Page 27 of Her Last Whisper
The South Street Psychiatric Hospital resembled more of a jail than a medical facility for the mentally ill. The large building with two separate wings was painted an odd beige color that made it look like something half finished with only a primer coating.
After parking, Katie adjusted her badge and the gun hidden underneath her suit jacket to look as composed and experienced as possible. She didn’t have a purse, so she put her small field notebook in her pocket along with a pen. Locking the vehicle, she headed towards the bleak main entrance; everything was monochrome, even the dry, pale grass blended in with the lack of color from the building.
Katie pushed through one of the glass doors and found herself in front of a reception booth manned by a young woman with a stern face. There was a small glass area with a round hole in the middle to communicate through.
“Hi, can I help you?” she asked without a smile.
“Hi, I’m Detective Katie Scott from the sheriff’s department. I spoke with you on the phone earlier. I wanted to talk to the person who admits all patients brought in by the police for seventy-two-hour psychiatric watch.”
The receptionist didn’t even look up as she slipped a visitor badge and one sheet of paper through a space at the bottom of the window. “Please put your name, badge number and department here, and date and sign the release form here.”
Katie quickly scribbled her consent to relieve the hospital from any liability if she got hurt, maimed, or killed during her visit.
“Please check any firearms and personal items, cell phone, keys,anypersonal items in there.” She gestured to a small room with several lockers.
“Thank you,” said Katie as she clipped her visitor badge to her jacket. “What’s the name of the person I’m meeting?”
“Dr. Trent Smith, he’s the supervising physician on duty.” The woman turned away and began sorting through paperwork.
“Thank you,” Katie said and moved to the special room where she relinquished her gun, keys, notepad, pen, and cell phone. Making sure the metal box was locked, she retrieved the key, depositing it into her pant pocket.
It suddenly struck Katie that she was entering into a dangerous, unknown place. She pushed the thought away from her mind as she waited for the heavy security door to unlock. A small camera lens was above her head and she knew someone monitored her carefully, no doubt, at that exact moment.
Katie watched as a heavy-set security guard opened a series of doors for her. “Please wait,” he said as he re-locked the door behind her, making it clear she couldn’t escape without assistance. Taking the lead, he turned to her. “Dr. Smith’s office is this way.”
Katie didn’t know what disturbed her more: some of the patients wandering around in a type of fugue state, or the unpleasant odor of full bedpans. There was a faint hint of some type of air freshener, but its potency was no match for the stagnant space.
Katie kept her focus straight ahead as she followed the orderly into another area with minimum security, which housed the administrative and doctor’s offices.
The burly man stopped at the door and said, “Here’s Dr. Smith’s office.” Without a smile or another word, he left Katie at the closed door with cheap lettering displaying “Dr. T. Smith.”
Looking up and down the deserted hallway, Katie then knocked on the door and heard a male voice call “Come in,” from the other side. She turned the knob, unexpectedly cold in the stuffy heat of the hospital.
The office space wasn’t what Katie had expected at all. In her mind, she thought it would be similar to the police department with neutral government-funded desks and chairs. But Dr. Smith’s office was nicely decorated and quite tasteful with a dark mahogany desk and matching credenza and bookshelf. There were several potted plants and two pleasant seascape paintings that hung on the walls. Katie noticed that the two painting were originals, vaguely familiar, with the artist’s signatures. The doctor obviously came from money. It was curious to her why he was at a mental health facility and not a cushy private practice.
“Detective Scott?” said the man behind the desk. He also wasn’t what Katie had expected, dressed in dark jeans and a polo shirt. His dark features and light blue eyes—which made him appear to be looking through you, not at you—left Katie somewhat unnerved.
“Dr. Smith?” she said.
“So… tell me, what can I do for you?” He leaned forward on his desk with his arms crossed leaning on his elbows.
“I’ve been recently assigned to a homicide case at the sheriff’s office. A woman who claimed to have been kidnapped and held against her will—then she escaped. Now she is dead.”
“I see,” he said without a trace of recognition. “And where do I fit in here?” He squinted as he scrutinized Katie more closely.
“I know all about doctor–patient confidentiality, but…”
“But what, Detective?”
Katie took a deep breath and felt defeat creeping into her investigation. “Look, I want to be honest with you.”
“Please do.”
“The person I wanted to discuss with you is Amanda Payton. Her kidnapping was a cold case, but now it’s… it’s a murder investigation.”
“Okay,” he deadpanned. He leaned back in his big leather office chair. “I get the impression that there’s more to you than just police work—maybe you’ve been in the military?”
“Good guess.” She disliked being scrutinized like this, especially by a therapist.
