadster up the ramp and onto First Avenue. As they dodged traffic on 34th, he sketched out the basics. "Fitzsimmons had problems from the get-go. Basically his temper coupled with schizophrenia and a bit of booze creates a volatile and unpredictable mix. Over the years I've seen him a number of times and it's always the same. The man we're going to see this afternoon will be an absolute angel. You'll ask yourself, 'Why wasn't he let out sooner?' He'll be polite, insightful; he'll talk about how he's benefited from treatment and how this time is going to be different."

"And?" she asked.

"And, he'll go out, have a drink or twenty, stop his medications because he knows not to mix pills and alcohol. Then the voices tell him that different celebrities are carrying the devil's children; he gets paranoid and if we don't catch him he'll do something very bad."

"So why are we here?" she asked.

"Why else-they want to release him."

"But ..."

"Good lawyers through the consumer advocacy office and a persistent family," Anton answered. "The only problem is they're not real interested in helping George. Once he gets out; he's not the nicest person to live with, especially when he drinks. So it's up to us to put together the half-million dollar plan that could keep him in the community."

"Group home plus, plus, plus," Barrett replied.

"That about covers it, except he's already been through all the group homes in greater Manhattan. Once George has lived someplace, they don't want him back. Plus, he's set some fires and is a convicted felon, so public housing is out."

Barrett stared through her window at the lush greenery as they headed north on the Saw Mill. "I guess Jimmy Martin never had that problem."

Anton cut her a sideways glance. "How's that going?" he asked. "You seemed pretty freaked the other day."

"It's under control," she lied. "Now, you must have been involved when they put together his release."

"I was."

"As far as I can tell he's got the perfect discharge plan," she offered, choosing her words carefully. "A townhouse in Gramercy Park, all meals delivered, everything that money can buy. No s.k.a.n.ky group home in the South Bronx for Jimmy."

"Money was not an issue in that case."

"So you've met him."

"Oh yeah, same kind of gig as this, only the first time I was in your seat and George Housmann was the clinic director."

"First time?"

"You know how it goes. No one gets out on the first try. Even with all his money."

"How long did it take him?"

"Years. People had a lot of concerns about him returning to Manhattan. The victims' parents put up quite a fuss, as did some of the neighbors. But his family had significant money and brought in big lawyers; they finally pushed the right b.u.t.tons."

"They? His parents, you mean?"

"No, I never met them. It was his sister."

"You've met Ellen?"

"Yes. Nice lady, the complete opposite of her brother. But clearly, she cares a great deal for him. He would never have been released without her intervention ... So what happened with your concerns about his overpayment and the bloodwork?"

"It worked out," she replied, noting how even talking about Jimmy cranked up her anxiety.

"Listen, I hope you're not still upset with me for not getting worked up about your phone conversation the other day. If we violated everyone who skips a couple doses of medication, we'd be out of a job. So how many times have you seen him now?"

"Twice," she said, wondering at the s.h.i.+ft in Anton's att.i.tude.

"Is he what you'd expected?"

"Not really. For one, he lost over a hundred pounds. Said that he'd gained it as a way of trying to avoid the unwanted attention of some of the Croton residents. I think he's got quite a bit of PTSD. And I'm not certain that the voice he says he hears is compatible with either schizophrenia or manic depression."

"But you do think he hears voices?"

"I do. But more along a dissociative spectrum."

"Please don't tell me you're going down the Ted Bundy route with him. Everyone's getting diagnosed with multiple personality disorder. It wasn't me, Judge, it was my other me that hacked my wife into tiny little pieces."

"I don't care what you call it, but he does flip between very different presentations. There's an almost sweet childlike Jimmy, and a split second later you have the feeling that he'd like to reach across the table and do something very nasty. And then there's this distant look he gets, as though he's looking through his body, but isn't really inside of it."

"You don't think he's schizophrenic?"

"I don't."

"So maybe it doesn't matter if he takes the meds."

"I think that's what he thinks. And to be fair, they give him a lot of problems. Did you know that he was a concert cellist, could have been a great one?"

"I'm sure I read that somewhere."

"Lithium and fine-motor control aren't the best of friends."

"He still plays?"

"Incredibly well. Apparently that's how he used to spend his sessions with Morris Kravitz."

Anton chuckled, "Morris was a character, but his monthly reports were on my desk when they were supposed to be. And I don't know how or when I turned into such a bureaucrat, but sometimes all I care about is getting the paperwork done and handed in on time."

"His reports don't say much," Barrett commented, "just when they met, how long each session was, and that the patient appeared to be stable and not engaged in any illegal activities."

"Do you doubt it?"

"I don't know what to think. At this point I'm just trying to figure out what makes him tick. I'd love to have interviewed Mason Carter ... the guy who actually killed Nicole Foster and Stephen Guthrie."

"I knew Mason," Anton remarked, "he was a cla.s.sic s.e.xual s.a.d.i.s.t."

"You met him?"

"I did part of his prison evaluation. At the time I thought he was trying to manipulate a transfer into the forensic system. You know, follow Jimmy's lead. It didn't work though."

"He hung himself," Barrett said.

Anton nodded, keeping his eyes on the road. "In hindsight, I wonder if maybe he was telling the truth. But that's water under the bridge."

"Did he talk about Jimmy?"

"Some, did a pretty good job of implicating him. Said he'd been hired to kill Foster's fiance. Of course, with his history he had zero credibility. The only real evidence was the cash found on Carter."