While I was waiting for Dr. Williams-I'd called half an hour ahead for an appointment and was told I could have fifteen minutes-I read up on psychology magazines. The current obsession in psychiatric circles seemed to be the growing reaction to "recovered memory" cases. I hadn't paid all that much attention to the subject until a California jury put a man in prison for a murder of twenty-five years earlier, a murder his eight-year-old daughter claimed to suddenly remember eleven months before the trial started. Her father had, she said, murdered her best little friend. There was no physical evidence; there were no witnesses. Simply the woman saying that yes, after several visits to a "recovered memory" psychologist, she suddenly recalled what her father had done. The verdict scared the hell out of me. The judiciary has enough trouble ascertaining the truth-thanks to things like new DNA testing that helped free eleven men on Illinois's death row, proving that the system is hardly infallible-we certainly don't need "recovered memory" cases making things even worse. Under the guidance of a clever shrink, you can "remember" virtually anything he wants you to.
Dr. Williams looked much as he had yesterday, a short, stout man who vaguely resembled Albert Einstein. Good, firm grip. Nice, quick smile. Then he led me inside.
The walls were a testimonial to his brains, pluck, and talent. Scroll after scroll, plaque after plaque, degree after degree-all arranged imposingly on the same wall-attested to his magnificence. The furnishings were cherry wood and in such good taste you almost wanted something vulgar-a screaming orange canvas chair-to liven them up.
"I'm sorry I'm in such a hurry today. We have six new patients arriving and that's always our busiest time."
Busy busy.
"That's fine. All I really want to know is if you saw Sandy when she was alive."
"Saw her in what sense?"
"I'm sorry. I mean 'saw' her in a professional sense."
He nodded. "Yes. Twice. I asked her to come once with Rick and once without him."
"Did she open up to you?"
He shrugged. "To some degree, I suppose. She was very nervous. Her father was angry that she was here. She said he hated the whole notion of her being here."
"I'm told that her father used to take nude photos of her."
He half smiled. "You really are a cop, aren't you, Mr. Payne?"
"I used to be. Now I'm just sort of a glorified field investigator."
He leaned forward. He had stubby arms. He pulled his chair flush against his desk. "You know I can't discuss what my clients told me."
"The shrinks I knew at Quantico did. In fact, they never shut up. They were always swapping stories about who had the weirder patients."
He frowned. "Very unprofessional. I know it goes on. But I certainly don't approve. I'm from the old school-when it meant something to be a so-called shrink. Now anybody who can finish a few night school courses can go into the counseling business."
"Did you ever talk with the father?"
"No. He called once and was vaguely threatening, said he'd sue me if I saw his daughter again. I have to admit, he did seem like a man who had a secret."
"Afraid his daughter might tell you something about him, you mean."
"Exactly. I understand that there are people who don't believe in psychiatry, and people whose religion forbids them from seeing a shrink, and people who think it doesn't work and costs too much money-all the familiar objections. But he was too strident. So the only thing I could think of was that he had something to hide." He smiled. "Shrinks have very suspicious natures, I'm afraid."
"I'm going to go see him."
"I'm told he's a very violent man. I know he was arrested a while back for public intoxication. And he managed to knock out two policemen before they could restrain him."
"Great. Just what I want. A fistfight."
The intercom buzzed. "Mr. Alexander has arrived," his secretary said. "You asked me to tell you."
"Thank you, Beverly." He tapped his Seiko. "I guess I'm even busier than I thought. We didn't expect Alexander until late this afternoon."
He stood up and came around his desk and shook my hand. "Rick's parents aren't wealthy by any means. In fact, they're almost poor. I have a lot of faith in Iris Rutledge, but she can't afford to hire any outside help. I'm giving her all the money I can, but my resources are limited, too. Some people are very skeptical of Tandy West trying to build a show around this. But I guess I should be grateful she is because we're getting a very good investigator in the bargain-and we don't have to pay for him." Then, a little dramatically, he said, "My only concern is Rick. He's innocent."
Rick, and your reputation, I thought. It won't look real good if the kid you "saved" is convicted of murder. Like the time Norman Mailer, among others, helped free a convicted murderer who then killed some poor young man who was working as a waiter. There were good reasons ordinary people distrusted the psychiatric profession.
I walked out with him.
In the reception area, he said, "Excuse me, Mr. Payne. I need to hurry down the hall."
"That's fine."
I was just leaving the building when a voice behind me said, "Mr. Payne."
She was a pleasant-looking, gray-haired woman in a blue suit and a frilly white blouse. "I just wanted to tell you something I forgot to tell the detectives." When she reached me, she said, "My name's Myrna Haines. Dr. Williams has two offices-the administrative office and his personal office. He oversees a lot of the electroshock and things like that, so he needs an office close by. Anyway, I'm the secretary for his personal office."
"I see."
"Are you headed out?"
"Yes."
"Good. I could use some fresh air."
We stood on the front steps. The day made me feel twenty and immortal.
"The man they found in your room, Mr. Kibbe?"
"Yes?"
"One afternoon I found him going through my desk. He'd been in to see Dr. Williams earlier in the day, so I recognized him, of course."
"Did he take anything?"
She nodded. "I saw him stick two envelopes and a very small paperweight and a couple of pieces of paper in a briefcase. What would he want with things like that?"
"Did you confront him?"
"Yes. He pretended not to know what I was talking about. Then he just pushed past me and left."
"You told Dr. Williams."
"Of course. He called Chief Charles right away. She came out and talked to us and then said she'd try and find Kibbe. But she called later and said he wasn't registered at any of the motels in town."
"Did you ever figure out which envelopes and papers he took?"
"Yes. And they were nothing important at all. Just routine correspondence I'd typed up to two different HMOs. They're always trying to talk us into accepting less of a payment." She smiled bitterly. "I can remember when we thought HMOs would save the entire medical profession."