Once in his office, Chris set down his weathered messenger bag and turned on the computer to review his email. While it warmed up, he noticed his sole remaining plant on the windowsill was in desperate need of water, with brown leaves littering the ledge. He was about to water it when a tap at his door distracted him. It was psychiatrist Marilyn Stevenson, a copy of the Tribune in hand. “How was your weekend?”

“Good. Yours?” Chris had been a social worker at IFP for ten years, and for most of that time, he’d worked with Marilyn, one reason he still enjoyed working there.

“A little reading and some gardening. Nice and quiet, unlike today.” She handed the newspaper to Chris so he could see the headline. “Meet our new admission.”

“Yeah, I read the story,” he said glumly. “He’s coming here today?”

“That’s what Admitting tells me.”

“What do we know about him?”

Dr. Stevenson shrugged. “Not a whole lot. He was found at the scene covered in ice cream and blood. So we know he likes his frozen treats,” she added with a grin. Chris groaned, knowing that dark humour was a necessary coping mechanism in their line of work. “All he had on him was an expired BC medical card. Police got nowhere with him, and the staff at the pre-trial centre couldn’t get anything out of him.”

“He’s not cooperating?”

“He doesn’t appear to be deliberately withholding information. It’s more a question of his mental capacity to cooperate, which is why he’s been ordered here for a fitness assessment. He was triaged as a priority admission.”

“How come?”

“According to the notes from pre-trial, his ability to communicate verbally is limited. It looks as if he’s got severe cognitive deficits. Admitting says he’s scheduled to arrive between two-thirty and three this afternoon. I plan on seeing him at three-thirty. It would be great if you could join me.”

“I’ll be there. I’ll do a little digging before then to find out what I can about him. There’s got to be family or someone who knows him.”

“Keep in mind, Chris, that you’re not the only one digging for information. I already had a call this morning from Lucy Chen, wanting to ask me questions about the case. I alerted Florence, who ordered me to direct all media inquiries to the communications department.”

Hearing Florence’s name put the usual knot in Chris’ stomach. Florence Threader was the hospital’s director of patient care. He knew his director was looking out for the best interests of the hospital, but his last confrontation with her had almost cost him his job. Having the Goodwin case on Florence’s radar would make Chris’ life more difficult than it already was.

“Thanks for the warning.”