Stephen White - Cold Case

On the long drive up from Boulder I'd already decided that I wasn't going to critique the contents of the file in Welle's presence. As he handed me each page and I read it. Ray seemed relieved that I appeared to peruse his work with acceptance and equanimity. So I pondered my choice of words for a moment before I held up the last sheet and asked, "Did you type these last notes yourself.

Ray, or did you dictate them for a secretary?" I handed him back that last sheet.

"Um, I don't know-both. Could have been either, I suppose. Sometimes I'd do it myself, type the notes. Sometimes I'd dictate it-you know, put it on tape, and turn it in to a service for transcribing. Couldn't tell you with this one specifically. It's been a long time. A long time."

I suspected he was lying to me, and I was impressed, but not particularly surprised, by how facile he was.

"This one you must have done yourself though, right? Since her name is typed right on it, I mean. You wouldn't give that kind of personal information to an outside secretarial service, would you?

Small town like Steamboat? I use initials or case numbers on my dictations."

He looked at the page again.

"Course you're right. I must have done this one myself." I asked a couple of mindless questions about the treatment plan so he wouldn't be wondering about my interest in that last sheet of paper. I concluded with, "I appreciate your continuing candor about all this, Ray. As we discussed last time, I'll need to take these with me." I retained the slimmest of hopes that Welle would allow me to keep the original file. It couldn't hurt to ask. I was already wondering what forensic magic Flynn could bring to bear on the question of the authenticity and age of that last page.

Ray didn't smile as he told me, "I anticipated your request and I've had copies prepared for you." He handed me the second of the two files that he'd been given earlier by Phil Barrett.

"I'm sure you'll find this complete. You understand that I can no longer guarantee the sanctity of these records after I turn them over to you?"

Sanctity?

I nodded and opened the file containing the copies he'd given me and glanced at the patient-information form that was on top. Next to the space marked "Referred By" someone had written

"Cathy Franklin." The information wasn't new to me; I'd already been told by Taro Hamamoto that the Franklins had recommended Raymond Welle to them. Seeing it here in writing gave me pause, however.

I wondered about something else. Nonchalantly I asked, "Did you treat Tami Franklin too, Ray? I've been thinking how hard it would have been to be in your shoes and have one patient murdered. Didn't even cross my mind that you might have treated both girls at one time or another."

He shook his head.

"Tami? You want to know if I treated her?" He squirmed on his chair. It could have been the underwear riding up again, of course, but I thought he was squirming from my question.

"Course I couldn't tell you if I did treat her, now could I? But I suppose I can tell you that I didn't."

It was a good answer. Ethical and barbed simultaneously. Ray was a favorite on the weekend morning news shows. I was beginning to understand why.

He could think on his feet.

"What about Cathy? You help her out with anything? Before or after the shooting?"

"I think you're fishing now, Doctor. And I'm afraid this is private land that you're trespassing on."

"You're right. I apologize. One last thing, Ray, and I'll get out of your hair.

The most important piece to me is still something that I'm uncertain about. And that's the relationship between you and Mariko. How would you characterize it?"

He sat back and looked as though he wished he had something in his hands, a prop of some kind, maybe a cigar. He'd be good with a cigar. I judged him to have failed the nonchalance test as he asked, "Why do you ask?"

"Just curious. What I'm really trying to discover-what I really need-is some sense of how she related to people. You know, specifically, to men. The assumption has always been that she was killed by a man, perhaps a stranger.

I'd like to know what style she might have brought to the table when she came in contact with that man for the first time."

His tone sharpened.

"You talking interpersonal style or are you wondering about the nature of the transference?"

"Both." I wasn't sure how much Ray Welle was going to like talking about the transferential aspects of his treatment of Mariko. But he had kicked the door open, so I was happy to walk on in.

For a moment it seemed he couldn't find a comfortable place to rest his eyes.

They finally settled on mine.

"She idolized me. Almost right from the start. She seemed to think of me as a sage. I had never before had a patient who made me feel wiser or more… I don't know. I don't know. She treated me as though I knew the secrets of the universe."

I allowed his words to hang, hoping he would pick up on them himself. He didn't seem eager to continue though.

I decided to be empathetic.

"It's my experience that that kind of reverence can be quite a therapeutic burden."

My words surprised him.

"What do you mean?"

"An idealizing transference. It aggravates the power you would have over her just being her therapist. Requires additional delicacy. You have to be especially conscious of everything you do and say. Don't you think?"

"I don't know. I found it delightful to work with her. That she thought I was more perfect than Buddha caused me no problems. I can live with that transference." He laughed at the image.

"It's when patients thought I was more evil than Satan that I didn't like it so much."

"Did that happen much?"

"That was a joke, Alan." "What was Mariko's style with you?" I asked.

"What do you mean?"

"Interpersonally. How was she when she was with you? Was she reticent?

Assertive? Coy? What?"

His eyes narrowed.

"You want to know if she flirted with me, don't you? If she came on to me. You want to know if I played Bill to her Monica."

I was taken aback not only by his bluntness but also by how much he'd revealed with his question. I said, "Only if you did." He stared me down, then finally said, "Next question."

"I'm trying to discover how she might have interacted with her killer."

"She did flirt with me. Almost from the start. No need to pretend it was any different."

"And?"

"I dealt with it."

"Which means what exactly?"

The easygoing camaraderie that had characterized our earlier interaction was now completely gone. The tension between us was thick. We were two boxers just before we raised our gloves. For the first time, I felt that he was now on the defensive. I kind of liked it.

"Which means I handled it appropriately. Kept her on her side of the room, so to speak. Keep in mind, I wasn't doing psychoanalysis with the kid. I was helping her find her way through adolescence. I pointed out the transference that I saw.

I interpreted it. We worked with it. And… I'm proud to say… she got better."

"Did she ever act inappropriately with you?"

He crossed his legs and his voice sharpened again. I heard anger.

"You trying to blame the victim here? Insinuate that she might have acted inappropriately and seduced her own killer?"

"No. I'm just trying to know the victim. Did she ever act inappropriately with you?"

"For instance?"

I shrugged.

"Patients cross the line sometimes. I had a young woman start disrobing in my office once."

He snarled.

"And what did you do?" "After I asked her to stop and she didn't I left the room and sent a female colleague in to talk with her."

"Nothing like that with Mariko."

I looked him in the eyes and smiled as ingratiatingly as I could.