Joe Gribble - Darkest Edge

Dr. Drexel lifted her hands to Mark’s neck.

Mark pulled back, alarmed. It wasn’t the first time a subject of one of his stories had threatened him, but she was a doctor, for crying out loud.

“Easy,” Dr. Drexel said.

Mark relaxed as Dr. Drexel’s soft, warm hands first squeezed the muscles at the base of his neck, then continued to massage his neck and shoulders in her skilled hands.

“Hmmm,” Dr. Drexel said. She released his neck and went around to her desk chair.

At first Mark hadn’t realized he had closed his eyes at her gentle, relaxing manipulation. He opened them quickly when she stopped. Much too soon.

Dr. Drexel waved at the other chairs. “Please. Sit.” As she sat, Dr. Drexel pulled a prescription pad and ink-stamp from her lab coat pocket. “I don’t usually do this without a full exam, but it’s obvious you need something.” She wrote something, then pressed the ink-stamp on it. She tore the prescription from the pad and handed it to Mark. “Should help you sleep.”

Mark reached for the paper, but Dr. Drexel pulled it back before he could take it. “You have to promise me you’ll get that check-up, though.”

“Thanks, and I will,” Mark said.

Drexel gave Mark the prescription.

Mark folded the paper and stuffed it into his pocket. “About your father…”

“Again with the rumors?” Dr. Drexel cut him off. “It sounds like you’d rather rehash old stories than talk about the closing of this great institution.”

“Sorry, but I have to go where the story leads,” Mark said.

“I’m afraid I can’t discuss my father. Particularly anything that resulted in litigation. Lawyers, you know. They have rules.”

“Can you tell me anything about his time here? When did he start?” Mark asked.

“He started as an intern in seventy-two. He spent his entire career here. Retired in two-thousand-seven.”

“A psychologist?” Mark asked.

“Psychiatrist. He specialized in what we now call post-traumatic stress disorder. Back then, it didn’t even have a name.”

“Isn’t that mostly a problem soldiers have?” Mark asked.

“You’ve heard of the Vietnam war?” Drexel answered. “He had no shortage of patients.”

Mark glanced back at Ellen. The light on the camera indicated it was still running. “What about his treatment techniques?” Mark asked Drexel.

Dr. Drexel’s phone beeped. “I can’t discuss my father’s treatments,” she said. She took her phone out of her other lab coat pocket to check it. “His treatments were often ground-breaking, but a bit controversial.” She looked at her phone. “I have to go.”

“They were never approved, were they? His procedures?” Mark asked.

Drexel stood and urged Mark and Ellen toward the office door. She followed them out and closed her door behind them.

Dr. Drexel stared hard at Mark: “Given where this so-called ‘report’ of yours about the closing of this great hospital appears to be headed, I’m afraid I have to limit your access. You’ll need to have an escort if you want to look around anymore.” Drexel typed in a quick text to the receptionist, ordering her to make sure the reporters were escorted at all times while in the hospital, then pointed down the hall toward the receptionist area. “Please check with the receptionist on your way out. She’s expecting you.”

“Are you sure this is how you want this to go?” Mark asked.

Drexel stared at him, not answering.

Finally, Mark gave up. “Okay. Come on, Ellen.”

Drexel watched as Mark an Ellen walked down the hallway.

Ellen lowered the camera and followed Mark down the hall. Mark whispered to Ellen once he was sure Drexel couldn’t hear them. “We have to find Dr. Drexel’s father. He’s the key.”

Once Dr. Drexel was sure the reporters were truly going to the receptionist, she turned and walked down the hallway. She dialed a number on her phone and held it to her ear.

Scott sat in his small office down the hallway. His feet were up on his small desk as he played a game on his phone, sound coming to him through his earphones. His thoughts kept drifting back to the previous night with Ellen, and he kept losing concentration.

“Yes,” Dr. Drexel heard the answer on her phone. She stopped walking, glancing up and down the hallway to see if anyone was near enough to hear her conversation. There were only a couple of orderlies in sight, and they were too far away to hear. “The reporters were back. They were asking about you,” she said.

Scott noticed a shadow outside his partially open door. He pulled the earplugs out of his ears. He looked furtively about, got up and moved closer to the door. He heard Dr. Drexel’s voice clearly.

“I agree. But what?” she said.

There was a brief pause.

“All right. I’ll convene the team,” she said.

Scott heard Dr. Drexel’s sharp footsteps head down the hallway.

Mark waited at a table in the Italian restaurant Alicia had recommended, nursing a scotch and water. The place was slightly crowded, but a couple of tables sat empty near him. Mark was looking over at the old streetcar, a functional decoration inside the restaurant that even held a few tables, when he saw Alicia come in.

She came straight to his table and sat down. “Hi, Mark. Have you ordered yet?”

“Just a drink,” Mark said. He held up his glass. “Do you want something?”

A server stepped up to the table. “Ms. Russo, good to see you this afternoon.”

“Hi, Randy,” Alicia said. She looked over at Mark, then back at the server. “I’ll take a diet soda. And lasagna for both of us.”

“Of course,” the server said. “I’ll put the order right in.” He walked away.

“You’ll love the lasagna,” Alicia told Mark. “I promise.”

“I’m sure I will,” Mark said as he sipped his drink.

“Rodney said you were in the archives until two this morning,” Alicia said.

Mark nodded.

“Find anything?” she asked.

Mark took another sip of his drink. “You can’t use it. Not yet, anyway.”

“Promise,” Alicia said. “We won’t print anything until your story is out.”

“Fair enough,” Mark said. He lowered his voice as a hostess led a man and woman past them to another table. “There’s a group of doctors who worked at the hospital in the fifties, sixties, and seventies. They treated combat stress. There were several lawsuits against them.”

“Medical lawsuits? That’s really not all that unusual,” Alicia said.

Mark paused as the server brought Alicia’s diet drink. He waited for the server to leave.

“No, but in the sixties it was very unusual to settle out of court, and all these were settled.”

“That’s not much to base a story on,” Alicia said.

“It’s a start. I confronted the administrator, Dr. Natalie Drexel. Her father, Dr. Hans Drexel, was one of the old doctors.”

“Did she confirm anything?”

Mark shook his head no. “Not at all. In fact, she got pretty defensive… Which tells me something is there.”

“Sounds like you have some more digging to do,” Alicia said.

“Already working on it.”

“I’m sure,” Alicia said. “Let me know if you need any help.”

The server brought their salads, briefly interrupting their conversation.

After he left, Alicia took a bite of her salad, then asked: “Are you going to visit her grave?”

Mark’s fork stopped half way to his mouth. He wondered where in the hell that came from. “Huh?”

“Your sister. You didn’t make the funeral,” Alicia said.

“How did you know about her?” Mark asked.

“I don’t let people go digging around in my archives without finding out something about them. Especially some TV reporter from Chicago who said he used to live here.”