Page 21 of Borrowed Pain
"Mr...?"
"Ashcroft. I'm assisting Dr. McCabe with his research. I've documented similar patterns involving other trauma victims and treatment facilities."
He said "victims." The word snagged at me. In my office, I never used it—people survived trauma; that mattered. I opened my mouth to correct him, then shut it again. Not the time. Not yet.
Hendricks asked, "What kind of patterns?"
Rowan opened his folder, extracting a single page with surgical precision. "Recruitment tactics that exploit confidential therapeutic information. Facilities promising accelerated results that traditional therapy can't provide. Patients dying within months of treatment."
Hendricks accepted the document and scanned it quickly. Her expression remained politely interested until her gaze reached something that made her pause. The change was subtle—a tightening around her eyes and fingers gripping the paper tighter.
"You're suggesting Riverside Mental Health Retreat is involved in these... patterns?"
The slight emphasis on suggesting sounded like a warning. Her shoulders squared and her pen clicked rhythmically against the legal pad.
"We're documenting concerning coincidences," I said carefully. "Iris isn't the only client recruited using confidential information."
"Dr. McCabe." Hendricks set down the document, leaning back in her chair. "Riverside has an impeccable reputation.They're fully licensed, regularly inspected, and maintain the highest standards of patient care. Their director, Dr. Celeste Harrow, is nationally recognized for her innovative trauma treatments."
The finality in her voice hit like a door slamming shut.
"I understand their reputation," I pressed. "I'm not questioning their credentials. I'm reporting potential privacy violations that may have contributed to my client's death."
"Have you filed complaints with the appropriate agencies? The Office of the Inspector General? State medical board?"
"I'm filing them with you first, as the licensing authority."
Hendricks pulled out a pre-printed form, sliding it across the desk. "You'll need to complete a formal complaint. Include all documentation, witness statements, and evidence of regulatory violations. The review process typically takes six to eight weeks."
Rowan leaned forward. "What happens during the review?"
"We investigate all allegations thoroughly. Interview relevant parties, examine records, and determine whether violations occurred." Her tone turned blandly bureaucratic. "If we find evidence of wrongdoing, we take appropriate action."
"And if you don't find evidence?"
"Then we close the file." Hendricks stood, signaling the meeting's end. "Gentlemen, I appreciate you bringing this to our attention. Please submit your formal complaint through proper channels."
My hands closed into fists, and I remembered Rowan's recorder. "I want you to state, for the record, the scope and date of Riverside's most recent audit, and the complaint case number you're opening today."
"On the record, I don't provide inspection dates or scopes in meetings. Submit a written complaint; intake will issue a tracking number. Any survey reports are available throughpublic records. We don't discuss individual facilities outside that process."
"Dr. Hendricks, my client is dead. If Riverside is exploiting confidential information to recruit vulnerable patients—"
"Dr. McCabe." Her voice sharpened with condescending authority. "I understand you're grieving your client's loss. Trauma therapists often struggle with feelings of responsibility when patients don't achieve desired outcomes. Making unsubstantiated allegations against respected facilities doesn't honor their memory."
She wasn't investigating our concerns; she was diagnosing me as an unreliable narrator, too emotionally invested to see clearly.
"This isn't about grief," I said. "It's about evidence."
"Then document that evidence through proper channels." Hendricks moved toward the door. "We take all complaints seriously, but we also protect facilities from unfounded accusations."
Rowan gathered his papers. "Thank you for your time."
Something in his tone made Hendricks pause, but she recovered quickly, already focused on whatever meeting came next. We'd been processed, categorized, and filed away—another Monday morning speed bump for the efficient machinery of state government.
Twenty-three years of public service, and Hendricks dismissed us with the efficiency of someone stamping routine paperwork. Iris deserved better than bureaucratic condescension disguised as professional concern.
More than that, something about the entire interaction felt wrong. It wasn't merely dismissive; it was protective.
