by G. H. Ephron
“I will. I had a helluva time getting my hands on it in the first place. But the raw data, test protocols, patient information—the rest is gone.”
“You’re kidding.”
“I wish I were.” Without the raw data to defend her conclusions, the research report wasn’t publishable. And it could take years to duplicate the work. By then, Acu-Med’s new drug would be established in the marketplace.
Kwan scratched his head. “You don’t suppose she took the files home?”
I hadn’t considered that possibility. “Maybe. Or maybe someone helped themselves … .”
Kwan liked that idea. “Those Acu-Med reps hang around here like flies on a rotting corpse.”
“Or maybe someone from the Pearce, someone on retainer to Acu-Med …” I could see Liam Jensen’s foot, shoving against that file-packed drawer. An oasis of disorder in an otherwise perfectly ordered landscape. I wish I’d gotten a closer look.
I called Drew at home that night. I told him we’d like to try an experimental treatment for the psychological aftereffects of drug addiction, the treatment Channing had been working on. I told him I wasn’t certain it would help Olivia, but I thought it was worth a try. He agreed.
When the package arrived the next morning, I headed downstairs to see Olivia. At the nurses’ station, I poured myself a cup of decaf. I took a sip. It wasn’t too bad. I added milk and sugar. I could do this, I told myself.
I was afraid Olivia might have retreated to the closet again, but she hadn’t. She was in the living room, curled up on the corner of a brown vinyl sofa. Matthew Farrell sat beside her. When I came over, Matthew left.
“You okay?” I asked. “The police gave you a rough time.”
“How was I supposed to know they’d get my private e-mail messages?” she said, her voice shaking. “I never would have sent them if I thought that could happen.”
Words on a page are so unforgiving. In black and white, they take on meaning that the writer is powerless to shade. Olivia’s words could certainly make a jury think that she hated her mother, maybe enough to kill her.
I pulled over a chair. “Why did you send them?” I asked.
“She told me to!”
“She?”
“Dr. Daffy. I was so angry at my mother, she said I should write down my feelings, say all the things I couldn’t say to her face.” Olivia sobbed. “I was only doing what she said. I hated it. And now it makes it look like … look like …”
I’d heard of this therapeutic approach. It began with something called countertransference analysis, CTA, and Daphne had made herself a minor celebrity in the 1980s when she’d written a book about it as a technique to help therapists keep their perspective when working with troubled patients. She’d even been asked to testify in the high-profile trial of Dr. Margaret Bean-Bayog, a therapist whose psychotic young patient stole her personal journals filled with intense sexual fantasies about him. The doctor terminated treatment, but soon after that, the patient committed suicide. The doctor’s personal journals became the basis for the family’s malpractice lawsuit. There was an out-of-court settlement, and Dr. Bean-Bayog surrendered her medical license.
The case had sent a collective shudder through the therapeutic community—if your personal feelings and thoughts could be examined in court and used against you, then writing them down at all was committing professional suicide. Needless to say, it had a chilling effect on the use of CTA.
Following in her mentor’s footsteps, Channing once told me she, too, kept a journal. She used it to work through her impulses and fantasies. That way, she said, she could confront her demons before they ambushed her.
Apparently Daphne hadn’t abandoned the method. Working with Olivia, she’d pushed the approach, having a patient write down angry feelings. Maybe it helped. What I didn’t get was, what’s the point of communicating those angry feelings to the other person? Here was another one of those well-intentioned therapies I’d like to consign to the dung heap, along with encounter groups and primal scream.
“It doesn’t work,” Olivia said. “I told her it didn’t, but she kept making me do it. Sometimes I made things up, just so she’d stop bugging me.”
I bit my tongue. Daphne’s own experience with CTA blinded her to how inappropriate it was for Olivia. Olivia’s floundering, her tears, probably only convinced Daphne that she needed CTA. Just as she needed “structure.” Rigid preconceptions are more than dangerous in therapy—they can be criminal. But as Daphne’s colleague, I couldn’t say any of that.
There were dark shadows under Olivia’s eyes. “I never ever wanted to kill my mother.” Then her voice turned strident. “She couldn’t have just deleted them, could she? She had to save them. Like I’m one of her stupid patients. Or precious students. Leave it to her to screw things up.”
Olivia’s face had gone taut with rage. Anger at her mother for what she did, for what she didn’t do, and especially for dying. Anger and grief—one the doorway to the other. It would be my job to help her pass through. Maybe it would help me deal with my own feelings of helplessness and rage at Channing’s death.
“Your mother probably saved everything you did—your drawings, your stories—because it was all important to her.”
Olivia’s face softened.
“Dr. Smythe-Gooding can explain to the police that the e-mail messages were part of your treatment. And she can explain how you were taking Ritalin.”
Olivia sniffled. “She promised …” She stopped abruptly. I had the distinct impression she’d just stubbed her toe on something she wasn’t supposed to say.
“Has she been here to see you? Was that when she promised?”
Olivia looked frightened.
“Dr. Smythe-Gooding told me she paid you a visit,” I said.
Olivia’s face relaxed. Then she spotted my mug. She peered into it. “You caving already?” Olivia’s mood could turn on a dime.
“Decaf,” I said. “I came down here to talk to you about a treatment we’d like to try. It should reduce your craving for Ritalin. It’s called Kutril, and it’s something your mother was working on. I talked to your dad and Dr. Liu about it, and we’d like to start you on it right away.”
“It will make me feel better?” Olivia asked.
“It might.”
“When?”
“I don’t know for sure. A few days. A week.”
Olivia groaned.
“Around the time this pounding headache stops,” I added.
That got a smile out of her. It is, after all, one of the truest clichés in life that misery loves company.
14
WHEN I got home that night, I went down to my wine cellar. I pulled out a 1992 Caymus cabernet that I’d bought about five years earlier when Kate and I were in the Napa Valley. I brought the bottle upstairs, eased out the cork, and wiped a bit of mold from the rim. I poured a glass, walked it into the living room, and set it on the coffee table. The room was cozy, with its dark woodwork and Mission furniture. I turned on a reading lamp and sat down to the newspaper.
When I finished the sports section, I took a sip. The cabernet was rich and thick, with a smell of leather and a hint of cherry. It’s amazing how a good wine can satisfy, like finally being able to reach an itch at the center of your back and giving it a good scratch. If only I had some cheese and crackers to go with it. I went to the cabinet and settled for a little package of peanuts that said American Airlines on it—I had no idea where I’d picked it up.
I was eating the last one when the phone rang. It was Chip Ferguson.
“I got a call from Drew Temple today,” Chip said. There was a pause. “How much do you know about this guy?” I couldn’t read Chip’s tone.
“Known him a long time. Married someone I went to school with.”
“So his wife was a close friend?”
“Um-hmm.”
“I’m sorry, Peter. That’s tough.”
I grunted.
“And what does he do?”
he said, getting back to business.
“He works …” I stopped. I didn’t actually know exactly what Drew did. “He manages his family money, assets.” That sounded pretty vague. “What gives?”
“Sounds like his wife was loaded. Her money’s tied up in probate and won’t be settled for a while.”
“They live in this incredible house …” I started.
“Mortgaged to the hilt,” Chip said.
“I’m surprised. I thought they had the kind of money that doesn’t need borrowing.”
“No one has that kind of money,” Chip said. “But it sounds like he’s been playing the market. Badly. Day trading, maybe. His wife’s death came at a very inopportune time. He was over his head in margin calls, and now he can’t dig himself out.”
More reasons for Drew’s despair, his drinking.
“I thought I was giving up charity cases when I left the public defender’s office,” Chip said, griping.
“Drew is under a lot of stress,” I said. “And you’d be representing his daughter, not him. Chip, she’s seventeen and they’re probably going to arrest her for a murder she didn’t commit.”
“Sounds like they’ve got a strong case. The judge could easily deny bail and send her to one of the holding pens for violent young offenders.”
“Not if you talk them into sending her to us for evaluation.”
Chip didn’t say anything. I waited. “I’m not real anxious to take this case,” he said at last. “You know I’m not crazy about working with kids.”
“No, I don’t know that. Since when? Besides, she’s not a kid.”
“Okay. So she’s an adolescent. Even worse.”
“Just a few years younger than your daughter.”
“Now you’re hitting below the belt.”
“Remember when you called me six months ago? Said you had a case and all you wanted to do was talk to me about it?”
“Yeah, yeah. I remember.”
“And I ended up evaluating the memory of the surviving victim and nearly getting myself and Annie killed?”
Chip didn’t answer. I thought I heard him shifting in his chair. Good. I hoped that made him uncomfortable as hell. “Now, you owe me,” I said.
There were a few moments of dead air. Then, “You found the body?” His tone had turned businesslike, and I could hear his keyboard clicking.
“I had an appointment to talk with Channing and Olivia the morning Channing was killed. Channing wanted me to evaluate Olivia … .”
“Evaluate her for what?”
“To see if she had Asperger’s syndrome.”
More clicking. “Which is?”
“Actually, it’s like a severe learning disability for emotions. And I don’t think she’s got it. Anyway, when they didn’t show up at the cafeteria, I went over to her office. That’s where I found her, dead. Olivia standing beside her, holding the gun.” They were just words, like I was reading them from the newspaper, trying to get as much information across in the shortest amount of time. “I bent a few rules to get her admitted to my unit.”
“Sounds like you’re up to your neck in this, personally and professionally. I assume you’re not going to be able to help me as an expert witness.”
I gave a dry laugh. “I think not.”
“But unofficially?”
“I’m at your disposal.”
“Good. I’m going to need your expertise in planning for all contingencies. Are there other people with motive and opportunity?”
My fingers cramped on the receiver. Who would I point to? Colleagues? Friends? Drew?
“Peter?” Chip asked. “You still there?”
“Yes.”
“You know, if they come up with enough evidence to arrest Olivia Temple, there’s a good chance there’s enough to convict.”
“There are no eyewitnesses,” I said.
“You saw her yourself, holding the gun!”
“I didn’t see her pull the trigger. Besides which, if the gunshot wound was through the mouth, then how did she manage it? There was no sign of a struggle.”
“Okay, okay.” He gave an exasperated sigh. “Let’s move on. Suppose something unexpected happens, like Olivia confesses. Or they dig up an eyewitness. As in, just suppose for a moment that Olivia Temple did kill her mother.” He paused, letting that sink in. “Have we got any extenuating circumstances?”
I didn’t like going down this path. It took some effort for me to give him a suggestion. “Olivia was taking Ritalin.”
Chip guffawed. “Olivia Temple and half the kids in junior high.”
“No joke. It’s become a major problem.”
He scoffed. “Get outa here.”
“It’s true. A good percentage of drug abuse among adolescents is Ritalin.” I started to lay out the case. “Olivia’s psychiatrist prescribed Ritalin, presumably to treat a brain dysfunction. The Ritalin helps her to keep focused and makes it easier for her to do her schoolwork. While taking Ritalin, the prescribed dosage—”
“The prescribed dosage,” Chip whispered under his breath. I could hear his keyboard clicking furiously.
I slowed down. “She becomes addicted. She loses control over her cravings and takes more. The medication itself ultimately impairs her judgment, makes her hypomanic, impulsive.”
“Hypomanic, impulsive,” Chip repeated. The keyboard clicking stopped. “We’re just talking Ritalin here, right?”
“That’s all they found in her blood screen.”
“Because you know, if it’s something like cocaine or ecstasy, or even some other drug that she’s using without a doctor’s prescription, then it’s a lot harder to make the case.”
“As far as I know, just Ritalin.”
“Diminished capacity,” Chip said. “Always a stretch to prove. Requires someone to take the jury through a lot of torturous logic. I hate cases that hinge on legal technicalities. And without you in the witness box …”
“I can recommend someone.”
“Can we demonstrate that she does, in fact, have diminished capacity—how did you describe her?”
“Impulsive. Hypomanic. See, she may not be either of those things any longer, now that we’ve weaned her from the drug. But we can certainly test her to establish that she has an organic disability for which she needed the Ritalin, which in turn is documented to have those harmful effects.”
“When abused?”
“When abused,” I admitted.
“She’s at the Pearce now? In your care?”
“Yes. And we were planning to evaluate her anyway. Once she’s tested, the tests become part of her medical record.”
“We’ll need her test results if we go to trial. Peter, I don’t know how fast the police are going to move. Could you get started as soon as you can?”
“Sure. Right away.”
“And who prescribed Ritalin?”
“Dr. Daphne Smythe-Gooding. A psychiatrist at the Pearce. Also a close friend of the deceased.”
“Another friend. Great.”
“Sorry, that’s what happens when you’re dealing with children of shrinks. It can get incestuous.”
“Okay if I drop by tomorrow and talk with my client?”
“Make it in the afternoon. I’m going to start testing her in the morning. And thanks, Chip.”
“Don’t mention it,” he muttered.
I hung up the phone, sat back, and tried to get into the newspaper again. But my brain wasn’t ready to shift into neutral. I wondered, did Channing know Drew was hemorrhaging money? Was she aware of his affair? With her clear sense of right and wrong, black and white, wouldn’t she have wanted to divorce him? And if she was planning to divorce him, then wasn’t her death conveniently timed for Drew?
15
THE NEXT morning, I woke up in a foul mood. The world seemed to move in slow motion, the air so thick I had to fight my way through it. More than anything, I wanted a cup of coffee. Barring that, I was desperate for a run. But I’d overslept, and
there wasn’t time.
I found some instant decaf at the back of a kitchen cabinet. The jar was coated with dust and the expiration date was four years earlier. I threw a handful into a mug of hot tap water and knocked it back. It tasted god-awful. Then I managed to break my coffee mug, tossing it into the sink. On my way to the car, I stepped in a pile of dog shit, no doubt courtesy of some civic-minded dog walker.
Scowling, I went back in to change my shoes. I was looking for my car keys when my mother’s knock sounded. I yanked open the door.
“The tax collector gets a warmer hello,” she said. She wrinkled her nose. “What stinks?”
She has an infallible nose. I gave her a hug but didn’t invite her in. “It’s exactly what it smells like,” I said. “And now I’m late. Can’t find my keys.”
“So? What did you find out?” she asked, up on the balls of her feet.
I must have looked baffled.
“The pills!”
“Oh, right! I gave them to Kwan, and he couldn’t find them in the reference book. He said he’d ask someone else. Might have an answer today. That okay?”
“I should live so long,” she said. “Are those what you’re looking for?” she asked, indicating the set of car keys lying on the first stair step.
Before I could thank her, she’d disappeared into her own side of the house.
It took four tries for my car to start. But once I got it going, it didn’t falter. I ran a hand across the dashboard and relaxed deep into the leather seat. I could feel the wheels hug the road as I turned into the street and accelerated into the flow of traffic. At least I could still enjoy driving. Traffic cooperated, and the ten-minute drive to the institute went without incident.
When I got there, Jess was already at work in the dining room, administering an intelligence test and a mental-status exam to Olivia. Jess had been pleased when I’d asked her to help.
An hour later, Jess and I huddled in the hall. She summarized for me: “Superior IQ. Verbal much higher than Performance.”
That didn’t surprise me. With a nonverbal learning disability, I’d expect Olivia to do better on language-mediated tasks.
