"What has happened since I saw you last, Kay?"
We carried our drinks to the kitchen table. "That would have been before Thanksgiving? Of course, we have talked on the phone. Your worries about the book?"
"Yes, you know about Abby's book, at least know as much as I do. And you know about these cases. About Pat Harvey. All of it."
I got out my cigarettes.
"I've been following it in the news. You're looking well. A little tired, though. Perhaps a little too thin?"
"One can never be too thin," I said.
"I've seen you look worse, that's my point. So you are handling the stress from your work."
"Some days better than others."
Anna sipped her manhattan and stared thoughtfully at the stove. "And Mark?"
"I've seen him," I said. "And we've been talking on the phone. He's still confused, uncertain. I suppose I am, too. So maybe nothing's new."
"You have seen him. That is new."
"I still love him."
"That isn't new."
"It's so difficult, Anna. Always has been. I don't know why I can't seem to let it go."
"Because the feelings are intense, but both of you are afraid of commitment. Both of you want excitement and want your own way. I noticed he was alluded to in the newspaper."
"I know."
"And?"
"I haven't told him."
"I shouldn't think you would need to. If he didn't see the paper himself, certainly someone from the Bureau has called him. If he's upset, you would hear, no?"
"You're right," I said, relieved. "I would hear."
"You at least have contact, then. You are happier?"
I was.
"You are hopeful?"
"I'm willing to see what will happen," I replied. "But I'm not sure it can work."
"No one can ever be sure of anything."
"That is a very sad truth," I said. "I can't be sure of anything. I know only what I feel."
"Then you are ahead of the pack."
"Whatever the pack is, if I am ahead of it, then that's another sad truth," I admitted.
She got up to take the bread out of the oven. I watched her fill earthenware bowls with chili, toss coleslaw, and pour the wine. Remembering the form I had brought, I got it out of my pocketbook and placed it on the table.
Anna did not even glance at it as she served us and sat down.
She said, "Would you like to review her chart?"
I knew Anna well enough to be sure she would not record details of her counseling sessions. People like me have statutory rights to medical records, and these documents can also end up in court. People like Anna are too shrewd to put confidences in print.
"Why don't you summarize," I suggested.
"I diagnosed her as having an adjustment disorder," she said.
It was the equivalent of my saying that Jill's death was due to respiratory or cardiac arrest. Whether you are shot or run over by a train, you die because you stop breathing and your heart quits. The diagnosis of adjustment disorder was a catchall straight out of the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders. It qualified a patient for insurance coverage without divulging one scrap of useful information about his history or problems.
"The entire human race has an adjustment disorder," I said to Anna.
She smiled.
"I respect your professional ethics," I said. "And I have no intention of amending my own records by adding information that you consider confidential. But it's important for me to know anything about Jill that might give me insight into her murder. If there was something about her life-style, for example, that might have placed her at risk."
"I respect your professional ethics as well."
"Thank you. Now that we've established our mutual admiration for each other's fairness and integrity, might we push formalities aside and hold a conversation?"
"Of course, Kay," she said gently. "I remember Jill vividly. It is hard not to remember an unusual patient, especially one who is murdered."
"How was she special?"
"Special?"
She smiled sadly. "A very bright, endearing young woman. So much in her favor. I used to look forward to her appointments. Had she not been my patient, I would have liked to know her as a friend."
"How long had she been seeing you?"
"Three to four times a month for more than a year."
"Why you, Anna?"
I asked. "Why not someone in Williamsburg, someone closer to where she lived?"
"I have quite a number of patients from out of town. Some come from as far away as Philadelphia."
"Because they don't want anyone to know they are seeing a psychiatrist."
She nodded. "Unfortunately, many people are terrified by the prospect of others knowing. You would be surprised at the number of people who have been in this office and left by way of the back door."
I had never told a soul I was seeing a psychiatrist, and had Anna not refused to charge me, I would have paid for the sessions in cash. The last thing I needed was for someone in Employee Benefits to get hold of my insurance claims and spread gossip throughout the Department of Health and Human Services.
"Obviously, then, Jill did not want anyone to know she was seeing a psychiatrist," I said. "And this might also explain why she had her prescriptions for Librax filled in Richmond."
"Before you called, I did not know she filled the prescriptions in Richmond. But I'm not surprised."
She reached for her wine.
The chili was spicy enough to bring tears to my eyes. But it was outstanding, Anna's best effort, and I told her so. Then I explained to her what she probably already suspected.
"It's possible Jill and her friend, Elizabeth Mott, were murdered by the same individual killing these couples," I said. "Or at least, there are some parallels between their homicides and the others that cause me concern."
"I'm not interested in what you know about the cases you are involved in now; unless you feel it necessary to tell me. So I'll let you ask me questions and I'll do my best to recall what I can about Jill's life."
"Why was she so worried about anyone knowing she was seeing a psychiatrist? What was she hiding?"
I asked.
"Jill was from a prominent family in Kentucky, and their approval and acceptance were very important to her. She went to the right schools, did well, and was going to be a successful lawyer. Her family was very proud of her. They did not know."
"Know what? That she was seeing a psychiatrist?"
"They did not know that," Anna said. "More importantly, they did not know she was involved in a homosexual relationship."
"Elizabeth?"
I knew the answer before I asked. The possibility had crossed my mind.
"Yes. Jill and Elizabeth became friends during Jill's first year in law school. Then they became lovers. The relationship was very intense, very difficult, rife with conflict. It was a first for both of them, or at least this was how it was presented to me by Jill. You must remember that I never met Elizabeth, never heard her side. Jill came to see me, initially, because she wanted to change. She did not want to be homosexual, was hoping therapy might redeem her heterosexuality."
"Did you see any hope for that?"
I asked.
"I don't know what would have happened eventually," Anna said. "All I can tell you is that based on what Jill said to me, her bond with Elizabeth was quite strong. I got the impression that Elizabeth was more at peace with the relationship than Jill, who intellectually could not accept it but emotionally could not let it go."
"She must have been in agony."
"The last few times I saw Jill it had become more acute. She had just finished law school. Her future was before her. It was time to make decisions. She began suffering psychosomatic problems. Spastic colitis. I prescribed Librax."