Too Near the Edge

by Lynn Osterkamp

  Back at my office, I finished with a couple of clients, and went to my computer to continue my Google search on Dr. Ahmed. But nothing I found fit him. I stared off into space, trying to think of another approach. All at once I noticed Tyler perched on a table in the corner.

  “Tyler!” I almost jumped up, but remembered he might disappear if I made any sudden moves. “What’s going on with this Dr. Ahmed? Is he a crook or what?”

  “Take it easy, Cleo. When the surf’s lousy, chill.”

  “So are you saying this web search is a waste of time?”

  “You can’t always stand up the first day.”

  “Tyler, that means nothing to me. Can’t you say something that makes sense?”

  “Don’t choke, Cleo. You need to watch out for sharks.”

  “Do you mean Dr. Ahmed is a shark? Or Erik? Or someone else?”

  But Tyler faded away without answering. Arggh! He’d given me a warning, but it was as meaningless as one of those Homeland Security orange alerts, or instructions to report any suspicious activity at the airport.

  I knew I should be looking in to something. But, what?

  Chapter 19

  Wednesday morning, I got a big surprise by registered mail. The Colorado Mental Health Section of the Department of Regulatory Agencies sent me a notice of a complaint filed against me, to which I had 20 days to respond in writing. This is the agency that licenses me as a psychologist, so I took it very seriously. The notice included a copy of the complaint, which had been filed by Dr. Donald Waycroft, alleging I’d engaged in fraudulent and unsafe practice that placed my clients’ safety and welfare in danger. He also charged that I was mentally ill, and delusional and should submit to a mental examination to determine whether I was fit to practice as a psychologist. I felt sick and furious at the same time.

  I’d been way off on my assessment of the trouble Waycroft could create for me. I wanted to kick him in the butt or wring his beefy neck, but settled on a more achievable approach—giving him a piece of my mind in person. I called the university Psych Department, got Waycroft’s office hours, and headed up there for a chat.

  Despite the drought, the university grounds were green and fresh, thanks to water from the campus lake that irrigates the extensive lawn areas. But I was too steamed to enjoy walking through campus the way I usually do. My stomach was in knots, and part of me wanted nothing more than to lie on the grass by the lake, watch the ducks paddle, and forget all about Waycroft, Sharon, my project—all of it. But the stronger part of me said there was no way I would let Waycroft get away with calling me mentally ill and delusional. I had worked damn hard to get where I was professionally, and I’d match my training and ethics against his before any professional tribunal.

  Waycroft’s office was in a sandstone and red-tile-roofed building that looked like an Italian villa from the outside, but fit any definition of an old university building on the inside. The halls were lined with bulletin boards jam-packed with fliers advertising study-abroad opportunities, graduate programs in the social and behavioral sciences, and commercial courses to improve your GRE score. Faculty office doors, mostly closed, were bedecked with clever cartoons, class syllabi, and signs detailing the occupant’s current office hours.

  The halls were quiet except for the dull hum from the florescent lights above and an occasional comment floating out through the open door of the computer lab. Waycroft’s door was mostly closed, but through the crack I could see his broad back facing me as he typed away on his computer.

  Propelled by my fury, I didn’t bother to knock—just barged right in, anger and righteousness front and center. “I thought you were supposed to be a scientist. You don’t even know anything about my work, but yet you feel perfectly free to accuse me of fraudulent and unsafe practice? Where’s your evidence?”

  Waycroft slowly swiveled his desk chair around to face me. “I see I finally managed to get your attention,” he smirked. “Look, I warned you to stay away from Sharon with your witchcraft or ghost-finding scams. So now we’ll see how your work holds up to scientific scrutiny.”

  He spoke calmly, which disarmed me. I’d expected the red-faced, roaring Waycroft. I sat gingerly on the edge of a hard wooden chair next to his cluttered desk. “Sharon’s an adult. She can make her own decisions without your approval. I’m licensed to provide services. She chose to take advantage of those services.” At first, I matched his calm tone, but couldn’t maintain it as my anger rose up again like acid reflux. “You’re not involved and it’s none of your business. So where do you get off attacking me?”

  “Cleo, you’re demonstrating your lack of professionalism right now.” Waycroft kept his cool—probably a skill he had developed over years of confrontations with surly students disputing grades they thought were lower than they deserved. “I’ll tell you what. You could consider that notice a warning. If you back off now, don’t give Sharon any more therapy or whatever you call it, quit pretending to hook her up with the dearly departed, I’ll withdraw the complaint. You can’t say that’s not a fair offer.” He gave me a self-satisfied look and leaned back in his chair.

  Could he really think I’d agree to this? I couldn’t even begin to see his perspective on this situation. “Wrong!” I shouted, abandoning any pretense of reasonable discussion. “I absolutely do not think that’s a fair offer. You have no right to tell me who I can or can’t see as a client. And going against your wishes does not constitute malpractice in this state or any other that I know of.”

  Waycroft straightened in his chair and gave me a steely look. “I’m offering you a chance to save yourself here, but you are bent on self-destruction. So be it. Your choice will have consequences. You will be exposed as a fake, you will lose the money from whoever is funding that Contact Project, and you will be out of business as a therapist. And your friend Elisa is likely to have some difficulty getting tenure in the Psychology Department here.”

  I felt tears rising to the surface, but I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of showing my distress. So I attacked again. “Taking this stand could seriously hurt your relationship with Sharon, you know. She’s had about enough of being told what to do. And seeing her friends hurt could be the last straw.”

  “You want to talk about how Sharon and I get along?” Another smirk. “She knows she’s on shaky ground with the way she’s raising Nathan. It’s all wrong—no rules, messy house, no consistent structure. Adam was even worse—encouraged her to be irresponsible and left her in debt. And her involvement in your nutty spiritualism thing clearly raises questions about her ability to take care of Nathan. Plus, she can’t legally keep Nathan from seeing his real father. So she may face consequences of her own.”

  “As a behaviorist, you must know your actions will also have consequences. Threats and retribution can go both ways, so I’d suggest you watch your back.” With that, I rose and walked out with as much dignity as I could muster.

  Chapter 20

  I walked back across campus to my car in a fog. I couldn’t abandon Sharon now, no matter what consequences Waycroft threatened. She needed help and as long as I saw some possibility I could help her, I’d be there. Grampa always used to say, “Trust yourself, Cleo. Never be afraid to stand up for what you believe.” And—for a lot of reasons—I believe in Tyler and his messages. I’ve learned he comes for a reason, and it’s important for me to follow his directions. It can be problematic to figure out what he’s telling me, but I was pretty clear I was supposed to help Sharon.

  I didn’t think Sharon or Elisa would be willing to give up trying to find out what happened to Adam, either. But I did think we needed to talk about Waycroft’s threats and decide how we wanted to respond. So I grabbed my cell phone out of my purse and gave them each a call to find a time to meet.

  After a few messages back and forth, we agreed to meet for dinner at The Rio, a popular Mexican restaurant on the Pearl Street mall, famous for its deliciously strong margaritas. They offer only one type of marga
rita—no premium, no extra-premium, no very special gold like other places—but the one they make is hands down the best. The drinks are made from a secret recipe its owners reportedly stumbled upon in the nick of time just before they opened their first restaurant. I’ve never tasted a better margarita anywhere, and after my session with Waycroft, I could hardly wait to decompress with at least one that evening.

  It was early enough that we got seated right away in a booth next to a mirrored wall in the main room. Elisa looked sleek in a black silk tank top, white pants and high-heeled sandals. Sharon and I were the casual contrast, wearing shorts, tee shirts and flip-flops.

  The Rio is informal, no tablecloths on the laminated black hand-painted tables, and the traditional tex-mex food made fresh every day makes it one of my favorite places. As soon as the server brought our drinks, chips and salsa, we dove in.

  “Whew baby—that’s a margarita!” Elisa licked her lips and sighed.

  “Always the same, always the best,” I agreed, relaxing into the casual party atmosphere. Revived, I recounted the gory details of my meeting with Waycroft.

  “Maybe I could have handled it better, but he was so patronizing, I couldn’t stay cool,” I said. “Well, actually I could have stayed cool, but I didn’t feel like having a civilized reasonable conversation with him after he had filed a complaint against me.”

  “He has that effect on people,” Sharon said quickly. “In fact, that’s one of his techniques. He shows you that he can stay rational, while you explode.”

  “He doesn’t stay especially rational around you when he’s not getting what he wants,” I pointed out, gesturing with my salsa-covered chip, which left a trail of red dots across the table.

  “I’ve had a lot of practice pushing his buttons,” Sharon said. “Whether you want to or not, you learn about stimulus and response when you live with a behaviorist.” She laughed and raised her hands in a what-can-you-do shrug. Then she looked a little melancholy as she said, “It’s not that I want to irritate him. I do care about him and I appreciate a lot of what he’s done for me. But he’s so controlling that I have to push him to the wall before he’ll give me any space at all.”

  The server brought our fajitas—sizzling strips of chargrilled chicken, with grilled onion, peppers, tomato, guacamole, sour cream, pico de gallo sauce, and handmade flour tortillas on the side—accompanied by Spanish rice and black beans. We took a break from the Waycroft bashing to fill our tortillas and enjoy.

  “So we need a plan to force him to back off,” Elisa said. “We should speak a language he appreciates—consequences. Somehow we have to find a way to convince him that the costs of his attacks on us will outweigh the benefits.”

  We spent the next hour or so brainstorming possibilities. With the help of another round of margaritas, we arrived at a plan. Elisa agreed to do some searching around in Waycroft’s projects at the university to see if she could find an area where he was vulnerable. Sharon decided she would keep Nathan away from Waycroft, since that was the main way she could get to him. I would talk to a woman named Holly with whom Sharon said Waycroft had had an on-again, off-again relationship for years. I knew Holly because she was an artist who had studied with my grandmother years ago. Since then we had kept in touch through our involvement in the art community.

  After dinner, we went back to Sharon’s for ice cream. Escaping the cluttered living room, we sat around the kitchen table. Nathan was off at a Rockies game in Denver with Erik.

  As she sliced strawberries over scoops of vanilla ice cream, Sharon told us a piece of good news. She had invited Joel over to meet Nathan, and he fit in like a missing puzzle piece. Sharon admitted she saw changes in Joel, and that it could be good for Nathan to have him in his life—at least on occasion, and in circumstances she agreed to.

  “So I think I’ll make a deal with Nathan that he can spend time with Joel if he agrees not to make a fuss about not seeing Dad for a while,” Sharon said.

  “Do you think Nathan will go for that?” Elisa asked. “Maria says he’s tight with Donald.”

  “They have their issues,” Sharon said. “Dad can be strict, which Nathan doesn’t like. And now that I’ve put a stop to the point system Dad had Nathan hooked on, Nathan’s not so willing to do things Dad’s way. You know, you’d think Dad would learn that the downside of rewarding good behavior with points is that if you ever stop the points, you lose the behavior. I’m a living example.”

  Sharon stopped talking and looked down at her hands. She frowned, licked her lips and said hesitantly, “There is one thing that concerns me about Nathan seeing Joel. It’s that Erik is against it. I’m worried that Erik feels threatened by Joel.”

  “Does it have to be a competition?” Elisa asked. “Can’t you and Nathan have two men involved in your lives?”

  Sharon looked up and turned toward Elisa. “The thing is, Erik’s been sort of like part of our family since Jenny died,” she said. “ He doesn’t have any family of his own, and Jenny’s family blames him for not getting help fast enough to save her. So he’s been lonely and depressed. He and Adam were close, so Erik started spending time with us, sharing holidays, stuff like that. Since Adam died he’s been amazing and so close to Nathan. I don’t want to hurt him.”

  I decided to move deeper. “Okay, don’t answer this if you don’t want to—but how do you feel about Erik?”

  Sharon frowned. “Well, I…” She stopped. “Sometimes he…” She stopped again. “I guess I’m not sure.” She got up, grabbed a glass from a cabinet and filled it with water from a five-gallon dispenser in the corner. “Would you like some water?”

  After getting us set with glasses of spring water, Sharon came back to the table. “Okay, here’s the best I can do. I don’t know what we would have done without Erik. But he can be moody and odd. In a way, I feel guilty because I know he wants more, but I’m not there. It’s too soon for me.”

  “You seem to be taking a lot of responsibility for him,” Elisa said. “He’s a grownup. Maybe you could…”

  We heard the front door open, and Erik and Nathan laughing in the living room. “It was a great game. You should have been there.” Erik passed out grins all around as he came into the kitchen.

  “Look Mom, Erik got me a Rockies cap.” Nathan bounced in sporting a black baseball cap with a gray CR embroidered on the front—or what would have been the front if he hadn’t been wearing it backwards.

  Sharon gave Nathan a big hug. “Hey, thanks Erik—and for taking him to the game. Nathan, you need to get to bed right away. It’s late.”

  Sharon and Nathan headed off down the hall. Elisa followed them out of the room, saying she needed to get home. I decided to stay, so I could ask Erik about Adam’s computer. It turned out he had the emergency boot disk in his truck, so we decided we’d try booting it up as soon as Nathan was settled.

  Sharon got Nathan to bed, Erik brought in the disk and we were ready to work on the computer. But after fifteen minutes of looking, Sharon couldn’t find the key to Adam’s office. “Never mind, I can pick the lock,” Erik said. “I’ve got some tools in my truck.”

  Sharon and I went out to the office door to watch. Erik stuck a sort of screwdriver-looking tool into the lock and turned it. Then he stuck in a long curvy metal thing and jiggled it around, listening as if for a secret code. And we were in.

  We headed toward the desk. “Wait a minute! It’s not here!” Sharon pointed at the empty space under Adam’s desk where the computer tower had been. I looked around. Everything else in the office looked the same as it had last Friday.

  “When was the last time you saw it?” Erik asked.

  “I haven’t been out here since Friday, when Cleo and I were here,” Sharon said, “and neither has anyone else that I know of.” She moved around the office opening drawers and cabinets. “It doesn’t look like anything else was stolen, but to be honest, I don’t exactly know what was where.”

  “Well, the key is missing and the lock is easy to
pick, so who knows who may have been in here,” I pointed out. “We need to call the police.”

  About an hour later, a couple of uniformed Boulder police officers came to the house and took the report, but gave us no reason to believe we’d see that computer again. In fact, they were a tad patronizing when we admitted we didn’t know the computer’s serial number. Do most people write those things down?

  And of course there was no forced entry, so they weren’t willing to call it burglary. Like maybe Sharon had somehow misplaced the computer or loaned it to a friend? We played the strange phone message on Adam’s machine for them, and they took the tape, but didn’t think it would help much.

  What interested them most was Erik’s lock-picking tools and skill. He maintained he had a habit of forgetting keys and was fed up with paying locksmiths, so he learned to pick locks. The police kept teasing him about whether he picked other locks, and was he a recreational hacker who picks locks for the fun of it, and otherwise why did he carry those tools around. He denied picking any locks except when he or a friend was locked out—and pushed the cops to admit it’s not illegal to own the tools. Still, the more I thought about it, the more uncomfortable I felt with the idea that Erik could get into my house in five minutes flat.

  Chapter 21

  The next day all hell broke loose. It started with a call from Elisa at 7:00 am. “Have you seen the paper?” “I just got out of the shower.” “Go get it. I’ll wait.” Cell phone in hand, I trotted off to the front porch and picked up the paper. “Okay, ‘Six Jewish settlers killed, 30 injured, in West

  Bank attack.’ Not good, but you had to call me about it?” “Try the local section, page 1C.” The headline hit me right in the gut.

  Local Grief Therapist Accused of Fraud