The Accident

By Tom Bierdz

Dr. Garrick is called to the scene of an accident involving two of his patients - an unlikely couple - one dead and the other in a coma. Why were they together?

The accident leads to protesters making false accusations claiming the doctor was pushing opioids, and sexually preying on his patients, causing them to leave his practice. When it is discovered that the female was pronounced dead before the accident, Dr. Garrick is charged with murder and a trial date set. Dr. Garrick takes leave from his practice to solve the murder as his life hangs in the balance

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tom Bierdz
• Release date: Apr 7, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463733257

Tom Bierdz

Tom Bierdz, a retired psychotherapist, was born and raised in Kenosha,WI. He earned a BA degree from Marquette University and a Masters degree in social work from the University of Chicago. He worked in public welfare in Milwaukee and Kenosha before becoming the Director of Catholic Social Services in Racine, WI. From there he went into the private practice of psychotherapy.Several years later he retired his psychotherapy practice, earned his insurance and stockbroker's license,secured a CFP degree and practiced as a Certified Financial Planner.Tom has been passionate about needing to express himself artistically. He dabbled with writing from time to time before giving it full energy during his retirement. Finally, he has committed to publish independently.He and his wife, Susan, reside in Washington State.

Book preview

PART ONE

1

Everything seemed different at night I thought as I left the expressway and merged onto the county road. Mysterious and unfamiliar. Places that I passed during the day appeared to be strange and distant as if I were in a foreign land. Although the underbelly of the city thrived at night; not so here in the dark rural county where it was eerie and the silence sent shivers. I wiped the sleep out of my eyes and swallowed down the bile that gagged me, keeping one hand on the steering wheel as I drove to the accident.

It was 3:00 AM on a March night. Technically early morning I knew, but to me, it still was my night until the sun rose. What was taking so long? I’ve driven this road many times before. I didn’t think it was this far away. But I wouldn’t have missed the police car’s flashing lights nor that of the ambulance. I knew I was on the right highway. I couldn’t have passed them. Absently, I glanced at my odometer. Little good that did since I didn’t check the mileage when I began, minutes after I was awakened by that telephone call. When you’re anxious and eager to get somewhere it always takes longer than it should.

Up ahead I saw the spotlights from the first responder vehicles parked on farmland near the side of the road. Psychiatrists normally don’t go to the scene of an accident, but I turned off the road and pulled onto the shoulder. I got out of my car and trudged through the brush, the wind blowing my hair, eager to talk to Detective Reginald Rollins who had summoned me. He stood with his back to me, facing the overturned car, his open trenchcoat flapping in the breeze. I tapped him on the shoulder.

He turned toward me, his hand blocking the beam of the headlights from his eyes. Quick, but not quick enough, Reggie said, his face heavy with sadness. He’s unconscious.

He asked for me? I glanced at the paramedics who were arranging the victim on a stretcher.

He said he wanted to talk to Grant Garrick.

I shuffled over to the victim and was startled by what I saw. Seized by a jolt to my gut, I doubled-over. Took a deep breath. Can you lift the mask for a moment? I asked the paramedic. He lifted the oxygen mask revealing a face full of lacerations and a sizeable head gash. I gagged, spun around and darted to a bush where I unloaded last night’s dinner. Wiping my mouth with my sleeve, I stepped over to Reggie.

Recognize him?

Yeah, I swallowed, Cole Hempstead. Doc Hempstead’s son.

The shrink?

I nodded, still working to steady my breathing. It was too soon. Coming upon such a traumatic scene was sickening at any time, but impossible after Kevin. I fought to consciously will myself to cope.

He jotted the name on a small notebook he took out of his suit jacket. I’ll call that in. Check out the woman.

Woman?

He motioned with his head. In the body bag.

I’d seen the bag lying on the ground, but so preoccupied with who the young man might be, I never gave it a second thought. I moved over to the body, weaving around the forensic team scrounging for evidence, and waved the young female paramedic over and asked her to unzip the body bag. My stomach curdled in cadence with each downward notch of the zipper. She was Lara Stewart, my new patient, who I had recently seen for the first time. Thunderstruck, I was temporarily incoherent. A young, beautiful life had ended. What was she doing with Cole Hempstead?

Reggie came over and took me out of my own world. Did you recognize her?

No, I said, automatically as I needed time to think this through. She looked familiar, but I can’t place her for the moment.

We’ll figure it out. Should you remember, let me know. One hell of a waste.

A hell of a waste. One beautifully vibrant woman in the prime of her life. And what was she doing with Cole Hempstead, I asked myself again. I vigorously shook my head as if the movement would realign something that made sense. It didn’t. The internal fog was thick as ever. Tell me what happened?

Reggie removed the cigar butt from his shirt pocket, slid it in his mouth, lit it and brought it to life. Best guess, drinking and driving, probably drugs, too. He was driving too fast for the curve, lost control, rolled a couple of times, and slammed into a tree. Paramedics had to cut the kid out of the car.

I cringed. The accident didn’t have to happen. Lara Stewart was dead. Cole Hempstead was critical. Only time would tell if Cole would survive and how he might be affected. I watched the EMS team lift both Lara and Cole into the ambulance and speed off to the hospital. Then I returned to my car and finished barfing before I got in and drove home.

2

Two Weeks Earlier

Cole Hempstead strolled into my office with a big grin on his face, gave me a fist bump and sat on my couch. In any other place, we would have hugged as we were close. Here he was a patient, the son of a friend of mine, who I saw sporadically whenever he felt the need. In the confines of my office, a hug would have been too personal. I needed to maintain a therapeutic structure to accomplish our goals. Cole was twenty-three, a handsome devil with a shock of unruly brown hair, a dimple in a strong chin, and mysteriously deep sunken brown eyes that drew people in. He was a recent college graduate, who I hadn’t seen for over a year because he was away at school.

Do you miss school?

I miss the partying, some of the guys, the women. I’m glad it’s over. Now I can do what I want.

Which is?

Hell if I know. He playfully grinned and waved a finger at me. I’ll know when I find it. I’ve got to be honest with you, Grant. I slid through. Never really applied myself, but I got the sheepskin from a good school. That’s got to be worth something. His smile faded. Not enough for my old man though. He said he’d get off my ass once I graduated, but he hasn’t. He’s pushing for me to go to graduate school. He even suggested Pharmacy the other day. That was out of the blue. He thinks if he keeps throwing suggestions at me, maybe something will stick. His breathing became rapid and labored as he took a few beats. I’d like to trade him in. He’s on my ass again, the fucking control freak. I just graduated in January. It’s only March–two fucking months. He can’t stand it that I’m not employed and that I haven’t applied to graduate school.

I’m sure he only wants what’s best for you.

Whose side are you on?

I’m not on any side. I was only… I hesitated, reconsidered. You’re right. My comment was inappropriate. I was letting my friendship with your father interfere. I guess if I have the right to keep my patients focused, my patients have the right to call me when I get out of line. Even if I’m the authority figure here, I don’t need to be authoritarian. This approach, regarding us all as flawed beings, has worked well for me.

I don’t want to go to graduate school. I don’t know what the hell I want to do. Maybe, I should go to Europe. Shouldn’t I be sowing my wild oats – isn’t that what they used to call it? I need to find out who Cole Hempstead is. I need to get in touch with who I am. He was totally frustrated and needed to break the parental constraints.

I can’t find fault with that.

Deep in thought, Cole played with his lower lip. Finally, he said, I want to tell you about my dream.

Okay, I said. I watched Cole straighten up on my couch, slide his fingers up and down the arm, and take several deep breaths.

It’s kind of strange, he said, his eyes darting to mine.

Most dreams are.

Anyway…I keep having this dream. His eyelids rapidly fluttered as he lifted them toward the ceiling, searching his memory. I’m in this house or apartment. Apartment I think because I can see this old paneled door that leads into a corridor. Anyways, there’s a large room with two cribs and a baby in each crib. I don’t know if they’re male or female, or if it even makes any difference. I don’t know if these are my children or not, but it is my responsibility to watch over them. A woman–pretty I think, but I can’t describe her. She’s a blur… He shook his head, trying to remember. He hesitated.

Continue with the dream.

She asks me to watch over them because she has to go out. She singles out one of the babies and warns me about him, saying he has an uncanny way of getting out of the house. I smile, humor her. I mean…in my mind there is no way he is getting out of the house. He’s too little to even crawl out of his crib. But, she’s insistent. Very serious. Can’t emphasize the danger enough. I don’t know if she’s my mother, my wife, my significant other, or simply my boss. Anyways, she leaves.

I’ve known Cole Hempstead for years, and I consider him to be a pretty normal young man with typical adjustment problems. He visits me to touch base when he feels a need to be recharged. I suspect he regards me more like a Dutch uncle than a therapist. He’s a recent Stanford grad who I’ve seen a few times when he’s come home from school.

Cole continued, I sit in the room and watch the babies. They’re both good. They do regular baby things… coo, lay on their backs, swing their arms, kick their legs, get lost in the movement of the mobiles that hang over the crib. He smiled. I smile to myself, amused at this woman’s concern. Her vivid imagination. I mean…no way is this baby getting out of the crib. I’m worried about this woman’s mental health.

When the babies fall asleep I need to leave the apartment for a few minutes. I can’t remember why. He looked at me, apologetically. In real life, I wouldn’t leave a baby alone in a house.

I smiled and reassuringly nodded.

In the dream I convince myself it will be okay. They are asleep. I lock the door and leave. Next, I remember I’m in the hallway. I don’t know where I’ve been and what I did. Only that I was gone for minutes, a brief period of time. Returning, the door is locked because I open it with a key. When I return to the bedroom the one baby is gone. I panic. How can that be? He was too little to climb out of the crib. How could he get out of the house? I check every room in the house, every place where he could possibly go. I come up empty. There’s no indication that anyone entered the house when I was gone. How could he have gotten out on his own?

You don’t think that the mother, or someone with access, could have come into the house and taken the baby?

That would be a logical explanation, of course, but in the dream I’m convinced he got out on his own. The boy’s mother–I guess I’m assuming it is a boy–made it very clear about his ability to get out on his own. Doc, you know that dreams don’t always make sense…

You’re right. They don’t. They’re usually symbolic. I took a sip of water from my cup. What do you think the dream means?

I haven’t the foggiest…

You’re not getting off that easy, Cole. Try.

He smirks. My folks don’t want me to go to Europe. They think I should go to grad school. Make something of my life. He added quotes, raising his hands. I disobey the woman, my mother, in the dream. Maybe that’s part of it.

What else?

Gee, Grant, I don’t know. I can’t figure it out. That’s why I came here.

Okay, I’ll give it a try. You remember we talked about the ID, the Ego, and the Super Ego?

He cast his eyes to the ceiling and thought for a while before responding. Yeah, the ego is the conscious me, the me I know; the super-ego is my conscience that judges my behavior as right or wrong, and the id… He closed his eyes and thought. The unconscious?

Yes. Good job. The id contains all the primitive emotions. My initial interpretation is that the baby represents your id, the man – you – the watcher, represents your ego, and the woman–the mother–your super-ego…

My parents want to baby me, stop me from going to Europe, but I need to escape!

Quick. Impressive. You need to act on your impulses.

I should go to Europe?

Yes, your dream is saying you need to grow, explore.

Wow! Can I tell my old man you said I should go to Europe?

I laughed and shook my head. I didn’t say that. I interpreted your dream as saying that. You can tell him if you put it that way. I’m invited for dinner, and I’m sure he’ll have something to say about that.

I’ll be gone. You can talk about me then.

So how are you spending your free time?

Hanging out. Getting in touch with friends I hadn’t seen for a while. Becoming quite serious, he added, Stanford came with a lot of stress. I’m still unwinding, shaking off the tension. I’m probably drinking and getting high too often.

Probably?

He grinned. It’s temporary.

3

Saturday I motored downtown to Carrie’s condo to pick her up for our evening with the Hempsteads. I called her just before I left so she would be ready. Parking around her building was always a problem. The building only contained underground parking for the residents. Nothing was provided for visitors who had to depend upon available street parking, or the public parking structures blocks away. Usually efficient, Carrie waited by the door and met me, dashing through a fine rain mist, as I pulled up in front of her condo.

You smell good, she said, as she shut the door and arranged herself into her seat.

You do, too, I glanced at her, curving my lips into a wide smile. Your hair looks great, swept to one side and a head band that sparkles. I hope you didn’t spend a half day on that.

When do you care about how I spend my time? FYI a client owes me money for services and pays down her bill doing my hair.

I merged into traffic. That’s clever.

Yes, and you could have ended with the compliment.

You’re right. Should we start all over again?

We’re well beyond that. Why don’t you tell me about your friends?

Win and Sara Hempstead. Win is a psychiatrist and Sara …I’m not sure. She was a buyer for a furniture store. That ended when the company folded. I’m not sure what she is doing nowadays. The Hempsteads were a couple that Hanna and I frequently got together with. That stopped when we got divorced. One of its casualties.

Seems to be quite prevalent with divorces.

Sadly, that’s true. Anyways, Win and I have been running into each other at the hospital. He invited us to dinner.

Hmm, will I be compared to Hanna, your ex?

I only have limited control over the minds of my patients.

She playfully squeezed my side with her hand. I’ll play it up good. Flirt, tease you, make like I want to jump your body.

I laughed. I knew Carrie was playing with me. Our relationship was platonic, the way we both wanted it to be. You’ll like them. Nice people. Win can be a hard ass at times. Sara is always very warm. The misting rain was blurring my vision. I did a quick swipe with the windshield wiper. Win and I go way back… college, med school…

How come I never heard you mention him?

Good question…we had a falling out…years ago…I can’t really remember what happened. I’ll have to think about that. For some reason, we just didn’t get together. Neither of us called the other. Then after Kevin…nothing was like it used to be. The mist was heavier now. I put the intermittent wiper on, then turned on to I-90 to cross Lake Washington and get to Mercer Island, which boasted of some of the most affluent housing in the Seattle area. Driving over the bridge surrounded by water among light traffic always lifted my senses as if I could commune with the free-wheeling seagulls that shared the area.

The Hempstead home had to be somewhere in the top tier of the housing on the island. I pulled in to the three-level glass home on the waterfront. The home was stunning, yet, for some reason, the proverb: people who live in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones reverberated in my head. Both Hempsteads greeted us at the front door and gave us an opportunity to marvel at the home. Carrie fawned over the glass structure and learned about insulated glass and self-washing windows, and the Hempsteads fawned over Carrie. Sara gave us a tour of the lower level while Win poured Carrie a glass of wine and fixed a scotch on the rocks for me.

Forgive me for not having you over before now, Sara said, once we were all seated in the living room. Tall and lithe, she was draped in an expensive violet chiffon lace dress; her short dark hair blunt cut. Near forty-two, she looked as young and vibrant as ever. Certainly, we saw you and Hanna as individuals. I don’t know why…

I think couples are threatened by the divorce of their friends, Win interjected.

Good insight, I said, but you did come to the services for Kevin.

Teary-eyed, Sara asked, How is Hanna?

You haven’t talked with her?

Just that once after Kevin’s death. Not since.

I guess she is doing as well as can be expected. Neither of us will ever be the same. Call her. She would like that. You two were close. Hanna rarely initiates anything on her own yet.

Sara nodded, her eyes misty. I will.

I saw her walking down the street the other day, Win said. She appeared to be going to a Starbucks. She was looking good. Sporting a pencil-thin mustache, he looked debonair with leading man movie-star looks. He dressed casually in a blousy blue shirt and dark blue linen pants.

Better than she has in a long time, I said, but she still hasn’t gained all the weight back.

Is she seeing anyone? Win asked.

She’s been dating on and off. Besides that, I don’t know.

We were seated on soft, stylish chairs in front of the living room bay window with a magnificent view of Lake Washington when Win asked, How long have the two of you been dating?

I smiled at Carrie’s wink. We’re just good friends.

Bosom buddies, Carrie interjected with a devilish smile.

Friends with benefits? Win asked, a gleam in his eye.

Many benefits, I said, but not the kind you mean. We are good friends, have been for many years. In fact, I’m surprised you’ve never met. Carrie and I work out of the same building. I rent offices from Carrie’s father.

You still upstairs?

Uh-huh.

Isn’t that a problem for elderly patients, the stairs, I mean.

Not as much as I imagined. For most, hiking upstairs is good for your health. I do have one lady with a heart condition who can’t manage. Carrie lets me use the conference room for her.

What do you do, Carrie?

I’m an attorney. Criminal defense.

I can never tell when I might need a defense attorney what with the number of malpractice lawsuits, Win said.

That’s not my specialty. I hope you’re never sued.

So far, so good. He knocked on the arm of the chair. I didn’t know men and women could be close friends without…a…

We work at it, Carrie said, anticipating his question.

Win stood and motioned Carrie over. Come, I want to show you something. When she stood he walked her over to the fireplace mantle, picked up an NCAA baseball trophy on a walnut stand with the NCAA coat of arms engraved in gold and a gold-plated baseball pitcher on the bottom. This is an exact replica of the 1996 baseball championship trophy at Udub. Having this is a no-no, He winked, but what the hell, it’s for my private use. I make no secret it’s not the original.

Sara shook her head. He’s so vain. Had to have it. I think he polishes it once a week.

Win laughed. She’s just jealous because she doesn’t have one. We won the championship that year. Did your boyfriend…?

My friend…

Grant must have told you about it.

Forehead creased, Carrie looked at me.

I shrugged.

He and I won the big game, Win continued, primping for Carrie. Bottom of the ninth. We’re losing by a run. Two outs. Grant is up. He has two strikes on him. Looks like we’re going to lose. He lines a single over second base. Then I come up… He looks at me Tell her what happens, Grant.

I looked at Carrie and said in a low key voice Win hits one out of the park. We win the championship.

Yes! Win shouts and raises his arms into the air.

Carrie politely claps.

We should go into the dining room, Sara said, standing. The roast is ready to be carved.

You’re going to love this, Win said as we walked in. "Sara let Nan, our cook, go for the evening.