Stephen White - Blinded

For a few weeks I’d been weighing asking the prescribing psychiatrist to consider an anxiolytic antidepressant instead.

The session after Gibbs’s second individual appointment was one of those days when I wasn’t so sure about Jim Zebid’s desire to work.

I admit that he didn’t have one hundred percent of my attention. Although most days I prided myself on my ability to move from one patient to the next with the clarity of flipping channels on a TV remote, Gibbs’s most recent revelations were still clouding my focus that morning. I was making a conscious effort to fight through the static of Gibbs’s serial killer accusation so that I could make certain that Jim had a sufficient quantity of my concentration.

“Anyway, my client says he sold half an ounce of blow to Judge Heller’s husband. My guy is only up for an aggravated burglary, and I’m not sure I want to complicate things by revealing he’s dealing, so I’m not sure what the hell I’m going to do with the information. But you have to admit it’s something. Too bad it’s not Judge Heller’s case.”

Jara Heller was the youngest judge on the District Court bench. I knew her socially-in the sense that I could have picked her out in a crowded room. I wasn’t sure I could say the same about her husband, although I felt it was likely that I had met him at some legal affair or reception or cocktail party over the years. For all I knew he and I may have commiserated or shared a look of mutually felt angst while fulfilling our spousal obligations by our attendance.

“Still…” Jim said, apparently continuing to muse over the illusion of leverage that came with knowing that a young judge’s husband used cocaine and purchased it in quantities large enough to suggest that he sold some, too.

The look on Jim’s face reminded me of a guy who’d just witnessed a wallet crammed with bills spill from a woman’s purse and was wondering how he could rationalize clipping a few fifties before he handed the billfold back to its owner.

Most days I don’t hear a single fact during psychotherapy that would be meaningful to anyone other than my patient, me, and a limited circle of people who happen to share my patient’s plot in the universe. But that day? I’d already heard an update from a wanted woman, a report about a serial killer, and news about a judge’s husband possibly selling cocaine, and I hadn’t even given a thought to my midday meal.

Gibbs’s revelation that she feared her husband was a serial killer, and not merely a killer, had changed things for me. The shocking news that he’d left a string of victims across the country not only cemented my decision to make the call to the detectives in California but also subtly altered my resolve. As I drove across town to visit Sam after Jim Zebid’s session, I turned down the radio and pondered the philosophical underpinnings of it all, ultimately concluding that John Donne wouldn’t be pleased by the metamorphosis of my attitude. One death should have been as consequential as many. One death should have been sufficient.

Sam had one additional “should” for me: “You should’ve talked to me as soon as you knew” was how Sam admonished me after I gave him the headline about the California murder.

He was feeling better. Although he was still in the telemetry unit when I was with him during my late lunch break, he and his cardiologist had radically different opinions on how long he should remain tethered to heart-monitoring equipment.

“You’ve had a few other things to deal with,” I said.

The automated blood pressure cuff encircling Sam’s biceps chose that moment to inflate. Sam jumped. “Damn thing scares me so much that it probably sends my blood pressure right through the roof. Hey, maybe you can convince my cardiologist that my mental health requires that I return home immediately.”

“Good one, Sam. But I don’t think you really want me to go on record commenting on your mental health.”

“Point.”

After I’d heard the multiple murder accusation, I negotiated one final rider to my bargain with Gibbs Storey. I would go ahead and make the call to the homicide detectives in California only if she would permit me to consult with a friend of mine who was a local detective regarding the Louise/Sterling situation, and with an attorney, if I chose. I told her I wouldn’t need to use any names, just the facts of her accusation. Gibbs had agreed to my request without protest.

Actually, what she said was “The whole world is going to know my family’s dirty secrets in a few days, Dr. Gregory. What’s to be lost by giving this detective friend of yours a head start? If it will help you better understand the legal process that’s about to happen, please go right ahead. Talk to a lawyer, too. I don’t care. But just about Louise. And no names until it’s in the press.”

I’d had her sign a release.

Once I’d explained the broad outlines of the Louise/Sterling situation to Sam, he asked me to clarify some facts about Gibbs’s accusation before he said, “So when you called the detective in this other state, this mystery state? Did he hang up on you, or what?”

“She came close. It actually didn’t come down the way I thought it would. When I called, there was nobody there who could talk to me. I left a message. Eventually a Detective Reynoso called back. We didn’t stop playing phone tag until about an hour ago.”

“Well? Is your lady’s story for real?”

“Reynoso seemed interested enough in what I had to tell her, but she didn’t reveal much to me. It was kind of like trying to get information out of you.”

“Be nice. I just had a heart attack.”

“What’s going to happen next, Sam?”

“Hard to say without knowing how closely your client’s story meshes with what the cops already know. That’s the gold standard.”

“If it meshes, then what?”

“If it were my case and I got the call? I’d go to my superiors and make a case that I should fly to wherever the woman is and interview her. Maybe talk with her husband, too.”

“Would you make an appointment with her or just show up?”

“I’m a big proponent of just showing up.”

“Why?”

“In my business, when you make appointments, you almost always end up talking with lawyers. As much as I adore your wife, she’s a rare exception to the breed, you know? I’m trying to arrange my life so that I interact with as few lawyers as possible. It’s a good stressreduction strategy-you know, for my heart.”

“So you show up. When you get to town, do you have to call the local cops?”

“Absolutely. My guess is that one of my colleagues has already spoken with your detective-what’s her name?”

“Reynoso. Carmen Reynoso. Can you find out who?”

“Can I find out, or will I tell you? What’s the question here?”

“Will you tell me?”

“No.”

“Didn’t think so. So this Detective Reynoso talks to one of you guys at the police department, and you do what?”

“We listen to her story, weigh what she wants to do, and decide whether we want to cooperate. Odds are that her requests are somewhere close to reasonable. We consent, maybe we tag along on the interviews, whatever.”

“How long could all this take?”

“Depends how hot it all seems. Reynoso could get on a plane today if she wanted to. Politics might be tough on her end and that might slow her down, or she could spend a couple of weeks, maybe even longer, getting her ducks in a row before she comes out.”

“And the whole time a murderer is just wandering around doing his thing.”

Sam made a dismissive face. “Perps are like snakes, Alan. They’re always out there, living in holes. They’re always close by, doing their snake thing, whether you see them or not. The ones that end up scaring the shit out of us are the ones that slither across our backyard during a barbecue. Well, this one-this lady’s husband-just slithered right across your yard. But the truth is he was out there for years before you knew about him. And he may be out there for years longer before anybody does anything about him. Fact is, he’s just another sick snake.”