The Doctors Casebook Pt 02 Ch 01

The Case Files of Dr. Randall Herringwick

The Case of the Melting Sister

Chapter One - Drastic Measures

CASE FILES - PERSONAL NOTES - PATIENTS 53 & 54 - PRELUDE

Okay, here's the deal. Everybody's got to make a living. Just because I'm an evil mad doctor, I still have to have a day job ... know what I mean? I happen to have two. I teach at a prestigious university medical school two days per week, and I maintain a thriving private practice, as well. So ... the evil mad doctor thing is just sort of a sideline. A very lucrative, and ofttimes very satisfying sideline.

This was a strange time for me. I hadn't really been in the mad doctoring business very long, and I was still sort of learning the ropes. My first case had been a weird one which had ended with indeterminate results. The pros had far outweighed the cons, however, and I now found myself (though not wealthy, by any stretch of the imagination) the owner of an apartment building in western Providence, RI, in the area north of HWY 6, where I maintained my residence and office spaces. Unfortunately, at this point in time, the rest of my building was not in very good repair; which is to say, there were no tenants.

I was also in the process of planning a rather devious course of action in another state, where I planned to retrieve a woman I had once lost. But that, as they say, is another story for another day. That was personal. The tale I'm about to relate was professional. Well, it wasn't professional in the sense that it was legal ... or ethical. But then, evil mad doctoring generally isn't, is it?

The real thing about this field is that it begins to feed upon itself. Word gets around ... though, quite frankly, I have no idea how it gets around. I'm not into the cocktail crowd, but I can't really imagine a group of guys, standing by themselves over in one corner, saying things like: "I'm having a spot of trouble with missus. Do any of you happen to know if there are any evil mad doctors in the area that might help me out a bit?" And yet, somehow, a select few people did know about me, and they did seek me out. They also knew that such services were not cheap.

The course I was teaching, Applied Behavioral Science in Psychiatry, was my first at that particular school. First courses are always more time-consuming. But now I was finishing up with that, along with the course notes, lesson plans, study guides, laboratory outlines, grading criteria and all the other administrative necessities that accompanied it. The next iteration of this course (which, fortunately for me, had become rather popular) was more or less going to run itself. And in my private practice, I had reached a point where many of my regular patients were being seen less or not at all.

I hope I'm not giving away too many professional secrets if I tell you that the wealthiest psychiatrists make their money by suggesting to their wealthiest patients that regularly scheduled "maintenance" sessions are a necessity. In point of fact, psychological ailments are curable. And, just as it is in other medical fields, there is no real reason to see a patient who is no longer ill. The fact that they do is enough to make my evil mad blood boil. But, c'est la vie.

And so, professionally, things were cyclical. I had not seen many new patients in the past month or so; but now, I was accepting them in greater numbers. Word had gotten around that I was a doctor that was especially attuned to the needs of women; and as a result, most new patients were female. I had gotten to the point that when a man entered my office, I regarded him with skepticism ... that is, as someone who might be after my "other" services. I had flatly turned down two such men already who approached me separately, but with the same request. In each case, a multi-millionaire had urged me to take an overbearing wife and turn her into a sex slave. With both, I had urged them to divorce their spouses (if they didn't truly love them), pay all the premiums that went with such an action (settlements, alimony, child support, etc); then seek out a submissive mate, and I would consider helping them with their requests. Both gentlemen were of the opinion that such a price was too high. And with each, I told them that I agreed wholeheartedly. Then I charged them $220 apiece for an hour's worth of consultation and I dismissed them.

But then, along came patient #51 (i.e., the 51st patient I'd seen since establishing my practice); and I found him to be an individual who was not only sincere, but most deserving of my special talents in the field of evil mad doctoring.

Perhaps I'm not indicative of the average American male, but I instantly liked the guy. His handshake, when I invited him into my office, was strong and firm but not crushing; his smile was genuine, but there was a deep sadness about him. He was rugged and handsome, though it was not exaggerated; and he moved with a grace that was not taught, but came naturally ... an athlete, I assumed. It was his eyes that arrested my attention, however. The melancholy in them could not mask a raw inquisitiveness and intelligence that demanded respect ... not because it was demanded, but because you simply knew those traits were there.

"How can I help you today, Mr. ..." I looked down at my appointment pad "... Russo?" I indicated the easy chair in front of my desk and he sat.

"Call me Bryon, if you'd like," he responded with the wave of a hand. "Doctor Herringwick, it has been brought to my attention that ... for the proper price ... you might be able to provide services that are ... um ... outside the normal boundaries of professional psychiatric care."

I leaned back in my chair, regarding him. He met my gaze unabashedly, but the air of grief surrounding him made me falter in responding with my standard answer. "Can you give me some sort of idea what your problem is?"

He took a breath. "I was married eight months ago. Now, my wife wants to divorce me."

I nodded. "I am deeply sorry for your troubles, Mr. Russo. But if you are suggesting that I somehow attempt to quash your wife's love for another man, and then to change your wife into some adoring pet, I'm afraid that my answer is no."

"What I wish, doctor, is that you somehow overcome outside influences that are driving my wife into a lifestyle she will regret. You see, I know that she is still very much in love with me."

I canted my head a little in thought. Again, I was halted before giving a pat answer. I, myself, had once loved a woman who was affected by outside influences. "And who is it that is influencing your wife, Mr. Russo?"

He smiled sadly. "Her twin sister, Sherrie. They have always been very close; but then, I suppose all twins are. She came to visit us for the first time since the wedding; and now, they've both moved out. My wife has been ... um ... unfaithful to me since. I believe she was driven to the act by Sherrie ... her sister. And, you misunderstand me, doctor. I would obviously love to have my wife back. But my real desire is to see her healthy and happy. If being with her sister instead of me is truly her wish in life ... or being with another man ... then I will let her go. I love her that much. But I want to make sure she isn't just being manipulated. And ... I fear that is the case. I need you to use the ... um ... influence you purportedly have with women and find out for me. If that is truly the case ... if she honestly loves this man ... then I will take your word for it and bow out of her life. If, however, this man has gained some nefarious control over my wife, I would like you to intervene and guide her back to me."

I sat back and contemplated things. Everyone considers himself or herself a good judge of human character (though that judgment is often wrong, of course); but obviously psychiatrists feel that more so. It's our job, after all ... even though our judgments are often just as fallible. But, before me sat an open book: a man who was so self assured that he didn't try to hide his personal thoughts or feelings, even in the presence of an expert. And sincerity mixed with pain is a combination that is unbelievably potent.

I sighed. "Has your wife ever ... strayed before?"

He shrugged. "She was a senior accounting student at Brown. We quite literally met passing on the street. We just stopped and stared at each other. And I asked her to get a cup of coffee. And she accepted. I don't know ... and I don't care ... if such things have ever happened to other people. It happened to us. I was instantly, hopelessly in love ... and I have been ever since. When I made love to her, a week later, I assumed that she had done it before; she seemed ... um ... accustomed to the sexual needs of a man. But it didn't matter, you see. I only wanted to please her, in any and every way possible. She never refused me anything ... that is, she never told me no; not ever. If I wanted to take her out, she went. If I wanted to make love, we did. When I wanted her to move in, we did it that same day. And, when I asked her to marry me, she never hesitated. She said yes. She always said yes." He took a breath. "In answer to your question, I didn't watch her ... I didn't monitor her time or movements, so I can't tell you with absolute certainty that she never cheated on me. But I don't ... I can't believe that she ever did, before or after the wedding. Until now."

I steepled my fingers and leaned back in my chair. "What is your wife's name?"

"Merrie." He spelled it for me. He pronounced it "Mary."

I grunted a laugh. "Tell me about the sister?"

He took a deep breath and his eyes went a little out of focus as he thought back. "She has a thin scar on her left cheek that extends to her earlobe; but that's hard to see because of the way that she ... that they both ... wear their hair. That's the only way you can tell them apart ... unless you can make them laugh. They laugh differently. There are other physical differences, but I'm sort of hoping that you won't be in a position to observe them together with their clothes off. And, of course, I only have Merrie's word for that. I met Sherrie very early in our relationship. They were roommates in college ... through the whole four years, I'm informed. Before I came along, they were inseparable. Merrie said that they rarely went out together with boys. But otherwise, I think they spent practically all of their time in each other's company ... studying together, eating together ... everything."

He paused, considering, and he looked at me as if trying to judge my discretion. But then he shrugged. "Merrie has told me that they even experimented with sex together ... lesbian experimentation, I mean. She said that they both enjoyed it, but that they always thought of themselves as hetero." He cleared his throat. "I only tell you this because ..."

"Yes," I interrupted. "I understand. Normally, I would consider that a psychological impetus ... Sherrie trying to steal your wife away from you, I mean. But you seem to think that there's another man involved. That sort of negates that theory. Who is this guy? How do you know about him? Is he involved with Merrie alone, or with both sisters?"

He shrugged. "After graduation, Sherrie moved to Boston ... with a man. But something went wrong; the relationship blew up somehow, and she came running back to Providence about a month ago. That would have been mid-December. We have plenty of room, and so there was never any question that we'd put her up with us ... at least through the holidays. It was interesting, watching them together; holding hands, touching, embracing each other, whispering in each other's ear all the time. More than once, I walked into a room and wasn't sure which of them I was seeing. They've never been able to fool me for very long, though, despite trying once or twice. I just know Merrie ... the way she thinks ... the way she is. It's as if we're tuned to the same frequency, or something." He leaned back and took a breath. "I had to go out of town on family business for a week. It's the longest we'd been apart since we met. And, when I came home, they were both gone. There was a note." He took a legal sized envelope out of an inside jacket pocket and held it up, but paused questioningly. "Are you going to ... um ... represent me in this matter?"

"If I take up this matter," I told him levelly, "I will be representing Merrie Russo. Would that be acceptable?" He smiled and nodded once. "And then," I continued, "there is the matter of compensation. What would you propose?"

He furrowed his brow. "I've never ... entered into this type of agreement before." He paused, considering. "How about a hundred thousand if you can assure me that she is psychologically healthy and emotionally happy? If you can reunite us, I'll give you a million."

I matched his nod. "In cash."

"Agreed," he said, and he flipped the envelope toward me. It landed dead center on my desk, facing me, and I studied it. It had gone through the mail, with his name and an address in Pawtucket on it, but no return address.

I didn't touch it. "What does the note say?" I asked him.

"It's Merrie's handwriting, no doubt about it. She says that she and Sherrie met a man in town; and that they decided to move in with him. It says that she wants to remain with him forever, and that she wants a divorce. It says that she's sorry, but that this is the only way. It says that she only wants to be with this man ... that she and Sherrie both want to be with him." He shrugged again. "That's about it."

"Do you know where they are?" I asked.

"I have a general idea. I've sort of taken up driving around town at all hours of the day and night. I saw her ... no, I saw one of them ... walking down Atwell's Avenue and turning north on Acorn. By the time I'd circled back, she was gone. I sat in a coffee shop near there all day yesterday, but I never saw her. Then, I remembered hearing about you."

I sighed. "Do you have a picture of her?"

"In the envelope."

"Which one? Your wife?"

He smiled sadly. "It doesn't matter."

CASE FILES - PERSONAL NOTES - PATIENTS 53 & 54 - DAY 1

From a previous client, I had acquired the services of a detective agency. In point of fact, that client had first used the agency to investigate ME; but they had done such a thorough job of it that I had gone to them when I needed such services myself (that "personal" matter I mentioned at the beginning of this narrative). Now, I had need to call them again, forwarding them the photo and the general area where Russo had spotted one of the girls.

And so it was that, scarcely twenty-four hours later, I had parked my car in a lot on Atwell's Ave and was walking north on Acorn toward an apartment building at 138 Spruce Street, where a certain Mr. Joseph Cromp had taken up residence with beautiful blonde twins. I saw no reason why I should hide my identity, or why a frontal assault was not my best course of action. As if to portend the success of this mission, I spotted one of the ladies in question climbing the steps of 138 as soon as I turned onto Acorn. With any luck, I would have one or both of these ladies under my care very, very shortly; and ... I thought that this just might be the easiest million bucks I'd ever made. Ah, how wrong that was. Before the day was over, I'd find it was almost dead wrong.

I was far enough behind her that she was nowhere to be seen when I entered the front door and started my climb up to apartment 303. Like the neighborhood, the building was clean and quiet, and everything about it said Yuppie. I passed two female residents on their way down, which proved the occupants were ethnically diverse, but that they all seemed to wear very expensive casual clothes when they went out for a morning stroll. One of the women was carrying a fold-up baby stroller while the other cuddled a baby that obviously knew its place and was acting ... well ... perfect.

I studied the door to 303 for long moments before knocking, wondering what awaited me there (and never guessing anything close to the truth). After my third knock, the door swung open, the woman I had seen earlier flew toward me, clutching both of my jacket lapels in her dainty, manicured hands, and screaming at the top of her lungs: "Save her! For God's sake, save her!"

Now, I haven't been exactly normal of late. It had only been three or four months since I'd taken up the evil mad doctoring gig, and I was beginning to wonder just how deeply I my psychosis could reside without bubbling to the surface from time to time. I suppose the average guy would be utterly taken aback by the scene that was unfolding, but somehow a tremendous calm settled over me, and I felt ... well ... methodical. The girl who was accosting me was the exact image of the picture Russo had given me. Her brownish blonde hair was cut in a long pageboy that gently caressed her shoulders. The frantic, terrified green eyes had flecks of brown that seemed to sparkle with emotion. She was slight of figure with generous breasts that jiggled enticingly as she tugged at my coat, and they shivered in her unrestrained fright. It was obvious that she wore no bra, though her chest size suggested the need to.

First things first. I reached up with my right hand and I stroked the blonde hair away from the left side of her face. The scar was faint, but noticeable, and it extended from the top of her left cheek to the lobe of her ear, which sported a ruby earring. In response to my strange action, she blinked, then said in the same high-pitched wail: "Oh, please! Please help me! She's dying!" I looked beyond her, into the apartment, and saw a female form lying on the couch. I could tell she was breathing, and she was moving, though sluggishly.

I reached up and took Sherrie's head in both of my hands, bringing her face to mine. "What will you give me?" I asked firmly.

"What?"

"If I save your sister, what will you give me?"

Her eyes searched mine questioningly for a long second. "Anything," she whispered. "Save her, and I'll give you anything I have."

Using the back of my right hand, I swept her slim body aside and strode into the apartment, looking around. The sprawled body on the couch was a carbon copy of the girl I had left in the doorway ... even the same clothing. The apartment was neat as a pin ... the only things even remotely not in their proper places being the semi-conscious girl on the couch and a note on the coffee table which said: "Bryon, my darling, my last thoughts are of you. I love you. Merrie." I turned to the girl on the couch, reached out and pinched her hard on the left arm.

She sat up. "OUCH! Gosh, that hurt! Don't ... um ... do ... that." And she slouched back to her right, her head thumping the arm of the couch. Her right hand, which had originally started moving toward the spot on her left arm that I had accosted, had been clenched in a fist, and I seized it and pried the fingers open, revealing three white capsules. I started probing the couch around her body and discovered that she was sitting on a prescription bottle of Temazepam. The label stated that they were for Ms Sherrie Blankenship, one capsule, as needed, 15 mg, 24 capsules, non-refillable. There were still three capsules in the bottle.

"Those are sleeping pills," the frantic blonde said loudly, bending over my shoulder.

I gave her a stern look. "No shit, Sherrie-lock," I growled. She blinked back at me, uncomprehending. I sighed. Obviously, she had no sense of humor. "How many have you taken?" I asked.

Now, her countenance turned sour. "I didn't take them, you fool; she did!"

I stood and faced her, reaching out and grasping her hard by the shoulders. "You little idiot. They're YOUR pills. Since you filled the prescription, how many have YOU taken?"

She blinked up at me, finally seeing my meaning. "Oh. One. Only one. You see, since we came here, I haven't needed them. Joe makes us ..."