Page 9 of No Asylum Here

How had he heard about me? He’d said I came highly recommended. By who? When I asked, he’d shuffled onto the next question. The senior doctors I’d worked under in residency could have been behind it, but I wasn’t exactly trained for this kind of position. Something at a high-security mental hospital for the criminally insane was better suited for a forensic psychiatrist. They knew more about the legal system and handling dangerous patients.

You’re out of your depth, Tuesday.

Of course I was. But it wasn’t like I was in a position to turn down this opportunity. Not when it came with a high salary, room and board.

Besides, that strange dream I had the other night could only be described as prophetic. The man wasn’t real, but he had said I belonged at a place called Saint Bart’s. Next thing I knew, I was getting a job offer from Saint Bartholomew’s. I wasn’t the type to believe in destiny, but I could still take a hint from the universe that this was my chance to start fresh.

That, or it was a sign to kick the pill habit I’d developed.

“You must be Dr. Beckett,” a woman’s voice cut through my haze of thoughts.

A middle-aged woman stood on the topmost step of the staircase leading up to the entrance, her hands folded in front of her.

Where had she come from? I must have been so entangled in my thoughts that I hadn’t noticed her.

She wore an old-fashioned style nurse uniform, with a crisply-ironed white dress and nurse’s cap. Her salt and pepper hair was in a low bun, and she wore vintage-style makeup with mint eyeshadow.

“Yes, I’m Dr. Beckett.” After several awkward beats of silence, I smiled, trying to break the tension. “Whoever picks the uniforms must really love vintage aesthetics.”

The woman didn’t smile back. “We value old traditions here at Saint Bartholomew’s, Dr. Beckett. You’ll find all the nurses, orderlies and attendants wear classic uniforms at the behest of Dr. Rook. But don’t worry, he doesn’t require his staff physicians to follow the dress code. You may wear what you wish beneath your lab coat. For now.”

I wasn’t sure what unsettled me more, the fact that this was a mental asylum that "valued old traditions” or the “for now” that this woman tacked on, as if the rules could change at any moment.

“I’m sorry.” I shook my head. “I didn’t catch your name.”

“I'm Nurse Beatrice. I am the head psychiatric nurse here at Saint Bartholomew’s. Now, come.”

I followed her inside the gothic archway and gasped at what greeted me on the other side. The interior was as derelictly grandiose as the outside. What had once been grand was now well-worn and crumbling. The old-world craftsmanship of the main staircase leading up to the higher levels, the stained-glass windows, the white marble tiles—many of them cracked and dirty.

There were some modern updates—as in they’d been done in the last fifty years or so. The walls had been painted a pale, sickly green, and fluorescent lights lined the high ceilings, humming loudly above us.

Beatrice led me to the reception area and gestured to the front desk. “The receptionist can buzz you in and out if you need to leave, though I wouldn’t see why you would. Dr. Rook has a schedule for you that will keep you busy enough to have someone run to town for anything you might need.”

I wasn’t listening to the nurse.

Instead, my attention was fixated on a large glass box separating the main hall from the reception area.

In it was a dead body.

Years in medical school had galvanized my stomach—I’d seen my fair share of dead bodies. Not like this one, though. The poor soul on display in the glass cabinet had clearly been skinned from head to toe. It was withered, dusty, and its exposed muscles and sinew had been sloppily preserved. The unmistakable scent of formaldehyde stung my nose even through the glass.

The body wasn’t completely naked; it appeared to be wearing a leather coat.

A brass plate in the top corner of the box read, Saint Bartholomew. One of the twelve Apostles tortured and flogged for his faith. Forced to wear a coat of his own skin.

My lungs slammed together, my gut twisting in disgust as my eyes trekked back to the coat.

“What is this?” I asked, turning to Nurse Beatrice. Surely it wasn’t the real Saint Bartholomew. By the look of the shoddy embalming job, it couldn’t have been nearly that old.

“A medical cadaver, donated to the hospital many years ago,” the woman sniffed. She didn’t seem pleased by the disapproval on my face.

It put a bad taste in my mouth. The body had been donated for science, not so it could become some creepy religious display piece.

“Is this a church-funded facility?”

“No, but Dr. Rook enjoys collecting medical specimens and oddities. Since this one represents our facility’s namesake, he keeps it on display in the reception area.”

I frowned. Medicine had a dark history, and it wasn’t uncommon for doctors to collect medical equipment and specimens. I knew a guy in school who loved jar specimens—brains, fetuses, all sorts of organs and appendages. And a gynecologist who collected speculums.