Fatal Analysis (Psychiatrist Grant Garrick series Book 2)

by Tom Bierdz

  “I don’t have the film. You do.”

  “I do?” What was it about me that I kept missing the obvious? There was Kevin, possibly Megan, and now Greg. I had blind spots. I was blanking out or ignoring what was right in front of my eyes. “I’m sorry, Greg. I’ll take care of it tomorrow. I’ll have the Walgreens by your house develop them. Then you can pick them up the next day.” I vaguely remember stuffing them in a desk drawer in my office. They had better be there.

  The Mariners left the runner on second stranded. In the eighth the Angels loaded the bases with one out. The relief pitcher got the next batter to hit into a double play to end the threat. We hit a homer in the bottom of the eighth and hung on to win three to two. The close game distracted me from myself for the most part.

  Bruce joined us after the game. Greg was excited to meet him and asked him to autograph his scorecard. Bruce talked about the game, tossing out little insider views for Greg. Why, for example, Lenny Biltmore relieved instead of another pitcher.

  When the questions about the game had been exhausted, Bruce said, tongue-in-cheek, “I hear where a psychiatrist got killed. Are you eliminating your competition by running over them?” He laughed.

  “Funny!” I panned.

  A father and son stood on the periphery waiting for Bruce’s autograph. Bruce smiled, signed his name, and playfully twisted the kid’s baseball cap.

  He turned serious. “Did you know Dr. Hodges?”

  “I met him briefly. He approached me about coming into the practice. Nice guy. I couldn’t take him in, but I thought he’d do well. It’s tragic. He had a bright future.”

  “Lenny Biltmore didn’t think so. He thought Hodges deserved it.”

  “Deserved to die? The Lenny Biltmore who just relieved and shut down the Angels?”

  “The same. Lenny’s from Texas. Claims the shrink raped a friend of his in high school. Hodges beat the rap, hired the best lawyers. I think they paid the family off. I guess he came out here to escape his past.”

  “We’re about as far away from Texas you can get.” I was shocked. I would never had suspected Hodges.

  Bruce headed for the locker room. Greg and I headed home.

  32

  I got a decent night’s sleep in my own bed, although I had a couple of weird dreams that quickly faded from memory when I awoke. But the real events I just learned about hung heavily on my mind. I met Isley Hodges only briefly but he just didn’t seem like a child abuser. I wished I’d gotten more information last night. Hodges could have engaged in consensual sex with a minor just below the legal age; someone who later cried rape. That was a lot different from someone who preyed on unsuspecting innocents and abused them. I could see how the former, seeking to understand his impulses, delved into psychiatry. Regardless of the type of sexual abuse, no one deserved to be killed in a hit and run. I made a mental note to look into this sometime in the future. I could talk to the Mariner pitcher, check the internet, and, if need be, make an inquiry with the Texas Psychiatric Association. Sexual abusers made me nauseous. It also cast a dark shroud over the psychiatric professions and concerned me deeply, spurring me to write that paper on countertransference.

  I almost stumbled into my slacks, my left leg narrowly missing the opening, jarred by the thought that Hodges might have been targeted because ‘he deserved it’, that the hit-and-run was not an accident. That couldn’t be. It was too bizarre to contemplate. I pulled up my pants, tucked in my shirt, and fastened my belt. Perhaps, it would be more palatable if Detective Rollins hadn’t approached me with more evidence suggesting Sasha was murdered.

  Despite being a psychiatrist where I was exposed to the darkest and strangest behaviors of man, I believed there was still a general order to things, that everybody didn’t go crazy all at the same time. I had lost my son, my wife, and a big part of my practice. I didn’t want to believe that Hodges was a sexual pervert, that he had been killed because of it, or that Megan murdered her sister. It was too much.

  I was raw around the edges. My skin was sensitive to the touch like I’d been out too long in the sun. My defenses were brittle. I wasn’t in any shape to confront Megan about leaving. But I would be in worse shape if I didn’t.

  Walking to work I recalled how much more alive I felt strolling these streets with Hanna just days ago. There was a brightness that had been dimmed. I needed to recapture that illumination.

  Midway through my morning Bobby handed me a message he took. “Megan wants you to call her.”

  “Thanks.” I took the message to my office, closed the door, and felt my stomach flutter. I had about fifteen minutes until my next appointment and I assumed Bobby probably told Megan when I’d be able to get back to her. I had to tell her I couldn’t remain living there and I knew this would involve a lengthy discussion. Sucking in a heap of air, I called.

  She was sweetness personified. “Are you feeling better, honey?”

  “Yeah...”

  “Should I make something special for dinner or would you prefer to eat out?”

  “Eat in. We need to talk.”

  Her tone darkened as she picked up the tension in my voice. “Okay. I’ll expect you at the usual time?”

  “Right.” I ended the call. She knew our talk would be heavy and needed to be done in person.

  I obsessed about our coming confrontation the rest of the day, wanting to both avoid it and be over with it. I still deeply cared about Megan and didn’t want to hurt her. Accusing her of something she didn’t do would destroy any sense of trust we had developed, and perhaps annihilate any possibility we’d have of recapturing the chemistry. But my first allegiance had to be to myself and my body was sending multiple warnings that I was in danger. I could no longer ignore the feelings especially now that I could objectively identify the reasons I felt that way. Paramount were the suspicions of Detective Rollins that Sasha had been murdered. The evidence pointed in Megan’s direction. I knew she was with her sister the night it happened.

  And I had experienced her anger on a number of occasions. I’ve treated several hostile patients and I know how destructive anger can be. On a personal level, Hanna, my ex, was as mild-mannered as anyone could be; yet, when she lost control of her anger it destroyed our marriage. Then there was the warning from Nick and the intuitive warnings from Hanna and Carrie.

  At the end of the workday I taxied to Megan’s. It was that misty time of the day, after sunset, when the remaining light cast everything in a dream-like state. And as we snaked up her road I took in the beautiful surroundings, the view of that magnificent house on top of the hill, and felt a tear in my heart. I didn’t consider myself shallow, yet surprisingly, I had taken a bit of ownership in the prestigious abundance and began to morn my loss. I could envision living continually in those surroundings and enjoying myself. I would miss it.

  Megan greeted me with a Rob Roy. She wasn’t in her lounging pajamas but wore a simple navy blue dress. He countenance was serious; her smile ignored her eyes. She had braced herself for our meeting.

  Standing awkwardly, I thanked her for the drink, then said, “Why don’t we get right to it.”

  She nodded and led me into the living room, taking a seat on the sofa. I sat on the opposite end, leaving a cushion between us. Now I wished I hadn’t pushed to begin right away. I wasn’t sure I was ready. Then, again, would I ever be sure?

  She sipped her martini, crossed her legs in my direction. “You want to leave?” Her question a statement of fact.

  “I’m not ready...” I scooped up a handful of mixed nuts from a bowl on the coffee table.

  “Don’t take me through all of that again. Get to the point.” She set down her drink, folded her arms against her chest.

  I dropped the nuts back into the bowl. “I’m just not comfortable. I can’t completely relax.”

  “You don�
�t seem to have any trouble falling asleep after sex.”

  “Yeah, for a time. Sex is great. But...”

  “But you don’t love me.”

  “I don’t know...”

  “Do you believe I love you?”

  “I don’t know.” She looked so vulnerable, like a frightened fawn left alone in the woods. There was that part of me that wanted to enfold her in my arms, stroke her hair, and tell her I could fix everything.

  “You don’t know a hell of a lot.” She stood, paced to the window, looked out. She returned with a withering stare. “What were the last couple months about? Just fun and games for you?”

  “No!” A stab of pain shot through my head. “All those wonderful things I said to you were true. We had fantastic times! Tremendous highs.” I quaffed my drink, paused. I needed to slow down the escalation. “I had another visit from Detective Rollins.”

  Megan rolled her eyes. “Is he still at it?”

  “He thinks Sasha was murdered.” I pivoted so I was looking directly into her eyes. I needed to see her reaction. “Besides for the bruises, the pill container did not have Sasha’s fingerprints on it.” Did I detect a slight widening of her eyes?

  “And what is that supposed to mean?”

  “That the killer wiped off Sasha’s prints when she...or he...wiped off his.”

  Irritation crossed her face. “Are you suspecting me?”

  “No, but I feel very uneasy. Until Sasha’s death is ruled a suicide or the killer is apprehended, I need my space.”

  “You’re a goddamn liar, Grant, and a bad one. You wouldn’t want to leave if you didn’t suspect me.” That fawn turned into a snorting stag and was coming at me antlers first.

  “I don’t think we need to muck it up by discussing this further. I simply can’t stay here any longer. Let’s be adults about this, and...”

  “It’s not that simple, Grant. I’ve invested a great deal of time and energy on you. I refuse to let you go.”

  I let out a hollow laugh. “It’s not your decision.”

  “I’ve made it my decision.” Spittle flew from her mouth as she spoke.

  Was I dealing with a crazy woman? Not going to let me go? Was she going to tie me up, bind my hands and feet, and lock me in a room? “I’m leaving.”

  “You’d better not. There are consequences.”

  “You can’t stop me, Megan.”

  “If you leave I will report you for sexual abuse.”

  “What! “A shiver snaked down my spine, the gravity of the situation clubbing me over the head.

  “I was a patient of yours and you fucked me!”

  “You were never a patient of mine. Your sister was the patient.”

  “Tell it to the authorities. I don’t think they’ll see it that way.”

  “You can’t be serious. I never took advantage of you. And, I stopped seeing you for therapy after Sasha died.”

  “Is that so? She sneered, asserting a posture of superiority. “I seem to remember at least one office visit after her death that ended on your couch. Maybe there were more.”

  Stunned, I flashed back to that interview when she appeared at her regular time after her sister had died. I protested, saying there was no reason to see her in therapy then ended the session having sex with her on the couch. “I didn’t record it.”

  “You didn’t have to. There are the insurance records.”

  “You didn’t?” I recalled the initial interview where she threw cash at me and declined to use her insurance. “You paid cash.”

  Megan simply smiled.

  “You bitch! You set me up.” I grabbed her shoulders, wanting to wring her neck when my neck and shoulders tightened sharply. I jerked my arms back.

  “Careful Doctor Grant. I bruise easily.”

  “Threaten me all you want, Megan, but that’s not going to keep me here. I decide what’s best for me.”

  “We’ll see about that. My lawsuit will ruin your credibility. You’ll go broke.” She broke into a shit-ass grin. “But you have a nice personality. You might do well selling appliances, or maybe, vacuum cleaners.”

  I gave her a hateful look and left, slamming the door. Then fought to steel myself against the vertigo as my vision momentarily darkened at the edges. I leaned against a corner wall of the house until the darkness passed and cleared. I jumped into the waiting taxicab and headed home.

  33

  A bitter wind and light fog made the trudge to work seem like an obstacle course. The cold mist felt like a slap in the face. I knew Megan was a formidable opponent but I didn’t think she could harness the wind. I pictured her sitting at home, holding a little boy doll and blowing in his face. I can get carried away sometimes with my imagination. I turned up my collar and pulled my trench coat tight around my throat. I wished I had a hat but never wore one when dressed professionally. I also wished I would have taken a cab, which I considered, but believed the walk would help get my juices flowing. I had to cut through some heavy sludge today.

  On several occasions wind gusts had tried to twist my umbrella and finally succeeded just as I waved to Carrie on the porch. The umbrella snapped, bent backward, and flew into the parking lot when I gave up and released my grip. Muttering “The hell with it!” to myself I watched Carrie practically fall down laughing at me.

  “Well, you didn’t think I was going to do a Dick Van Dyke, Mary Poppins kind of thing,” I said scurrying up the porch out of the rain.

  “I’d have loved to see you in flight.”

  “You doing okay?”

  “Yeah.” She knew I was referring to the abortion aftermath. “Come see me when you get some free time.”

  “I’ll be having a lot more of it.”

  “Meaning?”

  ‘I’ll tell you later. Right now I have to go in and dry off my head.”

  Bobby was sitting at his desk engrossed on his computer with some urgency as he hadn’t taken off his jacket, still wet with rain.

  “Morning,” I said, giving a quick glance to the spindle where he kept my messages. There were none.

  Bobby didn’t look up, just waved to acknowledge me. I hung my jacket on the coat rack, grabbed a towel from the bathroom and dried my head.

  “Damn!” Bobby shouted.

  “What?” I retreated to his area.

  “My streak was broken. I play this baseball game, “Beat the Streak”. If I can beat Joe DiMaggio’s fifty-six game hitting streak, I win $5,000,000. Fucking Cano. He went hitless last night, broke my streak at sixteen.”

  “Did you really expect Cano to beat DiMaggio’s streak?”

  “No. I can pick anybody from any team, even double-down, picking two. As long as my picks get a hit, my streak continues. Cano went hitless last night.” He removed his jacket. “Now I have to start all over again. I could sure use the five million.”

  “Maybe I should play. It’s Lindsey’s last session today, creating another hole in my schedule.” I poured myself a cup of coffee as the pot had stopped percolating. At least Bobby put the coffee on before hitting the computer.

  Bobby scrunched his face. “Can I get an advance on my salary? My car insurance is due.”

  “Sure. Bring in the checkbook later. I’ll see what I can do.” Insurance companies put the squeeze on young drivers with sports cars. If the amount wasn’t too great I’d pay for Bobby’s insurance since he drove me around. I always took care of the gas, but we put wear and tear on his car, and he never complained about the inconvenience of carting me around.

  “Good coffee,” I said. “Bobby, bring me the insurance file,” and ambled to my desk.

  Bobby dumped a pile of insurance forms on my desk that needed to be completed and sent in so I could get paid, a task that Grace efficiently handled with a few answers fro
m me. Despite my harping to Bobby to process them sooner since I was still tapping into my reserves, the forms had stacked up, partly because Bobby resisted the paperwork, and partly because I didn’t follow-up as I should. Bobby entered the insurance information. I filled in the patient’s diagnosis and signed the forms.

  With a knocking heart, I rifled through the forms searching for Megan Wilshire. Thinking she paid in cash, I didn’t expect to find her form, but Megan’s threat hung heavy on my mind. Then, like an accusing legal affidavit, there it was, Megan’s insurance form. I yelled from my desk, “Bobby when did we begin billing Megan’s insurance?”

  “Right from the beginning,” he said, stepping into my office, a coffee cup in his hand.

  “Didn’t she ever pay cash?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  Bobby was not the most reliable person around unless it was something he was invested in.

  “How about her initial session?”

  “You got her form. Check the dates I entered.”

  I did. We were billing the insurance company for that initial session. I could hardly forget her peeling off those Ben Franklins and flipping them on my coffee table. “Pull her card. We could get into some serious trouble double billing.”

  The card showed only insurance transactions. No cash. “Bobby, she literally threw two hundreds at me in that first session, said she wasn’t going to use her insurance.”

  “So she changed her mind.”

  “Bobby, you didn’t...”

  “Aw, Grant. How could you?”

  I felt my face flush. “Sorry, Bobby, you didn’t deserve that.”

  Hurt and angry, he turned and walked out of my office. I’d make it up to him. Still, when he went out for lunch I checked the bank deposits. I no longer suspected him but he might have thought I did if he saw me checking. I was searching for a simple error and found none.

  Why did Megan made such a dramatic point of paying cash in that initial interview? Did she plan on using her insurance all along, or was it simply that she changed her mind as Bobby suggested? I checked the treatment dates, compared them with my date book. They were all there, even the last session when we screwed on my couch. If I signed these and turned them in, I’d be signing my own death warrant if she followed up on her threat. Could I hold them back? I didn’t know what to do. I had to see Carrie for some legal advice.