"Even though he put the gun to his mouth and pulled the trigger," Lt. Andrew Sandowicz announced. "I think Bob Randall was murdered."
Normally, I might have thanked Dad for taking me away from the glorious life that is "Zach Sandowicz, Boy Therapist." My counseling matters - paperwork, clients, etc - they all seemed to wither in light of this news. However, I knew my father was wrong about this, even though he was one of Chicago's finest. My former classmate was not murdered. I was there.
"Dad, I know better," I countered. "He was in his usual 'I-don't-follow-your-rules' mode when he grabbed one of his dad's guns. Karen even begged him not to do it, saying that she 'didn't want to be alone, please don't do this again.' Julie and I even tried to get the gun away. However..."
Unfortunately, seeing someone blow his brains out is not a pretty picture. If I wasn't in my own therapy, I probably...but enough dwelling. There was plenty of other unpleasantness to experience: detectives bagging evidence like produce, the empty, almost naked space where the offending weapon once lay, and even seeing that body bag zipped up. Most profoundly, there was the pink and grayish Rorschach-like blot on the white basement wall. Yes, those are memories to last a lifetime.
"Son, we have a ballistics report," Dad interrupted. "It was wiped clean of prints, except for Randall's. Spoke to Randall's father, and, well, there's something you should know."
Aware of Dad entering lecture mode, I nodded.
"Randall's father collects only Colt revolvers," he began. "The gun Randall shot himself with was a Remington. The bullet is loaded in the chamber clockwise in Colts, but counterclockwise in Remingtons..."
"So Bob thought he could see the one with his name on it..." I concluded.
Dad's silent response confirmed it.
For a few moments, we just sat in silence, our only soundtrack the traffic outside. Dad slurped some coffee from a Styrofoam cup, and wiped his mustache clean with a napkin. I loosened my tie, and wished that the room had air conditioning. Suddenly, the sound of wingtips on a wooden floor interrupted our brief respite.
"Our forensic psychs consider it a suicide, that Randall planted the gun," Dad continued, shuffling through papers. "However, I think a client killed him. His employer is being very tight-assed about giving us info - the info they do give is fragmentary - and then there's this..."
Taking the sheet of paper that Dad handed to me, I glanced at it. It was a report pulled off of Bob's computer by one of the detectives. It consisted of some garbled characters, with specific phrases - "borderline p.o. w/antisocial chars?" "risk engaging client in more intimate fashion" and "avoid countertransference, especially now" - shouting amongst the static.
"Treatment notes?" I asked.
"Probably," my father said. "New Mind Consulting isn't giving us too much - just scraps that lead to nowhere. That's where you come in?"
"Am I Ellery Queen or Mike Hammer?" I asked jokingly.
He didn't smile. "New Mind acts all touchy-feely, but some predators do that to get their prey. They're not cooperating, and we need some stronger personality stuff on Randall."
"Do I get to pack heat?" I quipped. At the very least, I wanted a way cool neat-o badge.
"Son, I could get in big trouble for this," he responded. "But I won't tell if you won't."
"Done," I responded, and with that, I left.
Ten minutes later, I headed into the warm, muggy Chicago afternoon. Wading my way sluggishly through the humid air, I made my way down into the cool, comforting confines of the train station conveniently located in front of Police Headquarters.
One ten-minute train ride later, I reemerged from the underground into Chicago's Loop. Mentally I reviewed my schedule - today was Tuesday, and that meant four clients starting at three with a DUI group tonight. Taking my place amidst the flood of people, I followed the flow down Randolph towards an out-of-the-way sandwich joint.
As I entered and placed an order, there were two women, both late twenties, in a booth far from the frenzied interaction of workers released from the confines of their cubicles. A woman with blonde hair and dressed too casually to work the Board of Trade munched on a salad. She glowed with the aura of someone almost angelic; of someone so immediately approachable you couldn't help but smile and say hello. The other was dressed in a conservative pantsuit, was rather stocky in build, had red hair with blonde streaks through the front, and alternated between munching on a cheeseburger and taking puffs from a cigarette. There's nothing like being able to balance your carcinogens.
After retrieving my somewhat unhealthy looking gyros sandwich, I made my way towards that booth. Sitting besides Julie, the blonde, I gave her a quick kiss on the cheek, and said a quick hello to Karen Gallagher, Rob's ex and she who could handle a carcinogen in each hand.
"So, Miss Stark," I said to Julie. "How are you ladies this rather hot afternoon?"
Karen mumbled rather audibly, "I'm fine, I guess...It's tough, though."
Julie turned to me with a look that said this isn't good. Karen drifted off into silence, and behind the glasses she wore were the eyes of someone pained by life. Unsure of what to say next, I just sat there and looked empathetic. The trouble with life is that it isn't therapy - in therapy, you lead the conversation towards a goal, towards some revelation, even if it's just the kind of toothpaste a client uses. In life, some things aren't easily said.
Noticing the slight increase in tension, Julie said, "I'm sure things will brighten up soon, Karen. It takes time...like I tell the rest of my clients."
Bristling slightly, Karen sighed, "I don't know...I mean, he shot himself. He didn't even think about what he was doing to me, that bastard...leaving me alone like this..."
Stunned at the sudden rage, Julie and I turned to each other in shock. We both knew that anger was part of grieving - hell, that's Therapy 101. However, this was a little too sudden for that to happen.
Indulging our denial, we began talking about the minutiae of our jobs: Julie working with children & families, my work with substance abuse clients, and Karen's work for an HMO. Being the relatively nice guy that I am, I refused to reveal that I respect HMOs as I do the philosophy of Adolph Hitler. This went on for about an hour.
As we ended, I pulled one of my business cards out of my front pocket, along with a pen. Writing my work extension on the front and my home number on the back, I handed it to Karen tentatively. Luckily, I didn't leave any grease stains on it.
Snatching the card, Karen glared at it while I said, "If you ever need to talk..." "So you think I'm crazy, huh?" she snarled in disgust. "Think I need 'help'?"
"No," I reassured, fighting the urge to go on the defensive. "I'm lending a friendly ear."
"Zach's good at that, you know," Julie reasserted. "I don't mind listening to you, Karen, you know that. Zach was Bob's friend...he can be a little impartial."
Karen's mood quickly subsided, and noticing the lateness of the hour, chose to begin to leave. Making our way out, we spilled back onto Randolph, where Karen took her leave of us. She headed towards LaSalle, and Julie and I made our way slowly towards Wabash.
Stating the obvious, I said, "She's taking this really hard."
Concerned, Julie looked and said, "I guess...she's always had a tough life. Parents used to tear her apart, say little things to cut her down. Tons of bad relationships in her past. Too many mistakes - she's a good woman, Zach. If I weren't dating you, I'd set you up with her."
"Thanks," I responded. "But I already have the greatest lady in the world."
Julie smiled sadly, and then continued. "I wonder, though, if that's what Bob saw in her - someone to be rescued. I mean, I only know her through your link with Bob..." "And Bob really wasn't that close of a friend," I shrugged. "We'd screw around in class, but that's about it."
After a brief pause, I asked, "Julie, has Karen ever been in therapy?"
Julie thought for a moment as we turned and headed east. "I think so - she was at Interventions about a year ago. Had begun drinking a little too much, her employers had made her go through an EAP. Her brother even said that she might have had therapy in high school, maybe college...she began seeing Bob, let's see now...right after she got out of treatment, about four or five months."
"This EAP," I asked, "Was it New Mind Consulting?" Never let it be said I didn't enjoy fishing.
"I dunno," Julie responded. "Never really asked her...she was kind of sensitive about that. In fact...if she was, why would she date a therapist?"
We stopped in front of Marshall Fields, and I related to her Dad's theory about the murderer-as-angry-client. Karen probably needed to know that one of Bob's clients might have murdered him.
"So you're a detective, huh?" Julie asked, wrapping her arms around my neck. Slipping my hands around her waist, and gazing deep into her eyes, I responded, "Well, yeah, after I run my DUI group, do the therapy thing, and feed my cat."
Coyly she asked, "May I be your Watson, my dear Holmes?"
I was too busy kissing her to answer.
Twenty four hours after that lunch, I sat in the waiting room of New Mind Consulting. The setting was right out of a Dilbert strip: plain white walls, expensive artwork, and people acting like they resided on Mount Olympus. A lowly temp guided me into the main office, and I sat in a more comfortable chair waiting for the boss. I knew it was the boss' office because it not only was really big, and had a magnificent view of Lake Michigan. All bosses in Chicago had such views - I think it's state law, or something.
Sitting in front of me was a man who looked much younger than he probably was. If anyone was the textbook profile of corporate confidence, it was he: the reddish-gray hair combed smoothly; the well-manicured nails; the way his suit fit like body armor; and the almost too well organized materials on his desk. A laser-etched piece of glass told me that that was Dr. Robert Maxwell, Director of Operations. After shaking my hand like a cat pawing its prey, we both sat down opposite each other.
"So, Mr. Sandowicz, you're helping the police in the Randall matter?" he asked in a voice that spent one year too long in graduate school.
"Yes, and the State's Attorney's office as well," I responded, silently thanking God that Sean still owed me for that incident back in high school.
Marshall's manner was cool and calm, betraying no discomfort. "Please forgive me for seeming indignant, but we have helped the police as much as we can within ethical bounds. We do have client interests to maintain..."
"I understand perfectly," I said, my maternal just-the-facts gene kicking in. "My primary concern is profiling Mr. Randall. I realize you're a very busy man, Dr. Marshall - all I need is some basic information about his work here."
With the subtlety of a chess player, Marshall said, "At the time of his death, Mr. Randall was pursuing interests counter to those of this agency. I don't wish to discuss them at this time."
Knowing I hit a nerve, I gently answered, "I understand - all I need to know is, well, what kind of therapist was he? I realize he started here for his master's practicum..."
"He did - brilliant young man," Marshall said with a mentor's pride. "He was somewhat... unorthodox. I...Look, you're technically working for the police, but what's said between us stays between us, you understand? Clinician to clinician."
"No," I asserted. "I'm afraid not. Answer my questions now, or in court." Luckily, he would do both.
"Such direct confrontations for a therapist," Marshall said tauntingly. "Just get your degree? Think you have the experience to counter me?"
He was obviously stoking the fire, wanting me to snap back. Calmly, I said, "Tarasoff. Duty to warn. If a client killed Mr. Randall, you are just as culpable. You can be considered an accessory to murder."
Realizing that this prey fought back, Marshall straightened himself and said, "Randall was a fine clinician - his rapport with clients was astounding. Granted, ours are higher functioning, but.... he wanted to be just a counselor. I encouraged him to stay here, get his doctorate, we need guys like him in our field..."
"What happened?"
"Randall...had a big problem with boundaries. One of his practicum clients - very needy, dependent type - reconnected with him, and they struck up a friendship. Granted, he was referred out for treatment, but it was too soon...only a year or so."
I nodded in assent...dual relationships are always forbidden to therapists.
"We figured, he's starting out, we gave him a slap on the wrist. However, we were notified that, in sessions, he would be...either really permissive or really abusive. He acted out with clients. One client was suicidal, and instead of doing an eval, he told this person, 'I'll bring the razor blades, let's do it.' He even dated one or two female clients after he worked with them."
Was he cheating on Karen? I thought, then asked, "Was he ever threatened by a client? Any of them really dangerous?"
"Without breaking confidentiality...I don't know. His notes were often vague...in fact, he really only opened up about clients in supervision. Brilliant mind, that young man. However, there are plenty of suspects - even gave a list to the police. They claim it's not enough. When he was alive, we never cited Tarasoff issues when clients would threaten...it was never taken seriously. If we open ourselves further, we'll be in litigation for years over mistreatment."
No wonder they wanted to avoid exposure - one bad seed could spoil profits. Allowances for social interactions between therapists & clients were getting tighter. Plus, enough unreported near lapses in ethics...things did not look good for New Mind. However, I thought of Karen, and what was it Julie said...she'd been referred by an EAP. New Mind specialized in that kind of work, but...enough postulation for now.
"You mentioned something about intimacy with female clients," I asked. "Ever get solid proof?"
"Not until recently - it was a week before he died. Brought a young woman to our company picnic, announced her as his new girlfriend, and claimed to have been dating her a year. She was someone we had assessed as having BPD."
Silently, I cursed. It not only looks like Dad's theory was right, but that I knew who the killer was.
"BPD - borderline personality disorder?" I asked.
"Right out of the DSM-4: unstable sense of self, history of unstable relationships, inappropriate rages, impulsivity, suicidal acting out..."
This was a lot more about Karen than I needed to know. "Did she have...antisocial traits?"
"Yes - little or no regard for others. She was only a three-session referral, and our write-up was minimal. She was referred to treatment for alcohol and cannabis abuse. Randall contacted her, and was going to, well...he had ideas."
"Ideas?" I asked.
Marshall seemed embarrassed to admit this, but began, "Randall...I called him in my office after this. He wanted to try some new therapeutic approaches' - a little cognitive, mostly object relations..."
As Marshall explained Bob's thinking, I was glad I wasn't psychobabble-impaired. Bob was attempting to provide a "good self" for Karen. He would be in a relationship with her not only to give her a role model, but also to help her "invest in an emotional other without fear of self-destruction." At least, that's how Marshall explained it. Dating someone to help her get well...and they say Brian Wilson's ex-therapist was unprofessional. Granted, since he only did an assessment, Bob's ethics weren't as messy, but that's like saying one between the eyes is better than one in the gut.
"Can I see Ms. Gallagher's file," I said, deliberately making a slip of the tongue.
"Sorry, that's confidential," Marshall responded, and then realized I knew the mystery client.
Pulling a checkbook out of his desk, he grabbed a pen out of an inner suit pocket. Opening the checkbook, he began writing in it. Looking up, he said, "Mr. Sandowicz, I would appreciate some...discretion in where and how you present this information."
Knowing a bribe when I saw it, I responded, "No problem."
"Really?" Marshall asked excitedly.
"Yes," I said. "I'll only tell licensure boards and law enforcement agencies."
Marshall dropped his pen as his demeanor cracked slightly. He then urged, "We deal with very...selective clients. Clients who understand that, in terms of mental health, discretion and confidentiality are strong values. Clients who could use people like you, and who would pay top salaries for people like you. Tell me, how much do you make a year." "Enough to pay my rent, feed my cat, and rent the occasional Doctor Who video," I responded. Of course, it wasn't enough, but then again, who did?
"Play ball with me, Zach," Marshall urged desperately. "And I'll make sure you make more than enough."
His offer sounded appealing...for a second. However, I have gotten used to being able to look myself in the mirror and liking what I saw, so I rose from my chair.
"No thanks," I said. "I never was good at playing ball. I'll leave that to Michael Jordan."
With that, I turned and left his office, neither tarnished nor afraid. Soon, I made it back to my office, and saw three back-to-back therapy clients. The lower humidity and a nice cool breeze of the lake made it much more comfortable to work. However, work did distract me from dealing with some very unpleasant thoughts.
It was nearing five o'clock when I called Dad with my findings. He listened as I rambled in my coffee-and-process-note-induced dementia, telling him what I'd learned about Karen. Dad had also done some sleuthing, and we both knew what we had to do. Half an hour later, he met me at my office, and we drove to Karen's apartment in Lincoln Park.
One hour and a half later, Karen let the both my father and I into her apartment. As he and I strode inside, we saw that Julie was with her, and they had both been watching the news. Karen was dressed in a T-shirt and sweatpants, and Julie was wearing a T-shirt and jeans. It was your typical Lincoln Park studio, basically a shoebox with a matchbox-sized bathroom. The furniture was laid from wall-to-wall: a TV was at one end, in front of that a couch, behind that a small desk, and file cabinets lay behind that. Feeling really self-conscious about my size, I crouched slightly. Judging from the fast food wrappers and dirty dishes strewn about the place, Karen was in sore need of a maid and a nutritionist, as well as a lawyer.
"What the hell do you want *now*?" Karen asked indignantly.
"You're under arrest for the murder of Bob Randall," Dad announced in his best Jack Webb voice.
"What?" Karen countered. "He killed himself - he shot himself right in front of us."
"You switched guns, Karen," I said. "Bob shot himself with the wrong gun."
"Zach," Julie asked. "How can you *say* that? Are you really sure?"
"Yes, Julie," I said. "Karen was one of Bob's clients."
Stunned, Julie looked at Karen. Karen just acted as if I had announced that I was built like a linebacker gone to seed.
"We confirmed with with New Mind," Dad said. "Randall was being brought up on ethical violations, and we have a copy of the formal complaint against him. New Mind's already in tons of hot water. This didn't help."
"Nice theory," she said, then turned to me. "You like your little theories?
You therapists, making theories about people you barely knew. Where's your proof? Huh?"
"Bob was shot with a Remington," I countered calmly. "His father only collected Colts."
Almost as if on cue, Dad pulled out a small slip of paper from his front pocket and approached Karen. "Although the serial number was filed off, we traced it to a pawn shop in Englewood. The shopkeeper positively ID'd you - said he usually never helped 'red haired white girls'."
Thrusting a blue-painted fingernail in my face, she said. "How *dare* you make these allegations? You know *nothing* about me!"
"You were admitted to substance treatment through an EAP - Julie told me so," I said.
Karen turned to Julie and just glared at her. Julie looked visibly shaken. I didn't envy her at that moment, and she probably didn't envy me, either.
Calming down, Karen began saying, "What right did you have to pry into my private life? Or even search my records?"
"You murdered somebody," I countered. "You switched the guns...you've probably met Bob's dad, he probably let you know about the information. Maybe Bob showed you - after all, it was something he did regularly. You had a psychiatric history, and Bob figured he'd help a client *and* get some at the same time."
"You scumbag," Karen countered indignantly.
Still astounded, Julie offered, "Karen, maybe you should call a lawyer..." At that point, Karen entered a rational sounding diatribe that was liberally laced with character assassinations, protests of innocence, and sulfur-coated adjectives.
After finishing, Karen announced calmly, "Yes, I switched the guns. He was going to leave me, claiming that he was in trouble at work. I figured, why not help him along? After all, I didn't need him. And you know what the best thing was?"
We all paused, and Karen continued, "The way his brains made that lovely pattern on the wall...it looked like frost. Pink frost. All that blood and brains...yes, that's it. Pink frost. His death brought me the most beautiful thing in the world."
Dad read Karen her Miranda rights as he escorted her out of the door. Julie and I turned to each other, but not understanding the calm insanity which Karen presented both of us. We saw beneath the mask she had showed us, and saw something we never thought we would see in one of our own. Clients had that kind of inner self; nobody like us did.
We both could professional detach from this, but personal detachment was harder. The most Julie and I could do was hold each other.
After what seemed to be an eternity, we left Karen's apartment.
If only shutting the door on that experience were so easy.
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