I had been too nervous to eat, so the slice of toast I’d made earlier sat cold beside my laptop. I tossed it in the trash and grabbed the file I’d printed out before hustling out the door. I might as well benefit from my inability to sleep in and get to the hospital early.
I walked the twelve blocks to Northwestern Memorial on Huron Street. After I’d moved here from Michigan last year to study with Professor Clancy, I’d sold my car, unable to afford the insane parking rates in downtown Chicago. Besides, I could walk or hop on the “L” to easily get where I needed to be.
I took the elevator to the third floor. My legs were too tired to navigate the stairs after my early six-mile run and the twenty-minute walk to the hospital. Plus, it gave me a moment to collect my thoughts before meeting with Dr. Andrews. I hiked the laptop bag’s strap farther up on my shoulder and lifted my hair off the back of my neck, trying to cool down. The doors dinged open and I followed the signs to check in at the registration desk. The receptionist directed me to a consult room to wait for Dr. Andrews.
I sat down and grabbed the file from my bag, arranging the pages neatly on the table in front of me. The doctor was probably busy and would most likely keep me waiting awhile. Whether doctors were truly that busy or playing a head game to make them seem superior, they always seemed to keep you waiting.
I’d need to adjust to the fact that the doctor title would be added to my name in a year or so. Of course, there’s a big difference between an M.D. and a Ph.D. I had no desire to be a medical doctor. Blood and bodily fluids? Ugh, no thanks. I cringed at the thought. No, I just enjoyed academics and studying. I hadn’t really intended to get my doctorate degree, but I enjoyed college so much that I continued on after getting my undergrad in sociology and my master’s in psychology. Then because I wasn’t ready to do anything different, I applied for a Ph.D. program and here I am.
I smoothed down the edges of the papers to review the file again—even though I had it nearly memorized—just as the door swung open. I leapt to my feet and offered my hand to Dr. Andrews. He was dressed in a white lab coat and, with graying hair at his temples, he fit the conventional image of a doctor.
“Miss Drake?” He returned my handshake, pumping my hand twice.
“Yes, please call me Ashlyn.”
After exchanging pleasantries and a few stories about Professor Clancy, who Dr. Andrews knew quite well from their undergrad days at Loyola, he removed his glasses and rubbed his temples.
“I understand you’re studying the psychological effects of amnesia and would like access to one of our patients.”
“Yes, that’s correct. My goal is to complete a thesis proposal by spring term and I’d like to gather all the information I can through interviews, and…”
“Slow down. I doubt Bob, excuse me, Professor Clancy, explained it you. He could barely contain his excitement over the phone last night, but this is a very sick young man. My advice is to not make him the subject of your project. He’s dangerous, unpredictable and best left to the professionals.”
The condescending nature of his comment was like a bucket of cold water thrown in my face. All my life I’d battled people who underestimated me. People like me, who grew up in Detroit with an alcoholic, blue-collar father didn’t go on to become doctors by the age of twenty-five. That perception is exactly what drove me so hard –to prove everyone wrong.
“With all due respect, Dr. Andrews, I’m a Ph.D. student, not a high schooler working on a book report. I’ve interviewed prisoners before.” He didn’t need to know that it had been for a project in graduate school and had been done via email. “I can handle myself.”
He looked down at the floor, now aware he’d offended me. When he glanced back up, his eyes were clear, his face softer. “Listen, Bob speaks highly of you and your work, and I want to help you out, but I just wouldn’t advise studying this subject.”
“I know he’s been arrested for murder, and that doesn’t scare me. I have a thick skin, Doctor. I want to see him.”
“Very well.” He nodded. “I doubted you’d be persuaded to walk away, but I had to try. It’s clear working under Bob has rubbed off on you.” He offered a forced smile.
Professor Clancy was one of the most dedicated professors I had. He lived, ate and breathed his work. I respected the hell out of him for that.
“Here are his records, updated since he’s been in my care.” Dr. Andrews handed me a manila file folder, already thick with papers. “He’s calm right now, but we’ve had some trouble with him.”
“Trouble?” I glanced up from his file.
“He was transferred here three days ago from the county hospital. And his first morning here, he attacked a male orderly who was attempting to give him an injection.”
“What provoked the attack?”
“He was shouting, demanding information about why he’s being kept here, who he is, what we know about him. He has absolutely no memory of the murder. When the police came in to question him and showed him the crime scene photos, he broke down. After that he didn’t talk to us for two days. Then he just lost it.” He shook his head like it was that hard to believe this man would have trouble coping with a new reality. “The guy he attacked was twice his size. Needed eight stitches in his face.”
I swallowed a lump rising in my throat.
“He’s got some pent up anger and aggression. Consider that a warning about being in the same room as him, but somehow I doubt you’ll heed that advice.” He smiled at me but his concern was obvious.