Cold Judgment

by Joanne Fluke

  “We’re not taking sides, Jerry.” Kay tried to make peace. “We love Doug and we want him to be safe. If he has any doubts about his flying at all . . .”

  “He doesn’t!” Jerry’s face turned red. “His doctor’s just wrong, that’s all. Doug should keep right on flying and prove his doctor’s an asshole!”

  “Don’t fight!” Tears began to course down Debra’s cheeks. “I can’t stand it when people fight! I just can’t stand it!”

  She gripped her hands tightly together and dug her nails into her palms. Mac looked over and his eyes widened. Debra’s hands were bleeding.

  “Hey, it’s all right, Debra.” Mac got out his handkerchief and wrapped it around her hands. “Just calm down. Everything’s fine. We’re not really fighting.”

  There was a sudden silence in the room. Debra’s outburst had rattled them all. Even Jerry looked ashamed.

  Mac looked up to find everyone watching him. He shook his head and sighed. “We’ve got to keep this orderly if we’re going to do any good at all. We’re all having problems, now that Dr. Elias is gone. We have to pull together here to try to make some sense of it all. No one is happy with their new therapist. Is that right?”

  There were murmurs of assent and nods. Mac went on.

  “I have a suggestion that might work. We’ll keep on with our new doctors unless we feel they’re doing us more harm than good. You have to make your own decision on that. And we’ll meet together once a week, just for moral support. How does that sound?”

  “It’s a good idea.” Father Marx nodded. “I was lonely without the group. Actually it’ll probably do more good than going to that psychiatric mackerel-snapper that Dr. Elias recommended.”

  “We can meet here next week.” Kay spoke up quickly. She had the largest house and it was located conveniently. Charles would just have to swallow his objections and realize how important these group meetings were.

  Doug was going to do it. He threw his flight bag on the passenger seat and started the car. Jerry was right. He was practically cured. Nothing bad would happen if he took the flight to Dallas tonight.

  The local news was on the car radio. Fifty families in White Bear Lake were without power, and a wrong-way driver on the ring road at the airport had managed to exit before any accidents occurred. Doug only half listened until the third story started.

  “A local man died of self-inflicted gunshot wounds after his wife and two children were killed in an auto accident last Tuesday. Franklin Waters, thirty-six, left a note saying he didn’t want to live without his family.”

  Doug pulled off the freeway at the nearest exit. His hands were shaking so hard, it was impossible to drive. He had felt that very same way after Barbara and Janie had died. Life hadn’t seemed worth living without them. He had tried to kill himself twice, but each time he had failed. At least poor Franklin Waters was at peace now.

  Not a day went by that he didn’t wish for death. Doug shuddered as the realization hit him. Perhaps his doctor was right, after all. He’d better cancel his flight tonight.

  Determined to do the right thing, Doug placed the call. What he learned wasn’t good. The relief pilot was out with a winter cold. He had to take the flight tonight.

  Twenty minutes later, Doug drove up in front of the MilStar terminal. Employees called out greetings, but his smile was forced. Only one question ran through his mind as he checked the passenger list and filed his flight plans. Was his doctor right?

  The fear left him as he strapped himself into the cockpit. He smiled. It was going to be all right. He was confident again. Everything would be just fine. Doug didn’t understand it, but it seemed the simple ritual of buckling himself in had put everything in perspective.

  The roar of the engines made him laugh out loud as he taxied down the runway. There was no danger of crashing tonight. He felt calm, in perfect control, happier than he had ever been before. Jerry was right. Just as soon as Doug landed in Dallas, he’d call Jerry and tell him. Doug knew he was cured! And his new doctor had almost cheated him of this moment, the exhilaration of liftoff, the freedom of flight.

  CHAPTER 3

  Only three more to go. Dr. Elias resisted the urge to give up on his morning exercises. Surely he could do three more push-ups. He had followed a rigid program of exercise every morning for the past forty years. As a young man he had done sixty push-ups without strain. Now the twenty he had assigned himself were taxing his strength to the limit.

  Slowly, painfully, he forced his body to obey. There was comfort in his daily regimen. He had to stay in shape. Dr. Elias was not ready to give up the fight yet. He would follow his normal routine until the very end.

  Eighteen! He raised his body up from the mat with arms that trembled. In the walls of the mirrored exercise room his face looked haggard. The kindly, distinguished father figure was gone, replaced by the reflection of a tortured man. The disease was taking its toll. Now furrows of pain were permanently etched in his broad forehead beneath his styled silver hair. His eyes were deep wells of anguish. Two more. He could do it.

  Nineteen! Where was the sense of inner peace that most victims of terminal illness claimed to experience? He had drawn up his will and put his affairs in order, but still there was no sense of calm acceptance. Instead, Dr. Elias’s lips twisted in a grimace of frustration. How could he be at peace? He had not finished his work.

  Twenty! He let his tired body fall against the mat to rest for a moment. His group was at fault. Officially they were no longer his patients. He had assigned them elsewhere, washed his hands of their problems and their fears. But Dr. Elias knew he could never let go. They were his. And he would not rest easy until he had provided for each one of them.

  The pain made him gasp as he pulled himself to his feet. The ancient Greeks were right in their naming of Karkinos.The Crab. Cancer. There was a crab in his belly, gnawing at his vital organs. He could feel its sharp pincers ripping at his tender flesh. It was impossible to ignore the pain of being eaten alive. It could only be dulled by ever-increasing doses of powerful analgesics that clouded the mind and gave a false sense of euphoria.

  A hot shower did not help to ease the pain. Dr. Elias bent nearly double as he made his way to the room he used as an office. He had prepared a syringe and it lay ready in the center desk drawer. He ached to plunge the needle into his vein, but there was work to do and his mind had to be clear. His hand was shaking as he closed the drawer firmly, the contents untouched.

  His coffee was waiting for him, hot and strong, the espresso beans ground fresh in his expensive coffeemaker. One perfect croissant waited also, on the corner of his desk, delivered earlier by the French bakery in the IDS Center. He took a sip of pungent coffee and sighed deeply. Then a bite of the pastry, the thin layers flaking and dissolving in his mouth.

  It was better. The pain had dulled of its own accord. Dr. Elias picked up the stack of reports that had come by messenger and began to read. A bitter smile appeared on his face as he paged through them. He was right about the new psychiatrists. They were unable to deal with his patients.

  The reports were meticulous, as he had known they would be. The new therapists were adequate but uninspired. The spark of creativity that made great healers was not present.

  Dr. Elias tried to be fair. He had not expected miracles. The new therapists did not have his advantage. He had been working with his patients for years and he knew them intimately. It was an easy matter for Dr. Elias to read between the lines. Every one of his patients was regressing, just as he had feared.

  Greg was chain-smoking again. That observation was made in passing, but Dr. Elias alone realized its significance. The action of lighting cigarette after cigarette would soon give way to lighting other objects not socially acceptable.

  Father Marx’s therapist was hopeful. The priest seemed a little nervous, but that was to be expected in any new patient-doctor relationship. They had not discussed sex or prostitution. The new doctor intended to build up mutual trust b
efore tackling the root of Father Marx’s illness. That was a mistake. Father Marx needed to confront his problem constantly to defuse his violence.

  Kay had wept under hypnosis. Her new therapist had noted that Kay’s tears were cathartic. It was far from the truth. Kay’s angry tears were fuel for her delusions. The cycle of hatred was starting again.

  Nora’s report was lengthy and detailed. She had spent most of the session discussing a young student and her handsome boyfriend. She confessed she was jealous of their relationship. Assuming that she was taking an interest in men, her doctor decided to foster Nora’s heterosexual involvement. Even though the new therapist was wrong, Dr. Elias could not fault his conclusions. Nora had been devious. She’d been playing a part for her new therapist. And Nora was a consummate actress.

  Dr. Elias poured himself another cup of espresso and frowned. His group was not responding to the new therapists. How could they be helped if they refused to cooperate? He had referred them to the best psychiatrists in the city.

  Mac’s report was next. The new therapist stated that Mac was jumpy and ill at ease. That could be significant. Although Mac did not seem to be regressing as rapidly as the rest, Dr. Elias held little hope for his recovery. Mac would break down, too. It was only a matter of time.

  Debra’s therapist believed she was making progress. She had entered willingly into role-playing therapy. The report was brief, only a quarter of a page. There were no alarming observations. Dr. Elias shook his head wearily. He knew Debra didn’t have the strength to carry on without him. Surely she was crumbling. The new therapist had been unobservant, but it was not his fault. Debra was an expert at hiding her true feelings.

  Jerry’s report consisted of a single line. He had not kept his initial appointment. Efforts to reach him by telephone had been fruitless. His therapist was still waiting for Jerry to return his call.

  Dr. Elias glanced at his calendar and frowned. Jerry’s niece was due to arrive on Sunday, the sixteenth. If Jerry had not gone in for therapy by Saturday at the latest, he would have to take action.

  Doug’s therapist seemed to have things well in hand. Dr. Elias nodded as he read the report. Doug’s depression was deepening, but young Dr. Wilkenson had recommended that he stop flying for the duration. Doug’s therapy schedule was increased to three sessions a week. If Doug took his doctor’s advice, he would be safe for a while longer.

  There was a sound in the hallway, the clanging of pails and a cheerful exchange in Spanish. Dr. Elias stacked the reports neatly and put them into a file folder. The cleaning crew was leaving.

  “Hasta luego, Doctor. Have a nice day!”

  Dr. Elias smiled in spite of himself. The new cleaning crew was Chicano. They knew little English, but somehow they had picked up the most banal of clichés.

  By the time he’d made his way to the living room, it was deserted. His cleaning crew had left. Wooden surfaces gleamed. Windows sparkled. His newspaper was neatly folded on the arm of his leather chair.

  Dr. Elias frowned as he straightened a picture and repositioned his marble ashtray in the exact center of the end table. It was unreasonable to expect complete perfection. Actually the new cleaning crew was very competent.

  The temperature was in the low teens today. Dr. Elias stood at the huge window overlooking the bank building and watched the bank sign with its time and temperature flash on and off. The temperature was of no interest to him. His environment was thermostatically controlled at a constant seventy-six degrees, and he seldom left it. There was no reason to leave. It was a simple matter to pick up the telephone and order whatever he needed. There were six excellent restaurants within a four-block area. Dayton’s department store delivered his espresso coffee beans and the cases of fine wine he ordered. His work was here, with his office and conference room directly across the hall. And if he occasionally felt like walking, the seventeen miles of climate-controlled connecting bridges between the buildings in the downtown area made winter clothing unnecessary.

  The sun was bright today, glancing off the mirrored walls of the City Center building. Dr. Elias pulled the heavy drapes to block out the view. The patterns of traffic on the street below did not interest him. Women in fur coats, carrying parcels of Christmas presents, could not possibly identify with his agony.

  It was nearly noon and time to choose his pipe for the day. In the early morning, with his espresso and croissant, he smoked imported Balkan Sobranie cigarettes. Choosing a pipe for the afternoon was habit, pleasure, and ritual. His glass-enclosed pipe rack was filled with over three hundred briars.

  When things were going badly, he needed a pipe that would not disappoint him. Dr. Elias reached unhesitantly for his Peterson’s bent. It was a big, solid, homely clunker of a pipe, but of all his briars it had never turned sour on him.

  Dr. Elias sat down in his leather chair. He filled the Peterson’s carefully and lit and tamped it. Then he opened his newspaper. There might be an article by Debra today.

  The Social Security controversy was raging again. Dr. Elias read the lead story with some amusement. A couple in their seventies had refused to legalize their relationship, claiming they would lose a large share of their benefits. The grandchildren of both families were staging a demonstration against the ruling that forced their grandparents to “live in sin.”

  There was trouble in Lebanon again and another Mother’s March for complete nuclear disarmament. And down at the bottom of the first page, tucked in a corner, was the account of a plane crash.

  Dr. Elias read the article with a sense of dread. Doug’s plane had gone down. There were no survivors. The Federal Aeronautics Board placed the blame on unusual weather conditions, but Dr. Elias knew the truth. Doug had taken the flight, despite Dr. Wilkenson’s warning. And he had indulged his death wish, at last.

  It was his fault! The paper slipped from Dr. Elias’s hands. Doug would have listened to him. He would have refused to fly if Dr. Elias had warned him. Now Doug was dead and he had taken four innocent passengers with him.

  Doug’s crash was proof that the group could not function without Dr. Elias. They would break down, one by one, killing other innocent people in the process. Somehow he had to ensure that the rest of his group did not run amuck. He had a responsibility to protect society from his patients.

  Dr. Elias felt his anger grow. Damn this disease that kept him from continuing his group’s therapy! He was weak when he should be strong. Inwardly he raged at his own mortality. He could have cured them all, but there was no time.

  His pipe was cold. The pleasure Dr. Elias took in the first pipe of the day was gone. He knocked it into the marble ashtray, not caring about the consequences. The dottle, the plug of wet and partially burned tobacco, should have been smoked completely to keep his good briar from souring, but Dr. Elias’s mind was no longer on his smoking. The pain was back, sharper than before, and he clutched at it as he got to his feet and made his way to his studio.

  Sunlight streamed in through the glass walls and highlighted his group portrait. The unpainted canvas ovals were naked and white. Dr. Elias stood in the center of the sunlight, feet planted slightly apart as he stared with unseeing eyes at his painting. His gaze was turned inward, remembering the beginnings, the first hesitant steps his group had taken toward recovery.

  The room was warm. Beads of perspiration formed on his forehead and rolled down his face. He did not notice. Even the pain had ceased to exist. He was remembering, lost in the time when he had been omnipotent, omniscient, a god to his patients. He had controlled their destinies. He had given them life!

  The room was so silent that the sound of muted conversation from the floor below was clearly audible. Dr. Elias was not listening. Other voices were echoing in his mind, the voices of the past, with Doug’s among them. They filled his head with their pleading. He had to help them. He was the only one who knew how.

  His mind shouted out for silence. They had no right to plague him with their piteous cries. He had tried to he
lp them, but they’d refused to listen. They should have responded to their new therapists!

  His hands began to tremble and he tightened them into fists. His anger was back in full force, and it spread to include his group. They were breaking down, one by one, and there was only one solution. He had nurtured and counseled them to the best of his ability. But now they were doomed.

  Dr. Elias moved at last. He had come to a decision. His eyes were bright as he squeezed paint on the palette and took up his brush. Doug’s case was closed. And when he finished Doug’s portrait, he would deal with the others.

  CHAPTER 4

  “It was an accident!” Jerry set down his cup so hard the coffee sloshed out on Kay’s rosewood table. “I know what you’re thinking, but just forget it. Accidents happen all the time in those small planes. The paper said there were unusual weather conditions.”

  They faced him like a panel of accusers. Jerry had known this was coming when Mac had called the emergency meeting. He’d spent the whole night agonizing over Doug’s accident, trying to convince himself that he was not to blame. And now he had to convince them.

  “Stifle it, Jerry!” Nora’s eyes were blazing. “We all know Doug crashed deliberately. And you’re the one who told him to fly.”

  “You did talk him into flying, Jerry.” Greg patted Nora’s shoulder as she burst into tears. “We all thought he should cancel the flight the way his therapist suggested.”

  Jerry’s face turned red and his hands shook. His eyes searched each face in the group for an ally. Surely they didn’t all blame him. There had to be someone who was sympathetic.

  Father Marx fingered his cross. His expression was kind, but that didn’t count. Priests were supposed to be forgiving. It was their profession. Kay looked nervous as she mopped up the spilled coffee, and she made no move to come to his defense. Debra’s eyes slid away as he tried to make contact with her. His friends and confidants were turning on him. They all blamed him for Doug’s death, with one possible exception. Mac looked carefully neutral.