Beyond Hate

By Michael Mcgrath

Leaving New York City for a less demanding life style, Daniel More, a forensic psychiatrist, has settled in upstate New York. Starting over is not easy, as the tension between him and his wife, Nancy, fails to dissipate with the move. Unfortunately, the loving relationship between More and his daughter, Elizabeth, remains overshadowed by the tension in the marriage. Starting with a flat tire, the doctor becomes convinced he is being harassed. The situation is mostly annoying, until More awakes one morning to find his wife dead, apparently stabbed to death while he slept beside her. Dr. More fights to prove his innocence against a background of further tragedy and pain, both motivated and burdened by the love for his daughter.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Nov 29, 2001
• ISBN: 9781469756776

Michael Mcgrath

Michael McGrath, MD, is a psychiatrist practicing in western New York State. His areas of specialty include forensic psychiatry and criminal profiling. He lives with his wife and three children, a German Shepherd and a cat.

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Contents

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

For Leslie, Tye, Danielle and Nicole

CHAPTER ONE

His breathing was deep and rapid. Sweat ran down into his eyes. Daniel More kept to a steady stride as he turned the corner, arms swinging back and forth easily, in rhythm with his steps. Past the Krowler’s, past the Hendley’s, he was nearing home, the late spring moonlight filtering weakly through the branches and leaves overhead.

Passing the widow Friendly’s house, More could see the old woman at her perch in the living room window, the self-appointed watchdog of the neighborhood. Vision fixed on the widow’s window, More failed to notice a small rock in his path. His right foot turned outward as he stepped on it, but More quickly regained his balance. Then he was home.

He stood in the entrance to his driveway, hands on hips, breathing deeply, waiting for his heartbeat to slow. More leaned over, sucking in air. He raised his head and glanced at his house. Daniel More knew his wife, Nancy, was in the living room absorbed in a television program. That was how he had left her. The flickering light reflected off the wall, signaling she was still at it. Feeling cleansed from the run, breathing slower, he walked up the driveway. He moved past his BMW 528 I, along the line of tall shrubbery separating his property from the widow Friendly’s.

More stopped, turned and stared. He began walking slowly around the car to see if any of the other tires were flat. Satisfied there was only one, he went inside, ignored his wife and went upstairs. Holding a card to read the number, More dialed his auto club and asked to have the tire

changed. He was told someone would be out within an hour to take off the flat and put on a spare, but he would have to get the flat fixed himself in the morning. Whatever, More said, hung up and went into the shower.

At seven a.m., More’s eyes opened. He took in a deep breath and then exhaled slowly while he stretched his neck. Without thinking, he scratched his head, then turned and looked at his wife’s sleeping form. He looked away, sat up on the bed, then stood. Without looking back, More walked to the bathroom. He would have to see Sam Potts about the tire.

More pulled his BMW into the gas station and waved to Sam Potts. Sam waved back and began walking toward the car. Daniel opened the trunk and pointed to the flat tire. It’s all yours, Sam. Sam pulled the tire out of the trunk and rolled it into the garage. After filling it with air he dropped it into a vat half-filled with water. More watched from outside the garage while Sam slowly turned the tire, looking for air bubbles.

Nothing wrong with it, Doc. Just needed air.

So why was it flat? Daniel More asked, shaking his head.

Sam Potts stared at him sternly, then softened his expression, reminding himself that most educated people were assholes. Like I said. It was flat because there was no air in it.

Sam was tall and thin, with a worn face fitting his sixty-plus years. He had worked hard all his life for what he had, which wasn’t much. There was little empathy left in him for those he saw as having had it easier in life.

It didn’t go flat by itself, More said.

Could be the valve, Sam offered casually. But it seems to be okay. Sam looked over to the gas pumps where a customer was pulling up. Maybe somebody let the air out, he said, offering his final opinion.

Daniel shrugged. It was fine when I got home from work last night. I found it when I came back from running. I’m sure Mrs. Friendly would have seen it if anybody let the air out of my tire while I was running.

Sam chuckled. Maybe. He turned and began leaving the garage, walking toward the pumps.Don’t take it so serious, Doc.You’re not the first person ever got a flat tire.

Okay, Sam. Thanks. What do I owe you?

Sam called over his shoulder, Two bucks. Leave it on the counter.

Daniel reached into his pocket, found the singles and made his way past some very dangerous looking machinery and through a door that moaned sadly on its hinges. He tried not to touch anything, marveling at how it was possible for a building to be so dirty. He dropped the two bills on the counter. On the other side of Sam’s office was what used to be the back seat of a car. On it, looking like a pile of oily rags, lay a dog with matted hair and phlegmy eyes. Daniel fought his natural inclination to say hello to the animal, afraid it might actually get up and come over to him.

After a stop at Tolin’s Supermarket, Dr. More pulled into his driveway. Entering the kitchen he placed two bags of groceries on the table, then moved to the cork board to read a note pinned there. He sighed, thinking that now that he had time to spend with his daughter, it seemed Nancy managed to schedule every minute of the girl’s life. If his wife was trying to keep the child away from him, she was doing a good job.

After unpacking the groceries, Daniel took a can of soda and the newspaper to the patio. Since moving out from New York City, he had acquired the habit of reading the Saturday paper alone in his yard. Propping his feet on the table, a habit Nancy disliked, he opened the paper and took a sip of cola. More surveyed his backyard through the sight formed by the angle of his feet. The grass was overdue for a trimming. More placed the soda can on the ground by the chair, then ran a hand though his dark brown hair, massaging the scalp.

This was the largest yard Daniel More had ever owned, running at least fifty by one hundred feet. Two pine trees guarded the farthest boundary. It crossed his mind to replace the present fence, adequate for keeping neighborhood kids out, with a taller palisade one, if only to annoy the widow Friendly. She would no longer be able to spy on him and his family in their backyard.

Daniel eyed his watch. Nancy and Elizabeth would be home soon. He picked up his soda from the ground. More watched the trees at the end of his yard lean slowly in the breeze, soda can in one hand, paper in the other. He sighed, knowing that by most standards he should be happy with his life. Yet it seemed such a chore. Aiming his vision along the tip of one of his penny loafers, More wondered what was wrong with him, what was missing. The move up to Montawa County was supposed to have been the cure for whatever the city had done to him. But Daniel More was still the same person. Daniel shook his head once and sighed again. Only the locale had changed. He should have known.

The soft mechanical rumble of an approaching car alerted him to Nancy and Elizabeth’s arrival. He heard the defiant screech of the parking brake engaging. Nancy always pulled it up too hard. Without turning toward the driveway, Daniel listened for the light step of his daughter. A car door slammed. He could hear the light scrape of leather soles on asphalt. She barely made a sound once on the grass. And she was sneaking up behind him to give him a kiss. He just knew it.

***

Monday morning the alarm went off at 7:00 a.m., waking Daniel quickly. Half-asleep, he leaned over and switched it off, glancing at Nancy. Assured she was still asleep, he walked to the bathroom. Later, after showering and shaving, he dressed quickly, choosing a dark-blue shirt and a rather dull tie. Color coordination was not one of his strong points. More began searching the bottom of his closet for the wing tips, a style of shoe he had never liked, but wore because Nancy thought they looked professional. When he found them he decided to put them on downstairs. They might squeak on the wood floor. On the way to the stairs he crossed the hall to Elizabeth’s room.

He approached the bed slowly, to avoid waking the child. She was asleep on her back, golden-brown hair splayed across the pillow. It’s getting so long, he noted silently. Daniel wanted to kiss the little face, for she appeared an angel in repose, but he was afraid he might wake her. And if Elizabeth was up, it meant Nancy was up, and Nancy would be very annoyed that Daniel had robbed her of an hour sleep. He watched the little chest rise and fall. His eyes held a moment on the little hands as one twitched in sleep. I love you, he whispered softly. Then he left.

Daniel More’s light blue BMW pulled quickly into the parking lot of the County Forensic Unit, spitting loose gravel behind it. After climbing from the vehicle, he grabbed his briefcase, crossed the lot and approached the three-story building with its twenty-five-foot aluminum chain fence with rows of barbed wire adding another two feet. Once inside he stopped at the inch-thick plexiglass window and stared at a deputy. The deputy lazily pressed a button on a large console, disengaging the lock on the door. Dr. More pushed the door open and passed into the security area. He placed his personal keys and one of his ID cards into a trough and was returned a set of keys by the deputy. The lock of a heavy door snapped open and he passed through, entering the maximum security section of the building.

Still facing a section of the plexiglass, Dr. More opened his briefcase for the deputy to visually inspect the contents. He placed his change and building keys on a small table and walked through a metal detector. The deputy nodded; all was in order. The doctor retrieved his belongings from the table and passed through another heavy metal door, into the bowels of the forensic hospital.

Wearing a smile he didn’t feel, More passed the unit secretary’s desk to see if he had any messages. Dr. More? What are you doing here?

He eyed her strangely. I work here, Kelly. Remember?

Kelly shook her head widely, as if to clear it, causing her bright red hair to bounce wildly. But you just called five minutes ago. Said you’d be out sick today, she stated with the authority of the town drunk.

That’s news to me.

I guess you’re here then, she noted.

It appears so. Dr. More checked his mailbox on the wall. This person who called, said they were me…? He kept his eyes on his mail.

Yes? Kelly responded, unable to wait longer.

Did it sound like me? Dr. More turned, looking directly at Kelly.

She shifted in her seat. I guess so.

It was a man’s voice?

It seemed…I thought it was a man’s voice.

Well, it wasn’t me, Dr. More stated finally, dropping his mail into his briefcase.

Think it was somebody playing a trick on you? Kelly asked, not terribly interested. She adjusted a copy of People magazine, half-hidden by her typewriter.

Don’t know, Dr. More replied, his back already to Kelly as he passed on toward his office. Once inside he dropped his briefcase on the desk, checked to see if his beeper was on and clipped it back onto his belt. He draped his suit jacket onto his chair and donned a white doctor’s coat, and then walked out of the office and up to the second floor for rounds. He checked his watch. There was not enough time for coffee.

Rounds were dull. Dr. More yawned several times during the twenty minutes it took the nursing staff to recite the events of the weekend. Every patient was accounted for, shift by shift. Mondays were the worst. Staff had to listen to the boring adventures of thirty mentally ill people over an entire weekend.

Most of the unit personnel was packed into a twenty by fifteen-foot room. Ventilation in the building was essentially nonexistent, attested to by the sweat forming on the backs of all present. Dr. More could take no more; he desperately needed coffee. There had been one admission over the weekend, assigned to him. The individual was charged with possession of a forged instrument, a nurse had just read from the report before her.

What’s that? a sleepy eyed Pakistani doctor asked.

Got caught with a knife he made himself, Dr. More said as he stood to leave.

Oh, the Pakistani said, nodding his head in thanks for the explanation.

Daniel More smiled at the man, then turned his gaze to Dr. John Token, one of the few doctors More respected. Dr. Token barely managed to hide his smile. He shook his head slowly at Dr. More. More smiled back, then left to find coffee.

Five minutes later Dr. More stood with a half-empty cup of coffee at the nursing station, peering through a plexiglass window, searching for the new face. Is it safe to see Wickles alone? he asked Mrs. Kells, the charge nurse, without looking away from the window.

Should be. He’s been quiet since he came, she replied, crushing her cigarette out in an overflowing ashtray. She never raised her eyes from the evening nursing reports. He’s sitting next to the TV.

More spotted the man and eyed him a moment. Wickles was a short, stocky, black man, sporting the scraggliest beard the doctor had ever seen. He turned to the chart rack and picked out Wickles’ record, placed it on a desk and opened it, reading while still standing. The man was admitted on a 508/2PC, a prisoner on a two-physician certificate. Wickles was charged with third degree assault, a misdemeanor, and possession of a forged instrument, a check. Dr. More read on, piecing together that Wickles had hit a store owner after the man refused to accept a check from him. Little was known about Wickles, except that he had been arrested in the past for petty crimes.

Still sweating under his lab coat, Dr. More entered the day room and approached Wickles. More undid the top button of his shirt and tugged lightly at the knot of his tie. Air conditioning was unheard of in the hospital, unless one could manage to get a copier. The state would air-condition an office to protect a copier from the humidity. It seemed unable to provide the same service to a ward full of psychiatric patients. The buildings were old and trapped heat, slowly frying the inhabitants. And this was only late spring. Summer would, as usual, be torture.

Mr. Wickles?

The young black man raised his head. Yo.

I’m Dr. More. I’ll be your doctor while you’re here. I’d like to talk with you.

Wickles nodded and rose from his chair. He followed as the doctor led the way to the hall, and then into a small office to the side. The room had only a desk and two chairs. Have a seat, Dr. More offered, taking the one next to the desk for himself. He left the door to the office open. Wickles sat. He stared at the doctor, then began rubbing his left forearm.

What were you arrested for?

I ain’t arrested. I’m here against my will.

You may be here in the hospital against your will, Dr. More explained patiently, but you were arrested. Otherwise, you’d be in a regular hospital. You were arrested for something.

Wickles looked at the ceiling and flexed his right biceps, a not insignificant mass. I tol’ you, I ain’t arrested.

More pushed on valiantly. You’re in the custody of the Sheriff ’s Department. It’s the same as in jail. What did you do in jail to make them think you needed to go to a hospital?

I didn’t do nothing to get here.

Dr. More watched Wickles face, looking for any signs he was toying with him. Have you ever been in a psychiatric hospital before?

Wickles appeared lost in thought. This went on for several seconds. The doctor was about to repeat the question when Wickles spoke. About two or three times.

Where?

Don’t remember.

Ever take any psychiatric medication? For your nerves?

Nope. Wickles looked hard into More’s eyes, then his gaze drifted.

They gave you Thorazine over the weekend, right?

Wickles nodded after thinking it over.

Did it help?

The black man stared at the white doctor as if that was the silliest thing he had ever heard. Moments later Wickles turned his eyes back on the doctor. Man, I ain’t sick. I don’t need none ’a your bullshit drugs. Dr. More watched the man closely, trying to gauge how agitated he might become. Then the truth emerged. I is a vanguard for the Christian interpeopled lations. Soon you’ll be at my knees, carrying sipples and con’in jaspers. I got my rights. I got my notions and I can overt them onto you, muthafukah. God is my witness and he is my judge, not you. God will save me from all ’a this and down to be what I’m knowing, I say all you, Wickles was pointing a nasty finger at the doctor, white muthafukahs are gonna be over rodd’in and failing. Mr. Wickles continued to stare angrily at the doctor, sweat dripping from his brow.

An orderly appeared discretely at the door. Dr. More shook his head. The orderly backed off, but remained nearby. Wickles had retreated to his inner world and now sat quietly, almost lost. Dr. More had noted the looseness of associations, the difficulty in following Wickles’ train of thought, and the neologisms, the highly personal use of words or creation of completely new ones. The doctor had registered the man’s flattened affect, his lack of outward expression of emotion. In spite of Wickles obvious anger, there had been little display of this in the man’s face.

Calmly watching him, Dr. More began to search for delusions. Mr. Wickles, do you have a special relationship with God?

Wickles stood and, without saying another word, left the room. More rose, rubbed his neck, wiped the sweat off his hands onto his jacket, and walked to the nursing station. Mrs. Kells was sitting in a cloud of smoke, her ever present scowl, punctuated by her ever present cigarette, in place. Well?

I’ll hold off on a diagnosis till I know more about him, but my money’s on schizophrenia. Dr. More opened Wickles’ chart. How much Thorazine is he getting?

Kells thought a moment, took a drag on her cigarette. A hundred milligrams, twice a day.

More began writing on the order sheet. Give him a hundred three times a day and another hundred at night. He needs more than what he’s getting. Watch his blood pressure for the next two to three days. We don’t know if he’s been on these meds before.

Will do, Nurse Kells replied. The phone rang. Dr. More turned to leave, but stopped at the door to the nursing station. He waited until Kells was off the phone.

Any of the patients have access to a phone earlier? About eight o’clock?

Kells shook her head. Nope. Phone comes out at one for legal calls and six for personal calls.

Dr. More stood deep in thought. And all calls are logged?

Yup. We dial and record the numbers.

Can I see the phone log?

If you want, Doctor, but there’ve been no calls so far today. Kells reached for the log. Someone get hold of your home phone number?

Not that I know of. More glanced at the log that told him what he already knew. No patient from the unit had made any phone calls that morning.

CHAPTER TWO

It had been a long day. Patient care, including the new admission, and two neglected court reports, had kept Dr. More busy till early evening. More had to force himself to take his evening run, feeling drained, glad the workday had finally ended. Now, breathing deeply, muscles aching with a healthy fatigue, he rounded the corner, jogging steadily homeward. He didn’t try to spot Mrs. Friendly at her window. More was too tired.

Daniel rounded the driveway and slowed to a walk. Passing his car, he glanced at the tires of the BMW. There was no flat. Entering his home through the kitchen door, he passed by the living room on his way to the shower. Nancy was engrossed in a television movie, Elizabeth half-asleep next to her. After removing the sweat with a refreshing, cool shower, he donned a T-shirt and dungarees and returned to the kitchen. Nancy, you want coffee? he called out.

Daniel! she replied in a stage whisper. Elizabeth’s sleeping. You’ll wake her.

More poured water into a kettle and placed it on a burner. So what! he murmured. Nancy was at the kitchen doorway a moment later. She needs her sleep.

More focused on measuring a teaspoon of instant coffee, using far more care than required. She’s three years old. It’s nine o’clock, he stated in a measured tone,his sight not wavering from the spoon.She’ll sleep till eight or nine tomorrow. If she wakes up and spends ten minutes with her father it won’t be the end of the world. He shifted his gaze slowly from the teaspoon to Nancy.

Nancy only dug in. You’re very selfish. Are you aware of that?

Daniel took his time responding, letting the instant coffee slide off the spoon into his mug very slowly. I’m selfish because I want to spend some time with my daughter?

If you were thoughtful, you would have spent time with Elizabeth before you went out to run. She’s asleep on the couch now. She had her bath and she’s ready for bed. I’m not going to allow you to wake her up to fulfill your need to think you’re a good father. Nancy turned.

Daniel watched her leave the kitchen. Taking a deep breath, he stood motionless, watching the kettle.

Nancy had advertised herself as a new-age career woman when Daniel met her; a graphic artist, unable to actually earn much money, but fired with the ambition of youth. She seemed to change quickly to a more conservative I’m married to a doctor, so why should I work point of view. Nancy had been engaged to a medical student when she was in college. When the fellow had been thrown out of school, she dumped him. It wasn’t until a year into their marriage that Daniel realized she’d been doctor shopping when he met her.

As far as Daniel could reckon, the marriage had been over years ago. All that remained was a dull collection of interactions, arranged in whatever spare time Daniel could muster from his then busy practice. Divorce