Hank Pressman MD has lived a messy personal life marred by infidelity, alcoholism and a surprising lack of self-awareness. His professional life as a psychiatrist has been unblemished, until now. When he meets a sad, young woman who somehow reminds him of his dead wife, a downward spiral begins that threatens this career and the safety of those he loves. Murder, blackmail and violent assault force him to make a decision... one that he doesn't want to make.
Hank Pressman MD has lived a messy personal life marred by infidelity, alcoholism and a surprising lack of self-awareness. His professional life as a psychiatrist has been unblemished, until now. When he meets a sad, young woman who somehow reminds him of his dead wife, a downward spiral begins that threatens this career and the safety of those he loves. Murder, blackmail and violent assault force him to make a decision... one that he doesn't want to make.
Chapter One
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It was late on a Friday afternoon, and I had stayed at the office to finish paperwork after a full day of patients starting with an obsessive-compulsive atheist priest and finishing up with a depressed mortician who would commit suicide if not for the delusion that he was already a zombie. The waiting room was finally empty and Phyllis, my nurse, receptionist, and longtime friend, stopped in my office to tell me that she was leaving. She rarely asked my permission for anything. She and I had an understanding. I did my job, and she did hers. If she thought she was ready to go, she was ready. If I thought she needed to stay, I was shit out of luck.
I said goodnight, she patted me on the top of the head in her office mother sort of way, and left. I heard her straightening the waiting room. I leaned back in my chair to stretch and admire the view outside. My office window provided a panorama of the Mississippi Valley, the silver bridge, sparkling with early evening lights, and the bluffs beyond. Â Fall had set the horizon afire with yellows and oranges and the river had taken on the color of hot cocoa on this chilly autumn night. The clouds were tinged red by the unseen sun, setting to the west. This office and this view were mine alone and every now and then I liked to sit back, put my feet up on the desk and just enjoy it.
My reverie was interrupted when Phyllis stepped back into the office. âDocâ, she said,  reprimanding me with her eyes âWere you expecting anyone?â She directed her attention to my shoes with obvious motherly disapproval.
âNo, why?â I said, quickly dropping my feet to the floor.
âWell, a new patient just showed up, a young woman She says she needs to see you, right away.â
âWho is she?â
âSaid her name is Marian.â
 âMarian who?â
She shrugged, âJust Marian. I asked her to fill out our demographic sheet, but she refused. Said sheâd pay cash and didnât want anyone to know she was here. Iâd have given her the boot, but she looked like sheâd start crying if I looked at her wrong. She seemed, I donât know, desperate maybe. She worries me a little.â Iâd always known that Phyllisâs tough exterior guarded a soft heart.
âPhyllis, you have always been a sucker for tears. A regular tootsie pop. Hard on the outside, soft on the inside. '' I said.
âSo are you,â she said. âI had her pay in advance.â
âOkay,â I grunted, getting out of my seat. âLetâs take a look.â
I wasnât in the habit of seeing drop-ins, having the luxury of a wide referral base, but I didnât really have anywhere to go, and once Phyllis decided to take someoneâs side, I didnât have a chance of resisting.
We entered the waiting room and there, standing by the window was a thin pale woman with her hair pulled up under a ragged beret and tear swollen red eyes. She wore a loose coat that failed to hide a too-thin frame. Her clothing was almost obsessively plain, a gray skirt to her knees, an off-white blouse, buttoned to the top and a dark scarf wrapped high around her neck. She wore no obvious makeup, and her complexion was pale. âDoctor Pressman, âshe said in a weak pleading voice.
âYes,â I extended my hand. âAnd you are ...â
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âMarian,â she said, taking my hand in a chill and fleeting grasp, quickly pulling her hand away again. She averted her eyes.
âMarian...â I said, waiting for her to fill in the blank. Like Phyllis before me, I got a timid stare.
âJust Marian, please,â she said, blinking wet tears. Phyllis glanced at me with a âSee what I meanâ expression.
âDo I know you?â I said uncertainly.
âNo, but Iâve heard about you. People speak very highly of you and ... I need your help.â She was fighting back more tears.
âWell, Marian, I donât want to make you feel uncomfortable, but itâs very unusual for me to see a patient at this late hour and especially on a Friday.â
Marian looked to be on the edge of something. The last thing my practice needed since Iâd only that summer left my old group and headed out on my own was a rejected patient walking out of my office and into oncoming traffic. Â Referrals can dry up over much less. I caved. âSo, what can I do for you?â
âDoctor,â Phyllis said, feigning the formality reserved for display before unfamiliar patients. âWould you like me to stay?â I didnât like the idea of being alone in the office with a patient, especially a female one but I knew that Phyllis had a family get-together planned that evening and was anxious to leave.
âNo, you go ahead, just leave the lights on please.â This was my coded response for âIâll be okay but donât turn the panic button off.â The button, under my desk, would immediately alert security in the hospital next door and get help within minutes. Weâd been disarming it at night ever since the cleaning lady tripped it and was scared half to death by a burly guard whoâd showed up from the darkened hall.
As Phyllis donned her coat and exited to the outer hall, I turned to Marian and asked if she needed a cup of coffee, tea maybe.
She sniffed and wiped the back of her hand across her red nose, âNo thank you, but I could use a tissue.â
âIâve got some in my office,'' I said. âPlease, follow me.â I led her into the office and directed her to the leather loveseat across from my desk. She sat and reached for a tissue box on the end table. I stepped to the door, intending to close it but rethinking my decision, I left it open. Marian picked up the tissue box and looked into it. âItâs empty,â she said.
âIâm sorry, Iâll get you another box,â I said and walked back to Phyllisâ office to get one from the storage cabinet. When I returned to the office, Marian was standing and studying a picture of my wife sheâd lifted from my desk. I handed her the tissues and she set the picture back down. âSheâs lovely,â she said.
âThank you,â I said, offering no details about the photo. Psychiatric ethics has always discouraged sharing personal information with a patient. Even having the picture on my desk could be considered an ethical breach but it had always been there: once as a prop, but now as a reminder of what I had lost.
I directed Marian to the sofa where she sat upright, her legs pressed tightly together and her hands knotted in her lap. I took a chair beside her, never liking to have a desk between me and my patient. I also tried to keep note taking to a minimum in their presence. Â Patients need to feel that they have my full attention.
âWell, what can I do for you, Marian?â I said settling back in the chair and crossing my legs casually.
She began in a halting voice. She told me that she was sad all the time, couldnât sleep, and had lost weight. With my prompting, she even admitted that she had considered suicide.
âBut I could never do it, Iâd go to hell,â she insisted.
âCan you tell me if there is anything happening in your life that may be making you feel this way?â I asked.
She shook her head insistently. âNo, thatâs not it. My life is...fine,â she said unconvincingly.
âI might find that easier to believe if you could tell me a little more about yourself,â I said, remembering the blank demographic sheet. âAre you married; do you have a family?â
âIâm married,â she said softly. âBut no family, other than my husband, of course.â
âAnd how is your marriage?â I asked.
She took on a frightened expression. âItâs fine. Heâs a good husband. If there are any problems, theyâre mine.â
âAnd what problems might those be?â I asked, gently encouraging her.
âIâm not pretty enough. I should try harder for him. And I donât run the house very well.â
âDoes he tell you these things?â I asked.
âPlease, I donât want to talk about him. I want you to help me, âshe said and started to cry again.
âAlright, let me ask some general questions, then,â I said and started my usual interview. Marian filled me in on where she grew up, went to school, and so forth giving no details about her family or upbringing. She gave a good medical history and claimed to have never before received any sort of mental health treatment. Whenever I approached more personal matters, especially her marriage, her face tightened, and her eyes darted away. When I finally got as much information as I thought I could, I brought up the topic that was most critical in my decision making.
âMarian, you told me that you had thought about harming yourself.â
She only nodded.
âHave you thought about how you would do it?â
She nodded again.
âCan you tell me about it?â I inquired.
âI thought about --- jumping off of the bridge,â she whispered.
I glanced over her shoulder at the massive, curved metal structure that spanned the river below. It was now lit by the head and taillights of dozens of cars as people drove home in the darkness of an autumn evening. Â Iâd had patients and known patients of colleagues who had jumped from that bridge. Some survived. Others were found downstream, days to months later. Marian didnât look like the kind of person who would fail in a suicide attempt of that sort. She appeared frail and helpless. Â I could imagine her limp body bobbing in the current.
âMarian, how close have you come to jumping?â I asked.
âOh, no.â she nearly shouted. âNowhere near. I said I didnât want to go to hell. I could never do that.â
âAlright,â I said, trying to calm her. âI believe you. But I was thinking that maybe it would be a good idea for you to come into the hospital, just for a little while, so that I can keep you safe.â
She jumped to her feet. âIâm safe,â she blurted. âWhat makes you think Iâm not safe?â
âPlease, Marianâ, I said. âWonât you sit down?â
âNot if youâre going to put me in the hospital.â
âNo, not if you promise me that you will do nothing to harm yourself and that you will tell me if you donât feel safe.â
She looked at me with laser intensity. I didnât move but smiled up at her, as disarmingly as I could.
Her glare softened a little. Â âAlright, I promise,'' she said and returned to the sofa, sitting as far from me as she could.
âIâd like to make a suggestion,â I said. âWould you be willing to try some medication?â
âWhat kind of medication?â she said guardedly.
âAn antidepressant that may also help reduce your anxiety. Itâs called an SSRI, thatâs selective serotonin reuptake inhibitor.â
âWhy?â she asked.
âBecause sometimes when people are sad the chemicals in their brain are affected and this medication can help reverse those effects. It could help you feel better.â
âIs it safe?â
âMarian, you said that you had been told that I was a good doctor. Whoever told you that must have thought you could trust me, isnât that so?â
âYes,â she responded, almost inaudibly.
âThen please trust me now, I only want to help.â
âAlright,â she said.
I walked around the desk and took out my prescription pad and pen. Leaning over the desktop, I wrote the name Marian and stopped. âI canât write a prescription without your full name, Marianâ
She took in a quick breath. âOn second thought...â
âIâm sorry,â I said, âI didnât mean to trick you or anything. But the pharmacy wonât take a prescription without your name.â
She rose to leave. âI knew this was a mistake,â she said. Â
âWait, no.â I stepped toward her, my arms extended, âThereâs another way.â  She turned back silently.
âI could give you samples, at least to start with. Then, if you felt the medication was helping, maybe youâd be willing to let me write a prescription. Okay?â I waved her back to her chairs. But she didnât move. âThanks, Doctor Pressman, but I donât think so.â She stepped into the hall, but I kept pace with her.
âAlright, then,â I said, âwe donât need to start any medication tonight. But, letâs set up another appointment so we can talk again.â Marian nodded unconvincingly.
Stepping around her, I said, âWeâll need to stop at the reception desk so I can look at my schedule. Weâll check when I can see you again.â I walked out of the office and she followed me down the hall.
Behind Phyllisâs desk I opened the top drawer where she kept my appointment book. I flipped to todayâs schedule then leafed forward in search of an open slot. Â I looked up at Marian who had stopped on the other side of the desk. âIt looks like I donât have anything open for nearly two weeks.â
âThatâs okay,â she said, turning toward the door. âIâll just call back or something.â
âNo, wait.â I almost shouted, âI can see you Monday. Iâll tell my nurse to fit you in. Call that morning and she can give you a time.â
âThank you, Doctor,â she said, reaching her hand across the desk. âBut I donât want to inconvenience you.â
I took her hand. âItâs no inconvenience. You need help, and you came to me for that help. Iâm glad that you did. Please, come back Wednesday, we can talk some more.â  With my free hand, I reached back into the desk drawer for a business card and handed her one. âI also have an answering service. You can call this number anytime, 24 hours a day, seven days a week,â I said. âIf you have a problem or are not feeling safe, call. I will see to it that you get the help you need. Do you understand?â
She nodded, barely moving her head.
âDo you have any questions?â I asked.
âNo, Doctor,'' she said and stepped to the door. I walked around the desk and opened the door for her. As she was passing me she suddenly turned and threw her arms around me. âThank youâ, she cried.
I returned the hug stiffly. Iâd never initiated this kind of contact with a patient and didnât feel very comfortable with it either. But she seemed so needy. Itâs alright,'' I said. âJust be sure you come back Monday, okay?â
She lingered for a moment in the hug and a strangely familiar scent wafted into my nose. I couldnât place it but it smelled inviting. Â Then she stepped back, feigning a weak smile. I guided her through the door to the elevator. Only once she was out of sight, did I close and lock the door. I returned to my office and took a seat behind my desk to finish paperwork.
Because she hadnât had a scheduled appointment and hadnât filled out the standard registration forms, I had no formal chart on Marian. I couldn't open a computer record because there was none. Instead, I opened a desk drawer and withdrew a manila file folder and several blank sheets of paper. On the folderâs tab I wrote MARIAN in large block letters and drew a line behind the name, meant to accommodate hersurname, if I were ever to learn it. I repeated the procedure on a sheet of paper, adding the date and time. Then I tried to summarize my session with the unsettling young woman. speculating on her diagnosis and what might constitute an appropriate treatment plan. Finished, I sat back to review what I had written and was suddenly struck with the bewildering thought, what on earth was I doing?Â
Why had I seen a patient alone in my office, after hours?  One who refused to identify herself?  One who could be making it all up as some sort of sick lark or to set me up for a scam? She could claim Iâd abused her and threatened to expose me unless I paid her. If she had been honest and as tenuously unstable as sheâd appeared, she could have done almost anything after leaving my office. But she had looked so helpless, so lost. I just couldnât turn her away. I would need to be more careful in the future.
I closed the folder and placed it in the back of the file drawer in my desk, behind a bunch of other folders that contained journal articles, policy statements, and licensure information that no one else was likely to look at. I felt a twinge of guilt over the unexplainable secrecy. I closed the drawer and scanned my desktop for other unfinished work. Marieâs picture stared at me from the middle of the desk. I picked it up, examining the details of a face I knew so well. Â The strawberry blond hair had become streaked with gray, and the porcelain features had softened a little, but she had still been beautiful. Â Her green eyes stared back at me without the anger orjudgment I so richly deserved. Â Once again, I foolishly wished for another chance with her. Sighing, I reached across the desk to put the picture back where it belonged. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I noticed something protruding from between the cushions of the sofa. I walked to it and, reaching down, pulled out a wad of unused tissue.
First and foremost, a large thank you to Reedsy Discovery and Thomas Boxleiter for providing me with a copy of this publication, which allows me to provide you with an unbiased review.
After I was approached with an ARC of Thomas Boxleiterâs novel, I could not help but be intrigued. The dust jacket blurb presented a novel full of action and with just the right amount of legal flavouring to be something that I would enjoy. Boxleiter did not disappoint at any point, providing a story that garnered not only my attention, but admiration for being so thorough. Mixing a number of areas together with just enough detail to leave the reader wanting more, Boxleiter has shown himself to be an author worth watching for in the years to come.
Dr. Hank Pressman has been running his psychiatric practice for years, with a number of patients who have achieved various forms of personal success. Beneath the surface, Pressman has a life that is a little more involved, from the death of his long-time wife, to bouts of infidelity, and even a blossoming addiction to alcohol. Still, heâs been able to keep things running smoothly.
When Marian Ash visits Dr. Pressman and demands that he take her on as a client, things begin to get a little more intense. Refusing to offer more than the bare minimum when it comes to informationâas she fears her husband will find outâMarian speaks of an abusive relationship at home. She comes to the office with physical bruises, which only worries Dr. Pressman more. He does his best to help her, but Marian Ash has other ideas.
While Dr. Pressman is trying to get his life back on track with a new relationship, things take a turn one night when Marian shows up at his home. Soon thereafter, sheâs taken into custody when her husband is found murdered. While Dr. Pressman has some of his own views on the matter, a series of events leave him wondering if he can serve as an expert witness to either help or hinder the defence. Faced with a mountain of personal and professional issues, Dr. Hank Pressman while have to decide what matters most to him and how he will look himself in the mirror once legal proceedings begin. A thrilling piece that is sure to make a name for Thomas Boxleiter!
I always enjoy new authors who make their way onto my radar. Thomas Boxleiter did so effectively and showed just how much skill he has with both storytelling and writing. The story, which may seem cookie cutter from the outset, actually delves into some wonderful themes and topics, all while educating the reader throughout the process. Boxleiter pulls no punches and keeps the reader in the middle, feeling as though they are right there with Dr. Pressman and the others. I look forward to reading more by Boxleiter, when the chance arises, and would encourage anyone looking for something refreshing and highly entertaining to try this novel for themselves.
Thomas Boxleiter offers up a strong narrative to guide the reader through the journey. Things begin well and build from there, providing a roadmap for a successful story. The characters Boxleiter uses throughout flavour things effectively and keep the reader intrigued about what is going on, without proving to be too over the top. I must applaud Boxleiter for developing Dr. Hank Pressman so well throughout the novel. There is significant progress for the character, who grows and expands in a variety of ways, such that the reader really feels as though they know his struggles. Use of plot twists keeps the story on point and allows the reader to feel a sense of not knowing where things are headed. While I cannot tell if there will be more for Dr. Pressman, or other novels in the same vein, I can only hope Thomas Boxleiter keeps writing and that I have the chance to read them. I was thoroughly impressed with this effort, which appears to be a debut novel!
Kudos, Mr. Boxleiter, for a great piece that kept me turning pages well into the night.