Patricia Cornwell - Predator

“Huh,” he says. “Good thing we hurried up and finished on time. Hate for you to keep someone waiting.”

“Would you like to pay me at our next appointment?”

It is Dr. Self’s way of reminding him that he owes her three hundred dollars.

“Yeah, yeah. I forgot my checkbook,” he replies.

Of course he did. He isn’t about to owe her money. He will be back.

Bentonparks his Porsche in a visitor’s slot outside tall metal fencing that is curved like a breaking wave and topped with coils of razor wire. Guard towers rise starkly against the cold, overcast sky from each corner of the grounds. Parked in a side lot are unmarked white vans with steel dividers, no windows and no interior locks, mobile holding cells used to transport prisoners like Basil off-grounds.

ButlerStateHospitalis eight stories of precast and steel-mesh-covered windows on twenty acres amid woods and ponds less than an hour southwest ofBoston. Butler is where offenders are committed by reason of insanity and is considered a model of enlightenment and civility with pods called cottages, each one housing patients requiring different levels of security and attention. D Cottage stands alone not far from the administration building, and houses approximately one hundred dangerous predatory inmates.

Segregated from the rest of the hospital population, they spend most of the day, depending on their status, in single cells, each with its own shower that can be used ten minutes per day. Toilets can be flushed twice an hour. A team of forensic psychiatrists is assigned to D Pod, and other mental health and legal professionals such asBentonare in and out regularly.Butleris supposed to be humane and constructive, a place to get well. ToBenton, it is nothing more than attractive maximum-security confinement for people who can never be repaired. He has no illusions. People like Basil have no lives and never did. They ruin lives and always will, given the chance.

Inside the beige-painted lobby,Bentonapproaches a bulletproof window and speaks through an intercom.

“How you doing, George?”

“No better than last time you asked.”

“Sorry to hear that,”Bentonsays as a loud metallic click grants him entrance through the first set of airlocked doors. “That mean you haven’t gotten around to seeing your doctor yet?”

The door shuts behind him and he places his briefcase on a small metal table. George is in his sixties and never feels well. He hates his job. He hates his wife. He hates the weather. He hates politicians and, when he can, removes the photograph of the governor from the wall in the lobby. For the past year, he has struggled with extreme fatigue, stomach problems and achiness. He also hates doctors.

“I’m not taking medicine, so what’s the point? That’s all doctors do anymore is throw drugs at you,” George says as he searchesBenton’s briefcase and returns it to him. “Your pal’s in the usual spot. Have fun.”

Another click andBentonsteps through a second steel door, and a guard in a tan-and-brown uniform, Geoff, leads him along a polished hallway, passing through another set of airlock doors into the high-security unit where lawyers and mental-health workers meet with inmates in small, windowless rooms made of cinder block.

“Basil says he’s not getting his mail,”Bentonsays.

“He says a lot of things,” Geoff replies without smiling. “All he does is run his mouth.”

He unlocks a gray steel door and holds it open.

“Thanks,”Bentonsays.

“I’ll be right outside.” Geoff fires a look at Basil, shuts the door.

He sits at a small wooden table and doesn’t get up. He is unrestrained and wears his usual prison garb of blue pants, white T-shirt and flip-flops with socks. His eyes are bloodshot and distracted, and he stinks.

“How are you, Basil?”Bentonasks, taking a seat across from him.

“I had a bad day.”

“That’s what I hear. Tell me.”

“I’m feeling anxious.”

“How are you sleeping?”

“I was awake most of the night. I kept thinking about our talk.”

“You seem fidgety,”Bentonsays.

“I can’t sit still. It’s because of what I told you. I need something, Dr. Wesley. I need some Ativan or something. Have you looked at the pictures yet?”

“What pictures?”

“The ones of my brain. You must have. I know you’re curious. Everybody over there is curious, right?” he says with a nervous smile.

“Is that what you wanted to see me about?”

“Pretty much. And I want my mail. They won’t give it to me and I can’t sleep or eat, I’m so upset and stressed. Maybe some Ativan, too. I hope you’ve thought about it.”

“About?”

“What I told you about that lady who got killed.”

“The lady in The Christmas Shop.”

“Ten-four.”

“Yes, I have been thinking quite a lot about what you told me, Basil,” Benton says, as if he accepts that what Basil told him is true.

He can never let on when he thinks a patient is lying. In this instance, he’s not sure Basil is, not at all.

“Let’s go back to that day in July, two and a half years ago,”Bentonsays.

It bothers Marino that Dr. Self shut the door behind him and wasted no time flipping the deadbolt, as if he is the one she is locking out.

He is insulted by the gesture and what it implies. He always is. She doesn’t care about him. He’s just an appointment. She is glad he is out of her way and she won’t have to subject herself to his company for another week, and then it will be for fifty minutes and fifty minutes only, not a second more, even if he’s quit his medicine.

That stuff is shit. He couldn’t have sex. What good is an antidepressant if you can’t have sex. You want to be depressed, take an antidepressant that ruins sex.

He stands outside the locked door on her sunporch, staring rather dazedly at the two pale-green cushioned chairs and the green glass table with its stack of magazines. He has read the magazines, all of them, because he is always early for his appointments. That bothers him, too. He would prefer to be late, to stroll in as if he has better things to do than show up for a shrink, but if he is late, he loses those minutes, and he can’t afford to lose even one minute when every minute counts and is costly.

Six dollars a minute, to be exact. Fifty minutes and not a minute more, not a second more. She isn’t going to add a minute or two for good measure or goodwill or for any reason. He could threaten to kill himself and she is going to glance at her watch and say, We’ve got to stop. He could tell her about killing someone and be right in the middle of it, about to pull the trigger, and she is going to say, We’ve got to stop.

Aren’t you curious? He has asked her in the past. How can you just end it right here when I haven’t even gotten to the good part yet?

You’ll tell me the rest of the story next time, Pete. She always smiles.

Maybe I won’t. You’re lucky I’m telling you, period. A lot of people would pay money to hear the whole story, the God’s-truth story.

Next time.

Forget it. There ain’t gonna be a next time.

She won’t argue with him when it is time to stop. No matter what he does to steal another minute or two, she gets up and opens the door and waits for him to walk out so she can lock it behind him. There is no negotiating when it is time to stop. Six dollars a minute for what? To be insulted. He doesn’t know why he comes back.

He stares at the small, kidney-shaped pool with its colorful Spanish-tile border. He stares at orange and grapefruit trees heavy with fruit, stares at the red-painted stripes around the trunks of them.

Twelve hundred dollars each month. Why does he do it? He could buy one of those Dodge trucks with the V-10 Viper engine. He could buy a lot of things for twelve hundred bucks a month.