by Dorien Grey
I heard nothing from inside the house, so I idly went to the window between the chairs and looked out onto the picture-perfect back yard, which was lined with large flowerbeds and, almost all the way across the back quarter of the yard, a healthy-looking garden. Jonathan would love it.
I’d just picked up a copy of the most recent National Geographic when the door to the office opened, and Oaks invited me in.
Like the reception area, the office was small but very pleasant. There was a wall of bookcases behind Oaks’ highly polished desk, a very comfortable looking wing-back leather chair in front of the desk, with another beside the door leading to the rest of the house.
We shook hands, and Oaks motioned me to the chair facing the desk, behind which he moved to sit in a very untypical upholstered armchair covered in a blended fabric of warm pastels. The guy obviously had taste, and the money to indulge it.
“So what can I do for you, Dick?” He looked at me with a very wry smile.
“Well, first of all, I’d like to apologize to you for the subterfuge of Jonathan and my joining the group. But it really was the only way I could think of to get the information I needed.”
A raised eyebrow. “Which was…?”
Okay, Hardesty…what now? my mind asked. With Oaks as likely a suspect as anyone else, how much should I let him know I knew? My pussyfooting around trying not to let the…still hard to say “killer” without having a body…“whatever” know I was aware several men were missing just might have contributed to his feeling confident enough to do whatever it was he did with Andy Phillips.
I took a deep mental breath.
“Which was,” I began…
I told him basically everything: who from the group was missing, when they had disappeared, and how I had found out about them. I tried to read his reactions as I talked, and as I listed the names of the missing he paled noticeably and I could almost see in his eyes the reverberations of each little depth charge as it went off in his head, but his overall expression of professional attentiveness never changed. I did not tell him of meeting with his brother or what that conversation had revealed about his first lover. Nor did I point out what I’m sure was obvious to him without my saying anything: that his own policies of not having group members know one another’s last names, of discouraging any social interaction outside the group, and apparently not bothering to follow up on members who left the group to see why they’d left had all contributed significantly to the ki…to the guy responsible’s…ability to get away with it all so easily.
When I’d finished, we sat in silence for a full minute. His face had regained its color, and the expression of professional attentiveness relaxed to the point of allowing him to gently chew the corner of his lower lip.
Finally, he shook his head slowly and said, as had Bradshaw in my office, the obvious: “Why?”
“Obviously because,” I said, paraphrasing what John had said about Carl when we talked at the M.C.C., “somebody in the group really, really hates alcoholics.”
“That much?” It was as if he was asking himself rather than me.
“That much.”
His eyes dropped to the top of his desk, studying something only he could see, and his head moved slowly back and forth as if denying his thoughts. Finally, he brought his eyes back to mine.
“What do you need from me?”
“For starters, what can you tell me about the members of the group? What do you know of their personal backgrounds?”
He shook his head again, slowly. “Only what comes up in the meetings.”
“Are you seeing any of the members in your private practice?”
“You know I couldn’t tell you if I were. Patient-doctor privilege extends to psychologists and licensed counselors—and as you know to counseling sessions—in this state.”
“Yes, and there’s a little tag on every mattress that says it cannot be removed under penalty of law. I can’t recall anyone going to prison over it.”
Oaks gave a small smile. “Point, but still…”
“Look, I can certainly appreciate the strict adherence to confidentiality when it’s a one-on-one situation between you and a patient, but the very nature of a group situation dilutes the practicality of enforcement. And I’m not asking for anything I wouldn’t have heard myself if I’d joined the group from the start. And the bottom line is that we’re talking not just about disappearance, but probable murder.”
He sighed and shrugged. “You’re right, of course. And considering that you and Jonathan are still technically members of the group…what did you want to know?”
“Has anything been said in the meetings which set off alarm bells in you, as a trained psychologist?”
“I do try to keep things generalized. I’m sure you’ve noticed that we deal with issues more than with specific incidents. When I’m working with a group made up of sets of people who share each others’ lives, I try not to let individual personalities get in the way of the more basic issue which almost always will apply in some way to everyone: anger, frustration, guilt, loneliness, isolation, reaching a balance between helping and hindering, knowing how to deal with ourselves as well as dealing with our partners. My object is to address the broader issues that lead to the specific.
“I’m constantly having to rein Carl in, as I’m sure you’ve noticed. He has a real problem recognizing that the issues that concern him are broader than just something that happens between Jay and him. I really believe that he’s trying to make sense of it all, in his own way, which is why they’re still in the group.”
He looked at me closely. “Jonathan has been sober for a long time, hasn’t he? His being alcoholic is not an issue in your relationship.”
He was sharp.
“If you knew that, why didn’t you say something?”
He smiled. “I wasn’t sure at first, of course. You had a very convincing story going in. And then it was just a growing sense that you weren’t who you were presenting yourselves as being. I was just about to call you in to ask when Andy disappeared, and then it started falling into place. But I wasn’t certain until I went to the phone book.”
I returned the smile. “I guess I’m not the only detective in the group. But to get back to the others, have any of them struck you as being excessively antagonistic toward alcoholics? Has anyone, other than Carl, ever said anything that might indicate overt hostility?”
For a split second, there, I thought I saw something in his expression…a quick twitching of the muscles at the back of his jaw? Whatever it was, it was gone as quickly as it had come.
“No, not really. There’s always a lot of anger involved in the subject of alcoholism, as you’ve seen, and it gets pretty intense at times, but to the point of taking physical action…no. Never.”
“What about Keith and his Bible? I understand he made a pretty cryptic remark in one of the meetings some time ago, about Satan being the patron saint of alcoholics?”
Oaks pursed his lips and furrowed his brow in reflection.
“I remember that, yes, now that you mention it. Keith has his own problems, I’m afraid, as most of us do. But I’ve never had a feeling of danger from him, or that his rhetoric would ever go beyond just that: talk.”
“And what about Nowell? I understand he works for you, not for Qualicare.”
There it was again! That lightning-fast tensing of the jaw.
“Yes, that’s true.” I subconsciously turned my mental alert systems up a notch or two. “The group was my idea and when I proposed it to Qualicare right after I began working for them, they were somewhat hesitant. They finally agreed, and gave me the use of the meeting room, but told me they couldn’t afford to hire a secretary or receptionist, since only full-time staffers really needed one. And since I am only there three days a week, they could not justify the expense. So I hired Nowell to help out.”
He clearly anticipated my next question—it was probably written all over my face—and hastened to add: “I’ve know
n Nowell for some time now.”
Well, that slammed that door. He knew damned well I wanted to know if Nowell was a patient of his, and we both knew he wasn’t about to tell me. So before I could figure out a way around the direct question, he had headed me off at the pass. Of course, it also left open the possibility that Nowell and he had some other sort of relationship, regardless of what Bob had said about his doubting Brian played around.
The sound of a clock chiming the hour from a small antique grandmother’s clock I’d not noticed on a small table beside the other leather chair near the door.
I glanced at my own watch and saw it said ten til. Oaks saw me looking and smiled: “The famous fifty minute hour. I set it ten minutes fast so that I’ll have time to get ready for the next client. I have one coming in at three, as a matter of fact, so…”
“Of course.” I edged myself toward the front of my chair preparatory to getting up. “I really appreciate your time. I’m sorry we didn’t have more.”
He nodded and got up from his chair, a motion I echoed.
“I agree,” he said. “I don’t want you to think all this hasn’t been a tremendous jolt. You’ve given me an awful lot to think about, and I’m going to need some time to really let it all sink in. Perhaps we can set up another meeting when I’ve had time to digest it all and see if I can come up with anything that might help.”
He walked around the desk to shake hands, and I turned toward the door.
“You have a great back yard,” I said, looking out the window.
“Thanks. It’s my only real form of relaxation, I’m afraid.”
“You don’t have a gardener?”
“Nope,” he said with obvious pride. “Just me. Chad spends his free time painting, I spend mine in the yard.”
“Jonathan would be in seventh heaven if we had a place like this,” I said as we walked into the small reception room.
“You know,” he said as I approached the stairway leading to the outer door, “if you thought there might be any benefit to it, you’re welcome to come to Thursday’s meeting. Maybe talking with the whole group might help you.”
“That’s an idea. I appreciate it. Let me think it over and let you know.”
We once more shook hands, and as he turned to go back into his office, I went down the short stairs and left the house.
*
And just what did that little visit net you? I asked myself as I drove off.
Good question, I replied.
Yeah? How come you always have so damned many good questions and so few good answers?
Good ques…. Never mind.
From Oaks’ reaction to my telling him of the disappearances, I’d say he was truly shocked. The question was, was he shocked by the disappearances or by the fact that I knew about them?
And did we pick up on that back yard and all those nice garden plots, boys and girls? my mind voice asked.
Yes, we definitely did.
Something else was knocking at the doors of my mind. What was it? Something when I was talking with Oaks’ brother. Something I told myself I was going to write down and then didn’t. What?
Freeport, Illinois. Three, maybe, four years ago. That was when and where Oaks’ lover Kent had killed himself. But something else Ben Oaks had said. What, damn it? Think! About the gun. It had been found quite some distance from the body, but they thought the body had been dragged away by some animal. Okay, not that. What? Something specific Ben said…
…apparently the only fingerprints on it were Kent’s. Yes! Where did the “apparently” come from? Where had Ben gotten his information?
I thought of returning to the office and giving Marty Gresham a call, but I’d told Jonathan I’d pick him up from work an hour early so that we could stop by the DMV to get a copy of the driver’s test booklet. He wanted to study it before he went to take his test.
*
I arrived at the nursery about twenty minutes early, but there was no sign of Jonathan. I wandered around the long rows of boxed and crated trees, shrubs, and endless sections of more plants than I could ever imagine anyone ever being able to identify. I figured Jonathan was probably out on a delivery, but went into the front office to ask.
Kyle, one of Jonathan’s co-workers I’d met a few times, was behind the counter going through some papers.
“Hi, Dick,” he said brightly. “Jonathan and the boss are still at Qualicare. They should be back soon. I know he’s anxious to get to the DMV. He’s been talking about it all day.”
Just as he said it, a large flatbed truck pulled through the gate and toward the back of the lot. I gave Kyle a small wave as I left the office and headed toward the truck, from which Jonathan and his boss were just emerging. Seeing me, Jonathan said a few words to his boss, waved, and came toward me, grinning as always.
“Gotta punch out,” he said as he hurried past me into the office, returning almost immediately.
“I’m ready. Can I drive?”
“Well, I…” I started, then he gave me that wide-eyed puppy expression—the one that always makes me want to look behind him to see if his tail is wagging. We both knew exactly what he was doing, and we both knew it always worked. “Part way.” I handed him the keys.
“We were at Qualicare almost all day,” Jonathan said as he put on his seat belt and started the engine. “They sure are putting in a lot of trees and stuff.”
Looking carefully in the rear view mirror and in all directions, he took us out into traffic.
“And I saw Nowell again today. We even talked for a few minutes: he was on his break and I was waiting for my boss to check with some landscape guy from Qualicare.”
Now that was interesting—and just a little surprising for some reason.
“What did Nowell have to say?”
“Not much, really. We just talked about all the building Qualicare’s doing. He works for Redicrete Contractors, but he’s been working at Qualicare almost steadily for almost two years! They’ve got that much construction going on. He’s got two other jobs, too. He’s Brian’s assistant and he works for a locksmith on call on weekends—you know, when people lock themselves out of the house or leave their keys in the car.”
He eased up to a traffic light on red and stared at it carefully as it passed from red to yellow to green, then moved across the intersection.
“Sounds like Nowell’s a busy boy.”
“I guess so! Did you know he has a black belt in Karate?”
“No, I didn’t. How did you find that out?”
“He was wearing a tee shirt—a black one, of course—with the name of some Karate institute on it, and I asked him about it. I told him I’d always wanted to do that. He’s really a nice guy, once you get to know him.”
A “nice guy,” huh? my little green-eyed monster asked.
Drop it, Hardesty! my rational side demanded. So I did.
“Did you tell him we’d left the group?”
He shook his head. “No, I didn’t say anything about it. We didn’t talk about the group at all. I told him we were going to go to the DMV this afternoon to pick up the test book so I can get my license, though.”
“Nothing at all about his being gay or not?”
Read: ‘So was he coming on to you?’
I said: Drop it!
A siren announced the approach of an ambulance, and Jonathan expertly pulled over to the side of the road and stopped to let it pass.
“Not as far as his being gay or not, no,” he said, pulling back into traffic. “He did ask how long we’d been together, though, and what you thought about my being an alcoholic.”
Well, that was a little odd, I thought, pushing the jealousy thing into a small metal cage and locking the door.
“I thought that was a little odd,” he said, causing me a strange little flush of pleasure, “but I told him you were really good about it, and that I was really trying to stay sober. At least he’s talking to me.”
I agreed. I suggested that, if he had
the chance and without making an issue of it, he might try to find out more about his relationship with Brian Oaks—maybe just ask how he came to work for Qualicare, since he’d earlier led Jonathan to believe he did. I didn’t think it would be a good idea to ask directly if he was seeing Oaks professionally, but I suspected that unless he and Oaks were sleeping together, that was the case, and that quite likely Nowell was working as Oaks’ receptionist as a way of paying for his treatment. As to what sort of problems Nowell might be having, I had no way of knowing. I knew, since Bob Allen had seen Brian professionally for awhile, that Oaks’ practice was not limited to alcoholics.
*
I had Jonathan pull over about six blocks from the DMV and we traded places so we could arrive there with me driving.
We stood in line at the DMV for a good twenty minutes before we even made it to the “Driver’s Test Information” window. I’ve never really understood what it is about certain government employees who assume that working for the government somehow makes them the government. I don’t know, maybe just standing in one place for twenty years handing out driver’s test booklets gets to them after a while. I couldn’t figure out why in hell they didn’t just have a stack of the things on a table somewhere where people could just help themselves—but then some people might take two, and that would be wasteful. Better to hire several full time employees with a full benefits package and a hefty pension and let the general public wait.
When we finally reached the window, the woman behind it, without looking directly at us, handed Jonathan a booklet, a sheet of paper with sample questions, and another long sheet of paper printed on both sides, which he was told to fill out completely (her emphasis) and return when he came in to take the test.
*
On thinking it over on my way to work Wednesday morning, I thought I’d better check with Richman before approaching Marty Gresham, especially since what I had in mind would involve some minor expense in long distance phone calls, at least. And Richman had gone through Marty’s supervisor to get Marty’s time for the calls to the group’s members. He’d probably have to do it again.
