“Have you ever heard the phrase ‘Physician, heal thyself,’ Doctor?”
“Of course I have.”
“Would you be interested in my advice in how you can do that, Doctor?”
“I’d be interested to know what you think it is that needs healing, Doctor,” Amy said, growing angry.
“I’ll tell you what I’ll do, I’ll give you the formulation I would recommend, and from that, if you’re half the intelligent, dedicated psychiatrist I think you are, you’ll be able to deduce what I think is wrong with you.”
“Please do, Doctor.”
“Marry the cop, Amy. Have a baby. Have several babies.”
She looked at him in genuine shock.
“You’re serious, aren’t you?”
He nodded.
“You’re a young woman of childbearing age. Do what nature intended for you to do. Apply your very healthy, very normal maternal instincts to your own child, not your brother.” He paused. “In my judgment, that would make you even a better psychiatrist than you already are.”
She met his eyes but didn’t reply.
“The formulation you developed for your brother applies to you. You’re the overachiever workaholic, refusing to believe your well of strength can ever go dry. And the first symptom of your inevitable-unless you do something about it- emotional meltdown has been your delusionary relationship with your brother. You’re not his mother, and you’re not his doctor.”
“Marry the cop? Have babies?”
He nodded again. After a moment, he added:
“I’d like your word, Doctor, that insofar as the patient in 1411 is concerned, you will from this moment regard yourself as his sister, not his physician.”
“Jesus!”
“I will interpret that as meaning ‘Of course.’ Now, take your brother home, and see if you can get him to take it easy.”
“You free, Denny?” Police Commissioner Ralph J. Mariani asked from First Deputy Commissioner Coughlin’s door.
“Of course.”
“What do you hear about Matt?”
“His sister just called. They’re about to let him out of the hospital. She’s going to take him out to his parents’ place in Wallingford.”
“That was quick, wasn’t it?”
“They say he’s all right-that he was emotionally exhausted, is all.”
" ’They say’? His sister, you mean?”
“No. He was examined by both our psychiatrist, Dr. Michaels… You know him?”
“Sure. Keyes Michaels. Good man. Comes from a whole family of cops.”
“And Dr. Aaron Stein, who’s the head shrink at UP Medical Center.”
“I’m getting the feeling, Denny, that you don’t like-”
“Between us?”
Mariani nodded.
“Dr. Michaels is really proud he took his psychiatrist residency under Dr. Aaron Stein. I would be very surprised if Michaels disagreed with Stein about anything. Even if he did.”
“Meaning?”
“You weren’t at Internal Affairs when Matty came apart,” Coughlin said. “I was. I wanted to cry. I have trouble believing he’s all right so soon.”
“They’re psychiatrists and you’re not, Denny,” Mariani said.
Coughlin shrugged.
"You asked, Ralph.”
“Well, it was a good shooting,” Mariani asked. He laid a folder on Coughlin’s desk. “That’s Mike Weisbach’s initial report. Payne did everything by the book. One of the victims-the wife of the guy that got pistol-whipped- even wants to apologize for what she said to him-‘Where the hell were you when we needed you?’-when he walked up on it. She said she was upset, and wants to apologize. The only thing that wasn’t done by the book was when the Dignitary Protection Lieutenant… What’s his name?”
“McGuire.”
“… took Payne’s weapon as evidence.”
“Oh, Jesus.”
“Payne’s got a legitimate beef about that.”
“He won’t say anything,” Coughlin said. “He’s a good cop.”
“But you’re worried about him, right?”
“I’m worried about him. He needs a rest. A long one.”
“That poses a problem. If Dr. Michaels has pronounced him fit for duty, that means…”
Coughlin nodded, and finished the sentence:
“… he’s supposed to come to work tomorrow.”
“You don’t know if he’s got any vacation coming?”
“Something over four hundred hours. I just checked his jacket.”
“See that he takes thirty days of that, Denny. Make it an order.”
Coughlin nodded.
Patricia Payne held both of her son’s arms and looked intently up at him.
“Are you all right, sweetheart?”
“Amy says I have to wear the straitjacket only when I leave the property,” Matt said. “She has it in her truck.”
“Don’t be such an ass, Matt,” Amy said. “You heard what Dr. Stein said.”
“Which was?” Patricia Payne asked.
“That what Matt and a jackass have in common is that they don’t know they have limits, and Matt reached his. All he needs is rest.”
“He said ‘thoroughbred racehorse,’ ” Matt said.
“And all he needs is rest?” Patricia Payne asked.
“That’s it, Mom,” Amy said. “Really.”
“Can you get some time off?” Patricia Payne asked.
“I’m sure I can,” Matt said.
“Well, go tell your father. He’s pacing back and forth on the patio, waiting to know what’s up.”
Matt walked toward the patio, and Patricia Payne led her daughter into the house, where she sought-and got- confirmation that all that was wrong with her son was that he had been pushed, or had pushed himself, beyond his limits, and that all he needed was rest.
Matt had just finished telling his father this, and was about to tell him that Amy had another medical theory that he thought had a lot of merit, despite what Drs. Stein and Michaels said, when Deputy Commissioner Dennis V. Coughlin, trailed by Captain Frank Hollaran, came onto the patio.
Coughlin was carrying in his hand what looked like a briefcase but was the size of a woman’s purse. Matt wondered what it was.
“I just had a talk with Dr. Keyes Michaels, the department psychiatrist, Brewster,” Coughlin said. “Good man. Comes from a family of cops. Knows cops. Says the only thing wrong with Matty is exhaustion, and all he needs is some rest.”
He turned to Matt.
“By order of the commissioner, you are now on vacation. Thirty days.”
“Great,” Matt said.
Coughlin handed him the purse-size leather briefcase. “This is yours,” he said.
“What is it?”
“Your pistol. You forgot it at IAD.”
“Oh, yeah,” Matt said. “Thank you.”
He laid the purselike thing on the fieldstone wall of the patio.
“Matt,” Brewster Payne said, “why don’t you go inside and get us something to drink?”
As soon as Matt was out of earshot, Brewster C. Payne sought-and got-confirmation from Dennis V. Coughlin that all that was wrong was that Matt was emotionally and physically exhausted, and all that he needed was rest.
As Matt rolled the bar cart across the fieldstones of the patio, Armando C. Giacomo, Esq., arrived.
He was now his normal, sartorially elegant self.
“Brewster, I realize I’m barging in-”
“Nonsense, Manny, you don’t need an invitation here.”
“Actually, I came to see my client,” Giacomo said. “How are you doing, Matt?”
“I’m fine.”
“I have been informed, unofficially, of course, but reliably, by both the cops and the D.A.’s office that nothing you did in the La Famiglia parking lot in any way violated any law of the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania. In legal terminology, it was a righteous shooting, Matt, and you’re off the hook.”
“Manny, we appreciate how quickly-” Brewster C. Payne began.
Giacomo waved his hand to signal thanks were unnecessary.
“But you will have a taste, Manny, right?”
“I thought you would never ask.”
Next to arrive were Lieutenant Jason Washington and Detective Joe D’Amata. As Matt was pouring their drinks, the telephone in the niche in the fieldstone wall rang and Brewster C. Payne answered it.
It was Mr. Stan Colt, calling from the Coast. The monsignor had called him, Mr. Colt said, and said he’d heard that Matt was a little under the weather, and “could I talk to him, if he’s up to it?”