by Mark Schorr
“Ma’am, this is a homicide investigation.”
Hanson suddenly knew who Eleanor Malinowski was. “Did she go by another name?” the counselor asked.
“She had a couple of different trick names. Which did she use with you?”
“Trixie.”
Quimby bared a cynical smile that showed Crest-strip-brightened teeth. “That was her S and M name. Also for girl-on-girl stuff. She had another name for the young-girl act, you know, ponytails and short skirts with no underwear. Or maybe that isn’t your scene?”
“Questions for Mr. Hanson should be done with our attorney present,” Betty interrupted.
“It’s okay,” Hanson said. “He’s doing what he has to.”
“Are you two going to do a good cop, bad cop routine with me?” Quimby sneered.
“Am I a suspect?” Hanson asked.
“At this point, everyone is. If I start reading you your Mirandas, you know you’re in trouble,” he said.
“I gave a full statement to the FBI. There was an agent at the crime scene who also saw her killer. Neither one of us got much to identify him with. Any leads on who killed her?” Hanson asked.
Quimby turned to Pearlman. “Is it unusual to have a counselor connected with two hookers and both turn up dead?”
“I don’t appreciate your insinuation, Detective Quimby. This interview is finished,” Pearlman said. “Any allegations about Mr. Hanson’s reputation reflect on my clinic.”
“We’ll stay in touch.” Quimby rose slowly, as if he had decided to end the interview. “I’ll find my way out.”
He was barely out the door before Pearlman was muttering curses. “Slimy little ferret.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you this angry.”
“Now you know my dirty little secret. I don’t like cops. Particularly power-mad jerks.”
Hanson was about to say something, when she interrupted. “I’m a child of the sixties. While you were off making like G.I. Joe, I was chanting ‘Peace now!’ and wishing I looked like Jane Fonda. I never talked about it with you, not sure how you’d take it.”
“There was a time when I wanted to kill Jane Fonda and those hippie demonstrators as much as I wanted to kill VC. Then I wanted to kill LBJ, Nixon, McNamara, myself. It was a messed-up time all around.”
“Agreed. I can get the agency attorney to represent you, but if there’s a serious chance of charges, you should get a criminal attorney. I’ll see about getting a few recommendations.”
“You think I did it?”
“No way. But that doesn’t mean you won’t get charged with it.”
“I—I’ve always appreciated your support. But never more than now.”
“Don’t go mushy on me, big guy. You’re a pleasure to work with. I look forward to our supervision times.”
He stood, trying to think of an eloquent way to express his appreciation for her years of support. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome,” she said, and returned her attention to her paperwork.
NINETEEN
Quimby held his classic black leather cop’s notepad in front of him and recited what he had learned. Chief Forester sat stiffly behind his desk, staring at the embroidered Nativity scene that his wife had given him.
“… both dead women were prostitutes, had done tricks together, which gives numerous common associates.”
“The wages of sin,” Forester mused. “Serial killer?”
“Doubtful. No signs of ritual or sexual assault. The first victim, the former chief’s daughter, has the look of a hit or a crime of passion. The second victim, overdose.”
“No chance it’s suicide?”
Quimby shook his head. “A possible perp is this counselor, Brian Hanson. A strong suspect, if you ask me.”
“How come?”
“The deputy mayor is diddling this guy’s wife.”
“Dorsey?”
“Who else? It’s not the first time his willy is a-wandering.”
“I know that.”
“Hanson’s wife was seen leaving Dorsey’s office after hours, looking like she’d been rode hard and put away wet.”
“Where are you as far as actually making a case against Hanson?”
“It’s not going to be today or tomorrow but should be nailed down within a week. The lead detective says the case is moving forward. He’s talked with the DA about search-warrant possibilities. Got witnesses that can place Hanson in the area, acting weird, after the first victim. An FBI agent can place him there right around the time of the second death.”
“Motive?”
“The guy’s a Vietnam vet who came back a violent addict. Appeared to have straightened up until his wife starts getting porked by our city hall Casanova. Then a gear slips and he starts taking it out on women. One of whom, by the way, had been a client of his.”
Forester believed all crimes, particularly those that violated the Ten Commandments, were a moral affront, an insult to the God who created the universe. His faith reassured him that the wicked would be punished. He knew that pleasure at others’ suffering was un-Christian. But Tony Dorsey was going to get his comeuppance, and he felt a deep and guilty joy.
There were seven people in Hanson’s process group, and four of them were crying. One young woman who had been in a domestic-violence relationship had, with the support of the group, at last moved into a shelter. The session ended with a powerful discussion of the risks it took to help oneself.
Brian had the afterglow of an athlete achieving a personal best. There was a delicate balance between not taking credit for a client’s progress, or blame for a client’s failures, but being able to appreciate when he had helped someone along in his or her journey. That feeling of being in the presence of healthy change was what kept him in the field.
Back in his office, he scrolled through a dozen e-mails and noticed one marked “Urgent” from Betty. “See me ASAP,” it said.
He hurried down the hall, still feeling the post-group therapy buzz. True successes were few and far between; most of the time what he did was damage control. This client seemed to be heading toward breaking the cycle of poverty, abuse, and drug addiction. The power of group, a high-risk, high-gain intervention.
He stuck his head in Betty’s office, debating whether to tell Pearlman what had happened. As a supervisor, most often she heard only about the problems and failures. She was on the phone, absorbed, and gestured for him to shut the door. Her somber expression made him wonder if another client had died.
“I’ll call back later,” she told whomever she was talking to. After hanging up, she took a deep breath. “Brian, this is one of the toughest things I’ve ever had to do. I need to suspend you pending an investigation.”
“What?”
“Allegations of impropriety have been made. Ridiculous! I told the director so. But there’s outside pressure.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know.”
“Which client?”
“You know I can’t tell you,” Pearlman said, blinking back tears of anger as much as sadness. “This is bullshit.” The administrative procedural rules were to protect client rights, with no legal right to confront the accuser or presumption of innocence until proven guilty. “I just remembered I have to go talk to Ginger out front for five minutes. And I don’t have time to put away the files on my desk.” She hurried out and shut the door behind her.
He hesitated momentarily, struggling with all the messages he had gotten over the years about the sanctity of confidentiality, but desperately eager for more information. He grabbed the personnel file with his name on it from the top of her pile.
The client making the allegations, Greg Burkett, alleged that in the third session Hanson threatened to give him an unfavorable legal evaluation unless he provided the counselor with drugs. He said that Brian was in financial trouble and wanted to work out a way to get money for financing a business. They allegedly even discussed dealing to addict clients within the agen
cy. Burkett had gone to his parole officer with the allegations, as well as to the district attorney and the licensing board.
Hanson tried to recall if there was anything in their meetings that could in any way be construed as an attempt at blackmail and/or drug solicitation. He remembered Burkett’s superficial sociopathic charm and narcissistic entitlement.
The counselor sat back in the chair with fingers rubbing his chin. Betty entered slowly, saw that he was away from her desk, and then sat down.
“You know the drill,” she said. “I have to ask for your keys and escort you from the site.”
“I was hoping to finish the day, leave with minimal disruption,” he said, desperately wanting to access the chart of the man who had made the allegations.
“I’ll go check with the director. While you’re waiting, I’m sure you won’t look in my top right-hand drawer.”
Moments after she left, he quickly opened the drawer, finding his accuser’s chart. He jotted name, address, phone number, and Social Security number on a Post-it and tucked it in his pocket. Usually he searched charts for underlying psychological processes, the clinician’s unstated feelings, the key psychological factors. With Burkett he searched for clues, connections, motivation. Burkett was divorced, six kids he never saw, and last worked as a laborer. His diagnoses included alcohol abuse and dysthymia, chronic low-level depression. There were several rule-outs including a Cluster B personality disorder, either narcissism, antisocial, or the combination of the two known as psychopathy or malignant narcissism.
After noisily clearing her throat outside the door, Betty reentered. “I’m afraid we’re going to have to stick to procedure. It’s nonsense but I can’t be open to charges of favoritism.”
“I understand.”
He took his keys to the outer door, inner door, and chart room and slid them across the desk. “How long until it’s straightened out?” he asked.
“I wish I knew.”
Back at his house, Hanson debated whether he should call Jeanie, but ultimately decided against it. He was sitting at his desk staring at the computer’s screen saver as if he could find the answer there when the doorbell rang. The mail carrier, a perky woman who was new to the route, had him sign for a registered letter from the licensing board. He sliced it open and read the first line, “This is to inform you that your license is suspended pending investigation.” He dropped it down on the small table in the hall and returned to staring at the screen saver.
Brian called Louise Parker, and got her voice mail. “Things are heating up. Give me a call.” He trusted that she would recognize his voice and did not leave his name.
He sat, unable to move, the chilly fog of depression creeping in. Don’t mean nothing, don’t mean nothing. What was the point? Dorsey had won. Jeanie had betrayed him, his agency had abandoned him, what did he have left? He thought about times in the far distant past when he’d been suicidal. No, that wasn’t an option. But a drink sounded real good. Just one before he headed out. They kept liquor in the basement for his wife’s entertaining and as a sign to himself that he could handle temptation.
He was a loser. Always had been, always would be. A thousand-pound weight pinned him in the chair. The only way up would be through anger. At his father, at the war, at the American public on his return, at his addiction, his wife, and Dorsey. Thinking of Dorsey, he could turn up the heat into a white-hot rage.
The phone rang, startling him and providing a burst of energy.
“Hello.”
“You know who this is?” He recognized Louise’s voice and was about to say her name, then hesitated.
“Yes.”
“Did my uncle ever tell you what I liked to do with him as a kid?”
He thought of sessions with Louie, fighting the creeping clouds that would blur his thinking. “He had lots of fond memories.”
“You know the one with the tree in its name?”
Oaks Amusement Park. Built as part of the early-twentieth-century promotional schemes, it had been a major trolley attraction on the shores of the Willamette River. Louis had talked about trips there, riding the miniature train with her, watching her on the carousel, teaching her to ice-skate, how much she’d loved the shooting gallery.
“Yes.”
“Be there in twenty minutes,” she said. Then a click and she was gone.
Dorsey stood by the railing on the east side promenade, gazing at the Willamette River. The walkway had been touted as a waste of taxpayers’ money, but had turned into one of the most popular paths for bicyclists, joggers, and strolling lovers. The ambient white noise of the nearby 1-5 freeway was a nuisance, but Dorsey and Wolf knew it made audio surveillance nearly impossible.
The deputy mayor imagined himself on the thirty-five-foot powerboat that was tooling by, a gray-haired man in a sailor’s uniform content at the wheel, a couple of blondes on the rear deck.
A man on Rollerblades raced up and paused at the railing a few feet away. Dorsey was stunned to see that it was Wolf, hard to recognize, padded up and wearing a helmet, looking like a human bug with plastic exoskeleton.
“I never would have suspected you …,” Dorsey began.
“That’s exactly why.”
“It’s about Brian Hanson,” Dorsey said without preamble. “I want to take back my order to destroy his reputation and then kill him.”
Dorsey found it hard to read Wolf but it seemed like the killer was relieved.
“Speed up the schedule. I don’t care how. Hit and run, fire in his house, mugging gone bad kill him now.”
“You’re sure?”
“If you have time to set it up so it looks like a drug deal gone bad that would be fine. But I want him gone within the next twenty-four hours.”
“Rushing makes for sloppy work.”
“He’s getting more dangerous. He’s being investigated at work, has plans to make a drug deal, kill the witness against him, and flee the jurisdiction.”
“If he does that he’ll be out of the area anyway.”
“He can’t get away with that in our city.”
“I don’t think—”
“That’s right, don’t think. Just follow orders.”
Wolf didn’t say anything. He Rollerbladed away gracefully.
TWENTY
Oaks Amusement Park off-season had the eerie atmosphere of a horror movie set. Fallen leaves rustled as they blew about the grounds. Gaudily painted facades looked out on empty fairways. Hanson recalled the smell of generations of cotton candy, hot dogs, and machine oil from the rides he’d enjoyed as a teen. Memories of dates screaming on the roller coaster and snuggling up close in the haunted house. Now the shuttered rides and attractions seemed faded. Although there was little chance of an ambush at a site that had just been chosen, he walked warily down the causeway, head swiveling, ready to duck and dive.
The roller rink was the only open attraction. He heard wheels on polished wood and happy voices, muted by the walls of the building. The door opened as he approached. The sounds grew momentarily crisper as a mom with two preteen girls exited, talking animatedly to each other.
He entered the rink, looking around like a parent trying to spot a child. A couple dozen skaters circled, ranging from septuagenarians to preschoolers, from graceful ballerinas to stumbling oafs. But no Louise Parker.
After a few minutes, he went outside and scanned the surroundings. He saw a lone woman standing at the far side of the park, near the station for the miniature train. As he approached, he could see it was Louise. A couple beats after they had made eye contact and he was walking toward her, she turned and began walking away. He followed, thinking it was a silly precaution. The two of them were conspicuously alone in the area. She walked to the picnic area, past pockmarked wooden tables, on the graveled path. Then she stopped by a wooden lean-to shelter. From where Louise stood, she was visible only to the side open to the river.
“What’s going on?” he asked. “Why the cloak-and-dagger rendezvous?”
“I received information about your finances. I wanted to give you a chance to explain yourself.”
“What?”
“Your questionable investments. How they’ve fallen through.”
“What?”
“That’s what I said. Didn’t believe it until I saw the papers. Why the Grand Cayman banking account?”
“What?”
“If you’re not going to be truthful with me, Brian, I’m out of here.”
“I honestly don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Suit yourself,” she said. “By the way, in case you think you can pressure me into anything, I covered myself. You’re registered as a confidential informant. Nothing more, nothing less.”
“I thought you trusted me.”
“I gave you the benefit of the doubt. Until proven otherwise. This is otherwise.” She turned and walked briskly away.
Jeanie had, for as long as he remembered, taken care of their finances. Numbers were not his forte—he’d barely made it through his statistics class in graduate school. For the first few years, they’d gone over the budget together, balancing checkbooks, verifying credit card receipts, deciding where to put their investments. He had agreed with her decisions and as time passed, left it more and more for her to do independently.
He went to the basement and looked in the small fridge where they kept the beer and a few bottles of wine. A drink would be so perfect. He could feel the tingle as it eased down his throat.
One minute at a time. He’d delay his drink until he checked out the papers.
In a nook off the kitchen, Jeanie had an oak roll top desk that held their financial records. Locked. He pushed against the roll top and got no response. It took only a butter knife and a few pounds of pressure and the lock clicked. He felt guilty as the top slid open, but why should their finances be kept from him?
Brian studied the checkbook first, finding that until six months earlier, they had a surplus in checking. Since that date, they’d gone below the two-thousand-dollar minimum most months and had to pay a fee.
