'No. Rules are rules. Thanks for all your help, I'm dealing with stuff pretty well. All things considered.' She picked up her books.
'All things considered?'
'One never knows,' she said. Then she laughed. 'Oh, don't worry about me. I'm fine. What's the choice?'
During the last few sessions, she entered ready to talk about her grief. Dry-eyed, solemn, no changes of subject or digressions to trivia or laughing dance-aways.
Trying.
Yearning to understand why her mother had left her without saying good-bye. Knowing some questions could never be answered.
Asking them anyway. Why her family? Why her?
Had her mother even been sick? Had it all been psychosomatic, the way Dr. Manitow said it was-she'd heard him say so to Judge Manitow when the two of them didn't know she was in earshot. Judge Manitow saying, Oh, I don't know, Bob. He replying, Trust me, Judy, there's nothing physically wrong with her-it's slow suicide.
Stacy, listening from the bathroom next to the kitchen, had been angry at him, really furious, what a bastard, how could he say something like that.
But then she started wondering herself. Because the doctors never did find anything. Her father kept saying doctors don't know everything, they're not as smart as they think. Then he stopped taking her for tests, so didn't that prove that even he thought it might be in Mom's head? You'd think something would show up on some test…
During the eleventh session, she talked about Mate.
Not angry at him, the way Dad was. The way Eric was. That's all the two of them could do when faced with something they couldn't control. Get angry at it. Big male thing, get pissed off, want to crush it.
I said, 'Your father wants to crush Mate?'
'Rhetorically. He says that about anything he doesn't like-some guy trying to cheat him in a business deal, he jokes about pulverizing him, wiping him off the planet, that kind of macho BS.'
'What do you think of Mate?'
'Pathetic. A loser. With or without him, Mom would have stopped being.'
At the beginning of the twelfth session she announced that there was nothing left to say about her mother, she'd better start paying attention to her future. Because she'd finally decided she just might want one.
'Maybe architecture, still.' Smile. 'I've eliminated everything else. I'm forging straight ahead, Dr. Delaware. Setting my sights on architecture at Stanford. Everyone will be happy.'
'Including you?'
'Definitely including me. No point doing anything if it doesn't bring me satisfaction. Thanks for getting me to see that.'
She was ready to terminate, but I encouraged her to make another appointment. She came in the next week with brochures and the course catalog from Stanford.
Going over the architecture curriculum with me. Telling me she was pretty sure she'd made the right choice.
'If you don't mind,' she said, 'I'd like to come in when I apply next year. Maybe you can give me some pointers-if you do that kind of thing.'
'Sure. My pleasure. And call any time something's on your mind.'
'You're very nice,' she said. 'It was instructive to meet you.'
I didn't have to ask what she meant. I was a male who wasn't her father, wasn't her brother.
CHAPTER 13
IT WAS NEARLY ten P.M. when I closed the file.
Stacy had left therapy claiming she'd found direction. This morning her father had implied the transformation had been temporary. She'd promised to call but never followed through. Normal teenage flakiness? Not wanting me to view her as a failure?
Despite her declaration of independence, I'd never considered her a therapeutic triumph. You couldn't deal with what she'd been through in thirteen sessions. I suppose I'd known all along that she'd held back.
Would we really talk about college tomorrow morning?
I paged through the file again, found something in my notes of the eleventh session. My deliberately sketchy shorthand, born of too many subpoenas.
Pt. disc. fath. hostility to Mate.
That's all the two of them could do when faced with something they couldn't control. Get angry at it. Big male thing, get pissed off, want to crush it.
The phone rang.
'Dr. Delaware, this came in an hour ago,' said the operator. 'A Mr. Fusco, he said you can call him back anytime.'
The name wasn't familiar. I asked her to spell it.
'Leimert Fusco. I thought it was Leonard but it's Leimert.' She recited a Westwood exchange. 'Guess what, Doctor-he says he's with the FBI.'
The Federal Building, where the FBI was headquartered, was in Westwood, on Wilshire and Veteran. Only blocks, as a matter of fact, from Roy Haiselden's house. Something to do with that? Then why call me, not Milo?
Better to check with Milo. I figured the frustrations of the day would push him to keep going, so I tried his desk at the station. No answer there or at his home, and his cell phone didn't connect.
Unsure I was doing the right thing, I punched in Fusco's number. A deep, harsh voice-heavy shoes being dragged over rough cement-recited the usual speech: 'This is Special Agent Leimert Fusco. Leave a message.'
'This is Dr. Alex Delaware returning your-'
'Doctor,' the same voice broke in. 'Thanks for getting back so quickly.'
'What can I do for you?'
'I've been assigned to look into a police case you're currently working on.'
'Which case is that?'
Laughter. 'How many police cases are you working on? Don't worry, Doctor, I'm aware of your allegiance to Detective Sturgis, have cleared it with him. He and I will be meeting soon, he wasn't sure whether or not you'd be able to make it. So I thought I'd touch base with you personally, just to see if you've got any information you'd like to share with the Bureau. Psychological insights. By the way, I'm trained as a psychologist.'
'I see.' I didn't. 'The little I know I've told Detective Sturgis.'
'Yes,' said Fusco. 'He as much as said so.'
Silence.
He said, 'Well, thanks anyway. It's a tough one, isn't it?'
'Looks to be.'
'Guess we've all got our work cut out for us. Thanks for calling back.'
'Sure,' I said.
'You know, Doctor, we do have some expertise in this area. The Bureau.'
'What area, specifically?'
'Psychopathic killings. Homicides with psychosexual overtones. Our data banks are pretty impressive.'
'Great,' I said. 'Hope you come up with something.'
'Hope so, too. Bye now.'
Click.
I sat there feeling like an unwitting character in a candid video.
Something about him… I called information and asked for the FBI number. Same prefix Fusco had given, so his number was probably an extension. A female recorded voice said no one was in this late. Rust never sleeps, but the government does.
