The Other Child (24 page)

Ten years ago Nora had viciously attacked the young ingenue who’d replaced her in
The Debutante
. The young actress had been hospitalized and Nora had been referred to Dr. Elias by the court. She was a brilliant actress, driven by her talent, desperately afraid of growing old and not being able to perform. Dr. Elias had discovered Nora had other problems in addition to her fear of dying. She was terrified of her attraction to other women. Once Nora had accepted her lesbian tendencies, her therapy had progressed. She’d found a compassionate lover and opened a theater workshop within walking distance of the Guthrie. There were no more aggressive incidents, but Dr. Elias knew that Nora’s jealous rages were barely under control. She needed constant therapy to keep from becoming violent again.

After he had chosen a therapist for Nora, Dr. Elias reached for his eelskin tobacco pouch. He selected his favorite pipe from the rack, a handmade natural briar crafted by Ed Kolpin, founder of the Tinderbox. Every month he received a package of his personal blend of tobacco from the original store in Santa Monica. Several years ago Dr. Elias had voluntarily cut down on his smoking. Now that precaution seemed ridiculous. His smile was bitter as he lit the pipe and tamped it with the gold tool a former patient had given him. There was no reason to deny himself any of life’s pleasures now. There was little enough time to enjoy them.

There were only two more patients to refer and he would be finished. Dr. Elias opened the next file.
Father Vincent Marx, age 51, single. Diagnosis: Violent Schizophrenia
.

Father Marx prided himself on being a modern priest. In the photograph he was dressed in a blue-striped O.P. shirt and chinos. Only the small gold cross that he wore around his neck was an indication of his profession. Father Marx was streetwise. He knew all the current street slang and used it in everyday conversation. That made him especially effective in his church on lower Hennepin, relating to broken families and rebellious teenagers.

There was only one area in which Father Marx was not a regular guy. He hated prostitution and everything it represented. When he was forced to confront blatant sex, he turned into a religious zealot.

Father Marx had found Dr. Elias on his own, five years ago. No one, including the Church, knew about his problem. A prostitute had propositioned him on the street, and Father Marx had assaulted and nearly killed her because she’d reminded him of his mother.

Father Vincent Marx was the illegitimate son of a prostitute. When he’d been barely old enough to walk, he’d been punished for trying to climb into his mother’s bed. After that incident he’d been locked in a closet every night so he could not interfere with his mother’s business. As soon as he’d been old enough to rebel, Vincent had run away. A kindly priest had found him and persuaded his mother to sign relinquishment papers. Vincent had grown up in a Catholic orphanage and had entered the priesthood out of gratitude.

The hatred was still there, but with Dr. Elias’s help, the violent emotion was kept under control. Father Marx was now able to counsel his parishioners regarding sexual matters even though, in his heart, he still felt sex was dirty and wrong. If he suffered a setback, his hatred could erupt into violence again. Under the right circumstances, Father Marx was perfectly capable of cold-blooded murder.

Dr. Elias wrote a referral for Father Marx and turned to the file of his remaining patient.
Richard “Mac” Macklin, age 34, divorced. Diagnosis: Severe Guilt Complex resulting in Impotence.

Kind blue eyes looked out from the photograph. Mac had an engaging face, one that inspired immediate trust. Laugh lines crinkled the corners of his mouth, and his curly red hair was charmingly unruly. The only evidence of the deep problems that plagued him was the permanent dark circles under his eyes.

Mac had been a detective on the Minneapolis Police Force when the incident had occurred, five years ago. Several attacks had been made on police officers in the preceding week and Mac had been wary when he’d answered the call to a tenement on Lake Street. Two armed suspects had been spotted there. Mac’s partner had gone up the fire escape. Mac had taken the door. The apartment had been dark and the hall light out. Mac had overreacted when he’d seen the shadow of the gun. He’d fired, killing a twelve-year-old boy. The gun had been a toy. The boy had been playing a very real game of cops and robbers.

Naturally the press had had a field day, even though Mac was cleared by the department. There had been hate letters and anonymous phone calls in the middle of the night. Somehow Mac had managed to ignore the people who’d called him a kid killer, but the pressure had taken its toll. After the shooting, Mac had found he was impotent. At first Mac’s wife had been understanding, but as time passed she’d become dissatisfied with the marriage. Six months later she’d filed for divorce. Mac had suffered a breakdown and been hospitalized.

The police department carried excellent insurance and Dr. Elias had been called in. After a year’s leave of absence, Mac had returned to the force. His crisis was over but, even with Dr. Elias’s encouragement, Mac refused to put his potency to the test. He was terribly lonely but he felt it was better to avoid women than to risk failure.

After several months at work, Mac’s impotence had taken on a new complication, one that affected his career. His service revolver, an obvious phallic symbol, became the source of his anxiety. Dr. Elias knew the risks involved with a cop who could not use his gun. At any time a situation could occur where Mac would have to shoot to save a fellow officer’s life. It would be a murder by omission if he could not fire.

There was only one practical way to deal with the problem. Mac studied nights and received his promotion to detective. Now the probability of his having to use his gun was greatly diminished. Both Mac and Dr. Elias were relieved.

Dr. Elias finished Mac’s referral and stretched wearily. Technically, these eight patients were no longer his responsibility, but he was unable to relinquish the final thread that bound him to his group. He would ask for progress reports from the new therapists. It was only right that he follow his patients as long as he could.

Fifteen minutes remained before his dinner arrived. Dr. Elias uncorked the wine and poured a glass to let it breathe. Then he unlocked the door that led to his art gallery.

The long, narrow hallway was filled with portraits he had painted, one for every patient he had cured. Dr. Elias walked slowly to the very end, glorying in his successes. The portraits were the work of a talented amateur. Once he had wanted to be an artist but he’d felt compelled to continue his father’s work in medicine. His therapy work was his art. He took disorganized psychic material and transformed it into human masterpieces. These portraits were glorious testimonies to his talent as a psychiatrist.

His studio was at the end of the corridor. The outside walls were of glass, to maximize the daylight exposure. An easel was placed in the center of the large room. Resting on it was his only unfinished canvas.

It was a portrait of his group: Kay, Greg, Debra, Doug, Jerry, Nora, Father Marx, and Mac. They were seated in a half circle around the conference table in his office. The portrait was precise, correct to the smallest detail. Only the faces were unfinished, startling white ovals of blank canvas.

His fingers itched to take up the brush and finish the painting, but it was impossible. He could complete a canvas only when the case was resolved. Dr. Elias felt a stab of remorse as he gazed at his painting. It violated his sense of order to leave a project unfinished. If only he could find a way to close these cases.