The Lust Lizard of Melancholy Cove pc-2

by Christopher Moore

Right, Val thought. Actually, you used to date at least three women who were on it. She said, “Zoloft is an SSRI like Prozac. It’s prescribed for a number of conditions. With OCD the dosage is higher.” That’s it, get clinical. Baffle him with clinical bullshit.

  Theo shook the bottle. “Could someone O.D. on it or something? I heard somewhere that people do crazy things sometimes on these drugs.”

  “That’s not necessarily true. SSRIs like Zoloft are often prescribed to people with major depression. Fifteen percent of all depressed patients commit suicide.” There, she said it. “Antidepressants are a tool, along with talk therapy, that psychiatrists use to help patients. Sometimes the tools don’t work. As with any therapy, a third get better, a third get worse, and a third stay the same. Antidepressants aren’t a panacea.” But you treat them like they are, don’t you, Val?

  “But you said that Bess Leander had OCD, not depression.”

  “Constable, have you ever had a stomachache and a runny nose at the same time?”

  “So you’re saying she was depressed?”

  “Yes, she was depressed, as well as having OCD.”

  “And it couldn’t have been the drugs?”

  “To be honest with you, I don’t even know if she was taking the drug. Have you counted them?”

  “Uh, no.”

  “Patients don’t always take their medicine. We don’t order blood level tests for SSRIs.”

  “Right,” Theo said. “I guess we’ll know when they do the autopsy.”

  Another horrendous picture flashed in Val’s mind: Bess Leander on an autopsy table. The viscera of medicine had always been too much for her. She stood.

  “I wish I could help you more, but to be honest, Bess Leander never gave me any indication that she was suicidal.” At least that was true.

  Theo took her cue and stood. “Well, thank you. I’m sorry to have bothered you. If you think of anything, you know, anything that I can tell Joseph that might make it easier on him…”

  “I’m sorry. That’s all I know.” Fifteen percent. Fifteen percent. Fifteen percent.

  She led him to the door.

  He turned before leaving. “One more thing. Molly Michon is one of your patients, isn’t she?”

  “Yes. Actually, she’s a county patient, but I agreed to treat her at a reduced rate because all the county facilities are so far away.”

  “You might want to check on her. She attacked a guy at the Head of the Slug this morning.”

  “Is she in County?”

  “No, I took her home. She calmed down.”

  “Thank you, Constable. I’ll call her.”

  “Well, then. I’ll be going.”

  “Constable,” she called after him. “Those pills you have—Zoloft isn’t a recreational drug.”

  Theo stumbled on the steps, then composed himself. “Right, Doctor, I figured that out when I saw the body hanging in the dining room. I’ll try not to eat the evidence.”

  “Good-bye,” Val said. She closed the door behind him and burst into tears. Fifteen percent. She had fifteen hundred patients in Pine Cove on some form of antidepressant or another. Fifteen percent would be more than two hundred people dead. She couldn’t do that. She wouldn’t let another of her patients die because of her noninvolvement. If antidepressants wouldn’t save them, then maybe she could.

  Three

  Theo

  Theophilus Crowe wrote bad free-verse poetry and played a jimbai drum while sitting on a rock by the ocean. He could play sixteen chords on the guitar and knew five Bob Dylan songs all the way through, allowing for a dampening buzz any time he had to play a bar chord. He had tried his hand at painting, sculpture, and pottery and had even played a minor part in the Pine Cove Little Theater’s revival of Arsenic and Old Lace. In all these endeavors, he had experienced a meteoric rise to mediocrity and quit before total embarrassment and self-loathing set in. Theo was cursed with an artist’s soul but no talent. He possessed the angst and the inspiration, but not the means to create.

  If there was any single thing at which Theo excelled, it was empathy. He always seemed to be able to understand someone’s point of view, no matter how singular or farfetched, and in turn could convey it to others with a succinctness and clarity that he seldom found in expressing his own thoughts. He was a born mediator, a peacemaker, and it was this talent, after breaking up numerous fights at the Head of the Slug Saloon, that got Theo elected constable. That and heavy-handed endorsement of Sheriff John Burton.

  Burton was a hard-line right-wing politico who could spout law and order (accent on order) over brunch with the Rotarians, lunch with the NRA, and dinner with Mothers Against Drunk Drivers and wolf down dry banquet chicken like it was manna from the gods every time. He wore expensive suits, a gold Rolex, and drove a pearl-black Eldorado that shone like a starry night on wheels (rapt attention and copious coats of carnuba from the grunts in the county motor pool). He had been sheriff of San Junipero County for sixteen years, and in that time the crime rate had dropped steadily until it was the lowest, per capita, of any county in California. His endorsement of Theophilus Crowe, someone with no law enforcement experience, had come as more than somewhat of a surprise to the people of Pine Cove, especially since Theo’s opponent was a retired Los Angeles policeman who’d put in a highly decorated five and twenty. What the people of Pine Cove did not know was that Sheriff Burton not only endorsed Theo, he had forced him to run in the first place.

  Theophilus Crowe was a quiet man, and Sheriff John Burton had his reasons for not wanting to hear a peep out of the little North County burg of Pine Cove, so when Theo walked into his little two-room cabin, he wasn’t surprised to see a red seven blinking on his answering machine. He punched the button and listened to Burton‘s assistant insisting that he call right away—seven times. Burton never called the cell phone.

  Theo had come home to shower and ponder his meeting with Val Riordan. The fact that she had treated at least three of his ex-girlfriends bothered him. He wanted to try and figure out what the women had told her. Obviously, they’d mention that he got high occasionally. Well, more than occasionally. But like any man, it worried him that they might have said something about his sexual performance. For some reason, it didn’t bother him nearly as much that Val Riordan think him a loser and a drug fiend as it did that she might think he was bad in the rack. He wanted to ponder the possibilities, think away the paranoia, but instead he dialed the sheriff’s private number and was put right through.

  “What in the hell is the matter with you, Crowe? You stoned?”

  “No more than usual,” Theo said. “What’s the problem?”

  “The problem is you removed evidence from a crime scene.”

  “I did?” Talking to the sheriff could drain all of Theo’s energy instantly. He fell into a beanbag chair that expectorated Styrofoam beads from a failing seam with a sigh. “What evidence? What scene?”

  “The pills, Crowe. The suicide’s husband said you took the pills with you. I want them back at the scene in ten minutes. I want my men out of there in half an hour. The M.E. will do the autopsy this afternoon and this case will close by dinnertime, got it? Run-of-the-mill suicide. Obit page only. No news. You understand?”

  “I was just checking on her condition with her psychiatrist. See if there were any indications she might be suicidal.”

  “Crowe, you must resist the urge to play investigator or pretend that you are a law enforcement officer. The woman hung herself. She was depressed and she ended it all. The husband wasn’t cheating, there was no money motive, and Mommy and Daddy weren’t fighting.”

  “They talked to the kids?”

  “Of course they talked to the kids. They’re detectives. They investigate things. Now get over there and get them out of North County. I’d send them over to get the pills from you, but I wouldn’t want them to find your little victory garden, would you?”

  “I’m leaving now,” Theo said.

  “This is the last I will hear
of this,” Burton said. He hung up.

  Theo hung up the phone, closed his eyes, and turned into a human puddle in the beanbag chair.

  Forty-one years old and he still lived like a college student. His books were stacked between bricks and boards, his bed pulled out of a sofa, his refrigerator was empty but for a slice of pizza going green, and the grounds around his cabin were overgrown with weeds and brambles. Behind the cabin, in the middle of a nest of blackberry vines, stood his victory garden: ten bushy marijuana plants, sticky with buds that smelled of skunk and spice. Not a day passed that he didn’t want to plow them under and sterilize the ground they grew in. And not a day passed that he didn’t work his way through the brambles and lovingly harvest the sticky green that would sustain his habit through the day.

  The researchers said that marijuana was only psychologically addictive. Theo had read all the papers. They only mentioned the night sweats and mental spiders of withdrawal in passing, as if they were no more unpleasant than a tetanus shot. But Theo had tried to quit. He’d wrung out three sets of sheets in one night and paced the cabin looking for distraction until he thought his head might explode, only to give up and suck the piquant smoke from his Sneaky Pete so he could find sleep. The researchers obviously didn’t get it, but Sheriff John Burton did. He understood Theo’s weakness and held it over him like the proverbial sword. That Burton had his own Achilles’ heel and more to lose from its discovery didn’t seem to matter. Logically, Theo had him in a standoff. But emotionally, Burton had the upper hand. Theo was always the one to blink.

  He snatched Sneaky Pete off his orange crate coffee table and headed out the door to return Bess Leander’s pills to the scene of the crime.

  Valerie

  Dr. Valerie Riordan sat at her desk, looking at the icons of her life: a tiny digital stock ticker that she would surreptitiously glance down at during appointments; a gold Mont Blanc desk set, the pens jutting from the jade base like the antennae of a goldbug; a set of bookends fashioned in the likenesses of Freud and Jung, bracing leather-bound copies of The Psychology of the Unconscious, The Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders (DSM-IV), The Interpretation of Dreams, and The Physician’s Desk Reference; and a plaster-cast bust of Hippocrates that dispensed Post-it notes from the base. Hippocrates, that wily Greek who turned medicine from magic to science. The author of the famous oath that Val had uttered twenty years ago on that sunny summer day in Ann Arbor when she graduated from med school: “I will use treatment to help the sick according to my ability and judgment, but I will never use it to injure or wrong them. I will not give poison to anyone though asked to do so, nor will I suggest such a plan.”

  The oath had seemed so silly, so antiquated then. What doctor, in their right mind, would give poison to a patient?

  “But in purity and in holiness I will guard my life and my art.”

  It had seemed so obvious and easy then. Now she guarded her life and her art with a custom security system and a Glock 9 mm. stashed in the nightstand.

  “I will not use the knife on sufferers from stone, but I will give place to such as are craftsmen therein.”

  She’d never had a problem with that part of the oath. She was loathe to use the knife. She’d gone into psychiatry because she couldn’t handle the messy parts of medicine. Her father, a surgeon himself, had been only mildly disappointed. At least she was a doctor, of sorts. She’d done her internship and residency in a rehab center where movie stars and rock idols learned to be responsible by making their own beds, while Val distributed Valium like a flight attendant passing out peanuts. One wing of the Sunrise Center was druggies, the other eating disorders. She preferred the eating disorders. “You haven’t lived until you’ve force-fed minestrone to a supermodel through a tube,” she told her father.

  “Into whatsoever houses I enter, I will do so to help the sick, keeping myself free from all intentional wrongdoing and harm, especially from fornication with woman or man, bond or free.”

  Well, abstinence from fornication hadn’t been a problem, had it? She hadn’t had sex since Richard left five years ago. Richard had given her the bust of Hippocrates as a joke, he said, but she’d put it on her desk just the same. She’d given him a statue of Blind Justice wearing a garter belt and fishnets the year before to display at his law office. He’d brought her here to this little village, passing up offers from corporate law firms to follow his dream of being a country lawyer whose daily docket would include disagreements over pig paternity or the odd pension dispute. He wanted to be Atticus Finch, Pudd’nhead Wilson, a Jimmy Stewart or Henry Fonda character who was paid in fresh-baked bread and baskets of avocados. Well, he’d gotten that part; Val’s practice had supported them for most of their marriage. She’d be paying him alimony now if they’d actually divorced.

  Country lawyer indeed. He left her to go to Sacramento to lobby the California Coastal Commission for a consortium of golf course developers. His job was to convince the commission that sea otters and elephant seals would enjoy nothing better than to watch Japanese businessmen slice Titleists into the Pacific and that what nature needed was one long fairway from Santa Barbara to San Francisco (maybe sand traps at the Pismo and Carmel dunes). He carried a pocket watch, for Christ’s sake, a gold chain with a jade fob carved into the shape of an endangered brown pelican. He played his front-porch, rocking-chair-wise, country lawyer against their Botany 500 sophistication and pulled down over two hundred grand a year in the bargain. He lived with one of his clerks, an earnest doe-eyed Stanfordite with surfer girl hair and a figure that mocked gravity. Richard had introduced Val to the girl (Ashley, or Brie, or Jordan) and it had been oh-so-adult and oh-so-gracious and later, when Val called Richard to clear up a tax matter, she asked, “So how’d you screen the candidates, Richard? First one to suck-start your Lexus?”

  “Maybe we should start thinking about making our separation official,” Richard had said.

  Val had hung up on him. If she couldn’t have a happy marriage, she’d have everything else. Everything. And so had begun her revolving door policy of hustling appointments, prescribing the appropriate meds, and shopping for clothes and antiques.

  Hippocrates glowered at her from the desk.

  “I didn’t intentionally do harm,” Val said. “Not intentionally, you old buggerer. Fifteen percent of all depressives commit suicide, treated or not.”

  “Whatsoever in the course of practice I see or hear (or even outside my practice in social intercourse) that ought never to be published abroad, I will not divulge, but consider such things to be holy secrets.”

  “Holy secrets or do no harm?” Val asked, envisioning the hanging body of Bess Leander with a shudder. “Which is it?” Hippocrates sat on his Post-its, saying nothing. Was Bess Leander’s death her fault? If she had talked to Bess instead of put her on antidepressants, would that have saved her? It was possible, and it was also possible that if she kept to her policy of a “pill for every problem,” someone else was going to die. She couldn’t risk it. If using talk therapy instead of drugs could save one life, it was worth a try.

  Val grabbed the phone and hit the speed dial button that connected her to the town’s only pharmacy, Pine Cove Drug and Gift.

  One of the clerks answered. Val asked to speak to Winston Krauss, the pharmacist. Winston was one of her patients. He was fifty-three, unmarried, and eighty pounds overweight. His holy secret, which he shared with Val during a session, was that he had an unnatural sexual fascination with marine mammals, dolphins in particular. He’d confessed that he’d never been able to watch “Flipper” without getting an erection and that he’d watched so many Jacques Cousteau specials that a French accent made him break into a sweat. He kept an anatomically correct inflatable porpoise, which he violated nightly in his bathtub. Val had cured him of wearing a scuba mask and snorkel around the house, so gradually the red gasket ring around his face had cleared up, but he still did the dolphin nightly and confessed it to her once a month.


  “Winston, Val Riordan here. I need a favor.”

  “Sure, Dr. Val, you need me to deliver something to Molly? I heard she went off in the Slug this morning.” Gossip surpassed the speed of light in Pine Cove.

  “No, Winston, you know that company that carries all the look-alike placebos? We used them in college. I need you to order look-alikes for all the antidepressants I prescribe: Prozac, Zoloft, Serzone, Effexor, the whole bunch, all the dosages. Order in quantity.”

  “I don’t get it, Val, what for?”

  Val cleared her throat. “I want you to fill all of my prescriptions with the placebos.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “I’m not kidding, Winston. As of today, I don’t want a single one of my patients getting the real thing. Not one.”

  “Are you doing some sort of experiment? Control group or something?”

  “Something like that.”

  “And you want me to charge them the normal price?”

  “Of course. Our usual arrangement.” Val got a twenty percent kickback from the pharmacy. She was going to be working a lot harder, she deserved to get paid.

  Winston paused. She could hear him going through the glass door into the back of the pharmacy. Finally he said, “I can’t do that, Val. That’s unethical. I could lose my license, go to jail.”

  Val had really hoped it wouldn’t come to this. “Winston, you’ll do it. You’ll do it or the Pine Cove Gazette will run a front-page story about you being a fish-fucker.”

  “That’s illegal. You can’t divulge something I told you in therapy.”

  “Quit telling me what’s illegal, Winston. I’m married to a lawyer.”

  “I’d really rather not do this, Val. Can’t you send them down to the Thrifty Mart in San Junipero? I could say that I can’t get the pills anymore.”

  “That wouldn’t work, would it, Winston? The people at the Thrifty Mart don’t have your little problem.”

  “You’re going to have some withdrawal reactions. How are you going to explain that?”