Authors: Joanne Fluke
The Other Child (23 page)
“No. Don’t call anyone. That would make everything worse.”
She stepped closer and took Mike’s hand. “I know where there’s some homemade wine, Mike. Maybe that would do. I found it when we first moved here, but I kept it a secret.”
“Where?” Mike got to his feet. “Get it, Leslie. Hurry up. Your mother shouldn’t be left alone.”
“It’s down in the root cellar, but it’s too heavy for me to lift.” She made her face frown. “It’s in a big jug, Mike, and I’m scared to go down there in the dark. Maybe it’s not such a good idea, after all.”
“I’ll get it.” Mike stood up. Poor Leslie was really upset. Her eyes were huge and black in her white face. “Just show me where it is and I’ll carry it up. You don’t have to go down there, honey. I’ll take care of it.”
It was light out, a nearly full moon shining in cold blue as they picked their way across the dewy lawn. Mike stopped short when he saw the root cellar.
“Are you sure it’s down there?” His voice was unsteady. “I don’t know, honey. . . . Do you think the steps will hold me?”
“Sure, Mike.” Leslie gave him her most sincere smile as she unlocked the rusty padlock and put it carefully in her pocket. “Can you lift the door?”
Mike bent down and hefted the door with a grunt. It slipped out of his hands and banged open, clattering like thunder against the cement slab.
“It’s really dark down there.” His voice was low and he shuddered as he looked down into the pitch-black cellar. “You’re sure there’s wine? You’re positive, Leslie?”
“I saw it myself. The steps look bad, but they’re really very sturdy. I’ve been down there lots of times, Mike. Just climb in and feel around. You’ll find it. It’s over there in the far corner, on the right. I’ll run back inside and get you a flashlight.”
Mike watched Leslie run back toward the lights of the house, her white shirt shimmering in the moonlight. He swallowed hard and turned back to the root cellar. He didn’t want to go down. He’d never liked the dark when he was a boy and he hated cellars. This one smelled damp and musty, and it reminded him of an open grave.
He forced himself down the first step. It did seem sturdy. He took a deep breath and went down another, then continued making his way down into the inky depths, one step after another, his heart pounding hard in his chest.
Down at last!
Mike took a deep lungful of stale air as his feet touched the earthen floor. His hand brushed against a cobweb and he flinched. He was acting like a coward and it was inexcusable. There wasn’t anything down in this old cellar but a jug of wine; and the sooner he found it, the quicker he’d be out of here.
His foot brushed against something hard and he reached down without thinking. His fingers curled around it—dry, dusty, cold. Mike gave a shudder of revulsion and dropped it quickly. It was a bone. Jesus. There was a skeleton down here!
Not human, he told himself, shrinking up against the shelves. It couldn’t be human. Someone had probably thrown a dead animal down here. He had to get hold of himself and find that wine.
He made himself put out his hand and touch the shelves. His fingers brushed against dusty shapes. Where was Leslie with that damn flashlight?
Thank God!
Mike gave a relieved sigh as he heard footsteps. Leslie was coming. He thought about what would happen if the door fell closed and he was trapped down here.
“Hurry, Leslie!” He yelled at the top of his lungs.
“Coming!” Her voice floated down to him. “Just a minute, Mike . . . just stay there.”
He heard voices from above and he turned toward the steps, startled. Someone was with Leslie.
The crash was as loud as a thunderclap.
“It’s done, Mother! Now he’s locked up forever and no one can take our beautiful house away!”
They could still hear the pounding from the root cellar. Mother looked lovely tonight in the long silk gown with ruffled sleeves.
“I think I’ll close the window, if you’ve no objections. The noise hurts my ears.”
At Mother’s nod, she got up and crossed the room to the window, shutting it firmly. The pounding was still audible but muted by the heavy panes of glass. It reminded her of something vaguely unpleasant, but it would stop soon.
“Play for me, Mother.” She smiled happily. “I love to hear you play. I think it’s wonderful that Grandmother provided lessons.”
“The Chopin, darling?” Mother’s voice was happy. “I know it’s one of your favorites. And then we can try a little Mozart . . . the Piano Concerto in C Minor, perhaps. Wouldn’t that be nice?”
“Very nice.” Her voice was respectful and proper. She hurried to the piano bench and sat close to Mother, watching her fingers fly expertly over the keys. Her spirits rose and soared with the lovely music.
Mother understood everything perfectly now. Christopher had explained it all to her very patiently. In a few days they would go to the store, dressed up in the funny modern clothes hanging in their closets. They would buy cases of canned and dried food. Food was packaged so conveniently now. They no longer needed to store anything in the root cellar.
“I’m so happy, darling.” Mother turned to look at her and smiled. “Isn’t it wonderful, being here in our very own house?”
“Yes . . . wonderful.” Christopher smiled back and nestled a little closer to Mother’s side. It was perfect being with Mother again. They were a family now, just the way they were always meant to be.
“I might as well tell you the gossip about this house before you hear it from someone else.” Rob Comstock wiped his perspiring face with a damp handkerchief and cleared his throat. They were good prospects. You could tell that by just looking at them. He was from a wealthy family and she was wearing a Cartier watch, with twelve diamonds on the face. They could afford to keep up a place like this and they were definitely interested. This was the second time they’d come back to take a look. Rob had always found it best to be honest with his clients, but he hoped that what he had to tell them wouldn’t ruin the sale. He needed this commission. Dr. Simmons said that Marilyn had to get away for a good, long rest so she wouldn’t keep dwelling on the Houstons, the accidents, and this house. All Marilyn could think about was Taffy’s horrid death, and not even the expensive psychiatrist could convince her that the Houstons were innocent.
“Yes?” the man inquired, raising his eyebrows as Rob shifted uneasily from foot to foot. “What is it, Comstock?”
Rob cleared his throat and plunged in. “It’s about the previous owners.” He took a deep breath. “They—the Houstons—moved in here last year, about this time. A mother, father, and a little girl about your son’s age. They were expecting another little one before Christmas. He was a photographer—a good one, too, from what I hear. Anyway, I guess the pressures of renovating this big house were just too much for them and he got in over his head financially. He was working day and night to try to meet the bills. You can see what a good job they did.”
The wife spoke up. “Is he the photographer who did that series in
Homes
?” She smiled when Rob nodded. “That’s what brought us here in the first place, you know. I saw the series and I said I just had to see this lovely mansion, didn’t I, dear?”
The man nodded. “So they defaulted on the payment? Is that what happened?”
“Eventually, yes.” Rob cleared his throat again. “This is unpleasant, but I think you should know. She lost the baby and she was never right in the head after that. He disappeared one night and never came back, and that drove her completely over the edge. She holed up in the house with the little girl, dressed up in old clothes that she’d found in a trunk upstairs. She kept insisting that she was all right and threatened to have the servants put out anyone who came near them. Of course there weren’t any servants. There haven’t been any servants in this house for years.”
The woman leaned forward, caught up in the drama. “Yes?” Her voice was breathless. “Please go on, Mr. Comstock.”
“Well . . . we probably wouldn’t have found them for months, but the school called me to go check when the little girl was absent for a week. People around town think the house is to blame for everything that happened. They . . . well . . . some of them say it’s haunted.”
Rob snapped his mouth shut tightly. There! He had said his piece and he wasn’t going to say much more than that. He still got into a cold sweat when he remembered the photographs.
The first one had shown Gary Wilson at the swimming hole. It had caught the terrified expression on poor Gary’s face when the rope snapped. There was another kid in the picture, a sort of fuzzy half-image of a blond kid up in the tree who looked enough like Leslie Houston to be her twin. That kid was laughing and holding the cut end of the rope.
The second photograph was worse. The same blond kid was inside Del Allen’s showroom the day Bud got hurt. The kid was leaning against the back of a car, pushing it toward the window. Bud was right outside. Rob felt sick to his stomach when he thought about it.
The third picture was the real cause of his nightmares. It was a picture of his own daughter, Taffy, surrounded by a wall of flames. The same blond kid was striking a match, and Taffy’s mouth was open in a horrified scream.
The pictures were on the parlor table when they found Karen and Leslie. Rob had stuffed them into his briefcase, and no one else had seen them. He didn’t understand how they could have been taken in the first place and they haunted him. He had taken them home and hidden them in a folder, trying to figure out what to do. Then, when he’d finally decided to take them to Sheriff Olson, he had an even bigger shock. They were gone! There was nothing inside the folder but black glossy paper. He hadn’t mentioned it to a soul. It just went to prove that he needed a vacation every bit as badly as Marilyn.
“A haunted house?” The man gazed up at the three-story brick mansion and chuckled. “That’s supposed to be the ‘in’ thing right now, isn’t it, dear? We’ll be the envy of all our friends if we buy this place!”
“Really, Sam!” The woman shook her head, and her expression sobered as she turned back to Rob. “That certainly is a sad story, Mr. Comstock. What happened to the wife and the little girl?”
“Oh . . . they sent the wife to the state hospital. I imagine she’s still there. The little girl was shipped off to a foster home. It was a sad day, I tell you.”
“And him?” the woman questioned. “Did they ever find the photographer?”
“Nope.” Rob shook his head and sighed. “He just disappeared and no one’s seen him since. I think he was in some kind of trouble. I know for a fact that he was gambling pretty heavy. Anyway, no one’s heard a peep from him. That’s why you’re getting the house at such a steal. He vanished into thin air and the house went back to us.”
“That’s all very interesting,” the man said in a bored voice. “It’s a lucky break for us, though. I guess things like that just happen sometimes, but someone’s got to pick up the pieces. You can’t be that upset about making two commissions on the same house in a year, can you, Comstock?”
Rob’s mouth tightened. He wanted to smack that rich bastard right in the face, but he forced himself to smile politely. He had to think of Marilyn. They needed this sale.
“It certainly doesn’t change our decision to buy the house.” The man nodded quickly. “You’ll never catch me turning down a bargain. Personally, I’m glad that other family lost it. They did a bang-up job of renovating it for us.”
“All right, then.” Rob drew a deep breath and controlled himself with an effort. “I just wanted to play square with you nice folks. Let’s take a final look around and I’ll answer any questions you might have. Then we’ll go down to the office and sign the papers.”
The boy was bored by the adult conversation. He wandered away and tossed rocks at the trees in the yard for a while. It was a nice, big yard. There was room enough for a baseball diamond if they mowed down that dippy rose garden. This was going to be a pretty good place to live. His dad was rich and he’d be the most important kid in town as soon as the rest of the kids found out how much money his dad had. It was a lot better than their high-rise in Dallas. Here there was room for all sorts of things.
He was turning to go back to his parents when he saw something glittering in the overgrown rose garden. Curiosity aroused, he ran over to take a look. It might be a silver dollar or maybe even something better.
“Aww . . . it’s just an old key!” He was about to toss it back when he reconsidered. Maybe it was a lucky find at that. You never knew when a key might come in handy. He’d find the lock it fit right after they moved in.
THE PERFECT CURE
On the surface they are beautiful and talented. But few know of the harrowing darkness inside each of them, how close they are to losing their tenuous grip on sanity. Dr. Elias is their only hope. But he’s dying. And he’s made his cold, final judgment: Those he can’t cure, he
must
kill.
FOR THE PERFECT CRIME
In order for Dr. Elias’s deadly prescription to succeed, none of the eight patients must know someone is stalking them, murdering them one by one. Even if they were to suspect that their lives are in danger, no one would believe them. But if there’s any chance they can stay alive, they must face the madness within . . .
Please turn the page for an exciting sneak peek of
Joanne Fluke’s next suspense thriller
COLD JUDGMENT
coming in November 2014!
He did not look like a dying man. Dr. Theodore Elias made a dispassionate examination. Excellent muscle tone for a male, age fifty-three. Normal pulse, blood pressure in the low–normal range. Hands steady, no sign of tremor. Eyes clear, intelligent, penetrating. A near-perfect specimen of the middle-aged adult male. There was no evidence of physical imperfection, no outward sign of terminal disease. Yet there was no cause to doubt the diagnosis. He had seen the results of the ultrasound and the CAT scan. And the exploratory surgery had been conclusive. Within six to eight weeks, this body would die of carcinoma of the pancreas. First the jaundice would appear, then increasing pain and physical weakness. There were drugs to control the pain, but death was inevitable. And when the body was wasted and useless, the mind would continue to function, the fine analytical mind that was the source of his pride. Dr. Theodore Elias would be fully capable of monitoring and cataloguing his own demise until the very end.
His steps did not falter as he crossed the tasteful gray carpet and took his customary place behind his large polished desk. He could not afford the luxury of self-pity, not when there were decisions to be made. He had to think of his profession, of his duties to his patients. Something would have to be done with his group immediately.
Dr. Elias’s eyebrows met in an impatient frown. This cancer could not have come at a worse time. Progress in his only current group was exasperatingly slow and it was the holiday season, a time when depression deepened and suicidal tendencies became severe. It was a time ripe for crisis. His eight patients, the last of his toughest cases, brought together over the years, were presently under control, but they would need help to get through the holidays.
The files were right where he had placed them after yesterday’s session. Dr. Elias lifted the bulky stack and weighed it in his hands. So much paperwork, so much effort, and his patients were still far from the cure he had promised and been willing to spend his remaining career trying to achieve. His colleagues called him a miracle worker. A cure rate of eighty-three percent was more than impressive. But it was no comfort when he knew he’d run out of time with his last eight dangerous patients.
It was possible these patients could maintain their equilibrium for a while, even in this perilous season. Dr. Elias forced himself to look on the bright side. His patients might take months to break down, even longer if he could refer them to the best therapists. But eventually they would crumple. It was only a matter of time. And without the proper help, each of them was capable of violence that could destroy innocent people.
Dr. Elias remembered the late-night discussions of his college days. They were held in cluttered, smoke-filled student apartments, fueled with jugs of cheap red wine, and accompanied by loud idealistic arguments. One, in particular, came back to him in vivid detail. An animal trainer had spent his whole life training a brilliant but vicious dog that only he could control. When the trainer was told he was dying, he was faced with a decision. He could destroy the animal and annihilate his life’s work or he could let the beast live and hope that another trainer could carry on with his project. No profound resolution had been reached that night. Undoubtedly a new group of students was debating the same question with no better results. Theoretical discussions were diverting in college, but real-life decisions were painful to reach. The guidelines set down by his profession were clear. He was obligated to refer his patients to other therapists and hope for the best.
Snow swirled past the window. The white, glittering particles seemed to have a life of their own, whirling gracefully fifty-seven stories above the city. The beauty of a snowflake was brief. Soon it would spiral inevitably downward to the street below, to turn to muddy slush under the wheels of traffic.
Dr. Elias opened his desk drawer and pulled out the list of alternate therapists he had prepared. These were the best psychiatrists in Minneapolis. He had to trust that they were competent to handle his patients. It would be inconceivable for one therapist to take over his entire group. That was a job only he could handle. His patients would be upset but the group would have to be disbanded. He was forced to refer them individually to eight different therapists.
He would tell them tomorrow and give them the names of their new therapists. Out with the old and in with the new. It was appropriate for the season, but Dr. Elias doubted his patients would appreciate the irony. There would be tears and panic, but he would be firm. Tomorrow would be their last group meeting. And the last time they would see him alive.
He opened the first folder and read the synopsis he had stapled inside.
Kay Atchinson, age 42, wife of Charles Atchinson, Mayor of Minneapolis. Diagnosis: Paranoid Schizophrenia.
A photo was clipped to the sheet of medical background. Kay was a pretty black woman dressed in an expensive, well-cut suit, hair carefully styled. Everything about Kay was careful, from her fashionable but not pretentious home on Lake Harriet to her studious, well-mannered children. In the fall of 1980 Kay had been under a lot of pressure, caught between a conservative political party and the radical black caucus. Charles had made public his plans to run for the Senate, and both Kay and Charles had anticipated the governor’s endorsement. It had been a shock when the governor had backed out at the last minute. The time wasn’t right, he’d stated. It would split the party. The governor was sorry but he felt obligated to endorse a white candidate.
The night of the announcement Kay had put a gun in her purse. She’d planned to assassinate the governor. He was a racist, just as the black caucus claimed. Luckily Kay had been intercepted by Charles, who’d managed to keep the news from the press. After two months of unsuccessful therapy in another state, Charles had called in Dr. Elias. Now, after over four years of therapy, Kay was functioning well as the mayor’s wife. Dr. Elias had successfully sublimated her hostility, but if the defense mechanism failed, Kay could be dangerous.
Dr. Elias selected a therapist for Kay and wrote a referral. The new psychiatrist might help Kay maintain a cloak of normalcy. Of course, no one but Dr. Elias could cure her.
The next folder was thicker. It contained years of notes.
Greg Davenport, age 23, single. Diagnosis: Pyromania.
Greg had not smiled for the camera. His elbow was propped on a table and his chin rested on his hand. A handsome young man with dark intense eyes, Greg had the world by the tail, as far as anyone knew. His inheritance was considerable, and now Greg was making a name for himself as a songwriter. No one knew much about Greg’s childhood, no one but Dr. Elias. And certainly no one but Dr. Elias knew that Greg had set the fire that had killed his father.
Dr. Elias remembered the day, eleven years ago, when the trustees of the Davenport estate had called him in to examine Greg. The boy had been twelve years old, his slight frame making a barely discernible bulge under the maroon hospital blankets. His face had been pale, eyes turned inward, seeming not to notice Dr. Elias at all as he’d conducted the examination. Greg had been catatonic, unable to move or speak. He’d been like that since the night his father had died.
After long months of treatment, Greg had finally broken his silence with a tortured confession. He had set the fire in a desperate bid for attention. He’d been lonely after his mother’s death, and his father had been more interested in women and wild parties than he’d been in Greg. The boy hadn’t realized the small fire would spread so quickly, and he’d been horrified at what he had done.
As Greg’s therapy had progressed, Dr. Elias had discovered he was dealing with a classic pyromaniac. Fire excited Greg. It made him feel powerful and compensated for his low self-esteem. Now, after eleven years of therapy, Greg’s pyromania was under control. Dr. Elias had taught him socially acceptable ways to satisfy his need for power. But Greg was not cured. Under stress Greg could revert to setting fires that could kill anyone caught in their path.
Greg needed good maintenance therapy. Dr. Elias consulted his list and finally settled on a compassionate young doctor with the University Medical Facility. Now two of his patients were referred. Dr. Elias picked up the third folder and massaged the back of his neck as he read his notes.
Debra Fields, age 30, widow of Steve Fields, newspaper correspondent. Diagnosis: Postpartum Depression, Complicated by Severe Melancholia leading to a Psychotic Episode of Kidnapping.
Debra faced the camera squarely, her classic features perfectly balanced. She was a beautiful woman who took pains to appear ordinary. Her short brown hair was cut in a no-nonsense style, large green eyes hidden behind tortoiseshell glasses. Her blouse was severely tailored, without lace or frills. Debra’s femininity was masked by an aloof professional exterior, but Dr. Elias knew it was fear that made her appear cold and unapproachable.
Four years ago when he had first met her, Debra had been in restraints, screaming for her baby. She had totally lost contact with reality. The shock of her husband’s death on assignment in El Salvador had sent Debra into premature labor. The baby had survived for a month but then died suddenly in the night. Driven frantic by her grief, Debra had kidnapped another baby from the hospital nursery and fled in a cab to the airport. When the authorities had found her, she’d insisted she was taking her baby to her husband in El Salvador. The infant Debra had abducted was unharmed and the parents did not press charges. After several weeks of unsuccessful therapy at the hospital, Dr. Elias had been called in by Debra’s employer, the
Minneapolis Tribune
. Since Debra’s husband had been on assignment for the
Tribune
when he was killed, and because of her own employment by the
Tribune
, the newspaper had assumed the responsibility for her medical bills.
It had taken six months of intensive therapy to bring Debra back to her empty reality. After a year she’d been able to return to her work as a photojournalist. Dr. Elias used a process of substitution in Debra’s therapy. A doll took the place of her baby; whenever Debra felt anxious, she rocked and cuddled her placebo. Even though Debra was performing well at work, her personal life was a void. She was afraid of social contact, afraid to get involved with anyone on a personal level. Unless she continued her therapy, Debra’s depression could deepen and trigger another psychotic episode.
The list of therapists that had seemed so inexhaustible held only one option for Debra. The Psychiatric Institute had a pilot program for parents who had lost their children. Dr. Elias wrote the referral and moved to the next file.
The next case was critical. Dr. Elias read over his notes and frowned.
Doug Sandall, age 36, wife and children deceased. Diagnosis: Suicidal Depression.
Doug’s sandy hair and clear blue eyes gave him a boyish appearance. To his coworkers at MilStar, he appeared to be a conscientious pilot, never complaining about long back-to-back flights. Only Dr. Elias knew the fear and the compulsion that rode with Doug, thousands of feet above the ground. Six years ago Doug had flown his wife and small daughter to Detroit, to visit relatives. The plane had crashed in a sudden storm, killing Doug’s family. Doug’s friends said it was a miracle he wasn’t injured, but Doug thought it was a curse. He still relived the accident in his dreams, agonizing over whether there was some way he could have avoided the tragedy. He had killed his family and he should have died with them.
Flying was Doug’s life, and after a month of intensive therapy, Dr. Elias decided it was safe to let him return to work. Now Doug had five years seniority at MilStar Corporation and a reputation as a dependable, dedicated pilot. Only Dr. Elias knew that Doug needed continual therapy to keep his suicidal tendencies under control.
The Swiss clock on the bookshelf chimed the hour softly as Dr. Elias completed Doug’s file. He pushed back his leather chair and got stiffly to his feet. There was a dull pain in his abdomen, which he decided to ignore. If he took the powerful analgesic now, he would not be alert enough to finish his referrals.
With slow, careful steps, Dr. Elias crossed to the window. The pain diminished a bit as he stood looking out at the city. From his penthouse apartment in the IDS Center he had a view of the entire downtown area. Lights gleamed from the offices in the Foshay Tower and the surrounding buildings. The copper dome of St. Mary’s Basilica stood stark and solid against the darkening sky. A plane flew high above the skyline in the wide flight pattern that would take it to Wold Chamberlain Airport, midway between Minneapolis and St. Paul. And far off in the distance he could see the strings of headlights on the freeways that encircled the Twin Cities. It was the Wednesday before Thanksgiving and traffic was heavy. People were leaving work early, to avoid the rush. The grocery stores would be packed tonight. Turkeys and cranberries would be in short supply. Tomorrow was the traditional day of celebration and feasting and on Friday the downtown area would be crowded with Christmas shoppers. The Friday after Thanksgiving was the heaviest shopping day of the year.
Softly falling snow covered the grimy streets with a frozen blanket of white and the traffic slowed on Marquette Avenue below. The double glass window was cold to the touch as Dr. Elias watched in the gathering gloom. The temperature would be in the low twenties tonight. In a few weeks the mercury would drop to the below-zero figures hardy Minnesotans had learned to endure. This was the last winter he would see. Suddenly the icy streets with their early Christmas decorations seemed oddly dear to him.
This year Christmas fell on a Tuesday. A bitter smile crossed Dr. Elias’s face. Celebrating a holiday on a weekday had always made him feel vaguely guilty. The week was for working, and Christmas was an excuse for a lot of commercial nonsense. This year he was spared his guilt. His work was nearly over. By Christmas his patients would be resigned to life without him.
Two men in parkas and moon boots were putting the finishing touches on the strings of lights that decorated the roof of the Northwestern Bank Building. Cables of bulbs were anchored to a huge circle on the roof and met at the top of a pole, thirty feet high. Dr. Elias saw the workmen step back and signal to someone below. A moment later there was a blaze of multicolor brilliance as the switch was thrown and a mammoth Christmas tree appeared against the night sky.
This would be his last Christmas, if he lived long enough to see it. The holiday was less than five weeks away. Chef Leon Lossing of the Orion Room was preparing a special holiday dinner for him, and Dr. Elias had been looking forward to it. Wild Rice Soup, Lobster and Sweetbreads with Raspberry Sauce, and Black Velvet Torte for dessert. Dr. Elias smiled in anticipation.
It was convenient to have a fine restaurant only seven floors below him. Every evening, at precisely five thirty, Jacques delivered and served his meal. Wednesday’s menu was Rack of Lamb Boulanglere. Dr. Elias reminded himself to open a bottle of Château Margaux 1974 to complement the lamb.
Jacques had the perfect blend of deference and efficiency that Dr. Elias expected in a waiter. He would prepare Jacques’s envelope with his yearly gratuity in advance this year, just in case.
On his way back to the desk, Dr. Elias turned on his favorite music. Gustav Mahler’s
Ninth Symphony
would help him to concentrate. Mahler understood his anguish. He was a kindred soul. Mahler, too, knew torture and disappointment in his search for excellence.
There were four folders left. Dr. Elias flipped open the top file and stared at the photograph. The man’s face was tanned and healthy, brown eyes, hair thinning slightly on top. His most striking characteristic was a wide smile that displayed a full set of perfect white teeth.
Jerry Feldman, age 44, married, no children. Diagnosis: Sexual Aberration
—
Child Molester.
Jerry was a successful dentist, specializing in cosmetic reconstruction. He claimed that he had fashioned caps for every one of the city’s leading newscasters. It was an in-joke. All the dentists in town knew they could switch to any channel to see Jerry’s handiwork.
His wife, Dotty, was a typical midwestern woman, warmhearted and eager for a house full of children. Jerry hadn’t told her about his vasectomy. And Dotty knew nothing about Jerry’s darker secret.
Jerry’s trouble had started early in his marriage. In 1979, he’d come to Dr. Elias after he’d nearly raped a ten-year-old girl. After six years of therapy, Jerry still was not cured but he had learned to avoid situations that put him into contact with young girls.
In two weeks, Jerry would face a crisis. His ten-year-old niece, Betsy, was coming to stay with him over the Christmas holidays. Dr. Elias knew he had to find a good therapist to help Jerry deal with his niece. Without help, Betsy could be in real danger from her uncle.
The light in the room was fading rapidly. Dr. Elias switched on the Tiffany desk lamp and wrote a short letter of referral for Jerry. The golden circle of light illuminated the next file as he opened it, hitting the photograph like a spotlight. It was appropriate. Nora Stanford was an actress.
Nora Stanford, age 36 (actual 46), single. Diagnosis: Thanatophobia leading to Episodes of Psychotic Aggression.
Nora was a classic beauty with high cheekbones and a mass of shining blond hair swept back from her marvelously mobile face. She had refused to pose for a snapshot and had insisted that Dr. Elias use one of her publicity pictures, heavily retouched to make her appear younger.