by Torre, A. R.
Out of spite or stubbornness, he stayed on his feet. I made my way around and dropped my purse in the side drawer of my desk before sinking into my leather rolling chair. “How can I help you?”
Leaning forward, he dropped an evidence bag on the middle of the clean wooden surface. I picked up the clear bag and examined the item inside.
It was one of my business cards, the discreet style with just my name, doctor designation, and the office number. On the back was my cell phone number, written in my handwriting. I glanced back up at him. “Where’d you find this?”
“In John Abbott’s wallet.” He removed a set of aviator glasses off the top of his bald head and looped them through the neck of his button-up shirt. This guy was straight out of central casting. Thin and hard, with jet-black skin and a distrustful scowl. “Do you know Mr. Abbott?” he asked.
The lingering concern that John Abbott would act out morphed into alarm. What had he done? Placing the evidence bag down, I cleared my throat as my mind worked overtime through the possibilities. “Yes. He’s a client of mine.”
The American Psychological Association’s Ethical Principles of Psychologists and Code of Conduct was firm on the confidentiality owed to clients. It was also clear that that confidentiality could be broken if I thought my client was a danger to himself or others.
John Abbott’s prior sessions, in which he described his struggles with wanting to harm his wife, technically fell into reportable arenas. His voice mail this morning could easily classify as an alarming incident worthy of police intervention.
But it had only been a voice mail. An insecure man saying the same thing he had said to me in a year’s worth of sessions. Just because he toyed with the idea of killing Brooke didn’t mean he ever would, and if I called the police every time one of my clients thought about killing someone, I’d put a lot of innocent people in jail and deplete my client list.
The truth is, wanting to harm or kill someone is a common part of the human mental circus. While there are some moral saints out there who have never wished ill on anyone, twenty percent of human beings have weighed the pros and cons of killing someone at some point in their lives.
Five percent have the moral flexibility to act on the possibility.
A tenth of a percent obsess over it, and the best intentioned of those seek psychiatric help with their fixation. My clients were the best of the worst, and I felt a fierce sense of duty to protect them while treating their most honest confessions.
After all, their thoughts weren’t actions. People didn’t die from mental activities. It was only if those thoughts turned into actions . . . that was the dangerous risk in this game I played with clients on a daily basis.
Now, with a detective sitting across from me . . . the signs were clear. In John Abbott’s game, I had lost and the risks had won.
Saxe cleared his throat. “John Abbott didn’t show up to work this morning. His coworkers grew concerned, and one went by to see if he was okay. That’s when the police were called.”
I placed a hand on my chest, rubbing the soft silk of my dress shirt and willing my heartbeat to calm. I was about to ask if John was in custody when the detective continued.
“The bodies were both on the kitchen floor. The pharmacy employee saw Mr. Abbott’s through the window.”
All my thoughts skittered to a stop. Bodies? Mr. Abbott’s?
“It looks like Brooke Abbott had a heart attack while they were eating breakfast. We found her husband next to her. An apparent suicide.”
I frowned. “What? Are you sure?”
“The man was stabbed in the stomach. The angle and situation lead us to believe it was self-inflicted.”
I tried not to picture Brooke Abbott, whom I had met just last month in a freak run-in at the grocery store. A pretty woman. Kind eyes. A friendly smile. She had greeted me warmly, with no idea of the dozens of conversations I’d had with her husband about why killing her was a bad idea.
A year of sessions, and Brooke Abbott had died of a heart attack within hours of him calling me? I didn’t believe it.
“What were you treating John for?”
I clicked my tongue. “That’s confidential, Detective.”
“Oh, come on,” he scoffed. “The patient’s deceased.”
“Get me a warrant,” I said. “Look, I’m sorry, but I’m bound by a code of ethics.”
“And I’m sure you stretch the boundaries of that code.” He snorted. “We all know what your specialty is, Dr. Moore.” He finally sat, which was unfortunate, because I was now ready for him to leave. “Doc of Death? Isn’t that what they call you?”
I sighed at the moniker. “Violent tendencies and obsessions are my specialty, but they aren’t the only type of disorders I treat. Many of my clients are perfectly normal and pleasant individuals.” The lie rolled out smoothly. I hadn’t had a normal client in a decade.
He smirked. “Killers,” he said. “You treat killers. Current, future, and past. You’ll have to forgive me, Doc. I call it like I see it.”
“Well, like I said, I can’t discuss Mr. Abbott.”
“When’s the last time you spoke with him?”
The tap dance was beginning. I chose my words carefully, mindful that they were probably already aware of his calls. “Our last appointment was two weeks ago. He canceled the one scheduled for this week. And he called me this morning. I missed his call and called him back several hours later, but he didn’t respond.”
Saxe didn’t seem surprised by the information, which meant that they already had his call log. Thank God I hadn’t left a voice mail. “What did he say when he called you?”
“Just asked me to give him a call.”
“I’d like to hear that voice mail.”
I sighed. “I deleted it. I’m sorry, I didn’t think anything of it.”
He nodded, as if he understood, but if he was looking at this as a heart attack and suicide, he didn’t. “That number on your card, that’s the one he called?”
“The number on the back, yes. That’s my cell.”
“You give your cell phone number to all your clients?” He frowned. “Even the dangerous ones?”
“It’s a cell phone.” I sat back in the chair. “It’s not my home address or the code to my front door. If they abuse it, then I stop working with them. If I need to change the number, I’ll change the number. It’s not a big deal.”
“Coming from someone who looks at dead bodies all day, I have to say, Doc—I don’t think you take your safety seriously. You’re an attractive woman. All it takes is one of these sickos becoming obsessed with you, and you’re going to have a serious problem.”
“I appreciate the advice.” I forced a smile. “But they aren’t sickos. They’re normal people, Detective. Some people struggle with depression; others struggle with violent urges. If my clients didn’t care about protecting others, they wouldn’t be in my office.”
“Is that why John Abbott was seeing you? He didn’t want to hurt people?”
I kept my features pleasant. “Like I said, I treat clients for a variety of things. Some just need someone to talk to. You want to know more than that, I need a warrant.”
“Hey, I had to try,” he said, raising his hands in surrender. Glancing toward my window, he studied the park view for a long moment. “Any reason I should look at this as anything other than a suicide?”
He was questioning the wrong death. “Not that I’m aware of.”
“Would you swear to that under oath?”
“Absolutely.” Just please don’t ask about Brooke.
He nodded slowly. “I’ll be in touch if I have any more questions, Dr. Moore.” He pushed on the arms of the chair and stood. “Thank you for your time.”
I walked him to the lobby and gave a reassuring smile to Jacob, who watched us with interest. Returning to my office, I closed the door and let out a shuddered breath.
The chances were high, very high, that this was my fault. I’d had one job to do
, and I had failed in an epic way with Brooke—but also John. Because of that, two people were dead.
CHAPTER 3
“This isn’t your fault.” Meredith squinted at me over a brussels sprout–laden tuna fish sandwich. “Tell me you know that.”
“While I appreciate your emotional life raft, you’re wrong.” I stabbed my fork into a piece of melon and prosciutto. “He sought treatment with me because he wanted to kill his wife. He killed his wife. He killed himself. If I’d done my job properly, they’d both be alive.”
“Okay, first, you have no proof he killed his wife.” She spoke through a mouthful of food, one finger lifted in the air as she started to count off a list of bullshit. “She had a heart attack.”
“Someone can trigger a heart attack.” I set down my fork. “He was a pharmacist. Trust me.”
“Then call the detective. Have him run a tox screen.” She waited, her sandwich hovering before her mouth.
“You know I can’t do that,” I said grudgingly, lowering my voice as I glanced around the crowded downtown café.
“You can do that,” she pointed out. “You just don’t want to. Because then I might be right and you’ll have to release this self-imposed guilt and move on with your life in a happy and productive manner.”
This was why I shouldn’t have befriended a fellow shrink. We couldn’t have a simple lunch without analyzing each other.
I studied the stamped design along the rim of my plate. “I shouldn’t do that,” I amended, “for several reasons.” I could waste our entire lunch going over why that was a horrible idea. If I was wrong, and Brooke’s death was natural, I’d be a laughingstock who’d tried to tarnish my own client’s name. If I was right and my client had killed his wife, I’d be under a microscope, would have to turn over his files, and for what? For justice on a man who had already imposed his own death sentence? It was a waste of government resources and time.
Meredith took a sip of herbal tea and shrugged. “Whatever. Dig your own mental grave. Did you call that guy whose number I gave you? The handyman?”
“I did not call the handyman.” I tore off a piece of bread. “I appreciate the matchmaking, but I already have one new man in my life, and I don’t need another.”
“A pack of Mr. Clean sponges doesn’t count.” She frowned at me and picked a sprout off the front of her blouse.
“Yeah, well. He’s the first man inside my house other than my brother in . . .” I squinted and did the depressing math. “Eighteen months? So, I’m counting it as a step in the right direction.”
“Even more reason to call Mimmo. Have you had an Italian before?” She let out a low whistle. “Honey. It’s a spiritual experience. Besides, he’s a total sweetheart.”
“So you said.” I placed a forkful of cold melon in my mouth.
“Oh, did you hear?” She perked up, her handyman forgotten. “They caught the Bloody Heart Killer.”
Amid the news of John Abbott’s death, I’d forgotten. “I missed the full story. What happened?” I took a sip of ice water. “The kid escaped?”
“Right. That Beverly High senior—the one who’s been gone seven weeks? He—” She took a sip of tea, paused, then coughed, her fist in front of her mouth as she hacked out whatever was bothering her. “Sorry about that.”
“The BH victim,” I prompted her.
“So he escapes from the guy and makes it back to his Beverly Hills mansion, where his parents freak out, prodigal son has returned, blah blah blah, and they call the police. Turns out the kid knows who the killer is.” She pointed her finger at me. “Get this—the guy’s a teacher at Beverly High.”
“Wow.” I leaned in closer. “What do we know about him?”
“Loner. Never married. Harmless-looking guy, looks like a mall Santa Claus. Won teacher of the year a decade ago.”
“That’s interesting.” I mulled over the information. “I wonder why he just now targeted a Beverly High kid. Normally it’s the first victim who’s in easy and close proximity.”
She shrugged. “Killers are your thing. I’m perfectly happy to stay on my side of the office with my orgasm-hungry lacrosse moms.”
“Speaking of which . . .”—I glanced at my watch—“I’ve got an appointment in forty-five, so I need to wrap this up.”
“Yeah, I’ve got to run over to the dry cleaner anyway.” She half raised her hand, catching the attention of our waiter, who fished the bill portfolio out of his apron and placed it on the table.
I reached for it. “I got it. Thanks for the counseling session.”
Placing a few bills down on the table, I stole one last sip of water and stood. I needed to hurry. A wannabe killer was probably already in my lobby, tapping her four-inch stilettos and waiting.
CHAPTER 4
“You know, most killers start with a close family member or friend.”
This fact was delivered by Lela Grant, who wore a bright-yellow dress with a white cardigan and had a designer purse tucked between her turquoise-blue heels. In the first thirty minutes of our appointment, she had complained about her husband, chattered enthusiastically about the addition of a salad bar to her country club’s lunch hour, and shown me photos of two chaise lounge options she was considering for her lanai. After we made the excruciating choice to go with the white-and-green-cushioned bamboo chaise, we finally circled around to why I was treating her: her violent fantasies toward her husband’s sister.
“Yes, I’m aware of that statistic.” I drew a small line of roses along the top of my notepad and made a mental reminder to order a funeral spray for John and Brooke’s service.
“The problem is that she lives so close. He’s going to want to go to her house for Christmas dinner, and what can I say? I have no good excuse. Sarah’s house is bigger than ours, her kids haven’t seen him in months, and she makes some lemon pie he won’t shut up about. I mean, it’s lemon pie. How spectacular could it be?”
I shrugged. “I don’t like pie.”
“Well, a pie is a pie. I told him that, and he got offended. Let me tell you, I’ve made a hundred pies for that man, and he’s never raved about any of them. I should be the one who’s offended. Honestly, Gwen—I don’t think I can sit at her table and watch her waltz in with that dessert and not turn violent. Do you realize how many knives are going to be at that table?” Her cheeks sucked in with worry, an act that further ballooned her injected lips. Her forehead, defying all natural odds, remained perfectly smooth.
“You’re not going to pick up a knife and stab her,” I said patiently.
“I think I am. You don’t know how often I’ve seen it in my head.” An almost dreamy calm came over Lela’s face as she worked through the bloodshed in her mind. Her lids snapped open. “Can’t you give me a doctor’s note? Something to get me out of this?”
“We have two months until Christmas,” I pointed out. “Let’s take things one at a time.” I moved the conversation in a better direction. “I’d like you to tell me something nice about Sarah.”
“What do you mean?”
“Share something that you like about her. A redeeming quality.”
She looked at me as if I were insane. I waited patiently, my hands folded over each other on the pad. Lela wasn’t a killer, though she certainly wanted to be. She was bored, had watched too many female-murderer documentaries on TV, and hated her sister-in-law. Who didn’t hate someone? I had a list of at least three people I’d rather do without. Would I grab a turkey knife and go for their jugular? No. But neither would Lela. She just liked the idea of being interesting, and the thought that she had a secret and underlying homicidal inclination was a rainy-day fantasy she had embraced with maniacal vigor.
“I’m going to give you some homework.” I picked up my pen. “Before next week’s appointment, come up with three things that you like or admire about Sarah.” I held up my hand to stop her objection. “Don’t tell me you can’t come up with three things. Figure it out, or postpone our next appointment until you
do.”
She twisted her watermelon-colored lips into a grimace.
I gave her a reassuring smile and stood. “I think we made good progress today.”
She reached down and gripped the handles of her purse. “I hate this homework.”
I stifled a laugh, then threw her an emotional crutch. “If we’re going to keep your impulses in check, we have to retrain the way your brain looks at Sarah. Trust me, this is important to your treatment.” And your marriage, I added silently.
“Fine.” She huffed to her feet. “Thanks, Doc.”
“Of course.” I rose and swallowed the new and foreign swell of insecurity that was rising in my chest. I’d been wrong to believe that Brooke Abbott was safe from her husband.
Was I missing the mark on Lela Grant, too?
CHAPTER 5
I stood in a sea of black-suited strangers and listened to everyone talk about John as if he were a saint.
“It was Christmas Eve and he came into the pharmacy, just for me. Someone had stolen my bag at the gym, and I needed more heart medication . . .” The older woman put her hand over her large bosom, right next to a gold butterfly broach.
Oh, bless John and his heart medicine to the rescue. Honestly, it’s the nicest people you have to worry the most about. Ed Gein, the killer who famously created suits of women’s skin, was described as the nicest man in town. Dr. Harold Shipman, who murdered over two hundred patients, would make home visits and had a soothing and polite bedside manner. Part of the game, for many killers, is the con of the innocent, the hiding of the monster, the successful deception that proves to them that they are smarter and therefore superior.
“On the rainy days, John brought in my newspaper. Said he worried about me making it down my drive with my cane . . .” A younger man with braces on his legs spoke in a hushed tone, and I maneuvered around the group, beelining for the coffee station.