HOURGLASS

AuthorHouse

Chapter One

"WHO ARE YOU, TYLER JACKSON?"

Dr. Timothy Henderson asked the question to no one but himself, as he kept tapping the thick, tan folder against his desk again and again, hoping that somehow an answer would miraculously bounce out of the case file and enter his brain. The binder was silent, however. The only sound he heard was the ticking of the grandfather clock in the far south corner of his vast office. He had thought of almost nothing else except this teenager for the past two days, and he still had no answer.

He placed the file in the center of his majestic desk, an ornately carved piece of furniture with a solid marble top. Henderson ran his hand over it absently, marveling at its beauty. If anyone had had the nerve to confront him on it, he would have admitted that it did seem rather ostentatious for the director of a mental institution, but Henderson as a psychiatrist saw everything in symbolic terms.

A desk mirrored the life of the man who used it. And this man believed that perfection could be achieved through discipline. On Henderson's desk were the basic elements: writing pad, pen set, green-covered reading lamp, but aside from that, it was totally cleared with the exception of the standard institutional, khaki-colored case file lying in the middle of it. To this doctor, anything on his desk represented something that needed to get off his desk. Order was his order of the day.

But the Jackson case file had been sitting on his desk for two days now, ever since the unfortunate death of his case manager, Dr. Whitaker. Now that he was gone, someone had to take over the boy's treatment program. The question-the unpleasantly unanswerable question-was who? Henderson stared at the innocent-looking folder, which almost seemed to be mocking him. He gazed at it intently-struggling with emotions of fear, frustration, and anger.

He pushed his chair away from the desk but was still glued to the seat, staring at the wretched file. The doctor caught himself unconsciously stroking his short-cropped white beard. He immediately pulled his hand away and straightened out his tie. He hated this nervous habit of playing with his beard that Freud would probably have said was related to an oral fixation.

Henderson stood up and out of reflex pulled down on his suit jacket to straighten it. Henderson was always impeccably dressed-he had two tailor-made suits, one dark blue and the other gray, which he alternated daily. The staff, however, noted that the suits represented their director's mood for that day. He wore gray when he was in a bad mood, and the dark blue when he was in a sour mood. Henderson knew there was no love lost on him by his staff, but he did not care. His job was to run a hospital-and that took discipline.

With that thought, Henderson glanced over at the wall to a large, framed portrait of the great father of psychoanalysis. As a psychiatrist, Henderson enjoyed the comparisons of his likeness to that of Sigmund Freud. Many visitors had noted that the pose of Freud, holding a cigar in one hand with his other hand resting on his hip, could easily be mistaken for Timothy Henderson. He, like Freud, had a rather narrow face and receding hairline. Both men had the type of eyes that always seem like they are squinting, like they are looking for something that only they can see. Henderson enjoyed the comparisons to Freud so much he even ordered reading glasses that were very close in appearance to those worn by Freud. He took a step toward the picture on the wall and asked, "What would you do if you were me, doctor?"

Unfortunately, that imaginary conversation was interrupted by the clock chiming four o'clock. Each strike hit Henderson's mind like a word hammer: Bong-what-Bong-should-Bong-I-Bong-do? Time now was running out. In precisely thirty minutes, the seven psychiatric doctors on his staff would arrive for their weekly meeting, and there was only one agenda item that anyone cared about: Who would be assigned case file #170866/381-Tyler Henry Jackson?

Henderson quickly scanned his office to make sure everything was ready. There was a staff room down the hall where the meeting could be held, but Henderson preferred to hold his staff meeting here. There was certainly enough space for everyone. Thanks to an exceedingly large government grant four years ago, he made sure during the renovations that his office was big enough to host a small army.

Thank God for politics, thought Henderson. Bill Scranton had been bitten by the presidential bug, especially after he made the cover of Time magazine in October of 1962. He lost the Republican nomination to Barry Goldwater in 1964, but since Goldwater got pummeled in the general election, it appeared that when Scranton's term as governor expired in 1967, he would be well positioned to run for president again in 1968. Figuring that mental health would make a great signature issue in the day of the Great Society, the governor gave Henderson a blank check in 1966, to rebuild Pennsylvania's only residential psychiatric institution for children into a showpiece. All agreed-it certainly was impressive.

Henderson moved away from the picture to stand in front of his massive office windows behind his desk. The large, plate glass panels took up most of the wall with heavy blue curtains on each side, though these were almost never drawn. Henderson loved to have the sunlight shining on his shoulders while working at his desk. Even better, he enjoyed standing in front of these windows so he could fully survey his domain.

Henderson never tired of this view-the hospital had been renovated inside and out, and he especially loved the new facade. It brought to mind buildings on an Ivy League campus, elegant yet refined. The building had two wings; it was shaped like a U, with a very large interior courtyard area, which had been landscaped magnificently under Henderson's direction. The lawn was manicured so well it could be mistaken for a golf course, with stone inlaid pathways punctuated by four small gardens scattered like islands throughout the grounds. A stone wall completely surrounded the property, sealing it off from the vulgarities of the outside world.

The administration building-the South Hall as it was called-commanded the best view, and Henderson's office on the top floor commanded the best view of all, of course. Henderson had argued that exercise was important to rehabilitative mental health, and the splendor of this peaceful and relaxing environment would encourage the patients to stroll leisurely. And since the state was footing the bill, the director had added one master touch to the already grand landscape. Nestled at the north side of the grounds, away from the hospital but still within the boundary of the stone wall, he had a small man-made lake built, semi-encircled by perfectly manicured bushes with wooden park benches next to them. God himself could not have done a better job, thought Henderson, gazing at the idyllic setting.

Unfortunately, the outside courtyard had acquired the name Scranton Yard, the governor's way of taking credit for the years of success that had been building since the hospital was reconstructed and expanded eighteen years ago. Originally there was only the east wing, now called the Buchanan Ward, a three-story structure, which still stood and housed the long-term patients. But the renovation and building...