Setting my cell on the bench, I stepped out of the shorts and spun the combination dial of the locker, anxious to get to the office and get this over with.
Detective Ted Saxe was a tall officer in a cheap gray suit, his shield hanging from a lanyard around his neck. I unlocked my office and gestured to the duo of soft green chairs that faced my desk. “Please, take a seat.”
Out of spite or stubbornness, he stayed on his feet. I made my way around and dropped my purse in the side drawer of my desk before sinking into my leather rolling chair. “How can I help you?”
Leaning forward, he dropped an evidence bag on the middle of the clean wooden surface. I picked up the clear bag and examined the item inside.
It was one of my business cards, the discreet style with just my name, doctor designation, and the office number. On the back was my cell phone number, written in my handwriting. I glanced back up at him. “Where’d you find this?”
“In John Abbott’s wallet.” He removed a set of aviator glasses off the top of his bald head and looped them through the neck of his button-up shirt. This guy was straight out of central casting. Thin and hard, with jet-black skin and a distrustful scowl. “Do you know Mr. Abbott?” he asked.
The lingering concern that John Abbott would act out morphed into alarm. What had he done? Placing the evidence bag down, I cleared my throat as my mind worked overtime through the possibilities. “Yes. He’s a client of mine.”
The American Psychological Association’s Ethical Principles of Psychologists and Code of Conduct was firm on the confidentiality owed to clients. It was also clear that that confidentiality could be broken if I thought my client was a danger to himself or others.
John Abbott’s prior sessions, in which he described his struggles with wanting to harm his wife, technically fell into reportable arenas. His voice mail this morning could easily classify as an alarming incident worthy of police intervention.
But it had only been a voice mail. An insecure man saying the same thing he had said to me in a year’s worth of sessions. Just because he toyed with the idea of killing Brooke didn’t mean he ever would, and if I called the police every time one of my clients thought about killing someone, I’d put a lot of innocent people in jail and deplete my client list.
The truth is, wanting to harm or kill someone is a common part of the human mental circus. While there are some moral saints out there who have never wished ill on anyone, twenty percent of human beings have weighed the pros and cons of killing someone at some point in their lives.
Five percent have the moral flexibility to act on the possibility.
A tenth of a percent obsess over it, and the best intentioned of those seek psychiatric help with their fixation. My clients were the best of the worst, and I felt a fierce sense of duty to protect them while treating their most honest confessions.
After all, their thoughts weren’t actions. People didn’t die from mental activities. It was only if those thoughts turned into actions . . . that was the dangerous risk in this game I played with clients on a daily basis.
Now, with a detective sitting across from me . . . the signs were clear. In John Abbott’s game, I had lost and the risks had won.
Saxe cleared his throat. “John Abbott didn’t show up to work this morning. His coworkers grew concerned, and one went by to see if he was okay. That’s when the police were called.”
I placed a hand on my chest, rubbing the soft silk of my dress shirt and willing my heartbeat to calm. I was about to ask if John was in custody when the detective continued.
“The bodies were both on the kitchen floor. The pharmacy employee saw Mr. Abbott’s through the window.”
All my thoughts skittered to a stop. Bodies? Mr. Abbott’s?
“It looks like Brooke Abbott had a heart attack while they were eating breakfast. We found her husband next to her. An apparent suicide.”
I frowned. “What? Are you sure?”
“The man was stabbed in the stomach. The angle and situation lead us to believe it was self-inflicted.”
I tried not to picture Brooke Abbott, whom I had met just last month in a freak run-in at the grocery store. A pretty woman. Kind eyes. A friendly smile. She had greeted me warmly, with no idea of the dozens of conversations I’d had with her husband about why killing her was a bad idea.
A year of sessions, and Brooke Abbott had died of a heart attack within hours of him calling me? I didn’t believe it.
“What were you treating John for?”
I clicked my tongue. “That’s confidential, Detective.”
“Oh, come on,” he scoffed. “The patient’s deceased.”
“Get me a warrant,” I said. “Look, I’m sorry, but I’m bound by a code of ethics.”
“And I’m sure you stretch the boundaries of that code.” He snorted. “We all know what your specialty is, Dr. Moore.” He finally sat, which was unfortunate, because I was now ready for him to leave. “Doc of Death? Isn’t that what they call you?”
I sighed at the moniker. “Violent tendencies and obsessions are my specialty, but they aren’t the only type of disorders I treat. Many of my clients are perfectly normal and pleasant individuals.” The lie rolled out smoothly. I hadn’t had a normal client in a decade.
He smirked. “Killers,” he said. “You treat killers. Current, future, and past. You’ll have to forgive me, Doc. I call it like I see it.”
“Well, like I said, I can’t discuss Mr. Abbott.”
“When’s the last time you spoke with him?”
The tap dance was beginning. I chose my words carefully, mindful that they were probably already aware of his calls. “Our last appointment was two weeks ago. He canceled the one scheduled for this week. And he called me this morning. I missed his call and called him back several hours later, but he didn’t respond.”
Saxe didn’t seem surprised by the information, which meant that they already had his call log. Thank God I hadn’t left a voice mail. “What did he say when he called you?”
“Just asked me to give him a call.”
“I’d like to hear that voice mail.”
I sighed. “I deleted it. I’m sorry, I didn’t think anything of it.”
He nodded, as if he understood, but if he was looking at this as a heart attack and suicide, he didn’t. “That number on your card, that’s the one he called?”
“The number on the back, yes. That’s my cell.”
“You give your cell phone number to all your clients?” He frowned. “Even the dangerous ones?”
“It’s a cell phone.” I sat back in the chair. “It’s not my home address or the code to my front door. If they abuse it, then I stop working with them. If I need to change the number, I’ll change the number. It’s not a big deal.”
“Coming from someone who looks at dead bodies all day, I have to say, Doc—I don’t think you take your safety seriously. You’re an attractive woman. All it takes is one of these sickos becoming obsessed with you, and you’re going to have a serious problem.”
“I appreciate the advice.” I forced a smile. “But they aren’t sickos. They’re normal people, Detective. Some people struggle with depression; others struggle with violent urges. If my clients didn’t care about protecting others, they wouldn’t be in my office.”