Jonathan Kellerman - Dr. Death

I waited. She wasn't moving. Then her right eyelid twitched. She pushed back from the desk another inch. "You're starting to sound like one of those psychic idiots-talking obliquely in the hope someone will take it for wisdom. Have you been under strain, Alex? Working too hard? I always thought you pushed yourself-"

"So friendship would be the charitable interpretation of what brought you out to Lancaster with Joanne, but unfortunately that wasn't it at all. Joanne's motivation for destroying herself was crushing guilt-some sin she couldn't forgive herself for. Richard never forgave her, either. And neither did you. So when she asked you to be there, I don't think you minded one bit about seeing her reach the end."

Her lips folded inward. Her hand reached out among the objects on her desk and found one. Walnut gavel. Brass plaque on the handle. An award. The walls were paneled with tributes.

"Having you there was part of the punishment," I said. "Like when family members of victims are invited to attend the execution."

"This is ridiculous," she said. "I don't know what's gotten into you, but you're talking gibberish-please leave."

"Judy-"

"This minute, Alex, or I'll call for Leonard."

"My leaving won't change things. Not for you, not for Becky. Does Bob know? Probably not all of it, I'd guess, because he would've expressed his anger more directly, immediately. Wouldn't have let it sit. But he's mad about something, so he must know something."

She took hold of the gavel, waved it at me. "Alex, I'm giving you one last chance to leave like a gentleman-"

"Joanne and Becky," I said. "When did it happen?"

She shot forward, half standing, and the gavel slammed down on the desk. But instead of making direct contact, the wood twisted, slipping out of her grip, skidding along the leather, pushing a paperweight to the carpet. The glass landed on the carpet with a feeble thump.

Pathetic sound. Maybe that's what did it, or maybe she really wanted to talk.

Her fingers curled into talons that she placed against her breast. As if ready to claw out her own heart. Suddenly they dropped and she sat back down and her hair was no longer in place. Hot eyes, wet eyes, a mouth that shook so badly it took a while for her to speak.

"You bastard," she said. "You goddamn, goddamn bastard. I'm calling Leonard."

But she didn't.

We sat staring at each other. I tried to look as sympathetic as I felt. I'd convinced myself this was all for the best, but now I wondered if it boiled down to feeding my own obsessiveness. A moment more and I might've gotten up and left. But she stood first, crossed the big, beautiful room, locked the door. When she sat back down, her eyes dropped to the gavel.

That's when she reminded me of my oath of confidentiality. Repeated the warning.

I told her of course I'd never talk.

Even then, she kept it theoretical, the way Richard had, could barely stop herself from slapping me, kept drifting into corollary anger.

"What if you were a parent?" she said. "Why aren't you, anyway? I always meant to ask you that. Working with other people's kids, but you never had any of your own."

"Maybe one day," I said.

"So it's not a physical problem? Not shooting blanks?"

I smiled.

"Kind of arrogant, Alex. Preaching to other people about how to raise their kids when you don't have any direct experience."

"Maybe so."

"Sure, agree with me-you guys all do that, another one of those little tricks they teach you in shrink school.

Did you know Becky wants to become a psychologist? What do you think of that!"

"I don't know Becky, but offhand it sounds fine."

"Why's it fine?" she demanded.

"Because people who've dealt with crisis can develop a special kind of empathy."

"Can?"

"Sometimes it goes the other way. I don't know Becky."

"Becky's beautiful-a beautiful person. If you'd bothered to father any of your own, maybe you'd have a clue."

"You're probably right," I said. "I mean that."

"Think of it," she said, as if talking to herself. "You carry this creature inside you for nine months, rip your body up pushing them out, and that's when the real work starts- Do you have any idea what it takes to nurture a child nowadays in this fucking urbanized, overfeeding, overstimulating world we've created? Do you have a clue?"

I kept quiet.

She said, "Think about it: you go through all that, feeding them with your body, waking up in the middle of the night, wiping their ass, getting them through all the tantrums and the hurt feelings and the bad habits, getting them past puberty, for Christ's sake, and someone comes along-someone you trust-and sabotages all that."

She sprang up, paced the space behind her desk.

"I'm not telling you a damn thing, even if I did you couldn't repeat a word of it-and believe me, if I pick up the merest hint you've let on to anyone-your wife, anyone-I'll make sure you lose that license of yours."

Race-walking the width of the room, back again, another circuit.

"Picture this, Doctor: you put all that into another human being, entrust them to someone they've known their whole life. Someone you've done favors for, and what are you asking? Tutoring, stupid tutoring, because the kid's smart but numbers have a way-math-just math, not another goddamn thing. And then you walk in and find that person with-with your treasure, this treasure you've wrought, and they've shattered it… by the pool, the goddamn pool. And where are the math books? Where's the tutoring? Getting wet on the deck next to the pool while they-wet swimsuits lying all wrinkled-oh that would be just great with you, wouldn't it? You'd let that pass, right?"

"Was it the first time?" I said.

"Joanne claimed it was-Becky did, too, but they were both lying. I can't blame Becky for that, she was ashamed-no, it wasn't the first time, I could tell it wasn't. Because it explained all sorts of things. A little girl who used to talk to me, who after she turned sixteen and started getting tutored didn't talk to me anymore. A little girl who'd suddenly cry for no good reason, leave the house, not tell us where she was going-her grades started to drop, even with the tutoring-she was sixteen, Alex, and that bitch raped her! For all I know it had gone on for years."

"After you found them you never talked to Becky about it?"

"No point. She needed to heal, not be shamed."

More pacing.

"And don't get that accusatory tone. I know the law and no, I didn't report it to the so-called authorities,'" she said. "What would that have accomplished? The law's an ass, believe me, I sit out there and listen to it bray every goddamn day."

"And Bob?"

"Bob hates Joanne because he thinks she refused to keep on tutoring Becky and that's why Becky flunked math and won't be able to get into a good college. If I'd told Bob, Joanne might've been dead sooner and that's all I'd need-my entire family destroyed."

"You did tell Richard," I said.

"Richard's a man of action."

Translation: Richard would punish her. Shutting her out, forever.

I said, "Joanne was a woman of action. Once sentence had been passed, she carried out the punishment herself."

Killing herself slowly. Richard's contempt had been part of it-excommunicating her, letting her know he had nothing but contempt for her. Threatening to tell the children.

But there'd been more to the deterioration, force-feeding herself like a goose. Getting fat because Becky had gotten skinny.

Joanne had despised herself.

Stacy, the alleged problem child, had been kept out of the loop. Eric, dropping out to tend to his mother, had probably been privy to more. How much had Joanne told him? Not the essence of her sin, just that she'd done something for which Dad couldn't forgive her…