The Family in the Mirror

By Drew Bridges

As an abused child, Melinda Master was sent to a psychiatric clinic to help healing her emotional scars. The young director of the clinic was John Randt, and despite his good intentions, nothing was done to help her. She left just as traumatized as when she arrived and returns to a cult-like existence.
As an adult, Melinda comes back into the life of John Randt who still runs the clinic. He is now distracted and vulnerable due to various losses in his own life. But now Melinda is not alone. She brings as part of her life a developmentally disabled child, a beautiful young yoga instructor and a woman of darkness who offers Melinda a shocking plan as a path out of the personal prison of her fathers home.
Due to Johns pain, he is charmed by Melinda and soon falls into a relationship with her, not knowing she plans his death. The trap is set and ready to spring. Johns only hope for survival is in recognizing the true identity of Melinda and those who support her murderous cause. He is isolated from family and friendsjust as traumatized as his ex-patientso will anyone escape this poisonous game unscathed?

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Dec 18, 2015
• ISBN: 9781491781432

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THE FAMILY IN THE MIRROR

Copyright © 2015 Drew Bridges.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

The point of the writing is to illuminate the kind of human struggle, suffering, and ultimate triumph that I have seen in the forty years of my work as a psychiatrist.

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Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

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ISBN: 978-1-4917-8144-9 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4917-8145-6 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4917-8143-2 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2015919142

iUniverse rev. date: 12/16/2015

Contents

Chapter 1   A Community Tragedy

Chapter 2   John’s Year from Hell

Chapter 3   Luther Master’s Family

Chapter 4   John’s Book

Chapter 5   Melinda’s Private World

Chapter 6   Another Friend for Melinda

Chapter 7   A Visitor Makes It More Complicated

Chapter 8   Luther and the Licensing Board

Chapter 9   John’s Old Friend, Melinda’s New One

Chapter 10   Train Ride to New York

Chapter 11   Discovery

Chapter 12   Help from Friends

Chapter 13   An Afternoon in Duke Gardens

Chapter 14   Confrontation

Chapter 15   The Doctors Take Over

Chapter 16   Home Visits

Chapter 17   Reconciliations

I am indebted to my writing group—Bill, Andrea, Noor, John, and Jeanne—for their guidance, in ways too numerous to list.

CHAPTER 1

A Community Tragedy

September 4, 2001

Bess Huffland burst out the front door of John Umstead Psychiatric Hospital holding her discharge papers in her left hand, her two pill bottles in her right. She looked around for a trash can, for a safe way to dispose of the medicines.

She paused at a fork in the walkway, brushed her tangled white hair out of her face with the back of her hand and moved on quickly. The strap of her overstuffed bag shifted on her shoulder, causing her to stumble but not fall. She raced along the paved walkway, determined to get ahead of the social worker assigned to drive her home. At age fifty-seven, Bess was still fit enough to outpace the much younger woman as they rounded the corner of the main building to where the state-owned vehicles were parked. With a discrete flip of her hand, she tossed both pill bottles into the open Dumpster beside the parking lot.

She knew this territory well. She knew the hospital routine from admission to discharge and found it easy this time to talk the doctor into setting her free. She had been through this two dozen times, and she had learned the magic words so her keepers would open the doors with a provisional discharge. She gained her freedom more easily this time because it was the fall of the year, and the student psychiatrists were still relatively new in their first clinical rotation. The young doctors were not yet experienced in what she considered their silly game of getting her to agree with them that she was really sick.

She did agree with the doctors that she needed to take medication so that she would feel better and act right. She knew how to play the game. These new psychiatrists in training looked so young to her. Just kids. While she was in the hospital under observation, she did take the medicine, some of it, and she did act the way they wanted her to act, when anyone was around. And when she said that she felt better and said it in just the way they wanted to hear it, in the right tone of voice, they said she could leave. They reminded her they could bring her back with the stroke of a pen.

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Eighteen hours after she walked out of the hospital, she woke up from a good enough night of sleep and smiled. She finally had it figured out; she understood the real problem. Now all she had to do was find the damn things.

She began her search methodically, with energy and determination, feeling strong and confident. First she removed the covers from the wall sockets and used a pair of pliers to pull out the wires as far as possible. Nothing unusual there. Then with some effort, she fashioned a steady platform of chairs and boards beneath each of the ceiling lights, removed the fixtures and pulled those wires down as far as they would reach. She remembered to turn off all the power in the house. She knew enough to be careful in case they had rigged a trap to electrocute her now that she was on to them.

By midmorning the wires of every electrical fixture or outlet in the house hung down or were completely ripped out of the openings. Only the two outside lights on each side of the front door remained untouched. As she positioned a chair to stand on to work on these, the morning mail carrier came by and spoke to her.

Hey there, Mrs. Huffland. Don’t have much for you today, just some advertisements. Can I hand ’em to you?

She ignored him. He took note of the fact that although she was fully dressed in a large shirt that hung out over jeans, her white hair was untended, and she was covered with dust and flecks of wall insulation from her labors. She wore a pair of new running shoes but had a sock on only one foot.

The mailman knew a little about Bess Huffland’s problems. The town of Canter was a small place. The modest wood frame houses that lined the streets of this neighborhood held many retirees, and on a typical good weather day the postal carrier would often not have to use the mailboxes, but just give the mail directly to the people who were waiting for him to come by. Sometimes he would stop for a minute and discuss the news of the day with the people on their front porch as they read the Canter Ledger.

Bess Huffland’s lack of response to the mail carrier made him pause for a moment and look through the open front door at the jumble of wires, lighting fixtures, and the disorganized furniture in the front room. He said nothing more but walked far enough away so he could use his mobile phone discretely to call the town police.

The police dispatcher was not happy to get the call that particular morning. All the law enforcement personnel in the county and nearby towns were working on the big annual county pot bust. It was now late enough in the year for the natural foliage of the countryside to change color sufficiently to reveal the distinct green of maturing marijuana crops. A state police helicopter had already identified a particularly large field that seemed to be the right color for closer attention. If they acted now, they might surprise the growers. Sixteen county and town police cruisers and their officers stood poised outside the police station, ready for action.

The police relayed the information about Bess Huffland to the local mental health center, five blocks from her house. The clinic director, John Randt, took the call and explained to the frustrated officer that the staff at the clinic would be standing by to assist, but the police needed to take the lead to take her back to the hospital. The policeman tried to argue that no officer was available, but John Randt insisted that the help from an officer was required by law. He knew Bess Huffland well and knew she would not go back to the hospital voluntarily.

The police duty to assist the mental health staff ultimately fell to John Cheatham, a rookie officer, who cursed softly to himself when he learned that he would miss the marijuana raid. He had taken several patients to the state hospital before, and he knew it could be an all-day affair, getting the paperwork right and then waiting to see the doctors. But all he said was yes, sir and drove away to his assigned task.

Bess Huffland watched him pull up to the house and get out of his car. Standing on her front step, she put her hands on her hips, bent forward at the waist, and yelled at him, Not this time … not again! She ran inside and slammed the door.

The staff member on emergency call at the mental health center was a twenty-year veteran of his profession, a registered nurse named William Ronald. He arrived just after the officer, and the two of them stood on the front porch discussing what to do next. A call back to the clinic to John Randt found them all in agreement that there was nothing else to do but go ahead and find a way into the house. They all agreed that what she had done to the wires of the house fit the definition of dangerous behavior, therefore the law allowed them to take coercive action.

The early September day was unseasonably warm, and the sun shown directly down on the two men standing on the front porch. Officer Cheatham felt increasingly uncomfortable and frustrated, still angry about having been assigned this duty. He took the butt of his service revolver, knocked out a small window in the front door and reached inside to undo the lock. Once inside, he could not find Bess Huffland.

He walked through the house opening doors. William Ronald stayed on the porch, talking with John Randt on his cell phone. The young officer called out loudly, No one is going to hurt you, Mrs. Huffland. I just got this order that I need to take you to the hospital for a checkup.

After going through all the rooms in the house, and going back and opening closet doors, John Cheatham heard a sound in the downstairs bathroom. He opened the door and saw her silhouette through the translucent curtain. He slowly pulled it back. Bess Huffland took aim and fired one shot with her .357 Magnum pistol and struck him directly in the middle of his chest.

Fortunately for John Cheatham, the protocol for the drug bust called for the officers to wear their new ballistic body armor. He kept it on in hopes of being finished with Bess Huffland in time to get back to part of the drug raid. The force of the blast propelled him backward out into the hallway but even with the pain from the broken ribs on both sides of his breastbone, he did not lose consciousness. Desperate, he stumbled, rolled, and crawled back down the hallway and out the door as Bess Huffland retreated to another part of the house.

William Ronald called the police dispatcher, and within minutes a dozen county and city police cars and an ambulance surrounded the house. The neighbors sitting on the porch of the quiet neighborhood watched their peaceful morning transform into a scene of noise and chaos. The ambulance sped away to the hospital with the wounded officer. A score of officers with guns drawn crouched behind their cars, blue and red lights flashing.

One officer addressed Bess Huffland through a loudspeaker. You need to come on out of there, Mrs. Huffland; you need to slide that gun out on the porch and walk out with your hands on your head! Several officers had managed to take positions on the porch near the windows, crouching in defensive positions. Some had pistols drawn. One had a shotgun.

John Randt arrived and joined William Ronald and the officer in charge across the street from the house, behind a large police van. They discussed how to manage the situation. Yes, she had family, but they lived in Raleigh. No, no one seemed to know how to get in touch with them. No one in the neighborhood stepped forward with any idea about what might help get her to come out of the house.

William Ronald and John Randt read the anger on the faces of the officers. Some looked afraid. An officer was down. Those on the scene did not know how badly John Cheatham was injured. It didn’t matter that the shooter was a mentally ill woman. Something had to be done, and they were ready.

I think it’s time for the gas, offered one of the officers to the chief of police, who had now arrived. William Ronald spoke up against it. He argued with one officer. What good would come of that?

We don’t have all day to jus’ stand ’round here. We got other things we got t’ get on to, another officer added.

I think it was the uniform that spooked her, added William Ronald. He offered to go up on the porch and try to talk her out. John Randt said he was not comfortable with that.

She had her chance to come out. If you people got no more ideas, then we got t’ get movin’ here. Tear gas never really hurt anybody, but it’ll damn sure git her ass out here.

With a gun in her hand? pleaded William Ronald. What are you going to do if she has a gun in her hand? Shoot her? Is that the plan?

Can’t we just wait a little more? asked John Randt. Maybe a little time will help her cool off …

The two men from the mental health clinic knew the police were not listening to them. Some officers were sweating profusely, and you could hear them talking among themselves about wanting to get this over. Their faces hardened for danger, in combat mode, looking for orders, they prepared for action. John Randt took William Ronald by the arm, and the two of them walked a short distance away to talk about what to do next.

The chief made his decision. A single shot of tear gas broke through a window near the front porch. Within minutes the house filled with smoke, but Bess Huffland did not come out. Fifteen minutes passed. The gas cleared. They discussed whether or not to put in another round. Then they saw the first flames flicker from the roof of the house.

Officers retreated and called for the fire truck. The truck, already on the scene, moved into position slowly. The firemen feared being shot. By the time any significant water was put on the house, flames engulfed it. It appeared to burn symmetrically, and it was unclear where the fire had begun.

She’s in the backyard! came a shout. They found her there covered with black soot, third-degree burns over most of her body. She rode the ambulance to the hospital and then the helicopter to Chapel Hill to the burn unit. She died two days later without ever regaining consciousness. The house burned completely, in part because at one point the rounds from the gun she left in the house exploded, sending everyone for cover and allowing the fire to proceed unchecked.

John Randt spent the following day and some of the weekend talking with Bess Huffland’s family and gathering information for the incident review that his clinic would conduct. He had patients die before but nothing like this. He put off talking to the press for the moment, but he knew this would be news that would not go away. He thought to himself that he didn’t know about this part of the job when he took the role as clinic director fifteen years ago. During a quiet moment he said quietly to himself, They don’t teach this in school.

CHAPTER 2

John’s Year from Hell

September 11, 2001

John Randt sat in his windowless office and stared at the wall of diplomas and awards bearing his name. His room was furnished in a modest manner, as were all county-funded facilities—simple desk and a few chairs. He had gone to some length to personalize it with photographs and art of his choosing. He looked now at the three Valued Community Teacher awards from the school of social work, where he lectured and supervised students. With the year he had just been through, he needed to find something to remind him that there were still good things in his world. The wall displays collectively reminded him of the good parts of the last two decades of his life. This was solid ground that he needed.

Like most days, today he had unlocked the door of the clinic the better part of an hour before his staff was due at work. As director of the program, he liked to be there, in place, open door, desk organized but not empty, looking like he was in charge, ready to engage when his staff of a dozen employees arrived.

But today two things on his desk commanded special attention. He thought to himself that if he could make these two problems go away, he would give up every award on the wall. First, there was the incident report on Bess Huffland. It had to be appended now that she died, and he had to return phone calls to the clinic’s attorney, meet with his own supervisor, and schedule meetings with the staff who had worked with Bess Huffland, especially William Ronald, the staff member who saw the situation unfold.

The second piece of paper on his desk was a letter from the state licensing board for social workers. He had received notice ten days earlier that he was under investigation for a substantial ethics violation and that two representatives of the board wanted to meet with him to discuss it.

He was incredulous that he would be investigated for an ethics violation. Christ, I teach ethics! he said out loud to himself and flipped the letter into the air. He watched it flutter to the floor and land under his desk just out of reach. He strained to pick it up and whispered a soft curse as he shifted in his chair, retrieved it, and scanned it again.

One thing especially bothered him about the ethics allegation. A former student of his was assigned to the investigation. He remembered the man as a good student, a grateful student with whom he had remained in touch over the last few years. But when they spoke on the phone to set up the meeting, the cheerfulness that he usually found in his former charge had changed to a deep-toned formality:

Thank you, Mr. Randt, for being willing to meet with us. We will arrive promptly at three in the afternoon on September 11th.

The fact that he couldn’t get any real information over the phone about the complaint seemed a bit mysterious, if not disrespectful. They were coming this afternoon, the same day