Terminal Therapy

by Daniel Reinharth

  We drove up the inclined driveway into Clancy's half-empty parking lot at 2:30 PM. Late for lunch, but our consolation prize was vacant parking spots and empty restaurant tables.

  Clancy's is a maroon-painted wooden building which overlooks one of the Cape's many marshy inlets. Paula and I walked our familiar path. Past the main dining area to our left, past the cashier and maitre-d's podium to our right, through the corridor on the side of the main room, hooking around the bar area, turning left, and through the back door onto the back porch. A waitress greeted us, and invited us to select one of the half-dozen empty tables. Since it's usually sunny and hot when we go there, a table shaded by an umbrella wins. Today's cloudiness, however, made our choice easy in a different way--the table for two closest to the water.

  We usually discuss meal selections at restaurants--our custom being to share with each other--but at Clancy's our orders were foregone conclusions. Lobster roll sandwiches are one of the Cape's culinary specialties. Clancy's version is one of our favorites by virtue of the heaping amount of fresh lobster, and by the croissant rather than the usual soft roll.

  Paula's forehead was tensed. She looked down, in direction and mood. I tried to buoy her spirits. “I think we're making progress in our investigation, Paula. It looks like an inside job. If we find out who made the appointment with Dr. Singer, the mystery may be solved.”

  Paula frowned, and squeezed her napkin. “If you don’t mind, I'd rather not discuss Dr. Singer’s case. I know that I'm the one who insisted that we investigate, but I'm just not in the mood. There's too much other stuff on my mind.”

  I looked away, out to the inlet, taking in the marshes, the small sand beach, a few scattered houses in the distance, water and trees. I wished I knew if Paula’s bad mood was in any way about me.

  The waitress brought my water and Paula's iced tea. “Can you tell me about the talk you're supposed to give?” I asked.

  Success. She looked at me and almost smiled. “Guess what the title of his talk is? It's ‘what's the worst that could happen?’ Isn't that great?”

  “I've heard you mention that question before.”

  “Yes. It's one of the most useful questions in Singer’s CBT. Cognitive distortions--wrong ideas about reality--and catastrophic thinking underlie many anxiety and depressive disorders. ‘What's the worst that could happen’ helps people be more realistic about their fears. And if you irrationally demand that you shouldn’t be nervous, it just multiplies the anxiety.”

  “That makes sense. It might help me when I have to give a speech.”

  “Me, too. And I'm the one giving a speech tomorrow.”

  Our atmosphere seemed lighter. Sun peeked through clouds. Our waitress brought our lobster roll sandwiches.

  “A lot of the talk,” Paula continued, “is about a popular technique called humbling exercises.”

  “I don't like the sound of that.”

  “No one does. But it works. If you do something you're ashamed about, you get to see that the skies don't fall. It's a tool to show that the source of shame is the way you think about things. Which can be altered.”

  “But what if-”

  “The only rules are not to break laws, and not to allow anyone to get hurt.”

  I nodded. The lobster was delicious.

  “Singer gives examples of some of his favorite humbling exercises. His first one was to sit on a sidewalk bench on a main street and sing. With people around, of course. The responses he got varied. Some people kept their distance, fearing he might be deranged. Others stopped, and joined him in song.”

  “I bet this was in New York,” I said. “The only place where people see the most bizarre things but don't even blink.”

  “Maybe, but he doesn't say. As he conquered his fears, he found that he had to ratchet up his humbling exercises. He also tells a cute story. In one of his seminars a student came up to him to announce the humbling exercise he'd chosen. Coming up on stage to speak to Singer, in front of the whole class, was his humbling exercise.”

  I laughed, and spoke with my mouth half-full. “Sounds like me.”

  “It does, doesn't it. And it's just like Dr. Singer to have been compassionate and encouraging to that poor student. He comes off from a distance as forbidding. His frequent cursing, his sometimes outrageous speech or behavior. But he has what all great therapists have--a core of caring. So there's a lot that's fun about giving this talk. But the time pressure, Singer's situation, stage fright...”

  We lapsed back into silence as we finished eating our sandwiches.

  “It may sound funny to say with my father in jail, but I'm more worried about my mother.”

  “I know what you mean,” Paula replied. “That he’s the focus of a police investigation is serious, of course, but ludicrous. It’ll surely blow away. Your mother, on the other hand, is usually a rock. We're not used to seeing her sick, vulnerable.”

  “Exactly. And I always put extra pressure on myself in such situations because I'm a doctor. I feel somehow responsible, and guilty. I hope that doesn't sound too selfish. I know I'm not the one who's sick.”

  “I understand.”

  I'd sensed that our discussion of her upcoming talk had lifted Paula's spirits, but dwelling on my mother's situation wasn't helping mine. The waitress brought our bill. “Let's go to the jail next,” I said. “We should be able to see both of my parents, and maybe we'll get some good news about my father's legal status.”

  We stood up. Deciding on a course of action was helping. “And I think it's time we had another talk with Lieutenant Hansen.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  The skies were brighter during our trip to the jail. Paula and I managed just enough light talk to deflect our thoughts from our weightier issues.

  My mother was talking to Lieutenant Hansen in the center of the police station's waiting room. Hansen seemed nervous, fingering his string tie. Maybe he was feeling naked without his hat. My mother was smiling, but it seemed to require all of her energy to maintain it.

  Paula and I approached. My mother turned. She gripped my arm with her right hand, and Paula's arm with her left. “Children, children. It's good news. They're letting him go.”

  I covered her hand with mine and turned toward Hansen.

  “Yes, it's true,” he said. “We're processing him now. Shouldn't take long, but you know red tape.”

  Probably have to find the shoelaces they confiscated, I thought. My mother let go of our arms. “Thank you, officer,” she said.

  “You’re welcome. Now if you'll excuse me. Oh, just one last thing. Like they say in the movies, don't leave town.”

  “Please remember, Lieutenant,” Paula said. “We don't live here. We all have to leave in a few days.”

  “Yeah, well. Just check in with me before you go.” He touched his fingers to his temple, as if doffing his nonexistent hat, and walked away. Having the last word was apparently important to him. Even if he couldn't enforce it.

  As much as I wanted to hug my mother and celebrate my father's reprieve, I didn't want to let Hansen escape while I had his attention. “Great news, Mom, but...Lieutenant Hansen!”

  He stopped, just short of the doorway to the back area, but didn't turn around. “Yes?”

  I ran to him. “Could we talk to you for just a few minutes? About the case, I mean?”

  He peered at his watch, as if seeking an excuse to say no. “Oh, all right. I guess I can spare a few minutes. Follow me.”

  “Paula,” I said.

  “I'm sorry, Charlotte,” she said. “It's important. Please sit down, and wait for us here. We'll be out in a few minutes.”

  “Don't worry about me.”

  Paula gave my mother's arm a last squeeze and ran after me--then past me, as I was holding the door open for her. Hansen, his back to us, had a half-corridor lead, but we caught up to him as he unlocked his office door. It was the last room on the left, just before the corridor made a right-angle turn to the holding cell and jail are
a.

  Hansen's office décor surprised me. Chrome and glass and sea scene reproductions, rather than leather and wood and Wild West photographs. Taxpayers had clearly funded an interior designer more interested in her/his vision of the room than that of its occupant.

  Evidence of Hansen's infiltration, however, was everywhere. Crumpled balls of paper on the floor. Empty soda cans piled up in the rectangular waste-basket alongside his desk. The inevitable over-sized, chipped, multi-colored coffee mug, planted picturesquely adjacent to its coaster. He completed the picture by opening the top drawer of a three-tiered filing cabinet along the wall, and then extracting a jumbo-sized bag of Cape Cod potato chips.

  He waved the bag in the air. “Want some?” he asked.

  “No, thanks,” Paula and I replied. I guessed that that was the answer he’d wanted to hear. He didn't invite us to sit down, but we did. His omission was surely unintentional. I kept my arms by my sides because the chair's chrome arms were uncomfortable.

  He sat down in an obviously more comfortable swivel chair behind his desk. Leaning back, he ripped the bag open, grabbed a handful of chips, and stuffed them all in his mouth. The chips apparently restored some of his host-liness. He finished eating them in seconds--probably a useful skill on a stake-out--and spoke: “What can I do for you?”

  I looked at Paula, then back at him. “Thank you for talking to us, and thank you for releasing my father. I'm glad you're now convinced that he's innocent.”

  “Whoa, son. Not so fast. I let him go because of lack of evidence, not because I'm convinced he's innocent.”

  “But-”

  He raised his hand and picked up the telephone receiver. “Soda?” he asked us.

  “No, thanks,” I said, assuming the question was rhetorical. But...

  “Coke, please,” Paula said.

  “One regular and one Diet Coke,” Hansen said into the receiver, and hung up.

  Hansen's diet soda and potato chips combination frustrated me. Diet soda, even if it turns out to be less unhealthy than the sugared version, does not negate the salt, fat, and calories in chips. People surely know this, but it's more convenient--and tastier--to forget. Come off it, David. The true source of your frustration is your own failure. Failure to get your patients to change their eating behavior.

  I had a more immediate concern. My dry throat made me regret having rejected Hansen's soda offer. I'd have to sneak a sip of Paula's.

  “You mentioned that someone spotted Moshe Calder returning to the railing of Haydock’s boat,” Paula said.

  “Yeah. So?”

  “Who was it?”

  A uniformed officer brought in the two soda cans, glistening with condensation, and two straws. She lay her delivery on the table, accepted Hansen's grunt and Paula's thanks, and left. When Paula had completed inserting her straw I wrapped my hands around hers, pulled it all to me, and took the first sip.

  “Thanks,” I said, as Paula shook her head and took a sip of her own. She shifted her body slightly away from mine, apparently discouraging further poaching.

  “Was it another anonymous call?” Paula persisted. “Was it the same voice as the one who accused Mitchell?”

  Hansen munched and drank, and munched and drank. “No. This tip was from the boat captain.”

  “Haydock?” I shouted. “That anti-Semite?”

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  “Yeah, well,” Lieutenant Hansen replied.

  “You and Haydock both live here,” I said. “You must know what he's like.”

  “Maybe I do, and...OK, I do. But he's not my friend, and I'm not the thought police. My job is the Singer case. I can't afford to turn away information. No matter the source.”

  “But doesn't the source affect the credibility of the information?”

  “Yes it does. But his information turned out to be true, didn't it?”

  “Yes. But it incriminates him as much as it does my father, doesn't it?” I paused, and took a deep breath, the constriction in my chest alerting me that my anger was mounting. “I'm sorry. You're just doing your job. But anti-Semitism naturally hits home for me, and when my own father is a victim of it...”

  Hansen stopped snacking, and leaned forward, elbows on the table. “I hear you, Doc. Haydock's say-so and your father's argument with Singer were enough to bring him in for questioning. He’s quite a character, your father.” (I couldn’t help raising my eyebrows). “Anyway, nothing concrete came up, so we’re releasing him. Listen. I'm sorry, too, if I came off sounding harsh when I said that your father's still a suspect. He is, but so's everybody until we get the right one. It's a lot easier to prove guilt than innocence.”

  Just as in medicine, I thought. Patients constantly ask me if a particular vitamin or herb works. Most such items have not been studied, or have been studied only in test-tubes, or have human studies which reported at best mixed results. As a scientist, I have to say that the item is unproven, but not disproven. On the other hand, I do remind my patients that the people selling these unproven nostrums are motivated by profit, not altruism.

  “So where are you now in the investigation?” I asked, hoping that Hansen now felt comfortable confiding in Paula and me.

  “Frankly, not very far. I've been holding off the county homicide cops because Singer's not dead yet. But I'll have to call them in if I don't make progress soon.” I guessed that the tensions between local and county police which I'd witnessed in Centreville were not unique to New York.

  “How about Dr. Singer's pill-box?” Paula asked. “Did Stephanie Carstens give it to you? Did you test it for fingerprints?”

  “Right. Your poisoning theory. I know, I know. More like a withholding-of-poisoning, I mean medication, theory. She did bring it in. We did test it for prints. And found only hers.”

  “Isn't that suspicious?” Paula pushed. “Wouldn't-”

  “Yes, and it does appear as if the pill-box was wiped clean before Ms. Carstens handled it.” I almost said “aha!” “But maybe she cleaned it off herself,” Hansen continued. “Or maybe someone else cleaned it off for a perfectly innocent reason. Like if they picked it up from the floor.”

  As Stephanie may have done after retrieving it from the ER floor, I thought to myself. “Did you ask Stephanie?” I asked.

  “No. Not yet. I will, but I can't see that it'll prove anything. And I can't see that it'll point to anyone in particular.”

  “Maybe,” I said. I agreed with him that negative clues aren't usually as useful as positive clues. “But at least it supports our theory that this is a premeditated crime.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Do you know who made the anonymous call about Mitchell Singer?” I asked.

  “No.”

  “Man or woman?” Paula asked.

  “Sounded like a woman.”

  “Can you analyze the call,” I asked, “using modern technology?”

  Hansen sighed. “Actually, yes. But we don't have that stuff here. So we’d have to ship the tapes out. And it would only work if we had comparison tapes of all the suspects, which we can't force people to supply. But we'll see.”

  “Tracey Shanley and Judith Klansky have accused Stephanie,” I said.

  “Do they know something?”

  “They both said that it's just their judgments, but that it's obvious. Stephanie herself denied it. Paula and I aren't sure what or whom to believe.”

  “Anonymous calls can help when they lead to hard evidence,” Hansen said. “But unsubstantiated accusations are usually a waste of time. Our re-questioning of Mitchell Singer didn't help, either.” Hansen shifted in his chair, his patience with us appearing to wane.

  “Did you know that Mitchell said that his father picked him as his successor?” I asked.

  “Oh?”

  “It's a murder motive,” I said. “Competition for power.”

  “OK?” he asked. I could see that I was losing him.

  “We're even exploring the possibility that someone may be lying about wh
o Jonathan Singer really picked.” Hansen's eyes opened, then drooped. Talk fast, David.

  Paula and I proceeded to explain our theory in its present degree of evolution. Someone had known about Singer's Myasthenia gravis, had known about the conference, had known about the pre-conference party on Singer's boat, had known something about the schedule on the boat, had made an appointment to meet Singer on the deck at a particular time, had taken Singer's pill-box at just the right moment, had later replaced it, had been strong enough to throw Singer overboard, and had done so. Anyone on the scene was theoretically a suspect, but it was hard to imagine that anyone outside Singer's circle could satisfy all the requirements.

  Hansen finished his soda and chips as we spoke, then threw the detritus away. He murmured “interesting” several times, but didn't take any notes. I felt frustration rising in me. He wasn't taking us seriously enough. And he wasn't recycling his soda can.

  “Stephanie told us that Dr. Singer kept a diary,” Paula said. Paula to the rescue again, I thought. How could I have forgotten about the diary? “And Judith Klansky told us that he used e-mail,” she added.

  Hansen's previously flickering eyelids were now wide open. He wrote a few words on a flip-pad. “Good stuff, Ms. Hirsch. We'll definitely check this out.”

  Potential tangible clues are buried nuggets of gold to a police officer, I thought. I considered that we'd accomplished all that we could for the moment with Hansen, so I decided to follow a social principle Paula has taught me: leave on a high note. I was also anxious to see my parents. “Paula?”

  “Good idea.”

  Hansen’s querulous look changed to a smile. “We'll keep in touch. Take care of yourselves.”

  I interpreted his cooperative closing as our reward. We'd relieved him of the need to kick us out.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  When Paula and I didn’t find my parents in the police station’s waiting room, Paula pulled out her cell phone and called them at their rental cottage. She listened for a minute, then held her phone down and looked at me. “Your mother says that they released your father while we were talking to Lieutenant Hansen. They were too tired to wait for us, so they called a cab and went home. Your father has just showered. He says he feels great.”