Psychology and Other Stories (33 page)

Massick, who had been pacing, sat down abruptly.

“In other words,” said Strickland, “for the most part he is absolutely adequately adjusted—lively, likable, all those things you said. But evidently he has … outbursts. Now, we all have those. But his are way outside the normal, the acceptable range. Which strongly suggests pathology.”

Massick sat silent.

“That's it in a nutshell,” Strickland said. “If you read through my report you'll no doubt be able to get a better idea of the legal, uh, ramifications …”

Massick stood again. “Tell me something, Doctor.” He perched on the front edge of the wide desk and crossed his arms thoughtfully. “What you just said … It's all a lot of pigwash, isn't it?”

“Pardon?”

“A load of crap. Hooey. Horseshit. Nonsense, Doctor. Isn't that so?”

“I'm obviously sorry you feel that way, Mr. Massick, but I …”

“With all due respect, sir, you psychiatrists are all alike, aren't you? A bunch of goddamn charlatans?”

“I can't help but feel that perhaps I haven't expressed myself as clearly as I could have. And that if you had looked at my report, perhaps … But in any case, if you feel that way I don't suppose I can
be of much use to you, or to Mr. Burger. I'm sorry to have wasted your time.”

Massick leapt up and made placating gestures. “You'll have to forgive me, Doctor, but that's the quickest and surest way I've found of testing a witness's mettle.”

Strickland stared.

Massick grinned down at him like a proud parent. “You're a cool customer. You'll do just fine on the cross.”

“On the cross?”

“Cross-examination.”

“You want to put me on the stand?” asked Strickland. He could not completely hide his pleasure.

“Now, you put an emotional man like myself or Mike Burger up there and start hammering at him and he'll either go to pieces, or he'll fight back. It makes good theater, and the jury may even love you for it—but they won't trust you anymore. The one thing an expert must be, is dispassionate.”

Strickland pursed his lips modestly.

“Where to, my friend?”

Strickland looked in his wallet. “The police station.”

The bored cop said, “Anything of value in the vehicle?”

Strickland looked puzzled and fatigued. “No. Nothing of value. Just the vehicle itself.”

“Anything in the glove compartment?”

“I don't think so. No. Nothing valuable.”

After jotting something down, the cop sat back in his chair, as if calling it a day. “And this man you saw in the street,” he said finally. “Think you could identify him?”

“You mean … pick him out of a lineup?”

“Or recognize him from a photo.”

Strickland sighed. “Are you familiar at all with the research of Elizabeth Loftus?”

The cop looked at him with serene blankness.

“There's a Russian proverb,” said Strickland. “‘He lies like an eyewitness.' Never mind. I don't trust myself. I wouldn't trust myself to get the right guy. I wasn't really paying attention.”

Strickland entered a phone booth, dialed, let it ring once, and hung up.

Then he lifted the receiver again.

Trace pulled up to the curb in a station wagon, rolled down the window, and smirked.

Strickland scuffed his feet forlornly.

She laughed. “Need a ride, stranger?”

“I'm glad they stole your car,” she said. “I bet I never would have heard from you otherwise. I should have thought of it myself.”

“Did you steal my car?”

“I'll never tell.”

Strickland fumbled with his chopsticks. Trace, with a huff of exasperation that stirred her frizzy bangs, slid around the table to give him a lesson.

“Grasp the first one like a pencil.” She took his hand and showed him. “Then the top one is your pincher doodad. Like this.”

“I think my method is unimprovable,” said Strickland. “It's the mushrooms that are to blame. They're slippery buggers.”

“Then why don't I have any problems? See?” She popped a mushroom in his mouth.

*

“Best part of the meal,” she said, cracking open her fortune cookie. “Whoa, whoa. You've got to eat the cookie first or the fortune won't come true.”

He chewed slowly and made a face. “Worst part of the meal.”

“Oh, I've got two! Twice as much future as you. ‘The first week of next month will be a good time to complete unfinished tasks.' I hate the ones that are just advice. ‘You are creative but can also be diligent when it is called for.'” She considered this. “It's not a fortune, but it's true.”

“True of everyone.”

“No it isn't!”

“It's vague and it's vaguely flattering. Anyone would recognize themselves in that. It's like astrology.”

“I don't believe in astrology. I believe in personality.” She peered at him. “What are you?”

“What am I what.”

“I'd peg you as either INFP or INFJ.”

“Oh God. You mean this Myers-Briggs thing.”

“I can't decide if you're introverted intuition with feeling or introverted feeling with intuition.”

“Come on. There is absolutely no foundation to that system, absolutely no experimental data that would—actually, it's impossible even to imagine what experiments
could
be done to validate it. It's entirely unfalsifiable. Unfalsifiable and unverifiable.”

She watched him contemplatively, her chin resting on one upturned fist.

“It's not science. It's not even psychology.”

“Judgment, definitely,” she decided. “INFJ.”

He laughed.

“But that's okay,” she said. “I'm a perfect ENFP myself, so we've got good overlap but also good …” She fitted her fingers together
and made a locking-into-place sound. “Meshing. Opposition. Complement-ariness. Now read your fortune.”

“‘A smiling face is half the meal.'”

She looked down at their plates. “Yuck.”

They laughed.

Strickland asked, “Do you really think I'm an introvert?”

Q. About how common is this intermittent explosive disorder?

A. I do not have access to any precise figures at the moment, but I should say that it is not extremely common.

Q. In fact the DSM, the psychologists' manual, says that it is extremely rare, does it not?

A. No doubt you are correct. Thank you.

Q. How many times have you seen it? In a patient. How many times in your career have you made this diagnosis?

A. Well, Ms. Lattimann, I could not say.

Q. You don't know or you don't remember?

A. Diagnosis, in a clinical setting, diagnosis is of a secondary order of—it's not an issue of primary—it's tangential to the main thrust of treatment.

Q. Professor, for your sake and my sake and the sake of the jury, may I with all due respect please remind you to please answer the question directly.

A. Thank you, yes. I will try. Could you repeat the question?

THE COURT: Miss Reporter, will you kindly read back the last question for the doctor.

REPORTER: How many times in your career have you made this diagnosis?

A. With all due respect, Ms. Lattimann, diagnosis, putting a generic name to a cluster of individual and often unique problems or symptoms, well it does not play a large part in my clinical, therapeutic work.

Q. Your Honor, I would ask that the witness be directed to answer the question, please.

THE COURT: Answer the question if you can, Doctor.

A. I am trying, Your Honor. To the best of my knowledge, and in light of what I just said, I suppose the answer must be not very often.

Q. Professor, I will try to make this easy for you. Before Michael Burger, did you ever, have you ever made this diagnosis before? Please answer yes or no.

A. No. But as you pointed out it is very rare.

Q. How many patients do you see, Professor?

A. On an ongoing basis? It varies.

Q. How many patients do you see right now?

A. As I said, it varies.

Q. How many patients did you see in the last seven days?

A. Two. But perhaps I could be permitted to elaborate?

THE COURT: Just wait until you're asked a question, Doctor.

Q. What are your diagnoses of those two patients, Professor?

A. Well, one is suffering from a form of chronic depression, and the other, a sort of generalized anxiety.

Q. Are those diagnoses—chronic depression and generalized anxiety—are those in the DSM, Professor?

They stood beside the car on an embankment, looking down at the city.

Trace said, “Old people holding hands … Finding money in the pockets of clothes you haven't worn in a long time … Days that are sunny and rainy at the same time. What else … Oh!—when somebody out of the blue smiles at you like they know you, but they don't. I love that … What about you?”

Strickland smiled and shook his head.

*

In the car, she said, “Jealousy. A crime of passion.”

“But the guy was a complete stranger.”

“Maybe. Or maybe the wife is hiding something. Maybe your friend finally had enough and just pow!—snapped.”

“I don't know.”

“It's obvious. You just can't see it because you're above all that.”

“I don't know.”

“Do you want to come in?” he asked.

“Why?”

“I … I thought maybe you'd like a cup of coffee.”

“Oh. In that case.”

“I don't know where everybody is …”

She looked at the framed photographs on the mantel. “Nice.”

“Do you have—kids?”

“Kids are amazing. No. Ted didn't want any.” She let out a bark of laughter. “Neither did I. How old is he?”

“Five. Yes, five … Hard to believe. Children are the most amazing clocks. Five years used to mean nothing to me. Now it's … well. His lifespan.” He shook himself out of his reverie. “How do you like your coffee?”

“No sugar. Lots of cream. Till it's like the color of my skin.”

She showed him an arm.

He stood in the kitchen with his forehead against a cupboard.

He poured coffee, added cream, looked at it. Added more cream, looked at it. Added more cream. Looked at it.

“What's the matter?” she asked.

“Oh, nothing. Kink in my neck. I sleep funny.”

She put down her cup. “How often?”

“Every other day or so.”

She stood behind him and put her hands on his shoulders.

He stiffened. She waited. He relaxed.

She began feeling his neck, his shoulders, his upper back. His head fell forward.

“That's better,” he murmured.

She laughed. “I haven't even done anything yet.”

The front door opened and closed. He stiffened again.

“It's not a kink, it's repetitive strain. You hold yourself too tight. Hello.”