“Two of the dead girls were his students. Two.”
“I’ll work on it,” he said. “I suppose Thorsson and his partner could use a little us time in the front seat of a car.”
That made her smile. “Sounds good.”
“What’re you doing now?”
She pulled out the square of paper Garcia had given her. “I made an appointment to see a Luke VonHader. He’s in the neighborhood.”
Chapter 17
THE MAN’S ATTENTION shifted back and forth between the agent’s blue left eye and brown right eye. “I should have asked if you wanted cream or sugar.”
Bernadette accepted the mug from the receptionist—he’d introduced himself as Charles—and lowered herself into a chair. “Black is fine.”
“Are you sure you don’t want me to take your coat?”
She cupped the mug between her gloved hands. “I’m still trying to warm up.”
“It is cold out there,” he said. “I wouldn’t be surprised if we got snow before Halloween.”
“That’s Minnesota for you,” she said, offering the gold-standard response to any weather report.
He left her side to dote on two girls, twins, who, along with their mother, were sharing the waiting room with her. The girls couldn’t have been more than ten or twelve. Bernadette wondered why such young things needed a psychiatrist.
“I’ve got a treat for you,” he said, and reached into his shirt pocket to withdraw a pair of lollipops. The girls snatched the suckers. Their mother looked up from her magazine and smiled at Charles. He led the twins and their mother into one room and came back and took Bernadette to another.
“Are they identical?” said Bernadette, trying to make conversation during the walk down the hall.
“I think so,” he said as he opened the doctor’s office door for her. “Twins are so … special.”
“They are,” she said, remembering her own twin. She went over to the couch, sat down, and patted the seat next to her. “Is this where all the action takes place?”
His blond brows arched like startled caterpillars. “Action?”
Bernadette smiled pleasantly. “Do the patients actually recline on this while talking to the doctor, like in the movies?”
“Sometimes, if they’ve had a really bad week.” He nodded toward a straight-backed chair facing the doctor’s desk. “But most patients sit over there.”
She nodded but didn’t say anything to extend the conversation. She wanted the candy man to take off.
He cleared his throat. “Can I get you anything else? Another cup of coffee?”
She shook her head.
“Well … if you’ll excuse me, I have some calls to make.”
“Go right ahead,” Bernadette said. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine by myself.”
As soon as Charles closed the door, Bernadette got up to snoop. Her first stop was VonHader’s desk, but the top was bare except for a telephone, an ink blotter, and a black-and-white family portrait. “A neat desk is a sign of a sick mind,” she muttered to herself.
She picked up the framed photo and examined it. A handsome man, obviously the doctor, was resting on his side on a beach with one leg stretched out and the other bent. An attractive woman in a wide-brimmed sunhat was seated cross-legged in front of his bent knee, cradling a baby. Behind the couple, a toddler girl stood with an arm draped over her mother’s shoulder. They were all in jeans, including the baby, but the man nevertheless seemed stiff and formal. While the others topped their outfits with T-shirts, he was in a dress shirt with buttoned cuffs. The group was smiling into the camera, but the man’s grin appeared forced. Almost pained. Bernadette got the distinct impression that Dr. Luke VonHader needed to lighten up.
She set down the photo and tried pulling open his desk drawers. They were all locked. “Figures.”
She went over to the bookshelves that took up the entire wall behind his desk. Taking down one volume tucked into the middle of the library, she examined the cover. Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders. “Riveting,” she said to herself, and put it back. She took down another book. Homicide: A Psychiatric Perspective. Finding the title more interesting, she flipped through its pages and put it back.
She went over to a wall on one side of the desk and took in the collection of certificates and awards. A framed cover from the Harvard Review of Psychiatry caught her attention, and she examined it closely. He’d authored one of the main articles in that issue. It had to do with distinguishing borderline personality disorder from bipolar spectrum disorder. His degree was from Harvard Medical School.
“Another Harvard man,” she muttered.
He had awards from the National Alliance for the Mentally Ill and the American Psychiatric Association.
The brag wall didn’t provide her with much more than she already had on the guy. After researching Wakefielder and the Washington Avenue Bridge that morning, she’d gathered a bit of background on the psychiatrist. Medical professionals didn’t easily surrender information about patients, and shrinks were especially skittish about privacy. She’d wanted some leverage should this doctor put up a fight.
The office door popped open, and a man wearing a mop of blond hair leaned inside. “Are you in the right room, miss?”
Her eyes shot back to the desktop photo, but she still couldn’t tell if this was the doctor addressing her. Outfitted in rumpled slacks and a long-sleeved rugby shirt, he looked more casual and relaxed than the stiff in the portrait. The face and the hair were similar, however. She went over to him. “Dr. VonHader?”
He stepped inside. “No, I’m Matt.”
Charles came in behind him. “This is your brother’s appointment.”
Smiling broadly, Matthew flashed a set of white teeth and pointed a finger at her. “I’ll bet you’re the new drug rep from—”
“She’s from the FBI,” Charles blurted.
Still smiling, Matthew folded his arms in front of him. “Is that right?”
Bernadette had a feeling she’d get more out of this guy than she ever would out of his brother. He looked younger and wore no wedding band. His leering grin had player written all over it. She extended her gloved fingers. “Agent Bernadette Saint Clare.”
“Nice to meet you,” he said, accepting her hand. “What’s this about?”
“Can you tell me anything about Kyra Klein?” Bernadette asked.
“Not really,” he said with a shrug. “Sad story, though.”
The doctor had been sharing with his brother. “Maybe you can answer a few general questions about—”
Charles put his hand on Matthew’s back. “Can I see you for a moment—alone?”
“Excuse me, Agent Saint Clare,” Matthew said, and turned to follow the receptionist out the door.
“I’d like to speak with you later,” Bernadette said to his back.
“Sure,” he said over his shoulder, and disappeared into the hallway.
Candy Man’s large fingers reached into the office and closed the door after them. Bernadette put her ear to the wood but heard nothing. Charles had probably taken Matthew into another room for a stern lecture about talking to strange women.
As she returned to her inventory of the senior VonHader’s office, the door opened again. This time she knew it was her man. Wearing a somber suit and expression, he looked as lighthearted as a veteran IRS agent.
Wasting no time with pleasantries, he walked briskly inside and stepped behind his desk. “Agent Saint Clare?” he asked, dropping a briefcase.
She moved toward him with an extended arm. “Dr. Luke VonHader?”
“Yes.” He clasped her hand briefly and released it. He nodded at the chair parked in front of his desk. “Please have a seat.”
“Thank you,” she said, and lowered herself into the chair.