The therapist a complete.., p.1
The Therapist: A completely unputdownable thriller with an incredible twist, page 1
THE THERAPIST
S.A. FALK
ALSO BY S.A. FALK
The Patient’s Secret
CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
The Patient’s Secret
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Email Signup
Also by S.A. Falk
A Letter from the Author
Acknowledgments
ONE
I feel hollow sitting in the church pew. I see, but I do not watch. I hear, but I do not listen. My disbelief has numbed all of my senses.
I know that this is real. I saw her in the hospital, brain-dead and unresponsive. I saw her at the wake, lifeless and rotten. I know that she is gone, and yet, I do not want to accept it. I cannot accept it.
I don’t know how many times I have called her cell phone just to hear her on the voicemail greeting. To trick myself into believing that she is still alive. You have reached Dr. Maynard. I’m sorry I missed your call, but if you leave your name, number, and a brief message, I will get back to you as soon as possible. If this is an emergency, please call 9-1-1.
She will never get back to me though.
I have felt grief before, but not like this. This is not a loss. This is a void.
At her funeral service, I hear the pastor speak about her in such a sterile, anesthetized way. How this should be a celebration of her life. How her spirit lives on in all of us. How God has called her home. Then her family members say their piece, and although their words are heartfelt, they do not comfort me. The emptiness remains.
During the reception, I mingle with the other mourners as if I am a fog creeping from one mire to the next.
“How did you know Lacey?” they ask me.
I don’t want to tell complete strangers the truth about my relationship with her. That she was my therapist for the last thirty years. That she dragged me out of a pit when I was a teenager and I saw no way out. That she is the reason I am alive, and the inspiration for what I have dedicated my life to.
“She was my professional mentor,” I tell them. “I’m a correctional psychiatrist.”
I can try to tell myself that she was just my therapist, but that will only degrade the impact that she had on my life. Dr. Maynard was my mentor. My dearest friend. My surrogate mother. My savior.
My employer, the California Department of Corrections, only grants me the time off to attend her funeral service. “Bereavement leave only applies for immediate family,” my human resources representative tells me.
I feel like telling her that I have no immediate family. My mother and father have both long since passed, and I have no siblings. Aside from a handful of distant relatives that I lost contact with years ago, I am alone. Dr. Maynard was my family.
But I don’t. I simply nod at her and choke down my grief.
That following Monday, the last thing I want to do is return to work. But I don’t have much of an option as the lead psychiatrist at Pantano State Hospital, the state-run forensic psychiatric facility. Today in particular, since we have a new patient arriving that will require our utmost attention.
I arrive at the hospital early, long before the sun has risen and the day shift crew has arrived. A couple of guards monitor the shadowed hallways, peeking into the windows of room doors to make sure that everyone is quiet or asleep.
“How did it go?” I ask one of the guards as I walk past him toward my office.
“Quiet as the grave,” he answers tiredly.
The comment hits an exposed nerve, but I hide my reaction. The guard doesn’t know I lost someone so recently. As a matter of fact, nobody but HR and my boss knows.
I would like to say that my non-disclosure is a direct result of my occupation, but I know that’s not true. I am an extremely private person by nature, and my personal life, in my opinion, is of little consequence to my colleagues.
The day shift workers arrive around five thirty. Guards, caseworkers, and therapists. The screeching of metal folding chairs on the linoleum floor tears through the early morning air of the central day room and reverberates down the corridors. The musk of cheap coffee rises out of styrofoam cups as the staff shuffle about the room groggily, waiting for the caffeine to hit their respective bloodstreams and smother the fatigue that lingers in their systems.
Their motions are so ingrained in them that they may as well be hypnotized. Routine can have that effect on people, sane or not.
But Pantano State Hospital thrives on routine. It is what curbs the chaos and squelches the insanity. If not for routine, this place would be engulfed in pandemonium.
This particular morning feels different though. An anxious energy has taken hold of the staff as if the caffeine is being pumped into the room through the HVAC system. The caseworkers and guards chatter among themselves as they drag their chairs to form the oval in which we meet. I cannot discern exactly what is being said, but I have a pretty good guess as to what all the fuss is about.
“Alright, everyone,” I call out, knowing that we have more to go over this morning than usual. “Let’s get settled in so we can get started.”
Their murmurs hush as they take their seats. Their nervousness remains. Several of them fidget in their seats to dispel the energy.
“For the sake of time, we’ll skip the pleasantries. We have a lot to cover this morning.” I motion to the caseworker nearest me and add, “Michael, you want to start?”
“Sure,” Michael says, flipping to a dog-eared page in his legal pad. He begins by debriefing the group about some of the incidents from the previous week and the safety plans that will be in place to prevent them happening again. One of his patients has been refusing to eat and will likely get a feeding tube if he keeps it up. Another tried to assault a guard over the weekend, so he will be spending the next forty-eight hours on the confinement unit upstairs.
“We need to keep a close eye on Edgar as well,” he adds. “He’s been withdrawing more lately and I am concerned he’s on the verge of a breakdown. Those of you who see him regularly, try to engage with him as best you can.”
Across the oval, one of the guards mumbles something to the guard next to him. I look around and see that most of the group is distracted. I can see it on their faces and in their flickering eyes.
“Darrel?” I call across the oval to the guard. “Do you have a question?”
“No, Dr. Fletcher,” he replies quickly.
“You sure?” I add, knowing full well that something is on his mind.
“Well…” He hesitates, glancing at some of the other guards. “When are we going to talk about Trent Davis?”
“We do not talk about new arrivals until we’ve debriefed from the previous week,” I answer.
“Yeah, but most new arrivals aren’t guys like Trent Davis.”
“We’ve had serial killers here before,” I reply flatly as if this fact is anything but spectacular.
“I understand,” he says. “It just seems like we should be extra vigilant with him, is all.”
I ignore the comment, partly because it is pointing out the obvious but also because I want to maintain the routine of the meeting. “We will talk about Mr. Davis when we’re done debriefing last week,” I answer with finality.
Darrel acquiesces to my firmness and the energy within the oval abates.
I turn the floor over to the other caseworkers and they continue to report back on the previous week.
I would be lying if I told you I was not a little anxious about Trent Davis myself. Like I said, we have had serial killers on the unit before, not to mention the lion’s share of violent offenders. But Trent Davis is unique even for our standards.
Pantano State Hospital is not your garden variety psychiatric fac
Trent Davis is one of the latter, and today marks the beginning of six consecutive life sentences for him.
As extraordinary as this is though, it is not what makes guards like Darrel uneasy. For one thing, Trent Davis is a celebrity. Not in the sense of Richard Ramirez or Ted Bundy, who created media frenzies during their trials. Trent Davis is a famous musician, and up until a few months ago, a very successful one as the singer, songwriter, multi-instrumentalist, and producer of the heavy metal band SOS.
The other part that makes his case extraordinary is how he earned six consecutive life sentences. By his own account, he murdered six hitchhikers that he picked up along deserted sections of Interstate 5 between San Francisco and Bakersfield. He incapacitated them before taking them back to his home in Bakersfield where he ritualistically killed them in his basement, drinking their blood and removing their major organs. When he was done, he dumped their remains in the same spot on the shoulder of the interstate where he had picked them up. Trent never actually said what he did with the excised organs, but because the remains were never found, the media and the masses have assumed he ate them.
The last caseworker has finished discussing her patients, and the figurative conch shell has made its way back to me. Everyone is staring at me eagerly, waiting for me to talk about what they have been waiting for since they stepped onto the unit.
“Questions or comments before we go on to new arrivals?” I ask. After a silent pause, I open the manila folder in my lap and continue, “Our new arrival is Trent Davis. Popularly known as The Vampire of Bakersfield, although I do not want to hear anyone refer to him by that. From this point forward, he is either Mr. Davis or Trent. Understood?” I stop briefly and several of the staff nod. “Mr. Davis was recently found not guilty by reason of insanity for six murders committed between 2019 and 2023. His official diagnosis is schizoaffective disorder paired with post-traumatic stress and substance abuse.
“Mr. Davis was a musician prior to his crimes. As the lead member of the heavy metal band SOS, he made it a point to be as controversial as he could be with both his lyrics and his performances. His music has been cited as influencing a number of suicides, in addition to a school shooting in Des Moines, Iowa. Although charges were never brought against him, each accusation afforded him a great deal of publicity and notoriety from news outlets and social media, and he had no issue provoking it.”
“As this relates to our work with Mr. Davis—” Officer Williams’ hand goes into the air and interrupts me. “Yes, Officer Williams?”
“Isn’t it true that he cannibalized his victims?” he asks.
“Allegedly,” I answer, slightly annoyed because of the interruption. “Why is that relevant?”
“Well, that seems like a pretty significant safety hazard.”
“You afraid he’s going to try to drink your blood?” another guard snipes in jest.
“We all know what he did,” I reply curtly. “I have no interest in sensationalizing the gore of his crimes this morning, understand?”
“Yes, ma’am,” responds Williams.
“Alright,” I say. “Now we need to be extremely vigilant about confidentiality as it relates to his case. Especially in these early days, the press is going to be swarming the perimeter of the hospital wanting to know everything that he’s doing and saying. Do not talk to them. What happens in this unit stays in this unit.
“In terms of safety protocols, we are going to start Mr. Davis on restricted privileges. His room is to be locked at all times, and when he is in communal areas, he will wear wrist shackles for the safety of staff and patients. He is not to be within ten feet of any other patient until he proves to us that he is capable of appropriate, safe behavior. If another patient tries to get near him, separate them immediately. Do not get close to him unless you are being watched by another staff member.
“Related to his substance abuse, Mr. Davis has been addicted to meth and barbiturates for over a decade, so he experienced significant withdrawals during his time in custody. Unless he’s been getting fixes in prison, however, he should be past the worst of it. Even so, bear in mind that he’s been self-medicating for years, so the more sober he gets, the more the schizoaffective symptoms are going to emerge. Hallucinations, depression, mania, and delusional thinking. I am going to do what I can to medicate him appropriately, but it will take some time to get the cocktail right. In the meantime, keep a close eye on him and document all of your observations.
“As for his arrival later this morning, I would like Officers Nunez and Clark to accompany him through admission. Warden Moreno and I will be joining you as well. Once his intake has been completed, we’ll bring him up to the unit and get him settled in. Questions?”
I scan the oval, but nobody raises their hand or speaks up.
“Good,” I reply. “Let’s put the room back together and get ready for the morning.”
The metal chairs screech on the linoleum floor again and the hum of conversation returns.
As I gather my things, Officer Williams approaches me.
“I wanted to apologize for what I said earlier, Dr. Fletcher,” he tells me. “I wasn’t trying to be gratuitous.”
“But you were,” I say firmly. “What he has done is unimaginable and repulsive, but they’re sending him to us for a reason. He is incredibly afflicted, and it is our job to treat him to the best of our ability without bias or judgment.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he responds. “If I am being honest though, it gives me the creeps. I mean, drinking their blood and eating their organs? That’s some fucked-up shit.”
Coldly, I say, “That’s who we serve, Officer. If you’re not comfortable with it, this unit is not for you.”
Before he can respond, I walk away and leave the day room.
I realize my response was probably calloused, but I have little patience for that kind of frailty, especially from one of the guards. In order for this unit to operate smoothly and safely, I need the guards to delicately tow the line between therapeutic and domineering. I want them to treat the patients with dignity and sympathy, but if push comes to shove, they need to be able to assume control with an iron fist.
TWO
Warden Moreno stands beside me in the foyer of the admissions office while the two guards wait outside for the transport van to arrive. The office is positioned at the back of the hospital so that neither the press nor any other prying eyes can catch glimpses of patients as they arrive.
“I’ve been fielding calls from the news all morning,” Moreno says to me. “Leave it to the press to turn this into a goddamn freak show.”
“The freak show began long before this morning,” I respond. “It started long before he was even arrested.”
Moreno keeps his eyes honed on the windows before us. “You buy the diagnosis?” he asks.
“Not my place to say yet,” I answer. “But I am going to find out, I’ll guarantee that. How about you?”
Moreno scoffs slightly. “Judge Groban is about as soft-hearted as they come. Any other judge would’ve flushed that plea down the toilet and sent that psychopath to San Quentin. Instead, we get to put up with this circus.”
I nod my head, but I do not reply. I understand where Moreno is coming from, but he has worked corrections and law enforcement his entire life, and his view of rehabilitation is distorted.
I purposely curb my assumptions with new patients because I want to see them and evaluate them for myself. It’s not that I don’t trust the diagnoses or opinions of other psychiatrists, but psychosis is complicated, especially when multiple conditions are involved. Evaluating a patient in the heat of substance withdrawal skews results, in my experience, not to mention that a lot of severe diagnoses require months of observable behavior, not a couple of hours with survey questions.
“You be sure to keep me in the loop with what’s going on,” Moreno adds. “Davis so much as smiles at someone, I want to know about it.”
