Silent Partner

That made her flinch but she said nothing.

“He was drunk,” I said. “Stoned drunk, really out of it. My hunch is that he was unbalanced to begin with, and is now at risk for some kind of breakdown. Maybe violence. Losing a therapist can be like losing a parent. I’ve been wondering how many of her other-”

“Yes, yes, of course. I understand all of that. But what I still don’t get is your concern. What’s your involvement in all of this?”

I thought about the best way to answer. “Some of it’s probably guilt. Sharon and I knew each other well- back in graduate school. I hadn’t seen her for years, ran into her by chance at a party last Saturday. She seemed upset about something, asked if she could talk to me. We made a date. I had second thoughts and canceled the next day. That night, she killed herself. I guess I’m still wondering if I could have stopped it. I’d like to prevent any more grief, if I can.”

She fingered her stethoscope and stared at me. “This is for real, isn’t it? You don’t work for some shyster lawyer, do you?”

“Why would I?”

She smiled. “So you want me to contact any patients I might have referred to her?”

“And tell me about any other referral sources you’re familiar with.”

The smile got cold. “That would be difficult, Dr. Delaware. Not a good idea at all- not that there were that many referrals, anyway. And I have no idea who else referred to her. Though I sure feel sorry for them.”

She stopped, seemed to be searching for words. “Sharon Ransom was a… She and I… Well, you tell me first. Why’d you break your date with her?”

“I didn’t want to get involved with her. She’s… She was a complicated woman.”

“She sure was.” She looked at her watch, removed the stethoscope. “All right, I’m going to make a call and check on you. If you’re who you say you are, we’ll talk. But I’ve got to eat first.”

She left me in the waiting room, came back several moments later, and said, “Okay,” without looking at me.

We walked a block to a coffee shop on Brighton. She ordered a tuna sandwich on rye and herb tea. I pushed rubbery scrambled eggs around on my plate.

She ate quickly, unceremoniously. Ordered a hot fudge sundae for dessert and finished half of it before pushing the dish away.

After wiping her mouth she said, “When they told me someone was calling about Sharon, frankly, I was uptight. She caused problems for me. We haven’t worked together for a long time.”

“What kinds of problems?”

“One second.” She called the waitress over and asked for a refill of tea. I ordered coffee. The check came with the drinks.

I took it. “On me.”

“Buying information?”

I smiled. “You were talking about the problems she caused.”

She shook her head. “Boy. I don’t know if I really want to get into this.”

“Confidential,” I promised.

“Legally? As in, you’re my therapist?”

“If that makes you comfortable.”

“Spoken like a true shrink. Yes, it makes me comfortable. We’re talking hot potato here- ethical problems.” Her eyes hardened. “There was no way for me to prevent it, but try telling that to a malpractice jury. When a shyster gets hold of something like that, he goes back in the chart, hits on every doc who’s ever passed the patient in the hall.”

“The last thing on my mind is fomenting a lawsuit,” I said.

“Last thing on my mind, too.” She slapped her hand on the table hard enough to make the salt shaker jump. “Darn it! She shafted me. Just thinking about her makes me mad. I’m sorry she’s dead, but I just can’t feel any grief. She used me.”

She sipped her tea.

“I only met her last year. She walked in, introduced herself, and invited me out to lunch. I knew what she was doing- hustling referrals. Nothing wrong with that. I’ve only been in practice a little over a year, have done my share of brown-nosing. And my first impression of her was very positive. She was bright, articulate, seemed to have it all together. Her resume looked terrific- lots of varied clinical experience. Plus, she was right here, in the building- it’s always good business to cross-refer. Almost all my patients are women, most of them would be more comfortable with a female therapist, so I figured why not, give it a try. The only reservation I had was that she was so good-looking, I wondered if it mightn’t threaten some women. But I told myself that was sexist thinking, began sending her referrals- not that many, thank God. It’s a small practice.”

“Was her office on the third floor? With Dr. Kruse?”

“That’s the one. Only, he was never there, just her, by herself. She took me up there once- tiny place, just a postage-stamp waiting room and one consulting office. She was Kruse’s psychological assistant or something like that, had a license number.”

“An assistant’s certificate.”

“Whatever. Everything was kosher.”

Psychological assistant. A temporary position, aimed at providing experience for new Ph.D.’s under supervision of a licensed psychologist. Sharon had earned her doctorate six years ago, had been long eligible for full licensure. I wondered why she hadn’t gotten it. What she’d done for six years.

“Kruse wrote her this terrific letter of recommendation,” she said. “He was a faculty member at the University, so I figured that counted for something. I really expected it to work out. I was blown away when it didn’t.”

“Do you still have that resume?”

“No.”

“Remember anything else from it?”

“Just what I told you. Why?”

“Trying to backtrack. How did she shaft you?”

She gave me a sharp look. “You mean you haven’t figured it out?”

“My guess would be sexual misconduct- sleeping with her patients. But most of your patients are women. Was she gay?”

She laughed. “Gay? Yeah, I could see how you might think that. Frankly, I don’t know what she was. I was raised in Chicago. Nothing about this city surprises me anymore. But no, she didn’t sleep with women- as far as I know. We’re talking men. Husbands of patients. Boyfriends. Men won’t go into therapy without prodding. The women have to do everything- getting the referral, making the appointment. My patients asked me for referrals, and I sent half a dozen to Sharon. She thanked me by sleeping with them.”

“How’d you find out?”

She looked disgusted. “I was doing my books, checking out bad debts and failure-to-shows and I noticed that most of the women whose husbands I’d sent her hadn’t paid or kept their follow-ups. It stood out like a sore thumb, because other than those, my collections were excellent, my return rate close to perfect. I started calling around, to find out what had happened. Most of the women wouldn’t speak to me- some even hung up on me. But two of them did talk. The first let me have it with both barrels. Seems her husband had seen Sharon for a few sessions- something to do with job stress. She taught him to relax; that was it. A few weeks later she called him and offered a follow-up session. Free of charge. When he showed up she tried to seduce him, really came on strong- she took her clothes off, for God’s sake, right there in the office. He walked out on her, went home and told his wife. She was livid, screaming that I should be ashamed of myself for associating with a conniving, amoral bitch like that. The second one was worse. She just cried and cried.”

She rubbed her temples, took an aspirin out of her purse, and swallowed it with tea.

“Unbelievable, isn’t it? Free follow-up visits. I’m still waiting for the other shoe to drop- as in see-you-in-court. I’ve lost plenty of sleep over it.”