unethical....”
“Even with a deceased client?” I shook my head. “Mike was just about the most down-to-earth, uncomplicated, un-traumatized guy I ever met.”
He raised both eyebrows. “I will say this, Ms. Tree: your husband took a number of lives in the line of duty. That can be difficult to cope with. And, as you know, I am on the approved list of psychiatrists for police officers, and seeing someone on that list is required of any officer involved in a fatal shooting on the job. As was your husband—on more than one occasion.”
But I had to shake my head at that. “Doc, Mike wasn’t shy about taking down a bad guy. Department regs could have sent him to you. But he kept coming to you long after he was off the PD. Why would he do that?”
He waved that off. “I can only suggest that Mike was more troubled by the lives he’d taken than he might have admitted to the woman he loved. Perhaps male ego issues were involved. And there’s always the possibility that he found our sessions useful.”
“I’ll give you that,” I allowed. “But what if he kept coming to you for a completely different reason?”
“What reason would that be?”
“Oh, I don’t know...what if you were a suspect?”
He reared back, blinking as if at a bright light. “Now that is absurd. A suspect in, of...what?”
I let the superficially friendly manner drop away, and allowed a cold edge to creep in.
“Funny thing is,” I said, “you steered me to the answer yourself.”
He was openly uneasy now. “I have no idea what—”
“Your patented Old School dream analysis approach—I was thinking about that dream—”
I lounged there on no towel, basking in a sun that seemed to turn the world white and yellow and orange, though the sensation was of warmth, not heat. The green of trees was a backdrop, more perceived than seen, the blue-green of the lake glinting with sun sparkle.
I felt a sense of repose encouraged by the lapping of the waves and the laughter and splashing of a young couple, happy honeymooners, cavorting in the water. I watched them for a while, but they were indistinct in the shimmer of sunlight.
To the left of me, a digging sound drew my eyes to a boy around ten, in a yellow swimsuit with orange-red seahorses dancing on it, who was working with a shovel, gaining more raw material for the elaborate sand castle he was constructing, turrets and towers and even a carved-out moat.
The sound of splashing drew my attention back to the happy couple coming up out of the water, hand in hand, stumbling onto the sand to fall onto beach towels, dripping, laughing, kissing.
I smiled a little and gave them privacy they hadn’t requested by casting my eyes back out on the gentle rolling water with its diamond-like glimmer.
Then, as if a switch had been thrown, the world turned shades of blue and gray, and a wind began to blow, kicking up choppy waves. My hair started to whip and a sudden, troubling chill enveloped me, encasing me in goose pimples. I looked around for my own towel, but there wasn’t one, and I wound up hugging my legs to myself, a shivering oversized fetus.
But when I glanced over at the boy building that sprawling castle, he didn’t seem to notice the wind and cold; even his sand-color hair remained unruffled, though the blue of fast-moving clouds shadowed him.
“And today, when this session began,” I said, “you ignored the very element that started me thinking—the innocent boy...building the sand castle...Dr. Cassel.”
His smile was dismissive. “You’re talking nonsense.”
“Maybe. If so, we’ve talked a lot of nonsense in our sessions, examining my dreams.”
Cassel said nothing.
“One small question, Doc. Psychologists can’t prescribe medicine—they have referral arrangements with psychiatrists, their medical equivalent.”
Irritably, he allowed, “That’s of course true.”
“That’s not the question—this is: were you Marcy Addwatter’s psychologist’s referral doctor? ”
He frowned, clearly displeased. “That, I’m afraid, does cross the confidentiality line. But even if I were, I can assure you, pharmacy records will show—”
“That you have an accomplice in the pharmacy.”
His face went stony. Eyes, too.
“Something that records have shown already,” I said, “thanks to some work a young investigator of mine, Bea Vang, dug up. Seems as part of the generous pro bono work you’ve done over recent years, you once counseled a troubled young woman from the South Side named Holly Jackson. Prostitute. Poor kid was HIV Positive, but AIDS didn’t kill her—my client, Marcy Addwatter, did, in a shabby little motel room.”
He slowly shook his head. “I don’t recall the name. As you say, I do considerable pro bono work, and a lot of sad souls pass my way. I do what I can.”
“I’m sure. Here’s a fun fact that almost slipped through the cracks—the motel where Richard Addwatter was killed? Along with Holly Jackson? It’s the same one where my husband was killed, on our honeymoon night. Different room, though. Still—small world. I should have picked up on that, but I never bothered to check out the Addwatter crime scene; score another one for Bea....Wonder what an in-depth talk with the manager there will bring?”
In the dim office—only the green-shaded lamp on his desk providing any illumination at all—the doctor’s face was a solemn, carved mask.
“You won’t get anywhere with this, Ms. Tree,” he said.
I shrugged, stood, purse slung over the shoulder of my trenchcoat. “You may be right. A psychiatrist using his position of trust to vandalize his patient’s mental inventory, to prescribe improper medication designed to aggravate and manipulate that patient’s mental condition—you were the one planning these events, Doc. And when we dig back through all of the files of the Planner’s victims, you will be right there, won’t you, Doc? Their trusted psychiatrist.”
Dr. Cassel remained seated, looking up at me with a tiny, nasty smile and cold hard dark eyes. “And do you imagine, Ms. Tree, that any of that will be easy to prove?”
“Possibly not,” I admitted. “You are the master manipulator—probably protecting yourself with layer after layer, although the Holly Jackson and no-tell motel links are there, all right. Still, even connecting you to the Muertas may prove difficult.”
His manner brusque, business-like, Dr. Cassel said, “I think you should go. Your time is long since up.”
“But, hey,” I said cheerfully, “I’m gonna give it my best shot—making sure your future is one of police inquiries, civil suits, malpractice hearings, newspaper exposes....Oh, and, uh, cancel my next appointment, would you?”
“With pleasure.”
I turned away and headed toward the door.
And I could hear the desk drawer opening—was he reaching for his appointment book, to record that cancellation? I thought not.
When I whirled, gun from coat pocket already in hand, I could see the little automatic in his fingers coming up from the drawer.
But the dark eye of the nine millimeter already had him stared down.
His expression was stunned, his jaw damn near scraping the desktop.
“See how much you’ve taught me, Doc?...Pushed your buttons pretty good.”
Panicking, he tried to raise the automatic, but he didn’t have near the time, and I fired once, the
