See No Evil

him?

“When was the last time you saw Emily?”

Bowen turned to his computer screen, tapped a few keys, then responded, “A week ago Tuesday. I see her every Tuesday, but she missed her last appointment.” He didn’t sound like this was unusual. He’d already pulled her file; everything he did now was for show. Dillon couldn’t help but wonder what he was trying to prove-or hide.

“Did she call?”

“She did. Spoke to my secretary and assured her that she’d be back next week.”

“Is that allowed? Considering that her counseling is court-ordered.”

“It is. She’s required to take twenty-six sessions a year, every other week. Her mother insisted that it be weekly, and I accommodated that request. Considering that Emily is being counseled for anger management issues, the more often she can talk out her problems and inner anger, the better for her and less likely she’ll get into trouble down the road.” He sighed. “Can’t say that it helped in this case.”

“What do you mean by that?”

Dr. Bowen looked at him strangely, his eyebrows raised. “Considering she’s being held for murder.”

“I think you’ve been misinformed,” Dillon said. “No charges have been filed.”

Dr. Bowen waved his hand. “You know as well as I that the police are building their case as we speak, and they won’t file any charges until you report back to the court. Seventy-two hours, correct?”

“She’s under a seventy-two-hour assessment.” He saw no reason to correct Bowen’s misperception over which side he was working with.

“Suicide watch, according to her mother.”

Again, Dillon didn’t correct him. “Has Emily ever exhibited any signs of wanting to end her life?”

“Anyone filled with the rage she had when she vandalized the courthouse is capable of ending her life.”

Dillon disagreed, but didn’t argue with Bowen. However, people who were sexually abused, particularly as minors, were more likely to become clinically depressed and self-destructive. “Has she said anything to you?”

“Now we’re getting into dangerous territory, Dr. Kincaid.”

“Are we?”

Bowen straightened. Almost imperceptibly, but Dillon didn’t miss the bristling of his back. “My reports are filed monthly with the court, as per the agreement. You can read my evaluations and assessment of Emily’s progress in them.”

Dillon had been prepared to ask about sexual abuse, but pulled back. He didn’t want to give Bowen any information he didn’t already know.

“I’d hoped I could get your general feelings about Emily, her state of mind, anything that might help me in making an assessment of her emotional strength.”

Bowen sighed and glanced at the computer screen, but Dillon suspected he was thinking more than reading. “Emily Montgomery is a troubled young lady. Ran away from home-twice. Vandalized the courthouse to the tune of nearly a quarter million dollars. Serious damage. Hostility toward her mother, her stepfather, and deep-seated anger at everyone and everything in her life. I believe it stems from losing her father so suddenly, and having a mother who is, for lack of a better word, emotionally immature. Crystal Montgomery wants everything in her life picture perfect-everything to look just fine for neighbors, friends, and anyone else she wants to impress. Emily acting out-undoubtedly to gain her mother’s attention, if not her love-is the imperfect picture that Crystal abhors. But teenagers aren’t perfect, they act up, they need attention, they need guidance.”

Dillon was stunned at the seeming about-face in Dr. Bowen’s attitude. One minute, reluctant, the next, espousing a textbook explanation of the Montgomery family. It had the ring of truth but it seemed too bland. And considering Bowen didn’t know about Judge Montgomery’s sexual abuse of his stepdaughter, Dillon couldn’t help but wonder just how much Emily had lied and manipulated to avoid talking about what truly terrified her.

“One final question, if you don’t mind,” Dillon said.

Bowen nodded, leaned back in his chair, and clasped his hands across his flat stomach.

“Emily’s relationship with her mother and stepfather was strained, but what about her aunt?”

“The prosecutor?” Bowen seemed surprised by the question and rubbed his chin in thought. “Emily never really discussed Julia Chandler. It seemed to me from the little she did say that they had some sort of cordial relationship, but Emily views her more as an authority figure. Considering Emily’s delinquency problems, I can’t imagine that they were all that close.”

“But you don’t know that with certainty.”

Bowen tensed. “No. Emily rarely talked about her.”

The doctor-patient relationship cleared for Dillon. Over a year of therapy and Emily told Bowen very little about her life, just enough to get by. Dillon wondered how detailed Bowen’s reports to the court were, and whether their accuracy could be trusted.

As if sensing what Dillon was thinking, Bowen said, “Teens are naturally reticent when faced with authority. Close-mouthed. Especially troubled kids like Emily.”

Sounded like an excuse to Dillon.

“Thank you, Dr. Bowen. I appreciate your assessment.” Dillon stood to leave.

“Can I expect a copy of your report?” Bowen asked.

“It will be filed with the court.” Dillon smiled.

“Of course.”

“I’ll review your court documents and get back to you.”

“Please do.” Bowen stood. Some sort of invisible line had been drawn. Dillon wasn’t sure exactly what Bowen’s game was, but something was off.

Dillon walked toward the door, stopping only when Bowen asked, “How did Judge Montgomery die?”

The information would be coming out sooner rather than later. “Penile amputation.” He kept the rest of the details to himself.

Bowen blanched. “Sounds like a sexually motivated crime.”

“Appears so, on the surface.”

“You have a different opinion?”

“I have no opinion at this point.”

“If that’s the case, you have a stronger spine than I thought.”

By the time fourth period ended and lunch began, La Jolla Academy was abuzz with rumors.

“Ohmigod! Did you hear about Emily Montgomery?”

“She killed herself.”

“No, she tried to kill herself.”

“No, she pretended suicide so she wouldn’t be thrown in jail. Her stepfather’s dead.”

“He was a senator.”

“Dummy, he was a judge.”

“Maybe one of those people he put in prison killed him.”

“Hey, maybe it was the terrorists, you know, going after people in their homes.”

“Shut up, dumbshit, they use bombs, not knives.”

“Knives? How do you know?”

“I dunno.”

Faye Kessler sat in the far corner of the gym, pretending to eat her lunch. Quiet, reticent, and known on campus as a geek, Faye had few friends at school. That she had been arrested for shoplifting would have surprised not only her teachers, who found her odd but extremely gifted, but her peers, too, who didn’t care enough about her existence to even make note of the occurrence.

Much like her father. If Faye hadn’t broken two display cases at the mall store she’d stolen from, he would have brushed the incident under the rug just like he’d done everything else in his life. She’d gotten his attention for about five minutes. Then he carted her off to a shrink, paid for the displays, and ignored her again.

Get over it.

Yeah, right, she’d been telling herself that for years, ever since her mother walked out, leaving both of them, in order to “find herself” in some country far from America. Faye got a card every August-for her birthday-and that was the only connection with the woman who’d given birth to her, then left seven years later without a second