Mist Walker

by Barbara Fradkin

  Sullivan seemed to read Green’s puzzlement. “You got a theory?”

  “Rush the DNA , and keep your eyes open during the post mortem that this guy might have taken a lethal overdose.”

  “DNA takes at least three weeks, Mike, no matter how much you try to push it through. And besides, we have to have some family members to compare it to, in order to establish who it might be.”

  “I know.” Green was already ahead of him, thinking of Rose Artlee, the tough-tender woman he had left in the Tim Hortons booth, defiantly smoking her second cigarette and lost in her own private thoughts. No doubt worrying if her final rejection had been more than her brother could bear.

  DNA comparisons with a corpse would cheer her up no end.

  Four

  Sharon Green stepped onto the hospital elevator and heaved a sigh of relief as she punched the button for the main floor. Home. A thousand things awaited her there, but at least she could close the door on the soul-sapping depressives, the fragmented schizophrenics and the compassion she had to find within herself all day long. She leaned against the back of the elevator, shut her eyes, and didn’t open them until the elevator jerked to a stop and the doors rattled open. Then she found herself face to face with her husband, who looked slightly smudged and smelled awful.

  “Oh, good, you haven’t left yet,” he said as he drew her out.

  She wrinkled her nose. “God, what have you been rolling in?”

  “A case. A fire. That’s not important. I need your help.” He had that glint in his eye she’d come to recognize as Mike on the hunt. She thought of her swollen feet, her aching back, her son pining at the sitter’s, and the unmade dinner still to come. She groaned.

  “Green, no chance this can wait till tomorrow?”

  He flashed his most disarming grin, the slightly crooked one that had first brought her into his arms five years earlier, despite all her friends’ and family’s advice to the contrary. “Probably, but I’m here,” he said, taking her elbow and steering her to a chair in the lobby. “Matt Fraser. I need to talk to his doctor, and I figure I’ll step on fewer toes if you give me an introduction.”

  “I don’t know who his doctor is.”

  “Then find out.”

  “It’s four o’clock. Everyone is getting ready to go home now.”

  “That’s perfect. On his way out, the good doctor can spare me five minutes to answer one simple question.”

  She folded her arms stubbornly. “Green, spill it.”

  “Could Fraser have killed himself? That seems to be his sister’s theory on his disappearance.”

  “Well, if he’s already done it, there’s hardly an urgent reason for violating his right to confidentiality, is there?”

  “But what if he hasn’t done it yet? What if he’s wandering around trying to screw up the courage?”

  She couldn’t resist a smile. When he wanted, he could manipulate with the most accomplished psychopath, and it was society’s luck that he, unlike the psychopath, never used the talent for personal gain. “For six days?” she said.

  He pulled a face that might have been sheepish. “It’s an arguable point, isn’t it? At least let me run it by the doctor and see if he buys it.”

  She weighed the idea, intrigued in spite of her aching feet. There was no harm in at least finding out who the doctor was, and that would give her a hint of their receptiveness to Mike’s dubious plan. When she cajoled the medical records clerk into checking the database, however, her heart sank. Matt Fraser’s doctor was Bradley Emmerson-Jones, psychology’s imitation of Fort Knox.

  “I’ll run this by the doctor myself,” she told Mike as she returned to the lobby.

  He stood up. “But you don’t know enough—”

  She placed her fingers on his lips to restrain him. “Green, I do. Trust me.”

  She had sounded more confident than she felt as they took the elevator to the third floor. En route, she steeled herself to confront the prissy little man whom she’d met only at the occasional hospital function, although he’d been working at the hospital as long as she had. He was currently the senior psychologist assigned to the Mood and Anxiety Disorders program, and he cut through his patients’ fears with a ruthlessly behaviourist knife. “Show me the data” was his favourite cry, which sent the social workers and other newly minted students of the human soul scurrying elsewhere for mentorship. Thus, over the years, he had collected around himself a small but dedicated cadre of like-minded neo Skinnerians, but found himself rarely consulted by the mainstream clinical staff.

  Sharon found him sitting alone at his computer, peering over the rim of his reading glasses at some blips on the screen. His office made little attempt at a cozy, supportive atmosphere; besides his massive desk, it contained nothing but a large bookshelf crammed with journals, and a pair of utilitarian armchairs placed on either side of a small work table, as if to stress the business nature of the interaction. Not a single knick-knack, picture, or even professional degree graced the walls. Emmerson-Jones swivelled at the sound of her knock and arched his eyebrows questioningly.

  “Dr. Emmerson-Jones? I’m Sharon Levy from Six West.” She tried to keep the uncertainty out of her voice, but there was something about his imperious eyebrows that tipped her off-balance. “May I have a word with you about a patient?”

  The brows arched further, but still the man said nothing. All right, so don’t ask me in, Sharon thought, and her annoyance made her brave. She strode in uninvited and took a seat in one of the armchairs. Stick to the facts, she told herself. He loves facts.

  “Matt Fraser,” she began as he still did not react. “He’s been missing from his apartment for almost a week, and a missing persons report has been filed with the police. Because of his past, and some suspicious evidence at his apartment, the police are concerned about revenge and are taking the disappearance seriously. His sister, however, believes he may have finally decided to kill himself. I was hoping you—”

  “Just a minute!” He pulled off his reading glasses with a sweep of his hand, the better to glare at her, she suspected. “By what authority do you believe you can ask me any questions whatsoever?”

  “The man’s life may be in imminent danger. Under such circumstances, the law—”

  “And who are you? The police? The court-appointed psychiatrist? His next of kin?”

  “She’s my wife.” Mike strode into the room and flipped open his badge. “Detective Inspector Green, Criminal Investigations, Ottawa Police.”

  Sharon fought back the urge to kill him and the equally strong urge to laugh. She knew Mike as the boyish, impetuous, mercurial and infuriating lover in her life, but had never seen him play inspector. He was good. The two men sized each other up, Emmerson-Jones from over his half-moon glasses and Mike from behind a mask of brisk authority. The psychologist didn’t move, but Mike settled smoothly into the chair opposite Sharon.

  “Sharon is helping us with our inquiries,” he said. “At present my prime goal is to ascertain if there’s been a crime committed or any risk of imminent harm to a member of the public, including Mr. Fraser himself. That’s the extent of police involvement, doctor, and the extent of the cooperation I’d appreciate from you. I don’t need to know if this man has decided to relocate to another town in order to escape an unpleasant person or situation here in town. I have two simple questions for you. One, should we be worried about suicide in this case, and two, if so, can you provide some suggestions as to where we should look for him?”

  Emmerson-Jones hesitated. His eyes were unblinking, and Sharon could almost see him mentally riffling through the legalities in search of guidance. The issues were not black and white, and Sharon knew how much he hated grey. Not surprisingly, he asked for clarification.

  “Is there evidence beyond his sister’s opinion that he may have been contemplating suicide?”

  “There is evidence that his past still haunts him,” Mike replied.

  Emmerson-Jones shook his head. “Th
at’s a chronic stress, hardly a new condition or a recent shift in behaviour.”

  “There’s also evidence that he left his apartment abruptly, without ensuring that his dog was taken care of.”

  The psychologist’s brows arched slightly, betraying his surprise before he could bring them back down. “That suggests something unplanned or unintended. It’s not the careful planning of a suicide that’s years in the making.”

  “Some suicides are impulsive,” Mike pointed out.

  “Not Matt Fraser’s kind. His would attend to every detail. So it’s unlikely—” the psychologist’s lips parted in what could have been a smile. “It seems I’ve answered your question after all, Inspector.”

  Mike’s face was deadpan, but Sharon knew he was having fun. Outwitting pomposity was one of his favourite sports.

  “Normally, I’d agree with you,” he replied. “I’ve seen the man’s house, and he sets new boundaries for the term obsessive. But I also had the feeling that his grip on reality wasn’t what it should be, and once that begins to go, a lot of details can get lost in the haze.”

  Sharon took great satisfaction in the look of astonishment on the psychologist’s face. She’d always known Mike had a wonderful intuitive sense, but he’d also been an adept pupil who’d picked up a lot of wisdom about human failings from discussing work with her. Now she wondered how Emmerson Jones, the quintessential rationalist, would handle Mike’s poetic bent.

  “You’re implying he’s delusional,” he replied sharply, as if to bring the discussion back to a more prosaic plane.

  To her surprise, Mike laughed, further rattling the man. Then he gave a cheerful shrug. “I like ‘haze’ myself, but yes. The poor man had all his windows nailed shut in thirty degree heat and dark blinds blocking out every sliver of the outside world. He had five locks on his door and—I kid you not— enough newspapers and photocopied articles to fill a tractortrailer. All about his case. Either he was really thorough, or the real world had ceased to exist for him.”

  Despite his best efforts, the psychologist grew visibly pinker with each point, then after a moment’s deliberation, he picked up his phone and dialled zero. “Have Leslie Black paged for me, please. Extension 6083.”

  As the name blared over the hospital intercom, he hung up and rose to his feet. “Would you both step outside for a minute, please, while I deal with a private matter.”

  Outside in the hall, Sharon gave Mike a playful swat on the rear. “Thanks for letting me handle it, schmuck.”

  He raised his finger to his lips and positioned himself outside the door. “That doctor didn’t know a damn thing about his patient,” he whispered. “It’s time for some ass-covering.”

  “Or buck passing,” she responded. “Leslie Black’s a friend of mine, and she runs anxiety groups. She probably ran the group Janice and Matt attended.”

  “In other words, the one who really should know what was going on in Matt’s head.”

  Sharon nodded. “She’s a nurse with some graduate psych training. She’s really experienced, but she never got her degree, so technically Emmerson-Jones has to supervise her.”

  “And technically, he’s accountable.” He grinned. “Some serious ass-covering.”

  Inside, the phone rang, and Sharon heard Emmerson Jones’s gruff hello. A moment later, his voice rose sharply. Sharon joined Mike pressed against the door, but she could distinguish only a few words.

  “Police... kill... did you... responsibility... What do you mean, no!” His voice dropped to a low murmur, and for some time they could make out nothing. With a smile, Mike steered her back towards the waiting room.

  “I think we may get lucky,” he murmured. He settled into a chair and was looking the picture of cooperation when a frazzled middle-aged woman burst out of the elevator and hurried into Emmerson-Jones’s room. Five minutes elapsed.

  “He’s getting their stories straight,” Sharon said.

  “And he’s telling her what she can and can’t say. I wish I was a fly on the wall.”

  Emmerson-Jones’s door opened, and he beckoned them back in. “This is Mrs. Black, one of our therapists. She’s been treating Mr. Fraser in group therapy, and I thought her input might be useful.”

  Sharon glanced at Leslie, who was sitting beside Emmerson Jones’s desk and whose flushed face and erratic breathing belied her pose of pleasant calm. Emmerson-Jones sat down, folded his hands, and embarked on his speech.

  “Neither Mrs. Black nor I had any evidence to suggest that Mr. Fraser was at significant risk for suicide. Nor have I heard anything today from you two that clearly suggests otherwise. However, preferring to err on the side of caution, I’m prepared to admit that there may be certain risks of which we were unaware, and in the interests of protecting my patient—as well as others, of course—I’m prepared to share some details of his treatment. I trust this information will be treated with discretion.”

  Mike nodded and extracted his notebook, which was his favourite dramatic prop. Sharon knew inwardly he was celebrating his victory, but his expression was the essence of respect. With a flick of his hand, Emmerson-Jones invited Leslie to speak.

  Leslie was a petite woman whose delicate features belied her strength. There was a stubborn set to her finely chiselled jaw, but her voice was flat and precise. “Matt’s been in my group for almost a year now. He’s as conscientious and punctual as clockwork, he records all his assignments in his therapy binder, and he attempts to do each one to the best of his ability. Which is unlike some of my patients, who’ve been avoiding social challenges and making excuses for themselves for so many years, that the habits are hard to break. Matt always tries. But within the group, he says very little. We always have a few who monopolize—”

  “Like Janice Tanner?” Mike interjected.

  “Well, yes, actually—” She managed before Emmerson Jones stopped her.

  “Mrs. Black, please confine your remarks to Mr. Fraser.”

  Leslie nodded, but not before Sharon caught the flash of anger in her eyes. How she hates this forced subjugation, Sharon thought.

  “So Matt is a private person?” Mike encouraged, ignoring Emmerson-Jones.

  “Private, but also very shy. Some private people talk endlessly about everyone else’s problems but their own. They try to take over my job, in fact. But Matt simply listened. He was intelligent, I could see that, and quite intuitive, but he kept his opinions to himself.”

  “So he seemed rational, right until the end? No hint of strange obsessions or delusions?”

  Here Leslie wavered. “Well, in truth… Dr. Emmerson Jones just told me what you said about Matt’s apartment. I had no idea. If I’d known, I would have checked into his mental state further. But he always presented as organized, neat and clean. He was OCD, of course—sorry, that’s obsessive-compulsive—but lots of people are. He looked poor, and his clothing sense was horrendous, although I think the baggy sweat clothes were part of his protective cover. But he was always able to keep track of group activities and follow the conversation.” Her voice faded, and she gazed into space, chewing her lip as if remembering some worrisome point. Sharon itched to pursue it, but Mike had the interview so well choreographed she didn’t dare disrupt it.

  In the next instant Mike, as if reading her mind, picked up the thread himself. “But now, in retrospect, there were some signs?”

  “Some of his comments were odd. One of the other patients has paranoid tendencies and was talking about being followed in the street. Matt asked him if he’d ever done anything bad, and then he said sometimes it’s not our imagination. Sometimes people do follow us, and it can be for things that happened long ago, that nobody else even remembers.”

  “Did he elaborate, or did you ask if he was talking about himself?”

  She shook her head. “His comment was off topic. Worse than that, it was feeding this individual’s anxieties. The fear that everyone is looking at you and thinking bad things about you is a core component of social phobia
s.”

  “Was it usual for Fraser to say things like that?”

  Leslie glanced across at her supervisor, and again Sharon had the feeling she wanted to say much more. “Matt tended to be more cynical than most, but given what he’s been through, that’s hardly surprising.”

  “Did the others know about his past?”

  “He never spoke of it. Of course, Dr. Emmerson-Jones and I knew, and—”

  “It was not relevant to his treatment,” Emmerson-Jones cut in. “He needed to get out into the world again. That takes a well-planned series of small steps, not a whole lot of talking about the past.”

  “Still, I imagine it was hard for him to just turn the memories off,” Mike said in an affable tone beneath which Sharon could recognize the sarcasm. “Did he talk about it indirectly? Allude to any strange worries or thoughts?”

  Leslie was shaking her head. “In retrospect, I can see he’s been getting more agitated in recent weeks, as if he couldn’t get his mind off things. The last session, he kept scribbling furiously in his binder, he shifted in his chair and twirled his pen, he just couldn’t seem to relax. I was surprised when he missed the group last week, because he’s usually so conscientious.”

  “Looking back at what you know about him now and what he revealed in discussions, have you got any idea if he felt he was being followed, and by whom?”

  Emmerson-Jones silenced Leslie with an abrupt slice of his hand. “This is clearly beyond the issue of public safety, Inspector. You’re trying to pry information out of us to further your investigation.”

  “They’re one and the same,” Mike replied, with an edge creeping into his voice. “Somebody might have been stalking him and waiting for the chance to settle accounts. In which case he may be in danger. Or dead.”