Licensed to Thrill: Volume 3

by Diane Capri

  What I suspected she meant was that her clients could receive online therapy without making an appointment with a therapist or payment by their employer sponsored health insurance plan.

  Anyway, I’d never looked for Robbie’s Internet column because I’d never been interested. Now I was. She’d told Ben Hathaway that she was working at the time her father was killed and she used her online therapy business to prove it. To test her alibi, I needed to understand her business.

  The police file interview notes said Robbie had offered Ben a look at her computer logs to prove she had been engaged in a therapy session on Saturday at five-thirty in the morning, the estimated time her father was killed. Exact times of death are impossible to establish without an eye-witness, but the police were going with the estimate. An electronic alibi. What next?

  To be fair, the session she’d claimed to be involved in had lasted the conventional fifty minutes, twenty minutes before and after the murder. How convenient.

  Robbie wasn’t the only one with an alibi for the exact time of the murder. I just wanted to investigate someone other than George and it was easy to start with my computer. If I could find a way to discredit her alibi, then Drake would have to consider her a viable suspect. Especially if her false alibi was disclosed to Frank Bennett, the reporter.

  “Live by the press, die by the press, Drake,” I said.

  Robbie’s online service was called Ask Dr. Andrews. I’d heard her say it was a blatant attempt to appear at the beginning of the advertising alphabet, but savvy marketing skills are no crime. Without them, all businesses would die.

  It took me several minutes to find the site. I marveled once again that anyone could find anything on the information super-highway. There are millions of web sites and the search engines are far from perfect. Nevertheless, after a few tries, I found Robbie’s site and several other therapy services, too. I decided to browse the others first, to gain familiarity with this odd concept.

  Some of the services were exactly like the Ann Landers or Dear Abby newspaper columns. They were open to the public and consisted of a letter of general interest followed by a no nonsense piece of advice. Easy answers are often the best, but hardest to implement. Without continuous support, these services wouldn’t be very helpful.

  Kate would disagree. She’s told me many times that a difference in perception creates a shift in reality. Perhaps, for their clients, these services provided such a useful shift.

  Another type of online therapy was a fee-for-service arrangement where the client wrote a confidential, encrypted problem of two hundred words or less and waited twenty-four to forty-eight hours for a two-hundred word response. The client paid a flat fee by credit card, in advance, and was then guaranteed a timely reply. I guessed that these sites must have assigned some kind of automatic date code when the questions were submitted and when the responses were returned.

  These services were confidential, unless you could decrypt them, which I couldn’t do. Typical problems were probably those for which the type of service was advertised. Management concerns, workers compensation issues and substance abuse claims seemed to be the gamut of choices. Each service advertised a specialist for every need on staff.

  I’d had no idea there were so many Internet psychotherapy choices. Maybe Kate should go online. Her particular brand of journal therapy wouldn’t be out of place and might even be very lucrative. I wondered if insurance companies would pay for it.

  Ask Dr. Andrews seemed to be a combination of the other types of services. She had a regular advice column that was new every day. The site also offered personal advice through an encrypted service.

  Like the other sites, Ask Dr. Andrews described the free services offered, as well as payment arrangements for those services Robbie charged for. Ask Dr. Andrews appeared to be unique because the confidential personal sessions were designed to be continuous therapy, much like the conventional type.

  She even offered real time sessions, which must have been done through some kind of instant messaging technology. At the courthouse, we had silent big brother technology installed on our computers that recorded all instant message sessions to prevent unauthorized uses.

  Robbie’s site would have something similar. Otherwise, she’d violate the medical record statutes that required psychologists and other medical providers to keep contemporaneous records of medical treatment.

  Yet, I’d seen no reference in the police file to hard-copy confirmation of any instant messaging session at the time of General Andrews’s murder. I added this to my list of unanswered questions.

  Robbie’s web page actually had a clever design and I wondered if Robbie had done it herself or if she’d had a professional designer. Not that it mattered, except the professionalism of the site suggested she was serious about the business.

  Robbie’s credentials were prominently displayed, including her licensure in Colorado and Florida and her length of experience: fifteen years. She was the “pioneer” in the field and “devoted herself exclusively” to online therapy.

  After my brief virtual tour of her competitors, I now breezed quickly through the sample questions and responses from the therapist, and a list of the types of common problems for which Robbie provided therapy.

  Unlike the other services, she was willing to accept patients with depression, anxiety, relationship problems, sexual orientation issues and antisocial behavior.

  The whole idea was a little scary, really. How could Dr. Andrews possibly evaluate antisocial behavior if she couldn’t see the client? The liability issues must be tough to overcome. Maybe she’d been sued over this, but if she was, I hadn’t heard about it, and it’s impossible to keep a secret in Tampa. I made a note to check for lawsuits against Robbie Andrews.

  I looked at Dr. Andrews’s columns for the past few weeks.

  They contained the usual human hassles that could be found in the agony columns of most newspapers. The letters disguised the names of the supplicants and reflected cute, anonymous signatures such as Torn in Temple Terrace or Curious Caretaker.

  There were more than a few letters about cheating spouses, wedding etiquette in the age of divorce and multiple families, and so on. The column had a search feature that would allow readers to search for common questions. Just for something to look for, I typed in suicide.

  Quite a few letters came up. Most were from anguished family and friends of suicides. Teenaged boys seemed to have killed themselves more than other groups. The smallest group of suicides were children under the age of ten, thank God.

  Almost universally, the survivors of suicide were deeply troubled over why they hadn’t anticipated the suicide. Dr. Andrews’s advice was along the lines of forgiving themselves and recognizing that the suicide was brought on by mental health problems like anxiety and depression. Robbie wrote often that once someone determined to kill himself, prevention was almost impossible. I wondered if such platitudes, though true, comforted the survivors.

  One of the letters was a little more unusual. The writer asked whether he should feel guilty about killing his boss and making it appear to be a suicide. He’d done it years before and had gotten away with the murder. Now that the writer suffered from a fatal illness, he wanted to confess his crime to “get right with God.”

  Dr. Andrews advised him that long kept secrets should go with him to his grave and he should ask forgiveness when he arrived wherever he was going. Since the death was so many years ago, she said, it would serve no purpose to bring it back up to the family now.

  My advice would have been different. The family should be told that their loved one hadn’t killed himself, in my view. But I wasn’t a licensed psychologist.

  I checked the date on this letter and Dr. Andrews’s response. She’d written the column more than three weeks before her father was murdered.

  Could the man’s letter have prompted Robbie Andrews to kill her father? At least I could prove she knew it was feasible to murder someone, create the appearanc
e of suicide, and get away with it. I printed the column and folded it into my journal.

  As I was about to log off the site, another idea occurred to me. Robbie’s service required a credit card to access the encryption software before submitting to online therapy.

  I made a note to figure out a way around this and also to ask Olivia whether we could subpoena the files Robbie had been working on the morning of the murder. Robbie’s files would likely be protected by the psychotherapist/patient privilege, but we might be able to get them if we agreed to allow her to redact the names of the clients.

  It took me a few minutes to decide what I wanted to say. My letter was somewhat true and I kept it short:

  Dear Dr. Andrews,

  My husband has been accused of a crime he didn’t commit. This is causing a huge problem in my marriage. What should I do?

  Faithful Wife

  I jotted down the date and time that I hit the send button. And I saved the letter in a special file.

  I’d check for the answer tomorrow, see how long it took her to respond. Then, I’d know just how long she’d been aware of the suicide/murder letter. The knowledge might not help me, but it was an easy thing to do and seemed to carry little to no risk.

  Then, I logged off, stuffed my journal into my tote bag, picked up my keys and my tiny purse and left to visit Dr. Andrews, face to face.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  Tampa, Florida

  Friday 2:15 p.m.

  January 28, 2000

  ROBBIE ANDREWS AND JOHN Williamson lived in the section of South Tampa called New Suburb Beautiful. It was not as new or as tony as Beach Park, but the residents were mostly upper middle class professionals in John and Robbie’s age group, early thirties.

  Young children played in the yards in numbers large enough to justify calling this a baby boomlet haven. It was a neighborhood Kate would thrive in and I would never consider.

  I consulted my notes from the police file for the Andrews/Williamson address and pulled up in front of an out-of-place, Midwestern-looking, ranch-style house.

  The house resembled a red brick shoebox turned long ways on the lot. It had white trim and black shutters on either side of each window. A two-car garage at one end opened onto a driveway that went straight in from the street. The garage door was closed.

  The police file interview notes said Dr. Andrews worked at home every weekday from five o’clock in the morning until at least six in the evening. Her absence might prove she’d lied to Ben Hathaway. If Robbie wasn’t home when she was supposed to be today, maybe she wasn’t here the Saturday morning her father died, either.

  Alas, when I rang the bell, an attractive, young Latino woman with dark, curly hair dressed in jeans and an Outback Bowl jersey that hung below her knees, answered the door.

  “Hi. I’m Willa Carson. Is Dr. Andrews home?” I tried friendly. I’d counted on the element of surprise to get Robbie to talk to me.

  The woman did let me inside the front door. So far, so good. But only so far.

  “Dr. Andrews is working with a patient right now. She’s booked until six o’clock. Would you like to make an appointment?”

  “I’ll just stop by some other time. It’s a social call, really.”

  I tried to look around and past this gorgeous gargoyle at the gate, but I couldn’t see much. The house was one of the older ones in the area and it lacked the vaulted ceilings and open feel of the newer Florida ranch-style homes built in and around Tampa.

  The consuming silence proved that online therapy is quiet. No one could know for sure if Robbie was working or not.

  “Well, Dr. Andrews is booked every weekday until six and Saturday mornings with standing appointments. I can tell her you called and have her call you, if you’d like,” Gorgeous Gargoyle said.

  It would probably be awkward for me to tell her I wanted to startle Robbie into talking to me. When all else fails, try the truth. Most of it.

  “I wanted to surprise her. I’ll just come back later. Please don’t spoil the surprise.”

  The woman got into the spirit of the supposed spontaneity. “Oh. Okay. Sure. Just come back around six-thirty. She’ll be here then.”

  It’s a wonder there aren’t more home invasions, I thought. People will tell you almost anything if you look friendly and harmless. I thanked her and left with smiles and waves. Then, I walked out to Greta like a disappointed sorority sister unable to share the secret handshake with an old college chum after all these years.

  Planning my return.

  That much was true.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  Tampa, Florida

  Friday 3:30 p.m.

  January 28, 2000

  GEORGE HAD CONSENTED TO meet with Olivia Holmes. We all gathered at Minaret. After pleasantries were exchanged and George gave his tacit approval of her, Olivia took charge of the meeting.

  She began with the few things she’d learned.

  “Drake wanted to arrest George in front of the television reporters, but Ben Hathaway refused,” she said.

  I tamped down my ire at Drake and kept quiet.

  “Your prompt release on a mere $100,000 cash bond was primarily a professional courtesy from the sitting judge toward Willa, one of his colleagues on the bench,” she looked over at me, then at George. “That George is a prominent citizen was also a factor. And Drake didn’t object after George surrendered his passport.”

  “Really?” I asked, somewhat surprised.

  Olivia shrugged. “If Michael Drake turns out to be wrong, they’ll all have enough egg on their faces politically without looking like uncivilized jerks, too.”

  I swallowed my retort and George merely said “hmmph.”

  Olivia seemed pensive for a couple of seconds, and then continued. “The next step is for George to be formally indicted. Capital murder can only be charged by grand jury indictment in Florida.”

  George smiled a little at this. “There, just as I thought. No grand jury will indict me and this will all be over.”

  She shook her head, negative. “While it is theoretically possible that the Grand jury won’t return an indictment, it’s almost sure to happen.”

  “Why?” he asked, indignant now.

  “If Drake wants an indictment, they’ll give him one. He could indict a baboon, if he wanted to,” she told him, revealing one of the many hard truths of the process.

  I said nothing. I hadn’t told Olivia about the police file and I didn’t mention it now. George would flip a gasket if he knew I’d already stuck my nose into this business and Olivia’s reaction would be only slightly more ballistic.

  From reading the file, I’d concluded that the probable cause they’d used to support his arrest was the usual triad: means, opportunity, and motive. Drake thought George’s desire to keep Andy off the bench would be enough to support the indictment. While we theoretically had twenty-one days before Drake had to convene the grand jury, I expected him to do so quickly, while public outrage was still on his side.

  George’s mouth fell open. “Do you mean to say that he can railroad me?”

  Olivia looked chagrinned while she answered his question, one she must have answered at least a hundred times. “Don’t you watch television?”

  George was not amused. In truth, neither was I. It’s amazing how your sense of humor vanishes when your life is threatened by forces over which you have no control.

  “As a practical matter, Drake isn’t going to take a case to trial that he can’t win. I’ve known Drake for most of my life. He’s tried over 250 capital murder cases and he’s won every single one of them,” she said.

  George whistled under his breath and Olivia nodded. “It’s an impressive record, but all it means is that he pleads out the cases he can’t prove. If he has an agenda, it’s to keep his winning streak intact so he can someday run for Governor.”

  George’s response was automatic, “Over my dead body will that ignoramus be Governor.”

  I relaxed a little, be
cause that was exactly what I’d have expected him to say.

  Olivia was not amused. “Careful, George. That kind of comment is one of the things that landed you in this mess.”

  He looked over at me pointedly, smug, as if to say he was right all along and we were being overly dramatic. “Drake can’t convict me. I didn’t kill Andrews. We shouldn’t worry about the indictment because he won’t take my case to trial if he can’t win. Just as I thought.”

  Olivia didn’t let him off the hook so easily. “Not exactly. If Drake thinks he can get a conviction on this case, he will go for it. This has been front page, lead story on every available media. You are not a sympathetic defendant. The victim was prominent. It’s the kind of case that can make or break a prosecutor’s entire career. He doesn’t want egg on his face, but he’s not going to just go away, either. All he wants is victory. He’ll do whatever he can to make that happen. Underestimating him is a mistake.”

  Here, she placed another of what I recognized now as her strategic pauses. “Believing he won’t get a conviction is the only reason Drake might not try. He hates to lose. And he won’t lose this case.”

  While George thought this through, she added, “And don’t forget, the decision may not be solely Drake’s. Everybody’s got a boss. He has people he reports to. He’s up for re-election next year.”

  I understood exactly what she meant, and so did George.

  Winning a big case against George, a prominent member of the other party, for the cold-blooded murder of a Democratic leader would assure Drake another four-year term as State Attorney and maybe even set him up for the Governor’s mansion, or more powerful, national political office. Those career goals were exactly what Michael Drake was after and everyone who knew anything about him was aware of his single-minded obsession with power.

  Olivia continued, “Make no mistake. This kind of opportunity rarely comes along. Drake and the mayor and everyone else will all want to get the greatest possible mileage out of it.”