Rough Weather

After an appropriate wait, I was taken into the office. It was all white, with indirect lighting and a lot of plants. He was tall and handsome, and looked like the father many people might wish they had… wavy gray hair brushed straight back, even white teeth, calm eyes. Just the man to help you with your problem. His dark blue suit contrasted strikingly with his office.

He gestured me to a chair and sat back quietly with his hands folded on his desk. The desktop was clear except for a futuristic phone.

“I’m Dr. Rosselli,” he said.

I put my card on the desk where he could see it.

“That would have been my guess,” I said. “My name is Spenser. I’m a detective.”

He nodded gravely.

“You’re treating Adelaide Van Meer,” I said.

Rosselli didn’t say anything. He simply raised his eyebrows.

“You go regularly every two weeks to Tashtego Island and have done so since shortly after she attempted suicide five years ago.”

Rosselli pursed his lips.

“I’m curious about her condition,” I said.

He put them both together, pursing his lips and arching his eyebrows. Artful. I waited. He waited. I had a lot of experience at waiting. Apparently, so did he. It was turning into a wait-off when he probably figured that time is money and decided to cut it off.

“I am a physician,” he said. “If I were treating this person and she did have a condition, patient confidentiality would prevent me from speaking of it.”

I waited a little more, just to prove that I could, and then I said, “Not only are these questions of interest to me, they are of pressing interest to the Boston Police, the Massachusetts State Police, and the Federal Bureau of Investigation.”

Rosselli smiled faintly.

“You can discuss it quietly with me,” I said, “and suffer no ill effects, or I can get representatives from all three of the aforementioned agencies in here to tear your life apart.”

He stared at me for a moment. Then he said, “Perhaps I should call my attorney.”

I raised my eyebrows and said nothing. He leaned forward and put his hand on the phone. I pursed my lips. After a time he leaned back from the phone.

“What specifically would you like to know?” he said.

“What are you treating her for?”

“Neurasthenia,” he said.

“Do people still suffer from that?” I said.

He made a slight dismissive motion of his head. Next question.

“How are you treating her?”

“Counseling and medication,” he said.

“What are the medications?”

“Nothing you would be likely to understand,” Rosselli said.

“Doubtless you’re right,” I said. “Give me a list.”

“Why?”

“So I may show it to someone who will understand it.”

Rosselli shook his head.

“I’m sorry, that is really just too intrusive.”

“Which cops would you like to give it to?” I said. “City, state, or federal?”

He sat in silence for another time. I thought about arching my brows and pursing my lips, but decided it was overacting. Then he leaned to his phone and pressed a button.

“Betsy,” he said. “Please bring me the protocol for Adelaide Van Meer.”

We waited, and in a minute or so, Ms. Thighs glided in with a printout page and handed it to Rosselli. He shook his head and nodded at me. She widened her eyes and gave me the printout. It seemed to be legit. I folded it and put it in my inside pocket. Ms. Thighs glided out.

“Would, ah, neurasthenia be causative in her suicide attempt?” I said.

“She denies that there ever was a suicide attempt,” Rosselli said. “But certainly neurasthenia can lead one to attempt it.”

“Was she ever sexually molested?” I said.

Rosselli seemed almost to recoil, as if I had suddenly shown him something repulsive.

“Molested?” he said.

I nodded enthusiastically.

“Of course not,” he said.

“How can you be so sure?” I said.

“I would certainly have learned of it in the five years I’ve been treating her,” he said.

I nodded.

“Do you know what causes her to be neurasthenic?” I said.

“Exhaustion of the nervous system,” he said. “It’s probably more characterological than anything else.”

“And it manifests itself how?” I said.

“Fatigue, depression, general discomfort with no objective cause or lesions.”

I said, “Thank you, Dr. Rosselli,” and stood up.

He stood and walked me to the door.

“I trust there will be no need for the police,” he said.

“No, of course not, no need at all,” I said.

He opened the door for me, and I walked out, past Ms. Thighs.

52

I had worked a few years back on a school shooting in Dowling, out in the middle of the state. During the time Susan was away, and I needed a shrink to talk with my client, and she had suggested a guy named Dix who used to be a cop. It had worked out well, which was why Susan and I went to see him about Dr. Rosselli.

He had a clean-shaven head and big square hands, and he looked as if he could still put a stranglehold on someone if he had to. He stood when we came into his office.

“Susan,” he said. “Nice to see you again.”

He looked at me.

“Whaddya got?”

I handed him the list of meds that I’d gotten from Rosselli. He looked at it without comment.

Susan said, “I’ve gone through this stuff, and I have an opinion, but I’m not sufficiently expert in psychopharmacology.”

“What are they being used for?” Dix said.

Susan smiled.

“To treat neurasthenia,” she said.

“Neurasthenia?” Dix said.

“That’s what the man told me,” I said.

“For crissake,” Dix said. “That’s like saying it’s being used to treat the vapors.”

“I’ve explained that to him,” Susan said.

“Who is this doctor,” Dix said. “Is he a shrink?”

“His M.D. is urology,” Susan said. “He bills himself as a therapeutic counselor.”

“Rosselli,” Dix said.

“You know him?” I said.