...

The next morning Dr. Harmon found his way to the kitchen thanks to tips from some of the lesser-ranking nuns in the asylum. They'd told him he could find who he was looking for there and he did just that.

"Sister Jude," Ben smiled at the nun as he approached the table where she was overseeing some of the more reliable patients shaping buns from pre-kneaded dough. "I've been looking for you."

The older woman turned a critical eye on him. "I'm a very busy woman," she said. She'd heard from Sister Mary Eunice that the doctor wanted to speak with her but she hadn't made it a priority to give him her time. "What is it?"

Not to be put off by her brusque attitude, Ben said, "I wanted to speak with you about the prisoner who was brought here. Tate Langdon?"

Sister Jude huffed a short, derisive laugh. "What about him?"

"Well, I was wanting to meet with him."

"Why?" The nun eyed him again, more keenly this time. "He's already seeing a doctor."

"I understand that," said Dr. Harmon. "But you have to agree his is an unusual case. I would like a chance to-"

"Pick his brain and see what makes him tick," Sister Jude finished his sentence for him. She dusted flour from her fingers and fixed him with a stern look. "This isn't a sideshow, doctor. It is a place of redemption and rehabilitation. Tate Langdon is already under a psychiatrist's care. If you want to be involved in the young man's treatment, you'll have to speak with Dr. Thredson."

Ben felt a prickle of irritation at her swift dismissal. "You wouldn't object though?"

She folded her hands and the thinnest smile appeared on her pale lips. "No. But then I don't believe any of you 'shrinks' can help him. What that young man needs is spiritual cleansing."

Dr. Harmon stared at her for a moment, incredulous. He thought she was joking but in the admittedly short amount of time he'd known her, he'd never heard her joke - about anything. "And what sort of cleansing do you propose, Sister? Caning? Dousing? Trial by fire?" He tacked on a smile so the words would lose a little of their insulting undertone.

"You have your methods," said Sister Jude, eyes flashing angrily. "We have ours. And mind the egotism, doctor. Pride goeth before the fall."

She turned away from him then and went back to monitoring and correcting the methods the patients were using to shape the bread. The conversation was effectively over but Ben had gotten what he wanted-at least he'd gotten one step closer to his goal.

...

Keys jingling in the door woke Tate. He had no idea what time it was but the cell was brighter so he reckoned it must be morning. Patrick brought in a tray of what looked like scrambled eggs and toast. Tate was relieved to see there wasn't a clear plastic cup of liquid on the tray. Instead next to the metal cup this time there was a short plastic dish that held pills in it.

"Breakfast," the orderly said.

"No poison today," Tate noted.

The comment earned a hint of a smile from the man as he set the tray on the cabinet. "No, not today," he said. "Your doctor wants you taking these instead of the standard." He tapped the pill container. "Enjoy."

Then he left Tate to examine the contents of the tray. The meal was unappetizing at best. He picked up the little plastic cup and poked a finger in it to stir the pills around. There was a smallish round white one, a round blue one, big oblong gray one and a clear yellow blister pill. He thought the white one might be a painkiller but he wasn't sure about the others. What he was certain about was that he wasn't going to take what he didn't know.

Cautiously he sniffed the contents of the metal cup and, when he was satisfied that it was just water, he took the white pill with a gulp from the cup. The liquid was indeed water and it tasted like the metal container it was in. The other pills he held onto as he looked around the room for a place to hide them. The room was small and very short on furnishings. Apart from the cabinet and bed, there was a lone chair and nothing else. He got up, wincing as his battered backside protested. It hurt to move.

Forcing himself to ignore the dull pain, he eyed his bed up and down. Pillow and case, thin mattress, top sheet and blanket. Not much to work with there. He glanced toward the window set into the door to make sure no one was watching then he stripped the linens off the bed, leaving them in a small pile. Then he went over the narrow mattress from top to bottom, even the underside. It was old and stained and he eventually found what he was looking for: A small rip in one seam.

Working quickly, he used his fingers to widen the rip. When it was big enough he shoved the three remaining pills into it. Once that was done he quickly replaced the bedclothes, not wanting to raise suspicion. By then the pill he'd already swallowed was starting to kick in. He'd guessed right: It was a codeine painkiller. He'd had enough of those in his time to recognize the effects. It eased his persistent headache and made the welts on his ass and legs less troublesome.

He ate his breakfast standing up rather than risk sitting on the hard chair. He finished all of the meal despite the fact that it was a far cry from home cooking. He was just polishing off the last of the toast when keys were at the door again. Tate pulled his hospital gown closed and looked over. It was a stout dark-haired man in white, one of the orderlies who'd subdued him the previous day.

"Doctor Thredson wants to see you," the man said.

...

"Please have a seat," said the doctor when Tate was brought in. He motioned to the pair of chairs before his desk.

Tate hesitated. Even though his pain had lessened, he wasn't sure sitting would work out so well. Oliver noted the hesitation and his bushy dark brows knit.

"Something wrong?"

"Nah." Tate forced a smile.

He lowered himself into a chair, trying to make the motion look easy even though he was attempting to be careful. It hurt to rest his weight on his backside so he perched on the edge of the chair, putting as little of himself in contact with the hard seat as he could.

The doctor stared at him. "What's the matter?"

"Sister Jude introduced me to her idea of... correction last night," Tate said, choosing his words carefully. He wanted to make it sound like it didn't bother him. "The old bitch really has an arm on her. They should lend her out to the Red Sox as a relief pitcher."

Oliver frowned. He had been at the asylum long enough to infer what the young man meant. "I'm sorry to hear that," he said with genuine sympathy. "What happened?"

He wasn't prying out of curiosity's sake; he wanted to be able to discuss the matter with the nun later and the more information he had, the better armed he would be.

Tate didn't really want to discuss it but it was a less sensitive topic than the punishment was. "I was jerking off."

"Oh," said the doctor with muted surprise. "I see."

He reached for his cigarettes and offered one to his patient. Tate took one and was grateful when Dr. Thredson got up this time to light it for him. The teen didn't want to have to get up and sit back down again.

"So what'd you want to see me about?" asked Tate. "Not me jerking off, I hope."

"No," Dr Thredson said with a soft laugh. His expression got seriously quickly. "I wanted to let you know that I've made my diagnosis."

"And?" asked Tate, exhaling smoke slowly. It felt good to smoke the cigarette. Better than ever, thanks to the painkiller.

Dr. Thredson gazed at him seriously through the horn-rimmed glasses he wore. "I believe you're suffering from paranoid schizophrenia following an acute psychotic episode. I've made my recommendation to the senior staff that you should be kept here indefinitely, pending treatment."

Tate's expression collapsed slowly, working through a myriad of subtle looks before settling on muted outrage. Oliver thought he saw fear there as well.

"Kept here indefinitely? What's that supposed to mean?" the teenager asked.

The doctor hesitated, sensing he needed to handle the next few moments delicately. "Well. You're not fit to stand trial. Your perception of what is real and what actually is real aren't... aligned. It's my hope that with extended treatment, we can help you learn how to cope with the way your mind works, but..."

"But what?" Tate prompted, eyeing him.

Dr. Thredson had another drag from his cigarette, then put it out though there was still more than half of it left. He wanted his hands free, just in case. "Well. There's no cure for your condition. "

"What?" Tate was on his feet. "You mean you're going to keep me here forever?!"

"I didn't say that," Oliver said, in a deliberately soothing tone. He rose as well, making slow movements so as not to set his patient off. "But it's realistic to acknowledge that you may never get well enough to stand trial."

"You can't keep me here forever!" Tate shouted, suddenly livid. After what had happened last night, the prospect of being trapped in the asylum for the rest of his life was overwhelming. He dropped the cigarette and slammed both fists down on the desk. "You can't make me stay here!"

"Tate, please calm down." The doctor's tone was steady despite his racing heart.

Two orderlies crowded into the room, drawn by the noise. Tate saw them and knew they were there to restrain him, an idea that didn't suit him in the least.

"You can't do this!" he yelled.

As they reached for him, the young man ducked, weaving between their arms with amazing dexterity. He saw a chance and bolted for the door. He thought he might actually reach it but one of the white-dressed men tackled him just like a football player would. Tate hit the concrete floor hard, teeth cutting into his lower lip. He tasted blood.

"You can't keep me here!" he wailed, all dignity flown. Tears burned his eyes and blurred his vision. "I can't stay here!"

"Take him to the seclusion room," Dr. Thredson told the men in white, unable to keep the disappointment from his words. "Give him twenty-five milligrams of Librium. Put him in a straight jacket until he calms down."

The men hauled the struggling teen up from the floor. Tate yelled and kicked and fought as best he could but they were too strong and too committed to putting him someplace where he wouldn't be a threat to anyone.

As the patient's cries faded in the distance, Oliver marveled at how worked up Tate had gotten despite the combination of medication he'd been prescribed. Thredson would have to re-evaluate dosages and possibly the medication itself.

He sighed and picked up the cigarette Tate had dropped on the floor, glad the flooring was concrete. Snuffing the cigarette in the ashtray, he wondered what his next step would be. He hadn't even gotten to the part about discussing treatment with his patient.

...

"Dr. Thredson?"

Oliver looked up from the papers on his desk. He had been so engrossed in Tate's case file that he hadn't heard his door open.

"I hope I'm not interrupting," Ben said, coming all the way in.

Unlike Oliver, who wore a simple dark tweed suit and a plain black tie with a gold-tone clip, Dr. Harmon was dressed more casually in a navy blue turtleneck sweater and black slacks. His style and demeanor put Thredson in mind of the 50's beat poets.

"Is there something I can help you with?"

Encouraged, Ben came over to his desk and seated himself in one of the two wooden chairs before it. "We haven't had a real chance to talk," he said. "How are you settling in?"

A brief, humorless smile touched Oliver's lips. "As well as can be expected, considering the environs."

"It can be a rough adjustment for some," said Ben.

"Doctor Harmon-"

"Ben, please."

"Ben." Oliver offered another tight, brief smile. "Is there something you want?" He wasn't buying that this was just a social visit, no matter how casual and friendly the other man seemed.

Called out, Ben decided to dispense with the pleasantries. No sense beating around the bush if the other guy wasn't game for it. "I understand you've recently taken on the clock tower shooter as your patient."

The insight sharpened Oliver's focus and put him on guard. "Yes."

"How're things going with that?"

Thredson folded his hands on his desk. "I'm not sure I understand what you mean."

"I heard you had to have him sedated earlier," said Ben. He was watching the other man attentively, a contradiction to the easy manner he projected with his body language.

"Yes, that's correct," said Oliver without stirring. "Unfortunately he had a bit of a meltdown during our session, but he's under control now."

"Huh." Ben rubbed the short stubble that fuzzed his chin. "Well, if it'd help, I'd be happy to sit in on future sessions with you. Give you a hand."

"Thank you for the kind offer, Doctor Harmon," Oliver smiled tightly. "But I think it would be best for Tate, right now, if we keep things one-on-one. Gaining his trust at this stage is essential and I think having more people involved in his treatment will undermine that goal."

That response didn't please Ben. The warmth in his blue eyes cooled significantly but still he smiled. "Well, I hope you'll reconsider," he said as he got up. "I've done ground-breaking work with psychotics and schizophrenics."

"I'll keep that in mind."

Ben lingered for a moment longer, then said: "I'll leave you to your files. But let me know if you change your mind."

Once he left, Oliver let the fake smile drop. He didn't care for the other doctor's interest in his patient. He was used to running a private practice and didn't like the prospect of other therapists tinkering with what he considered to be his personal project. He lit a cigarette and looked back down at the papers on his desk, trying to decide how to proceed next.

...

"Something on your mind?" Vivien asked her husband at dinner. "You've hardly touched your food."

Ben forced his thoughts on the present; on his lovely honey-haired wife and her concerned smile. "There's a new patient at the asylum."

Violet suddenly found the conversation interesting. A bit Bohemian in style and spirit, she was an avid reader and followed current events. She already knew who her father was talking about.

"The clock tower shooter?" she asked, fork poised mid-air above the slice of half-eaten meatloaf on her plate.

Ben gave her a puzzled look. "You know about him?"

"Know about him, dad?" she said incredulously. "He's all over the news. Everyone knows about him... and where they took him. Is he your patient?"

"Yes and no," the man hedged. Tate wasn't his patient yet, but he aimed to change that.

"Far out." Violet shook her head and stuck her fork in her meatloaf. "I should get a job at the hospital too."

"What?" Vivien said, surprised.

"Why?" said Ben.

Violet looked around the square Formica-topped table at her folks. "Well, you both work there. Why shouldn't I? I could get a job as a candy-striper. Don't they have those at Briarcliff? Then we could call it the family business."

"No," said Ben, frowning now. "It's not a safe job for you."

"But it's safe enough for you and mom?" his daughter countered boldly.

"Your mother's only there a couple of times a month to present music therapy to the most stable patients," Ben reasoned.

"You're there every day of the week," said Violet, unmoved.

"I'm a man," he stated.

The response prompted an eye-roll from the teen. "You are so stuck in the fifties, dad."

"And I'm your father," he went on, not listening to her lament. "It's my job to look out for you."

"Yeah, right," the girl muttered and went back to carving up her dinner. It left him with a view of the top of her black beret. "Next thing you'll be telling me is I can't iron my hair. Way to be oppressive, dad."

"You know I wouldn't tell you that," he responded. "I'm not trying to stifle you, Vi. I just don't think it's safe for you there."

He looked to Vivien for back up but she just shrugged and dished out some more mashed potatoes. She didn't argue with him, though, and that was almost as good as agreement.

"Instead of thinking about a job," he said. "You ought to think about college. You're so bright, sweetheart, higher learning would be a cinch for you. It'd open up doors to all kinds of employment opportunities later."

"Except the job I want now," the girl grumbled.

Ben shrugged and dug into his dinner. The college subject was one they had gone several rounds over in the past. They would likely go several more in the future.

...

Author's Note:

True fact: Most mental hospitals back in the day would accept volunteers because the inmates outnumbered the medical staff. Some facilities even used prisoners as orderlies and guards.

Also true: You can still get into the medical profession by walking into places like dental offices and offering to sterilize tools for free. It's called 'field training'. It's basically like an apprenticeship and means more than any trade school education.

Next time: Tate meets some more of the crazies.