Blind Rage

by Terri Persons

  She set down the photo and tried pulling open his desk drawers. They were all locked. “Figures.”

  She went over to the bookshelves that took up the entire wall behind his desk. Taking down one volume tucked into the middle of the library, she examined the cover. Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders. “Riveting,” she said to herself, and put it back. She took down another book. Homicide: A Psychiatric Perspective. Finding the title more interesting, she flipped through its pages and put it back.

  She went over to a wall on one side of the desk and took in the collection of certificates and awards. A framed cover from the Harvard Review of Psychiatry caught her attention, and she examined it closely. He’d authored one of the main articles in that issue. It had to do with distinguishing borderline personality disorder from bipolar spectrum disorder. His degree was from Harvard Medical School.

  “Another Harvard man,” she muttered.

  He had awards from the National Alliance for the Mentally Ill and the American Psychiatric Association.

  The brag wall didn’t provide her with much more than she already had on the guy. After researching Wakefielder and the Washington Avenue Bridge that morning, she’d gathered a bit of background on the psychiatrist. Medical professionals didn’t easily surrender information about patients, and shrinks were especially skittish about privacy. She’d wanted some leverage should this doctor put up a fight.

  The office door popped open, and a man wearing a mop of blond hair leaned inside. “Are you in the right room, miss?”

  Her eyes shot back to the desktop photo, but she still couldn’t tell if this was the doctor addressing her. Outfitted in rumpled slacks and a long-sleeved rugby shirt, he looked more casual and relaxed than the stiff in the portrait. The face and the hair were similar, however. She went over to him. “Dr. VonHader?”

  He stepped inside. “No, I’m Matt.”

  Charles came in behind him. “This is your brother’s appointment.”

  Smiling broadly, Matthew flashed a set of white teeth and pointed a finger at her. “I’ll bet you’re the new drug rep from—”

  “She’s from the FBI,” Charles blurted.

  Still smiling, Matthew folded his arms in front of him. “Is that right?”

  Bernadette had a feeling she’d get more out of this guy than she ever would out of his brother. He looked younger and wore no wedding band. His leering grin had player written all over it. She extended her gloved fingers. “Agent Bernadette Saint Clare.”

  “Nice to meet you,” he said, accepting her hand. “What’s this about?”

  “Can you tell me anything about Kyra Klein?” Bernadette asked.

  “Not really,” he said with a shrug. “Sad story, though.”

  The doctor had been sharing with his brother. “Maybe you can answer a few general questions about—”

  Charles put his hand on Matthew’s back. “Can I see you for a moment—alone?”

  “Excuse me, Agent Saint Clare,” Matthew said, and turned to follow the receptionist out the door.

  “I’d like to speak with you later,” Bernadette said to his back.

  “Sure,” he said over his shoulder, and disappeared into the hallway.

  Candy Man’s large fingers reached into the office and closed the door after them. Bernadette put her ear to the wood but heard nothing. Charles had probably taken Matthew into another room for a stern lecture about talking to strange women.

  As she returned to her inventory of the senior VonHader’s office, the door opened again. This time she knew it was her man. Wearing a somber suit and expression, he looked as lighthearted as a veteran IRS agent.

  Wasting no time with pleasantries, he walked briskly inside and stepped behind his desk. “Agent Saint Clare?” he asked, dropping a briefcase.

  She moved toward him with an extended arm. “Dr. Luke VonHader?”

  “Yes.” He clasped her hand briefly and released it. He nodded at the chair parked in front of his desk. “Please have a seat.”

  “Thank you,” she said, and lowered herself into the chair.

  “I assume you’re here about Kyra Klein,” he said, while pulling folders out of his briefcase and setting them on his desk.

  “Yes, I am.”

  “I’m confused,” he said, snapping the briefcase closed and shoving it to one side of his desk.

  “About?”

  He sat down behind his desk. “How is her death a federal matter?”

  “I can’t answer that question,” she said. “This is an open case and I’m unable to release any details about it.”

  “You realize I’ve already spoken with the Minneapolis police.”

  “Their investigation is entirely separate from the bureau’s.”

  “Also keep in mind that I was her psychiatrist, not her psychologist or therapist.”

  “I’m aware of the difference.”

  “Are you?” He picked up one of the folders and tapped the bottom of it on his desk. “The police seemed to need an education on the subject.”

  “You’re a professional who has completed both medical school and training in psychiatry. You diagnose and treat mental illness. You prescribe meds. Psychologists and therapists are more into the touchy-feely stuff.”

  “You get an A plus.” He set the folder down in front of him and checked his watch. “I don’t have much time, so if we could get to it.”

  She took out her pen and notebook. “For starters, tell me about—”

  “Keep in mind that patient privacy regulations prevent me from saying anything about Miss Klein’s medical issues and treatment.”

  “She’s dead.”

  “That doesn’t change the fact that she was my patient,” he said.

  “I’m sure you’re aware that law enforcement may have access,” she said.

  “My understanding is that medical records may be subpoenaed for court cases, but even that has been challenged,” he said. “For example, there was that Supreme Court ruling that federal courts must allow mental health professionals to refuse to disclose patient records in judicial proceedings.”

  “This isn’t a courtroom,” she said.

  He held up his palms defensively. “I’m not trying to be an obstructionist, Agent Saint Clare. I’m trying to honor my patient’s privacy.”

  “Kyra Klein doesn’t care what you tell me. She’s dead.”

  “She has a family.”

  “What do you feel comfortable giving me?”

  “Information about mental health matters in general. Descriptions of various disorders and how they’re treated. Side effects of drugs. Anything beyond that—well…I’d have to consult with my attorney before talking to you.”

  Another helpful citizen trying to trump her with the lawyer card. Bernadette decided to hurl her bluntest questions and observe his reaction: “Did Kyra Klein commit suicide?”

  He didn’t flinch or hesitate in his answer. “I suggest you ask that of the Hennepin County medical examiner. He must make that determination.”

  “She may have overdosed on the lithium you prescribed for her. Doesn’t that concern you?”

  He flipped open the file in front of him and trained his eyes on it. “The welfare of all my patients and their medication use concerns me.”

  “There’s also the possibility that a murderer laced her wine with the lithium to make her easier to subdue. Wouldn’t it bother you to know that a bottle with your name on it was used to dope your patient and facilitate her homicide? Doesn’t that make you want to help find her killer?”

  “The fact that Miss Klein is dead troubles me greatly.” He looked up from the folder. “But this theory that she was the victim of murder…”

  She leaned forward. “I’m listening.”

  “Without commenting on the specifics of Miss Klein’s case, let me say this. Mood disorders are by far the most commonly diagnosed mental illness in suicide deaths, and patients with bipolar disorders are at a particularly high risk. In fa
ct, a quarter to one-half of all patients with bipolar disorder attempt suicide at least once.”

  “There are things about Miss Klein’s death that indicate it was something other than suicide,” said Bernadette.

  “What things?”

  “If she was murdered, who did it? Who wanted her dead? She must have told you if she was having problems with someone in her life.”

  “Agent Saint Clare—”

  “I just want to know what you think. Who should we be looking at for this?” She dropped her pen and pad back into her pocket and held up her empty hands. “Look. No notes.”

  “No notes?” He offered her a tight smile. “I’m an educated man, Agent Saint Clare. Do you really think I’m that naïve?”

  “I think you’re hiding something or protecting someone,” she said. “That’s what I think.”

  “I’m trying to protect my practice.”

  “Protect it from what?”

  “Let’s say for a moment that her death is indeed ruled a suicide. I am not saying that it was or wasn’t. But let’s say, for the sake of argument, that’s what the medical examiner determines.” He folded his hands atop his desk. “Who might be blamed for that suicide? In this litigious society, who might end up drawn into a protracted and expensive legal battle?”

  She leaned back in her chair. “That’s what this is really about, isn’t it, Doctor? You don’t give a damn about patient privacy. You’re covering your rear end in case her family comes after you.”

  He checked his watch again. “I’ve got to get some paperwork done before my afternoon patients.”

  She picked up the family portrait and studied it. “Pretty girls.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Emily and Melissa, right?”

  His posture stiffened in his chair. “If you’re finished, I need to get back to my—”

  “Pretty wife, too. Elizabeth, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  “She and the kiddies are in Arizona right now, isn’t that correct? Where was your vacation home again? Scottsdale? How’s the golf game these days?”

  “How do you know where my family is and—”

  “You’ve got it all, haven’t you?” She set the photo back down on the desk and spun it around so it faced the psychiatrist. “Picture-perfect family. Successful practice. Kudos from your colleagues hanging up on the wall.”

  “I’m not liking your tone, Agent Saint Clare.”

  “Big fancy house in Scottsdale. Big fancy house on Summit Avenue. Nice cars. Did you drive the Lexus today or the good old Volvo wagon? Actually, it’s not old, is it? It’s brand spanking new. It’d be a shame to lose all that nifty stuff.”

  His jaw tensed and his eyes became slits. “How do you know where I live and what I drive?”

  “You are naïve, Doctor,” she said.

  He stood up. “Are you attempting to intimidate me?”

  “Not at all,” she said evenly. “I’m just trying to figure out why someone with so much to lose would refuse to cooperate with his government.”

  “My government has no business trying to force me to—”

  Someone tapped.

  “Yes!” VonHader barked.

  Charles opened the door. “Do you two need coffee or anything?”

  “I need you to see Miss Saint Clare to the exit.”

  “Certainly, Doctor.” The receptionist opened the door wide and held it for the agent.

  Bernadette sat frozen for a moment, staring at Luke VonHader from across the desk. She stood up, pulled a business card out of her trench coat, and slapped it down on the corner of his desk. “In case you change your mind.”

  “I won’t,” the doctor said.

  “This way, please,” said the Candy Man.

  “I know the way out,” said Bernadette, walking through the door.

  Chapter 18

  “THAT COULD HAVE GONE A LOT BETTER,” SAID BERNADETTE, stomping into the cellar and throwing her notebook on her desk.

  Creed was there and he looked up from his computer. “Now what?”

  She took off her coat and tossed it over the back of her chair. “I met with Kyra Klein’s prof this morning and her psychiatrist over lunch. Neither one would tell me anything.”

  “I’m not surprised about the shrink. Patient privacy laws are a pain.”

  “He’s just covering his rear,” she said, dropping into her seat. “He’s afraid of getting sued for wrongful death. That’s what this is really about. Hind End Covering 101. They teach it in med school. It’s a required class.”

  “The prof, though. Why wouldn’t he want to help?”

  “Klein is the second of his students to be found floating.”

  “The second?”

  “The other was the June victim. Alice Bergerman.”

  “Damn. You’re on to something.” He nodded toward his computer screen. “But what about—”

  “Don’t worry. I’m not bailing on the idea that these murders could be the result of some sort of water bondage thing. In fact, he kept using the word tortured. Some of his female students have these tortured souls.”

  “Sounds like he was dangling it in front of you. Waiting for you to bite.”

  “My thoughts exactly. I’m putting together a surveillance of him over the weekend. I want his ass watched.”

  “Since we’ve latched on to the scintillating subject of butts”—he pointed at his monitor—“I’ve got something for you.”

  “More porn? Are you becoming addicted to the stuff or what?” She got up from her chair and went over to his desk. “Am I going to have to organize an intervention?”

  “You’re killing me,” he said.

  Instead of dripping naked bodies, she saw a completed form for MapQuest. The Starting Location was the address for the cellar. She didn’t recognize the address of the Ending Location. She put her hand on the back of his chair and frowned at the screen. “Where are you sending me, Ruben?”

  “To a studio across town.” He put his cursor over Get Directions and clicked his mouse. “The Land of Ten Thousand Lakes is home to a major producer of these aquatic films and other fetish adventures. Visceral Motion Pictures.”

  She took her hand off his chair and stepped back. “You’re kidding me.”

  “I kid you not.” He hit Print, and the office clunker started cranking out a copy of the directions.

  “I can’t believe this is your harebrained scheme and not mine,” she said.

  “You’ll have to dress more appropriately, of course.”

  “What do you mean?” she asked indignantly.

  “Trade in the bureau uniform.”

  She was used to going undercover in jeans. Otherwise, her suits were nearly the only clothing she had in her closet. She looked down at her navy pantsuit and white blouse. “This isn’t so obvious. I could be a…banker.”

  He swiveled his chair around. “The second you walked onto the set, the actors and actresses would pull the sheets over their heads.”

  “Are there sheets?” she asked.

  “Good question.” He tapped his keys, and a video came up on his screen. “Here’s one of their earlier films.”

  “How early?”

  “Last month. The critics gave it four out of five penises.”

  “I don’t see any sheets,” she said, leaning in to get a look. “All I see are big boobs and lots of water.”

  “These people are at the commercial epicenter of this fetish,” Creed said. “They should be able to give you the names of the big players. Maybe there’s a local person known for pushing the envelope. Perhaps there’s a whole club or cult that takes it to the limit and beyond. Could be your prof is a charter member.”

  “What’s my story?”

  “Here’s what I told them.”

  She stepped around to face him. “You…called them?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “So how did you contact them?”

  “We exchanged e-mails.”
<
br />   “Oh. Right. That makes sense.”

  “I told them I represented some venture capitalists who were interested in investing in their operation.”

  She slowly nodded. “I suppose that works.”

  “You sound disappointed.”

  “No. That’s a good yarn. I can work with that.”

  He folded his arms in front of him. “Don’t tell me you want to waltz in and pass yourself off as an actress.”

  “Ruben…no,” she sputtered.

  He threw his head back and laughed. “You do! That’s what you want to do! You want to play porn star!”

  “Not porn star. I know I have modest…acting abilities.” She crossed her arms in front of her chest. “I just figured I could go in as an extra. That way I could keep my clothes on.”

  “First off, these films don’t have extras,” he said. “Either you’re naked or you’re not on-screen. Are you willing to get naked for this case?”

  Her arms tightened around her body. “No.”

  “Secondly, at the ripe old age of…” He squinted at her. “How old are you?”

  “Thirty-eight.”

  “Really? You don’t look that old. You could pass for thirty.”

  “Thanks. I guess. You were saying?”

  “They like them in their early twenties, so you’re too old to be answering a casting call for a porn film.”

  “Thanks again,” she said.

  “You’re a venture capitalist.” He nodded toward her dark suit. “A venture capitalist in something other than an FBI uniform.”

  “Fine, fine. I’ll put on a colored blouse.”

  “For accessories, I’d suggest a Glock.”

  “I never leave home without it.” She went over to the office printer and retrieved the directions to the studio.

  “Do you think you should take someone with you?”

  She read the directions. The studio was just outside Eden Prairie, a second-ring suburb southwest of Minneapolis. The area was punctuated by parks, green space, and rolling hills overlooking the Minnesota River. “This isn’t exactly a rough neighborhood.”