Does he catch a lot? Oh yes. He’s been bringing back some impressive catch. You should’ve seen them—these large, fresh, cold fish. He sure knows how to catch them. But quite often he goes to those catch-and-release places, you know, where they have to put the fish back into water. So on those days he obviously comes back empty-handed.
How often does he go? Every weekend, actually. He used to spend weekends at home, you know, some small repairs, TV, his collection, that sort of thing. But now he’s often out before sunrise. Why not? It’s been good for him—he’s lost weight, got tanned, you know. He’s been happier recently. His health? Oh, he’s been all right. Well, he’s forty-six, you know. But for his age, he’s all right. Yes, mental health too. Why do you ask? Five minutes ago you said he was a robber, now you’re saying he’s a nutcase. Are you really sure you got the right David?
How long has he been fishing? Just like I said, two months. No wait. Maybe three. Or four? Three or four, something like that. Time flies, you know. Did he tell his manager that he will be out on Monday? Of course, he did! No, I never asked him, but I know David. He would not have left for a trip on Monday without giving them any notice. He is very responsible. You know how much they appreciate him at the bank? They all love him. His clients love him, the manager loves him, even his peers love him. You know what it takes to make your peers love you? And that’s all because he always thinks about work. About what’s right. He doesn’t play office politics, he’s never backstabbed anyone—he’s just a great employee. So if he is not there today, he must have told them. And by the way, you don’t have to come back to speak with him. He’ll call you as soon as he’s back from the trip. I’ll make sure he knows you’ve been looking for him.
Golden Skydiving? No, that doesn’t ring a bell. Why do you ask? What? David skydiving? My David skydiving? You certainly got a wrong David. Mine is afraid of heights. Yes, afraid of heights. And he’s just not the kind who jumps from a flying plane. He is very . . . how can I say it . . . he’s not the adventurous type. His idea of fun is spending time in his home office with his collection. Well, he’s got this fishing thing going, but that’s as far as he would go. So no, skydiving doesn’t sound like something he would even consider doing. Plus, like I said, he’s forty-six. You don’t start jumping off planes at that age.
Where do we keep our money? What do you mean, where? In the bank. Of course, in David’s bank. Where else? You know you’re asking some very odd questions.
The office? What do you mean, take a look? As in search? Ah, just to take a look. Sure, you can take a look I guess—why not? It’s this way. Yes, that door to the right.
Gorton quietly sighed with relief. Good. She could have declined. She certainly didn’t have to cooperate on this one. Not without a warrant. Dealing with close relatives of a suspect is always a tricky business. You never know what’s really on their minds. They’re often very willing to talk—but what they tell you may not exactly be the truth. As for a search warrant, it takes time and effort and, under circumstances like these, it’s hardly guaranteed. Intuition alone is not a sufficient reason for getting that signature. So a polite matter-of-fact question serves a dual purpose: it gives you at least some indication of what they really know and—when your host has nothing to hide—lets you in.
There was indeed nothing to hide in David Borovsky’s office. If there had been anything suspicious, it likely had already been well hidden by the office’s primary occupant. Nothing in this room even remotely called to mind guns and skydives. Instead, the office was a battlefield. The old hobby was clashing here for domination with the new one—and clearly was losing the fight.
Autographed photos, framed jerseys and footballs on dust-covered stands were being outnumbered and outmaneuvered by fishing equipment. Reels, lures, fishing flies and colorful books featuring proud fisherman were attacking the football memorabilia everywhere. They covered the desk, peeked from the half-closed drawers, hung on the walls and lived in every corner. The football collection, while still struggling meekly, was doomed.
While Gorton, doing a passable job of keeping an interested expression on his face, was looking around the room, Mrs. Borovsky told him a sad story of the doomed collection. The collector, who had been diligently gathering it for years, had had an almost instantaneous change of heart. One day he came home with a fishing rod—and that was the end of his longtime passion for football. Next, he began bringing home books and more gear, and then—
A phone ring halted Mrs. Borovsky’s tale. She excused herself and went back into the living room.
As she was explaining to someone why she could not talk at the moment (“They thought David was involved in that robbery! Imagine that!”), Gorton studied an object that had caught his attention the moment he entered the room: a small and thin clear-plastic bottle with small white pills inside. It lay between a thick fishing guide and a box holding scary-looking fishing lures. The drug name on the bottle looked unfamiliar: Arbidium XT, 500 mg. The doctor’s name, however, was not completely new: Dr. James Moore, PsyD.
Asking Mrs. Borovsky about the pills didn’t make any sense. Most likely she didn’t know anything about them, and if she did, it was very unlikely that she would tell him anything. Then again, what’s wrong with taking pills described by a psychologist? These days everyone takes some antidepressants. Almost everyone, anyway. And those who don’t take the pills stress about not taking them. Plus, skydiving can be stressful. Not to mention the roller coaster called the stock market. So there’s nothing wrong with keeping calming pills around.
Gorton set the bottle back on the desk and a moment later was thanking Mrs. Borovsky who had just emerged in the doorway. He promised to keep her posted, expressed his hope that she would do the same, said goodbye and, finally, was on his way.
“No,” he was telling Kelly a minute later, “let’s not spend time on this now. We’ll look into that later. Now I need you to check out that fishing store. Find out how often he shopped at that place. Yes, I’m sure. There was the same store label on every fishing toy he’s got. Did you talk to Golden Skydiving? Good. What did they tell you? Really? Are you sure? When? What do you mean you don’t know? Please get me the exact date.
“What about that Jeb’s place? Yes, the firing range. I understand that you didn’t have time, but you don’t have to do everything yourself. Send one of the guys. Send Johnson. Yes, the crime scene is important, but there isn’t much to do over there. Someone already took care of that last night. What about the car? Great. Okay, one last thing: I need everything you can find on a drug called Arbidium XT. Who would need it and why. No, that’s all I know. Anything curious on your side? All right then. Later.”
He shoved his mobile phone back into his pocket and thought that it would’ve been prudent to be more polite with Kelly. Who knows how close he is with the mayor. Efforts, efforts . . .
And now—Dr. Moore, PsyD. Dear Dr. Moore, would you mind telling me how long you have been treating a patient who had been sitting quietly in a bank for nineteen years, approving, rejecting and preparing loans, only to disappear with no trace yesterday morning? And for some strange reason, all the cash from his bank disappeared around the same time. And that disappearance was so neatly arranged that somehow all the security cameras got turned off. Even though turning them off is not an easy task. Trust me, doctor, it is not an easy task at all.
And would you be so kind as to tell me why your patient, who according to his wife is afraid of heights and who is—or at least until recently used to be—a true couch potato, showed up four months ago at Golden Skydiving, where he paid in cash for a private lesson, and after four hours of instructions, jumped off a plane? Not in tandem, which would be a more reasonable option for someone like him, but alone. He jumped off, landed safely, thanked the instructor—and was gone, never to return.
And perhaps you could explain to me, doctor, why in the world this patient of yours has suddenly developed a passion for fishing—a passion so stron
g that it made him forget his collection that he had been proudly and meticulously putting together for years? And that blazing passion keeps getting stronger by the day.
Finally, doctor, perhaps you could share your thoughts on a possible connection between his other freshly developed passion—guns—and a drug called Arbidium XT? Of all the questions, this one is the most curious.
But, of course, Dr. Moore will not answer this question. He won’t answer any of these questions. It would be a generous gesture on his part to even have a conversation about a patient. You see, there’s a small, tiny thing called ‘clinical confidentiality’. If getting a search order under these circumstances would have been very tough, getting official access to the information protected by clinical confidentiality is plain impossible. And yet, this conversation is necessary.
Intuition. That damn intuition.
Dr. James Moore, PsyD—just as expected—was taking clinical confidentiality very seriously. As for people trying to sneak around it, he had little sympathy for them, no matter what their cause was.
“Am I to understand,” he said, his gray eyes twinkling coldly behind his rimless eyeglasses, “that the only reason you’re interrupting my schedule is to obtain confidential patient information without a court order?”
Gorton humbly confirmed the correctness of that statement.
“And you seriously expect me to disclose this information to you?” Dr. Moore asked, clearly finding such audacity amusing.
Gorton expressed another confirmation.
“Why in the world would I do that?”
Gorton shrugged.
“Why wouldn’t you? As I said, I’m not asking for a single shred of confidential information. All I need to know is on what date David Borovsky came to see you for the first time and why.”
“I take it that I’m free not to disclose my diagnosis?” Dr. Moore clarified with thinly veiled sarcasm in his voice.
“Of course. That would be confidential information, which at this point I have no reason to request.”
“Lieutenant,” said Dr. Moore, demonstrating great memory, “both you and I know perfectly well that under the circumstances I don’t even have to confirm that this person is my patient. You have no order and no convincing evidence, so you don’t actually expect me to do it. This is not your first day on the police force.”
“And this is not your first day in this office,” Gorton retorted.
It was time to go on the offensive.
“I’m sure you understand that when someone’s behavior changes so drastically in a few months, the police, under the circumstances, have every reason to suspect him. If you need the order, I’ll get it. But by that time he will be too far away.”
“If he ran, he’s already out of your jurisdiction,” Dr. Moore said dryly. “I don’t have to tell you how long it takes to get to the border.”
“Does that mean you’ve changed your mind?”
“It means that this conversation is over.”
Dr. Moor rose from his chair.
“As I said, I’m not disclosing anything,” he said, towering over the desk. “I don’t even know how you concluded that Mr. Borovsky and I had ever met. There are many ways for a pen from my office to end up in his drawer. Have a good day.”
“Why did you prescribe him Arbidium XT?” Gorton asked with no hope, knowing that he had been defeated.
“Arbidium,” Dr. Moore said after a momentary silence, getting back to his chair. “Why did you have to waste my time on pens and pencils?”
He took off his glasses, extracted a piece of thin gray flannel from his desk and began cleaning his glasses. Gorton sat silent.
“There is no connection between Arbidium and the case you’re investigating,” Dr. Moore declared finally, placing the shimmering eyeglasses back on his nose.
His cold gaze bore into Gorton.
“Listen carefully, since I’m not going to repeat what I’m about to say. David Borovsky is indeed one of my patients. He came to see me the first time about five months ago and I am not telling you the reason. But I can tell you this: no single word that was uttered during his sessions in this office indicated that he was a danger to society. This does not mean he is innocent. It only means that his visits to my office have nothing to do with that robbery, even if he is the one who’s done it. You can chase him, prosecute him and even lock him up should you find him guilty. By my office has no more to do with it than the office of a physician whom he saw regarding his cold. That’s all.”
He got up again. Gorton followed his lead, knowing that this time the conversation really was over.
“One more thing,” said Dr. Moore when Gorton was already at the doorstep. “The only reason he came to see me in the first place is that his employer decided to add mental health coverage to his insurance. Had it not been for that he would not have come. That’s my expert opinion.”
On the street, Gorton took his phone out of his pocket. It was vibrating again—after three or four unsuccessful attempts at Dr. Moore’s office.
“Clara,” he said, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath, “what is it? Yes, I understand it is important. No, I couldn’t answer until now. I’m sorry but I was busy. A TV remote? No, I don’t know where it is. You know that I don’t use it that much. Is that all? That’s why you’ve been calling me? You remember I asked you not to call me during office hours unless it is something really urgent and important. You know how busy I get at work. No, of course I don’t mean that this is unimportant. No, I don’t want you to be unhappy . . . Of course you get tired too. No, I’m not arguing. Yes, I’ll try to be home by six. No, I did not see the TV remote. Positive. Bye.”
When the conversation was finally over, he headed for his car. Dr. Moore no doubt would have noticed the high occurrence of the word ‘no’ in that dialogue. When a man exists in a permanent state of denial it starts affecting the way he talks—and thinks. Thinks of himself, of others, of his job, of life, of this screwed-up world we live in, with its stupid TV shows, vomit-inducing news, fake celebrities, dumb colleagues and the necessity to make those endless efforts all day long.
The change is overdue. It’s even clear what this change ought to be. But then again, it’s been clear for a while. For a long time, actually.
The police station was buzzing like a wasp’s nest during an exterminator’s visit. Only an outsider could mistake that sound for usual office noise. Gorton proceeded straight to his desk, answering greetings on the way and doing his best to ignore jokes. For a split second he had to struggle with a strong desire to slam the door, but his common sense prevailed. The ‘Robbery of the Decade’ or not, this wasn’t a usual event, so understandably people had something to talk about.
A minute later Kelly showed up at the door.
“Brilliant!” he said. “This Borovsky . . . he’s a real treasure.”
For a moment Gorton thought that the version of a gang with a designated driver had been scrapped. As it turned out, he was wrong. The version had just evolved and as of this moment, featured David Borovsky as the mysterious insider. Needless to say, he and all other members of the gang had driven away in an unknown direction in a car operated by the obligatory driver.
“What if Borovsky is the gang leader?” Gorton suggested thoughtfully.
A flicker in Kelly’s eyes indicated that the seeds had fallen into fertile soil.
“So what have you found out?” Gorton asked, without waiting for the crop.
There wasn’t much news.
David Borovsky began showing up at Jeb’s Guns, just as expected, a little over three months ago. When he came there for the first time he was a complete novice who couldn’t tell the trigger from the muzzle. But he proved to be a fast learner. Unlike skydiving, he didn’t limit his lessons to a single one and was coming to the range at least a few times a week. On the weekends he often spent hours shooting. He quickly mastered basic skills and a month later was already trying some advanced techniques. He seemed
to have two objectives: hitting that bull’s eye and trying as many types of weapons as possible. Instructors tried convincing him that he should focus initially on a single type of a gun, but he was very particular about going broad. Handguns, rifles, different calibers—he tried them all. He paid in cash and occasionally joked about his business on the side that was supplying him with a bunch of bills.
At that point facts smoothly gave way to assumptions. It was obvious that Borovsky had been taking that crash course on guns in preparation for the robbery. This also explained why he had been so hell-bent on trying different guns—he simply didn’t know what they would give to him. As for that business on the side—
“What about the Spanish lessons?” Gorton lost his patience.
Spanish lessons had followed the same scheme. Three months of intense studies. Focus on spoken language. Great—in fact very impressive—progress. Lessons on the weekends. Cash only.
“Mexican Spanish?” Gorton asked grimly.
Kelly nodded. Even his intuition had been sufficient to check that.
“The car?”
“Still looking for it.”
“Anything else?”
“That’s about it. No, there’s one more thing. I sent Garcia to that fishing store. Borovsky had shopped there only once.”
“That doesn’t sound right. His room was full of stuff he bought at that place.”
“That’s right. That’s where he bought all of it. Only he bought it all in a single visit.”
“Everything?”
“Yes.”
“When? Three months ago?”
“Yep. It took the guy at the store just one look at the photo. It’s a small place—they don’t often get customers like that.”
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