Chapter 3 The Vigilante #2
The interior of the building was a drastic contrast to the aging exterior.
A sterile feeling lingered in the air, similar to a normal hospital, after years of renovations and upgrades brought the hospital into the realm of modern medicine.
The most recent bout occurred after one of the most tragic events in the clinic's history.
Before technology had taken the medical field down a new path, staff had to rely on old-fashioned locks to keep the patients in.
The majority of the time, the locks had served their purpose.
Except for one incident, a criminally insane patient was able to escape solitary confinement and massacre fourteen people, both staff and fellow patients, before being put down by security.
That was the only documented time a patient had killed someone on the property.
It was a risk those who worked here had to be willing to take when the most dangerous criminals on the East Coast were sent to the clinic for an evaluation before being allowed to stand trial on an insanity plea.
I made my way down the empty hallway almost robotically and badged into the stairwell leading up to my office, wanting to avoid the elevator which most of the staff preferred to use during the day.
Taking the stairs two at a time all the way up to the fourth floor.
My office was located at the far end of the hall on the west wing, with my name plate, Daxton Bradshaw LPC, identifying the space as mine.
The decor was minimal to meet the standards we had to follow.
Even outpatient therapists weren’t allowed to decorate their offices with anything that could possibly be turned into a weapon.
Sofas and chairs were secured to the floor in case a patient got violent enough to try and lift them.
The only loose items were throw pillows scattered across various seating areas to give them something to hold if they felt insecure.
All the paintings on the walls were in plastic frames and also secured to the wall, and damn near impossible to move without causing a significant amount of damage to the plaster.
This office was small compared to the space I had back in town.
I had one sofa for my clients to use, two plush armchairs across from it, and my desk against the window overlooking a well-manicured lawn and the vast forest in the distance.
The only movable piece of furniture in the room was the chair at my desk, nothing more than a small plastic, somewhat uncomfortable, computer chair that was less likely to cause any damage if it were to be turned into a projectile weapon in the hands of a desperate patient.
I didn’t bother turning on all the lights, just the lamp at my desk in a feeble attempt to lessen the gloom invading the space, leaching in from the sky outside.
The forecast called for rain all day, and dark gray clouds above the trees threatened to make good on that promise soon.
Every evening when I left either office, I made sure my file cabinets were locked and took my laptop home with me to make sure it stayed secure.
Paper files were my preferred way of keeping records, but the recordings from my sessions were stored on my laptop and encrypted to prevent digital theft.
Therapists weren’t given desktop computers for their sessions, probably to encourage us to take the work home, so every morning I had to unpack my satchel and prepare for the workday by setting up my desk.
Dr Stevens made it clear that understanding this patient was my top priority today and had rearranged my schedule to accommodate his wishes.
He had uploaded her intake assessment on a secure shared drive that very few had access to.
Typically, he didn’t take such a personal stance on a patient's intake evaluation, so I was curious what had made hers stand out.
Only her psychiatric care team would be able to retrieve any information regarding her well-being, unless she signed a release giving a next of kin that ability as well.
Patient privacy was important to the board of directors that ran the clinic.
Taking a deep breath, inhaling the stale air from the room, I opened my laptop.
On days like this, where the weather was crisp and cool, I longed to be able to open my window here, only they were barred shut in an attempt to lessen suicide attempts.
Color was fully taking over in the foliage on the trees in the distance, offering a welcome change from the intense summer heat Virginia had experienced over the past several months.
Pulling out my Bluetooth headphones from my bag, I made sure they were synced and ready with my laptop, before opening the file labeled ‘Raelynn Devlin Intake’.
Even though the walls in our private offices on this floor were well insulated, my paranoia prevented me from ever listening to a patient's audio file without them.
With a sip of my now lukewarm, bitter coffee, I pressed play. Rustling noises were heard first; the intake doctor must have been getting settled with her file while the recording started.
“Today is September 23rd, 10:05 pm, and I’m here with Miss Raelynn Devlin for her behavioral intake assessment.
” A male voice stated for the official record.
Intake assessments were almost like police reports, taken to give a psychiatric care team as much information as could be obtained in a short time span.
“You are here for a failed suicide attempt that occurred on September 21st of this year, is that correct?”
“No,” a female voice snapped back. “I didn’t try to kill myself, but no one in this forsaken place will listen to me!
” Anger wasn’t an uncommon emotion for someone being taken into the clinic, especially if they truly wished to die and felt that control was being taken away.
Usually, a defensive tone went along with the rage.
Raelynn however, didn’t seem to be defensive; she was direct with her words, if not a little condescending, in the way she audibly huffed at the interviewer.
“How long have you been having thoughts of hurting yourself?” The male voice questioned with little to no emotion in his voice.
“I haven’t had any thoughts of hurting myself, or are your ears not processing that information?” I laughed slightly to myself as I listened to her berate the interviewer. She was certainly stubborn.
“Miss Devlin, this would go a lot smoother if you could just answer the questions to the best of your ability.”
“I am answering the damn questions just like I have been with every other asshole that keeps saying I tried to kill myself!” Having been a therapist for the better part of a decade, I had heard many testimonies during these assessments.
Most people felt shame and resentment when a suicide attempt failed, sometimes anger, but typically the angry ones were already prone to hostility.
Miss Devlin, however, seemed to be an entirely different breed.
“Next question then. When was the last time you cut yourself?” His near robotic voice had to have been pissing her off even more.
I’d have to make a note to ask Dr. Stevens who conducted this assessment and either suggest having them trained better or removed from being able to perform the interviews.
The mental health field required the professionals involved to have decent bedside manner etiquette, something this interviewer severely lacked.
“A few months ago,” her tone had softened from embarrassment. “But I swear I don’t do it as a suicide attempt. Please just look at my scars; none of them are in a place anywhere close to a vein that would make me bleed out. Please just look.”
“Miss Devlin, the recent attempts on your arm suggest that’s not the case,” he droned on.
“I have no scars on my right arm because I’m right-handed!
Seriously, did you get your medical degree from a Cracker Jack box because I suggest you ask for a refund.
” With that snarky tone, I could already tell I was going to enjoy working with her.
I always enjoyed a challenge, and Miss Devlin seemed like she was going to live up to that.
I made a note to pay attention to which hand was dominant when we had our session, while the man continued to ask questions.
She could easily be lying to try to get out of the mandated stay at the clinic, but that detail was too specific for most people to even consider fabricating off the top of their head.
“According to the notes on your initial examination, the damage done to your right arm is too extensive to evaluate any previous scarring. Now, how often do you have thoughts that involve hurting yourself?”
She groaned at his dismissive tone, “Only when my life gets too stressful and I feel like I can’t control anything.”
“When did you first start having thoughts of hurting yourself?”
“I don’t know,” she paused, “when I was around thirteen or fourteen, maybe?”
“Do you have any thoughts of hurting others?”
“In the past or currently? Because currently I’m having a few,” She quipped.
“Sarcasm isn’t going to get you out of your stay at the clinic, Miss Devlin, so I suggest you start taking the assessment a little more seriously.”
“I’m taking it as seriously as you lot are taking me when I say I didn’t try to kill myself!” She made her annoyance with him obvious, and I can’t say I blame her. He was taking no time to listen to her or her concerns.
“Have you ever intentionally hurt someone else?”
“No,” she snapped.
“Have you ever hurt an animal?”
“No, I work at a vet clinic to help save animals, seems to be a little counterproductive if I would try to hurt them, don’t you think?”
The male interviewer sighed heavily before continuing. “Are you currently taking any medication?”
“Nothing currently.”
“Have you ever been on any medication for anxiety or depression before?”
“If you had looked in my medical record, you would have known the answer to that.”
“Please, Miss Devlin, can you just answer the question? The faster you cooperate, the faster we can get you transferred over.”
“I’ve taken Zoloft and Buspirone before, one is an antidepressant, the other is an anxiety medication. Do you need me to tell you which is which or did your medical education at least teach you that?”
“Did you have any issues when you were taking those?”
“The zoloft didn’t seem to help, and the buspirone made me dizzy. I didn’t like feeling that way, and it interfered with my ability to drive to work.”
“Do you have a family history of mental illness?”
“If you consider my parents being borderline abusive with occasional drug and alcohol addiction a mental illness, then sure.”
“Do you have any documented family history of mental illness?”
“I don’t think so, they both died in a car accident when I was seventeen, so I can’t exactly ask them unless you provide me with a Ouija board.”
“Thank you for your time, Miss Devlin. Your transfer paperwork should be ready within the hour,” and with that, the recording ended.
Normally, intake interviews took between thirty minutes to an hour.
Her’s lasted around fifteen minutes. Whether it was because the interviewer obviously didn’t care or because of the stubborn attitude, it was hard to tell.
I never had to conduct one myself, but most interviewers went into more detail with the questions, following up on any breadcrumbs a patient might drop in their answers.
I’d definitely be talking to the head of our psychiatric department about it as a follow-up.
I made a few notes on her empty file while sitting at my desk.
Something about her answers and her tone didn’t sit right with me.
Most patients who were admitted due to a failed suicide attempt accepted on some level what had happened.
Very rarely did anyone deny it; the area was almost black and white to professionals in the field.
It was something I intended to give my best effort in trying to figure out.
This woman was determined to have someone listen to what she desperately wanted to say, and I was willing to give that to her.