She made the tiniest head shake.
“Ph.D.?
Again, the tiny head shake.
“What?” I said.
“I am a Doctor of Human Arts.”
“Of course,” I said. “And the conferring institution?”
“University of the Southern Pacific.”
“In L.A., I bet.”
Nod.
“They give academic credit for life experience.”
“That’s quite enough, Mr. Spenser.”
I nodded and smiled at her.
“Sure it is,” I said. “So tell me about Olivia Nelson.”
She paused for a long time. We both knew she was a fraud. And we both knew that if I were motivated, I could cause her a lot of aggravation with the state licensing board. And we both knew it. She shook her head ponderously.
“Troubled,” she said, “terribly troubled.”
I did a barely visible nod.
“And like a lot of women, terribly victimized,” she said.
Her deep voice was slow. Her manner was ponderous. When she wasn’t speaking, she remained entirely still. She knew I knew, but she wasn’t letting down. She was going to stay in character.
I nodded.
“At the heart of things was the fact that her father rejected her.”
“Original,” I said.
“And so she sought him symbolically over and over in other men.”
“She was promiscuous,” I said.
“That is a masculine word. It is the product of masculine culture, judgmental and pejorative.”
“Of course,” I said.
“When she came to me for help, she had already tried the route of Freudian, which is to say, masculine, psychotherapy. The failure was predictable. I was able to offer her a feminist perspective. And understanding herself, for the first time, in that perspective, she began finally to get in touch with her stifled self, the woman-child within.”
“And she slept around,” I said.
“She gave herself permission to discover her sexuality. And to do so for its own sake, rather than in the service of a thwarted father love.”
“Do you know the names of any other men she gave herself permission to discover her sexuality with?”
“Really, Mr. Spenser. That is privileged communication between patient and therapist.”
“And one of them might have killed her,” I said.
She chewed on that for a little bit.
“I would think it would be in her best interest for you to name them,” I said. “I’ll bet that in your studies at USP you learned that your patients’ best interest was the ethical rule of thumb in difficult circumstances.”
She chewed on that a little bit more.
“I don’t make notes,” she said finally. “I believe it inhibits the life force spontaneity necessary to a successful therapy.”
“Of course,” I said.
She allowed me to watch her think.
“And she never used names. She referred to the men in her life in various ways-the news anchor, for instance, and the judge, the broker, that sort of thing. There was an important clergyman, I know. But I don’t know who he was.”
“Denomination?” I said.
She shook her head. “Not even that,” she said. “She always referred to him as the Holy Man. I think it pleased her to experience a man of the cloth.”
I pressed her a little, but there was no more. I moved on.
“Did she tell you her real name?” I said.
“I was not aware that she had another,” Cockburn said.
