"That's great," I said, trying to sound like a grateful constituent though I was neither grateful nor Ray's constituent. And 1-25 south of Denver wasn't even in his district.
"Yeah." Ray's attention was already on the case file.
The label on the tab of the manila folder was handwritten but I couldn't read it from where I was sitting. I said, "That was scary the other day. What happened at the tennis house."
Ray shrugged, seemed nonplussed.
"You know, I didn't even hear the shots. Saw some people runnin' around crazy over by the door. Then Phil flattens me to the floor. Next thing I know I'm being hustled into a side room by a bunch of security types. I wasn't so much scared as I was… puzzled."
"Do your people think you were the target, though? The thought of someone coming after you with a gun has to be frightening regardless of the amount of security you might have."
"My people?" He chuckled and seemed to find the concept amusing.
"It's risky, being in public life. But the danger comes with the territory-that's what I think. We all have to come to terms with it. Those two Capitol policemen killed by that crazy guy? No more than sixty feet from my office. Who can predict those things?" He shook his head, and his voice changed an octave or two with that sentence. For a moment I thought he might have reminded himself of his wife's murder. When he continued, though, his tone had modulated again.
"I'm an outspoken advocate of some unpopular ideas. I always have been. And that, my friend, raises are." Listening to him, the thought that crossed my mind was stump speech, and I prepared myself for a long oration, but he quickly returned to the matter of the two dead girls.
"Here we go"-he opened the file and his face softened a little as he continued-"one of my absolutely favorite clients of all time."
Are? I repeated to myself while he silently perused the top sheet in Mariko Hamamoto's record. Had he really said, "raises are"? I tried to steal a look at the rest of the file on his lap. The collection was as thin as an anorexic gymnast. If it had held as many as six sheets of paper, I would have been surprised.
* * *
Fifteen minutes later we had accomplished our review. To say the case file added anything to my understanding of Miko's psychotherapy would have been a generous assessment. The first page in the folder was a typical doctors-waiting-room information form. The second was Colorado's mandatory disclosure statement for psychologists. Welle had asked both Mariko and her parents to sign it. The third page was a request for information about Mariko from the local high school. I didn't see any indication that he'd ever received anything back in writing. The next page was a photocopy of a billing record. The ledger form had been kept by hand. In 1988, Welle charged fifty bucks an hour.
Only on the last two pages did I see any useful information. Welle had scribbled a half a page of notes after his intake meetings with Mariko and had repeated the process after his first meeting with Mr. and Mrs. Hamamoto.
Nowhere in those intake musings did Welle offer opinions or perceptions different from those we'd discussed in Denver the previous week.
The last page in the file was the only page that surprised me at all. It was typed. The other pages were either printed forms that had been filled out in handwriting, or notes in Ray's handwriting.
The top of the last sheet was a five-point treatment plan listing outcome goals.
The bottom of the sheet was a termination summary that specified the accomplishment of the stated outcome goals. Basic stuff.
I immediately suspected that this last sheet was a relatively recent addition to Mariko Hamamoto's case file.
On the long drive up from Boulder I'd already decided that I wasn't going to critique the contents of the file in Welle's presence. As he handed me each page and I read it. Ray seemed relieved that I appeared to peruse his work with acceptance and equanimity. So I pondered my choice of words for a moment before I held up the last sheet and asked, "Did you type these last notes yourself.
Ray, or did you dictate them for a secretary?" I handed him back that last sheet.
"Um, I don't know-both. Could have been either, I suppose. Sometimes I'd do it myself, type the notes. Sometimes I'd dictate it-you know, put it on tape, and turn it in to a service for transcribing. Couldn't tell you with this one specifically. It's been a long time. A long time."
I suspected he was lying to me, and I was impressed, but not particularly surprised, by how facile he was.
"This one you must have done yourself though, right? Since her name is typed right on it, I mean. You wouldn't give that kind of personal information to an outside secretarial service, would you?
Small town like Steamboat? I use initials or case numbers on my dictations."
He looked at the page again.
"Course you're right. I must have done this one myself." I asked a couple of mindless questions about the treatment plan so he wouldn't be wondering about my interest in that last sheet of paper. I concluded with, "I appreciate your continuing candor about all this, Ray. As we discussed last time, I'll need to take these with me." I retained the slimmest of hopes that Welle would allow me to keep the original file. It couldn't hurt to ask. I was already wondering what forensic magic Flynn could bring to bear on the question of the authenticity and age of that last page.
Ray didn't smile as he told me, "I anticipated your request and I've had copies prepared for you." He handed me the second of the two files that he'd been given earlier by Phil Barrett.
"I'm sure you'll find this complete. You understand that I can no longer guarantee the sanctity of these records after I turn them over to you?"
Sanctity?
I nodded and opened the file containing the copies he'd given me and glanced at the patient-information form that was on top. Next to the space marked "Referred By" someone had written
"Cathy Franklin." The information wasn't new to me; I'd already been told by Taro Hamamoto that the Franklins had recommended Raymond Welle to them. Seeing it here in writing gave me pause, however.
I wondered about something else. Nonchalantly I asked, "Did you treat Tami Franklin too, Ray? I've been thinking how hard it would have been to be in your shoes and have one patient murdered. Didn't even cross my mind that you might have treated both girls at one time or another."
He shook his head.
"Tami? You want to know if I treated her?" He squirmed on his chair. It could have been the underwear riding up again, of course, but I thought he was squirming from my question.
"Course I couldn't tell you if I did treat her, now could I? But I suppose I can tell you that I didn't."
It was a good answer. Ethical and barbed simultaneously. Ray was a favorite on the weekend morning news shows. I was beginning to understand why.
He could think on his feet.
"What about Cathy? You help her out with anything? Before or after the shooting?"
"I think you're fishing now, Doctor. And I'm afraid this is private land that you're trespassing on."
"You're right. I apologize. One last thing, Ray, and I'll get out of your hair.
The most important piece to me is still something that I'm uncertain about. And that's the relationship between you and Mariko. How would you characterize it?"
He sat back and looked as though he wished he had something in his hands, a prop of some kind, maybe a cigar. He'd be good with a cigar. I judged him to have failed the nonchalance test as he asked, "Why do you ask?"
"Just curious. What I'm really trying to discover-what I really need-is some sense of how she related to people. You know, specifically, to men. The assumption has always been that she was killed by a man, perhaps a stranger.
I'd like to know what style she might have brought to the table when she came in contact with that man for the first time."
His tone sharpened.
"You talking interpersonal style or are you wondering about the nature of the transference?"
"Both." I wasn't sure how much Ray Welle was go
ing to like talking about the transferential aspects of his treatment of Mariko. But he had kicked the door open, so I was happy to walk on in.
For a moment it seemed he couldn't find a comfortable place to rest his eyes.
They finally settled on mine.
"She idolized me. Almost right from the start. She seemed to think of me as a sage. I had never before had a patient who made me feel wiser or more… I don't know. I don't know. She treated me as though I knew the secrets of the universe."
I allowed his words to hang, hoping he would pick up on them himself. He didn't seem eager to continue though.
I decided to be empathetic.
"It's my experience that that kind of reverence can be quite a therapeutic burden."
My words surprised him.
"What do you mean?"
"An idealizing transference. It aggravates the power you would have over her just being her therapist. Requires additional delicacy. You have to be especially conscious of everything you do and say. Don't you think?"
"I don't know. I found it delightful to work with her. That she thought I was more perfect than Buddha caused me no problems. I can live with that transference." He laughed at the image.
"It's when patients thought I was more evil than Satan that I didn't like it so much."
"Did that happen much?"
"That was a joke, Alan." "What was Mariko's style with you?" I asked.
"What do you mean?"
"Interpersonally. How was she when she was with you? Was she reticent?
Assertive? Coy? What?"
His eyes narrowed.
"You want to know if she flirted with me, don't you? If she came on to me. You want to know if I played Bill to her Monica."
I was taken aback not only by his bluntness but also by how much he'd revealed with his question. I said, "Only if you did." He stared me down, then finally said, "Next question."
"I'm trying to discover how she might have interacted with her killer."
"She did flirt with me. Almost from the start. No need to pretend it was any different."
"And?"
"I dealt with it."
"Which means what exactly?"
The easygoing camaraderie that had characterized our earlier interaction was now completely gone. The tension between us was thick. We were two boxers just before we raised our gloves. For the first time, I felt that he was now on the defensive. I kind of liked it.
"Which means I handled it appropriately. Kept her on her side of the room, so to speak. Keep in mind, I wasn't doing psychoanalysis with the kid. I was helping her find her way through adolescence. I pointed out the transference that I saw.
I interpreted it. We worked with it. And… I'm proud to say… she got better."
"Did she ever act inappropriately with you?"
He crossed his legs and his voice sharpened again. I heard anger.
"You trying to blame the victim here? Insinuate that she might have acted inappropriately and seduced her own killer?"
"No. I'm just trying to know the victim. Did she ever act inappropriately with you?"
"For instance?"
I shrugged.
"Patients cross the line sometimes. I had a young woman start disrobing in my office once."
He snarled.
"And what did you do?" "After I asked her to stop and she didn't I left the room and sent a female colleague in to talk with her."
"Nothing like that with Mariko."
I looked him in the eyes and smiled as ingratiatingly as I could.
"You know, Ray, you and I have something else in common besides this case.
Something that's probably been even more difficult for you than it was for me."
"And what's that?" I could tell he found it almost preposterous that we might have something significant in common.
"A few years back, I had an irate patient act out some transference and try to kill the woman who's now my wife. The outcome was more fortunate for me than it was for you and Gloria. Unlike you, I got there in time to interfere. She survived."
He crossed and uncrossed his legs before he said, "I admit that I find that interesting. You know, I didn't know that about you. Don't get a chance to meet too many folks who have walked in these shoes of mine." He slapped one of his cowboy boots. I thought he seemed uncomfortable.
What was my reaction to his discomfort? I watered the weed that was growing up through the crack in Raymond Welle's demeanor.
"I didn't see it coming clearly enough. Did you see it coming with Brian Sample? I mean, I knew my patient was angry. I knew he was threatening. But I didn't actually believe he would do anything, you know? Certainly not to this woman I loved. Was it like that for you?"
He wasn't looking at me as he shook his head.
"Totally different. Totally. I didn't see it coming at all. I thought my patient and I were doing fine. I'm still at a total loss. Right to this day."
I opened my mouth to ask another question but stopped as the door opened across the room. I actually suspected that Welle had hit some concealed button to signal for an interruption. Phil Barrett, now dressed for travel in a suit and tie, burst in.
"Sorry to disturb, Ray. We have a call for Dr. Gregory. Urgent, so they say." His tone communicated his disbelief that anything in my life could be urgent enough to interrupt a meeting with Raymond Welle.
Welle smiled at me, suddenly the gracious host again.
"Take it right here, Alan." He pointed at his desk.
"What line, Phil?"
"The one lit up there. I think it's line two."
Instantly, I feared for Lauren and our baby. Trying to retain my composure, I stepped across the room, lifted the receiver and touched the button below the light on the phone.
"Hello."
"Alan? It's Flynn. I'm in town at the Sheraton. It appears that your reporter friend from the Post has been involved in something serious. She may have been injured in some way. There's blood in her room, which is a mess, and she's nowhere to be found. Do you mind finishing up out there and getting back here as soon as possible? Chief Smith has some questions for you given that you know her."
I swallowed and turned my back to Welle and Barrett. Dorothy Levin, injured?
Dorothy Levin, missing?
"I, um, appreciate the update. Are there any other details I should know?"
"You're with Welle right now, aren't you?"
"That's right."
"You're doing the right thing. Keep this quiet for now. Russ and I will fill you in as soon as you get back here. We're up on the fifth floor of the Sheraton.
Tell whatever officer you run into that Chief Smith is expecting you."
"I will take care of that as soon as I can," I said.
"We'll be here. And Alan?"
"Yes."
"If this turns out the way I'm afraid it looks, I'm sorry."
"Me, too." I hung up the phone. Out the window, I stared at the ragged horizon between the mountaintops and the high clouds. My eyes locked on the line with some desperation, as though I were using its stillness to quell motion sickness.
Ray Welle said, "Nothing serious, I hope."
Without facing him, I said, "Nothing I can't handle, Ray. Some colleagues need my consultation on something that's just come up. I apologize for the interruption." I looked at my watch and spun to face him.
"Listen, I've taken too much of your time already. I'm sure you have plenty to do to get ready for your trip back to Washington. If any other questions come up about Miko's case I'll get in touch with Phil."
"Now, you also be sure to let me know if you guys get lucky and find the monster who killed those girls. I want to be the first to know."
I nodded.
"Of course," I said.
As I drove away from the ranch house I realized I'd started my visit on the Silky Road with a lie and now I'd ended it with one.
I quickly decided that politicians didn't bring out the best in me.
R
uss Claven spotted me arguing with a police officer who was acting as a sentry at the top of the fire stairs that led to the fifth floor of the Sheraton. Russ walked up behind the officer, placed a hand on his shoulder, and said, "Please go ahead and sign him in to me. I'm Dr. Claven, remember? The coroner's consultant for Chief Smith? The chief's been waiting for this man to arrive."
I offered ID to the cop and was soon under the yellow tape. Except for a cluster of men and women loitering together halfway down the hall, the corridor of the hotel looked like the corridor of a hotel.
"Sorry about all this," Russ said.
"It's always harder when it's somebody you know."
"Thanks." Russ Claven seemed like a changed man. The hypo manic abruptness I'd become accustomed to in his manner was absent. He was calm, thoughtful, and centered. The task at hand focused him.
We stopped in the hallway at least four rooms away from the cluster of authorities.
"Before we go any farther, here's what I know: Flynn and I were with Chief Smith this morning at his office at the police department when a call comes in about a bloody mess in a hotel room here at the Sheraton. Not surprisingly, Smith was kind of flustered by the news. Tells us that there hasn't been anything like a homicide since he's been chief. He invites Flynn and me to come along with him while he checks things out.
"By the time we get here, three different hotel staff had already been in the room, which means at least three different hotel staff had already potentially contaminated the scene prior to us protecting it. Front desk records show that Ms. Levin checked in on Saturday. Reservations said they expected her to check out today. With me?"
"Yes, that fits with what I know."
"Worse news is that the local sherif isn't really set up to handle this kind of crime scene. Better news is that they know that they're not equipped to handle this kind of crime scene. Flynn observed as a couple of detectives secured the scene. She said their work was fine. Then they went and got a warrant, which took like no time, and we've all been waiting around ever since for help to arrive from the mobile unit from the Colorado Bureau of Investigation. Flynn asked for and received permission from the chief to look things over, though.
Cold Case Page 19
