by Mark Schorr
Hanson remained focused on the coffee cup, head down.
“You may have done things that you can’t believe now. I certainly did,” McFarlane continued. “But they were right at the time. And you lived to talk about it, to think about it. Most guys feel guilty about what they did, but glad to be alive, and guilty about that too. Ever since you became obsessed with the death of this LaFleur woman, you’ve been on a downward spiral. Risking throwing away the life you’ve built up.”
“I feel more alive than I have in years.”
“There’s a group in town spun off of Cocaine Anonymous. They go skydiving every couple weeks, bungee jumping, that sort of thing. They need the jolt. Maybe you ought to consider that. Or join a gym where you can do kickboxing.”
Hanson looked up, face-to-face with McFarlane. “It’s more than the physical confrontation,” Hanson said slowly. “I’m making amends to the universe, trying to do some healing to undo the hurting. I can’t bring back the dead or ask forgiveness of people I wronged over there, but I can work to balance the karmic scale.”
McFarlane sighed. “You’re determined to play it out?”
Hanson nodded. “I guess.”
“I suppose you’ve got to learn the hard way.” McFarlane stood. “Call if you want help.”
“With my addiction or the investigation?”
“My advice is to drop the investigation. I’m not going to enable you on that. You need to think about how this plays into your addict thinking. Like you can control things, paranoid bullshit.”
“I’m not saying that Elvis and the CIA are behind it,” Hanson said with a weak smile that McFarlane ignored.
“Leave investigating to the pros,” McFarlane said. “Stick with what you know. You’ve carved out a good life. Don’t ruin it.” He walked off without waiting for a response and was soon invisible in the fog.
At the office, Hanson left a message for Louise Parker before meeting with his first client, the young woman who had been cutting on herself.
She was doing much better, had not cut or taken drugs for more than a week. Hanson took a solution-focused approach, asking her with a Columbo-esque naiveté, “How did you do that?”
She boasted how she had stayed busy. “I started thinking about scoring, then kept doing stuff until the urges passed.”
“That’s great.”
“Shit, I think I did about everything on that list you gave me. I watched videos, cleaned, exercised. Did crossword puzzles, called a friend. Did I leave anything out?”
“You got busy and didn’t do anything to make the situation worse. Good for you.”
“My mom was giving me grief, like she wanted me to screw up. To confirm the crap she’s said about me over the years.”
“If you screwed up, that would make your mother happy, you think?” Knowing her family system, Hanson suspected the girl was correct.
“Hell, I’m going to stay out of trouble to piss her off.”
His next client was a perennial no-show, but ever since LaFleur’s death, Hanson had been much more diligent in his follow-up. He called the client’s home, and the man answered the phone groggily. The client had stayed up late the night before, was annoyed that Hanson had called, and expressed no regret for missing the appointment.
“Maybe counseling is not what you’re needing right now,” Hanson said.
“My PO says I got to come in.”
“But it’s not a high priority for you. The hour I had reserved for you could have gone to someone else.”
“Gimme another appointment. You got anything tomorrow?”
“My next free slot is a week from Friday.”
“I’ll take that. What time?”
“Two. If you don’t make it in, I will assume you’re not interested in treatment and close your chart.”
“Will my PO be notified?”
“That is standard procedure.”
“What if I revoke my release of information?” he asked cagily. “Would you have to keep my record confidential?”
“Our agreement with you was that in the event of any revocation of releases, we would notify the referring agency. So yes, I would keep it confidential. But I would have to let your PO know you revoked it.”
“He’d yank my ticket.”
“That’s a distinct possibility.”
“I’ll see you next Friday,” the man said, hanging up.
Hanson noted the conversation in the chart, along with his assessment, which didn’t take a degree in psychology, that the client was unmotivated. Hanson liked motivational interviewing, where the potential for change was viewed as having five stages. Pre-contemplative clients didn’t see there being a problem. Contemplative clients thought there might be a problem, but didn’t know how, or necessarily want to, attack it. Clients in the plan stage were ready to think seriously about change, and perhaps move to the next stage, actually taking action. Then came the maintenance stage, keeping up the progress that had been made.
The client who’d overslept was pre-contemplative. He was counterbalanced by the teenage cutter, who was in the action mode. It was a pleasure to have clients who actually were willing to attempt change. Teens could be much more extreme, whether in suicidal depression or suddenly getting an epiphany and changing before they had done irreparable harm. So many of his adult clients had the unwanted children, the physical illnesses, the criminal justice record, the overwhelming debts, the entrenched harmful patterns that came from years of mental illness.
Hanson was immersed in overdue paperwork when he got a return call from Louise Parker.
“I want to talk,” she said.
“Go ahead.”
“I’m at the courthouse. I’m not sure when they’re going to call me in to testify. Can you swing by?”
His eleven o’clock appointment had canceled, and unlike many days he had no clients scheduled during lunch. “I’ve got a gap in my schedule for the next couple hours.”
“I’m on the fourth floor. I’ll be out in the hall by courtroom C.”
At the Mark O. Hatfield United States Courthouse even most of the criminals were well dressed. Small-fry drug dealers were left for the local district attorney; the U.S. attorney pursued the multimillion-dollar operations or white-collar criminals. There were larger-scale bank robbers, but even they took off their backward baseball caps and dressed up when going to federal court. Whereas state court often took on a shabby bazaar atmosphere, with attorneys loudly plea-bargaining in the hallways like bazaar traders, in the federal court a solemn dignity prevailed.
The sixteen-story structure had, because of its overhanging roof, been nicknamed the “Schick Razor” by irreverent Portlanders. Visitors passed through a metal detector, attended by a half dozen blue-blazered guards, which served as a threshold from the commoners’ world. The doors, moldings, and wainscot were blood red cherrywood. The gleaming stainless-steel elevator rose almost silently and bore none of the scratches or graffiti that local court buildings suffered.
Louise Parker, wearing a navy blue pantsuit, with white blouse, small pearl earrings, and a single-strand pearl necklace, was jotting a note to herself in a Palm Pilot as he approached.
“You look more like a lawyer than an FBI agent,” Hanson told her.
“What’s an FBI agent supposed to look like?” she asked, tucking the Palm into a pocket.
“I meant that as a compliment,” he said.
She nodded. “Lots of agents are lawyers.”
They walked down the hall.
“This place has a royal feel to it.”
“It’s the federal judges. They’re appointed for life, set a dignified tone. I’ll tell you a joke if you promise not to repeat it.”
He nodded.
“What’s the difference between God and a federal judge?”
Hanson shrugged.
“God doesn’t think he’s a federal judge.”
Hanson chuckled and took a quiet joy at the little intimacy. Gray-haired and gray-suited
lawyers moved quietly down the hall, hunched over, deep in discussion about pleas to be negotiated, motions to file, or the best place to get a good roast beef.
Hanson and Louise Parker sat on a hard wooden bench. The position at the end of the corridor let them watch the courthouse ballet from a dispassionate distance.
“Courthouse seats remind me of pews,” Hanson said.
She held the thought for a moment, then nodded. “A different kind of worship here. Pictures of judges on the wall.”
“And the flags. Definitely a shrine-like feel.” He enjoyed Louise’s cynical side and suspected that whatever case she had been called to testify on was not going well.
“Thanks for coming over,” she said. “I prefer talking face-to-face. Too much time listening in on wiretapped phone conversations.”
“I bet you’ve heard interesting conversations.”
“The signal-to-noise ratio is disappointing.” She seemed about to say more when a tall Hispanic attorney with jet-black hair came out of the nearest courtroom. She tensed and lapsed into her professional mode.
“Is he opposing counsel or an ex-boyfriend?” Hanson asked.
She stiffened even more and he regretted his observation. “I heard from a confidential informant that you roughed up a bar owner and his security guard,” she said.
“It was self-defense, but I’m impressed by your resources,” he said.
“What have you been up to?”
He told her, ending with, “I’m thinking of going back to see Deputy Chief Grundig.”
“Why?”
“I got the feeling he was going to open up. He had an eagerness to talk coupled with indifference to the consequences. Plus a healthy dose of guilt about his parenting of Tammy.”
She hesitated momentarily, weighing what she wanted to say. “When exactly did you see him?”
“About a day and a half ago, in the morning. Why?”
“He’s dead.”
“How?”
“Natural causes. Heart attack.”
“That can be faked a dozen ways.”
She put on a mock surprised expression. “You’re kidding? Maybe the CIA sprayed him with shellfish toxin that evaporated?”
“Okay, of course you’d know that.”
“Grundig was in bad health. His daughter who he has a highly conflictual relationship with dies and then he dies. Do you really think that is so suspicious?” She paused, then asked, “Want to go visit Trixie?”
He was so surprised his mouth literally dropped open.
“Yeah, she’s not dead. In fact, she’s back in her apartment.”
“How do you know?”
“She called me.”
“Why you?”
“That’s one of the things I’m interested in. The case I was here for is continued until next week.”
He stood. “Let’s go.”
They took the Hawthorne Bridge out of downtown. Once called Asylum Avenue, since it dead-ended at the first insane asylum in the state, Hawthorne was now a funky boulevard, with mini brewpubs, bookstores, and offbeat restaurants. The rich street life was clogged with the perennially cool and the cool wannabes. Pierced skateboarders, shaggy panhandlers, black-clothing-clad shopkeepers, stores selling nothing but beads or esoteric cards. And of course, numerous coffee shops.
“I enjoy the street scene here,” she said.
He tried to imagine her walking down the street, how she’d stand out in her straight-and-narrow way.
She seemed to read his thoughts. “I’ve got my basic black turtleneck and jeans outfit. Even Dr. Martens.”
“I can’t decide if you’d look like you fit in or like you were getting ready for a covert op.”
“Maybe both. That lawyer, Handsome Dan, he’s both.” To Hanson’s perplexed expression, she responded, “The attorney you saw at the federal courthouse. Dan Ortega. He’s opposing counsel and an ex.”
“That must be tough.”
She nodded. “It was a couple years ago but a bad ending.” She paused. “Not sure why I’m telling you this. Anyway, how’d you know?”
He thought for a moment, having to reexamine his own perceptions. “You were leaning forward, saw him, and leaned back. You blinked hard, almost a mini flinch, tightened your lips, and then quickly regained your composure with me.”
“Oh.”
“I made half of that up.”
“Impressive. It sounded real.”
“You seemed to be remarkably in control, except for that fleeting moment. It’s what made it more noticeable.”
“If you’re calling me a control freak, I take that as a compliment.”
“I’m wondering, is it FBI practice to take civilians along on investigations?”
“You’re here as a trained mental health professional.”
“Why do I not believe that’s your sole motivation?”
“I do owe you more information,” she said, smoothly taking the turn onto Southeast Thirty-seventh. “I don’t know why she called me, but I had the feeling she was lying to me on the phone. I want to shake her up. If there’s any indication of trouble, I want you to either hit the floor or get your butt out of their ASAP.”
“Of course.”
“Now, why don’t I believe that?”
They pulled to the curb before he could come up with a snappy answer.
THIRTEEN
Folding metal chairs covered much of the basketball court in the city’s West Side Community Center, located at the edge of Forest Park. The walls echoed with angry shouts and barks.
Off-leash areas for pets in parks was one of the most volatile issues the mayor’s office had to deal with. Wherever possible, attending the meetings was delegated to a junior staff member. Angry dog owners who believed their beloved pets should be allowed to roam wild and free warred with those who complained about dog attacks, unscooped poop, or pets running in front of cars. There were designated areas in a few parks, but there was a constant demand for more space, with the opposition wanting no off-leash areas at all.
Dorsey was stuck at the meeting because the head of the community association, a major contributor to Mayor Robinson’s campaign, had requested that the mayor attend. Dorsey substituted to save his boss from having to listen to impassioned tirades that were long on emotion and short on logic.
The woman speaking was in her late sixties, had hair dyed an intense black, and held a yapping corgi in her arms.
“Dogs have been a faithful companion to humanity for tens of thousands of years,” she said. “To place unnecessary and unwanted restrictions on their freedom is to do an injustice to all the brave dogs who have served us throughout the ages.” The meeting had just settled down from the previous ruckus, when an Asian man had complained about his daughter being knocked over by an overly friendly golden retriever, and a Caucasian man with a Chihuahua had loudly commented that the Asian didn’t understand because people in his country ate dogs. The Asian man, a Japanese banker whose family had come to the U.S. shortly after the gold rush of 1849, had to be restrained as he lunged for the Caucasian. The Chihuahua got free and ran up an aisle, promptly getting in a fight with a skittish Doberman. The Doberman was backing up while the Chihuahua yipped and snapped.
Dorsey pretended to be taking notes while actually jotting reminders on chores and roughing out a memo. He nodded seriously, as if each speaker were making a good point.
His mind wandered as the speakers got less articulate, more redundant, and wildly passionate. He doodled on the page, a woman who looked roughly like a naked Jeanie Hanson.
As he thought about Jeanie and the dinner that night, he recalled that he had not called the usual babysitter. He was hoping that fact, plus his wife’s distaste for politics, would be enough to keep her home. He had married Arlene when he first moved to the city. The expectation was that he would grow into eventually managing his father-in-law’s three hardware stores. He surprised her family by volunteering on Robinson’s first campaign, ultimately bein
g hired as an advance man. His rise was quick enough to please even his father-in-law, particularly when Dorsey arranged a zoning variance so he could open a larger store. When the expanded store opened, Dorsey got the mayor to declare it “Honest Dave’s Hardware Store Day,” and give an interview which ran on two channels about how vital store owners like Dave were for the economy.
As the dog meeting dragged on, the deputy mayor wondered what Brian Hanson would be like in person. He had a strong impression from Jeanie, but of course that was filtered through a wife’s eyes. She described her husband as John Wayne sitting on a powder keg of repressed emotions.
“Physician heal thyself,” Dorsey had said.
“It’s one of those cliches that is true—many who go into the counseling field are messed up in the head themselves,” she had said. “One of these days, I think he’s going to hurt someone.”
The thought gave Dorsey a thrill. A thinks-he’s-tough-guy. He’d have to take precautions.
“I’m going to go in and talk with her for a few minutes,” Louise Parker said, glancing at her wristwatch. “In ten minutes, you come and knock. Listen at the door first, and if it sounds like anything other than a friendly conversation, go back to the car.”
Hanson nodded as if he would obey.
As she got out of the car, she smoothly adjusted her jacket, allowing her better access to the SIG-Sauer 9 mm on her hip. “Ten minutes,” she said firmly.
Hanson was used to female supervisors, but he was conflicted over the idea of a woman going into a risky situation and ordering him to stay back. At five minutes, he was out of the car and heading to the apartment. He was alert for the youths who had given him trouble. No one was around. He stood at the door and heard conversational tones, like two old girlfriends chatting. He knocked and the voices stopped.
He heard a gasp from the other side of the door and then Trixie opened it wide. “You see, you see,” she said shrilly.
“What’s going on?” he asked.
“He’s been stalking me,” she said. “He’s crazy, he was obsessed with her.”
