He smiled back. “Of course you do, I was simply trying to- let's put it this way, Dr. Delaware: If you're using mercurial as a euphemism for affective disorder, I'd understand that very well. Very well.”
Letting me know without saying so that Nolan had suffered from mood swings. Depression, only? Or manic-depression?
“I guess it's too much to ask if we're talking unipolar or bipolar.”
“Does it really matter? I'm sure she's not seeking a DSM- IV diagnosis.”
“True,” I said. “Do any other euphemisms come to mind?”
He tucked the tie in and sat up straighter. “Dr. Delaware, I sympathize with your situation. With the sister's. It's only natural that she'd seek answers but you and I both know she'll never get what she's really after.”
“Which is?”
“What survivors always crave. Absolution. As I said, understandable, but if you've dealt with lots of similar cases, you know that leads them off the track. They haven't sinned, the suicide has. In a manner of speaking. I'm sure Helena is a lovely woman who adored her brother and now she's torturing herself with should-haves and could-haves. Pardon my audacity, but I'd say your time with her would be better spent guiding her toward feeling good about herself rather than fathoming the workings of a very troubled mind.”
“Was Nolan too troubled to do police work?”
“Obviously, but that never became clear. Never.” His voice had climbed and a flush had spread under his jaw, snaking downward and disappearing under his collar.
Had he missed a danger sign? Covering his own rear?
“It's a tragedy all around. That's really all I have to say.” He stood.
“Dr. Lehmann, I wasn't implying-”
“But someone else might and I won't have it. Any therapist worth his salt knows there's absolutely nothing that can be done if an individual's serious about destroying himself. Look at all the suicides that take place on psychiatric wards with full supervision.”
He leaned toward me, one hand tugging down at a cashmere lapel. “Tell your patient that her brother loved her but his problems got the best of him. Problems she's better off not knowing. Believe me- much better off.”
Staring at me.
“Sexual problems?” I said.
He waved me off. “Tell her you spoke to me and I said he was depressed and that police work may have exacerbated the depression but didn't cause it. Tell her his suicide couldn't have been prevented and she had nothing to do with it. Help her plaster her emotional fissures. That's our job. To patch, assuage. Massage. Inform our patients they're okay. We're couriers of okayness.”
Through the anger came something I thought I recognized. The sadness that can result from too many years absorbing the poison of others. Most therapists experience it sooner or later. Sometimes it passes, sometimes it settles in like a chronic infection.
“Guess we are,” I said. “Among other things. Sometimes it gets difficult.”
“What does?”
“Massaging.”
“Oh, I don't know,” he said. “One chooses one's job and one does it. That's the key to being a professional. There's no point complaining.”
When the going gets tough, the therapist gets tougher. I wondered if he'd used the chin-up approach with Nolan. The department would approve of something like that.
He smiled. “After all these years, I find the work enriching.”
“How many years is that?”
“Sixteen. But it's still fresh. Perhaps it's because my first career was in the business world where the philosophy was quite different: It's not enough for me to succeed. You must fail.”
“Brutal,” I said.
“Oh, quite. Policemen are easy, by comparison.”
He walked me to the door and as I passed the bulky bookshelves I was able to make out some of the titles. Organizational structure, group behavior, management strategies, psychometric testing.
Out in the waiting room, he said, “I'm sorry I haven't been able to reveal more. The entire situation was… bleak. Let the sister maintain her own image of Nolan. Believe me, it's far more compassionate.”
“This unspeakable pathology he displayed,” I said. “It's directly related to the suicide?”
“Very likely so.”
“Was he feeling guilty about something?”
He buttoned his blazer.
“I'm not a priest, Dr. Delaware. And your client wants illusion, not facts. Trust me on that.”
As I got back on the elevator, I felt as if I'd been rushed through an overpriced, tasteless meal. Now it was starting to repeat.
Why had he wasted my time?
Had he intended to say more but changed his mind?
Knowing he was professionally vulnerable because he'd missed something crucial?
Fear of a lawsuit would make Helena- and me- a major threat. Not talking to me at all would be seen as unreasonable obstructionism.
But if he was covering, why even hint around at Nolan's serious problems?
Wanting to find out what I knew?
The lift opened at 5 to let in three hefty men in gray suits and eyeglasses. Their jovial chatter ceased the moment they saw me and they turned their backs as the taller one slipped a key into the City Club slot. After they exited, the elevator took a while to kick in and I had a view of white-and-black checkerboard marble floor, polished wood walls, softly lit oil landscapes, riotously colored mixed flowers in obsidian urns.
A tuxedoed maitre d' smiled and welcomed them forward. They entered the club talking again. Laughing. Behind them, silverware clattered and red-jacketed black waiters hurried by with covered dishes on trays. As the elevator filled with the smell of roast meat and rich sauce, the gilded door slid shut silently.
I drove west, taking the freeway this time, still thinking about Lehmann.
Strange bird. And an old-world quality to his demeanor. British pronunciations. He'd said the right things but was unlike any therapist I'd ever met.
As if reciting for my benefit.
Analyzing me?
Some psychologists and psychiatrists- the bad ones- make a game of it.
Believe me, she's much better off not knowing.
Strange bird, strange location.
Consultant.
All those books on management and psychological testing, nothing on therapy.
Practicing beyond the boundaries of his competence?
Was that why he was edgy?
If so, how had he gotten LAPD's business?
No big mystery, there. Politics as usual. Who you knew.
The custom-made cashmere, the studied carelessness and old-money furnishings.
A consultant with family connections? Downtown connections could mean big business: a stream of referrals from the police department and other government agencies.
A potential flood of referrals because though LAPD maintained a few psychologists on staff, most of their time was spent screening applicants and teaching hostage negotiation and they were chronically overworked.
Something else: Milo had told me, once, that cops considered the in-house shrinks tools of the brass, were cynical about assurances of confidentiality, often reluctant to seek them out for help.
Except when filing for stress disability. Something LAPD officers had engaged in for years at a notorious rate, now even worse in the postriot era.
Meaning lots of money could be made contracting to field complaints. The unspoken directive from the department would be find them healthy.
Which would explain Lehmann's self-description as a courier of okayness.
And why he might have been reluctant to acknowledge warning signs in Nolan.
Had the young cop come to him with a history of mood swings and alienation, complaining of crushing job pressures, only to receive tough love?