Cold Judgment

by Joanne Fluke

  This would be his last Christmas, if he lived long enough to see it. The holiday was less than five weeks away. Chef Leon Lossing of the Orion Room was preparing a special holiday dinner for him, and Dr. Elias had been looking forward to it. Wild rice soup, lobster and sweetbreads with raspberry sauce, and black velvet torte for dessert. Dr. Elias smiled in anticipation.

  It was convenient to have a fine restaurant in the same building. Every evening, at precisely five thirty, Jacques delivered and served his meal. Wednesday’s menu was rack of lamb boulangère. Dr. Elias reminded himself to open a bottle of Château Margaux 1974 to complement the lamb.

  Jacques had the perfect blend of deference and efficiency that Dr. Elias expected in a waiter. He would prepare Jacques’s envelope with his yearly gratuity in advance this year, just in case.

  On his way back to the desk, Dr. Elias turned on his favorite music. Gustav Mahler’s Ninth Symphony would help him to concentrate. Mahler understood his anguish. He was a kindred soul. Mahler, too, knew torture and disappointment in his search for excellence.

  There were four folders left. Dr. Elias flipped open the top file and stared at the photograph. The man’s face was tanned and healthy—brown eyes, hair thinning slightly on top. His most striking characteristic was a wide smile that displayed a full set of perfect white teeth.

  Jerry Feldman, age forty-four, married, no children. Diagnosis: sexual aberration—child molester.

  Jerry was a successful dentist specializing in cosmetic reconstruction. He claimed that he had worked on every one of the city’s leading newscasters. It was an in-joke. All the dentists in town knew they could switch to any channel to see Jerry’s handiwork.

  His wife, Dotty, was a typical midwestern woman, warm-hearted and eager for a house full of children. Jerry hadn’t told her about his vasectomy. And Dotty knew nothing about Jerry’s darker secret.

  Jerry’s trouble had started early in his marriage. In 1979, he’d come to Dr. Elias after he’d nearly raped a ten-year-old girl. After six years of therapy, Jerry still was not cured, but he had learned to avoid situations that put him into contact with young girls.

  In two weeks, Jerry would face a crisis. His ten-year-old niece, Betsy, was coming to stay with him over the Christmas holidays. Dr. Elias knew he had to find a good therapist to help Jerry deal with his niece. Without help, Betsy could be in real danger from her uncle.

  The light in the room was fading rapidly. Dr. Elias switched on the Tiffany desk lamp and wrote a short letter of referral for Jerry. The golden circle of light illuminated the next file as he opened it, hitting the photograph like a spotlight. It was appropriate. Nora Stanford was an actress.

  Nora Stanford, age thirty-six (actually forty-six), single. Diagnosis: thanatophobia leading to episodes of psychotic aggression.

  Nora was a classic beauty with high cheekbones and a mass of shining blond hair swept back from her marvelously mobile face. She had refused to pose for a snapshot and had insisted that Dr. Elias use one of her publicity pictures, heavily retouched to make her appear younger.

  Ten years ago Nora had viciously attacked the young ingenue who’d replaced her in The Debutante. The young actress had been hospitalized and Nora had been referred to Dr. Elias by the court. She was a brilliant actress driven by her talent, desperately afraid of growing old and not being able to perform. Dr. Elias had discovered that Nora had other problems in addition to her fear of dying. She was terrified of her attraction to other women. Once Nora had accepted her lesbian tendencies, her therapy had progressed. She’d found a compassionate lover and opened a theater workshop within walking distance of the Guthrie. There were no more aggressive incidents, but Dr. Elias knew that Nora’s jealous rages were barely under control. She needed constant therapy to keep from becoming violent again.

  After he had chosen a therapist for Nora, Dr. Elias reached for his eel-skin tobacco pouch. He selected his favorite pipe from the rack, a handmade natural briar crafted by Ed Kolpin, founder of the Tinder Box. Every month he received a package of his personal blend of tobacco from the original store in Santa Monica. Several years ago Dr. Elias had voluntarily cut down on his smoking. Now that precaution seemed ridiculous. His smile was bitter as he lit the pipe and tamped it with the gold tool a former patient had given him. There was no reason to deny himself any of life’s pleasures now. There was little enough time to enjoy them.

  There were only two more patients to refer and he would be finished. Dr. Elias opened the next file. Father Vincent Marx, age fifty-one, single. Diagnosis: violent schizophrenia.

  Father Marx prided himself on being a modern priest. In the photo he was dressed in a blue-striped polo shirt and chinos. Only the small gold cross that he wore around his neck was an indication of his profession. Father Marx was streetwise. He knew all the current street slang and used it in everyday conversation. That made him especially effective in his church on lower Hennepin, relating to broken families and rebellious teenagers.

  There was only one area in which Father Marx was not a regular guy. He hated prostitution and everything it represented. When he was forced to confront blatant sex, he turned into a religious zealot.

  Father Marx had found Dr. Elias on his own, five years ago. No one, including the church, knew about his problem. A prostitute had propositioned him on the street, and Father Marx had assaulted and nearly killed her because she’d reminded him of his mother.

  Father Vincent Marx was the illegitimate son of a prostitute. When he’d been barely old enough to walk, he’d been punished for trying to climb into his mother’s bed. After that incident he’d been locked in a closet every night so he could not interfere with his mother’s business. As soon as he’d been old enough to rebel, Vincent had run away. A kindly priest had found him and persuaded his mother to sign relinquishment papers. Vincent had grown up in a Catholic orphanage and had entered the priesthood out of gratitude.

  The hatred was still there, but with Dr. Elias’s help, the violent emotion was kept under control. Father Marx was now able to counsel his parishioners regarding sexual matters even though, in his heart, he still felt sex was dirty and wrong. If he suffered a setback, his hatred could erupt into violence again. Under the right circumstances, Father Marx was perfectly capable of cold-blooded murder.

  Dr. Elias wrote a referral for Father Marx and turned to the file of his remaining patient. Richard “Mac” Macklin, age thirty-four, divorced. Diagnosis: severe guilt complex resulting in impotence.

  Kind blue eyes looked out from the photograph. Mac had an engaging face, one that inspired immediate trust. Laugh lines crinkled the corners of his mouth, and his curly red hair was charmingly unruly. The only evidence of the deep problems that plagued him was the permanent dark circles under his eyes.

  Mac had been a detective on the Minneapolis police force when the incident had occurred, five years ago. Several attacks had been made on police officers in the preceding week, and Mac had been wary when he’d answered the call to a tenement on Lake Street. Two armed suspects had been spotted there. Mac’s partner had gone up the fire escape. Mac had taken the door. The apartment had been dark and the hall light out. Mac had overreacted when he’d seen the shadow of the gun. He’d fired, killing a twelve-year-old boy. The gun had been a toy. The boy had been playing a very real game of cops and robbers.

  Naturally the press had had a field day, even though Mac was cleared by the department. There had been hate letters and anonymous phone calls in the middle of the night. Somehow Mac had managed to ignore the people who’d called him a kid killer, but the pressure had taken its toll. After the shooting, Mac had found he was impotent. At first Mac’s wife had been understanding, but as time passed she’d become dissatisfied with the marriage. Six months later she’d filed for divorce. Mac had suffered a breakdown and been hospitalized.

  The police department carried excellent insurance, and Dr. Elias had been called in. After a year’s leave of absence, Mac had returned to the force. His crisis
was over, but even with Dr. Elias’s encouragement, Mac refused to put his potency to the test. He was terribly lonely, but he felt it was better to avoid women than to risk failure.

  After several months at work Mac’s impotence had taken on a new complication, one that affected his career. His service revolver, an obvious phallic symbol, became the source of his anxiety. Dr. Elias knew the risks involved with a cop who could not use his gun. At any time a situation could occur where Mac would have to shoot to save a fellow officer’s life. It would be a murder by omission if he could not fire.

  There was only one practical way to deal with the problem. Mac had studied nights and received his promotion to detective. Now the probability of his having to use his gun was greatly diminished. Both Mac and Dr. Elias were relieved.

  Dr. Elias finished Mac’s referral and stretched wearily. Technically, these eight patients were no longer his responsibility, but he was unable to relinquish the final thread that bound him to his group. He would ask for progress reports from the new therapists. It was only right that he follow his patients as long as he could.

  Fifteen minutes remained before his dinner arrived. Dr. Elias uncorked the wine and poured a glass to let it breathe. Then he unlocked the door that led to his art gallery.

  The long, narrow hallway was filled with portraits he had painted, one for every patient he had cured. Dr. Elias walked slowly to the very end, glorying in his successes. The portraits were the work of a talented amateur. Once he had wanted to be an artist, but he’d felt compelled to continue his father’s work in medicine. His therapy work was his art. He took disorganized psychic material and transformed it into human masterpieces. These portraits were glorious testimonies to his talent as a psychiatrist.

  His studio was at the end of the corridor. The outside walls were of glass, to let in the strong northern light. An easel was placed in the center of the large room. Resting on it was his only unfinished canvas.

  It was a portrait of his group: Kay, Greg, Debra, Doug, Jerry, Nora, Father Marx, and Mac. They were seated in a half circle around the conference table in his office. The portrait was precise, correct to the smallest detail. Only the faces were unfinished, startling white ovals of blank canvas.

  His fingers itched to take up the brush and finish the painting, but it was impossible. He could complete a canvas only when the case was resolved. Dr. Elias felt a stab of remorse as he gazed at his painting. It violated his sense of order to leave a project unfinished. If only he could find a way to close these cases.

  CHAPTER 2

  “Aw, Mom! I hate to go with Grandma!” Trish stood at the back door, hands on her hips. “I don’t see why I have to get out of the house, just because you’re having a meeting. I could stay in the den and watch a movie.”

  “It’s not going to kill you to spend the afternoon with Grandma.” Kay gave her daughter a stern glance. “She adores you.”

  “I know.” Trish sighed extravagantly. “It’s just so boring! I’m dying to hit the Walker to see DeBiaso’s new film, but Grandma wants to go to the MIA for the Early American furniture show.”

  Poor Trish looked so perturbed. Kay couldn’t help it. She started to laugh. The last DeBiaso film had been a documentary about a homosexual poet. It contained a nude shot of the man’s buttocks. The furniture exhibition was a much safer choice. Charles’s mother was easily shocked.

  “I’ll take you to the Walker tomorrow,” Kay promised. “And I’ll let you drive. Will that make you feel better?”

  “Great, Mom!” Trish grinned, her good humor restored. “Can we go early? I want to see Aiken’s installation, too.”

  Kay nodded. A car horn sounded in the driveway and she gave Trish a quick kiss. “Hurry up now. If Grandma comes in and starts talking, I’ll never get ready in time.”

  In just a few minutes the living room was ready. Kay arranged eight comfortable chairs in a circle and set a carafe of coffee on a nearby table. She wondered about pulling the drapes on the picture window. The view of Lake Harriet was lovely today, but it did make the room seem cold. Kay lit a fire in the fireplace and nodded. The room seemed much cozier now.

  “You’d better pull those drapes.” Charles came into the room frowning. “If the press finds out you’re holding a therapy group here, I might as well quit.”

  “Of course, dear.” Kay bit her lips as she closed the curtains. Their house was built on a half acre of land and set well back from the street. No one passing by could see in, but Charles was paranoid about the meeting this afternoon. She guessed she couldn’t blame him. The mayor’s wife in therapy would be a headline story.

  “I’ll pick up James after his karate class.” Charles buttoned his coat and clamped his fur hat on his head. “Make sure to have them out of here by five, Kay. You told the kids it was a political meeting, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, Charles.” Kay sighed wearily. Even though Charles had been understanding about this emergency meeting, she felt like a criminal. Five years of sneaking around to go to therapy and hiding her problems from the press had been a real strain.

  Tears began to form in her eyes and Kay blinked them back. She had been crying a lot lately, since Dr. Elias was gone, and the new psychiatrist didn’t seem to be helping.

  It was almost a relief to find that she wasn’t the only one who was upset. Doug had called two days ago. He didn’t like his new therapist and he missed the group. It had been his idea to get together once more to talk about it.

  Ralph, the children’s Scottish terrier, whimpered at her feet. Kay reached down to pet him. James had named him when they’d brought him home from the pet store, six years ago. He’d said he wanted a dog who could bark his own name. Ralph licked Kay’s hand and she tossed him a cookie from the plate on the table. Ralph was a great comfort, and he always seemed to sense when she was upset. He sat and listened when she talked to him and he loved her even if she was a little batty. Sometimes she felt closer to Ralph than she did to the rest of her family.

  The front door slammed and Kay was alone. She set out the ashtrays and coffee cups. They should start to arrive any minute now. Everyone had promised to come.

  The doorbell rang and Kay rushed to answer it. “Nora! I’m so glad to see you!” She hugged the actress tightly. “Come in and sit down. Help yourself to coffee.”

  As she helped Nora with her floor-length fur cape, Greg’s Jaguar roared up the driveway. Father Marx was next, in a Yellow Cab, and then Debra, followed by Jerry. Doug and Mac came in together, and Kay blinked back happy tears as they all sat in a circle once more. She had missed them. It was so good to have the group together again!

  “I asked Kay to have this meeting.” Doug set down his coffee cup and clasped his hands together nervously. “I don’t know how the rest of you feel, but I don’t like my new doctor. It’s not right without Dr. Elias.”

  “Adjustments take time.” Greg lit a cigarette and watched the match burn down in the ashtray. “My doctor says it takes months to get used to someone new.”

  “I feel like I’m wasting my time.” Debra stared down at the rug, her voice barely a whisper. She held her arms tightly against her chest and rocked slightly. “They put me in a group and all we do is act out roles. I don’t think it’s doing me any good.”

  Kay sat up straighter. She had doubts about her new therapist, too. “I’m getting along fine with my new doctor, but he’s got a different approach. He spent the last three sessions trying to hypnotize me. Last Tuesday I got so relaxed I fell asleep.”

  Nora tossed her hair back and laughed. “My doctor’s crazier than I am! He’s trying to switch me back to men. I’m going along with it. It’s so amusing!”

  “My new therapist’s Catholic!” Father Marx fingered his cross nervously. “I just don’t trust him. He’s one of those young converts who goes to Mass twice a week and confession every time he farts. You know the type. The man’s so unbelievably devout, he might write a letter to the archdiocese telling them all about me.”


  “Jesus!” Mac whirled around as a log in the fireplace crackled. Then he grinned sheepishly. “It looks like we all have the same problem. We don’t like our new therapists. What do you think we should do?”

  “You should quit!”

  Jerry laughed at the sudden silence. They were shocked and that made him laugh even louder. They were acting like a bunch of sheep, following their doctor’s advice without question. At least he had the guts to take charge of his own life. He supposed he should explain things to them. They were his friends. Maybe he could help them be independent, too.

  “Dr. Elias was the best shrink in town.” Jerry smiled as the group nodded in agreement. “And if I can’t have the best, I don’t want any at all. I quit therapy because I refuse to go to a second-rate shrink. I never showed up for my first appointment.”

  “You didn’t go at all?” Doug sounded shocked. “Isn’t that dangerous?”

  “I don’t think so. I feel just fine. Never better.”

  Doug shook his head. “I don’t have the nerve to do that. My therapist says I’m in crisis right now. He told me I should quit flying.”

  “That’s crap, Doug!” Jerry’s voice grew louder. “Don’t let some idiot doctor bully you that way. Dr. Elias never told you to stop flying, did he? Tell your therapist where to stick it and do what you want.”

  “But what if he’s right?” Doug’s hand trembled and coffee sloshed over the rim of the cup.

  “Christ!” Jerry made a disgusted face. “Five years at MilStar, Doug, and you’ve got a perfect safety record. If you were going to crash, you would have done it a long time ago!”

  “Maybe you’re right.” Doug began to smile. “Thanks, Jerry.”

  “I don’t know, Doug.” Mac frowned. “Maybe you ought to lay off flying for a week or so. Just to be on the safe side.”

  “You’ve got some vacation time coming, don’t you, Doug?” Greg looked thoughtful. “It wouldn’t hurt to take it now, just in case.”

  “Bullshit!” Jerry jumped to his feet. “I can’t believe you guys! You’re supposed to stick up for Doug!”