Fenway rode in Callahan’s car, the other cruiser following. Callahan was quiet, and Fenway gazed tautly out her side window. She didn’t know how long this would go on, her having to look over her shoulder constantly, in fear of every shadow and sudden movement. She could already feel the tension in her shoulders, and she sighed.
They pulled into the half-full parking lot of the therapist’s office.
“Weird,” Callahan said. “A lot of cars here for a Sunday.”
“There’s a call center in the building in the back,” Fenway said. “They run twenty-four seven.” She got out of the cruiser and reached into her purse to check her phone. She dug around for a few seconds before she realized it was still in her office without a SIM card.
“You got the time, Callahan?”
“Twenty minutes to eleven.”
She was quite early, but she didn’t know how much time it would take them to check the room for bugs and hidden cameras. She wondered if the therapist had hidden cameras in his office—either for protection, in case a patient got confrontational or violent—or for more nefarious purposes, like her Russian Lit professor had ten years previous. She blinked hard, trying to get the memory out of her mind, and then recalled Detective Deshawn Ridley and the phone call she had received two days before. She wondered if she’d be hearing from him again.
“Suite 34B, right?” Callahan said, striding purposefully across the lot. The other officers were walking the perimeter of the buildings, their eyes constantly scanning.
“Right.”
Fenway briefly wondered if Dr. Jacob Tassajera was even in this early on a Sunday, since he had made special arrangements to accommodate his richest and most demanding patient. But, she reasoned, maybe another client had a special situation; if he was going to come in for one patient, he might as well schedule two or three more.
Callahan grabbed the door handle and it swung inside easily. He pulled the bug detector off his belt and switched it on.
And immediately it emitted a loud, pulsing whine, the lights flashing red.
Callahan’s eyes grew wide. “There’s a bug in here. A hidden microphone, something.”
“Maybe—” Fenway started, and then clamped her mouth shut. She had scenarios in her head, but she didn’t know the first thing about hidden microphones and bug detectors. She let Callahan do his job.
The whining got louder as he stepped into the waiting room. The flashing red lights got stronger and closer together as he approached the small table between the chairs.
Callahan’s finger pointed at the small succulent in the cute little ceramic pot.
Chapter Fifteen
THE DOOR TO THE OFFICE opened and Dr. Jacob Tassajera stuck his angry face out. “You need to stop making so much noise. I’m with a client!” Then, seeing Callahan’s uniform, softened. “Uh—is there a problem, officer?”
Callahan nodded, beckoning Tassajera to come out. The doctor stepped into the waiting room, somewhat reluctantly, and shut the door behind him.
“Dr. Tassajera,” he said, “are you aware you have active recording devices in here?”
Tassajera swallowed hard, the color draining from his face. “I don’t record my clients. That’s a breach of confidentiality.”
“Not even for your protection, doctor?” Fenway said. “Maybe one of your clients isn’t always stable, or you’re afraid they’re going to get violent and you’ll have to defend yourself?”
“No,” Dr. Tassajera said adamantly. “Even if I thought it was okay, the state board would have something to say. I could lose my license.”
“So,” Callahan said, turning the volume down on the device, “maybe you can explain what this recording device is doing here in the waiting room.”
“There’s another one like it in his office,” Fenway said quietly to Callahan.
“What, those little cactus things?” he said. “They were a gift from building management. My two-year anniversary in this office. They put them in here without letting me know, which annoyed me a little, but I kept them.”
Fenway nodded. “They did appear recently, Officer. My father and I had our first appointment and those succulents weren’t here. The next time we came, though, they were.” Fenway’s mind clicked on the coincidence. “I wonder.”
“You wonder what?” Callahan asked.
“I don’t know...” Fenway started, then shrugged and blurted the rest out. “I don’t know if it’s a coincidence that the recording devices appeared so soon after my father and I started seeing you. I mean,” she said, seeing the startled look on Dr. Tassajera’s face, “I know my father and I aren’t the only clients you have. Maybe another client’s spouse is afraid they’re cheating, so they decided to bug your office.”
“That’s highly unusual,” said Dr. Tassajera.
“I know,” Fenway said. “It’s a lot more likely the bug is there to record someone who’s running for office and someone who’s bankrolling the campaign.”
“Like you,” Callahan said.
“Right.”
“What did you say last time you were here?” Callahan said. “Did you talk about anything someone would have wanted you dead over?”
Fenway motioned with her head for them to talk outside.
“I don’t—” Dr. Tassajera began, but Fenway silenced him with a look. He followed Fenway and Callahan outside.
“We didn’t even have our session,” Fenway said. “We rescheduled it for today. We just sat in the waiting room. We even had a fight.”
Oh.
Fenway swallowed hard. “I told my father I’m reopening the case where two of his workers were killed in the refinery accident,” Fenway said.
“I thought that was your dad’s head of security,” Callahan said. “Isn’t that part of what he was arrested for?”
Fenway shook her head. “We think he did it, but we didn’t have enough evidence to charge him,” she said. “Besides, with the two other murders we could prove, I guess I didn’t think we had to.”
“But maybe it wasn’t him.”
“No,” Fenway said, “I’m convinced it was him, but maybe he was taking orders from someone else.”
“Like your father?” Callahan said.
“If someone’s intending to record the therapy sessions between my father and me, maybe the head of security wasn’t taking orders from my father,” Fenway said. “Maybe it was someone else at Ferris Energy. Or maybe it wasn’t someone from Ferris Energy at all.”
Callahan was thoughtful, then snapped back to the present.
“Dr. Tassajera,” he said, “Fenway says there’s another plant like this in your office.”
Dr. Tassajera nodded.
“I’d suggest you get it and bring it out here,” he said, “before any more of your client’s private conversation is recorded.”
“Callahan,” Fenway hissed, elbowing him.
“What?”
“We’ve got to bag it up! Fingerprints.”
“Oh—right,” he said. He cleared his throat. “Wait—we need to bag it up. It’s evidence. We’ll need to come in there and get it.”
Dr. Tassajera set his jaw. “I’m not going to compromise the privacy of my patient—”
“The patient’s privacy is already compromised,” Fenway pointed out.
“Maybe by whoever planted the recording device,” said Dr. Tassajera, “but I see no reason the police need to know who’s in my office getting counseling. I’m sorry, but you can either come back after my patient leaves, or you can get a subpoena.”
Which will take longer than waiting for the patient to leave, Fenway thought.
“Okay,” Callahan said. “I understand. Go wrap it up with whoever it is. We need to get the microphone when you’re finished.”
“Walking them past you will be as bad as you going in there,” Dr. Tassajera pointed out. “The point is, they have the right to privacy—you shouldn’t know they’re seeing a therapist.”
“Surely your patient
s walk past each other all the time.”
“It’s a little different, don’t you think, when the police are in the waiting room?”
Callahan started to object but Fenway pulled his arm. “Okay, Doc,” she said. “I get it. I wouldn’t want the cops bursting in on me either. We’ll give you—what do you say, Callahan? Five minutes?”
“Fenway, we can’t let the evidence—”
“Callahan, we’ll bag up the microphone in the waiting room now.” Fenway opened the door, walked into the waiting room, and took a pair of blue nitrile gloves and an evidence bag out of her purse. Callahan and Dr. Tassajera were right behind her. “A citizen’s privacy outweighs the state’s right to gather evidence unless there’s a compelling need. And no judge would call this compelling.” Fenway dropped the succulent and pot into the evidence bag and sealed it.
“But—”
“No, Callahan. We’re going.” Fenway turned to Dr. Tassajera. “We’ll go around the corner of the building to the left. Have your client leave. Don’t touch anything in the office unless you have to. And definitely don’t touch that succulent plant.” She paused and took a breath. “We’ll be back in exactly five minutes. If the client’s still here, we’re coming in anyway.” Fenway elbowed Callahan. “And tell the guys out there to swing around the side of the building to watch me, and not the front door.”
Callahan nodded and got on his radio.
Dr. Tassajera set his mouth into a line, but nodded solemnly. “Thank you, Miss Stevenson,” he said. “I appreciate you respecting my patient’s confidentiality.”
“You’re welcome,” she said, “and don’t make me regret this. You know I can get another therapist if I have trust issues with you.” She turned, leading Callahan by the elbow out of the office.
“I’m uncomfortable leaving the evidence in there,” Callahan said quietly, closing the door behind them. “He knows it’s important to us now, and he could tamper with it.”
“Yep,” Fenway said, “but it’s still better than ending up as the defendant in a privacy suit or worse, being sued yourself.”
“Being sued myself?”
“There’s precedent,” Fenway said, turning around the corner, and they no longer kept the front door in view. “A couple of deputies from P.Q. went over to one of those walk-in clinics—they’d gotten some reports of falsified prescriptions. Did you hear about this?”
“I heard they made a couple arrests.”
“Yeah, but they broke in on a doctor who was in the middle of an exam.”
“An exam?”
“An exam of an underage patient who just happened to be the neighbor of one of the deputies.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah. The parents sued. They settled out of court.”
Callahan hesitated. “Did you hear how much?”
“Let’s just say I know why the coroner’s office won’t be getting new computers next year.”
“Ah. Man, I almost opened us up to a bad situation.”
“You didn’t know. This doesn’t happen often.” Fenway reached for her phone out of habit and then sighed. “How long has it been, Callahan?”
“Enough time that I feel like we’re wasting it,” Callahan said, “and too little time to get anything else accomplished.”
“Yeah,” Fenway said. “We can’t even get a coffee.”
“True.”
Fenway had run out of things to talk about with Callahan. The two of them didn’t have much in common besides their ages. And she realized she didn’t know much about him at all.
“So, Callahan,” Fenway said, “You and I have been working together for almost six months now, and I hardly know anything about you.”
Callahan grinned. “I can’t say the same. I feel like I know a lot about you.”
“You do?”
“Sure. You’re a popular topic around the sheriff’s office. Especially after you made those two big arrests. Those cases had the potential to make the office look pretty incompetent. But you solved them fast. We were all relieved, frankly.”
“Well,” Fenway said, feeling color rising to her cheeks, “I was happy to have helped.” She absentmindedly snapped the wrists of her blue nitrile gloves. “But maybe you could tell me a little about yourself.”
“What do you want to know?”
“Uh—how about your first name, for a start?”
“You’ve worked with me for six months and you don’t even know my name is Brian?”
Fenway winced. “Uh—I guess I didn’t. Sometimes I can be, I don’t know, a little wrapped up in my own head.”
“What else do you want to know?”
“Married? Kids?”
“No to both,” Callahan replied. “Broke up with my girlfriend a few months ago.”
Fenway nodded. “Okay, not to spoil our chat, but it’s definitely been five minutes.”
Callahan looked at his watch. “Yep. Seven minutes, in fact. Let’s go.”
They walked back around the corner and down the sidewalk. “Hmm,” Fenway said, “Dr. Tassajera left the door open.”
“On purpose?”
“Maybe.” Fenway pushed the door all the way open and took a step into the waiting room. “Doctor?” she called. “We’re back.”
The door to his office was closed. “You think he’s still in there with the client?” Callahan asked.
“I hope not,” Fenway said. “It’ll piss me off if he is. It took me long enough to find a therapist my father could tolerate. I’m not looking to go shrink shopping again.”
She knocked on the door to his office, her nitrile glove deadening the sound a little. “Doctor!” she called. “We’re back! Can you open the door?”
No answer.
Fenway looked at Callahan’s face; his brow was furrowed in confusion.
“I don’t like this, Callahan.”
She tried the knob, her hands still gloved. It was locked.
“It’s locked?” Callahan asked in disbelief.
Fenway nodded.
“Stand back.” Callahan steadied himself as Fenway took a couple of steps back from the office door.
Callahan took a deep breath and kicked the door squarely next to the handle. The cheap lock broke and the door exploded back, bouncing against the wall and almost slamming shut again. Callahan caught the ruined door with his foot, then gently pushed it open.
He took a few steps in and looked to the right. Fenway couldn’t see around him to what was on the floor, but Callahan gasped.
Fenway stepped in and craned her neck to look around him.
Dr. Tassajera lay on the ground, face down. Blood pooled around his head.
Chapter Sixteen
FENWAY PUSHED CALLAHAN to the side and knelt down next to Dr. Tassajera. She held up his hand and felt for a pulse. Nothing.
One of doctor’s golf clubs lay by his left arm, its head bathed in blood and a bit of white matter that Fenway assumed was brain tissue.
“Dammit,” she said under her breath.
“What happened?” Callahan said. He turned to Fenway; his eyes were wide open, the confusion even more pronounced on his face.
“We left for five minutes and I assume his client killed him while we were gone,” Fenway said. She felt the anger creep into her voice.
“What—how—”
“Secure the room, Callahan. Make sure whoever did this isn’t still here.”
Fenway got up and backed against the wall while Callahan checked under the desk and in the small coat closet.
“Clear,” he said.
Fenway shook her head and walked back to the body. “Can you call this in, Callahan?” she said. “And tell them I’m already on the scene.”
Callahan nodded and got on the radio while stepping into the waiting room. Fenway thought she heard him say “CSI” and hoped they’d be able to find some evidence. She heard the radio click off and Callahan poked his head in the office again.
“Okay, we’ve got a lot more to work with t
han most murder scenes,” Fenway said. “First of all, at least we have a seven-minute window when the attack happened.” Then she knelt close to the dead doctor’s head. “Blunt force trauma,” she said, pointing to the golf club. “This would have done it.” She paused. “You got a camera on you, Callahan?”
“Just my camera phone,” he said, pulling it out of his pocket, unlocking it, and holding it out.
Fenway took it and pulled up the camera app. “That’ll do.” It took a second to focus, but once it did, she started snapping away.
Callahan talked with them in the outer office while Fenway took more pictures and examined the body. They stepped outside to secure the scene.
“Any cars leave the parking lot?” she said.
One of the other officers shook his head. “We didn’t see anything. We were waiting on the other side of the building.”
“Crap,” Fenway said. “Maybe we can get security footage from building management or something.”
“I’m not sure they have cameras at this office complex,” Callahan said. “If Dr. Tassajera here was adamant about client privacy, he’d have picked a building without cameras, right?”
“That makes sense, but who knows?” Fenway mused. “Anything is possible. Maybe the building people installed them after the fact and he didn’t want to move his practice. Worth checking, at any rate.”
“Maybe.”
Fenway stood up and scanned the room. She walked over to the desk. She pointed at a power cable and a monitor cable that weren’t plugged into anything.
“Where’s the laptop?”
Callahan shook his head. “I don’t know. Do you remember seeing it in here earlier?”
“No,” Fenway said. “But most people bring their laptops with them to work, right?”
Callahan nodded. “They do—but not always on the weekend. If he was seeing a couple of clients today—you and your dad, and the guy who killed him—he might not have bothered. Maybe he thought he’d take the laptop in on Monday and type up all his notes on the sessions later.”
The Candidate Coroner Page 17
