kept the window shut. To the left, a black door was fitted with security hinges.
Tight procedures because the clientele was unpredictable?
The lobby smelled sweet and acrid and frightening, like a public health clinic during a mass vaccination. Hard uninviting furniture sat atop rust-brown linoleum. The walls were tongue-and-groove wood painted cigarette-ash gray. Seeping through the chemical aroma was the rancid bite of greasy food left too long in steam tables.
A whiteboard to the right of the window listed an all-day schedule of group and individual therapies, psychological and physical.
The session of the moment:
Milo muttered, “My butt’s falling asleep out of empathy.” He tapped the window.
A lock turned, the pane slid open. A pretty Asian woman, hair tied back in a blue-black bun, said, “How may I help you?”
Milo’s badge flash was followed up by Steven Muhrmann’s photo. “Recognize this fellow?”
“Sorry, no, I’ve only been working here two months.”
“Could we please speak to someone who’s been here awhile—say, two or three years?”
“May I ask what this is about?”
“A serious crime.”
She touched her phone. “How serious?”
“Serious enough to bring us here. Who’s the boss around here?”
“I’m going to page our director, Dr. Manlow.”
“Says on the board she’s in session.”
“If she is, she won’t answer, and we’ll just have to see what to do. I’m still learning the regulations, so bear with me.”
She took care to slide the window back in place softly. A few seconds of muffled conversation preceded her reemergence. Smile of relief. “Dr. Manlow will be down in a moment. If you’d care to take a seat.” Motioning to the hard chairs.
Before our butts lowered, the black door swung open. The woman who marched through was forty or so with thick, wavy chestnut hair, wide aqua eyes, and a longish face of a porcelain hue and consistency that suggested sun phobia. Full lips, thin beakish nose, a smidge too much chin for ideal beauty.
An attractive woman made more so by confident posture.
She wore a cinnamon cashmere sweater, muted brown plaid slacks, bitter-chocolate crocodile pumps. A leather day planner matched the shoes. So did the leather pen case hanging from her waistband, along with a cell phone and two beepers, one topped by a strip of red tape.
Enough gear to give her the cop swagger but she strode forward without an errant twist of hip or leg.
No jewelry. The risk of being snagged?
“I’m Dr. Manlow.” Glassy, girlish voice but authority in her inflection.
“Thanks for seeing us, Doctor. Milo Sturgis, Alex Delaware.” He handed his card over. Most people skim. Double-Doctor Beth E. A. Manlow put on gold-rimmed glasses and read carefully before slipping the card into her day planner.
“Homicide. Who’s been murdered?”
“A woman we’re still trying to identify.” Milo showed her the sketch of Mystery nee Princess.
Manlow said, “Sorry, she’s not one of our patients. At least not for the past five years since I’ve been here.”
“You remember all of your patients by sight?”
“I’ve got an eye for details and it’s only been five years. I saw this rendering on the news, it didn’t ring any bells then and that holds for now. Annie said you showed her a picture of a man.”
Milo produced Muhrmann’s photo.
She stared, removed her glasses, shook her head. Resignation, not denial.
“What’s his connection to your case?”
“You know him.”
“Tell me the name you’ve got for him.”
“Steven Muhrmann.”
She nodded.
Milo said, “What can you tell me about him?”
“Why are you interested?”
“He knew the victim.”
“He knew her, that’s it?” she said. “Or are you saying he’s your suspect?”
“Would that make a difference, in terms of how much you’re going to tell us, Doctor?”
Manlow tapped a foot. Pulled a thread from her sweater, frowned as she coiled it around her fingers. “Let’s talk in my office.”
The black security door opened to a narrow hallway that terminated in a transparent window laced with steel mesh.
A red
Manlow’s office was just inside the door. As we entered, I glanced through the mesh, caught a glimpse of another, longer corridor paneled in knotty pine. A woman sat on the floor reading. Another woman worked a crossword puzzle. At the far end, a man stretched, touched his toes, rotated his neck.
Everyone in street clothes, nothing clinical about the ambience. But something about the way the three of them moved—slow, measured, mechanical—said frivolity had long been left behind.
Manlow’s office was modestly proportioned, walled with bookshelves, file cabinets, and a collection of mounted diplomas. Elizabeth Emma Allison Manlow had earned a B.A. from Cornell when she was still Elizabeth Emma Allison, an M.D. from UC San Francisco, and a Ph.D. in neuropharmacology from Stanford. Internship and psychiatry residency had both been served at Massachusetts General. A fellowship certificate in cognitive behavior therapy had been granted by an institute in Philadelphia.
She’d finished her training six years ago. This was her first and only job.
No family photos. I liked that. With a true pro it’s all about the patient.
Milo said, “What kinds of conditions do you treat here?”
“Substance abuse, exclusively.”
“Not gambling?”
“Pardon?”
“Being so close to the track.” Milo repeated his line about fish and fishing.
Beth Manlow smiled. “Maybe we should develop a program for that. No, we concentrate on addictive chemicals. And that doesn’t include overactive sex hormones, either, because sex addiction, in my opinion, is a monumental crock.”
“Tell us about Steven Muhrmann.”
Manlow’s smile chilled. “Are you familiar with rehab programs?”
Milo said, “Not really.”
“Most of them suck.”
He laughed. “Don’t hold back, Doc.”
Beth Manlow said, “Look, one thing this work has taught me is that to be effective, you have to grasp reality firmly. This is a very tough business and success rates, as defined by five years with no relapse, are all over the place—from two percent to seventy-five.”
He whistled.
“Precisely, Lieutenant.”
“No one really knows what works.”
“We know a few things,” said Manlow. “But you’re right, there’s much to be done in the way of establishing criteria for success. And let me assure you that anything approaching the seventy percent figure is likely to be either an outright lie or based exclusively on self-report, which is a fancy term for bragging. That’s not to say most
