The Ghost Shepherd - Chapter 2
Imported from SF2 with no description.
Chapter Two
Monday, March 22, 2021
6:45am
“Awaken!" sang the alarm clock, its shrill, pulsing cry sundering morning silence. “Awaken, for the day hath arri—!"
Jocelyn went to punch the alarm clock and bounded back into the hot air of the dryer to finish brushing her coat. Once dry, she took a dab of curling custard to waft lazy waves across her shampooed and conditioned hair, swabbed her ears until they were clean enough to eat off of and polished her teeth to minty, white perfection. Then she smiled and told the sexy Belgian Malinois in the bathroom mirror she would be right back and snagged a dress hung from one oversized door of her walk-in closet. The dress was a three-quarter sleeve, boat-neckline number tight to her small chest and slim waist. It was a dress she loved for its subtle flauntings, and the aubergine of its polyester-elastane played wonderfully off her brindled neck and wheat-colored limbs. Jocelyn picked a few loose hairs from the dress and fancied herself another moment at the mirror before rushing for the door, fingers tangled in the straps of wedge sandals which were unbelievably cute in pair with the dress. She shook with manic zest as she locked the door to her condo and paced the elevator as it trickled from fifteenth to ground floor, and her head bobbed to a song she had never previously cared for as her Audi fled the parking garage. She had to fight the urge to sprint across the campus of East View when she got there.
“I love your dress!" gushed the cat at the front desk as Jocelyn came breezing by. “Oh, and Doctor Jackson was asking for you when she came in."
It wasn't even twenty minutes to eight, noted Jocelyn. Strange for the old doctor to beat her to the center. Worry prickled her as she went down the hall a ways past her own office to knock upon the door of Doctor Kalyani Jackson.
“Come in," a nauseatingly sweet and grandmotherly tone ushered through the gapped threshold, and Jocelyn peeked her head into a bright office which was busily-decorated with advertisements of an unattractive family.
She was surprised to find the older doctor not only already there but already hosting unfamiliar company—some young, suited bitch with her back to the door and a fat red snout over one shoulder.
Jocelyn kept her eyes to her smiling senior.
“You were looking for me, Doctor Jackson?"
A short lump of gray fur—
Obesity was even less flattering upon mongooses than it was upon most breeds.
—arose from the office desk with a smile.
“I was! Come in! How was your weekend?"
“Was fine," smiled Jocelyn. “Spent some time with a classmate from med school and relaxed. How were things around here?"
“Oh, good, good!" the mongoose hummed as she had habit to, and she flailed a fat set of claws at her guest. “I just wanted you to meet Doctor Rokem who I had mentioned before."
At her introduction, the suited bitch stood, turned and put a paw towards Jocelyn.
“Audrey," she said, pleasant but concise.
She was tall and fluffy, white at the throat and inner ears while a deep, autumnal red elsewhere. She may have been a fox-painted wolf, but even then she had an abnormally short muzzle, and her golden-yellow eyes were hung to a curious, unnatural angle. She was too many breeds for Jocelyn to care and key out, although she would admit the amalgamation might intrigue some fetishists.
They traded a shake of paws which was professional.
Jocelyn pitched some throwaway, welcome-to-the-ship line and hastened her excuse, citing hustle and bustle and bidding the pair the nicest of days as she hurried for her own office, wondering what the hell was wrong with people to make them genetically defile their children.
She burned through mindless administrative work and tidied her office obsessively until nine o'clock was but minutes away at which point she stood, a smile tearing free her reins, and thought to her most precious one as she scooped her papers under one arm, I'm on my way.
She was almost in reach of her door when a shadow crossed its frosted-glass window.
A deep frown sunk into her muzzle.
The shadow gave three unhesitant knocks.
Of all the times for interruption—
“Yes?" Jocelyn asked, briskly pulling the door aside.
The golden-yellow eyes of the Vulpes whateverus she had just met looked down at her.
“Doctor Jackson suggested, if you don't mind, I observe an inpatient you'll be meeting with."
Oh, how she minded—how her paws choked her door handle and her papers and how furious thoughts such as fat, decrepit cunt! and ugly, underbred bitch! throbbed through her mind—but Jocelyn pieced a courteous smile onto her face and loosened her tail.
“Oh, not at all," she said, stepping from her office.
To those commuting from the northern suburbs, East View Behavioral Healthcare-Hollins cut a dashing profile, its architecture a wedding of modernism and Tudor with neat columns of glass and orange brick arranged below the hem of a long, steep, standing seam roof. Those inside were comforted by open spaces, warm greens and beiges and sedate lighting. Tyson Spriggs's personal pocket of tranquility was around a corner of moss-green and pickled oak which Jocelyn and the mongrel rounded to come upon the locked, ligature-resistant door and psychiatric-grade window, plus a folding chair occupied by a jackrabbit jack attired in blue.
“How was the night?" Jocelyn asked the technician, stopping well short of the window.
“Quiet," said the rabbit, rising and glancing at Jocelyn's mixed-up tag-along, perhaps expecting an exchange of cliché niceties, but Jocelyn nodded and turned from him dismissively.
“Did Kalyani tell you anything about this patient?"
“No, she didn't."
“He's a special case—in custody of the state. Does the name Tyson Spriggs ring a bell?"
The golden-yellow eyes sharpened.
“I've heard of him."
“Well, he's been a bit high-maintenance recently, so he's mostly confined to his room. I'll introduce you, since, I assume, you'll be working with him as Kalyani did, but, otherwise, just stand back, and if he starts acting up, as he is prone to, ignore him. Yes?"
She got a nod and led the new thing the remaining steps to the window.
Tyson sat, head slumped onto arms which were crossed upon his knees— a wondrously bleak look for the shepherd, Jocelyn thought, one she chose to enjoy a few seconds before settling into her own chair.
She arranged her notes before her, jotted the day's date upon a form and eventually cleared her throat.
“Good morning, Tyson."
* * *
There was little to see through the reinforced window—a stripped mattress upon a sturdy, round-edged bed frame bolted into the floor, a small, empty shelving unit bolted beside a view of the outside world, a doorless doorway to a cutout bathroom. And there was an odd-looking chair in which a ramshackle canine sat folded over.
“Good morning, Tyson," Doctor York greeted in a fresh and pleasant tone.
When the patient raised his head, an inordinate amount of saliva dropped at his feet. His muzzle leveled at a sharp grade, and his heavy, chestnut eyes—only the pupil of the right one was dilated—climbed within their sockets, first staring opaquely at the other doctor, then, with much delay, scaling Audrey. The gaze was inane, but Audrey thought she saw something flicker across the brown eyes—shock? recognition?—as they stared at one another.
He had stared in their previous encounter, she recalled, but not with such lifelessness.
She smiled peaceably and gave the German shepherd a small nod.
Would he remember her?
She would wait and see, unsure whether remembering would be for better or worse.
“Elena?" the dog said, slavering, his voice numb and stupid.
He tried to straighten himself in his seat. His movements were labored, leaden.
“Doctor Rokem. It's nice to meet you."
Tyson receded into stupor and dribbled quietly upon himself.
His eyes remained snagged upon her.
Doctor York was looking at her as well.
“Audrey, wasn't it?" asked the Malinois.
Audrey made a short nod and turned her eyes back to the shepherd.
Had he misspoken or misperceived?
Regardless, she said no more until her departure.
For as long as she stood within his view, the German shepherd did not once look away from her.
* * *
Full session. Unresponsive to questioning. Refused cooperation. Appeared distracted by Dr. Rokem's (who will be taking Dr. Jackson's posit.) presence.
Jocelyn slapped her pen down onto her desk, threw her back against her chair.
Fuck! she screamed in her head.
She had been so excited for the day.
She looked so fucking good.
And for what—a humdrum, down-the-checklist interview?
She set two birds in flight and cursed the cockblocking cocktail of a cunt once more before allowing herself an elongated breath, bringing her seething to simmering.
“Elena," Tyson had said—a name he hadn't mentioned in a while.
Well, he wasn't quite so strong with words these days.
Deciding to postpone her anger and disgust, Jocelyn went to a file cabinet and drew one of the folders labeled “_ S priggs, T."_ and spilled its contents across her desk. She rummaged through pages of cacography attributed to Roger Spriggs and envelopes sent from Anessa Spriggs-Day—neither what she wanted—but sure enough, as she dug deeper through the stash of stationery, she happened upon what she was looking for—a letter to Tyson Spriggs from the Elliotsville, Indiana, address of one Elena Rokem.
How intriguing.
Jocelyn leaned forward and pulled her keyboard to the forefront of her desktop, waited for the computer to warm up and ran a query of “Elena Rokem Elliotsville" through her browser. The search engine unearthed hundreds of thousands of results. She clicked upon the first which was an obituary. Black, serif print loaded almost instantly and was pushed down the monitor by an image of some vixen-mix with curly, strawberry hair and eyes a golden-yellow. Jocelyn shook her head at the thing's corpulent snout and stodgy, slate-colored blazer before letting her gaze fall to hunt through the text.
“_ Elena Faye Rokem—" _
“_ age 53—" _
“_ passed away March 23, 2018, at her home—" _
Blah, blah, blah.
“_ born May 10, 1964—" _
“_ phd in business administration—" _
Whoop-de-fucking-doo.
“_ survived by her daughter audrey—" _
And there it was.
Jocelyn barked an amazed laugh, and she leaned back in her chair.
So, Tyson's mythical “Elena" was dead, and East View's (new) mixed blood was her spawn.
What a small and stupid world it was.
Jocelyn frowned, scrolled back through the obit and reread it.
Elena had been born in 1964.
Tyson had been born in 1990.
Twenty-five years apart in age—a detail Tyson had neglected to tell her which certainly might have played a part in driving his mother between their mismatched pairing. She read onwards, absorbed, and honed in on another detail—
“_ Elena began teaching at the Northern Indiana State University." _
That was the college Tyson had attended until the older of his two younger sisters had offed herself.
Jocelyn bookmarked the obituary.
* * *
“How was it?"
Audrey pulled the door shut behind herself and turned to Doctor Jackson with a frown.
“Concerning?" she said, uncertainly.
The mongoose nodded, left a silence for the taking.
“The patient was drugged out of his senses," Audrey said. “What medications is he taking?"
Doctor Jackson pulled a manila folder from her desk and held it out.
“It should be in that first document," she said.
_ Behavior Management Plan – Tyson Marshall Spriggs _
The document compiled definitions, data and individual reports of deviant behaviors. It contained preventative and reactive management strategies and—Audrey flipped many pages to—a schedule of medications complete with drug descriptions, administration information and recorded side effects. The first entry upon the schedule caused Jocelyn to hike her brow, but she read through the full list before laying it open upon Doctor Jackson's desk.
She pointed to the first entry.
“Isn't this excessive?"
“It's a very high dose," said the mongoose.
“The patient was nearly comatose. He could hardly move or speak."
“Yes," agreed Doctor Jackson.
Through the papers, Audrey backtracked to the incident reports in which East View staff detailed harassment, threats and physical and sexual assaults conducted by the German shepherd. Harrowing, vicious experiences described in bland, formal writing. Frequency charts showed the behaviors surging in late 2019 and early 2020 and declining but continuing since. Most of the recordings were attributed to Doctor York.
“What do you think, Doctor Jackson—"
“Kalyani is fine," the mongoose interjected as she leaned back behind her desk and, with a guilted sigh, explained, “Audrey, if I am to be honest, most of East View, myself included, have been pushing for that patient's discharge. We are tired of having him here. He is a tremendous strain on our resources. I know this is terrible as a doctor to say, I'm honestly ashamed to say it, but if he must be here, it is easier to deal with him as he is now than as he was. Much easier."
“If everyone wants him gone, why is he here? Is it the state?"
“Doctor York, for one. She has been adamant."
“What? But she's drugging him to all hell," said Audrey, perplexed. “He can't even answer her. That meeting was hardly therapy."
Doctor Jackson shrugged, and before she could respond, a knocking came at her office door.
* * *
Wednesday, March 24, 2021
3:36pm
“Yes?" sighed Jocelyn.
She tore her eyes from the billowing basswoods, the dogwoods in early bloom and the uneasy, gray skies outside her window—as her thoughts were torn from a certain someone.
The door to her office opened for a malformed muzzle.
“Do you have a minute?" inquired Doctor Rokem.
Uncurling her arms and stepping from the window, Jocelyn supposed she did have a minute—one she would prefer not tarnished by such unwanted company—and waved the hybrid to come in.
It took her a moment to shake her grimace from a dissonance the sum of faux fox-red fur and a scarlet polyester dress before she could feign a smile and a courteous, “What can I do for you?"
“I have a question about Tyson Spriggs," Doctor Rokem said, opening and offering a folder.
Jocelyn crossed the small office and took the folder. She skimmed the selected paper.
“His prescriptions. What of them?"
“Doctor York, twelve hundred milligrams of clozapine a day?"
“That's right. To manage the patient's persistent aggression and impulsivity," said Jocelyn, and she made a small, insouciant smile at her colleague and passed the folder back. “As it says in there."
Doctor Rokem closed the folder in her paws.
“Do you truly believe this is in the patient's best interest?"
“What are you implying?" asked Jocelyn, coolly folding her arms at her chest.
“I'm just trying to make sense of the treatment of this patient."
“Again," said Jocelyn, outwardly maintaining her patience, “you'll find all the justification you need in the data."
“I have to say I think this is part of some punishment—not treatment."
Jocelyn's muzzle burst open with a laugh which was dismissive and incredulous and right in her visitor's unattractive face, and she hastened not to recompose herself, but eventually she did, shaking her head and taking a step towards her desk.
“I don't know who you think you are, coming in here on your first week and talking about a patient you've twice met whom I've worked four years with, but if you have accusations, why don't you go file a complaint? I don't have time for this. I have an outpatient to prepare for."
“I've already started my report, but I wanted to speak with you first," the aberrant declared, voice grave, and as she backed towards the door she added in similar tones, “I just want you to know I'm doing this for the patient. I don't want it to be personal."
Gently, the door was pulled shut, and the footsteps of Doctor Rokem diminished.
Go fuck a mule, you breed-busting bitch, thought Jocelyn, and she returned to her window out which even darker skies could be seen assembling.