Cry From the Grave
Prologue: The Nave of Ruin
Twenty years ago
The phone beeped, barely registering with Bekah Jensen on this cool November afternoon. Desperate to finish scribbling a message lest she forgot, she ignored the sound of the second ring. She finished the inscription with a flourish and set the paper on top of a set of file folders to her left. Scanning the waiting room to make sure no one would approach and interrupt things, she wrapped her fingers lightly around the phone handle and cradled it to her ear.
"Delmar Psychiatric Clinic," she voiced with trained, stilted professionalism. "This is Bekah. How may I help you?"
The sounds on the other end of the line came out in a broken series of chokes and sobs. Bekah rolled her eyes, looking at the clock on the wall. Three-thirty, she thought. Not late enough. And I can just guess who this is.
"Can I help you?" she pressed. The caller was obviously in acute distress, worked into a dramatic lather. She looked at the caller ID. Of course, she groaned within herself. I could be here all afternoon.
"Ye...yes, Bekah, it's me..." the voice began. "It's Dave. Dave Trafford. I was wondering if I could come in...in to se...to see Dr. Hibbler." The heavy racking breaths were pregnant with anxiety, going puff, puff, puff like an overweight couch potato running a mile.
Great, thought Bekah. Her mind spun through her Rolodex of excuses for her boss. Dr. Hibbler, determined to get a move on toward his weekend of goose hunting, had left the office early so he could speed onward to Oklahoma. No one was to disturb him, he had mentioned curtly on his way out the door. Only clearly potential suicide threats were to be patched through to him. That was information, though, that Dave Trafford--eccentric, twentysomething schizophrenia patient--could not have.
"You aren't scheduled for today, are you, Dave?" asked Bekah, rustling some papers in the empty receptionist area to give every impression she was searching furtively for the appointment book. Of course, they booked times on the computer but she doubted if Trafford ever noticed that.
"No...I'm not," slurred Trafford. "I was...just wondering if I could come in and...and while in there I could...get my Clozapine prescription redone. I'm out and I really need to stock up again."
Bekah hesitated. If this was a true crisis, she didn't want to jettison Trafford to the demons of his illness. Her mind whisked through her options before she recalled a necessary measure certain to be a roadblock. "Dave, have you had your white blood cell and neutrophil counts checked? That is a requirement, after all. Every four weeks."
She had him. The silence was palpable from the other end, and Trafford sheepishly panted, a clear sign his anxiety was kicking in. "Um, no...I mean, well...No, I haven't."
She shook her head sadly, actually feeling a rare surge of compassion for him. "I'm sorry, Dave. But you know the requirement. And it's a point on which we have to toe the line; otherwise, we get into trouble."
She heard sniffling, another choke, and then his voice again. "I'm scared. I just...I can't live with it...knowing they will get me."
This was truly above her pay grade, thought Bekah. Hibbler would be in the next state in less than five hours and the on-call psychiatrist was no one she'd trust with Dave Trafford's treatment. She looked at the clock, craned her neck, and felt something loosen. "Listen, Dave. I truly am sorry. Dr. Hibbler is not here, but you know...Thanksgiving week and all. If something is going on and you need help now, you know the standard procedure when no one is here. Call 9-1-1 or get to the nearest hospital. You're three miles from DePaul, of course. That's what you need to do."
There was another pained silence on the other end, so dead and cold that Bekah Jensen was positive he'd hung up the phone. She counted to ten, her normal modus operandi in these situations, and began to pull the phone from her ear when Trafford said, "Okay...okay...I just need help."
Bekah realized she's been holding her own breath. "Good. Good," she said quietly. It was then that a horrible thought struck her. "Dave, are you going to have someone take you? Your parents? Your sister, perhaps? Or do I need to call the hospital and have someone come get you?"
"I don't know...I don't know," Trafford began pleading, and Bekah could sense the fear bubbling in his voice like boiling water. "I can't...Someone will kill me...A knife...A gun...It doesn't matter."
"What?" exclaimed Bekah. She swore under her breath, angry she was having to deal with this. Just three weeks ago, she got stuck on the phone with one of Dr. Sanders' patients who cursed the election results when Bill Clinton defeated George Bush. "Mr. Trafford," she said urgently, standing from her chair, hoping a tone of formality would snap him into action.
"Mr. Trafford!" she shouted. A film of sweat glistened on her forehead.
Nothing.
Two minutes later, Dr. Dean Hibbler had put the last of his guns and ammunition in the trunk of his Saab. One of the area's younger and more gifted psychiatrists, he nonetheless displayed a propensity for more time spent vacationing than in professional development. His car had been serviced the previous Friday, and a full tank of gas meant he would get to his college roommate's house in Tulsa without stopping. From there, it would be a jaunt over to the small town of Jet, "The Goose Hunting Capital of the World". Tired of the wear and tear of seeing patients during this holiday season, he was glad for a respite from phobias, neuroses, and the occasional split personality. There were times when he wondered why he stuck around the Delmar clinic, although his staggering medical school loans and his recent divorce tethered him to this profession for its lucrative nature.
Taking one more pass through his Richmond Heights home near Tilles Park, he checked each room, making sure all lights were out and the back door locked. It was when he returned through the den his phone rang. Groaning at the prospect of putting out one last fire at the office, he snatched the handle and lifted it to his right temple, mouthing an annoyed greeting.
"Dr. Hibbler," came the voice of Bekah Jensen. "I'm sorry to bug you, and I hope you haven't left yet..."
"On my way out the door," Hibbler answered in a clipped tone.
"It's just that Dave Trafford called," Bekah continued undaunted. "he sounds like he's going to do something to himself. Something harmful."
"Harmful?" asked the doctor. "Is he threatening to kill himself?"
"No, sir. At least he never said that. But he seems to be having strange ideas. That someone might be coming after him to kill him. He said he needed his medication refilled. And he might truly be out of it. But I remembered that since he has Clozapine, we need him to follow protocol and do this month's white blood count. I know that much about him. And I'm no nurse but I am in the know about regulations on blood tests."
Hibbler looked at the time displayed on his Rolex. Five minutes later than he wanted to depart. The last thing I need is this, he thought. "Bekah?"
"Yes, sir."
"You did the right thing by not bringing him in. Did you tell him to head to a hospital? Something like DePaul?"
"Yes, sir. That's closest to him."
"Good suggestion, Bekah. They'd have a behavioral health department."
"I offered. I asked if his family could help. He hung up."
Hibbler was beside himself now. All he wanted was some peace and quiet as he shoved off for several days under the open sky. He knew he'd entered this profession with noble intentions, but that was before the clinginess of his clientele overwhelmed such gallant, fleeting purposes. Before he knew it, he heard a spew of frustrations from depths unknown. It was a voice. His voice.
"I swear, I wish he'd just go away!"
The reverberations of his howl hung in the air for a few seconds. He held his breath, for Bekah did not respond for some time. Only by her inadvertent hiccup on the other end of the line could he confirm she was still listening.
"Bekah," he said. "Tomorrow morning, try to confirm with a few local hospitals that he's tried to check in. If he doesn't, then maybe his crisis has passed. Sometimes these things are done for attention, nothing more. Then, for heaven's sake, just get out of that office by noon tomorrow and have a decent holiday."
"I will, sir," replied Bekah, pausing for any additional instructions. But Hibbler had hung up the phone. He passed through the kitchen to grab a six-pack of soda for the road when he heard the phone ring again. He shook his head as he continued out the door.
"I wish you'd just go away."
Ninety seconds later, he turned onto McKnight Road, harboring visions of blue skies on the Oklahoma prairie.
The police found him early Wednesday morning, shortly before three o'clock, sprawled lifelessly in a flowerbed on the south edge of Tower Grove Park. The tire marks yards away on Arsenal Street gave the cops the distinct impression that local youths had been up to their usual midnight racing chicanery. Dave Trafford's femur had been brutally shattered, presumably by one of the speeding vehicles. His spleen was ruptured and his skull apparently cracked on impact with the pavement. Detectives guessed he must have somehow crawled into the park where he expired moments later. The agonizing death enveloped him quickly, his glassy eyes seemingly pleading for more time, more help, and more pity. What he was doing there was anyone's guess, though at his funeral days later many whispered his afflictions and visions had finally driven him to his soul's tragic departure.
Great, thought Bekah. Her mind spun through her Rolodex of excuses for her boss. Dr. Hibbler, determined to get a move on toward his weekend of goose hunting, had left the office early so he could speed onward to Oklahoma. No one was to disturb him, he had mentioned curtly on his way out the door. Only clearly potential suicide threats were to be patched through to him. That was information, though, that Dave Trafford--eccentric, twentysomething schizophrenia patient--could not have.
"You aren't scheduled for today, are you, Dave?" asked Bekah, rustling some papers in the empty receptionist area to give every impression she was searching furtively for the appointment book. Of course, they booked times on the computer but she doubted if Trafford ever noticed that.
"No...I'm not," slurred Trafford. "I was...just wondering if I could come in and...and while in there I could...get my Clozapine prescription redone. I'm out and I really need to stock up again."
Bekah hesitated. If this was a true crisis, she didn't want to jettison Trafford to the demons of his illness. Her mind whisked through her options before she recalled a necessary measure certain to be a roadblock. "Dave, have you had your white blood cell and neutrophil counts checked? That is a requirement, after all. Every four weeks."
She had him. The silence was palpable from the other end, and Trafford sheepishly panted, a clear sign his anxiety was kicking in. "Um, no...I mean, well...No, I haven't."
She shook her head sadly, actually feeling a rare surge of compassion for him. "I'm sorry, Dave. But you know the requirement. And it's a point on which we have to toe the line; otherwise, we get into trouble."
She heard sniffling, another choke, and then his voice again. "I'm scared. I just...I can't live with it...knowing they will get me."
This was truly above her pay grade, thought Bekah. Hibbler would be in the next state in less than five hours and the on-call psychiatrist was no one she'd trust with Dave Trafford's treatment. She looked at the clock, craned her neck, and felt something loosen. "Listen, Dave. I truly am sorry. Dr. Hibbler is not here, but you know...Thanksgiving week and all. If something is going on and you need help now, you know the standard procedure when no one is here. Call 9-1-1 or get to the nearest hospital. You're three miles from DePaul, of course. That's what you need to do."
There was another pained silence on the other end, so dead and cold that Bekah Jensen was positive he'd hung up the phone. She counted to ten, her normal modus operandi in these situations, and began to pull the phone from her ear when Trafford said, "Okay...okay...I just need help."
Bekah realized she's been holding her own breath. "Good. Good," she said quietly. It was then that a horrible thought struck her. "Dave, are you going to have someone take you? Your parents? Your sister, perhaps? Or do I need to call the hospital and have someone come get you?"
"I don't know...I don't know," Trafford began pleading, and Bekah could sense the fear bubbling in his voice like boiling water. "I can't...Someone will kill me...A knife...A gun...It doesn't matter."
"What?" exclaimed Bekah. She swore under her breath, angry she was having to deal with this. Just three weeks ago, she got stuck on the phone with one of Dr. Sanders' patients who cursed the election results when Bill Clinton defeated George Bush. "Mr. Trafford," she said urgently, standing from her chair, hoping a tone of formality would snap him into action.
"Mr. Trafford!" she shouted. A film of sweat glistened on her forehead.
Nothing.
Two minutes later, Dr. Dean Hibbler had put the last of his guns and ammunition in the trunk of his Saab. One of the area's younger and more gifted psychiatrists, he nonetheless displayed a propensity for more time spent vacationing than in professional development. His car had been serviced the previous Friday, and a full tank of gas meant he would get to his college roommate's house in Tulsa without stopping. From there, it would be a jaunt over to the small town of Jet, "The Goose Hunting Capital of the World". Tired of the wear and tear of seeing patients during this holiday season, he was glad for a respite from phobias, neuroses, and the occasional split personality. There were times when he wondered why he stuck around the Delmar clinic, although his staggering medical school loans and his recent divorce tethered him to this profession for its lucrative nature.
Taking one more pass through his Richmond Heights home near Tilles Park, he checked each room, making sure all lights were out and the back door locked. It was when he returned through the den his phone rang. Groaning at the prospect of putting out one last fire at the office, he snatched the handle and lifted it to his right temple, mouthing an annoyed greeting.
"Dr. Hibbler," came the voice of Bekah Jensen. "I'm sorry to bug you, and I hope you haven't left yet..."
"On my way out the door," Hibbler answered in a clipped tone.
"It's just that Dave Trafford called," Bekah continued undaunted. "he sounds like he's going to do something to himself. Something harmful."
"Harmful?" asked the doctor. "Is he threatening to kill himself?"
"No, sir. At least he never said that. But he seems to be having strange ideas. That someone might be coming after him to kill him. He said he needed his medication refilled. And he might truly be out of it. But I remembered that since he has Clozapine, we need him to follow protocol and do this month's white blood count. I know that much about him. And I'm no nurse but I am in the know about regulations on blood tests."
Hibbler looked at the time displayed on his Rolex. Five minutes later than he wanted to depart. The last thing I need is this, he thought. "Bekah?"
"Yes, sir."
"You did the right thing by not bringing him in. Did you tell him to head to a hospital? Something like DePaul?"
"Yes, sir. That's closest to him."
"Good suggestion, Bekah. They'd have a behavioral health department."
"I offered. I asked if his family could help. He hung up."
Hibbler was beside himself now. All he wanted was some peace and quiet as he shoved off for several days under the open sky. He knew he'd entered this profession with noble intentions, but that was before the clinginess of his clientele overwhelmed such gallant, fleeting purposes. Before he knew it, he heard a spew of frustrations from depths unknown. It was a voice. His voice.
"I swear, I wish he'd just go away!"
The reverberations of his howl hung in the air for a few seconds. He held his breath, for Bekah did not respond for some time. Only by her inadvertent hiccup on the other end of the line could he confirm she was still listening.
"Bekah," he said. "Tomorrow morning, try to confirm with a few local hospitals that he's tried to check in. If he doesn't, then maybe his crisis has passed. Sometimes these things are done for attention, nothing more. Then, for heaven's sake, just get out of that office by noon tomorrow and have a decent holiday."
"I will, sir," replied Bekah, pausing for any additional instructions. But Hibbler had hung up the phone. He passed through the kitchen to grab a six-pack of soda for the road when he heard the phone ring again. He shook his head as he continued out the door.
"I wish you'd just go away."
Ninety seconds later, he turned onto McKnight Road, harboring visions of blue skies on the Oklahoma prairie.
The police found him early Wednesday morning, shortly before three o'clock, sprawled lifelessly in a flowerbed on the south edge of Tower Grove Park. The tire marks yards away on Arsenal Street gave the cops the distinct impression that local youths had been up to their usual midnight racing chicanery. Dave Trafford's femur had been brutally shattered, presumably by one of the speeding vehicles. His spleen was ruptured and his skull apparently cracked on impact with the pavement. Detectives guessed he must have somehow crawled into the park where he expired moments later. The agonizing death enveloped him quickly, his glassy eyes seemingly pleading for more time, more help, and more pity. What he was doing there was anyone's guess, though at his funeral days later many whispered his afflictions and visions had finally driven him to his soul's tragic departure.
Sounds like we're getting set up for a real conscience-squeezer or maybe responsibility-ducker. At any rate the last thing we need to be concerned about is whether there is a generic for Clozapine.
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