by Linda Ladd
She had large brown, extremely expressive eyes. Her face had lots of lines etching her cheeks and forehead. She did not smile and tell us how welcome we were to visit Oak Haven but she did say, “May I help you?”
Bud said, “Yes, ma’am, you sure can.” He grinned his deadly smile, apparently expecting big results. She stared at him as if he were a prop man at The Jerry Springer Show. She didn’t find him nearly as attractive as Debbie Winters had. Didn’t matter; she wasn’t his type, anyway.
I decided the lady was mine. I read her nameplate, Mrs. Mary Macy, and decided some good old-fashioned manners were in order. “Mrs. Macy? How do you do? My name is Claire Morgan. This is my partner, Bud Davis. We’re detectives from the Canton County Sheriff’s department.”
“I deduced that, young lady, from the badge you held up to our security camera.”
Well, Mary Macy quite contrary. “Yes ma’am, we’re here to conduct interviews on a homicide case.”
Mary Macy had on these little black half-glasses that she wore perched on the very end of her nose, and quite a nose it was. She looked at us over them with not a lot of pleasure, or respect, or need of eyeglasses it seemed. She held a book in one hand. A romance novel with an Indian brave on the front who looked like Arnold Schwarzenegger in the sauna scene in Red Heat. Except her guy had a tan leather strap around his forehead and a scantily clad captive at his feet. No feathers, though. The name of the book was Savage Savage. Actually, it looked pretty provocative, if you liked racy westerns. Mrs. Macy took a moment to dog-ear a page and shut the book. I hoped it wasn’t a library copy, or she’d get in big trouble.
“I don’t remember having your names on my appointment book for today.”
Bud said, “We doan need no steenkin’ appointments.” He laughed. She didn’t. He explained. “That’s from that movie Blazing Saddles, remember, the bad guy said it?”
“I’m afraid I haven’t seen that one.”
Often a ruder sort than Bud, I said, “Law enforcement officers don’t need appointments, Mrs. Macy. We carry guns, so we can blaze our way in.”
I smiled. So did Bud. To my surprise, Mrs. Macy laughed out loud.
“Well, I do hope you aren’t going to blaze your way in today.”
Ice broken, or at least, cracked a little, I said, “We’ll try to restrain ourselves, ma’am. As long as you cooperate.”
Mrs. Macy said, “You’re quite the card, aren’t you, Detective Morgan?”
I wasn’t sure if I was, or not, so Bud said, “She’s not always this funny. Sometimes she’s a pain in the ass.”
“Watch your language, kiddo,” Mrs. Macy said, but she gazed fondly at him.
I said, “Yes, ma’am. Now that we’re all acquainted and getting along. We need to speak to Dr. Martin Young. Is he available at the moment?”
Mrs. Macy stepped back and allowed us to enter her frosty igloo. No wonder she was reading a hot romance to warm herself up. I immediately began to shiver and long for my police-issue, fur-lined parka. She led us across some serious burgundy and pale yellow tiles to her desk, a big curving brown one with an expensive marble top. A telephone system was on a shelf, but there were no lights blinking. Everybody asleep, I guess. Not much else on the counter except her Pilot black fine-point pen and a coffee cup painted with red and yellow roses. It was busy keeping itself warm on a single-cup electric warmer.
Mary Quite Contrary opened a low drawer and pulled out a different book. She smiled at us again, real friendly all of a sudden and now looking somewhat sheepish. She lowered her voice. “You know what? I have a thing for detectives. I think they’re delicious.”
That was a pretty good compliment. Bud and I both liked it.
Holding up the second book, she said, “This is a suspense novel. It’s the kind that mixes the detective’s romantic life with gory, bloody, horrible murders.”
Sounded familiar to me, all right. “Yes, ma’am. Looks like a good read.”
Mary turned the book around and showed me the cover. It was a picture of a nude woman who looked pretty darn dead, but not as dead as our little Asian victim had.
Obviously eager to get things rolling, Bud said, “Did you say Dr. Young is here today?”
“Yes, detective, he is. He comes here every day for his group therapy sessions. He should be about to wrap up one of them, right now, as we speak.” She checked her watch. It was silver filigree with a black face about the size of a dime. Now I knew why she needed those spectacles. “Well, it’s scheduled to end in about ten minutes. Would you like to wait here at reception or down in his office?”
Oh, man, would we ever like to snoop around in his personal stuff when nobody was looking. “His office sounds good. We’re in no hurry. We can wait.”
Mary Macy smiled at us. We were her delicious detective buddies now. She headed off at a quick clip down a pale yellow hallway with the same shiny Italian tiles, then at the far end, we left the building by outside, levered doors and proceeded down one of those covered walks, hanging with pots of begonias and red salvia to match the roof. Mary chatted with Bud about detective procedures, which she knew pretty darn well, actually, said she’d always wished she’d gone into detective work instead of secretarial science. Bud said it was never too late to achieve one’s dreams. Mary laughed and punched him lightly on the arm and said, “Oh, you kids.”
When we reached the building directly behind the first one, she poked in a code with her forefinger and led us inside. It was extremely quiet, and most of the doors had rather large, and trust me, unmissable, signs that said IN SESSION: DO NOT DISTURB!!!
“Here you go. Dr. Young’s private office,” said Detective Wannabe Macy. I can see it now, her new NBC series: Cagney and Macy, The Senior Years.
“Thank you, ma’am,” said Bud. “We’ll look forward to having you on our force someday soon.”
“Oh you, you’re a little stinker, aren’t you?”
Well, it had taken a bit longer for the little stinker to woo her into submission this time, but his record was intact, unbroken among any and all female oncomers.
“You oughta be the hero in that book I’m reading,” said Mrs. Macy, who was really coming out of her shell now.
Bud grinned, and then Mrs. Macy actually did a little trill of a giggle. They’d call it a titter in her Indian book, I’m sure. My, my, Bud’s charm was worth its weight in gold. Debbie Winters better prepare herself; she had some serious octogenarian competition going on here.
Dr. Young’s office looked like a study in casual disarray. As if he had found some dusty old tome in a psychiatric hospital’s medical library with a tintype of Sigmund Freud sitting behind his desk with book-lined shelves all around. I looked for the obligatory picture of the Father of Modern Psychiatry and found it on a bookshelf near the door. That must be a prerequisite demanded in psychiatrist school. Even Black had one. Not to mention his Rorschach prints. I didn’t see any of those. I guess Young didn’t go for ye olde inkspot therapy.
After Mrs. Macy had departed with one last smile at Bud, Bud looked at me and said, “Don’t know about you, but I’ve got this uncontrollable urge to sink down on this couch and tell you my life story.”
“Don’t bother. I’ve already heard it. Twice.”
Bud grinned and instead slouched his big frame down into a huge tan leather armchair sitting directly in front of the well-oiled oak desk. There was a couch across from it, tan and brown striped chenille, and I sat there, in a spot that gave me a good view out the window. Knots of young people suddenly began to stream out the doors of the next building, laughing and talking, just like regular kids. They all looked between, say, maybe twelve and twenty.
I stood up and stretched my arms to unkink my neck. “Wonder if Dr. Young likes to videotape his patients’ every word? Black does that, I think.”
Bud said, “Yeah, maybe we can get a warrant for those tapes and catch Mikey professing a fantasy of baking girls.”
I had a hunch that Young liked to s
it in the deep comfort of Bud’s chair, instead of his leather swiveling desk chair, and chances were he directed his patients to the two side-by-side chairs right across from him. According to Black, who certainly knew his stuff, nobody ever asked patients to lie down on a couch anymore. Passé, I guess, or made fun of in too many B movies. I walked across the room to large, ceiling-high bookcases built against the wall directly across from the couch. Chock-full of books, they were stacked in the shelves at every angle, with a few framed pictures hanging here and there. Lots of magazines, too, like Psychology Today.
Slowly, I ran my fingertips over the spines of the books that faced the tan striped couch, the ones at sitting level. It didn’t take long to find the fake one, half hidden by a silk philodendron plant. I pulled it out carefully, opened the hinged lid, and found a honey of a little digital camcorder inside. The tiny red light wasn’t blinking, so we hadn’t been recorded. But then again, Martin Young wasn’t expecting us. I had a hunch he probably taped everybody that sat down in his office, therapy sessions and otherwise, us included.
“Bingo, Bud.”
Bud opened his eyes and said, “Huh?”
I held the camera up for him to see, then carefully closed the cover and slid the book back into place. I edged around behind the large messy desk with its backdrop of plate-glass windows. “Black’s got a button control under his desk. Bet this guy does, too.”
I bent down, searched one side of the center desk drawer, and presto, thar she blows. Top-notch psychiatrists must all think along the same wavelengths. I heard the door open and stood up quickly, but not quickly enough.
The man in the doorway stopped, as if surprised to find two detectives lounging around his private space. Imagine. A handsome man, Young was tall, stood at least six foot, thin and well groomed, and looked like a shrink, all right. He had short blond hair, almost in a military cut, and very dark blue eyes that burned a hole through me. Decked out in a gray cotton sweater with an open-necked white shirt underneath, he wore Dockers of dark charcoal, dark socks, and black loafers with pretty little tassels. Obviously, he was personally acquainted with the arctic temperatures of Oak Haven, as well. There was a pair of tortoiseshell glasses with square lenses that he had hanging around his neck on a red cord. He had the deepest cleft in his chin that I’d ever seen, not counting Aaron Eckhart and Kirk Douglas, of course. Heck, he could have a lint trap in a hollow that size. He centered all his attention on me instead of Bud, being a man instead of a lady, and said, “Drop something, miss?”
“I was just tying my shoe,” I said, recognizing his biting sarcasm right off the bat. Then he smiled, as if I was lying and he knew it. I smiled, as if I didn’t give a rip.
“Since this is my office, I suspect you know who I am, but I don’t think I can say the same.”
Bud stood up, the courteous detective, and I walked around the desk, the snurly one. Bud said, “Ms. Macy was good enough to let us wait here, where it was warm.”
Dr. Young didn’t find that amusing, nor did he seem to think Ms. Macy had made a wise decision. He just stared at us for another long moment, then said, “I see. And may I ask the reason you are here?”
I said, “Sure thing. We’re detectives from Canton County, and we’re here to ask you some questions about one of your patients.”
“Is that right? May I see your ID?”
Wow, he sure was picky. Especially since we both happened to have said badges hanging around our necks in plain sight, so I decided he ought to perch his glasses on his nose instead of letting them hang down on his stupid and less than manly looking cord. We held our official calling cards up in tandem to show we worked for the same sheriff.
“It would have been nice if you’d called first. So I could’ve prepared.”
I said, “Do you think you need to prepare yourself to chat with law enforcement officers?”
Our gazes locked. He was really considering me now, and I had a feeling it wasn’t for a good-conduct medal. Then he showed me a very agreeable smile, with teeth as white and even as the major network anchor women, or the News Barbies, as I call them. Then he laughed out loud, as if I’d cracked a helluva good joke. Bud and I stared at him, our innards not particularly tickled, even though we are both known far and wide for our keen senses of humor. Just didn’t get it, I guess.
“Sorry that I’m so testy. I just had a bad session, and I guess I’m taking it out on you. You know, displaced aggression, and all that. Please sit down, detectives.”
Testy was right, though it’s not a word I use often but one that describes me rather well at the moment. Bud and I sat down in our original spots and watched the doc walk around the desk. He glanced at my shoes on the way by, I noticed, checking for the recently tied laces, no doubt. Luckily, I had on my black-and-orange Nike hightops, so my shoelace story checked out.
“Would you like a soda? Coffee? Something else?”
“Sure, I’ll take a Coke.” Bud never missed the opportunity for free food or beverage.
“No, thank you,” I said. “I don’t drink.”
Dr. Young didn’t react to my rather dry comedic side, but moved to a small fridge hidden in a low oak cabinet, where he retrieved a can of Cherry Coke for Bud and a bottle of Ozarka water for himself, that normally being the premier brand in the Ozarks. “You sure?” he asked me.
“Got any hot chocolate?”
“Afraid not, detective. You can wear one of my sweaters, if you’re really that chilly.”
Now that was a fate worse than death. I’m sure not into 1940s argyle. I demurred on the sweater but changed my mind and agreed to a bottle of water. While he got it for me, I watched to make sure Bud’s Coke can hadn’t been tampered with. After only a couple of minutes, I didn’t trust this guy. Of course, that was the way it was with me and most anybody. The good doctor handed the soda to Bud, the water to me, then sat down behind his desk as Bud popped the tab. “Okay, what can I do for you, officers?”
“We understand that you have treated a patient by the name of Michael Murphy.”
“That’s right. Is he in some kind of trouble?”
Yeah, I’d say. “Yes, sir. He was found hanging from a bridge support yesterday evening. He’s dead. An apparent suicide.”
That caused him to strangle briefly on his pure Ozarka water. “You’ve gotta be kidding me.”
That didn’t sound exactly like shrink-ese, but we had hit him with a heck of a tsunami. Or at least, it appeared that way.
“I’m afraid we don’t make jokes of that nature. I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news.”
Dr. Young stood up, squared his shoulders, as if trying to get hold of himself. Then he turned his back on us and stared out at the lawn. When he turned around after a couple of minutes, he said, “I can tell you that I treated him, but I’m afraid I can’t really get into any more detail than that. Legally, I’m not allowed to, you understand, because of patient confidentiality requirements.”
“Your patient is now dead, doctor, and stretched out in our morgue. He might’ve been murdered, and he might’ve committed murder. We need your help to find out.”
“What do you mean, he might’ve committed murder?”
“There’s a second victim, a woman, as yet a Jane Doe. We hope you can help us identify her. Her family needs to be notified.”
“Are you seriously considering the idea that Mikey killed this woman?”
“Yes, very seriously. But we don’t know yet. I’d say it’s possible. We’re just getting started with our investigation. That’s why we need you to cooperate fully with us. Michael Murphy is dead, so you are released from protecting his confidentiality. If you still refuse, then we’ll have to get a warrant for his medical records. Either way, you’re gonna have to turn them over to us. Your choice, doctor.”
“Sorry, I’d like to help, but I try to protect the privacy of my patients for as long as possible. His parents may not want his records released to the public. Have you told all this to his family
yet?”
“Yes, they have been properly notified. We spoke to them earlier today.”
“How did they take it?”
“They were upset, of course.” Well, at least one of them was.
“Mary Fern took it well?”
“Yes sir, she did. Do you happen to know the Murphys well, doctor?”
“Yes, I do, actually. Truth is, Mikey’s my cousin.”
Now that was damn interesting. Mom and Dad hadn’t mentioned that familial connection. Wonder why?
Bud joined in the conversation. We play tag team, you see. I took this opportunity to test the cap of my Ozarka to make sure it had not been opened, verified that, then twisted the top and took a drink. Never can be too careful. It tasted good, though. I was thirsty, after all.
“You treated a relative?” Bud was saying. “I thought you shrinks frowned on stuff like that.”
Black had treated his own niece, too, once upon a time, not to mention me, but I had an urge to poke this guy a little with my obnoxious stick.
I said, “Please answer the question, Dr. Young.”
Dr. Young turned his eyes on me and held them on mine for a beat or two. “You know, I don’t think I caught your names.”
“My name’s Claire Morgan. He’s Bud Davis.”
A slow smile. “Oh, yes, I’ve heard of you, and now I know why you look so familiar. Nick Black’s an old friend and colleague. I’ve attended a couple of conferences when he was the featured speaker. Very informative. He’s really quite brilliant.”
“Yes, he mentioned that he knew of you. He seemed to recall that he referred Mikey to this clinic. Is that correct?”
“Well, actually, he did, but it was because Mikey’s parents wanted me to treat him. They preferred to keep his problems inside the family, if you know what I mean. They were concerned about publicity, you understand, with Joseph being connected so high up in state government.”
Bud said, “Yeah, that occurred to us, too, just right out of thin air.”