Rage

By

Lawrence W. Gold, M.D.

Rage 2012 © by Lawrence W. Gold, M.D.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

This book is a work of fiction. Characters names, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

A Grass Valley Publishing Production

To order additional copies of this book, e-mail

Grassvalleypublishing@gmail.com

Cover Art©2012 by Dawné Dominique

Dedication

To my wife, Dorlis.

Her support and patience made this work possible.

Acknowledgments

Donna Eastman of Parkeast Literary Agency who first encouraged me to write.

Joseph Barron, a true renaissance man and my writing buddy. Gone but not forgotten.

Dawné Dominique, a gifted artist and cover designer.

Writers groups on both coasts. WOW in Palm Coast, Florida and Sierra Writers Fiction Critique Group in Grass Valley, CA

A psychotic is a guy who’s just found out what’s going on.

William S. Burroughs

Reality is merely an illusion, albeit a very persistent one.

Albert Einstein

Show me a sane man and I will cure him for you.

Carl Gustav Jung

Betrayal is the only truth that sticks.

Arthur Miller

Other Works

By

Lawrence W. Gold, M.D.

Fiction:

Brier Hospital Series:

First, Do No Harm

No Cure for Murder

The Sixth Sense

Tortured Memory

The Plague Within

Trapped

HYbrid

Other Novels:

For the Love of God

Rage

Deadly Passage

A Simple Cure

Non-Fiction:

I Love My Doctor, But…, a lighthearted look at the doctor/patient relationship

All available in print and in Kindle

Prologue

Emeryville (1992)

The Emeryville patrol car was on the evening shift near The City Marina. The aged wipers slapped back and forth against the drizzle smearing the windshield.

“Riding with you, sweet thing, is like traveling with a ghost,” said Geraldine Sims, a twenty-two year veteran.

Michael Rose, her young partner for the last three years, was sitting in the passenger seat holding a pad in his lap writing. “Just a few more notes for my journal.”

“May I stick my nose into a place where it doesn’t belong?”

Michael smiled. “Don’t you always?”

“You have so much going for you, Michael. Think about it, you’re a writer, and you got into medical school. You should say goodbye to law enforcement.”

Michael looked up. “I like what I do, Gerry.”

Gerry reached over and gave Michael a playful shove. “You’re a good cop, but you can do better, and you should.”

“Are you trying to get rid of me?”

“I’ve never had a better partner,” she smiled. “You’ve saved my ass more than once. I’ll miss you when you go.”

“If you weren’t gay, I’d swear that you were trying to get into my pants.”

“Don’t think I haven’t thought about it,” she said with a seductive smile. “You made me question my own sexuality. Maybe I’m not as gay as I thought.”

It was a routine call, a 10-33, a silent alarm in a warehouse at the junction of Harland and Park. They approached, lights off, and parked in front of the dark building. Mike and Gerry left the patrol car studying the building. Mike was six feet four inches with a husky build, and he towered over Gerry. When they reached the front door, it was ajar.

Gerry said, “I’ll go in. You take the rear entrance.”

“Give me a break, Gerry. I’d never live it down if the guys find out.”

“Michael, I don’t know when you and your feeble-minded friends will come into the twenty-first century.” She stared at Michael and shook her head. “Far be it for me to compromise your frail ego. I’ll take the rear.”

“Be careful.”

Michael pushed the send button on his radio. “Officers Rose and Sims on the scene. Investigating.”

Michael entered the pitch-black room following the tight circle of his Maglite. He walked past the reception area and into the warehouse. The room smelled of electronic components, printer’s ink, and diesel. In the center of the cavernous room, were several open crates, and when he shined the light in, the box contained computer chips.

With the sound of movement in the rear, Michael whispered into his mouthpiece, “Someone’s near the back, Gerry. Watch out.”

Gerry keyed her transmitter to acknowledge his warning.

Michael moved toward the back. With footsteps ahead, he yelled, “Police. Freeze.”

When the shadow moved to the left, Michael turned his light in that direction and again said, “Police. Stop. We have you surrounded. Don’t make this any harder than necessary.”

A muzzle flashed, and the room exploded with the boom of a high-powered weapon. The intruder scrambled further to the rear.

“Code 3, emergency,” Michael shouted into his mike, “Shots fired.”

“Stop, Police,” Gerry’s voice resounded, followed by more movements, then a second blast.

The sound was deafening, but Michael managed to follow the intruder to the rear door where running footsteps echoed away down the alley.

“Gerry…Gerry, are you okay?”

Nothing.

“Gerry, where are you?” Michael said, moving further toward the rear, his pulse racing.

The back door was open, and when Michael moved toward it, he tripped over something and tumbled to the ground.

Gerry groaned as Michael fell over her legs.

He quickly recovered his Maglite and pointed it at his partner.

Gerry was sitting with her back against the wall. Her hands clutched her abdomen. Blood oozed between her fingers.

“Officer down…officer down,” Michael screamed into his microphone as he lowered his partner to the floor and raised her legs on his folded leather jacket.

“It’s bad,” she whispered. “It’s bad. He was on me before I had a chance. He went that way.” She pointed with a blood-covered hand.

“The ambulance will be here soon. Hold on. You’ll make it.”

Michael placed both hands on her abdomen pushing hard to stem the warm sticky blood flowing from the wound. When he released pressure for a moment to switch hands, bright-red blood gushed to the ground.

Gerry reached for Michael’s arm and squeezed it. “I’m so afraid…please, Michael, stay with me…I’m scared.”

“I’m not going anywhere. Just hang on.”

The siren wailed in the distance.

“They’ll be here soon. Hang on.”

As he redoubled the pressure on her abdomen, Gerry groaned. “I’m sorry,” he said.

“It’s okay,” she whispered. “Tell Amy that I truly love her. Tell her I’ll be okay…tell her…”

Gerry’s mouth opened. Her back arched, and then her chest collapsed as she released her final breath.

Michael placed his mouth on his partner, gave three quick breaths, and then placed his interwoven hands on her chest. He compressed her sternum several times, and watched as more blood flooded from her wound. He continued for what seemed an eternity, but with this much bleeding, he knew his efforts were futile. He lifted his hands and leaned back in defeat.

“No…No,” Michael shouted as he bent forward and hugged his partner for the last time.

Two hours later, Michael returned to the station to complete a stack of forms. Officer after officer expressed their sympathy.

Michael recalled the lectures by police psychiatrists at the academy. How death on the job had haunted them all. How the killing of a cop’s partner was a sentinel event and the risks to survivors of guilt, depression, alcoholism or drug dependency, and, too often, divorce.

In the locker room while changing his blood-soaked uniform, Gino, the loudmouth’s voice resounded from the other side of the locker. “I told ya that having women on patrol would get them, or us killed. Now, you see what happens.”

Michael forgot what came next as he found his hands around Gino’s throat. He would have killed him if four cops hadn’t pulled him off.

His squad captain offered, and then demanded that Michael see the police psychiatrist. Michael saw him twice a week for a month. It was helpful, he admitted, and he came to understand that he’d have to live with Gerry’s death.

As Michael left hi last session, his psychiatrist said, “Guilt is the burden of the good, Michael.”

“That’s fine,” Michael said, “but what hasn’t changed—will never change, is that Gerry’s gone, and I’m still alive. One way or another, it was my fault.”

Chapter One

(Present Day)

For the fourth time in the last hour, Kenny leaned over from the back seat. “How much longer, Daddy?”

“We’ll be there in a half hour. Asking again won’t get us there any faster.”

Jeffrey Simon, his wife Sharon, and Kenny, age ten were four hours out of San Francisco on route 50 heading for Lake Tahoe’s south shore and a long-anticipated April ski week.

The BMW’s headlights shone on the road with dark, icy patches and brown-stained snow piled up on the roadside. Sharon looked ahead, then studied the Garmin GPS. “I hate this trip, especially on black nights like this. Do you know how many fatal accidents have happened on 50?”

“That’s the ski-nuts going to and coming from Tahoe,” Jeff said. “They drive as if it’s the Indy-500 ignoring the snow or ice on the road. I vaguely remember my own youthful sense of immortality.”

Sharon took a deep breath. “I dread traveling after poor weather. You never know what you’ll find ahead.”

“C’mon, we have made this trip a hundred times. What’s different now?”

Sharon wrapped her arms around herself and shivered. “I don’t know. I’m a little freaked out tonight, that’s all.”

Jeff reached over and squeezed his wife’s hand. “Everything will be fine. We’ll be there soon.”

Ten minutes later, the engine shuddered, and the red temperature light flashed.

Jeff stared at the instrument panel. “Shit! What now?”

Kenny leaned over the seat. “What’s wrong, Daddy?”

“Don’t know. I’ll check.”

When Jeff pulled into a deep turnout and parked, steam poured from under the hood with the distinctive boiling antifreeze odor.

Jeff lifted the hood and steam billowed out. He pointed his tiny LED flashlight toward the steam. Green-tinged slimy fluid bubbled from a jagged tear in the radiator hose.

Sharon sat with her arms crossed. “What is it, Jeff?”

“The radiator hose burst.”

“Can you fix it, Daddy?”

“I don’t know. Let’s see what I have in the trunk.”

As Jeff raised the trunk lid, a vehicle approached from the east with its Halogen beams on high. Jeff shaded his eyes from the glare and waited.

When the car pulled alongside, Jeff recognized it as a BMW 760 Li Sedan. The passenger’s window slid down, and a deep voice asked, “What’s the problem?”

Jeff walked to the window. A gray-haired man in his late sixties wearing a leather jacket and driving gloves sat behind the wheel. “A hole in the radiator hose.”

The man smiled. “Beemers aren’t supposed to have problems. After all, it’s the Ultimate Driving Machine; at least that’s what the dealer told me. Do you want help?”

“Sure, but I doubt you carry a radiator hose.”

“No, but I do have duct tape, and we can do anything with duct tape. If you’re lucky and we can gather enough water, you might make it to Kyburz, just ahead.”

Jeff smiled. “That would be great.”

When the man opened the driver’s door and stood, he was tall and built like a linebacker. He reached back through his open window, popped the trunk, and extracted a large leather tool bag.

He extended his large fleshy hand. “Name’s Beverly Craig.”

“You don’t look like a Beverly.”

“Family tradition and a father’s wry sense of humor. It’s a lot better than Sue.”

Jeff stared for a moment at Beverly. “Wait a minute…Beverly…Beverly Craig. I know you. You played for the 49ers, didn’t you?”

“A lifetime ago.”

“You were fantastic. You went to the pro-bowl, didn’t you?”

“Once, and once was enough for me. The pro-bowl’s a joke, don’t you think?”

“It gives us that one last shot at football before the long drought.”

“And a last chance for an injury,” Jeff said.

“That, too,” Beverly laughed. He looked again under the hood. “Do you have a bigger flashlight?”

“Yes. By the way, I’m Jeff Simon, and it’s exciting to meet you.” He paused, still looking at Beverly. “Yes, I have one in the glove compartment.”

Jeff tapped on the window, and Sharon lowered it. “Hand me the flashlight, sweetheart.”

She reached in and grabbed the light. “Is everything okay?”

“We may have lucked out.”

Jeff moved to the car’s open hood where the Beverly had placed the bag before the shiny grill.

“Point the light in there and let’s see what we can do.”

When Jeff turned back to the car and shined his flashlight on the hose, Beverly’s bag unzipped. “I can’t thank you enough for stopping. Not many people will go out of their way to help strangers these days.”

With no response, Jeff turned back to Beverly. His face was expressionless. A pink shiny tongue protruded slightly through the corner of his parted lips. His eyes glimmered and jerked side-to-side with the reflection of his car’s headlights. “Are you okay?”

Beverly did not respond and stared straight ahead.

Sharon poked her head from the window. “Is everything all right?”

Before Jeff could respond, light reflected off the shiny serrated blade as Beverly thrust it deep into Jeff’s abdomen and with a grunt, drove it upward toward his chest. Jeff’s eyes widened in disbelief as he looked down at the enormous blood-covered hand grasping the knife. He reached for the fist, but his hand slid off the warm, shiny clots as his world spun and turned black.

“What’s happening?” Sharon cried.

When a bloody hand smeared across the windshield, Sharon screamed and kept on screaming.

Chapter Two

Beverly Craig drove onto the long red brick driveway of his Hillsborough home at three a.m. He pushed the remote and the garage door rose slowly to admit the BMW. He killed the engine and scanned the cavernous garage empty but for his wife Marsha’s Mercedes.

He remembered nothing of the trip back from Lake Tahoe.

How was that possible? He thought.

Beverly released the driving glove straps and pulled, but the leather gloves were so stiff, he couldn’t remove them. He went to the utility sink, turned on the water and ran it over his gloved hands. In a moment, his eyes widened as the sink ran red with blood.

He finally pulled the soaked gloves off and checked his hands for signs of injury. When he didn’t find anything, he grasped the gloves, ran them again under the water, and wrung them out until the last trace of red disappeared. He placed them carefully over the towel rack to dry.

As he turned to enter the house, the door opened, and Marsha, in her late fifties, stuck her head out and ran her fingers through her blond hair. She wore a pale pink gown under her robe. “I was worried, Bev. I tried your cell, but all I got was your voice message. Are you okay?”

Beverly hugged his wife. “After thirty years, you never change. I love you for it.”

“I can’t help myself. Worry is in my DNA. How was the trip back?”

“Fine, I think. I don’t remember.”

She stared at him. “What do you mean, you don’t remember?”

“Haven’t you ever noticed lapses in consciousness when you’re driving?”

“Sure, for a few seconds, but not for an entire trip.”

“Didn’t your father drive thirty miles before he recognized that he’d missed the San Francisco Airport exit?”

“Yes, but three hours. That’s a little unusual, don’t you think?”

Beverly nodded. “Yes, you’re right, but I’m okay now. What would you have me do? I’ll call Dr. Richards for an appointment if it happens again or I notice anything unusual.”

She smiled then grasped his hand. “Come to bed. You must be exhausted.”

Beverly Craig, age sixty-seven was in his fourth and final career; he hoped. He’d been an All American linebacker at Notre Dame, played five years for the 49ers, coached football at the College of San Mateo, and served on their Board of Trustees. The Craigs were a popular couple in Hillsborough, but they confined most of their social life around family and mixed doubles tennis.

Their daughter, Trudy taught computer science and their son, Peter, Beverly hated to admit, coached for the Oakland Raiders.

At the breakfast table later that morning, Beverly picked up an envelope labeled ‘Dad’. “What’s this?”

“It’s from your son. Box seats for the next Raider game.”

“He loves to see me squirm at the Raiders’ games. That boy has some sense of humor.”

Marsha placed his coffee mug on the table, reached over, and ran her hand through his thick hair. “How are you feeling this morning?”

“Tired and edgy. I was too wired to sleep last night.”

“Do you remember anything more about the trip back from Tahoe?”

He stared at her looked up letting his eyes wander around the room. “No. And, do I know you? You look familiar.”

She smiled and caressed his cheek. “Okay…I’m warned.”

He sipped his coffee and scanned The San Francisco Chronicle’s front page. The headline below the fold read: Family brutally murdered on route 50 on their way to Tahoe.

Marsha looked over his shoulder. “That was on the local news this morning. My God! How terrible. What kind of world do we live in?”

Beverly moved to the den to check his email while Marsha joined him sitting on the sofa, knitting. After dumping the spam, he slumped back, staring at the screen. Suddenly, a flickering shape entered his visual field and obscured part of the computer’s display. When he blinked, it shifted a bit, but continued flashing like a defective neon sign.

The typing stopped, and after several minutes, Marsha put down her needles, looked at the screen, and placed her hand on his shoulder. “What’s wrong?”

“Wha…”

“Beverly. What’s wrong?”

“I’m sorry. I must be daydreaming.”

She turned his desk chair and stared into his eyes. “Something’s wrong. Your eyes are jerking back and forth. Can’t you tell?”

“No. I see flashing lights. They’re blocking my vision a bit, but I feel fine.”

“My sister Trudy gets something like that before a migraine. Do you have a headache?”

“I never get headaches, sweetheart. My head’s the one part of my body that’s doesn’t give me problems.”

“I don’t like this. First, the memory gap, and then this. I’m calling the doctor for an appointment.”

“It’s a waste of time, sweetheart. I’m okay.”

“You’re going and that’s the end of this conversation.”

Beverly threw up his hands in surrender.

At 2:00 a.m., the 911 operator at the Hillsborough Police station answered the call. “911, what is your emergency?”

“Get over here quick. It’s my neighbor. Something’s happening next door.”

“What’s going on?”

“I heard screams, a loud thumping then nothing. Listen, damn it. Get over here now before it’s too late.”

“A patrol car is on its way.”

When Police Chief Eddington approached the Craig’s house thirty minutes later, the Hillsborough patrol car, its lights flashing stood at the curb. He walked toward the open front door where the rookie patrolman, Ernie Howe, had his head over the bushes, vomiting.

The chief felt that all-too-familiar hollowness in his abdomen. As he reached the threshold, Patrolman Stein, the senior officer on the scene, blocked his way. “It’s bad, Chief. I ain’t never seen nothing like it.”

They put on latex gloves and shoe covers before entering the home.

Eddington scanned the beautifully decorated entranceway, great room, and kitchen/dining room combination and whistled. “Some place.”

All looked normal except for the bloody footprints heading for the front door.

Stein looked at his boss. “Sorry, Chief. Had to check for signs of life.”

Eddington froze at the bedroom’s entrance. The bright track lighting illuminated the arterial blood spray patterns everywhere, the bed, headboard, walls, drapes, and even on the ceiling. Most blood was above the headboard, and on the sheets covering a body. He looked at Stein.

“No way could I leave her naked that way, Chief. I didn’t touch nothing else.”

“I could have your job for disturbing the crime scene.”

“Sorry, Chief.”

The Chief reached for the sheet, hesitated a moment and prepared himself for the worst as he pulled the sheet back. The victim’s face, a bloody pulp, red and raw with scattered teeth, was unrecognizable. Her pale pink gown was blood-soaked. A rose headband held her long blond hair back. “Oh, my God! Oh, my God!

When Eddington regained his composure, he looked into Stein’s eyes. The patrolman jerked his head toward the balcony where a blood-soaked Beverly Craig sat handcuffed to the wrought iron railing. He rocked back and forth staring ahead in silence. A steel claw hammer sat ten feet away in a puddle of blood.

Chapter Three

For Carrie Nelson, the day couldn’t have started worse. She had slept poorly, awakening every two hours to pee, and had her earplugs in and out several times in her attempt to deal with Roger’s titanic snoring.

She sipped from her 12 oz. coffee mug while she applied her makeup and quickly tied her blond hair up in a ponytail. “Willie…Rebecca get up. You’re going to be late.”

Carrie waited a few moments, then hearing nothing; she raced up the stairs to the kid’s bedrooms and dragged them out of bed. “Get dressed. Now.”

She hurried to the kitchen, poured another mug, and prepared their breakfasts.

When they got to the table, Carrie checked her watch. “Hurry up. I want you in the car in seven minutes.”

Carrie gulped her coffee as the children gobbled down their bowls of sugar coated cereal.

When Carrie finally got them into the garage and into the Lexus SUV, she was certain they were going to be late. She hated being late. She started the car, shifted into reverse, then slammed on the brakes just before she hit the closed garage door. Her head pounded, and her hands shook. Her mouth felt dry.

Carrie pushed the garage door opener and turned back to her children. “How many times must I tell you to buckle those seat belts?”

When neither moved, she put the car in park, opened the back seat door, and buckled them in. “If you think I’ll forget this behavior, you’re sadly mistaken. You will regret it. I promise.”

When she got back behind the wheel, she took a deep breath, and thought, I know those words. They’re exactly the ones that came right out of my mother’s mouth. I vowed never to use those words. My God, I’ve turned into her.

She sped down the quiet, pristine, tree-lined streets, then into heavy traffic as they headed for the South Hillsborough Elementary School. When Rebecca turned the rear entertainment system to her favorite rap station, Carrie shook her head. “Not this morning. I’m in no mood for that crap.”

William and Rebecca looked at each other with dismay.

Rebecca leaned forward. “Are you okay, Mommy?”

“I’m sorry, honey. I didn’t sleep well last night, and all this rushing to get you to school on time is making me crazy.”

When Carrie glanced at the yellow LEDs on the instrument panel, she shook her head at the 8:58 reading. “Damn it.”

“No biggie,” William said. “Lots of kids come late.”

“Not my kids. Not if I can help it. And, I don’t want another letter home about punctuality. I have more than enough on my mind.”

When they were a block away from the school, many cars had lined up at the curb to drop off their children.

Shit, she thought, a long line; that’s all I need. We’re certainly going to be late.

Carrie followed the car ahead as they continued slowly, stop and go, toward the gated entrance. When the radio came back on blasting rap, she turned to Rebecca. “Shut that damned thing off.”

When she looked forward, a black Hummer had forced itself in front of the Lexus. Carrie leaned on the horn, opened her window, and shouted, “Get that damn thing out of here.”

When the driver’s window opened, an arm shot out with the hand’s middle finger extended.

Carrie felt dizzy. Her mouth was dry. She shoved the shifter into park, popped the trunk lid, opened the car door, and walked to the Lexus’s rear. She reached in, grabbed the tire iron and marched toward the Hummer…

The EMTs carefully lifted the bloodied driver onto a portable gurney stretcher then into the ambulance and drove away while Carrie stood handcuffed next to the policeman. Afterward, he placed his hand on Carrie’s head and guided her into the patrol car’s back seat.

A woman stood crying before another police officer. “He cut in front of her, and I’d say she lost it, except, she was like a zombie. I couldn’t believe it. Her face was expressionless, and her eyes looked funny.”

“Funny?” the officer asked.

“They jerked back and forth, sideways. It was weird, and then she smashed the tire iron against the car window and kept striking even as the window shattered. It was awful. That poor man. Blood was everywhere. My God, his little daughter was in the car and saw everything.”

The patrolman took down the woman’s name. “We’re going to need a full statement.”

He turned to his partner. “We’re gonna need some other name for this. Road rage ain’t going to cover it.”

Chapter Four

Dr. Michael Rose awakened with a start. He’d nodded off at his office desk while reviewing his testimony for this afternoon’s hearing. Michael was fifty-three and looked a bit like a tall and husky Judd Hirsch in the movie Ordinary People. He worked closely with his associate, Karen Scott, age thirty-four.

As he glanced at all the reports from Social Services, the Behavioral Science Unit, and the array of psychometric testing results, he realized that his conclusions remained lamentably subjective.

So much for science, he thought.

Although medicine was ‘soft science’ to mathematicians and physicists, at least he dealt with real things, people, pain, and the infinite variety of life’s crises. Moreover, he recognized that as a forensic psychiatrist, his judgments carried the potential for good or grievous harm.

Psychiatry, his fourth and final career, began at age forty-six. Perhaps, this time he’d get it right. After graduating from UC Berkeley, he worked three years as a patrolman with the Emeryville Police…two and a half years too long. Then he went to medical school at Stanford and spent four years as a pathologist and ten years in internal medicine.

“I taught pathology to internists and internal medicine to pathologists,” he’d say to colleagues.

After he had concluded that 80 percent plus of his internal medicine patients suffered more from emotional distress than physical illness, he grew a beard, donned wire rim spectacles, and decided to learn something about the human mind.

In his third year as a practicing psychiatrist, he’d suffered the weeping, bitching, moaning, backbiting, and vitriol as much as he could tolerate. He’d stare at his tear-soaked couch and lovingly recalled his pathology days with affection.

Karen picked up the ringing phone. “It’s for you, Michael.”

“Take a message.”

Karen frowned and handed him the phone.

“Michael. It’s Jerry Cooper. I’m over at Langley Porter with a psych patient I need you to see.”

Jerry Cooper was a practicing general psychiatrist on staff at Langley Porter Psychiatric Hospital that sat next to UC Medical Center in San Francisco.

“Sorry, Jerry. I’m testifying this afternoon.”

“What will you deliver today, salvation or condemnation?”

“That depends on which table I sit at. Anyway, why me? I’m only doing enough consults to keep my ‘69 Firebird running.”

“There you go, Michael. With all your degrees, and like many of your associates, you’re nuts, but nuts in a good way. What’s more, this case will interest you.”

“I doubt that. What is it?”

“Road rage on steroids.”

“Okay, but you owe me.”

When he put down the phone, Karen said, “You look as if you’re going for a root canal. It’s just court, after all.”

“Too often after testifying, I need to take a shower.”

Karen grasped his hand. “Something’s happened. What is it?”

“My life happened.”

“That sounds a bit melodramatic, Michael.”

Michael pulled his hand away, clasped both behind his neck, and then slowly brought them forward to hold his face. “You remember Tyrone Black?”

“Who could forget. A gangbanger. He killed a policewoman when high on PCP. You left your mark on his case and new law, too. He’s in the Vacaville medical facility, isn’t he?”

“Two days out, he gets high and murders his wife and daughter. When I heard I nearly puked.”

“And his actions are your fault, Michael?”

“Whose fault is it? I don’t have an ego gone wild, Karen, but I am good in court. How would you feel if people hung on every word and believed? Think of wielding such power even when I’m wrong?”

“Were you wrong?”

Michael held his head. “Res ipsa loquitur. The thing speaks for itself.”

“So imprisonment had no effect, his shrinks were beyond reproach, and of course, he had no choice in the matter?”

Michael squeezed Karen’s hand. “You should have been an analyst. You’re tough enough.”

“Friendship carries responsibilities, so I’m going to paraphrase a Michael Rose aphorism; bad outcomes come with the couch; live with it.”

“You’re cheating when you quote me.”

Karen looked up into Michael’s eyes. “If you promise not to laugh, I’ll quote Buddha, too.”

“Buddha?”

“The only real failure in life is not to be true to the best one knows.”

Michael stood and paced the room. “What I knew as a cop was easy. He did it. He goes to jail. Now, I’m an expert psychiatric witness, and I don’t know shit.”

“That’s ridiculous. It’s either pros like you or the whores who make ‘expert witness’ a pejorative.”

“If you’re troubled by conscience, remember, that talking psychiatry to a jury ain’t easy. They know TV or One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. Some day juror will be a profession with the appropriate training to deal with mental illness and the law.”

“Not as long as trial lawyers and prosecutors think they do better by manipulating jurors and gaming the system.”

“Maybe I should go back to being a pathologist. Life was less complicated, and I could, at least, take solace in the quiet dignity of the dead.”

“Maybe you should go all the way back to being a cop or perhaps a cowboy or fireman.”

“You’re a very angry woman, Karen.”

“I’m sorry, Michael, but I’m convinced that you’re perfect for psychiatry, and psychiatry is perfect for you. In therapy or in court, you’re simply the best. Let’s put off your angst for another day.”

When the judge called the San Francisco Superior Court back into session, spectators and the media filled the room.

“The defense calls Dr. Michael Rose to the stand.”

After the bailiff had sworn him in, the defense attorney, Marilyn Clark stood. “With the court’s permission, I’d like to have Dr. Rose certified as an expert witness.”

“Dr. Rose is well known to the court. Any objection from the plaintiff?”

“None, your honor,” Jerry Cole said.

After forty minutes, Marilyn brought Michael through his evaluation of Missy Howard, the plaintiff, and allegations of repeated sexual abuse by her stepfather, Joseph Tracy and his conclusion that the plaintiff was suffering from False Memory Syndrome.

The judge turned to the plaintiff’s table. “Your witness, Mr. Cole.”

Cole stood before the witness stand. “Good afternoon, Dr. Rose.”

“Good afternoon.”

Cole faced the jury. “Is it true, Doctor that you’re what we affectionately call a hired gun? Yes or no?”

Michael smiled. “I object to that characterization…”

“Yes or no, Doctor?”

Michael turned to the judge. “Your honor…”

“Yes, Doctor. Answer in your own way.”

“Thank you.” Michael faced the jury. “I’m an expert witness in forensic psychiatry. I’ve worked for plaintiffs, defendants, and for and against district attorneys. Mr. Cole will recall that I worked for him on several cases. The other element that I bring to court is my years in private psychiatric practice. This allows me to clarify psychiatric issues for the court and the jury.” Michael paused. “And yes, Mr. Cole I receive compensation for my efforts, just as you do.”

“So, Doctor, you categorically deny the existence of recovered memory?”

“No, Mr. Cole. While recovered memory exists, we must take extraordinary care before we rely on it.”

“You examined Missy Howard?”

“Yes.”

“And you concluded that she’s lying to the jury?”

“Absolutely not. I’m convinced that she believes deeply in what she remembers—that it actually happened. That may be the greatest tragedy of all.”

“So you think that she suffers from False Memory Syndrome?”

“I don’t choose to use that term, but it captures the nature of the problem.”

Cole walked back to the plaintiff’s table, carried a thick blue book to the stand, and placed it before Michael. He turned and smiled for the jury. “Do you know what this is?”

“Of course. It’s the DSM-5, the listing of psychiatric diagnoses.”

“Yes. Would you turn to the section describing False Memory Syndrome.”

Michael handed the book back to Cole. “There isn’t one.”

“Yet you’re testifying that Missy’s memories are false.”

“Correct. Recovered memories are unreliable and require verification. Absent such independent corroboration, it’s a mistake, in my professional opinion, to give them credibility.”

“In your opinion.”

“Yes.” Michael turned to face the jury. “Kelly Michaels, a twenty-three-year-old teacher, spent seven years in prison for sexual molestation. She was completely innocent. Incredibly, the jury believed the children’s’ recollection that Michaels ‘made us eat boiled babies’ and that, according to one, that ‘she put a sword up my rectum.’” He paused. “Then recall the McMartin Day School cases and the conviction of innocent men and women on equally unbelievable evidence. Please understand that these children were not lying, just as Missy is not lying. She, like the children, was recalling memories implanted by others using incompetent psychiatric technique or doing so deliberately.”

Cole wiped the perspiration from his brow. “So you’re 100 percent sure that Missy’s memories are false?”

“I’m not 100 percent sure of anything, Mr. Cole, but I think a jury should be close to that sure before they convict anyone based on recovered memory evidence.”

Cole turned to the jury. “Challenging a plaintiff’s memory as false can be an effective strategy for the guilty to get away with it, isn’t that so? Don’t you feel any qualms about letting the guilty go free only to abuse again?”

Michael tightened his jaw. “I know the victims of abuse a hell of a lot better than you do, Mr. Cole. I’ve treated them, suffered with them, and watched as they fought bravely back to a normal life. You’re Missy’s advocate, but it does her no good to convict an innocent man.” He paused. “I agree with you that the guilty may use this strategy to avoid responsibility, but that’s why we have trials with rules of evidence and why we leave it to the wisdom of the jury to listen to witnesses and experts carefully enough to be certain of their verdicts.”

Carrie Nelson sat in her relaxing-green room at Langley Porter trying to read Time Magazine. She’d started several articles, but each time she finished a paragraph; she retained nothing. Her throbbing headache persisted.

Roger, Carrie’s husband hung her clothes from home in the closet and placed her iPhone on the bedside stand.

Carrie looked at Roger. “I don’t know. Don’t look at me that way. I don’t remember anything.”

“How could you…”

Carrie tightened her fists. “I told you. I can’t remember.”

“You know what you did, don’t you?”

“I know what they told me, but I only remember getting in line to drop the kids off at school.” Carrie paused. “How are the kids?”

“Confused, upset, and mortified by what they witnessed.”

Carrie lowered her head and wept.

Roger placed his arm around his wife. “I’m sorry. I don’t understand what happened and why. I know you. You’re not capable of this. When I heard what happened, I couldn’t believe it.”

“I want to see the kids. I need to explain.”

“How can you explain this away? What will you say?”

Carrie looked at the floor.

Roger stood. “It’s academic, in any case. Neither the hospital nor the police will allow that to happen.” He paused. “Do you remember Dr. Jerry Cooper, the psychiatrist?”

“Of course. He seems like a nice man. Pleasant. Competent.”

“He’s asked another psychiatrist, Dr. Michael Rose, to consult.”

“Why?”

“Dr. Rose is a forensic psychiatrist. We may need his help. Your lawyer wanted to nail him down for the defense rather than have him testify for the prosecution.”

“I don’t understand. Prosecution? Lawyer, what lawyer?”

Roger shook his head. “Maybe you’re not ready for this conversation.”

Carrie stood before Roger. “Try me.”

“If we don’t handle this right, you could end up in jail or in a psychiatric facility.”

Carrie placed her hand over her mouth and collapsed into the easy chair. “I’m so glad you’re here with me. You’re so supportive,” she said facetiously.

Roger stared at Carrie then leaned over to kiss her. “I’m sorry, but I’ve got to get to work.”

Carrie paled. “Have it your way. I’ll see you tonight.”

After he departed, the head psychiatric nurse confiscated the phone. “We’ll return it to you when we leave.”

Carrie looked around the room for a ‘we’ and shook her head.

The worst part had been the restraints. She had awakened confused, disoriented, and had no memory of what had happened. The claustrophobic straitjacket and the handcuffs had her terrified and in a panic. After begging, pleading, and giving solemn promises to behave, they finally removed them.

“When will Dr. Rose be in to see me?”

“Tomorrow afternoon. He’s ordered a series of medical and psychological tests. He wants the results before he sees you.”

“Shouldn’t he have met me first?”

The nurse straightened the bed. “Listen, honey, from what I hear, you’re in a heap of trouble. You’re lucky to have Dr. Rose on your side.”

Chapter Five

If commitment to a psychiatric hospital wasn’t bad enough, Carrie Nelson met with Dr. Karen Scott, a clinical psychologist and Michael Rose’s associate. Her psychometric examinations put Carrie’s psyche in a blender and pushed puree.

Although Karen was thirty-four and a Ph.D. in clinical psychology, she looked like a high school cheerleader with short blond hair and blue eyes. Once clients got past her stereotypic looks, they found an intelligent and although compulsive, she managed to charm them into testing or therapy.

After closing the final test booklet, Carrie’s head swam. She knew the Minnesota Multiphasic Personality Inventory (MMPI) and the Thematic Apperception Test (TAT) because she’d studied them in Psych 130, Clinical Psychology at college. The MMPI had just been annoying while the TAT appealed to her creativity and her writing skills.

“I hope you do more than administer these tests, Karen.”

“They’re tedious, but helpful. I do counseling as well.”

“I can’t place that accent, Karen. Where are you from?”

“Turlock, California.”

“You’re kidding. Nobody comes from Turlock.”

For Karen Scott, growing up in Turlock was nearly perfect. He mother, Sally, was the school nurse and her father, Richard, the busiest obstetrician for a hundred miles. Despite his busy schedule, Richard came home each evening for dinner unless someone was in active labor. That would happen two or three times a month.

Karen’s parents ignored her pleas for a sister and she had to settle for their full attention, especially Richard’s. While she felt her mother’s love, Sally had difficulty showing affection.

No such problem with Richard. Thank God, she thought.

“If you’re going to join me in practice, sweetie, you’d better get those grades up. Don’t count on my influence at U.C. San Francisco Medical School.”

“I will, Daddy.”

Richard would take the twelve-year-old Karen on weekend hospital rounds.

Karen enjoyed the time with her father until she had her first exposure to blood in a patient bleeding profusely after delivery. Richard had retrieved Karen from the ladies room where she had been vomiting. “Blood’s not for me, Daddy.”

“Among the first rate surgeons I know were several who fainted at the sight of blood. They got over it. So will you.”

She never did and although committed to the healing arts, blood would never be part of it. “I think I’ll try psychiatry or psychology.”

“Better you than me, kiddo,” Richard said. “Don’t have the patience for it.”

“The Spanish-speaking kids at school call me simpatico. Maybe that’s a hint?”

“I went from Turlock and then UCLA, UC Berkeley for my Ph.D., and I finally settled in Northern California.”

“I like you, Karen.”

“I like you, too, Carrie.”

Karen smiled and then placed the test folders in her attaché case, closed the lid, and snapped the locks closed. “I’ll go over these with Dr. Rose and he’ll see you tomorrow.” Carrie studied the case and looked up at Karen. “What’s he like?”

Karen smiled, looked up and to the left, and ran her fingers through her frosted pixie cut. “Do you know the movie, Ordinary People?”

“Yes. I love that movie.”

“If you remember Judd Hirsch as the psychiatrist, that’s Michael, a bigger version with elbow patches and all.”

“You like him?”

Karen blushed. “Everyone likes him. He’s great.”

Roger was visiting Carrie the next afternoon at Langley Porter. “My Top Secret rating required me to take these stupid psychological tests. They’re crap. I think with a little study; I could have produced whatever psychiatric profile I needed.”

“That proves nothing. These doctors are trying to help me. Why must you interfere? Perhaps these tests are a threat to you, and maybe it’s you that has something to hide.”

Roger laughed. “We all have something to hide.”

“I’m waiting.”

“You’ve seen me, warts and all. What I’m hiding is my absolute transparency, especially to you. I’ll see you tonight.”

After Roger left, Carrie closed her eyes and tried to relax.

A soft tap on her door jolted her awake.

“Yes. Come in.”

A tall middle-age man with a full salt and pepper beard entered carrying a worn leather briefcase.

“Mrs. Nelson?”

“Yes. Come in. You must be Dr. Rose.”

He smiled. “The beard does it every time.”

Carrie blushed. “No. I didn’t mean…”

“Relax. I’m trying to ease into this.”

“Into what?”

“You do know why I’m here, don’t you?” Michael asked.

Carrie nodded. “I don’t know how comfortable I am with this.”

“It’s not supposed to be comfortable, but I’m on your side. Everything that goes on between us will forever remain confidential. Understand that I can only help you if you let me.” He paused. “And, from what I know, you need my help.”

Carrie stared at him. “I’m sorry, Doctor. I’m not myself.”

“That’s the crux of the matter, isn’t it?”

He pointed to the small table by the window. “Come. Sit with me.”

The salmon-pink setting sun filtered into Carrie’s room and illuminated the table.

Carrie slid into a chair. “San Francisco sunsets are beautiful. Aren’t they?”

He didn’t respond.

“I love Karen, your assistant.”

“Call her my associate. That’ll keep both of us out of trouble.”

He placed a thick folder on the table.

“Are those my test results?”

“Yes.”

She studied his face. His soft brown eyes remained fixed on her. He smiled, grabbed the folder, and slid it into his briefcase.

“I’m not yet prepared to go over these tests with you. Absent a complete psychological profile, they won’t mean much. Furthermore, I’ll need a complete list of your physicians and all medications you’ve used in the last six months.”

Carrie flushed. “Okay, I’ll make a list. However,” she hesitated, “if those tests can tell me what I’m doing here, I want to know.”

“Don’t you know why you’re here?”

“Of course. I know what everyone’s told me, but I can’t remember.”

“What do you remember?”

“A poor night’s sleep, bratty kids, rushing, and lining up at the curb to drop the kids off at school. We were late. I hate being late. I’m a bit compulsive about that.”

“You were stressed…angry…agitated?”

Carrie tightened her robe. “Yes, yes, and yes. That doesn’t explain what came next, does it?”

“What came next?”

Carrie flushed again. “I said I can’t remember. What’s the matter with you, don’t you get it?”

Michael studied her in with his best penetrating shrink stare. Although she wore a robe labeled ‘Langley Porter’, underneath she had put on a low-cut pink silk nightgown. Her eyes were blue-violet, and she’d carefully applied matching eye shadow and mascara.

Carrie shifted in the chair and smacked her lips. Michael noted a transient nystagmus, lateral jerky eye movements that lasted no more than a few seconds.

Michael stretched his arm across the table. “Are you okay?”

Startled, she reddened, then pulled her arm away violently. “Don’t, Doctor. I don’t like strangers touching me. Okay?”

He reached across the table and grabbed her wrist.

Carrie rose and smacked her lips. “Damn it. I said don’t touch me. Don’t you understand English?”

Carrie reddened and stiffened. Her pupils dilated with the classic ‘flight or fight’ reaction then contracted. When he released her wrist, she sighed, relaxed, and slumped back in her chair.

“What just happened?”

Carrie shook her head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Her gaze wandered around the room for a short moment, then she looked into his eyes. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

“That’s why I’m here. I’m prepared, based on what I already know, to accept that what happened wasn’t you.”

“Who was it?”

Michael grinned. “I’m sorry. That was a clumsy metaphor or an allusion to a more complex explanation.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Neither do I.” He hesitated. “But I will.”

Chapter Six

When Michael Rose arrived at Langley Porter the next afternoon, Karen Scott had just stepped from the locked ward carrying her attaché case.

He gave her a hug.” They should give you a full-time job; you’re here enough.”

They walked to an empty dictation room and sat.

“If I ever consider that,” she said, “put me in a straight jacket until I regain my sanity.”

“You exaggerate.”

“How many psychometric tests have you done in one day, Michael?”

He smiled. “One set and that was enough for me. Anyway, you do so much more, especially when we work together. If you want to get back to full-time counseling, I have an extra office for you.”

“I’ll get back into full-time counseling if you will. I’m just getting over my days providing intensive psychotherapy. I got out before I needed it myself.”

“Well, any time you’re ready,” Michael said, “it’s an open offer.”

“I’ve been waiting for the day you’d appreciate my talents enough to make me your partner.”

“Why ruin a beautiful relationship? You know my record with women.”

“Yes, the wrong women.”

“Don’t take me wrong, Karen, but neither of has done well in that arena.”

Karen looked away. “That’s a sensitive subject, Michael.”

“You told me about your divorces when you first came to work with me. What’s changed?”

“Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed, Michael, but our relationship isn’t the same now.”

“I’m not complaining, Karen…I really care for you.”

“Cautious words, Michael.”

“What we do professionally suggests the need for caution,” Michael said.

Karen smiled. “You’ll rarely see the word caution in a romance novel.”

“You really don’t think of your life…our lives in those terms, do you?”

“Only a little, Michael,” she said. “We both sweat and breathe heavily, don’t we?”

“Point taken.”

“For people like us, divorce is particularly painful,” Karen said. “We’re supposed to know better and do better, but I’m not so sure that we do, that I do. Perhaps, I’m a bit gun shy?”

“Combine that with seeing the worst aspects of human nature in therapy and it’s remarkable that any therapist would consider another trip down the aisle.”

“Is that the way you feel, Michael,” she said pouting unconvincingly.

Michael laughed. “I did, but not any longer. It’s getting difficult to picture my life without you.”

She leaned over and they kissed softly and then with more passion. “We better get out of here before they arrest us.”

When they entered the corridor, Michael smiled and squeezed Karen’s hand. “What’s going on today? You must be tired.”

Karen stretched. “After yesterday’s tragedy, I didn’t sleep last night, and today didn’t help much, either. Do you read the San Francisco Chronicle?”

“I skim. I’m tired of the media’s preoccupation with murder, mayhem, and politics, so I jump to the sports pages, the stock market summary, and the daily crossword.”

“You do know of the Hillsborough case, don’t you, Michael?”

“So that’s why you’re. It’s for Beverly something…an unusual name for a man.”

“Beverly Craig—pillar of the community—All-American. He took a hammer and beat his loving wife of thirty years to death.”

“I’m reserving tickets to Gizo in the Solomon Islands. Want to come?”

“Gizo?”

“Yes, one of the most peaceful places in the world. We can use some of that.”

Karen smiled. “Sorry, Michael. No Starbucks…no Nordstrom’s…no Cineplex’s…I ain’t goin’.”

“You come from Turlock. I thought you’d be for more adventurous.”

“Union Square during the week before Christmas is as adventurous as I get.”

Michael hugged his briefcase. “Enough small talk. I’m on my way to see Carrie Nelson. I’m not sure about her. It’s like bringing the car to your mechanic for an unusual noise, but when you get to the shop, it’s gone. Right now, except for the traumatic results of what she’s going through, she’s as normal as either of us. When you superimpose a benign past psych history, I don’t know what to think.”

“It’s funny, Michael, but that describes Beverly Craig to a T. Moreover, he too, lives in Hillsborough.”

“Hillsborough?”

Karen nodded.

“I thought Hillsborough prohibited assault and murder.”

“Petty jealousy. You’re pissed because you can’t afford to live there.”

“I wouldn’t live there even if I could afford it.” Michael paused. “What’s happening with Beverly?”

“Don’t, Michael. You shouldn’t get involved in this one…it’s a heartbreaker.”

“It’s just a question.”

“Right.”

Michael stared at Karen. “Beverly…”

“He’s completely catatonic. He won’t confront what he did.”

“Won’t or can’t?”

“I hate the term, Michael, but evaluating Beverly Craig is akin to veterinary medicine. I asked a neurologist to examine him, but even an expert would have difficulty making a detailed neurological evaluation when the patient won’t or can’t respond. Anyway, so far as he could tell, Beverly has no significant neurological abnormalities.”

Just then, Michael reached into his shirt pocket and extracted his iPhone as it played Chopin’s Funeral March.”

Karen smiled. “I hope you don’t use that ring tone for me, Michael.”

“No. For you, I use Pachelbel Canon in D.”

Michael raised his finger.

“Dr. Rose here.”

As Michael listened, he shook his head. “No, Bruno. I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

Michael frowned. “No chance, Bruno. The bay area is full of shrinks.

“Thanks for the compliment, but you’re full of shit. Try that technique on someone else.

“No, it’s not that. My plate is too full to take on other patients.

“Yes, I read the paper…Beverly Craig…yes, I remember…

“Yes, I owe you, but…”

Michael lowered his head. “Okay, but we’re even.”

Karen stared. “Bruno Cooper, right—the devil incarnate.”

“Whom would you choose if the DA charged you with a crime?”

“Point taken, but Michael, don’t do it.”

He grasped her hand and headed for the locked ward. “You don’t have anything to do for the next few hours, do you?”

Karen shook her head. “You’re going to owe me big, Michael.”

“I can live with that…I…we might even enjoy it.”

“Promises, promises.”

“What about Carrie?”

“I’ll see her later.”

When they reached the ward door, Michael pushed the intercom. “Drs. Rose and Scott for Mr. Craig.”

The door buzzed, and they entered.

The interior decorators painted the long corridor and rooms with therapeutic-calming green. Michael trained here, and many referrals came from their inpatient service. Patients were strolling the hallway, some in hospital gowns, and others in civvies.

When they turned the corner to Beverly Craig’s room, Ernie Kozlowski, a husky uniformed officer sat beside the door.

Kozlowski smiled as they approached. “Ah, Dr. Scott, you’re either a glutton for punishment, or it’s my pure animal magnetism.”

She smiled. “Flights of fantasy, Officer. I think we can find a bed for you, too.”

He laughed. “It’ll take more than you guys to keep me in here.” He turned to Michael. “Dr. Rose. I was expecting you.”

Michael looked up. “How long were you expecting me?”

“They called early this morning.”

I’ll kill that son-of-a-bitch, Bruno, Mike thought.

Michael nodded to Ernie who stood and unlocked the door. “I don’t think you’ll need me, Dr. Rose, but I’ll be right outside.”

Michael hesitated at the threshold, the virtual and metaphorical portal into another’s space. Over the years, this simple act…coming to aid of the mentally ill, had become increasingly complex. Like an actor who takes on his character’s persona, sometimes detrimental to his own mental health, Michael had paid a similar price in therapy. His approach to patients as routine, a defense mechanism for sure, had left him thoughtless at times, yet he never questioned his competence and professionalism. The Andersen case three years ago changed all that…

Michael’s secretary buzzed his intercom. “I have a Dr. Craft on the line.”

Michael picked up the phone. “Artie, how are they hanging?”

“You’re a great disappointment to me, Michael. I called for a sophisticated psychiatrist, and all I get is a rube.”

Michael laughed. “This rube is at your service.”

Artie’s tone became serious. “Suzie Andersen, thirty-six is a gifted violinist with a fifteen-year history of depression. I’ve talked my throat out in psychotherapy and tried everything from standard antidepressants to MAO inhibitors, including Nardil and Parnate, and they haven’t helped a bit. She’s a wreck, and so am I. We need your help.”

“I’ll do what I can, Artie, but if you can’t help her, I doubt I can. What about ECT?”

“She absolutely refuses to consider electroshock therapy. Maybe a new pair of eyes, ears, and soul is all she needs.”

After her first few visits, Suzie had Michael with her doe eyes, sweet personality, and quirky sense of humor.

“I can’t go on this way, Dr. Rose,” she said after the third visit. “I can barely get out of bed, and when I do, I don’t have the energy to pick up the violin. Amazingly, the violin used to be my Prozac.”

“I’ve been reconsidering your diagnosis, Suzie. I even discussed your case with the senior psychiatrists at Langley Porter. We suspect that you may be bipolar.”

“Make any diagnosis you please, Dr. Rose. Just get me out of this fog.”

“I’m putting you on Lithium.”

She had an excellent response and was doing well emotionally and professionally until her orchestra’s concertmaster moved her from first to second violin section.

On her monthly follow up session, she’d reverted to her pretreatment status…depressed and withdrawn.

Michael sat across the table. “What happened? You were doing so well.”

“Stopped the Lithium.”

“Why?”

“I know it helped me, Dr. Rose, but my hands…the tremor…I can’t play with the tremor.”

“Do me a favor, Suzie. Before you stop or change anything, please give me a chance to work with you and the drug. Now we’re back to square one.”

Tears streamed down her cheeks. “I’m so sorry that I disappointed you, too.”

“You can never disappoint me. We’ll work this out. I promise. If I restart the Lithium, will you take it?”

“Not if it makes me shake.”

“I’ll adjust the dose and perhaps add something else to deal with the tremor.”

After her next few visits, Michael saw much improvement, and he began to increase the intervals between appointments.

It was a Wednesday afternoon, a month after her last visit, and a day Michael would never forget. His secretary opened his door slowly and in a second, he knew something was terribly wrong.

“What is it?”

“It’s about Suzie Anderson…”

“She didn’t…”

“U.C. emergency called. They found your card. Suzie…” his secretary wept uncontrollably. “She amputated her left hand.”

Michael reeled back into his chair as his world dimmed. He suddenly felt nauseated and raced to the bathroom.

Afterward, Michael blamed himself and went into a deep depression. With the help of his own therapist who understood as only another psychiatrist could, he finally emerged with a heightened awareness of his patients, a renewed sense of responsibility, and a vow of ‘never again’…

When Michael reached for the door to Beverly’s room, Karen held his arm. “Don’t expect too much. He’s a statue.”

“We’ve dealt with catatonic patients before, Karen. What’s different this time?”

“It’s unnerving to sit with a man capable of such incredible and senseless violence, violence against his own loving wife. Outwardly, he’s calm. I visualize a retreat into his mind’s safe harbor, watching the bay drain dry in the face of the coming Tsunami. I sure as hell don’t want to be around when it hits.”

The moment they stepped into the room, the patient transportation gurney arrived. “Sorry, Doc, but they’re waiting for Mr. Craig in the MRI suite.”

Michael walked over to Beverly. “I’m Dr. Rose. I’ll see you later today or tomorrow.”

Beverly didn’t respond.

After they wheeled Beverly away, Michael looked at Karen. “I’ll wait for a while.”

“Sorry, Michael, I have a patient waiting.”

“Why don’t I pick you up for dinner tonight?”

She smiled. “So, I’m a last minute afterthought.”

“That’s one heck of a response to a dinner invitation. I’d love to get you on my couch to explore that.”

She kissed his cheek, then stood back. “Michael, after today, we can find more interesting things to do on that couch.”

Michael smiled. “Pick you up at seven.”

When Michael pushed the bell on Karen’s door, the barking of a small dog greeted him. A blue eye appeared in the peephole and the door opened. A small Yorkie rushed out, sniffed his legs, and turned back into the apartment.

“Good sign,” Karen said. “You’ve passed the first test…Benny’s acceptance.”

“How many more tests?”

“If he humps your leg,” she said, “you’re in.”

“Can’t wait. Let’s get going.”

Karen whistled as they approached the Firebird. “She’s a beauty.”

Michael held the door, and she slid into the passenger seat and rubbed her hand over the dashboard. “I love this car.”

Michael slid into the driver’s seat.

“The only thing missing is a set of fuzzy dice hanging from the mirror.”

Michael reached under his seat, extracted a pair of pink with black spots fuzzy dice, and hung them from the mirror. “How’s that?”

“Retro…Michael you’re a throwback.”

They ate in Yank Sing, Michael’s favorite dim sum restaurant in San Francisco. It was too noisy for intimate conversation, so they concentrated on the food.

Michael popped another shrimp dumpling into his mouth. “I love it here, but I always eat too much.”

“All this food and salt, I’m going back to Weight Watchers.”“

“You don’t need Weight Watchers.”“

“Pretty dumb comment from a shrink. Never talk to a woman about her weight, you’ll never win.”

Michael smiled and winked. “I don’t want to win. I just want to get laid.”

Karen choked and nearly aspirated laughing.

Michael pounded on her back. “Almost had a chance to practice my Heimlich maneuver, too.”

When they returned to her apartment, she grasped his hand. “You will stay for a while, won’t you?”

“Not even Bennie can keep me out.”

Once inside, Karen moved into his arms.

Michael pushed her away gently, then kissed her softly and then more urgently on the lips. “I don’t know if this is such a good idea.”

“Ply a girl with dim sum, then push her away…you’re not going to disappoint me, are you?”

“I hope not, but thanks for not putting too much pressure on a middle-age man.”

She unzipped her skirt. “I didn’t feel any equivocation in that kiss.”

“I don’t want to ruin things. Women, I can get. An associate like you is a once in a lifetime…”

“You’re really out of practice, Michael. If all you want is a woman, go to Craig’s List. If you’re looking for more,” she said, removing her bra, “stop and look around.”

Chapter Seven

When Michael returned to Langley Porter the next morning, he went to the nursing station and knocked on the head nurse’s door.

Margie Dade, an experienced psych nurse, peeked out and smiled. “Hey, Michael. It’s good to see you. Business or pleasure?”

“Every time I see you, Margie, it’s a pleasure.”

“Do they teach you that bullshit in shrink school?”

Michael nodded. “We’ve got to work on this, Margie…sooner, or later you’ll learn to accept a compliment.”

“What can I do for you, Michael?”

“Beverly Craig. What’s up?”

“Sorry about yesterday, they were really jammed up in MRI. He’s here now.” She hesitated for a moment. “I’m not sure what’s going on. Suddenly, he’s up and about. A man of few words. You talked with Karen?”

“Yes. Why?”

“I agree with her. The guy’s a time bomb. I, for one, won’t see him without an armed guard.”

“I’m not sure I read it that way, Margie, but I’ve been at this long enough not to dismiss the perceptions of two pros. I’m on my way to see him. Do you want to join me?”

“Sure. Let me get my Taser.”

Michael shook his head, then offered his hand.

The ward clerk buzzed them into the locked ward, and they walked through the quiet hallway.

When they reached the room, officer Kozlowski stood. “Gonna try again, Doc?”

“Yes, how’s our patient, Ernie?”

“Your patient, Doc, my prisoner. He’s a little tense. Do you want me to come in with you?”

Margie nodded a vigorous yes.

“Sure, c’mon, but no advice or opinions, please.”

“Not a problem. I’m glad you’re the shrink and not me.”

Beverly sat in a chair by the window. They’d shackled his ankles and cuffed one wrist to the metal chair frame.

Michael pulled a chair before Beverly. “Do you remember me, Mr. Craig? I’m Dr. Rose and we only had time for a quick hello.”

Beverly looked up, his face impassive, and nodded.

Michael leaned back and away so as not to intrude into Beverly’s space. “Can we talk?”

Beverly didn’t answer. He stared out the window.

“I know that his may be difficult for you, but we’re trying to understand what happened. Tell me what you remember. It would really help us to know, especially if we hear it from you.”

Beverly looked at Margie and Ernie, and then moved his gaze toward Michael. He held that for a moment and then looked out the window.

Michael sat next to Beverly. “I want to help.”

Beverly turned to Michael and shook his head, no. Tears ran from his eyes.

Michael tried again. “Please.”

Beverly pulled his wrist against the cuffs and stretched his ankles apart. He spoke softly. “Look at me. They chained me up like an animal.”

Michael looked at Ernie. “It’s for safety reasons, Mr. Craig.”

“Call me Beverly or Bev. For whose safety?”

Michael thought for a moment. “Yours and ours. I don’t want anyone hurt.”

He pulled against the cuff. “I can’t even scratch my shoulder.”

“Use your other arm.”

“Can’t, Doc. That’s my bum shoulder—too much football and not enough sense.”

“Sorry, Beverly. Do the best you can, but I’m not removing those restraints.”

Beverly reddened. “I didn’t ask you to, did I?”

“We still want to help,” Michael said.

“Fuck you! I don’t want your help. Get out.”

Ernie moved toward Beverly. “Any problem, Doc?”

“No. It’s okay.”

When Ernie bent down to check the shackles, Beverly spun the big man, grabbed him around the neck, reached into his boot and withdrew Ernie’s spare service revolver.

Beverly released Ernie and pointed the gun at him. “Get these cuffs off.”

“Like hell I will.”

Michael stood and approached. “Don’t do this, Beverly. This isn’t you. I know you’d never deliberately hurt anyone.”

Beverly moved his gaze across the room, stopping for a moment to focus on Michael, Ernie, and Margie. “You just don’t know, Doc.”

Michael took another step. “I don’t think you knew what you were doing before, when…”

Beverly raised the revolver to his temple. “I sure as hell know what I’m doing now.”

“No… no,” Margie screamed. “Don’t…”

Beverly held the pistol to his head and tightened his finger on the trigger.

When Beverly smiled, Michael lunged.

The room shook with the earsplitting blast.

Michael held his ears, then looked down at Beverly’s prone form. He turned him over to check for vital signs. He sighed as he felt a pulse and watched Beverly’s chest rise and fall. The revolver remained fixed in his hand, and his right temple showed the red grazing wound track one centimeter away from eternity.

Michael pulled the revolver from Beverly’s hand and handed it to Ernie. “He’ll need attention to that wound and probably a CT to make sure there’s no damage.”

Margie smiled and placed her hand on Michael’s shoulder. “Pretty slick for a shrink or was that your old cop training coming back?”

“Dumb luck. A split second slower and he’d be dead. A suicide is psychologically the most difficult experiences a psychiatrist can encounter in his professional life. I’ve been there before and as much as I hate it, the odds are, I’ll be there again.”

Margie grasped Michael’s hand. “That’s shrink hubris. You guys think that you can control everything. I have news for you, you can’t. I know psychiatry and psychiatrists, and I can tell you from years of experience that too many shrinks, present company excepted, carry an inflated view of their skills and the capability of psychiatry.”

“That’s pretty cynical, Margie.”

“That’s reality, and I have the ulcers to prove it. If this can happen in a locked psychiatric ward with a talented psychiatrist like you, Michael, it can happen to anyone, anytime.”

Chapter Eight

Carrie Nelson and Michael Rose sat in a small, comfortable, but dimly lit therapy room at Langley Porter.

After several minutes of silence, she stared at Michael and tightened her robe. “What?”

“You never asked about him.”

“Who?”

“The man you assaulted.”

Carrie paled. “I put him out of my mind. Besides, I told you that I can’t remember what happened.”

Michael leaned back.

Carrie shifted in her easy chair. “What do you want me to say?”

“I don’t want you to say anything, but don’t you think it’s a bit unusual that you haven’t asked? I take you for a caring, sensitive person.”

“A caring sensitive person wouldn’t have taken a tire iron to someone.”

“His name is Allen Krupp, Carrie. He’s next door at UC Hospital recovering from a subdural hematoma.”

“A what?”

“They had to drill a hole through his skull to drain a large blood clot pressing on his brain. He’s lucky he didn’t die, and so are you.”

Carrie paled. Her hand shook as she sipped her coffee. “I don’t want to hear these things?”

Michael stood. “I’m wasting both our times. I have patients who recognize that they have problems and want to deal with them. I’ll send my report to your attorney. Good luck, Carrie.”

Before Michael reached the door, Carrie collapsed in tears. “Please, Dr. Rose—please.”

Michael returned to his chair, sat, and crossed his legs.

Carrie wept pathetically before wiping her tears away. Finally, she took a deep breath and lifted her face to meet Michael’s gaze. “You don’t know what this is like.”

Michael leaned forward. “Tell me.”

“I never even spanked my kids, and Lord knows at times, they deserved it.”

Michael crossed his legs. “I’m waiting.”

“Did you ever take amphetamines when you were in school…to study?”

“Yes, most people did.”

“It’s like I’m on speed,” Carrie said. “I’m alert, dry mouth, tense and trembling. It’s as if I’m getting ready to explode. I feel that now, but it’s a lot less than I felt in the days before…”

“Go on.”

Carrie smiled. “Now you really sound like a shrink.”

Michael smiled and nodded.

“I don’t see how any of this relates to what happened.”

Michael said nothing.

“Have you ever monitored yourself…listened to yourself as if you were watching from afar? That’s the way it had been for days before. At times, I don’t believe what came out of my mouth. They were my mother’s words, words I swore I’d never use against my own children.”

“That’s common. We all do that. It’s imprinted material from childhood, and it can pop up under stress.”

“I’m yelling at my kids…for what…for being kids. Even Roger noticed the change. We both wrote it off as stress.”

Following a loud rap on the door, Roger entered.

“You’re interrupting, Mr. Nelson,” Michael said. “We’re in session.”

Roger ignored Michael. He walked up to Carrie and kissed her cheek. “Are you okay?”

“We’re in the middle of something, Roger,” Carrie said. “Can’t you wait? What’s so important? Is it the kids? Are they all right?”

“I’m sick of all this bullshit therapy. It’s time you got home. The kids need you.”

Michael turned to Roger. “Carrie’s not ready to go home, Mr. Nelson, nor will the authorities release her except to put her in jail pending arraignment.”

Roger stood. “Get your things. I’m taking you out of here.”

Michael studied Roger. “She’s not going anywhere until I release her. Now, get out or I’ll call security.”

Roger was two inches taller and forty pounds heavier. He jammed his index finger into Michael’s chest. “Who the fuck do you think you are?”

Michael grabbed the finger and drove it downward.

Roger fell to his knees. “Shit…you broke it”

“I don’t think so. Now, get out.”

Roger reddened. “I’m calling my attorney to get her out of this hell-hole. Perhaps he’ll add an assault charge.”

Roger left, slamming the door.

Carrie stood. “I’m so sorry, Dr. Rose.”

Michael raised his palm to stop her. “Let’s take a break. Come with me. They have coffee and doughnuts right down the hallway. How about it?”

Carrie nodded.

They carried their coffee and doughnuts back to Carrie’s room and sat at the table.

As Michael took a bite from the fresh glazed doughnut, Carrie paced the room. “Please, Dr. Rose, let me…”

Michael raised his hand to stop her as he washed down the doughnut. “You’re giving me indigestion.”

Carrie smiled.

“You can call me Mike or Michael. I know we have a thousand-pound gorilla in the room named Roger, but I’d prefer getting into that later.”

“He means well, Dr., I mean, Michael.”

“He’s a bully, Carrie. I’d hate to see what he’s like when he doesn’t mean well.”

Not smart, Michael thought. Too much anger. Maybe it’s time for me to see my own shrink.

Michael pointed to their seats. “You’ve seen a psychiatrist before?”

“Yes, for Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder. Thinking back, I probably had it since I was around twelve. It wasn’t a big deal, you know, checking the door or the stove and counting things. When I worked as an accountant, it really helped. I got every detail. I never missed a thing. It was virtue from adversity.”

“Did you receive treatment?”

“OCD helped in the workplace, but in marriage and with children, I was impossible. Everything had to be perfect. I was nuts. My treatment started with psychotherapy, but that was a joke. Spilling my guts in exquisite detail didn’t do anything except it left me more anxious and broke. They wanted me to take antidepressants, but I refused.”

“You just let it go on?”

“No. I learned to control my thoughts with behavior therapy and for the most part, I’ve kept it under control. I haven’t seen my therapist in five years.”

Michael made notes. “Even recently?”

Carrie thought a moment. “No OCD symptoms, but tension and feeling on edge. Nothing like the OCD.”

“Can I talk with your OCD psychiatrist?”

“Sure. She’s a clinical psychologist. Her name’s Margaret Kaplan.”

Carrie grabbed a Post-it. “Here’s her address and phone number.”

“You remember those details after five years?”

“OCD has some advantages.”

Carrie stared out the small window for a moment, then turned to Michael. “Mr. Krupp. How is he?”

“He’s alive but has weakness on the left side of his body. They think it’ll improve over time.”

“I’d like to apologize to him at an appropriate time.”

“I understand your impulse, Carrie, but don’t even think about it. He’s not the forgiving type.”

Later, that day, Michael sat with Karen in his office going over Carrie’s case.

“Roger Nelson barged into our session today. The hostile, controlling son-of-a-bitch gave me added insight into Carrie’s situation.”

“What insight?”

“She’s had OCD, overt at first, subclinical now. She’d been tense and anxious for weeks before, and she’s certain that it wasn’t OCD. I think Roger may have something to do with it.”

“Did you touch on Roger with Carrie?”

“No. Things were too hot, but you can bet I will.”

Karen browsed through the psychometric test folder. “These results aren’t going to help us much. We needed these tests before the attack, not after. For instance, when I look at the MMPI scales, overall, they reflect her trauma rather than underlying personality traits. I can only talk in generalities.”

“Shoot.”

Karen opened the test folder. “Forget the TAT. I couldn’t make anything out of her response to the cards. The MMPI shows lots of warmth, intensity, sensitivity, and impulsivity. On the other side, she shows high emotional stability and lots of tension. I’d love to repeat them in six months.”

“That’s assuming that her situation will be better by then. I’m not so sure.”

Karen closed her test results folder and stared into Michael’s eyes,

“What?”

“Beside the fact that Carrie’s case is unusual; her emotional problems feel organic rather than psychological to me.”

“I agree, Karen, but I can’t find anything physically wrong with her. On our first meeting, I deliberately provoked her and her reaction had me concerned. It was almost, but not quite like what we see on occasion in psychomotor epilepsy, you know, pauses and lip smacking.” Michael focused on Karen. “One of us needs to spend more time with her. Do you want to do it, or should I?”

Karen smiled. “I love that you asked, but I think she’ll do better with the Michael Rose touch. You managed to impress her in just a few minutes.”

“I think you’re right. If we can’t eliminate psychiatric stereotypes, we may as well use them. That will work for you, too, Karen if you deepen your voice and grow a beard.”

Chapter Nine

At 2:13 a.m., six of ten third floor dorm lights still shone brightly through the north-facing windows in Escondido Village on Stanford University’s campus.

In room 392, Erin Stuart turned in bed and covered her head with her pillow to block the light from the desk in the corner of the room. Erin sat up and rubbed her eyes. “Jenny, please. I have early classes tomorrow. I’ve got to get some sleep.”

Jennifer Davis turned away from the computer screen to face her roommate. “I’m sorry. I need a few minutes more. If I don’t get this environmental studies report done, I’m screwed.”

Both sophomore women shared a room for the second year in a row. They’d become odd-couple fast friends. Erin was a hard-driving, brilliant jock, and Jenny, no athlete, never met an elevator or couch she didn’t like. The pair confirmed the adage that opposites attract.

At 3:00 a.m., Erin groaned and rolled over to face Jenny. “Enough’s enough, Jenny. Go to bed.”

After thirty seconds without a response, Erin stared across the room at Jenny who hadn’t moved. She threw off her covers, rose, and walked to Jenny’s corner workspace. The computer display glowed with a Wikipedia page on global warming.

She must have fallen asleep, Erin thought.

Erin touched Jenny’s shoulder and, with no reaction, she swiveled her around.

Jenny’s eyes were wide open, glassy, and reflected the flat screen monitor. Her eyes drifted laterally for a second, then jerked back. Her lips parted, closed, and smacked together.

“What’s wrong, Jenny? Are you okay?”

When Jenny stood and moved as an automaton toward Erin, she felt apprehensive and stepped back.

“Jenny, what’s wrong? Please answer me.”

Jenny turned slowly to survey the room. She walked to Erin’s desk and rummaged through her books and papers, moved her mouse, and carefully examined her pens and pencils. When she grasped the scissors, Erin paled and took another step back.

“Put them down, Jenny.”

Jenny faced Erin. Her eyes jerked, her lips smacked.

Erin felt relieved when Jenny put down the scissors. She walked over to her roommate and grasped her hand. “Come to bed, Jenny, I think you’re dreaming or sleepwalking.”

Erin remembered her younger brother. He sleepwalked until he was ten. Her parents were careful not to awaken him and slowly guided him back to his room.

Gently, she led her friend toward the bed.

Suddenly, Jenny snatched her hand away and moved to her desk.

When Jenny turned, her hand held a blunt teak letter opener.

Erin stared at Jenny’s hand. “Put that down. Right now. I mean it.”

Erin’s heart raced. Her mouth was dry as she backed toward the door, trembling.

Jenny moved forward. Her right hand held the letter opener, pointing toward Erin’s abdomen.

“Stop it, damn it. Stop it right now.”

When Erin felt the door against her back, she looked around the room in panic. Erin gazed down at her smaller roommate, stared at the letter opener, then into Jenny’s vacant eyes.

Jenny’s last step brought her within reach, and Erin smacked her across the face sending the woman staggering back.

Erin reached for the door, yanked it open, and shouted, “Help…help…please help me.”

Suddenly, Erin felt a sharp pain in her back and turned to see Jenny thrusting the letter opener repeatedly, each strike producing a crescendo of pain. Erin turned to face Jenny, and she continued her mechanical thrusting movements. In slow motion, Erin tracked the dull blade as it approached, tore through her nightgown, and struck her abdomen. The exquisite pain had her gasping. While the blade had failed to penetrate the skin, it left ugly abrasions that swelled red-purple. Erin pushed her crazed attacker, and when the madwoman lunged again, Erin pulled her arm back and drove her fist into Jenny’s face.

Jenny’s mouth erupted in red, and she fell to the floor, unconscious. Erin knelt by her side and pulled the letter opener from her hand. Erin stared at her unconscious friend, extended her hand toward Jenny’s face, retracted it momentarily, and then caressed her cheek.

Suddenly the room filled with students.

Erin wept. “She tried to kill me! She tried to kill me! Call an ambulance.”

The EMTs did a brief examination, placed Jenny in a cervical stabilization collar, and loaded her on an aluminum litter. They carried her down three flights to the waiting ambulance.

Jenny groaned, but remained groggy during the ambulance trip to Stanford Hospital. Erin sat at her side holding her hand. The EMTs placed an ice bag over Jenny’s swollen and bloody mouth. Erin held it in place.

“It was crazy,” Erin told the ER physician. “She was trying to kill me with a letter opener, but she showed no emotion, like a zombie.”

“Are you hurt?” the physician asked.

Erin pulled up her tee shirt that showed one to two inch black and blue lumps. “You’re going to be sore for a few days.”

The ER physician did a physical and a thorough neurologic examination on Jenny. With normal findings, he called for the campus police and a psychiatric consultation.

Erin watched as the ER physician placed a line of black sutures into the lining of Jenny’s lip. Her roommate remained still through the procedure. When he was finished, the psychiatry resident tried to talk with Jenny, but after a fruitless twenty minutes, he turned to the ER doctor. “I’m admitting her to the locked psychiatric unit. I don’t know what’s going on.”

The resident turned to Erin. “Has anyone contacted her parents?”

Erin shook her head. “No. I’ll call them now.”

By 7:00 the next morning, Matt and Stacie Davis sat next to Jenny. Their daughter was awake, but not responsive.

Stacie grabbed Jenny’s hand. “Are you okay…at least tell us that?”

Jenny turned away.

After a soft knock on the door, a distinguished gray-haired man in his sixties entered. “I’m Dr. Richard Keller. I’ll be taking care of Jennifer. Can I have a word with you?”

Keller walked Matt and Stacie to a small conference room where he took a detailed medical and psychiatric history.

Stacie wiped her eyes. “I don’t understand any of this. In elementary school, the teachers tried to label Jenny as ADHD, but we’d have none of it. It all went away when they presented her with more challenging material.”

Matt faced Dr. Keller. “What in hell’s going on? One minute my daughter’s a happy sophomore, the next she’s attacking her best friend.”

Keller stroked his chin. “This is distinctly unusual. Such a violent reaction and so much aggression in the absence of psychiatric problems or a drug-abuse history is puzzling. I’ve ordered a toxicology screen, so we’ll know soon about drugs.”

“Jenny doesn’t use drugs,” Stacie said.

“Perhaps not, but parents are often the last to know.”

“Did you ask Erin?” Matt said. “She’d know.”

“She said that sometimes they used a little Dexedrine to study, but she doesn’t know if Jennifer used it recently.”

Stacie grasped Matt’s hand. “What’s going to happen, Dr. Keller?”

“We’ll observe her for a few days. I’ll try to put it together. We’ll need to be patient.”

“Is it all right if we stay with her?” Stacie asked.

“No. It’s best if you come during visiting hours.” Keller hesitated for a moment. “Jenny has another problem.”

“What now?” Matt asked.

“Although she’s an inpatient, technically, the City of Palo Alto Police has placed Jennifer under arrest for assault and attempted murder. You’re going to have to deal with that, too.”

Matt stared at Keller. “You’ll help us with that. Jenny’s no criminal. She’s sick.”

“I’m sorry,” Keller said. “You’ll need someone with special skills for that. I have just the person in mind.”

Michael’s secretary buzzed the intercom. “I have a Dr. Keller on line one.”

Michael pushed the blinking button. “Rich. Long time no see. How’s it going on The Farm?”

“You must be a history buff, Michael. Few remember Leland Stanford’s horse farm.”

“My mind’s a trivia jumble. It helps me pass the time in my too busy and too frustrating life.”

Richard laughed. “Come down to Stanford and we’ll talk about it.”

“You’re too expensive for me. What can I do for you and don’t tell me that you have a referral? I’m booked.”

“That was good, Michael…the best defense, eh?”

“Okay. Shoot.”

Keller gave Michael a detailed history of the events leading to Jenny’s hospitalization and the pending criminal charges. “She greeted me with catatonia. Now she’s depressed and withdrawn, an improvement of sorts. I’m just getting started with her, but I’m guessing that before long, she’s going to need a forensic psychiatrist. I figured that getting you would be best before the prosecution does.”

“I don’t know what’s in the air, Rich. I have two healthy, stable patients who, out of nowhere, committed violent assaults.”

“That describes Jenny to a T.”

“Don’t tell me that she comes from Hillsborough.”

“As a matter of fact…”

Chapter Ten

Michael sat in the doctors’ lounge at Langley Porter. It looked more like a library with oak bookshelves on three walls and magazines, and journals spread across several coffee tables. He had just taken a bite from an onion bagel and a swallow of coffee when the door opened, and a wrinkled middle-aged man with a loose tie entered. He was of medium height and weight; altogether unremarkable.

“Dr. Rose?”

“Yes. Can I help you?”

He extended his calloused hand. “I sure hope so. Al Russo. I’m Charlie Connor’s investigator. He sends his regards.”

“The venerable district attorney. How is the old fart? I thought he’d be on the bench by now.”

“He speaks highly of you, too, Doctor and, like you, he’s a bit too honest. That’s not smart for a politician, you know. You’ve worked for and against him.”

“Call me Michael, and excuse my oversensitivity, but unlike too many expert witnesses, I don’t work for anything but the truth, no matter who pays my fees.”

Al laughed. “Yes, Charlie was right about you, but I don’t see your soapbox.”

Michael smiled. “Ouch…oh how the truth hurts.”

“Don’t, Doc. I’ve rarely heard such praise from Charlie. He doesn’t have good things to say about most people he deals with in his job. He had you down to a T. That’s exactly what he knew you’d say. We like that. I was chief of detectives in San Francisco before I came to work for Charlie. I thought I’d seen everything, but these cases really have me stumped. I guess that’s why they’re at Langley.”

“Which cases, Al?”

“Carrie Nelson and Beverly Craig, no typical perps, those two.”

“You’re right and it doesn’t take a genius to know where these cases are going. It’ll take wisdom and forbearance to see that justice is just.” He paused. “And don’t call me cynical when I think that those qualities are in short supply today.”

Al pulled out his note pad. “You’re not telling me something that I don’t already know, Doc. What can you tell me about them?”

Michael smiled. “First of all, my evaluation is incomplete, and I don’t yet understand what happened in either case. Second, privilege prevents me from saying much without permission. How far are you into this?”

“I’m just starting, but if I come up with anything, especially anything exculpatory, I get it right to Charlie, and he’ll pass it on to you. I don’t mind sharing my findings with you, Doc if there’s a quid pro quo.”

“I’m not a free agent, Al. You know that. However, with Charlie on these cases, I’ll play it a straight as I can.”

“I want to interview them. Will that be a problem?”

“I won’t if I’m present to protect their mental health, but you’re going to have to get by their attorneys.”

“How did you get so lucky to get cases so similar?”

“Similar?”

“Two upright citizens who suddenly go nuts without an obvious explanation.”

“Don’t say you heard it from me, Al, but check with the Stanford inpatient psychiatric unit. We may have number three.”

When Michael went to Carrie’s room, she sat in the morning light holding a magazine.

“Good morning, Carrie. What are you reading?”

“A three-year-old Reader’s Digest. It was that or a Road and Track. You guys should update your subscriptions.”

As Michael pulled up a chair next to Carrie, the door opened, and Roger Nelson entered.

Michael took a deep breath and shook his head.

Roger paused for a moment, then offered his hand to Michael. “I owe you an apology. I don’t know what got into me. I was just upset.”

“Apology accepted.”

“Can I stay?”

“No. It’s best if Carrie and I do this alone, but can I speak with you some time?”

“Name it.”

“We’ll be done in about an hour. Meet me in room 312 down the hall. We have a Starbuck’s across the street, or you can kill time in the library.”

“Thanks. Coffee sounds great. I have calls to make. See you in an hour.”

After Roger left, Carrie turned to Michael. “Why do you want to talk with my husband?”

“You’re an intelligent woman, Carrie. You know the answer.”

“What can he tell you that I can’t?”

“Now you really have me curious. What are you afraid he’s going to tell me?”

Carrie pulled her feet onto the chair and held her legs. “I’m not hiding anything. How would you like some shrink examining you under a microscope?”

“You’ll like prison a lot less, and by now you should trust me. I’m trying my best to help both of us to understand what happened.”

“You won’t get much from my husband. He just doesn’t understand me.”

“Isn’t that a guy’s line: my wife just doesn’t understand me?”

Carrie smiled. “I like you, Dr. Rose, and I do trust you.”

“Then tell me all about you.”

“Do you want me to start in utero?”

Michael smiled, sat back, and crossed his legs.

Carrie rambled on for 50 minutes. She talked about a childhood with a loving mother and a controlling, rejecting father.

“The only real problem I had was the OCD, and I learned to deal with it.”

Michael flipped through his notebook. “You’d been anxious in the weeks before…”

“Did Roger tell you that?”

“No, Carrie. You did.”

“You’re sure it didn’t come from Roger?”

“Of course. You haven’t talked much about Roger. Maybe it’s time.”

“You’re going to hear all about it from him. That should be enough.”

“This may be important, Carrie.”

Carrie checked her watch. “I’m sure it is, Michael, but that’s all I have to say for now. You’ll be late for your meeting with Roger.”

“So, you want me to get it all from Roger rather than from you. That’s very brave or…”

“Or what?”

“If I thought that you were the typical battered woman, I’d understand, but I’m not buying it.”

“Battered. No way. Roger has never touched me.”

“Abuse comes in many forms. The worst kinds leave no visible scars.”

Carrie wrapped her arms around herself. “I’m not ready yet to talk about it, but I will. Go have your visit with Roger, but I retain the right to cross-examine you afterward.”

“Understand this, Carrie. Everything you say and what you choose not to say has meaning to me.”

She smiled. “That’s why it’s so much fun talking with you, Dr. Rose.”

“Okay. You win this time, but trust me, I don’t forget.”

Carrie rose and shook Michael’s hand. “Forewarned is forearmed, Doctor.”

Michael walked down the hallway to room 312. He took a seat and waited. After fifteen minutes, he shook his head and rose to leave.

More petty manipulation, Michael thought.

When he opened the door, Roger stood with a Starbuck’s cup in each hand. “I’m sorry to be late, Doc, but the line was twenty deep. You’d think they were giving the stuff away. I brought you a tall cappuccino. I hope that’s okay.”

“Thank you. It’s about time for my fix.”

Roger placed the coffees on the table, then sat across from Michael. “How’s she doing?”

Michael took a sip. “How does she seem to you?”

“Don’t do the shrink bit on me, Doc. I’m not buying.”

“No shrink bit’s, Mr. Nelson. She’s your wife. You know her better than anyone.”

“I’m sorry, Doc and please call me Roger. For some reason, I’ve been apologizing a lot since this began.” He hesitated. “To answer your question, she’s the same-old Carrie, albeit an anxious one. That’s to be expected, isn’t it?”

“Yes, but I think she’s withholding something. Any ideas?”

“No.”

“Does she take any medication?”

“Vitamins, some kind of probiotic supplement, and an occasional Advil.”

“Drugs or alcohol?”

“Absolutely not. I think Carrie’s one of the few of our generation who never tried marijuana.”

Michael took another sip. “What about your relationship? How is that going?”

“Is this germane, Doctor?”

“What do you think?”

Roger stared at Michael and shook his head. “Here it is, in a nutshell: Carrie’s emotional while I’m primarily rational. It’s the only source of conflict in our marriage. She can ramble on for hours about her feelings while I’m a man of few words. The only other issue is my work, and the fact that I can’t talk about it.”

“What do you do, Roger?”

“I work for the CIA…and no, I’m not a spook. I’m a desk jockey, an analyst. That’s about all I can say.”

“Yet, it’s an issue between you and Carrie.”

“I can understand her curiosity about my work, but Carrie takes my reticence as a personal affront…like I’m talking to everyone but her. You won’t believe what she’s imagined.”

“For example…”

“Infidelity. I assure you that I’ve never been unfaithful.”

“Would you say that Carrie’s impulsive?”

Roger thought a moment. “Not really. I’ve heard a few expletives in the car, but it’s always short-lived and appropriate. Compared to me, she’s a saint.”

“When you heard what she did, what was your reaction?”

“Shock. Disbelief. It was so out of character for Carrie.”

“If you don’t mind, Roger, I’d like to understand why you were so angry and uncooperative the first time we met.”

“Well, Doctor, I do mind. I’ll help you in any way I can with Carrie, but keep the hell out of my head.”

Chapter Eleven

Michael drove his red Firebird on the Bayshore Freeway toward Palo Alto. He was glad that he was heading south as the morning rush hour traffic heading north was stop and go from Candlestick Park into the city. He’d commuted during medical school, but during residency, he had no choice but to abandon San Francisco and move to the Stanford area.

Michael had mixed memories of his training years. Although at times overwhelmed by the long hours, he loved working with patients, being useful and being needed, especially being needed. He’d discussed the latter with his own shrink, and they concluded that perhaps after ten years of analysis, they’d come up with an answer. “That unanswered question will just have to join with all the others.”

Michael met his first wife, Miranda Blake, in the Emergency Room one night when she brought her mother in for a gall bladder attack. Michael admitted the 67-year-old woman and saw her through surgery. The Blakes were part of the Palo Alto elite, and Miranda’s expectations for the good life soon made her trade up from Michael, an internist, to a plastic surgeon whose flattering tongue and gratuitous smile helped earn him seven figures.

Michael chided himself for marrying Miranda, but over time, he conquered regret’s tyranny with common sense, a lesson he often shared with his patients.

He left the freeway at Embarcadero Road and drove to Stanford Hospital, took the elevator to the second floor, and walked to the reception area. “I’m Dr. Rose. Dr. Keller asked me to see Jennifer Davis.”

The young receptionist smiled. “Oh, yes, Dr. Rose. We were expecting you. She’s in H-2, our locked unit. Room 231. I’ll buzz you in.”

In contrast to many psychiatric facilities Michael knew, this one was bright and cheerful with a combination of natural and full spectrum indirect lighting. They’d painted the walls a warm calming rose.

When Michael knocked on 231, an attractive middle-aged well-dressed woman opened the door.

“You must be Dr. Rose. I’m Stephanie Davis, Jenny’s mother. Thank God you’re here.”

Stephanie stepped forward, allowing the door to close behind her. “Can I have a word with you before you see Jenny?”

“Of course.”

She glanced both ways to insure they were alone. “We don’t understand any of this. Jenny’s a good girl, perhaps too good at times. We love her, but characterizing her as a nerd would be close to the truth. That’s why none of this makes any sense. Could we have missed something all this time?”

“I know you want answers, Mrs. Davis. We all do.”

“Please call me Stephanie.”

“First, Stephanie, your daughter is in great hands. If I had a daughter, Dr. Richard Keller would be at the top of my list. He believes I may have a role in her legal defense. I have experience in that arena. Moreover, it’s always best to have more than one perspective on a complicated psychiatric problem. I may be able to help there as well.”

Stephanie grasped his hand. “What do you want me to do, Doctor?”

“Introduce me to your daughter, then give me time alone with her. Don’t expect too much, too soon, but I promise that I’ll keep you in the loop.”

They entered Jennifer’s room. She lay in a fetal position facing the window. “I want you to meet Dr. Rose. He’s here to help you.”

Jenny continued to stare at the window.

Stephanie moved to the door. “I’m going to the cafeteria for a snack. I’ll be back soon. Can I get you anything?”

Jenny shook her head, no.

After Stephanie left, Michael pulled up the chair to the bedside, placing himself directly into Jenny’s view. “I’m Michael Rose. Dr. Keller asked me to visit.”

A single tear ran over Jenny’s left cheek.

“Most people can’t comprehend what you’re going through, Jenny, but I’ve been around long enough to understand.”

Jenny continued staring ahead. “You can’t,” she whispered. “Nobody can.”

“Maybe you’re right, Jenny, but I understand better than anyone who hasn’t been through it himself.”

“Why do I need two shrinks? I must be pretty far gone.”

“Dr. Keller thought that we should meet for two reasons. First, I specialize in patients with legal-psychiatric problems and second, I have seen good people involved in violent acts before and perhaps I can help.”

She faced Michael. “Have you seen anyone like me? Someone who almost killed her best friend and can’t even remember it?”

“Seen someone exactly like you…no. Every situation is unique, but I’ve seen the components before. We just need to arrange them to provide an explanation.” He paused. “Put this in your memory bank, Jenny. No matter how hard things get, I am here for you.”

She stared at Michael in silence.

Over the next ninety minutes, Michael performed a detailed neurological examination including testing of memory and cognitive function. When he was sure that everything was intact, except for amnesia of the event and a persistent headache, he took a brief, but rather complete psychiatric history.

“What about alcohol and drugs?”

“A beer or two at parties and wine sometimes with dinner.”

“Drugs?”

“I don’t do drugs. That’s crazy.”

“Why are you lying to me?”

“I’m not lying, Dr. Rose.”

“Your blood was positive for Dexedrine. How is that possible?”

Jenny reddened. “I…”

“Not a problem. Erin told us that most students used them occasionally to study.”

“I just…”

“What do you remember of that night?”

Jenny turned away.

“Jenny. I’m here to help.”

“I felt pressured. I was tired and anxious. I had work to do, and I knew that I’d never make it. I think I fell asleep, and that’s all I remember until I wound up in this loony bin.”

“Close your eyes and try to visualize that night.”

“I can’t. I’ve tried over and over again, but it’s a blank.” Jenny sat up. “When I discovered what I’d done, I couldn’t believe it. This is a nightmare, but I can’t wake up.”

Jenny lowered her head and wept. “Erin…Erin…I could have killed her. How is that possible? She’s my best friend. I’d never do anything to harm her.”

“We can’t leave it at that, Jenny. I know there’s an explanation.”

Jenny shook her head.

“Holding back can only compromise our efforts.”

Jenny stood. “If I’m holding back, it’s only because I can’t remember. Don’t you understand?” Tears filled her eyes. “I just can’t remember.”

“Do you know what you did to Erin?”

Jenny leaned over and held her head. “What if that had been a knife instead of a letter opener?”

“I don’t do ‘what-ifs’.”

“Why are you doing this to me? I feel guilty enough?”

Michael took a deep breath. “We’re just getting to know each other, Jenny, but if you don’t commit to dealing with this problem, I can’t help you.”

“I’ll do anything, Dr. Rose…anything.”

“Can you trust me enough to tell me the truth no matter how painful?”

Jennifer thought for a moment. “Of course, but if you think I have deep and dark secrets, you’re going to be disappointed.”

Chapter Twelve

Michael sat next to a stack of patient charts atop the conference room table at Langley Porter. This was patient review with the unit staff, residents, and medical students. Among his inpatients were Carrie Nelson and Beverly Craig. Except for her guilt, Carrie was emotionally stable, but the nurses and the social worker continued to express concern about Beverly.

Margie Dade, the head nurse, had assigned herself to Beverly. It was an expression of her concern. “He’s withdrawn. I get a few dismissive comments from the man, but I’m not seeing the rage.”

Michael opened his notebook. “What kind of comments?”

“Disbelief and despondency.”

“That’s all depression,” Michael said. “Has anyone talked with his family?”

Robert Stein, the social worker, flipped open his notepad. “Margie and I met with Beverly’s son and daughter, Peter and Trudy. Their mother’s murder devastated them, and they can’t believe their father could have done it. Violence is completely out of character for Beverly, especially toward their mother. They adored each other.”

“If all this is true,” Michael said, “it raises the possibility of brain injury or drug effect. So far, the toxicology screens are negative.” He looked around the room. “How many know about Phineas Gage?”

The nurses and senior residents, who’d heard the story before, raised their hands.

Michael looked around the room, noting that about half had raised their hands and smiled. “Good, nobody knows the story. Gage was a 25-year-old railroad worker who in September 1848 suffered an accident where a large steel rod penetrated his skull destroying a large part of his frontal lobe. The case, though still controversial, is significant for the marked changes in the man’s personality. Those who knew him well, said he was a ‘different man’ suddenly fitful, agitated, profane, short-tempered, and thoughtless of those around him. We now accept that brain injury by trauma, tumors, or infection can result in personality change.”

A medical student raised her hand. “Does Mr. Craig have any anatomic abnormalities?”

“None,” Michael said. “His EEG showed transient temporal lobe spikes, but that’s not diagnostic of anything.”

A first-year resident stared at Michael. “What are you going to do with him, Dr. Rose? What about antidepressants, psychotherapy, or even electroconvulsive therapy (ECT)?”

“Take it easy. He’s only been with us a few days. Except for the little fact that without reason, he killed the love of his life. His current mental status is perfectly appropriate to the reality of that event. He needs time, and so do we.”

When Michael’s rounds brought him to Beverly’s room, his son, Peter sat at his father’s side. Michael extended his hand. “I’m Dr. Rose.”

“Pete Craig. Can I have a word with you, Doctor?”

They walked to a conference room.

Pete was a young version of his father. “I can’t believe any of this…my father…my mother. It’s impossible.”

Michael leaned forward. “I can only imagine how this whole thing is affecting the family.”

“What happened to my father, Dr. Rose?”

“I don’t know.”

“We’re big men, Doc. We play aggressive football, but once the whistle blew, Dad was the consummate gentleman. When he offered his hand to a downed player, it was to help him up, not to inflict additional damage as some did. I’m wracking my brain, but I can’t remember harsh words between Mom and Dad. We had our disagreements, but we never parted in anger. He just could not have done that to anyone, especially to my mother.”

“How does he look to you, Pete?”

“He’s withdrawn, mortified, and almost lifeless, a shadow of himself. I’ve never seen him this way. It’s so unlike him that I don’t know what to say.”

“Don’t ask your father any of the questions you’re dying to ask. He can’t answer, and it could make things worse for him. Try to engage him in everyday topics. Don’t get into anything touching on your mother. Whatever you talk about, be prepared to change subjects if he becomes agitated.”

“I’ll try, Doc.”

When Michael returned to Beverly’s room, he asked Ernie Kozlowski to wait in the corridor.

“Are you sure, Doc?”

Michael nodded, then moved to Beverly, who lay in bed handcuffed. “Good morning, Mr. Craig.”

“Good morning, Doctor,” came in a monotone.

“How’s your wound?”

Beverly shook his head. “I couldn’t even do that right.”

“I’d like us to talk.”

“My head aches and I feel like shit. How would you feel?”

“Let me set the rules,” Michael said. “I’m seeing you for two reasons. First, as a psychiatrist trying to understand how a good man…everyone who knows you thinks you’re a decent person, could do such a thing, and second, you’re going to need a forensic psychiatrist to testify for you if this ever goes to court.” Michael paused. “Is it okay if I take notes?”

Beverly looked up at Michael. “Go ahead, but understand that I don’t care what happens to me in court.”

“Your family does.”

Beverly remained silent.

“I know you don’t remember what happened, but I’d like to hear what you do recall in the day or two before.”

“It’s a waste of time, Doctor.”

“Indulge me.”

“I was skiing at Heavenly Valley with a few old 49er buddies. I remember heavy traffic through the south shore. It was awful. Everyone was leaving the area at once. I was annoyed at the delay knowing how long it would take me to get back to Hillsborough. I turned onto route 50…then nothing until I got home.”

“Go on.”

Beverly stared at his hands. “My driving gloves…I had trouble getting them off. I had to run them under the garage faucet. Marsha came out…she…”

Beverly’s eyes filled. “I…we had a wonderful life together. I’d been fortunate to have a pro career, coaching, teaching, the kids, but Marsha was the very best thing that ever happened to me and I…”

Beverly turned away and wept. After a moment, he turned back to Michael. “I’m sorry. This isn’t like me.”

“Don’t apologize. Try to tell me more.”

“The next morning, I got up in the midst of a dream…a violent one, I think. Blood…lots of blood…screams… That’s all I remember.”

“That was the day before…”

“Yes.”

Michael scribbled a note. “What do you recall of that entire day?”

“Nothing. It’s all a blank until I wound up here.”

“Have you had any dreams?”

Beverly shook his head. “I think so, but I can’t remember them.”

“Did you take any medication? Alcohol? Drugs?”

“We don’t do drugs, Doc. We have wine with dinner, and I might have a few beers with the guys. Advil sometimes for my old football injuries. That’s it.”

“Nothing else? No prescription medication.”

“Only Androgel, hormone-replacement therapy.”

“How long?”

“I’ve been on it for years after they found low testosterone levels. I don’t take anything else except pain pills, antihistamines, pills for indigestion, etc.?” He paused. “Oh, yes, I use NoDoz if I get sleepy and need to do some work or drive a long distance.”

“When’s the last time you used it?”

“I don’t remember.”

“What about that night?” Michael asked.

“No. Not that I recall. You don’t think medicine had anything to do with this, do you?”

“What happened to you is so unusual, Beverly, that I’m not excluding anything.”

Beverley’s eyes jerked back and forth for a few seconds, then he turned to face Michael pulling against the handcuffs. Beverly reddened. “Unusual? You call killing my wife unusual. What the fuck’s the matter with you?”

Ernie rushed in. “Are you okay, Doc?”

“Just fine.” He turned back to Beverly. “What just happened?”

“What do you mean?”

“You just lashed out at me.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Doc. You asked me about medication, didn’t you?”

“Yes and what was your answer?”

“I don’t remember.”

“You became agitated and angry.”

Beverly stared at Michael. “If you say so. I don’t remember.”

Michael walked toward the door. “Ernie, please keep a sharp eye on Mr. Craig.”

Chapter Thirteen

Cooper, Cooper and Kaufman’s offices occupied an entire floor of the professional building in Emeryville near the foot of the San Francisco-Oakland Bay Bridge. Bruno Cooper represented Beverly Craig, and when Michael suggested that the issues were similar for Carrie Nelson, he agreed to take her on as a client.

Michael and Karen sat in plush leather conference room chairs. Bruno and an associate sat on the other side of the enormous mahogany table.

Bruno turned to Michael. “Who’s that sitting outside?”

“Al Russo. He’s the DA’s investigator.”

Bruno frowned. “What in hell is he doing here?”

Michael shifted in his chair. “Before you blow your top, Bruno, listen up.”

“Go ahead.”

“I know Charlie Connor. I’ve testified for and against him often. He’s a straight shooter, a rarity for a DA. I want to work with him and Al Russo on these cases.”

Bruno turned to his young associate and shook his head. “See. This is the kind of shit you’re going to deal with every day.”

He turned to Michael and Karen. “You two do understand the meaning of confidentiality…privilege?”

Michael stood. “Fuck you, Bruno. Find someone else. I’ll return the retainer, and don’t worry; I do understand privilege.”

Karen stood and walked with Michael toward the door.

Bruno reddened. “Wait. Wait a minute, goddamn it.”

Michael turned. “You wanted me, Bruno. You twisted my arm, remember, and don’t tell me that you didn’t know what you were getting; we’ve worked together before. Moreover, I was stupid enough to send Carrie Nelson your way. I won’t make that mistake again.”

“You’re a real pain in my ass, Michael. Now take a seat and let’s work this out.”

“Maybe, maybe not, Bruno. I’m getting too old for this shit. This may be a strategy game for you, but for me, it’s misery compounded by ignorance and the capricious nature of the courts. If I can’t deal with this on a straightforward basis, I want out.”

Bruno leaned forward and spoke in soothing tones. “I have responsibilities, Michael. I must provide the best defense by any means. You can’t ask me to act against my better judgment.”

“You think I want to sabotage your defense?”

“I think you want to substitute your judgment for mine,” Bruno said. “Maybe you should go to law school.”

Michael sighed. “Nothing is as it seems with these cases, Bruno. I won’t take part in heaping tragedy upon tragedy. I want to work with Charlie Connor and Al Russo. Charlie’s above political aspirations and will retire soon. Al’s a pro without an ax to grind. They’ll seek truth and justice befitting these crimes. If you can’t trust them and me, I’ll understand.”

Michael rose and stretched his hand across the table. “Can’t say it’s been a pleasure, Bruno.”

“Okay…okay,” Bruno said, “but either I or my associate will be part of all meetings on these cases. You’ll have to live with that proviso.”

Michael grasped Bruno’s hand. “Deal. Let me invite Al in to join us.”

When the investigator entered the room, he extended his hand to the two attorneys. “Al Russo.”

The attorneys introduced themselves.

Al held onto Bruno’s hand. “We’ve met before, Mr. Cooper.”

Bruno stared at Al. “I’m sorry. I’m usually good with faces, but…”

“San Francisco Superior Court, about twelve years ago.”

Bruno stared and shook his head.

“I was undercover at the time. I had hair back, then with a black beard, tattoos, and braids. The Collins case.”

Bruno slapped his palm against his forehead. “Sargent Russo, of course. My, have you changed.”

“Older, more cynical, but a bit wiser, I hope. You really worked me over on the stand, counselor. I barely survived. I never again took the stand without the nightmare of your cross examination.”

“If I recall, Sargent, the prosecution won that case. That’s a rare outcome for me.”

Al pulled out a chair and sat. “You argued the law when the facts were indisputable, but if they ever get me on a felony, I have your number.”

Michael looked around the room. “Let’s start with Karen, and I’ll add my thoughts. Karen…”

Karen opened her notebook. “We have our two cases and a third from Stanford Hospital.”

Bruno sat upright. “Another one?”

“I haven’t seen her yet, but Michael has. We noted similarities, Bruno. The young woman, Jennifer Davis, has no significant past medical or psychiatric history. She tried to kill her roommate with a letter opener. I’m fairly sure that the complaining witness, her roommate, won’t cooperate with the prosecution.”

Al opened his notepad and grabbed his mechanical pencil. “If these cases are related, they must have something in common. If not, we’re looking at pure coincidence.”

Michael picked up his own notes. “Here’s what we have. All three come from Hillsborough. Mull that one over, Al. The witnesses noted in Carrie Nelson and Jennifer Davis a set of distinct behaviors. Beverly’s attack on his wife was not witnessed. “

“What behaviors?” Bruno asked.

“Something like somnambulism, you know, sleepwalking,” Michael said. “Both showed unusual eye movement and lip smacking and, of course, the explosive violence.”

Karen closed her notebook. “Behavior like that suggests psychomotor seizures of some type or an unusual violent behavioral disorder.”

Bruno stared at Michael. “What kind of disorders? I’m familiar with all the psychiatric and diminished capacity defenses.”

“Three aggressive violent conditions come to mind,” Michael said. “The first, paranoid schizophrenia, with rare exceptions, doesn’t occur without a psychiatric history. The next two may fit better, but psychiatrists are uncertain of their legitimacy. These are Intermittent Explosive Disorder and the so-called Limbic Psychotic Trigger Reaction. We don’t understand either disorder, but their clinical characteristics fit these people. Especially suggestive is the Jekyll/Hyde transformation. I’ll ask Karen to send you the pertinent literature on these disorders.”

Bruno stared at Michael. “Where does that leave us? What are the next steps?”

“You’ll put your associate to work searching LexisNexis for case material while we explore these disorders further. The uncertainty about them and the absence of specific precipitating factors is going to make the ‘No Guilty by Reason of Mental Disease of Defect Defense’ problematic.”

“What can I do?” Al asked.

“Since we don’t have medical or psychiatric histories to explore, you’ll need to get to know all three clients, their worlds, their alcohol or drug use or anything you can find that could influence their behaviors. You’re good at this, Al, but Karen and I are available to talk with friends or family if you need us.”

Bruno stood. “Well, that’s a start. Let’s meet again in two weeks.”

Michael closed his notebook. “I wish we had a witness to Beverly Craig’s behavior any time before or during his wife’s murder.”

“I know you’re speaking academically, Michael,” Karen said, “but that thought freaks me out.”

“Me, too,” Bruno said. He paused. “The DA’s problem at trial will be motive. Absent motive, a jury will have a hard time convicting one of my clients for murder. Trust an old hand in the business about that.”

Chapter Fourteen

As Michael and Carrie neared the end of her session, she turned to him. “You still haven’t told me about Karen’s psychological tests.”

“I’ve avoided talking with you about them, for two reasons. First, they’re nonspecific and tell us only a little about your personality. Second, the tests tell me nothing about why this happened.”

“Could it happen again?”

“I don’t know.”

Carrie’s eyes filled. “That’s the last thing I need to hear. What if I did this again in front of my children…to my children?”

“It’s highly unlikely.”

“But not impossible.”

“Psychiatry comes with no guarantees,” Michael said. “You were under great stress that morning, no sleep, aggravating kids, and rushing to avoid being late. Add to that, Mr. Krupp’s cutting you off and many people might lose it.”

Carrie shook her head. “Losing it is one thing; attempted murder is another.”

“Have you murdered anyone or even contemplated violence?”

Carrie smiled. “Well, there’s the case of Dick Cheney…

Michael laughed. “Your sense of humor encourages my optimism.”

“I’m guessing that you won’t be overjoyed with a request.”

“What is it?”

“I want to see Allen Krupp. I need to know he’s on the mend. I want to apologize for my actions.”

“Bad idea, Carrie.”

“Why?”

“From what I know of the man, under the best of circumstances, he’s no charmer. That’s why he felt entitled to cut you off.”

“I’m not talking about him, I’m talking about what’s right for me. Shouldn’t I accept responsibility?”

Michael smiled. “Responsibility is a peculiar word in your context. Are you really responsible for actions out of your control?”

“I did it,” She said. “I’m responsible. We don’t hear too much of that these days.”

“My concern is what’s best for you. Mr. Krupp’s unlikely to accept an apology with grace and at this time in your recovery, you don’t need the added stress.”

Carrie placed her hands on her hips and stared at Michael. “Are you going to help me or not?”

Michael, Carrie, Karen, and a policewoman accompanied them to UC Hospital.

As Alan Krupp was in physical therapy, they sat in the waiting room.

Michael turned to Carrie. “I’m not crazy about this.”

“I have to see him…to confront what I did, and to apologize.”

Karen grasped Carrie’s hand. “I fear you have unrealistic expectations for this meeting. Even under normal circumstances, you’re likely to have found Mr. Krupp a bit hard to take.”

Michael stood. “I’m always sorry when I act against my better judgment as I’m doing now by letting you do this. If this meeting becomes hostile, I’m pulling the plug.”

The charge nurse stuck her head in. “He’s on his way back to his room.”

They stood in the corridor as a teenage girl pushed Alan Krupp down the corridor. The man had a heavy dressing over his skull. Black and blue patches surrounded his eyes, and his face had the asymmetry of a person having had a stroke. As they reached the doorway, the girl gazed at Michael, Karen, and Carrie. “And what do you want? Whatever you’re selling, we’re not buying.”

“I’m Dr. Rose, and you are…?

Alan tried to get into bed, but fell back heavily into the wheelchair. “This is Samantha, my youngest.”

A nurse entered the room. “Give me a minute to get him back in bed.”

The nurse struggled, but using body mechanics got Alan into bed.

Alan sat up in bed, scowling. The left side of his face sagged in partial paralysis.

As they approached the bed, Krupp stared at Michael. “You’re Rose, the shrink. Was this your fucking idea?”

“Mr. Krupp, if you’d just…”

“Just what…forget about it?”

Samantha moved to her father’s side and pointed at Carrie. “It’s her. Her picture was in the paper…it’s her.”

Carrie stepped forward. “I’m Carrie Nelson and…”

Krupp pointed his finger at Carrie. “It was you…you bitch…see what you did…you fucking bitch…you nearly killed me and left me worse than dead.”

Carrie wept. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know how or why it happened.”

“Give me a tire iron, and I show you…bitch.”

Karen grabbed Michael’s arm. “This was a mistake. Let’s get her out of here.”

Carrie wiped her eyes. “I just wanted to say how sorry I am and that if I can do anything for you…”

Alan crimsoned. “Sell everything you own and send me the check, and that’s just for starters.”

Samantha grasped her father’s hand. “Please, Daddy, don’t get so excited. It’s not good for you.”

Alan pushed his daughter’s hands away and struggled to sit upright. “Leave me alone.”

“Daddy, please.”

Tears ran over Carrie’s cheeks. “Please, Mr. Krupp…”

He turned to face Carrie. “Fuck you! When I get through…”

Krupp stopped, grimaced, and grasped his chest in pain. He coughed, and bright-red blood spattered over the white sheets. He continued coughing up blood and suddenly collapsed.

The nurse felt for a pulse, listened to his heart and pushed to code-blue button. In moments, the resuscitation team entered the room and began CPR.

The physician in command shouted. “Everyone out.”

Samantha stood in the corner with her arms wrapped around herself. “No way in hell am I leaving.”

Carrie grasped her abdomen as they stood in the corridor and sank into a chair. Karen held her hand.

Nurses and techs ran in and out bearing medication, a variety of equipment, and wheeled in a ventilator. After twenty minutes, the physician in charge came from the room. He pulled off his bloodstained gloves, held his head down, and turned to the head nurse. “We called it. It was a massive pulmonary embolus. He didn’t have a chance.”

Carrie stood, paled, and fell to the floor.

Chapter Fifteen

They placed Carrie on a gurney and wheeled her to the emergency room. After forty minutes, the ER physician approached Karen and Michael. “Physically, she’s fine, but I can’t get her to respond. I think she’s catatonic, totally withdrawn. She’s in your ballpark, Dr. Rose.”

“Let’s send her back to Langley Porter. She’ll need heavy sedation for a few days.”

After they got Carrie settled, Karen and Michael sat in a small conference room.

Karen stared at him. “Don’t, Michael…I know you, don’t.”

“My grandmother was smart, really smart, but more than that she had saychel.”

“Saychel?”

“A Yiddish word that loses a lot in translation. It means good sense or common sense. If I had a touch of saychel, I would have paid attention to my own misgivings, and we may have avoided this nightmare scenario.”

“You can’t possibly blame yourself, Michael, ”nobody could have anticipated what happened. Was it pathological for Carrie to confront him? No, it was human. She had remorse and needed to express it.”

Michael stood and went to the west window and stared at the street below. “Right. We all acted professionally. I listened to Carrie and acceded to her wishes…to her autonomy even though I knew better. I was her shrink, not her friend, or her father. I should have said no. That’s it. Simply no. The word, no, is disappearing from our world and from the lexicon of physicians and especially psychiatrists.”

Karen grabbed Michael’s hand and brought him to the sofa. “We did what we thought was best for Carrie. In retrospect, we may have made a mistake, but, and don’t quote George Bernard Shaw, and yes; we did have good intentions.”

“They’re going to amend the charges against Carrie.”

“I know, Michael. It will be manslaughter, at the least.”

“I need to talk with Charlie Connor.”

“What can he do?” She asked.

“I don’t know. Charlie’s a good guy, but he’s not a free agent. The public isn’t enamored with psychiatric defenses, even when they’re appropriate. The Krupp family, well, who could blame them for wanting their pound of flesh?”

When Michael and Karen returned to Carrie’s room, a couple in their sixties was sitting at her bedside, but stood as they entered.

The man extended his hand. “I’m Bob Mitchell, and this is my wife, Shirley. We’re Carrie’s parents.”

Michael and Karen introduced themselves.

Shirley stared at Carrie and then at Michael. “She’ll be okay, won’t she?”

“I think so. Why don’t we step out for a moment. We wouldn’t want to disturb her.”

Bob shook his head. “TNT wouldn’t disturb Carrie now.”

When they reached the hallway, Michael directed them to an alcove where they sat. “I’m never sure what people can absorb when we think they’re unconscious.”

Bob leaned forward. “My lawyer checked you and Bruno Cooper out. He says you two are the best.”

Michael adjusted his position. “Let me lay it out. We have two distinct but related problems. First, as a psychiatrist I’m wondering how a sweet and intelligent woman without an aggressive bone in her body could have assaulted that man. It’s extraordinary to see such violence in the absence of psychiatric dysfunction. I need to know what happened and why. Second, Carrie must deal with the charges against her which have escalated from assault to manslaughter.”

Shirley shook her head. “But she didn’t know what she was doing.”

“The pendulum has swung far away from the ‘Twinkie made me do it’ defense and jurors are reluctant to accept psychiatric excuses, especially for deadly behavior. Carrie was angry and frustrated. She put her car in park, went to her trunk, grabbed the tire iron, broke Alan Krupp’s window and nearly beat him to death. A jury will see those as purposeful acts unlikely to elicit any sympathy.”

Bob grasped Shirley’s hand and stared at Michael. “Tell us what to do. We’ll do anything to help Carrie.” Bob hesitated. “Don’t take this the wrong way, Dr. Rose, but we have the material resources to assist you in helping to treat and defend our daughter.”

“Thank you and I do understand. You’ll be spending time with Karen. She’s an experienced and insightful psychologist. We can’t tell in advance what information might be useful, so tell her everything, and I mean everything. I’m not one for melodramatics, but Carrie’s future is at stake.”

Bob looked at Shirley, then turned to Michael. “Has Roger been around?”

“Yes.” Michael paused. “How do you two get along with Roger?”

“We don’t,” Bob said. “He is, pardon the expression, a prick. We love our daughter and our grandchildren, but we try to visit when he’s not around.”

“Can you be more specific?” Michael asked.

Shirley blew her nose and wiped a tear away. “Before they married, Roger was the perfect gentleman. He always knew the right things to say and do, but after their second anniversary, he changed.”

“How so?”

Bob shook his head. “We’re not those people who want to be involved in every aspect of their daughter’s life. Moreover, it’s their lives, not ours, but what parents can tolerate a man who repeatedly and often publicly disrespects and verbally abuses their daughter? We’d had enough of her feeble excuses: ‘you just don’t understand him’, ‘he really loves the children and me’, and ‘we’re working it out’, to choke a horse. We gave her the outs, but she refused to take them. We also learned that in spite of everything, we still love our daughter and our grandchildren and would never abandon them. Grin and bear it, we told ourselves. The only thing I needed to avoid was walking with him next to a high cliff where the temptation might be more than I could resist.”

Shirley took her husband’s hand and looked up at Michael. “He really doesn’t mean that, Doctor.”

Michael nodded. “We all feel frustrated and angry, but good people, people like you two, deal with the impulse or express the rage in a way that won’t send you to jail.”

Chapter Sixteen

Erin Stuart stood at the Stanford Hospital psychiatric nursing station. “I’d like to visit with Jennifer Davis.”

The receptionist looked up. “Are you a relative?”

“No. I’m her roommate.”

“Just a moment. Please have a seat.”

After ten minutes, the door to the locked psychiatric unit opened, and Karen Scott walked over and offered her hand. “Hi. I’m Dr. Scott. I’m working with Jenny.”

“How is she doing?”

Karen looked into Erin’s eyes. “She loves and admires you, and she’s devastated by what happened.”

“It wasn’t Jenny. She wasn’t even there.”

“You’re speaking metaphorically; I hope.”

Erin thought for a moment. “No. Not really…I mean Jenny’s body was there, but not Jenny…not the real Jenny…not her soul.”

Karen smiled. “You care about her.”

“Of course. We’re a great example of opposites attract, a jock and a princess. Jenny wouldn’t step on an ant. She cries at TV commercials.”

“She almost killed you.”

“Not even close, Doc. I’ve had worse injuries in field hockey and soccer.”

“This came totally out of the blue,” Karen asked. “And without warning?”

“I’m racking my brain or what’s left of it after all this attention, and I can’t think of a single thing. Remember, Doc, that what I saw was more akin to a hypnotic state…the actions of an automaton. She was violent, but detached. You’re the shrink. You tell me how that’s possible?”

“I wish we knew. Everything you’ve said rings true, but we don’t have a clue how or why it happened.”

“Can I see Jenny?”

“I love for you to see her so I can observe your interaction, but I’m not sure that’s she’ll agree.”

“Tell me that meeting with Jenny might make things worse for her, and I’m on my way.”

Karen pointed to a magazine rack. “Read a Glamour Magazine while I talk with Jenny.”

Erin laughed. “Glamour Magazine…good one, Doc.”

Ten minutes later, Karen peeked from the locked ward door and signaled Erin to follow. “Don’t be surprised by her appearance. Emotional trauma, especially guilt takes its toll.”

When they entered the room, Jenny sat in the corner on a folding chair with her arms folded across her chest. She wore a striped robe over a blue hospital gown. Her hair was a mess. Slowly, she looked up at Erin.

Erin smiled. “You look like shit. I’m cancelling your subscription to Allure Magazine.” She studied Jenny closely. “Hell if they saw you now, they’d cancel you out in a second.”

Jenny rose and rushed into Erin’s open arms. She hugged Erin as tears streaked over her face.

“Easy, girl. I can’t breathe.”

Jenny released Erin and grasped her hands. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know what happened. I don’t remember anything. I could have killed you.”

Erin laughed. “You could have given me a makeover, but kill me…not a chance in hell.”

Jenny placed her hand on her still swollen lips. “You did this to me?”

“Let’s say there were exigent circumstances. Thank me for avoiding that $6000 nose of yours.”

Karen smiled as the two women sat holding hands. “I want you to tell me everything that happened start to finish, and I want Jenny to hear it from the horse’s mouth.”

Erin shook her head. “No way. It’s unnecessary and cruel. I won’t do it.”

Karen faced Erin. “I’m a serious and thoughtful psychologist, and I believe that Jenny needs to know exactly what happened from someone she trusts, not the self-serving narratives of the attorneys or the crap they’re going to publish in the tabloids.”

Erin stared at Jenny. “I know her, Doctor. It’s going to be painful.”

“What Jenny believes right now is a hell of a lot worse than anything you’ll say.”

Karen moved them to chairs directly across from each other then she turned to Jenny. “I want you to listen to Erin, really listen.”

Erin held Jenny’s hands and talked for twenty minutes. When Jenny’s tears ran down her face, Erin wiped them away with the back of her hand. When Jenny tried to pull away, Erin held her hands tightly.”

“I remember none of it, not a thing. You make me sound like a mad robot or a zombie in a horror film.”

“Exactly my point. That’s what I told Dr. Scott that you, my roommate and friend, wasn’t there.”

Jenny turned to Karen. “How can that have happened to me? Why? Can it happen again?”

“We don’t know, but we’re going to find out. I promise.”

“Can I stay with Jenny a while?”

“Stay as long as you want or until the nurses kick you out.”

Chapter Seventeen

It was a cool, clear, and sunny Sunday as Mary Cole and her husband, Edward, both in their late seventies, arrived at St. Eugenia’s Church of San Mateo. The parking lot was nearly empty.

“This is getting ridiculous, Mary. One day we’re going to arrive to locked doors. Maybe we should camp here overnight.”

“Now, now, Eddie. Don’t be a cynic. If this is the only way to get seats up front, then it’s a small price to pay.”

“You mean to get close to Father Ware. He’s an attractive man with all that dark wavy hair.”

She hugged him. “Don’t be an old fool.”

By 10:30 a.m., the sanctuary was almost full. Nearing the end of the Mass, Father Leonard Ware smiled paternally and scanned the congregation. “Let us pray.”

The basilica remained silent but for an occasional cough and the fidgeting of bored children.

When Father Ware descended from the altar with rustling of his concelebration alb and brocaded cope, Mary looked up, then turned to Edward and whispered, “What’s Father doing? He’s never done that before.”

“Don’t know…it’s weird.”

Leonard Ware’s eyes were fixed ahead, glassy and jerked back and forth. His tongue moved slowly over chapped lips.

Heads of nearby congregants turned and watched in dismay as the priest moved slowly down the aisle. A middle-age man stood and approached the priest. “Father, are you okay?”

Leonard Ware did not react and moved further down the aisle. At the fourth row, he stopped, looked left, then right, and fixed his gaze to the aisle seat. A middle-age redheaded woman looked up at the priest and smiled. Ware’s face remained impassive as he reached through his cope and extracted a Glock 23, pointed it at the woman’s forehead and pulled the trigger.

The sanctuary resounded with the blast as the woman’s head exploded, and blood erupted and splattered over the priest’s alb, face, and the shocked spectators nearby. She lay on the floor in a puddle of bright blood blending incongruously with her red hair.

As Leonard Ware looked down at the pistol in his hand, two men tackled him, tore the gun away, threw him to the floor, and bound his hands behind with a belt.

The sanctuary smelled of gunpowder and resounded with anguished cries and weeping.

Mary wiped her face and stared at the blood on her hands. “Oh my God, my Lord. Someone call 911.”

Within minutes, sirens blared, and police cars screeched to a halt before the church. The black-uniformed swat team entered automatic weapons in the ready position and quickly evacuated most of the congregation but for the two men holding Leonard Ware.

Mary Cole remained on her knees in deep prayer with Eddie by her side.

A young priest sat in the corner, praying.

Two swat members grabbed Ware and placed him in handcuffs.

Mary stopped praying and looked up at the police officers. “Father looked as if he was in a trance. His face and eyes looked funny, then he pulled out the gun and shot her.”

A dark suited husky man rushed in. “I’m detective Joe Briant. Who’s she?”

“Maggie Hayes,” Mary said. “She was the director of the RICA Program…a wonderful woman. I just can’t believe it.”

Briant stared at Mary. “RICA?”

“The Rite of Christian Initiation for Adults. They serve Christ by bringing adults and older children to Catholicism; delivering the lost back into the fold.”

Briant shook his head. “A priest carrying a loaded weapon in church. I don’t get it.”

Mary pointed to a tall and thin priest sitting in the corner holding his head in his bony hands. “Ask Father Jim McLean.”

“One of my officers will take a full statement from both of you. Even the minutest detail may help.”

Briant walked over to the corner. He stood for a moment as the priest’s lips moved in silent prayer.

After a moment, the priest crossed himself and stood.

“Father McLean. I’m detective Briant. May I have a word with you?”

McLean stood and offered his hands. “Of course. I’ll do anything to help. How’s Leonard?”

“Why do you ask about a murderer and not his victim?”

McLean hesitated. “I’m sorry, that was thoughtless of me. It’s just that Father and I were close.” He paused. “She’s dead?”

“Very.”

“I must go to her.”

“To give her last rites?”

“It’s too late for that. I’ll simply pray for forgiveness and for a place for her in heaven.”

McLean knelt next to the body.

“Don’t touch anything, Father”

After a brief prayer, he performed the Sign of the Cross, stood, and faced Briant.

“Ware is in custody for murder. This is a hell of a scene we got here, Father.”

“This is beyond comprehension. Leonard Ware is a saint. It’s as if Jesus came to earth, pulled out a gun and killed someone.”

“Listen, Father. I’m going to need a detailed statement, but have you any idea what happened here this morning.”

“Not a clue.”

“Did you know that Father Ware was carrying a gun in Church?”

“No, I didn’t know, but it doesn’t surprise me.”

“Explain.”

“First, Leonard grew up with guns and competed in the NRA’s muzzle loading rifle and pistol. He won some awards, too. After the Maryville, Illinois case where a pastor had been gunned down mid-sermon, and the killing in Visalia, California of a Mormon Church official, Leonard talked about carrying his gun. I never knew or suspected that he had actually done it.”

“The victim, Maggie Hayes. What can you tell us about her?”

“She was a wonderful woman, a loving wife and mother completely dedicated to the church…such a tragedy.”

“Father, I’m going to have an officer escort you downtown for a detailed statement.”

“I’m profoundly confused by what happened here today. I’m praying for His guidance.”

“You pray, Father. I’ll investigate, but something’s terribly wrong here.”

Chapter Eighteen

Charlie Connor’s San Mateo office, sat in the Hall of Justice in County Center. Michael Rose wore a 49er sweatshirt and jeans as he opened the door and walked to the security station. The guard looked up. “Sorry, sir. It’s Sunday, and we’re closed.”

“Call DA Connor and tell him Dr. Rose is here.”

The guard put down the phone. “Sorry, sir. Can’t be too careful these days.”

Michael stared at the elevators and the staircase. “Shit…it’s only three floors.”

He climbed the stairs and walked up the receptionist. “Dr. Michael Rose for Mr. Connor.”

“Oh, he’s expecting you, sir. Please follow me.”

“He’s making you work Sunday, too.”

“Crime knows no days of rest, Doctor.”

“Neither does disease.”

Charlie rose from his chair. He was a big man with a strong New England accent. His shiny Armani suit stretched over his generous belly. “Welcome to the enemy camp.”

“It’s Sunday, and you’re still wearing your suit. Do you sleep in it?”

“Gotta look good for the press. We never know when they’re going to wriggle from the ground.”

Michael shook the outstretched hand and waited for Charlie’s crushing grip. When it didn’t come, Michael smiled. “Out of the intimidation business, I see. That makes you a dangerous man, Charlie.”

“Al’s a big fan and so am I. Who was smart enough to get to Northern California’s premier forensic shrink before I could?”

“Bruno Cooper. I think you’ve met before.”

“Yes, and I have the scars to prove it.” He paused. “I know we all have our jobs, but Bruno’s too much into the win-at-all-cost scorched earth philosophy for me.”

“You sound like the typical DA, and I know you’re anything but. It’s your rep, Charlie. Secretly, criminal defense lawyers believe that you live to kill the ‘Not guilty by reason of mental defect or disease’ defense.”

Charlie smiled. “That’s a load of crap, and you know it. I still carry the stain of being ‘reasonable’; that’s about the worst thing you can say about a DA in this vengeful culture. It may cost me reelection.”

“Right. You’re still the best and most successful DA San Mateo County ever had.”

Charlie pulled out a Juan Lopez Short Torpedo cigar and clipped off its cap. He reached into a box and pulled out another. “Join me, Michael. These are great.”

Michael shook his head and pointed to a large No Smoking sign on the wall.

The DA smiled. “That sign’s for mere mortals. Let me show you a wonder of the modern world.”

Charlie reached into his desk and extracted an aluminum ashtray with a small hood. “It’s an ionic ashtray. These scientists are great. You can’t smell a thing.”

“Those are expensive cigars, Charlie. Did you win the lottery?”

“Them trial lawyers are getting mighty sloppy…leaving boxes of cigars in here by mistake. Tried to return them…don’t want even the appearance of conflict of interest, but they just give me the blank stares. So what can I do for you, Michael?”

“Can you talk with me about my cases?”

“Why Michael, I can do most anything, but you sure got yourself into a pickle. Two killings and an assault. Your life must have been getting dull. How did you get so lucky?”

“Carrie Nelson came to me from Langley Porter. I consult a lot for them. Beverley Craig came from Karen, who was doing psychometrics on him, and finally, Jennifer Davis came through from Rich Keller. He was the first to recognize that all three had something in common.”

“And that was?”

“Take off your skeptic’s hat for a moment, Charlie, and listen. I’m not bullshitting you. All three were living normal lives without a hint of psychopathology of any kind when they suddenly attacked violently and without explanation. Moreover, observers reported behavior and actions that suggest an element of organicity.”

“Five syllables…that’s too much for a simple lawyer.”

“When an experience mental health professional, like moi, observes a mental disorder, I try to put it in one of two categories, strictly psychological or mental dysfunction secondary to brain disease or malfunction of the brain due to drugs or toxins, for instance. All three cases have the latter’s flavor with a trance-like state and peculiar eye movements.”

“What disease?”

“God knows.”

“What do you expect me to do? I’m not the shrink. I have a duty to protect the public from murder and mayhem regardless of the cause.”

“Just keep an open mind as we investigate.”

The receptionist opened Charlie’s door.

“I told you that I’m not to be interrupted.”

“It’s Detective Briant. You’d better take his call.”

Charlie stared at the receptionist, then picked up the phone. He listened with increasing distress, shaking his head. “That’s nuts. I know Father Ware. Yes, I’ll get right on it. Thanks.”

Michael leaned forward. “What is it?”

“Fifty minutes ago, nearing the end of Mass at St. Eugenia’s Church of San Mateo, a beloved and saintly priest pulled a Glock 23 and blew the head off a parishioner. Observers said that he looked as if he was in a trance.”

“With peculiar eye movements?”

Charlie nodded.

“If some reporter puts these cases together, the shit’s going to hit the fan.”

“Be smart, Michael. Life’s too short. Don’t add this one to your grief.”

“I won’t, but if this case fits the profile of my two other cases, it’s a data point that may help us understand what’s going on.”

“The woman was Maggie Hayes. Ware shot her in the head in front of the entire congregation. She’s dead, and her children are motherless. That’s one hell of a data point, Michael.”

Chapter Nineteen

Michael was sitting in the medical library at U.C. Medical Center reading the latest Journal of Forensic Psychiatry when his iPhone chirped for a text message. “Dr. Rose. Please return to L.P. we have two police officers insisting on interviewing Beverly Craig.”

Michael returned the journal to the shelf and crossed the street to Langley Porter. When he reached reception, the nurse pointed to two husky men, one in his 50s the other in his 20s, sitting in the waiting area. He approached them.

“I’m Dr. Michael Rose, Mr. Craig’s psychiatrist. How can I help you gentlemen?”

The older officer rose and offered his hand. “I’m Detective Chet Cameron, and this is Detective Frank Owen. We’re from the El Dorado County sheriff’s office in Placerville. We’d like to interview Mr. Craig.”

“Mr. Craig is in no condition to give an interview. His mental condition is unstable. What’s this about?”

Owen reddened. “We came a long way, Doc. You have no right to keep us out. He’s technically a prisoner, isn’t he?”

“Yes, but he’s under my care, and I won’t have him traumatized further. If you give me some idea what this is regarding, maybe we can work something out.”

Cameron opened a small pad and jotted a note. “We’re looking into the deaths of the Simon’s family on route 20. I’m sure you recall that event from the papers a few weeks ago. We believe that Mr. Craig was in the area at that time. We just want to see if he observed anything.”

Michael smiled. “Observed anything?”

Owens turned to Cameron. “This is shit. We can’t play games in investigating these brutal murders.”

Michael smiled and turned to Cameron. “Tell your young friend that when someone says maybe we can work something out; he should go with that rather than the hard sell.”

Cameron smiled. “Sometimes age does bring wisdom. He’ll get it someday. Now, Doc, tell me what you have in mind.”

“I’ve been an expert witness on both sides of the ‘Not Guilty by Reason of Mental Defect or Disease’ defense, so I see the issue clearly. Moreover, I know that the courts and law enforcement are unsympathetic. Often, their outrage is justified, but at other times, they just don’t understand mental illness. Do you know the policeman at the arm test?”

Cameron shook his head, no.

“If a man committed the crime with a policeman standing at his arm, then we must conclude that he could not control himself.”

Owen’s face hardened. “Some criminals are just plain nuts and belong in the loony bin. I’m sick and tired of working my ass off to bring killers to trial only to have them skate through the efforts of some shyster, and his paid for expert witnesses making excuses. It’s time these perps took responsibility for their actions.”

Michael stood. “Feel better now, Detective Owen?”

Owen turned to Cameron. “Who the hell is this guy?”

“Frank, why don’t you shut up and listen.” Cameron nodded to Michael.

“Here are my rules. Take it, leave it, or work it out with the court. You can question Mr. Craig, but only in my presence, and I insist on the power to stop the interrogation if I think it’s endangering him.”

“This is bullshit,” growled Owen.

Cameron ignored Owen, then stood. “His lawyer isn’t going to be pissed?”

“Likely, yes, but he knew what he was getting when he hired me.”

“If you gentlemen would follow me.”

They walked into the locked ward and approached Beverly’s room. Ernie Kozlowski was sitting at the door. Michael introduced them, and they entered the room where Beverly was sitting at a small table by the window staring out.

“Beverly, I have two El Dorado County Sheriff’s Detectives who’d like a word with you.”

Beverly looked up at Michael impassively, then at the detectives but said nothing.

The detectives pulled chairs next to Beverly and sat.

“I’m Detective Cameron, and this is my assistant, Detective Owen. We have a few questions for you.”

Beverly remained silent.

“In mid-April were you in South Lake Tahoe?”

Beverly spoke in a monotone. “Yes. I had a meeting at the Tahoe Seasons Resort Hotel.”

“You returned home that evening on route 50?”

“Yes. I always go home that way.”

“Did you see anything unusual on your trip back?”

Beverly looked out the window, then at Michael and shook his head.

“I need your answer, sir.”

Beverly’s voice softened. “I don’t remember.”

“You don’t remember what, sir?”

“I only remember driving to Highway 50, then nothing until I returned home early in the morning.”

“What time was that?”

“Around 3:00 a.m.”

“You drove all those hours and remember nothing of the trip?” Owen asked incredulously. “That’s a little hard to believe.”

Beverly reddened. “Believe what you will, but I don’t remember.”

Cameron shook his head. “So if I said that you stopped beyond Kyburz in a turn-out and butchered the Simon family, you couldn’t deny it?”

Michael stood. “That’s it. We’re done here.”

“Like hell we are,” Owen said.

Michael turned to Kozlowski. “Ernie, show these gentlemen out.”

In the hallway, Michael faced Cameron. “You’re as bad as your young partner…no, you’re worse. You know better. You’ve done a disservice to all the investigators who’ll follow. Some people never learn. Now, get out.”

Cameron moved face to face with Michael. “You don’t know shit, do you?”

“I was a cop, Cameron, and I know intimidation and stupidity when I see it. Now get the hell out of here.”

“The fucker’s guilty as hell and I can prove it,” Cameron said. “We have tire treads, a gas-station attendant, and a credit card giving us time and place. Moreover, we got a search warrant for the Craig home and found the knife, his gloves, and the sink trap filled with the Simon’s DNA. I sure would like to see how you weasel of this one.”

“Haven’t you guys learned anything?” Michael said. “You’re in the conviction business. I’m in the justice business, and if you can’t see the difference, find another job.”

Owen smirked. “See you in court, Doc.”

After they left, Michael stared at the phone, hesitating before he called Bruno Cooper. This is stupid, he thought.

Finally, he had Bruno on the phone and pulled his ear away from the speaker as Bruno yelled, “You really fucked up this time, buddy. How could you do this without checking it out with me first?”

“Give it a rest, Bruno. Come on over, I have a warm couch and a prescription pad at the ready.”

“I’m going to need those.”

“Look, Bruno, I knew that Beverly had no memory for anything that happened in El Dorado County, so there was nothing to lose. If he started to say anything incriminating, I would have shut him down. At least now you know what you’re up against.”

“Yes. I’ll be defending a mass murderer with a Rorschach test.”

Chapter Twenty

The media, friends, and parishioners filled the buzzing waiting room outside the San Mateo County 34 bed psychiatric wards, Father Ware’s temporary residence.

Father McLean stood at the reception desk next to a well-dressed gray-haired man. “I’m Father McLean, and this is Willard Duncan from the Archdiocese of San Francisco. He’s representing Father Ware. We’d like to see him.”

The frazzled receptionist turned to McLean. “Excuse me, Father, but I’d have to check with the police, first.”

Duncan grinned. “I have a right to see my client, young lady. If there’s a problem, I want to see the officer in charge.”

“Please have a seat. I’ll get right to it.”

After twenty minutes, the receptionist gestured at them to follow, and they moved from waiting room pandemonium to the psychiatric ward’s serenity, the opposite of what they expected. When they reached the end of the corridor, a uniformed officer was standing with a white-coated physician.

“I’m Dr. Hermitage and I’ve been assigned to care for Father Ware. This is Officer Brown.”

Duncan moved forward. “I represent Father Ware, and I’d like a word with him. This is Father McLean, his assistant.”

Brown looked them over. “Let’s see some ID.”

After Brown examined their driver’s licenses, he stood to the side. “Okay, but I need to remain with you at all times.”

Duncan shook his head. “Like hell you will. Get me your superior.”

After an agitated phone conversation, Brown turned to Duncan. “I’ll be right outside.”

Hermitage turned to the room, then stopped. “Don’t expect much. He’s withdrawn, almost catatonic.”

When they entered the room, Father Ware was sitting in an easy chair handcuffed to the arm. He lifted his head, staring impassively at his visitors, then refocused on his lap.

McLean kneeled before Ware, grasped, and then kissed his hand. “Father…Father…are you all right? I was so worried.”

Ware tried to pull his hand away, but McLean held on tightly.

McLean turned to Hermitage. “How long has he been this way?”

“Since he’s arrived.”

Duncan sat next to Father Ware. “Has he been sedated? Have the police interrogated him?”

“No sedation, but it might be smart to put him under for a few days. It might help the trauma of these events. The police were here, but he said nothing.”

McLean, still at Ware’s feet, looked into his mentor’s face. Ware’s eyes swung back and forth, and his shiny tongue protruded slightly. What’s he doing, Doctor?”

“I’m not sure. We see movements like that in forms of epilepsy.”

Suddenly Father Ware’s free hand was gripping McLean’s neck, squeezing tightly. “Father…Father…stop…what are you doing.” McLean choked and pulled suddenly away coughing violently.”

Patrolman Brown entered. “What in hell’s going on?”

Hermitage pressed the intercom. “Have the nurse bring Haldol, 2 mg IM stat.”

Duncan stared at the doctor. “Is that really necessary?”

“Yes and this interview is over. Brown, show everyone out.”

Ten minutes later, out in the hallway, Duncan turned to Hermitage. “I apologize, Doctor. Advocacy creates its own form of psychopathology. Can you tell me what to expect with Father’s situation?”

Hermitage shook his head. “If I had a diagnosis, I could make a guess, but this thing, whatever it is, means we’re shooting in the dark, excuse the inadvertent pun. I’ll keep him sedated for 48 to 72 hours, and then we’ll see what’s going on.”

“Did you do a toxicology screen, Doctor?”

“Of course. We have a rather extensive screening drug panel. We have even more specialized ones if needed.”

“And, you recognize that such results are privileged.”

“Let me focus on my patient, will you, Mr. Duncan. You’ll fight this out in court with the DA. I’m keeping out of it.”

“I’m sorry, Doctor,” Duncan said, “but you’re in this up to your ears. Just do your job to the best of your ability and expect that either the defense or the prosecution will call you to testify.”

Hermitage managed a feeble smile. “Oh, I can’t wait.”

Chapter Twenty-one

After dinner, Michael sat in his den reviewing the charts and psychometrics on Beverly Craig, Carrie Nelson, and Jennifer Davis looking for a common denominator. Except for Carrie’s OCD, none had a history or findings of significant emotional or neurological problems.

He’d told the answering service that he wanted no calls other than life-and-death emergencies, so when the phone rang, he answered immediately.

“I’m sorry, Doctor, but I have a very insistent Mr. William Duncan on the line.”

“Did he threaten your first-born child?”

“Almost, sir. Should I put him through?”

“If either of us expects to live a normal life again, I guess you should.”

The deep tones resonated over the line. “I’m Willard Duncan, and I represent…”

“I know who you are, Mr. Duncan and the answer is no.”

“You have something against priests, the archdiocese or is it Catholics in general?”

Michael laughed. “So what they say about you is true. It takes more than intelligence to come up with that one, Willie. It takes chutzpah and a great sense of humor. It only fails on its transparency.”

“Willie…that’s great. My junior associates would love to call me Willie.” Duncan paused. “Now that we’ve established our mutual admiration society, I need you in Father Ware’s defense.”

“You’ll need more than me. You’ll need divine assistance. Perhaps the diocese can arrange for that as well.”

“I’m prepared to take care of my client’s secular needs; the church can take care of the rest. How much do you know of this case?”

“Only what I read in the paper.”

“You see no similarities to your other cases?”

“You mean a card-carrying NRA nut priest pulling a piece in church and blowing a woman’s head off…not even close.”

“Don’t believe everything you read in the papers. Father Ware is a kind and gentle man, saintly is the word most people use. In every way, he sounds like your other clients, good people who suddenly commit violent despicable acts without rhyme or reason.”

“Listen, Willard, even if I was predisposed to take this case, and I’m not, there’s a limit to what I can handle at one time. I’m sorry, but no can do.”

“I know your work, Michael, and I respect it, so take a moment. I’m about to make you an offer you won’t refuse.”

“No horse heads in bed, please, Don Duncan.”

Willard laughed. “We’re going to get along just fine.”

Afterward, Michael called Karen. “I’ll pick you up in the morning at eight.”

“Are you going to tell me what this is all about?”

“And deprive you of the opportunity to attack me face to face. No, I’ll see you in the a.m.”

Michael sat in his Firebird waiting for Karen. He checked his watch, 8:15. He opened the door to drag her out when she came rushing from the entrance. She wore a black pleated skirt and a silk blouse.

Michael smiled and kissed her cheek as she sank into the passenger seat. “You look great.”

“Thanks. I’m sorry to be late, Michael, but you’re to blame. I overslept. Don’t ever leave me with something to fuss over when I need a good night’s sleep.”

“This isn’t your passive-aggressive tendency showing, is it?”

Karen smiled. “I don’t know how we get along so well, Michael. Sometimes, a banana is only a banana.”

“We’re going to the San Mateo County psych ward.”

Karen glared at him. “Michael, you didn’t. Tell me that you didn’t…please.”

Michael reached for the gearshift when she grasped his hand. “Let’s sit a moment. I’m not sure I’m prepared for this.”

Michael paraphrased his conversation with Willard Duncan.

“I agree with everything you told him. What changed your mind?”

“We may question the moral integrity of the Catholic Church in defending its own, but we can’t dispute its loyalty. The Archdiocese of San Francisco has committed to financing the defense of Father Ware and all our other defendants. Even better, they have agreed to allow Bruno to be the lead counsel.”

“Michael, this stinks.”

“Much of what we do stinks. We’re seeking truth in a world of expediency and snap judgments. Psychiatry and the law demands a nuanced approach, and that’s virtually impossible to do where advocacy rules. Why do prosecutors and defense attorneys vie for our services the moment they see a psychological component to their cases?”

“Because we’re good at what we do,” she said. “and they recognize that.”

“And they want to win, Karen. They want to win at all costs.”

“Nothing’s new here, Michael. What has you so disturbed?

“What if we’re wrong? We’ve been wrong before.” Michael paused. “And getting it wrong can be catastrophic.”

Karen grasped Michael’s hands. “You’re objective. You’ve refused cases that made you uneasy. You’ve fought with attorneys and maintained your integrity. I trust you, and you should trust you, too.”

Michael took Karen in his arms. “Thanks, I needed that.”

“Now about the Archdiocese of San Francisco and their support?”

“Think on it a moment, Karen. While money may not buy love, it can sure as hell put on a great defense.”

“You’re not a defense attorney, Michael, and we don’t have a win-at-all-cost philosophy. We’ve always felt an obligation to our patients and to the truth.”

“Sometimes truth comes with a price tag.”

Chapter Twenty-Two

Fiona Murphy was on a mission. Some day, she thought, I’ll be the real thing, a reporter.

When Sam Curry, her editor at the San Francisco Chronicle brought her into his office this morning, she was less than enthusiastic. “Not another human interest piece, chief. The animals know me by name at the San Francisco petting zoo.”

Sam smiled. “Bitch…bitch…bitch, that all I get from you, Fi. Do you know how many journalism majors would sell their souls for your job?”

“You’re right, Sam. I’ve always been impatient. What do you have for me?”

“If you promise not to pee in your pants, I’m going to assign you to the Father Ware case.”

Fiona jumped out of her chair and threw her arms around Sam. “You son-of-a-bitch…I love you.”

“Do a good job and I’ll love you, too.”

Fiona drove to the Hall of Justice County Center in San Mateo and took the elevator to the third floor and the offices of District Attorney, Charlie Connor. As she walked up to the receptionist, a loud voice boomed. “Fiona Murphy. My God. Is it really you?”

She turned just in time for Al Russo’s full embrace.

Al held her at arm’s length, “You look fantastic. You must be twenty by now.”

“Thanks, Al, but I’m twenty-five and feeling it.”

Al grabbed her hand. “Come into my office. Got a lot of catching up to do. How are your folks?”

“Some things never change. They’re fine except for their constant demands for grandchildren. I’m not ready, yet.” She paused and looked at Al’s office and the walls holding diplomas, certificates of appreciation and photos with politicians and celebrities. “I didn’t know that you worked for the DA.”

“I’m his chief investigator. You’re still with the Chronicle. I hope they’re moving you off those fluff pieces. That’s a waste of talent, if you ask me.”

They chatted for thirty minutes, then Al asked, “Are you here on business?”

“Yes and it’s a significant story. It’s Father Ware.”

Al’s smiled vanished. He studied her for a moment. “It’s an important and tragic case, Fiona. Don’t be part of our sensation-seeking media. Do your job, but do look beyond the obvious.”

Fiona pulled out a notebook. “What can you tell me? You’re a friend, and I won’t do anything to compromise our relationship. Talk to me on or off the record, your choice.”

“On the record, we’re holding Father Ware for murder in the first degree. He carried a loaded gun into church and used it to execute, yes, that’s the right word, a woman parishioner.”

“And, off the record?”

“If I see this in the paper, we’re going to have real problems, Fiona. When you hear what I have to say, you’ll see headlines and maybe a Pulitzer.”

Fiona crossed her heart. “I’d quit and join a nunnery before I ever betrayed a friend or reveal anything said in confidence.”

“You’re a good girl, Fiona.” Al paused gathering his thoughts. “Do you know Michael Rose?”

“I know the name. He’s a shrink, isn’t he?”

“Yes, he’s a forensic psychiatrist and a good one, too. Moreover, he’s a good guy and a straight arrow. He has testified for the prosecution and the defense.”

“He’s involved? Ware’s going to mount a psychiatric defense, and Dr. Rose is going to testify for the DA?”

“No, Fiona. The Archdiocese of San Francisco has retained Michael Rose to help with Father’s defense.”

“That’s not so unusual. What’s the big deal?”

“Close your notebook, Fiona.”

She closed the book, studied her old friend, and waited.

“Michael has three other cases. One, Beverly Craig, in custody for the slaughter of the Simon family on route 50 and his wife’s murder. Then we have Carrie Nelson, a typical soccer mom, who assaulted a man for cutting in front of her in line to drop off her kids at school, and finally, Jennifer Davis, a Stanford sophomore, who tried to kill her roommate. All four cases have only one thing in common; each suspect was in all ways, as far as we can tell, perfectly normal and suddenly turned violent.”

“You think that they are related somehow?”

“Michael Rose does, and we agree. These defendants must thank their lucky stars that Charlie Connor is DA. Another, less than ethical DA, could make a career out of these cases. The political upside is enormous, even in the liberal-leaning San Francisco Bay area.”

“What should I do? How should I start?”

“I’ll tell you what I can. Meanwhile, meet with Michael Rose and his associate Karen Scott. Use my name, it might help, but recognize that you’re treading in legal confidentiality and medical patient-client relationships.”

Fiona rose and kissed Al on his bald head. “Thanks, Al. The petting zoo is suddenly more appealing than ever.”

Chapter Twenty-Three

Carrie was sitting at her kitchen table, staring at, but not really reading the People Magazine before her. Roger came in, straightening his tie. “Are you ready?”

“Ready…I’m not ready for any of this.”

“Me neither, but we have an appointment with Bruno Cooper in an hour, and we can’t be late. Remember how lucky we are to have Bruno…at least he got you out on bail.”

“Yes, I’m feeling particularly lucky these days.” She paused. “Remember that I have to be at Michael’s office by four this afternoon.”

“Don’t worry. You’ll make it. How is therapy going?”

Carrie frowned. “It’s going.”

“It was a simple question. I don’t know why you have to be so secretive. I’m your husband.”

“I can’t. I won’t say anything about therapy. It’s private.”

“Have it your way,” Roger said, “but I think psychiatric treatment is crap.”

“That’s very encouraging, Roger.” Carrie stood. “Let’s go.”

Roger cursed repeatedly as they sat on the I-80 off-ramp in Emeryville. He checked his watch. “I hate this fucking traffic.”

Ten minutes later, they entered Bruno’s suite and his secretary escorted them to an office with a spectacular view of the Bay Bridge and San Francisco to the west.

Bruno rose from his chair. “Carrie, Roger. Come in and have a seat.”

“How are you doing, Carrie?”

“Is that a pro forma question, or do you really want to know?”

“Ouch! That’s a good start.”

Carrie looked into her lap. “I’m sorry.”

“I won’t tell you that I fully understand what you’re going through, but I’ve been a criminal defense attorney long enough to understand. I do need to assess your ability to participate meaningfully in your defense.”

“She’ll do whatever needs to be done,” Roger said.

“Thank you, Roger, but I’d prefer to hear it from Carrie.”

“Things are progressing well with Dr. Rose, but you need to understand how this whole thing has affected me.”

“I’m a good listener,” Bruno said. “Take your time.”

“I’m no saint, but I’m a good person…was a good person. Who hasn’t lost her temper, with or without provocation, and in an instant regretted it? Intellectually, I regret what happened, but that’s it…nothing more.”

Bruno shook his head. “I don’t believe that for a second. You’ve already expressed regret…heartfelt, I thought.”

“I’m sorry, Bruno. I’m not getting it across. When they told me what I did, I was confused and mortified, but it was as if they were talking about someone else. My visceral reaction was missing.”

“Michael’s been confused about this as well, and we’ve been discussing possible explanations.”

Carrie blushed. “Michael talks to you about our sessions? That can’t be possible.”

“Michael’s wearing two hats, therapist, and forensic psychiatrist. If there’s a conflict between these roles, then I suggest that you find another therapist.”

Carrie looked into Bruno’s eyes. “But don’t you see…”

“Michael hasn’t relayed a single detail about what you two talk about. He never would. He does, however, talk to me about your condition as it relates to how best to defend you.”

Roger turned to Bruno. “She won’t tell me a thing. I’m not crazy about that and all this psychiatric bullshit.”

Bruno smirked. “How very sensitive and supportive of you, Roger.”

Roger reddened but remained silent.

“Karen, Michael, and I are speculating that something other than a criminal predisposition has affected you and may be responsible for what happened.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Some of this is way beyond me, and that’s surprising since I’ve used the Not Guilty by Reason of Mental Disease of Defect defense before. Michael and Karen have independently suggested an organic basis for your behavior.”

“Organic,” Roger said. “What kind of shit is that?”

Carrie looked to Bruno. “Go on. I don’t know what organic means.”

“Individuals with head injuries or brain diseases can exhibit unusual behaviors.”

“My brain’s fine.”

“We think so, too.” Bruno said. “Then we have the entire category of what might affect your brain in other ways. That includes drugs, illicit or conventional, poisons, or something in the environment that made its way into your nervous system.”

Roger sat upright. “Do you have one scrap of evidence to suggest such a thing?”

“No. At least not yet.” Bruno paused. “But, from what I understand, Roger, you’re more than a little familiar with these techniques, and perhaps you have working details of their application.”

“You’re way out of bounds, Cooper. You know very well that I’m not free to discuss these things.”

“Perhaps we can discuss this with your boss at the CIA and arrange to liberate you from these constraints.”

Roger stood. “That’s a joke. Go for it if you think you can. I’ve heard enough.” He turned to Carrie. “I’ll be waiting outside.”

After Roger left, Carrie smiled weakly at Bruno. “He’s under a great deal of stress worrying about me, and the limelight is about the world’s worst place Roger wants to be.”

“Excuse an old hand at these things, Carrie, but your husband is a prick, and he’s yet to convince me that he has your best interest at heart.”

Carrie looked again into her lap.

“We’re running with this organic theory. Over the next few weeks, we are going to look into everything you put into your mouth, drank, placed on your skin, or breathed.”

“Still, if something affected me in that way, why hasn’t it affected others? If it hasn’t, then I must have been either an extraordinary accident or someone’s prime target.”

“You’re an intelligent woman, Carrie. Amazing as it may be, we’re facing similar circumstances in three other cases.”

“I read the papers, too. You mean Beverly Craig, that college girl and that Priest?”

“For me, bad things always come in threes. Four is over the top and makes me nervous and curious.”

Chapter Twenty-Four

When Michael and Karen approached Father Ware’s room, the uniformed officer sitting at his door stood. “Father’s sleeping, but he’s expecting you and said that you should awaken him when you arrive.”

Michael turned to the officer. “How’s his mood?”

“You can tell that he’s upset…this and all, but” he paused. “Father’s a kind and generous man. I don’t get any of this.”

Michael and Karen shared a moment of quiet reflection, then knocked and entered.

Ware yawned as he swung his legs from the bed to the floor. He wore jeans and a black shirt with a priest’s collar. “I’m so sorry. I’m not sleeping well in this place.” He extended his hand to Michael. “Lenny Ware. You must be Dr. Rose.”

“Nice to meet you, Father. This is Dr. Karen Scott, my associate.”

Karen smiled and took Ware’s hand. “Father.”

Ware smiled back. “Call me Lenny, please.”

Michael looked at the table by the window. “Why don’t we sit by the window.”

“Not much of a view,” Ware said.

Michael pulled the chair for Karen, then sat. “We’re not here for the view, Lenny.”

“Mea culpa, mea culpa. I’m sorry. My informalities and comments on the view might sound insensitive under these circumstances. That was not my intention. I apologize.”

When Karen placed her notebook and pencil on the table, Ware’s smile disappeared. “This is for my faulty memory, Fath…I mean, Lenny.”

“I thought I was the one with the memory problem,” Ware said.

Michael studied Ware. “In case you’re concerned, we’re doubly bound by confidentiality, legal and medical. Nothing that goes on between us will leave this room except to advise your attorneys. Even then, Lenny, I’ll respect your wishes on any material you feel might be too sensitive to reveal.”

Ware frowned. “You must think I have deep, dark secrets, hidden thoughts or peculiar beliefs. I assure you that’s not the case. I’m just a simple parish Priest.”

Karen shook her head. “You’re anything but a simple priest, Lenny. You head a large congregation that demands the highest clerical, business, and political skills. Why the false modesty?”

“Christianity is the doctrine of humility, Ms. Scott.”

“Please, it’s Karen.”

Michael straightened himself. “We can play around with social niceties, Lenny, but that won’t get us where we need to go.”

“And where is that?”

“Now, you’re making me nervous,” Michael said. “You know very well why we’re here. For the lack of a better phrase, we need to get into your head and find out how you could pull a gun and blow the head off an innocent woman.”

Ware paled. He licked his lips, and his eyes swung back and forth. “I did no such thing.”

Karen shook her head. “So you didn’t shoot Maggie Hayes; you’re innocent.”

“I can’t deny the eyewitnesses, but the rest, that’s for a jury to decide, isn’t it, Doctor?”

“Yes, Lenny, but that’s a pretty sarcastic comment for a Priest, especially one charged with first-degree murder.”

Ware’s eyes rolled up leaving only the whites visible, and his head fell with a thud to the table. Michael felt for a pulse in his neck and with Karen’s help, they lowered Ware to the floor.

Karen picked up the intercom. “Get someone in here, stat. Father Ware passed out.”

In a moment, the nurse and a white-coated physician entered the room. The nurse turned to them. “Please wait outside.”

Michael and Karen stood in the hallway as a laboratory tech, and an EKG machine entered the room.

Karen stared at Michael. “What do you think?”

Michael shrugged his shoulders. “Don’t know. Let’s see what they find.”

“Ware definitely didn’t live up to his billing, did he?”

“You’re right, Karen. He sure didn’t come across as a sweet, humble, and loving man. Unpriestly, to say the least.”

“How many priests do you know?”

“Many. In general, they make great patients, but Ware doesn’t fit into any category I’ve seen before.”

When the attending physician came out, Michael approached. “How is he?”

“He’s fine…his old self. Doesn’t remember a thing. Physically, and neurologically, he’s perfectly intact. EKG and blood tests look fine. Did you see any signs of seizure activity?”

Michael looked at Karen. “Maybe some subtle signs of psychomotor epilepsy, lip smacking and strange eye movements that were almost, but not quite nystagmus. Can we see him?”

“Yes. For the moment, he’s fine. I’ll order an EEG.”

Ware was sitting up in bed. He smiled broadly when Michael and Karen entered the room. “Michael…Karen. It’s so good to see you. That was one heck of the way to avoid talking with two shrinks.”

Michael sat at the foot of the bed. “What do you remember?”

“Sitting near the window…that’s it.”

“You don’t remember talking about the shooting?” Karen asked.

Ware’s eyes filled. “I know what they say happened. I accept that they’re not lying. I believe it, but I just can’t remember.”

Michael stood. “I think you’ve had enough for today. Karen will come back tomorrow. She’ll be running some tests.”

Ware tightened his lips. “What kind of tests?”

“We call them psychometric tests…a whole series. They might help us understand what happened to you.”

Ware shook his head. “Are they absolutely necessary?”

Michael studied Ware. “They’re important.”

“I understand, and I apologize, Michael. I know that I’m not helping you in your evaluation, but I’m not sure I trust psychological tests. I’m a good man. I’ve dedicated my life to Christ, yet what such tests might reveal frightens me. Is that such an unusual concern?”

Karen smiled. “No. It’s a major problem with these tests, especially in highly intelligent, creative, and introspective people who imagine that the tests will reveal deep and dark secrets. That’s rarely the case.”

“It’s also a matter of trust,” Michael said. “Most everything we do in psychiatry is based on trust. Perhaps, after a while you’ll feel more comfortable with us.”

Ware looked into Michael’s eyes. “Even in the confessional, where I represent Christ and can provide absolution, many people are reticent. You can’t provide absolution, Michael, can you?”

“Do you need absolution, Father?”

“We all need absolution, Michael.”

Chapter Twenty-Five

Fiona Murphy drove to San Mateo in her 2000 Celica GT and parked at St. Eugenia’s Church. She pulled out her notebook and jotted a series of questions, then walked into the church and sat in the last row for the 10:30 mass. The sanctuary was about half full as Father McLean directed the service. Afterward, she milled through the congregation trying to find a friendly face, but after identifying herself as a reporter, nobody would talk with her.

Finally, a well-dressed woman in her sixties stood next to her and smiled. “You may as well be a leper, sweetheart. They hate what the media is saying about Father Ware.”

Fiona extended her hand. “Fiona Murphy, San Francisco Chronicle. Thank you for talking with me.”

“You looked so young and lost…I couldn’t resist. I’m Myra Ryan.”

“I’m just trying to get some background on Father Ware, Mrs. Ryan.”

“Thank you, but it’s Ms. Ryan and you can call me Myra. The press hasn’t always been kind to priests or the Catholic Church so you can understand our reticence.”

“Some priests don’t deserve kindness, Myra. The press has its responsibilities, too.”

“Yes, I know,” Myra interrupted. “I understand the rights of a free press, but too often, I fear, they forget their responsibilities. Come sit with me sometime, and we can discuss this very important subject at length. For now, I guess you’re looking for the dirt on Father Ware.”

Fiona frowned. “Now, who’s showing her bias? I’m completely open-minded on the subject. I just want to understand what drove Father Ware to commit such a crime.”

“That’s nothing compared to how the congregation feels…how I feel about this dreadful situation.” Myra said. “I was there, but too far back to see anything. It was and is shocking. Father Ware is the last person in the world who’d do such a thing. All of us find it unbelievable that this could happen. It’s as though Jesus Christ himself pulled a gun and shot poor Maggie Hayes…such a wonderful woman.”

“Father Ware’s a man, not Christ.”

“Oh, please young lady. You know, or should know that the Christ reference was merely a metaphor. Didn’t they teach you that in journalism school?”

Father McLean walked over and joined them. “Well, this seems like a lively conversation, Myra.”

“Yes, Father. Let me introduce Fiona Murphy. She’s a reporter for the Chronicle.”

McLean smiled. “Give my regards to your editor, Sam Curry. He’s a regular at Father Ware’s poker game…a pigeon Father called him.” He paused. “Murphy…a Catholic?”

“A secular Catholic, Father.”

“That’s like setting sail in a leaky boat without life preservers,” McLean said.

“That’s, pardon the expression, a hell of a choice, Father. It’s like choosing how to die. Either way, you’re dead, damned or both.”

“So that’s what you think of the church?”

“I’d best keep my mouth shut, Father. I do have a job to do.”

“No. Go ahead. Don’t think I haven’t heard it before.”

Fiona stared at McLean. “Let’s extend the metaphor, Father: Sailing blind with choirboys and winding up on a reef.”

McLean smiled. “It may surprise you, but I agree wholeheartedly. These failures of the church are inexcusable, but like a man or a woman, you don’t take the measure of a life only by its failures. Spend time with me and see how much good the church does.” He turned to Myra. “If you can give us a moment.”

Certainly, Father. Good day, Fiona. I hope to see you again and continue our conversation.”

“Come into my office, Fiona. We can talk in private.”

Fiona looked into the candy bowl on McLean’s desk.

“Go ahead. A parishioner donates them.”

After Fiona unwrapped the chocolate and popped it into her mouth, she settled back in the chair.

McLean rolled himself out to sit beside her. “You want to know what happened with Father Ware.”

“Of course, but I know what happened, Father. I just want to understand.”

“It was surreal,” McLean said. “When you’re a priest following or participating in the all-too-familiar mass, it becomes rote…dreamlike. Everything was normal until Father stepped into the congregation. That was distinctly unusual. Maybe I should have noticed or done something.”

“You couldn’t have known what was going to happen.”

“Yes, but…”

“Father Ware was in good spirits before the mass?”

“Yes, and enthusiastic. He loved the mass.”

“Go on.”

“Father walked mechanically down the aisle…trance-like…then the gun and that awful explosion. You must understand that when I talk about Father, it’s not to defend him or obscure anything. He was, no, he is, a saintly man completely dedicated to the church and to God’s mission on earth. Everyone loves Father. I’ve known many priests, but none rose to the level of love and respect that Father had earned. This whole thing is tragic.”

“And Maggie Hayes?”

“Heartbreaking. A wonderful woman.”

“The guns and the NRA, hardly Christ-like if you ask me.”

“Father grew up with guns. He’s an expert marksman and has supported responsible gun ownership.”

“The NRA?”

“He’s in favor of every safeguard, including the total elimination of automatic weapons and large ammunition clips. He’s just not for confiscation. That hardly makes him a gun nut.”

“I wouldn’t be doing my job if I didn’t ask, but do you know anything about Father Ware’s life, past or present that might help to explain what happened?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“Look, Fiona, Father Ware’s a powerful man. He has one foot in the secular world and the other in Christ’s.” He paused. “Has everyone always been happy with Father’s decisions? Of course not, but he handled conflict with grace and in conformity with Christ’s teachings.”

“For example?”

“Perhaps some San Franciscans thought that geography and local liberal political philosophy would move Father, but they were wrong. Father held firmly to the true tenets of Catholicism, life for the unborn, the sanctity of traditional marriage, and abstinence. He rejected women in the priesthood and the harvesting of babies for stem cell research. In church business, he granted contracts that pleased some and angered others.”

“He sounds too good to be true, Father. That makes me even more curious.”

McLean shook his head in disgust. “I guess you’re in the right profession, Fiona, but I sure wouldn’t want to live my life questioning everything.”

“Not everything, Father. Evil rarely takes out a front page ad.”

McLean stood, walked behind his desk, opened a drawer, and extracted a multi-page document. “This is Father’s resume. It’s not exactly confidential, but it outlines the bare basic facts. Follow them as far as you like, Fiona. Tear into his life if you must, but I guarantee you won’t find anything.”

“I’m young, Father,” Fiona said, staring into McLean’s eyes, “but I’ve learned one thing for sure; everyone has his or her secrets.”

Chapter Twenty-Six

Jennifer Davis was sitting at the table by the window with her parents, Stephanie and Matt when Michael and Karen entered her room.

Karen smiled. “You’re looking fantastic today, Jennifer. Are you ready?”

Jennifer looked at Michael. “Am I!”

“You’re going to need counseling for several months, but we feel that staying here serves no purpose.”

Jennifer’s eyes filled. “So I should go on as if none of this happened.”

Michael shook his head. “Of course not, but all Karen and I see now is a young woman traumatized by the experience. We don’t find any evidence of continuing psychiatric problems.”

Stephanie placed her arm around Jennifer. “She’ll be staying with us for a while…as much as she can stand until she returns to school.”

Matt turned to Michael. “What about the DA?”

“Charlie Connor’s not going to prosecute. First, he’s a good guy, and he believes what I told him about you. Second, he has no complaining witness as Erin refuses to press charges and won’t testify against you under any circumstances.”

Jennifer wiped her eyes. “She’s a saint.”

“No,” Karen said. “She’s your friend and she loves you. I wish I had such a friend.”

Jennifer studied Michael’s face. “What if it happens again? I can’t stand the thought of that.”

“We’re at a disadvantage, Jennifer, but Karen and I have been at this for a while, and we think it’s unlikely to happen again.”

“Why?” Stephanie asked.

Karen looked at Jennifer’s parents. “No guarantees, but we think Jennifer’s mental health is fine, and we feel suspect an organic basis for what happened.”

I hate that word, organic,” Jennifer said. “It doesn’t mean a thing to me.”

“We’re not sure of anything,” Michael said, “and I hate to speculate, but maybe it was some unusual reaction to the amphetamine you took to study.”

“I sure as hell won’t do that again.”

Michael smiled. “Good idea.”

Karen handed Jennifer an appointment card. “I’ll be seeing you twice a week. Both our numbers are there. Don’t hesitate to call for any reason.”

Jennifer rose and walked to Karen and Michael and hugged them. “I can’t thank you enough.”

Afterward, Michael and Karen moved to a local Starbucks. Michael stirred his coffee. “I’m pleased that Jennifer’s going home, but these cases are driving me, pardon the expression…crazy.”

“Uncertainty is part of our business, Michael, but I feel it, too.”

“We’re looking for some common denominator that includes Beverly Craig, Carrie Nelson, and Father Ware, but except for Hillsborough, there’s nothing. We’re still standing in the dark. When you superimpose the criminal aspects of their cases, the issues become complicated. It’s hard enough getting jurors to understand ordinary psychiatric problems. When you superimpose uncertainty, the courts are unpredictable, and we often wind up doing more harm than good when we offer a psychiatric defense.”

Karen shook her head. “We can’t blame jurors for being skeptical. Defense attorneys and their hired-gun- psychiatrists have misused what little science we have on the human mind and behavior to excuse virtually anything. It’s a reactionary response, payback for allowing the guilty to walk the streets.”

“You’re right, but a person can be guilty, but not responsible.”

“A lay person would choke over that statement, Michael. To most, guilt means responsible.”

“That’s why we’re in business. Despite the fact that absolute truth is a myth, the jury is entitled to hear unbiased opinion. That’s our responsibility.”

Chapter Twenty-Seven

A week after Father Ware shot Maggie Hayes, Charlie Connor was meeting in his office with Al Russo. “I wish I could combine these cases and deal with them at one time.”

Al smiled. “No chance, Charlie. At least, you’re done with Jennifer Davis.”

“If it had been a knife instead of a letter opener, we’d be in the same place with her, too. Tell me that you have something.”

Al shook his head. “I’ll give you the details, but all these cases have only one thing in common.”

“Yes, I know. Normal, perhaps exemplary people, suddenly murderers…no motive…no explanation of any type except Michael Rose’s speculation about an organic cause.”

Al picked up a thick folder and placed it on Charlie’s desk. “It’s all in here. I’m not done yet, but the investigation isn’t promising. For sheer violence, it’s a toss-up between Beverly Craig and Father Ware, although Carrie Nelson is merely a step behind. Carrie is the only one with a hint of a psychiatric problem with the history of Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder. It’s a huge chasm between compulsive behavior and taking a tire iron to a man who cut in line.”

“Nothing on Beverly or Ware.”

“Beverly’s squeaky clean. Father Ware’s interest in guns and his membership in the NRA is a bit out of character for a priest, but that’s it. I’m going to look a bit more into that, but I doubt it will help.”

“You’re letting me down, Al. I may have to stop saying such good things about your investigative skills.”

Al shrugged. “I can make up some stuff if you like.” He paused. “Do you know Fiona Murphy?”

“The petting zoo girl?”

“Not anymore. Her editor at the Chronicle assigned her to the Father Ware story. She’s smart and determined. If she asks you for an interview, Charlie, be nice and get her to agree to share anything she finds. She’d love to have a working relationship with your office.”

“What about Michael Rose and his organic theory? I trust his experience and his instincts.”

“Me, too,” Al said, “but they’ve found nothing. Each suspect had complete physical, neurological, and psychiatric examinations. Brain scans have been normal. Each had a toxicology screen, and except for Jennifer Nelson’s trace amphetamine, everything was negative.”

“I don’t know why these cases bother me so much. From a District Attorney’s point of view, Res Ipsa Loquitur.”

“That’s Greek to me, boss.”

“No, Al, that’s Latin. While these aren’t negligence cases, the killings by Craig and Ware, and at least manslaughter by Carrie Nelson, those acts surely speak for themselves. That should be enough for any DA.”

“You’re not any DA, Charlie. You’re a goddamn saint. I don’t know how you made it big in this business when you would never take a defendant to trial unless you were personally convinced of their guilt.”

“What are you, my campaign manager?” Charlie smiled. “That may be a step too far in these cases because I have no doubt that they did the crime. It’s the defense’s obligation to find mitigating or other circumstances, not mine.”

“I guess that leaves us with only one choice, Charlie…to do our jobs the best we can.”

“Maybe I’m getting too old to be the DA where certainty is dangerous, and somehow, you always learn that the hard way. I’ve had convictions reversed, and one case nearly went to lethal injection before DNA proved his innocence.”

“Besides completing what I started, I have one other area of investigation, but again, I’m not hopeful.”

“What other area.”

Al recovered his folder. “This may seem obscene, but to be complete, I must look at all seven victims.”

“With care, Al. The victims and their families have been through quite enough.”

“I know, boss. Sensitivity is my middle name.”

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Bruno Cooper drove his red 2010 Mercedes SLK 350 to the county jail in Redwood City to meet with Beverly Craig. He parked in an isolated section of the garage away from other cars and their tendency to ding his prize possession.

Two guards, one on each arm escorted Beverly into the attorney meeting room. They sat him in a chair and bent over to attach his chains to the floor eyebolt.

Bruno looked up at the officers. “That won’t be necessary. I’ll take it from here.”

One guard stared at Bruno. “You know what he did, don’t you, sir?”

“I know the allegations against him, and I suggest that you become familiar with the word alleged.”

The guard smirked. “It’s your funeral, counselor. We’ll be right outside, just in case.”

Beverly’s face was impassive.

“How are they treating you?” Bruno asked.

“What difference does it make?”

“This is going to be tough enough as it is. You don’t need to tolerate poor treatment here.”

“They’re treating me like a prisoner. I eat, sleep, and shit on command…that’s it. I can’t really complain.”

“We’ve done a bit of investigation,” Bruno said, “but it’s time we get into your defense.”

Beverly reddened. “What defense? I’m guilty on all counts. I did it.”

Bruno shook his head. “Okay, Beverly, why don’t you tell me, start to finish, how exactly you killed the Simon family and your wife.”

Beverly lowered his head to the table for a few moments. When he lifted his head to face Bruno, tears streamed down his cheeks. “I can’t. You know I can’t.”

“Listen to me, Beverly; I’m an experience criminal defense attorney. I’ve been jerked around by the best. I’ve heard it all, lies of every variety, excuses, sophisticated manipulations, but you and three other clients have me stumped.”

“What other clients and stumped by what?”

“Let’s go back a month. If I were to describe you then as a kind, generous and loving man, would I be wrong.”

“Obviously you’re wrong. Kind, generous and loving men don’t kill strangers or their wives.”

“Did you plan to kill?”

“No.”

“Were you deliberate in killing?”

“No.” He paused. “I don’t know.”

“Did you specifically intend to kill?” Bruno asked.

“No, but what difference does it make?”

“Those are the necessary elements for the state’s first-degree murder case.”

Beverly stood and looked down at Bruno. “I don’t give a shit. I did it. I’m guilty as hell. I need to pay.”

Bruno pointed to the chair. “Sit and let me explain.”

Beverly sat and placed his arms across his chest.

“I’m not going to say that I know how you feel…nobody can really know that, but I have a good idea. You may not think you deserve an advocate, but everyone you know, friends and family disagree.”

Beverly’s head hung down.

“I’m not saying that you didn’t break the law, the question remains, are you criminally responsible for doing so…and more than that, if you are responsible, to what degree.”

“I’ll be damned if I participate in a Dan White Twinkie Defense.”

“No. That defense no longer exists in California.”

“Do you know what it’s like for me to live knowing what I’ve done?”

“No. Let me give you a hypothetical, Beverly. A paranoid schizophrenic escapes from a mental institution and he’s loose for days. He has no medications. He has frightening hallucinations that the strange man sitting on a park bench, is, in reality, the devil incarnate and that he’s about to kill him. He strikes first, killing the stranger, a minister on his lunch break.” Bruno paused. “Is he guilty?”

“Yes.”

“Is he responsible?”

Beverly looked around the room, studied the floor, and turned to Bruno. “The man didn’t know what he was doing.”

“Neither did you.”

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Al Russo was reading his case files at 9:00 a.m. when the receptionist buzzed his intercom. “Mr. Nelson is here.”

“Send him in.”

Al greeted Roger at the door offering his hand.

Roger took it as if he was handling a dead fish. “This better be important. I’m late for work.”

“I’m the District Attorney’s principal investigator, and I have questions concerning your wife, Carrie.”

“You must be out of your mind if you think I’m going to talk with a representative of the man prosecuting my wife. Did you discuss this with Bruno Cooper?”

“No. I’m discussing it with you, Roger. You don’t mind if I call you Roger?”

“I don’t care what you call me. I have nothing to say.”

“Even if it might help your wife?”

“Look, Al, you’re not dealing with a rube. The DA has the obligation to convict Carrie. I won’t be a part of that.”

“For a supposedly sophisticated, guy and a spook, you’re misinformed. Charlie Connor has an obligation to the truth, not conviction. Use your vast resources and check him out.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Al leaned over his desk. “I talked with your boss at the CIA.”

“You’re full of shit.”

“Randy Howard…very professional, I think.”

Roger paled. “I don’t believe for one moment that he told you diddly-squat.”

“You’re right. He just confirmed you as an employee of the agency…very hush-hush.”

Roger stood. “I think we’re through, Al.”

“You believe that I’m after national-security information when I ask about your wife?”

“The agency has its rules.”

“I think you’re trying to hide something, Roger.”

“Fuck you, Al.”

“It must be pretty embarrassing, Roger…so embarrassing that you won’t even help your wife. You’re one hell of a guy.”

Roger got up and walked out the door with his hand raised and his middle finger extended.

That afternoon, Al drove to Los Gatos and the Las Altos Gun Club. He parked and walked to the front desk showing his badge. “Al Russo, the San Mateo District Attorney’s investigator.”

The young receptionist smiled and brushed a lock of blond hair from her eyes. “Sign in. We get lots of cops shooting here.”

Al smiled back. “I’m sorry, but I’d like to speak with the manager or whoever runs the firing line.”

“That would be Jake Arnold. I’ll get him for you.”

She returned in two minutes with a husky man about sixty. Al introduced himself. “Can we talk in private?”

“No problem. Come into my office.”

The office contained a small desk. The walls and shelves were a testament to Jake’s accomplishments with trophies and photos of Jake with a variety of weapons and in the company of well-know celebrities and politicians.

Jake smiled. “What can I do for you, Al?”

“I’m here about Father Ware.”

Jake’s smiled disappeared. “I should have guessed. I couldn’t believe it when it hit the news. Father Ware…incredible.”

“That’s the most common reaction I get when I discuss Father with anyone who knows him.”

“We’re all puzzled. This kinda thing is of course bad for Father Ware, but it’s the last thing that second amendment defenders want.”

Jake turned to the wall and pointed to a photo.

Al stood and moved closer. It was Jake with Charlie Connor.

“Charlie’s a charter member, and a great guy. How can I help?”

“Tell me what you can about Father Ware.”

“Lenny, everyone calls him Lenny. He’s been coming here for eight or nine years. If you know him, you’ll understand how he became an instant celebrity for his talent with guns and his support for the NRA and our rights as gun owners.”

“You observed him on the range?”

“Many times.”

Al waited.

“Don’t know what you want me to say. Lenny’s a real pro. Took guns and competitive shooting seriously. He taught several gun safety classes and was a sensation. If he wasn’t so busy, I’d have him teach more often, he was so popular.”

“Father Ware’s popularity has made the investigation even more difficult than usual. I sense nobody’s comfortable saying anything negative about him.”

“Maybe so, Al, but perhaps there’s nothing negative to say.”

“Did Father always come alone?”

“No, a few times he came with members of his parish, mostly men, but a few women, and once or twice with teenage boys…and no, Al, nothing unusual happened.”

“Any phone calls while he was here?”

“Sure. Father’s a busy man. Sorry, Al, I can’t make things up. Nothing stands out as unusual.” Jake paused. “If you see Father, give him my regards. We’re all praying for him.”

As Al turned to leave, he turned back to Jake. “Sorry to be so compulsive, but do you have a list of Father Ware’s visits and who he brought with him?”

“All good cops are compulsive…that’s one reason we love them. I’ll have my secretary check the log book for…how long?”

“Say the last three years.”

“Okay, Al, but I won’t swear that it’s totally accurate. We’ll do the best we can, and I’ll fax you the results.”

Chapter Thirty

Roger and Bruno Cooper walked with Carrie between them as they left The Superior Court of California on Mission Road in South San Francisco.

Carrie shook Bruno’s hand. “I can’t thank you enough for getting me out of that hell-hole.”

Roger sneered. “That $10,000 wasn’t easy to come by, Bruno. We’re not rich people.”

“It could have been a lot worse. She got bail because the facts are unclear, as is the presumption of her guilt. Moreover, this is about the lowest bail I’ve seen in my criminal cases.”

“We’ll get some of that back, won’t we?” Roger asked.

Bruno stared at Roger. “I thought you understood. That $10,000 is not refundable.”

Carrie reddened. “Maybe I should check back into jail…you would love that.”

Roger shook his head. “Why do my thoughts, however shallow, just pop thoughtlessly from my mouth?”

Bruno shook his head. “Doesn’t seem like a quality we’d encourage in our spooks.”

Roger turned to Carrie. “I thought I told you never to…”

“Take it easy. Carrie was a good girl, Bruno said. “She told us nothing.”

“I have professional responsibilities, Bruno. They include an oath of confidentiality.”

“I couldn’t care less about your spook-like activities unless it relates in some way to what happened to Carrie. Does it?”

Roger paled. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

Bruno shook his head and stared from Carrie to Roger. “Please understand that I will do what’s necessary to defend Carrie. I’m convinced, as are Michael and Karen that something happened to her, and we’re going to discover whatever that was. If that’s not enough for you, find another attorney.”

Roger frowned, but said nothing.

Carrie lowered her head and cried.

Bruno patted Carrie on the shoulder. “I’m sorry. You’ll let me know what you decide.”

When Bruno got back to his office, Michael and Karen were waiting. Bruno told them about Carrie’s bail and his confrontation with Roger.

“You not going to abandon Carrie are you,” cried Karen.

“I hate to have this whole thing fall apart over nothing…read that as Roger’s obstructionism and the fact that he’s a prick. I can’t do my job with this kind of internal dissension. It’s up to them.”

Michael smiled. “Maybe you should spend a few minutes on my couch, Bruno. It’s unlike you to get this frustrated this soon in a case.”

“Maybe I’m getting too old for this job. I’m an attorney and when I look at the facts of these cases, I don’t know where to start. Beverly and Carrie did the deeds. In addition, what can I say about Father Ware, except that we’ll deal with his crime in the courts, not the confessional. Excusing or mitigating against these acts may be beyond my magic and what even thoughtful and experienced professionals as you two can provide in court.”

“I’m convinced,” Karen said, “that Carrie, Beverly, and Father Ware could not have formed the specific intent to harm or kill anyone. They didn’t have men rea.”

Bruno smiled. “That’s your heart talking, Karen. How do you know what was or wasn’t in their heads? They couldn’t even tell you, and a jury will likely conclude that ‘I don’t remember’ is a convenient self-serving attempt at avoiding responsibility.”

Michael shook his head. “Not for Beverly. He doesn’t want a defense. He feels guilty and wants to be punished.”

“That’s not going to help me defend him, Michael.”

“You’ll find a way, Bruno. You always do.”

Chapter Thirty-One

When Fiona arrived for work at the San Francisco Chronicle, someone had placed a Post-it on her computer screen. “Come see me when you get in.” It was signed, “Sam.”

Sam, her editor, was on the phone having a heated conversation. When Fiona started to back out, he signaled for her to sit.

“You’re the best reason we cherish our first amendment rights,” Sam said. “You want that source, see you in court.” Sam put down the phone, looked at Fiona and smiled. “They’re always looking for the easy way out. I’ll be damned if we do their job.” He paused. “I haven’t heard from you regarding Father Ware and the other cases. What’s up?”

“Can I ask you one question first?”

“Ask away and don’t stop at one.”

“I know Father Ware’s case is newsworthy, but I suspect that your interest may be more than journalistic.”

Sam smiled. “It’s no secret. Father’s a friend and a poker buddy and yes, I care about him. I want him to get a fair shake.”

She studied his face before continuing. “A fair shake is one thing,” she paused, “but you won’t interfere…”

“Never. Take that to the bank. If Father’s guilty and responsible, I’ll be sad, but that’s it. Now, Fiona, what have you got?”

“A headache…one big headache. You’re a pro, Sam, and you know what it’s like when a reporter sticks her nose, even a cute nose, into the lives of crime victims.”

“I know, Fiona, but that comes with the territory.”

“Every question, regardless how tactfully asked gets interpreted as an attempt by the press to vilify the victim. Do we really deserve that?”

“I’m afraid that sometimes we do. People don’t make the distinction between the legitimate press and the supermarket tabloids and I regret to say that at times the differences aren’t always clear.”

Fiona tugged at her hair. “See these gray ones, they came after I talked with what remains of the Simon family, and the Craigs. I’m a sensitive person, Sam, and I thought I understood death in a family, but these losses are devastating. They’re a combination of stunned by the unexpected and bewildered by senseless murder. It’s even worse for the Craigs who have lost their mother and their father.”

“Did anything come out of those interviews?”

“Nothing…plain and simple, nothing.”

“What about the others.”

“The Krupp family, like their patriarch, Alan, are fruits of the same disagreeable tree. They’d be obnoxious even if Alan Krupp hadn’t been assaulted. They refused to talk with me, but it’s obvious that revenge is their cause célèbre and they’ve focused their vitriol on Carrie Nelson, the school district and virtually all the authorities. They’ll be keeping the courts busy for years. The fact that many people would have liked to kill Alan Krupp doesn’t help at all.”

“What about Erin Stuart and Maggie Hayes?” Sam asked.

“I’m just getting started with Maggie, but Erin gave me the best look into the assault. She loves Jennifer and as roommates, she knows her better than even her family. She’s convinced that something happened to Jennifer…that it wasn’t her friend that attacked her that night. This jibes with the opinions of the psychiatrist and psychologist on the cases. I’ll try to get to them, but legal and medical confidentiality may be a bridge too far.”

“What about the Hayes woman?”

“All I have so far is name, rank, and serial number. I’m meeting with her family later today.”

“Good work, Fiona. We all leave a little blood in our wake. Keep the drops as small as possible.”

When Fiona dialed Maggie Hayes’s parents, the Benders, a woman answered. “This is Sally.”

“Mrs. Bender, my name’s Fiona Murphy, I’m a reporter for the San Francisco Chronicle…”

Sally burst into tears. “You take it, Bobby…I can’t.”

In a strong, angry voice, Robert Bender asked, “Who’s this and what do you want?”

“I’m Fiona Murphy from the Chronicle, and I’d like a moment of your time.”

“What the hell’s that matter with you people? Why can’t you leave us alone?”

“I’m sorry. I’m a young reporter, and my editor gave me this assignment…my first big chance at an important story.”

“I don’t give a damn. Leave us alone.”

“But if you just…”

The line went dead.

Fiona called back four days later. “This is Fiona again…from the Chronicle.”

“Ms. Murphy is it?” Sally asked.

“Yes, but please call me Fiona.”

“I’d like to apologize for Bobby’s behavior the other day. He was rude.”

“Oh please, Mrs. Bender, I understand. This can’t be easy for you two. I’m sorry for the intrusion, but it’s my job, and I think I do it with honestly and with sensitivity.”

“Please call me Sally and I’m sorry, too, Fiona. You sound like a nice young woman, but we’ve had it with the police and the media.”

“Believe me, I understand. It was my desire to write about Maggie, her life and her work. I’ve heard incredibly positive things about her, but I’d still prefer to hear it from the ones who knew and loved her the most.”

“Can you hold on for a moment?”

“Yes, of course.”

Fiona listened to the muted, but agitated conversation, then Robert’s voice came on. “Fiona?”

“Yes.”

“Can you come tomorrow afternoon at four?”

“Yes. I’ll be there and thank you.”

“I don’t know why, but Sally believes in you. Don’t betray her trust, Fiona.”

“I won’t.”

The next afternoon, Fiona drove to Daly City to meet with Robert and Sally Bender. They sat at the kitchen table of their modest condominium. The walls, tables and the fireplace mantle had photos of Maggie and the children, but no photos of Denny Hayes.

“Thank you for talking with me. I can’t tell you how sorry I am for your loss.”

Robert stared at Fiona. “Thank you, but we’ve already spoken with detectives, and I’m afraid we didn’t have much to offer.”

Fiona smiled. “I’m primarily interested in Maggie, but sometimes reporters look at situations a little differently from the police. I’d like to ask you a few questions, and I’ll try to be sensitive to your feelings. If I go too far, just boot me out.”

Tears streamed down Sally’s cheeks. “The children…I feel so bad for her children…to lose their mother…”

“Take your time and tell me about Maggie…anything will do.”

Sally talked for forty minutes smiling as she recalled Maggie’s childhood, her turbulent adolescence, her marriage and her children. Robert added few comments.

Fiona waited for a moment. “Had you noticed any change in Maggie in the last year, for instance?”

Sally stared at Fiona. “You know that you’re a little like Maggie when she was in her twenties.”

“Thank you. From those photos, I can see that she was a lovely woman.”

Sally managed a small smile. “Yes, she was. She and Denny went through a rough patch about two and a half years ago, but with counseling, their marriage gradually improved. This last year, especially the past five or six months, Maggie was the happiest we’ve seen her in a while.”

“Did they see a psychologist or psychiatrist?”

“No, they met for several months with Father Ware. He really helped them.”

“If this doesn’t make you uncomfortable, what kind of problems did they have?”

Robert looked at Sally, then back to Fiona. “Who really knows what goes on between a husband and wife behind closed doors. I hate to speculate.”

“I understand. Would Maggie have shared her feeling with anyone else?”

Sally smiled. “Cindy…Cynthia Green. They were like sisters. She’d know about Maggie and Denny, but I don’t think it was anything dramatic. No infidelity or that sort of thing. They just drifted apart.”

Fiona stared at Sally. “Drifted apart?”

Robert clenched his fists. “I think she just got tired of his shit.”

Sally reddened. “Robert!”

Fiona studied them. “All you need to say is ‘off the record’ and it will never see the light of day. I did notice that you had no photos that included Denny.”

“Seeing him in life was enough for us,” Robert said. “Off the record, Denny had a drinking problem, bad enough, but even worse, he was a mean drunk. For their safety, we had to move Maggie and the kids into an apartment.”

“How did Denny react?”

“He surprised us. It devastated him. He joined AA. They went for counseling, and after five months, she moved back in.” Robert paused. “If you meet Denny, don’t let his appearance or use of language fool you. He had one of the highest SAT scores they’d ever seen in the school district.”

“Was Denny’s counseling with Father Ware?”

“No. He had a social worker from AA.”

“Was Denny as interested in the church as Maggie?”

“No. Denny’s a good Catholic, but did the bare minimum. At first, he was a big fan of Father Ware. Said that Father was like one of the guys. Near the end of counseling, he was angry with Father for keeping them apart for so long. Father couldn’t win for trying.”

“And Maggie?”

“She loved the church and worshiped Father,” cried Sally, sobbing. “How could he carry a loaded gun into church? How could he have done this?”

“That’s what we’re trying to figure out.” Fiona stood. “Thank you for talking with me.”

Robert stood. “If you come up with anything, you’ll let us know.”

“Of course.”

Fiona paused and looked at Robert and Sally. “Trust me with this observation…I feel it in my bones; Maggie was lucky to have a mother and father like you two.”

Chapter Thirty-Two

Michael and Karen were sitting at his office conference room table cluttered with patient folders, reprints from the psychiatric literature and the blue DSM-5 for psychiatric illnesses.

“I’m not getting anywhere with Father Ware, Michael.”

“I don’t get it. You explained about our need for psychometric testing in detail, didn’t you?”

Karen smiled and made a pistol of her hand and pointed it at him. “I enjoy working with a man who likes to live dangerously—of course, I explained it.”

“What’s your plan?”

“It’s not an intellectual problem. He understands the need for testing, but he just can’t do it. He agreed to try, and I watched him as he opened the booklet, read the question, but then froze with the marking pen in his hand.”

“He must have something to hide,” Michael said. “Choosing the priesthood as a profession often stems from deep emotional problems.”

“Like psychiatrists?”

Michael smiled. “And psychologists.”

“In training for my Ph.D., I took the whole range of psychometric tests and to tell the truth, I worried about what they might show…might reveal about the real Karen Scott.”

“I’m waiting…”

“It was a revelation, an unexpected yet reassuring one. Those deep and dark secrets, the ones I struggled so hard to hide were common in 80% of normal people.”

“When I went into psychiatric practice, the one thing that produced the most immediate emotional relief for my patients was to be unimpressed by their secrets. I used my favorite throw-away line that ‘I hear that once, twice, or three times a week’.”

“Yes, Michael, the mind is a lonely egocentric place.” She paused. “Getting back to Father Ware, what do you suggest?”

“Bruno and I are going to meet Father this afternoon. I’ll think on it and find the opportunity to discuss it with Ware.”

Karen stared at Michael but remained silent.

Michael met her eyes. “What? What is it?”

“We’re both big on interpreting body language and Ware troubles me.”

“How?”

“It’s his eyes. He doesn’t look at me like a priest.”

“Karen, you are a strikingly beautiful woman, and although he’s a priest, he’s also a man.”

She walked up to Michael, placed her face against his chest and held him tightly, then kissed him passionately. “Strikingly beautiful…I like that.”

“It’s true.”

“That couch still looks comfortable.”

He shook his head. “That couch was okay for preliminaries. Come home with me tonight and we’ll go for the main event.”

Bruno whistled when Michael drove up to the curb before his Emeryville office the next day in the red Firebird. “Maybe we can use the side streets, so nobody sees me in this contraption.”

Michael laughed. “This car can only improve your image, Bruno.”

“How many miles per gallon?”

“Seven or eight when I drive like an old lady going to church. That’s why I love to take it out for a spin when someone like you is paying the bill.”

“Next time we’ll take my Mercedes.”

As they drove across the Bay Bridge and to the Bayshore Freeway south, Michael cranked open the moon roof allowing the sun and the wind in. Bruno smirked as he donned his titanium Ray-Bans and brushed back his hair. “Some people never grow up.”

“Some people never live.”

Michael drove to the Stanford Hospital main entrance. He handed the keys and a twenty to the attendant. “Put her somewhere safe.”

They rode the elevator to the psych ward and walked to Father Ware’s room. The uniformed officer stood as they approached.

“Dr. Rose, Mr. Cooper, good to see you again. Father’s inside reading. He’s in good spirits today.”

Ware placed his New American Bible on the table before the window and stood to greet them. “I’m being double-teamed by a shrink and a hired gun. This must be important.”

Michael smiled. “You’re in a good mood today—pretty chipper for a man who committed a mortal sin.”

“Ouch” Father cried, clutching his chest, then smiling and staring into Michael’s eyes. “I realize that you’re going to parse every word I say; that’s your job. I also know that you’re an experienced and sophisticated psychiatrist, a forensic one at that, so I do want you to understand.”

“It can be a lot less complicated if you just talked to us,” Michael said.

Bruno placed a thick folder on the table. “Remember that I’m your attorney, and we’re bound by confidentiality.”

Michael placed a yellow legal pad on the table. “We’re seeking the truth, and I’d like to help you if I can.”

Father Ware shifted in his chair and stared at Michael’s pad. “You already know that trust is an issue for me. Our impasse over the psychological tests is proof enough.” Ware took a deep breath. “You two are going to hate this, but you brought it up. From a Catholic perspective, what I did can no way be considered a mortal sin.”

Bruno shook his head. “You’re not headed for an Ecclesiastical court, Father; it’s the Superior Court of California. They’re bound by an entirely different set of rules.”

“I have a point, gentlemen. This will sound pedantic and self-serving, but that’s not my intention. The church requires three conditions for a mortal sin. The first, an act of grave matter is clear, but the second, committed with full knowledge and the third, deliberate consent, meaning that I made a free choice, doesn’t fulfill the criteria.”

Bruno shook his head in disgust. “You’re right, Lenny, it does sound pedantic and self-serving, but more than that it comes across as icy-cold and indifferent. You say that in court, and you might as well pack your bag for a long prison sentence. I’d never allow you on the stand with that attitude. Worst of all, none of this helps us.”

Father looked into his lap. “I may not want your help. My actions were wrong, and I’m prepared to accept full responsibility, but can I ask you a question?”

“Go ahead.”

“Without sounding indifferent or cold, I’m asking if I don’t fulfill the second and third criteria, won’t that reduce my culpability? As I see it, it’s the religious equivalent of the diminished capacity defense that’s so out of favor in California.”

Michael checked his notes. “Father. Tell us about the Glock 23.”

“I was wondering when you’d get to that.” He paused. “That was a grave mistake.”

Michael frowned. “Grave mistake…is that some kind of sick pun?”

“I’m sorry. That was not my intention.”

“Please Father don’t say that carrying the Glock and using it to put a bullet into Maggie Hayes’s head was any kind of mistake.”

“You’re making a strategic error, Doctor. Would you rather challenge or co-opt me?”

“This isn’t an intellectual game, Father. A woman is dead. Her children are motherless. I simply want to understand how this happened, and specifically how it happened to you.”

“It’s unusual, but not unprecedented for priests to have an interest in firearms, and I assure you that I’m not the only priest who supports gun rights and the NRA.” He paused for a long moment. “I shouldn’t have carried the Glock into church. It probably cost Maggie her life.”

Michael shook his head. “Probably?”

“No, you’re right, but I can’t reconstruct my thinking on that day. I’ve carried the gun in church in the past, but only as an oversight. I’m so comfortable with it that I often forget that it’s there.”

Bruno studied Ware. “The DA will tell the jury that carrying the gun into church shows premeditation.”

“I agree,” Ware said, “and if I could reconstruct the day, perhaps I could tell you why I was carrying.”

After two hours discussing all aspects of the defense, Bruno stood and turned to Michael. “My wife’s picking me up in a respectable vehicle. I’ll leave you with Father.” Bruno grasped Ware’s hand and pulled him close. “I won’t mince words with you, Lenny. Taking these cases to court will be a battle, and I won’t enter the field unarmed. Take that as a warning. I want your full cooperation. That includes any testing Michael needs to help me in court. Remember that it’s not my ass on the line.”

“I don’t care about my ass, Bruno. I’m trying to save my soul. Perhaps, if I plead guilty, I’d be one step closer.”

“Go ahead. That would save me a lot of grief…that is if you really think you’re fully responsible.”

Ware shook his head. “Am I really able to make that determination?”

After Bruno left, Ware turned back to Michael. “I’m lucky to have him. Same goes for you and Karen.”

Suddenly, the door swung open, and Father McLean entered.

“I’m sorry, Father, but I’m in session with Father Ware. Please come back later.”

McLean ignored Michael’s comment, walked over to Ware, held his hand, and kissed his cheeks. “I’m so worried, Father.”

Ware freed himself from McLean’s grasp. “This is unseemly, Father. You heard Dr. Rose. We’re in session.”

McLean paled and blushed. “I’m so sorry, Father. I haven’t been myself since you left.”

“Talk with someone at the diocese…someone who can counsel you.”

“No, Father. I’m waiting for your return.” He turned to Michael. “I’m sorry, Doctor. I’m like an anxious mother when it comes to Father. I’ll take my leave now.” He turned to Ware. “I’ll be back, later, Father, if it’s okay.”

Ware remained silent but raised his hand and flicked it to shoo McLean away.

After McLean left, Father turned back to Michael. “Not exactly the forceful personality we’d expect in a priest, but you can’t doubt his devotion.”

“I’ve got about forty minutes, Lenny. Let’s not waste it.”

Chapter Thirty-Three

Bruno Cooper was sitting at his desk when his intercom sounded. “Willard Duncan is on line two.”

“Willard. What’s up?”

“I’m just checking on the status of Father Ware’s defense. The diocese is hoping for good news.”

“They should be praying for good news because I can’t find any. Father Ware’s insisting on pleading guilty even as the psychiatrist is convinced that he didn’t have mens rea.”

“That’s not going to us much good in this legal environment.”

“Believe me, I know. Has the diocese heard from any other attorneys about Father’s case?”

“What other attorneys? Let’s have it, Bruno.”

“I’m hearing that the Hayes family has contacted an attorney with plans to pursue claims against the church.”

“That’s all the church needs. What kind of claims?”

“A civil lawsuit for wrongful death. Father works for the diocese and how in hell could anyone permit a priest to carry a loaded gun into church? If the diocese didn’t know, that’s bad enough. If they did know, get out your checkbook.”

“The church can’t win for trying these days. Everything we do turns to crap.”

“Oh, please, Willard,” Bruno said, “the church embraces survival over salvation. If I recall, salvation used to be the name of the game.”

As Roger pulled into his driveway, a tall attractive woman stood by his front door. He smiled as he gave the once-over. “Can I help you?”

She smiled. “Roger Nelson?”

“Yes, and you’re…”

“Fiona Murphy, San Francisco Chronicle. Can I have a word with you?”

Roger’s smile vanished in an instant. “What the hell’s wrong with you people? Why can’t you leave us alone?”

Fiona reddened. “Don’t paint all reporters with the same brush, Mr. Nelson. We have a job to do and some of us do it professionally.”

“Professionally…unprofessionally, I don’t give a shit. Get the hell off my property!”

“But sir…”

“Get off now or I’m calling the police.”

“But…”

“Now!”

Fiona returned to her car and checked her watch. She had a little over an hour before her appointment with Michael Rose and Karen Scott.

So much for the glamour of reporting. I’ll probably get even less from them, she thought.

When Fiona entered Michael’s office, smiles greeted her, and she felt a bit better. “Thank you for seeing me.”

Karen offered her hand. “Come in and have a seat.”

Michael stood. “Let’s sit by the window. The light makes almost anything tolerable.”

Fiona frowned. “Give me a few minutes to make myself intolerable, would you.”

“Poor choice of words. I just feel better sitting in the light. Most people do.”

“A reporter should have thick skin. Mine’s still too fragile.”

“Doing any job well,” Karen said, “sometimes requires enduring abuse.”

“I just had a rather brief meeting with Roger Nelson. You know Mr. Personality?”

“We do,” Karen said, “and we give you our condolences.”

“What makes a man like that so obnoxious?” Fiona asked.

Michael smiled. “Are we here to talk about Mr. Nelson?”

“Look. I’m tired and frustrated. I know you’re limited in what you can share with me, but beggars can’t be choosers, so I’ll take what I can get.”

“The defense has asked us to render an opinion on Beverly Craig, Carrie Nelson, and Father Ware.”

“What about Jennifer Davis?”

“The DA dismissed her case.”

“But didn’t she share the same pattern of behavior as your other clients?”

“I’m sorry,” Michael said. “We can’t share that information.”

“You’re a forensic psychiatrist. You’re right on the forefront of psychiatry and the law. Tell me, in general, what problem cases like these pose for you.”

“Very good, Fiona,” Karen said. “May we call you Fiona?”

“Of course.”

“First, for subjects in these circumstances, not necessarily our clients, the distinction between temporary insanity and permanent insanity may have medical significance, but California law makes no such distinction.”

Fiona jotted in her notebook. “So a paranoid schizophrenic who escapes from the asylum and kills somebody is the same as somebody who was normal yesterday and just suddenly flips out today?”

Michael smiled. “Exactly. The evidence of psychiatric illness is so great in the schizophrenic that even for the legal system, it’s a no-brainer. Temporary insanity is a real problem for us and for the judicial system because of its potential for abuse. If we had a blood test for temporary insanity, we’d be home free, but of course, we don’t. If one hundred percent of our psychiatrists were intelligent, experienced, and ethical, again we’d be home free, but they aren’t.”

“That sounds like a good reason to eliminate the temporary insanity defense, doesn’t it?”

“Remember Benjamin Franklin,” Michael said. “He was a pretty smart guy. He thought that it is better that one hundred guilty persons should escape than that one innocent person should suffer.”

“I’m not sure my readers are ready to pay such a price.”

Karen smirked. “They might if it was them or their loved ones who were on trial. I’m not sure a society that doesn’t appreciate severe mental illness and its consequences is worth preserving. Let’s lock them all up and throw away the keys.” Karen paused. “You’re young…it’s okay, but take a moment to look at the 1948 movie, The Snake Pit, then tell me if that’s the way we should go.”

Michael shifted in his chair. “Psychiatrists apologize for the often brutal and senseless actions of their predecessors while other physicians, those ‘doctors’ get off scot-free with bloodletting, poisonings, purging, and whatever.”

Fiona smiled. “Start a new version of the P.L.O., the Psychiatrists Liberation Organization. You can even have a secret handshake.”

Michael laughed. “Don’t lose your sense of humor, Fiona. Getting back to my erudite explanation, the California Penal Code creates a two-pronged test for insanity: prong one, requires a defendant to understand the nature and quality of his act. The second prong requires the defendant to be able to distinguish between right and wrong. A defendant who cannot satisfy both of these prongs is statutorily insane. Moreover, it doesn’t matter whether the defendant was insane for months or hours.”

“I know now what to do if I get charged with murder,” Fiona said.

Karen studied Fiona. “You might think so, but that’s a bad bet. Only 1-3% of defense attorneys will employ such a defense and 75% of those charged get convicted.”

Fiona ran her fingers through her hair. “That’s got to mean that defendants who were really insane at the time of the crime are languishing in jail. That’s the polar opposite of what Ben Franklin said.”

Michael studied Fiona. “You’re in an important business. The press…no, it’s the media in general, and the Internet, that are establishing the priorities for our society and the few are setting the standards for the many. Because a few doctors screw up, all doctors must pay exorbitant malpractice premiums and play defensive medicine. Because a few owners won’t pick up their dog’s shit, they ban all dogs from beaches and parks…it goes on and on. And, because a few circumvent justice by proclaiming psychiatric illness, many not truly responsible rot in prison. I’m fucking sick of it!”

Karen squeezed Michael’s hand. “And the many carry the burden for the few.”

Fiona looked wide-eyed at Michael. “You really think it’s that many?”

“Probably not, but even a handful in jail because they’re sick rather than really guilty is too much for me.”

“So you’d send all criminals for therapy rather than into jail?”

Michael shook his head. “Very good, Fiona. Someday, you’re going to be a great investigator, but for now, you’ll never get there with that argument ad absurdum. We must protect society from those who’d harm it, whether from illness, character flaws, or by virtue of being plain evil. Karen and I believe in evil. We’ve seen it up close and personal. If your Catholicism didn’t convince of that evil exists, then you’ll learn about it soon enough.”

Chapter Thirty-Four

The CCU at Stanford Hospital in Palo Alto was in its usual frenzied state. Mickey Kramer lay in bed four propped up on three pillows to help his breathing. He’d been admitted three days ago with unremitting chest pain. Alice Kramer, his wife of fifty-one years was sitting at his bedside reading a magazine while white coats gathered just outside discussing Mickey’s case.

Mickey looked through the glass walls. “Who are they grilling now?”

“The poor medical students. I don’t know how they survive.”

Richard Katz, the cardiology attending, entered with his chief resident, Julie Bishop.

Alice pointed at the white coats. “You’re a sadist with the house staff, but so kind to us. How do you do it?”

“It’s an act…at least in part and a tradition in teaching medicine to each generation. I’ve got the scars to prove it.” Katz paused, then smiled. “You lucked out, Mickey. We thought this was the big one, but we’re finding only minor heart damage.”

“Minor damage for you, but a bum ticker ain’t no joy to me.”

Alice shook her head. “Pay him no mind. He hates hospitals, and he’s not too big on doctors either.”

Mickey nudged Alice’s arm. “Pour me some ice water, would you, Alice. I’m thirsty as hell and turn the lights down—it’s too damn bright in here.”

Katz looked around the room, studied the dim lighting, and grabbed a penlight from his pocket. He bent over Mickey, lifted his eyelids, and checked both eyes. Mickey’s pupils were widely dilated with only a rim of blue iris showing. “Take a look at this, Julie.”

“Wow. They’re big. What’s he on?”

“Check his medications for me, would you, Julie.”

She grabbed Mickey’s chart and flipped to the medication list. “I don’t see anything that would do this.”

“Do what?” Alice asked.

Katz studied Mickey’s cardiac monitor. It showed a normal tracing, but a pulse of 110 per minute. He picked up the intercom. “Run off Mr. Kramer’s monitor tracing for the last five minutes.”

Mickey looked up at Katz. “What’s wrong, Doc?”

“Just checking on something.”

“Where’s that water? My mouth feels like sand.”

Mickey was suddenly quiet. He licked his lips, opened them slightly leaving his pink tongue protruding. His face was flushed.

Julie leaned over Mickey with her penlight. When she lifted his eyelids, his pupils remained widely dilated, and his eyes jerked left and right repeatedly. As she turned to Katz, Mickey sat up in bed and reached for her throat. His IV and monitor lines pulled free leaving his right arm bleeding freely from the puncture site. His monitor electrodes were dangling. As Julie pulled away, Mickey lunged again for her neck, but Katz pushed him back.

Alice panicked. “Mickey…Mickey…what are you doing.”

Katz picked up the intercom. “Get security up here, stat.”

The loudspeaker blared. “Mr. Strong to CCU 4, stat.”

Two husky orderlies entered within a minute, grabbed Mickey’s arms, and struggled to secure them with leather restraints as Mickey fought to free himself.

Katz looked at the cardiac monitor. It was a straight line. “His leads are off. Get them back on, Julie. We need to see what he’s got.”

Suddenly, the tracing on the monitor jumped to life with a regular rhythm, but a heart rate of 160 beats per minute. Mickey became still as his heart rate increased further to 180 beats per minute.

Alice screamed, as Mickey lay unconscious. “God…God…no. No Jesus…please Jesus…no.”

Julie placed her stethoscope on Mickey’s chest. “A regular tachycardia and he’s breathing.”

The monitor technician brought in Mickey’s tracing, and Katz spread it on the bedside table and studied it. “His pulse was fifty beats/minute then, it rose to 102, 110, 128, and 160. It’s a sinus tachycardia.”

Alice was nearly hysterical, screaming, and sobbing.

Katz looked at Julie. “Get her out of here…now.”

Julie held Alice. “Please, Mrs. Kramer. Let us do our jobs. I’ll talk with you in a few minutes.”

As Julie dragged Alice from the room, the CCU head nurse entered. “What’s going on here, Dr. Katz?”

Katz turned to Julie, who had just returned. “What if I said, hot as a hare, blind as a bat, dry as a bone, red as a beet, and mad as a hatter?”

Julie gasped. “Someone gave this patient atropine…that’s got to be it…atropine.”

The nurse shook her head. “We have no orders for atropine…and nobody gave any atropine.”

“With the rapid heart rate, this is the classical description of atropine poisoning. Set up an IV with physostigmine and let’s get it going.”

The head nurse shook her head and placed her hands on her hips. “Nobody gave Mr. Kramer atropine. Get it?”

“No, you get it,” Shouted Katz. “Have the lab draw blood for a plasma atropine level and call Risk Management right away.”

The head nurse crimsoned. “You better be damn sure, Doctor, before you accuse my nurses of anything.”

Katz ignored her.

“Who does atropine levels, Rich?”

“We’ll need a reference or one of our research laboratories. I’ll find one that does a radioreceptor assay.”

Within seconds of starting the physostigmine infusion, Mickey’s pulse fell to 120/minute.

Katz looked up. Mickey was still. “The response to physostigmine is even more proof that it’s atropine.” He turned to the head nurse. “Seal this room and bag everything. We’ll get to the bottom of this.”

Over the next 36 hours, each time they reduced the physostigmine infusion, Mickey’s pulse rate increased, then finally they were able to discontinue the drug. He gradually awakened.

Alice sat next to Mickey holding his hand. “How are you?”

Mickey looked at Alice, then he scanned the room. “What happened?”

“I don’t know. Something made your heart go too fast. What do you remember?”

“I remember checking in and the chest pain, but that’s it. Everything else is a blank.”

Katz sat with Julie at the nurses’ station listening on the phone. “Yes, Mickey Kramer. I need his atropine level. Yes, I’ll wait.”

Julie smiled. “Looks like Mickey’s got nine lives. He lucked out again.”

“He doesn’t think he’s lucky…not with all this… and neither do I.” He paused. “Yes, it’s Dr. Katz.”

Katz stood as his listened. “What do you mean, no atropine?” Katz paled, and his eyes widened.

“What is it, Rich?” Julie asked.

“It’s scopolamine. Toxic levels. This was no accident, Julie. Someone tried to kill Mickey!”

Chapter Thirty-Five

Charlie Connor was sitting in his conference room with staff when his secretary entered. “It’s Al Russo. He needs to talk with you.”

“Can’t it wait until I’m through?”

“He insists.”

When Charlie walked into his office, Al was staring out the window.

“This better be important. I’m in a meeting.”

“Just heard from Detective Joe Briant. He got a call from Stanford Hospital Risk Management Team that a patient had been poisoned.”

“Okay. Hospitals deal with poisonings every day. What’s the big deal?”

“The patient, Mickey Kramer was in CCU at the time. He was recovering from a mild heart attack.”

“He was poisoned in the hospital?”

“We think so.”

“Poisoned with what?”

Al smiled. “Now here’s the interesting part. The patient, Kramer is in his seventies. An average normal guy with no psychiatric history who suddenly and without warning goes berserk and tries to choke a female medical resident. In addition, he had peculiar eye movements and absolutely no memory of what he did afterward. Does that sound familiar?”

“Please tell me…”

“Scopolamine. Someone poisoned him with scopolamine.”

Charlie’s eyes widened. “Scopolamine…like truth serum?”

“You’re older than you look Charlie. Have you heard of MKULTRA?”

“A CIA program, I think.”

Al nodded. “I’m impressed. Finally, I found someone else with a mind cluttered with ancient trivia. The CIA ran a scopolamine interrogation program through the Office of Scientific Intelligence. Putatively, it ended in the late 60s, but with spooks, you never know.”

“Roger Nelson’s a spook, right?”

“Yes, but I can’t get shit on him.”

“You know the next step, right Al?”

“It’s done, Charlie. We searched for scopolamine in the blood of Beverly Craig, Carrie Nelson, Jennifer Davis, and Father Ware. They’re all positive for scopolamine, and Father Ware had the highest level of them all.”

Michael replaced the phone handset and stared at Karen. “That was Charlie. You were right. I’m officially switching you from associate to partner.”

Karen glanced around the room. “Are you talking to me?”

“Is that your best De Niro impression?”

“Very funny, Michael. Now tell me why you’re suddenly enlightened.”

“Organic. You said their behaviors felt organic, and you were right. It’s scopolamine. Someone drugged them with scopolamine.”

“I don’t believe it—All of them?”

“Beverly, Carrie, Jennifer, and Father Ware had high levels of scopolamine. Father had the highest level of them all.”

Karen looked up at the ceiling. “That’s a spook drug, isn’t it?” She paused. “And Roger fits in two ways; he’s a prick and a spook.”

“You know what they say about solutions too good to be true. Don’t take this one to the bank yet.”

“Maybe we can get the CIA to stop stonewalling us about Roger if they realize that one of their own has gone off the ranch.”

“Yes and maybe we’ll discover why someone chose these particular people and how he managed to get scopolamine into them.”

“Or she, Michael. Liberation brought perks and responsibilities.”

“You’re destroying my fantasies about women.”

“Not the good ones, I hope.” She smiled. “Good fantasies or good women? They’re not mutually exclusive.”

Chapter Thirty-Six

Officer Kozlowski sat outside Beverly Craig’s room, yawning and checking his watch.

The medication nurse, Lila, wheeled her cart by and smiled. “Hang in there, Ernie. It’s nearly 7:00 p.m., and your shift is almost over.”

“It’s not the shift, Lila, it’s the boredom. Get the hospital to order new magazines, will you? I’m sick of Guideposts Magazine. I’ve had all the inspirational material I can handle.”

He’d nearly dozed off when footsteps brought him back to full attention. It was a white-coated physician in his forties.

“Is he awake, officer?”

“Do you want me to check, Doc?”

“Sure. I need to do a quick examination, but there’s no need to wake him up. I’ve got several patients to see so I can come back.”

Ernie opened the door and peered into the darkened room. Suddenly, his back exploded with pain. His body turned rigid as a board, and he fell to the floor. As he lay paralyzed, the man dragged him into the room and placed the Drive Stun Taser back into its holster.

Beverly sat up in bed. “Who’s there…I can’t see anything.” He switched on the overhead light and smiled. “Hey, Doc, you scared me.”

The man walked slowly toward Beverly, holding his hand on the Taser. “How does it feel, Bev?”

“How does what feel?” He hesitated, studying the doctor. “Who are you? What are you doing here?”

“Settling a score.”

“What are you talking about? I think you’d better leave.”

“Look at me for a moment. Don’t I look familiar?”

Beverly studied the man. “No, I’ve never seen you before in my life.”

The man sneered. “They say we were twins, although my little brother was three years younger.”

“Brother?”

“Yes. Let me introduce myself. I’m Jason Simon. You know my brother and his family, of course. You slashed their throats, you bastard.

Beverly paled. “You don’t understand. I don’t remember anything. They say I killed my own wife. I can’t even remember that.”

“I don’t give a shit. Is that your plan to get away with it?”

“I’m not getting away with anything. If I did these things, I should get what I deserve.”

Jason pulled the Taser and approached Beverly. “Well, on that we agree,” he said as he jammed the Taser into Beverly’s side.

Beverly screamed as his body turned rigid in pain.

Jason smiled as he extracted a serrated hunting knife from a sheath on his belt. “You’re not going to enjoy this, I promise, and don’t worry, I’m in no rush.”

Beverly struggled to sit up, but couldn’t move.

Jason dragged the blade’s backside across Beverly’s chest, leaving a red welt, then backtracked over the mark with the blade side. Blood erupted from the wound and streaked across Beverly’s chest dripping over his chest wall and running onto the white sheet.

Beverly groaned.

Jason smiled.

Suddenly, the door opened, and when Lila entered the room, she looked around. “What’s going on here?”

Jason turned to face Lila. His hand held the bloody knife. “Just keep out of this. I’m almost done with this piece of shit.”

Lila moved forward and picked up the phone.

Jason moved closer. “Put that phone down. I don’t want to hurt you, but I will.”

Lila looked over Jason’s shoulder, and when he turned, Beverly launched his body into the smaller man with a typical linebacker crush leaving Jason gasping for air on the floor.

Beverly put his foot on the man. “He’s not going anywhere. Check on Ernie.”

Lila stared at Beverly. “You’re bleeding!”

Ernie sat up, shook his head, and struggled to his feet. “What the fuck…”

Beverly grabbed the handcuffs from Ernie’s belt, pulled Jason’s hands behind his back, and applied the cuffs.

Ernie stared at Beverly and Lila. “Who? What?”

Beverly’s head fell to his chest. “Jeffrey Simon’s brother. He wanted revenge. He deserved revenge. He should have succeeded.”

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Fiona Murphy was nothing if not persistent. She’d called Maggie Hayes’s friend Cindy Green several times, but could not get her for an interview.

This is going to be my last try, she thought, as she dialed. “This is Fiona…”

“My God, don’t you ever give up?”

“Listen, Cindy, I know how you feel about reporters…”

“It’s not personal, Fiona. It’s all about Maggie.”

“I’m not one to give a knee-jerk defense of the press, Cindy—I can’t stand some of them myself, but we both have to live with reality.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“They’ll investigate. They’ll dig for dirt into everyone involved with these killings and absent a response from those who knew Maggie best, they’ll publish only one side. I don’t know if they’ll find anything, but with me, you have a chance to set the record straight.”

The phone remained silent for a long moment.

“Okay, Come over. I’ll make coffee.”

Thirty minutes later, Fiona walked into Cynthia’s duplex apartment, and they moved to the kitchen where Cynthia poured coffee. “Can I get you anything else?”

“No, I’m always dieting.”

“Me, too.” Cynthia studied Fiona. “Can I trust you?”

Fiona smiled. “What do you think?”

“I think it’s better to ask.”

“Right now, everything you tell me is on the record. That means if I think it’s newsworthy, you can expect to see it in the paper.”

“Everything?”

“Yes, but all you need to do is say the magic words, ‘off the record’ and I’ll hear it, but can’t print it. Okay?”

“Okay,”

“Tell me about Maggie.”

Tears ran down Cynthia’s cheeks. “She was my best friend…no, more than that, we were sisters.”

“That’s what the Benders said.”

“They’re wonderful people. I wish my parents were more like them.” Cynthia paused. “How can you describe a life? Maggie was beautiful, inside and out.”

“Just don’t tell me that she was a wonderful woman.”

Cynthia studied Fiona. “What does that mean?”

“I’m sorry, but every time I ask about Maggie, I get those exact words, ‘wonderful woman’.”

“Maybe it pays to be a cynic in your business, Fiona, but don’t get carried away. That’s shorthand for Maggie. She was a great mother and friend. She was generous and had a self-effacing sense of humor. Everyone loved Maggie.”

“Would anyone want to harm her?”

“What kind of question is that? Father Ware killed her. He couldn’t have known what he was doing.”

“He didn’t. Someone drugged Father Ware and four others with a medication that produced aggressive behavior and amnesia. The DA, the lawyers, and yes, the press is trying to discover why and who.”

“None of this makes any sense to me. Nobody would want to kill Maggie—it’s impossible.”

“You’ve told me a lot,” Fiona said, “but you haven’t mentioned Denny.”

Cynthia reddened with anger. “You don’t want to hear what I have to say about Denny.”

“You’re kidding.”

“We’re off the record, now. Okay?”

“You got it.”

Cynthia’s face tightened. “He’s a worm…a disgusting prick. Why she stayed with him, I’ll never know.”

“His infidelity?”

“If that wasn’t bad enough, he traded on Maggie’s trust in the essential goodness of everyone. She would have been a lousy reporter.” Cynthia smiled. “No offense intended.”

“You’re going to have to do much worse before you offend me.”

“I tried to tell her about Denny. She heard it. I’m sure she knew I was right about him, but she couldn’t let go…maybe it was just the kids.”

“He went with Maggie for counseling with Father Ware, didn’t he?” Fiona asked.

“Sure, but it was all for show.”

“Did she or Father Ware recognize his insincerity?”

Cynthia moved her coffee aside. “I don’t know about Father, but Maggie believed what she wanted to believe.”

“Then why did he go through counseling and seek treatment for his drinking? That sounds sincere to me.”

“Denny wanted her back. He’d do anything to accomplish that goal. It was as if someone stole a prize possession—it was his, she was his, and he wanted her back.”

“How did Maggie deal emotionally with Denny?”

“She dealt with it.”

“You’re not telling me something, Cynthia,” Fiona said. “What is it?”

“You’re starting to piss me off, Fiona. I’ve told you everything.”

“Maybe…” Fiona paused and then smiled. “Regret’s my least favorite thing. You have an opportunity here, Cynthia. Don’t let it go.”

“It was nice talking with you, Fiona.”

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Michael opened the door to the waiting room where Carrie and Roger were sitting on the sofa reading magazines. “Come on in, Carrie.”

When Roger stood to accompany his wife, Michael raised his hand in a stop gesture. “We need to see Carrie alone today.”

Roger moved toward Michael’s door. “No way. I need to know what’s going on with my wife.”

Michael stepped in Roger’s path. “Sorry. Today we’re seeing her without your invaluable input.”

Karen opened the door wide and gestured Carrie to enter, then closed the door afterward.

Roger clenched his fists and reddened. “I don’t like this one bit.”

“You can’t be that obtuse, Roger. We often see patients without their spouses or maybe you have something to hide or you’re concerned about what she might say.”

“I just want to help, to protect my wife. What’s so hard to understand?”

“You want to protect her from us?”

“In my line of work, I’ve learned not to trust anyone, especially shrinks with an agenda.”

“And Roger, what agenda are you talking about?”

“Let’s be honest, Doctor…”

“That would be a refreshing change, Roger.”

“Neither you nor your associate, Karen thinks very highly of me. You made that perfectly clear.”

“Excuse me, Roger, but we think very little about you. Our focus is entirely on Carrie and what’s best for her.”

Roger reddened. “You screw up my marriage, Doctor, and we’re going to have a big problem.”

“What kind of problem?”

“You fucking guys are all the same. Give a man a taste of power and he goes crazy.”

Michael smiled. “Roger, you bring out the best in me. If this weren’t so serious, I’d simply laugh at you and your antics. If anyone needs psychiatric help, it’s you.”

“Fuck you, Doc.”

“That’s what you told Al Russo. I think it’s time we worked on your people skills.”

Roger turned, walked out the door, and slammed it behind.

Karen stepped out. “Are you okay?”

Michael closed the door to his office. “I think Carrie used the tire iron on the wrong guy.”

Karen smiled and squeezed Michael’s hand.

When they reentered his office, Karen joined Carrie on the couch and grasped her hands.

Karen looked up. “He’s okay, right?”

Michael settled in his chair and sighed. “He needs therapy more than you do, Carrie.”

Carrie studied the floor. “He’s just…”

Karen interrupted. “Please don’t make excuses for your husband. When you do, it says more about you than it does about him.”

“So, you’re shutting me down, too.”

Michael laughed. “Don’t think you can manipulate us by being a victim. Maybe that works for Roger, but it won’t work for us.”

Carrie looked up. “Maybe Roger was right. This is a big mistake.”

Karen shook her head. “Go ahead and raise the ante. You know, or you sure as hell should know that everything we’re doing is on your behalf.”

Carrie rose. “I don’t think so. I’m through.”

As Carrie reached for her purse, Michael stood and pointed at Carrie’s seat. “Sit down.”

“What?”

“You heard me. I said sit down. I’ve had enough.”

Carrie collapsed into the chair, held her head down, and wept.

Karen stared at Michael and then placed a tissue box in Carrie’s lap.

After a few minutes, Carrie stopped crying and blew her nose. “I’m sorry.”

Michael shook his head. “If you tell us one more time how sorry you are, I’m going to punch you in the nose.”

Carrie looked up, smiled, and then burst out laughing.

Michael and Karen joined her.

Carrie wiped her eyes. “You wouldn’t, would you, Michael.”

“I’d be tempted, but going to jail for assaulting my own patient is bad for the image.”

Karen grasped Carrie’s hand. “We have something to tell you…it’s important, and it changes everything.”

Carrie’s eyes widened. “What is it? I can’t take more bad news.”

“What happened to you…what you did,” Michael paused, “it wasn’t your fault. They have not released this to the press, but somebody drugged you and several others with scopolamine.”

“The motion sickness patch? That’s crazy.”

“It explains your irritability, your out of character aggression, the amnesia, and the findings on your physical examination. Moreover, tests confirm that the drug was in your system.”

“I don’t understand this at all. Who gave me scopolamine? How? Why?”

Michael studied Carrie. “Once we know why, hopefully we’ll know who.”

“Still, I still killed Alan Krupp.”

“Yes you did,” Michael said. “Tell us again how it happened.”

“I can’t. I have no memory of anything after he cut me off at school.”

“That’s the drug’s effect,” Michael said, “as was your attack on him.”

“I don’t feel any better.”

Karen smiled. “I think we can help with that if you let us.”

“Scopolamine,” Carrie said. “What else is it used for?”

Michael looked at Karen and nodded.

“Governments and intelligence organizations have used it as a mind-control drug,” Karen said, “and a truth serum.”

“Not by the CIA…” She paused for a long moment. “No, it’s impossible. Roger would never…he couldn’t…he wouldn’t.”

“I hope you’re right,” Michael said.

Carrie shook her head. “But the other cases. Roger can’t have anything to do with them.”

“Again, I hope you’re right,” Michael said, “but if Roger’s responsible, who knows what he’s capable of.”

“You’re scaring me. What should I do? How can I go home with him?”

Karen held Carrie’s hand tightly. “Can you stay with a friend or a relative?”

Carrie stared at Michael and Karen. Tears filled her eyes. “I’ll stay with my sister, but Roger’s not going to take this well. He’s going to freak.”

“This is an awkward situation,” Michael said. “We’re not crazy about Roger and how he treats you, and while we have zero evidence that he did anything wrong, we’re uncomfortable about doing nothing. We’re going to ask the DA to put you under his protection.”

“My God. What’s next?”

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Al Russo drove into San Francisco and parked in a Geary Street garage. He walked two blocks to a nondescript office building, took the elevator to the fifth floor, and entered an office designated only with the suite number 521. A young attractive woman at reception smiled. “Can I help you, sir?”

“Yes. I’m Al Russo. You’re expecting me.”

“Oh, yes, Detective Russo. Please have a seat. I’ll see if Mr. Howard’s available. Can I get you something to drink while you wait?”

“No thank you. How long will it be?”

She glanced back at her desk. “He’s still on the phone. I’ll pass him a note and let him know that you’re waiting.”

Al picked up a new edition of Foreign Affairs and scanned the table of contents. Some day, he thought, I’ll have the time to read this stuff.

Five minutes later, she stood before Al. “Mr. Howard will see you now.”

Randy Howard was in his mid thirties and looked like he just walked off the cover of Esquire. He rose to greet Al. “I’m so glad to meet you, Mr.…sergeant…or is inspector Russo?”

“Al will do. Thank you for seeing me.”

“Didn’t have much choice, Al. You must have used a bit of juice.”

“Just doing my job, Mr. Howard.”

“Please call me Randy. By the way, Al, I’m a big fan…I mean from your days with SFPD. You were nearly as famous as Dirty Harry.”

“Except for the fact that I didn’t carry a .357 Magnum and I never fired a shot on the job.”

“Well, anyway, you were one of the best. What can I do for you?”

“As you know, I work for Charlie Connor, and I’m investigating the scopolamine poisonings. Your employee, Roger Nelson, is married to one of our victims, Carrie Nelson.”

“So, using your skills and experience, you put it all together, our little business enterprise, Roger, and scopolamine?”

“Tell me, Randy, why the attitude, the sarcasm, the snotty comment? Just like you, I’m doing a job.”

Randy smiled. “I’m sorry. You’re right, Al. It’s this agency. The only news that reaches the public is bad news. We get paranoid and a bit defensive.”

“I’ve been there, too. Let’s start again. What can you tell me about Roger?”

“Have you talked with him?”

“Oh, yes. Besides the fact that he needs brushing up on his people skills, he won’t talk with us. That either means he’s under severe constraints, or it’s in his interest not to talk with us.”

“Are you after national-security secrets, Al?”

“Just the launch codes.”

Randy laughed. “Sorry, that’s ten levels above me.” He paused. “He’s perfectly free to discuss his job description, just no specific information.”

“You may find this amusing, Randy, but when scopolamine is used in a crime, and an individual is a CIA spook, you can’t blame us for looking into it.”

“Roger told you that he was a spook?”

“In not so many words, but the implication was clear.”

Randy leaned back in his chair. “Gotta talk with that boy.” He scanned the room with faux caution. “First of all, of all MKULTRA, the drugs, and the mind control was hugely exaggerated right from the start. No remnants exist today. Secondly, Roger’s no spook, he’s a records clerk.”

Al’s eyes widened. “A clerk.”

“And a good one, Al. He’s one of our best. I think it’s obvious now what Roger was trying to hide.”

“The sick son-of-a-bitch was merely protecting his image, a self-created fabrication, so secret and personally devastating that he kept it from everybody, including his wife.”

“Yes, and if you decide to pick him up, I don’t think you’ll need the SWAT team.”

When Al returned to the Hall of Justice in County Center, Charlie was sitting in his office with Michael and Karen. Charlie looked up as Al entered the room. “How was your visit to Spooksville?”

“Enlightening.” Al turned to Michael and Karen. “You’re gonna love this.”

Al described in detail his meeting with Randy Howard.

Michael slapped his palm against his forehead. “Walter Mitty. I should have known. Had my head up my ass.”

Karen took Michael’s hand. “How could you have known, Michael? If he has an Avoidance Personality Disorder, it’s at least atypical…it all makes sense now.”

Charlie frowned. “It’s amusing to see you two celebrate this diagnosis, but how about sharing with us mere mortals.”

Michael shook his head. “Walter Mitty is a fictional character in James Thurber’s short story, ‘The Secret Life of Walter Mitty’. The New Yorker magazine published it in 1939, and eventually they made it into a movie with Danny Kaye. The character is weak and ineffectual, but he has a rich fantasy life where he’s the hero, the adventurer, and yes, the spook. Although atypical, I think it fits Roger Nelson to a T.”

“He may have elements of a Borderline Personality Disorder,” Karen said.

“I’ve prosecuted four or five who carried that diagnosis,” Charlie said. “If I recall from the battling shrinks, it can have elements of violent behavior, especially if challenged.”

“The only violence in Roger’s life is in his mind.” Michael paused and looked at Karen. “If he wasn’t so obnoxious, I would feel sorry for him. Going from the public persona of spook to clerk is going to destroy him.”

“Don’t think me cruel,” Karen said, “but I choose to be sorry for his wife and kids.”

Chapter Forty

When Father McLean came into Ware’s room, he grasped the older priest’s hand and kissed it.

Ware pulled his hand away. “C’mon, Jimmy. You’re overdoing it a bit.”

“I’m sorry, Father. It’s just that you’ve been through so much.”

“That nothing compared to poor Maggie, her family and friends,” Ware said. “My God, what must the congregation think?”

“Right now, they’re in shock…disbelief, but soon they’ll understand.”

“Understand what?”

“You don’t know?”  McLean asked.

“Know what?” Ware studied Jimmy. “I’m in no mood for games.”

“Father. Someone drugged you and all the others.”

“What others? Drugged?”

“It’s been in the papers and on TV,” McLean said. “Beverly Craig killed an entire family of strangers and his own wife. Carrie Nelson assaulted someone for cutting her off. Jennifer Davis tried to kill her roommate, and most recently, Mickey Kramer attacked a medical resident at Stanford. All, like you, Father, suffered from with scopolamine’s effects.”

“Scopolamine?”

“A mind-controlling drug that leaves its users with amnesia,” McLean said.

Father Ware looked at the ceiling. “The Craigs, the Nelsons, and the Kramers are parishioners at St. Eugenia.”

Father McLean’s eyes widened. “Of course. I know the names now, but never put them together. What about Jennifer Davis?”

“Don’t know that name. You’ll check, Jimmy, but I’m pretty sure she’s not one of ours.”

“Of course, Father,” McLean said. “Even if she isn’t, we should notify the authorities. Four of five drugged with scopolamine have a St. Eugenia association. That can’t be random.”

Ware shook his head. “I hate to put St. Eugenia in this spotlight, but if it could stop this, we have no choice.”

“Could that mean that whoever’s doing this has something against you, Father, our parishioners, or the church itself? Is that possible?”

“Anything’s possible in these times.” Father paused in thought. “Go to my file cabinet for a drawer labeled correspondence and look for a red folder. Give it to the police.”

“Red folder?”

“Yes, Jimmy. Hate mail. We’ve had more than our fair share.”

The next day, Al Russo placed a red folder on Charlie Connor’s desk. “Father Ware’s assistant brought this.”

“What is it?”

“Hate mail addressed to St. Eugenia, Father Ware, the Catholic Church and amazingly, to the Pope himself. Father said he has two similar mail folders in storage if we need them.” Al paused for a moment. “Some letters are quite troubling.”

“Troubling?”

“Vicious…threatening,” Al said.

“How come we didn’t know about them?”

Al opened the folder. “The San Mateo police investigated two incidents, anonymous hate letters several years ago. They found nothing, so Father stopped complaining and saved the letters, just in case. I’ll read you a more recent one that captures the flavor of many.”

Al picked up a pink envelope. “Don’t worry, we’ve dusted them all and got a few sets that took us nowhere.” He pulled out the typed note. “He or she addressed the envelope to Father Ware: Your Unholiness: You think yourself an honorable man, but good can never come from your association with the world’s most widespread, corrupt and evil political organization, the Catholic hierarchy. The Crusades, the Inquisition, the Salem Witch Trials, and the support for Nazis against the Jews of the world remain the legacy of today’s glorious Catholic Church. You must smile and take pride in today’s anti-gay, anti-female, anti-stem cell research and pro-pedophile positions yet you sit in judgment of me. Others may accept it, but not I…your time is coming. You won’t know when or how. Live in this knowledge. It was signed, ‘Betrayed’.”

“How recent was this letter?” Charlie asked.

“Three months ago, and yes, this one had a thorough investigation. It went nowhere.”

“Father Ware?”

“He cooperated fully with the investigation and gave us a list of the few disaffected, but after everything, he still didn’t have a clue.”

“We haven’t gone quite so far with the others drugged, but that avenue isn’t encouraging, Charlie. We’re missing something. I can feel it.”

“It’s a lead, Al. Run with it.”

“One other thing,” Al said. “Father McLean indicated that almost all those poisoned have a relationship with St. Eugenia’s Church. That includes Beverly Craig, Carrie Nelson, Mickey Kramer and of course Father Ware, as well. Jennifer Davis is the only exception.”

Chapter Forty-One

After the press coverage revealed that the defendants had been drugged with scopolamine, Bruno called a meeting with Willard Duncan, Michael Rose, and Karen Scott. They sat around Bruno’s table by the window with a spectacular view of the Bay Bridge and San Francisco, in the distance.

After they settled in place, Bruno placed his hand on the defendants’ folders. “This revelation changes everything.”

Willard smiled. “You bet it does. We now have an affirmative defense against these charges.”

Bruno looked at Michael and Karen. “What do you think?”

“It virtually explains everything,” Michael said, “from the physical findings to the aggression and the amnesia.”

“The word ‘virtually’ makes me nervous,” Bruno said. “What’s missing?”

Karen looked at Michael, and after he nodded, she continued. “It may not mean a thing for the defense because without question, your clients received a psychoactive hallucinogen and therefore, did not have the mens rea required to convict. It’s the choice of scopolamine that disturbs us.”

“Go on,” Bruno said.

Michael continued. “Using scopolamine was a crap shoot. In an individual, it may have elicited anything from small changes in behavior to mania to confusion and even excessive compliance. When I told Al that the drug had been used to get victims to commit crimes, he laughed. Maybe so, but we, too, agree that is unlikely with our clients. Why would someone choose scopolamine when he or she couldn’t predict with certainty what might happen? What’s more likely is that our mastermind didn’t care what happened. He or she counted on the scopolamine-induced amnesia to obscure his or her identity and the means of administration. It still leaves an uncomfortable question, why do it in the first place?”

“That’s a problem for the authorities,” Willard said. “We have our defense.”

“Okay,” Karen said, “let’s not be glib about it. These are uncharted waters. I recall the one-time belief that we could never force hypnotized individuals to act against their character. That’s untrue, and if I was the DA, I’d try to make the case that scopolamine shouldn’t become a handy excuse for avoiding punishment.”

Willard smirked. “You’re kidding.”

Michael shook his head. “We learned a long time ago that while logical conclusions are difficult in psychiatry, legal precedent, and practice often comes from la-la land.”

Bruno closed his folder. “Here’s one instance when both doctors and lawyers are right. We should move for dismissal or a directed verdict of acquittal. If we succeed, that’s it. We’re done. If not, we’ll need to explore how and why this happened and perfect our defense.”

The next afternoon, Bruno sat in Charlie Connor’s office. Al Russo was staring out the window.

“That’s it, Charlie. Involuntary scopolamine intoxication provides an affirmative defense for my clients.”

“So you want me to dismiss all charges and send them home with a note saying, ‘don’t do that again’?”

“That works for me.”

“You and I have had a great relationship, Bruno. No game playing. No backstabbing. We’ve played it straight, but you know what you’re asking is impossible.”

“Listen, Charlie…”

“No you listen. I have four innocent people dead and buried. Where’s the justice for them? I let these defendants go free, and I might as well pack my bags for good. The public won’t go for it.”

Bruno shook his head. “That’s why we have professional prosecutors to make decisions that lay people cannot. You have the obligation to act in accordance with your legal and ethical responsibilities.”

“Right, Bruno. The next time they burn me in effigy, I want you sitting on my lap.”

“None of these defendants had mens rea, Charlie. I can prove it. You can’t convict.”

“Until you get into the defendants’ heads,” Charlie said, “you can’t determine intent. They did it, no question. It’s not going to be easy for the defense to convince a jury that they carry zero responsibility. Trust me, Bruno, even with your substantial skills, you can’t do it.”

“This isn’t like you, Charlie. Truth used to matter. Now, you’re a politician holding onto his job with his fingernails.”

“That’s crap, and you know it, Bruno. Five innocent people are dead. I trust the jury to decide these cases, not me.”

“Find the son-of-a-bitch who poisoned them. That’s where the blame belongs.”

“I have every available investigator on these cases. The public and the politicians are on my ass. You have the defendants, the investigators, and the resources of the Catholic Church behind you. Get them going.”

“I will, Charlie, but I have my defense and one way or the other, my clients are going to walk.”

Chapter Forty-Two

The Superior Court of California on Mission Road in South San Francisco was unusually crowded for today’s hearing. The room was abuzz with animated conversation when the bailiff entered. “All rise. The Superior Court of California is now in session. Judge Maxine White presiding.”

The judge, a black woman in her forties, took her seat behind the bench. “Please, be seated.”

Bruno Cooper sat at the defense table with Beverly Craig, who wore a sport coat and slacks, Father Ware in full clerical garb with a white collar, and Carrie in a skirt and silk blouse. Michael Rose and Karen Scott sat immediately behind in the first spectator row.

Charlie Connor sat at the prosecution’s table with Al Russo, who was stacking thick folders.

The judge looked toward Bruno. “It’s good to see you again, Mr. Cooper. I understand that you have a motion.”

“Yes, your honor. In the light of the District Attorney’s acknowledgment that my clients were drugged with scopolamine, I move to have all charges dismissed.”

“Mr. Connor?”

Charlie stood. “Your honor, it’s my responsibility as District Attorney to charge these defendants with crimes that I think on a good-faith basis can be sustained in court. Mr. Cooper may feel that he now has the affirmative defense of involuntary intoxication; that’s well and good, but all the people know for sure is that the defendants Craig and Ware brutally killed five people. Mrs. Nelson is charged with manslaughter. We cannot get into the heads of these defendants and know for sure what they intended. That’s the role of God and the responsibility of a jury at trial. I speak for these victims to ensure that they have their day in court, your honor.”

The judge studied her desk, then looked out at the attorneys. “The motion to dismiss is denied.”

“Your honor, pleaded Bruno…”

“Denied. Do you have anything else for the court?”

“Yes, your honor. We move to modify the bail for these defendants. In light of this new information, I think your honor will agree that reconsideration of bail is appropriate.”

Charlie stood. “Your honor. Craig and ware are accused of capital murder, and the state has more than ample evidence to sustain these charges. Mr. Beverly Craig is charged with four counts of murder in the first degree, particularly heinous murders. Father Ware is similarly charged with capital murder as he executed one of his parishioners in full view of his congregation. Both pose an extreme risk to our community, and bail should be out of the question.”

The judge smiled. “Thank you, Mr. Connor. The state’s position is clear.” She turned to Bruno. “Mr. Cooper?”

“Thank you, your honor. My clients are respected members of the community with strong ties. None has a criminal record and don’t pose a flight risk…”

Charlie stood again. “Your honor. This is capital murder.”

Bruno was on his feet. “Capital murder…I hardly think so, especially in light of scopolamine intoxication, and if DA Connor would let me finish, your honor…”

The judge nodded.

“Thank you. In light of recent revelations, the San Francisco Archdiocese is prepared to guarantee that the defendants will appear at any time the court deems appropriate.”

“Considering the violent nature of these crimes,” Charlie said, “the court should emphasize the public’s safety first and deny bail.”

The judge studied the indictments. “In consideration of the violence of these acts and the widespread knowledge of the facts through the media, the court is loath to release these defendants without good reason.”

“Your honor. The DAs office, as we have come to expect from someone as ethical as Mr. Connor, has shared with the defense this incredibly important material. It changes the nature of the charges against these defendants, alters the defense strategy, and I hope might change the District Attorney’s decision to charge my clients with capital murder.”

Charlie stood again. “Your honor…”

“Have a seat, Mr. Connor.” The judge turned to Bruno. “Do you have something for me that I don’t already know?”

“No, your honor except by strict reading of the law, my clients have a legitimate affirmative defense of involuntary intoxication.”

Charlie stood.

The judge smiled. “You may as well save your energy and stay on your feet, Mr. Connor.”

“Thank you, your honor. We are prepared at trial to present material against such an affirmative defense. Regarding bail, I respectfully suggest that this is not the appropriate venue for that presentation.”

Judge White examined her long French nails, shuffled her papers around, and then faced the DA. “I’m going to continue bail on Mrs. Nelson. I’ll grant bail at $500,000 each on Craig and Ware, and order these defendants fitted with GPS tracking devices. They’ll be geographically limited to home, and to activities related to their defense.”

“Thank you, your honor.”

A parishioner group from St. Eugenia’s Church stood and applauded.

The judge gaveled loudly. “This outburst is totally inappropriate. Escort them from my courtroom.”

Ware turned to Bruno. “Thank you. I can’t stand this place.”

When the officers took the defendants into custody, Bruno grasped their arms. “It won’t be but a few hours to get everything into place. Then you’ll be free.”

“Free?” Ware said.

“Not totally free, but much freer than you are now.”

“Beverly?” Bruno asked.

“I really don’t give a damn.”

“Carrie?”

“Thanks again, Bruno.”

Chapter Forty-Three

Karen met with Carrie in Michael’s office since she’d been there often and felt comfortable. Carrie came into the office, looked at the couch, and then chose the easy chair facing Karen.

“How are you doing, Carrie?”

“I’m a mess. The kids are upset. I’m not sleeping worth a damn, and my parents constantly stare at me with sad cow eyes. They’re driving me crazy. I hate it.”

“They’re worried,” Karen said. “I think they’re entitled, don’t you?”

“I guess.”

“Have you heard from Roger?”

“He calls so often that I’ve had to unplug the phone; the man’s relentless. This is more attention of any kind than I’ve had from him in years.”

“Has he tried to approach you?”

“No,” Carrie said. “I have a restraining order against him. He can’t come closer than 100 yards.”

“What are his phone calls like?”

“A broken record. He begs for forgiveness and promises to change. Then when I refuse to come home, he loses it. It’s the same sad, pathetic story. I don’t want any part of it.” She paused for a long moment. “This separation gives me a chance to think clearly for the first time in a while. I don’t know why I put up with his emotional abuse and his need to control every aspect of my life. At first, I was young and naive. I felt protected and equated control with love. Boy, was I dumb.”

“And now…”

Suddenly, the door opened, and Roger stepped into the room. He wore a stained sweatshirt and jeans. “Carrie, please. I need to talk with you.”

Carrie leapt from the chair and moved behind Michael’s desk. “What are you doing here? Get away from me or I’m calling the police.”

Karen stood. “Mr. Nelson, I’m asking you to leave.”

“I want to talk with my wife.”

“If the police find you here, Roger, you’re going right to jail. I tell you from personal experience that the courts in this area don’t take kindly to violation of an order of protection.”

When Roger walked toward the desk, Karen moved into his path. “I want you out of here right now, or I’m calling the police.”

“I don’t give a shit. I’m going to talk with my wife.”

Karen pointed to the couch. “Sit for a moment, Roger and let’s talk about it before you do something you’ll regret.”

“I knew you and that asshole Rose were trouble the first time I saw you.”

“Tell me, Roger, how will your superiors react to having you jailed for contempt? I don’t think they appreciate such notoriety from their employees.”

Roger stepped forward, and Karen raised her arms to the martial arts ready position, but Roger simply pushed her away. She fell hard and crashed against the coffee table, hitting her head on the edge. Blood flowed over her face.

Carrie stared at Karen and screamed. She stood behind Michael’s desk, circling it to keep Roger at bay.

When Karen reached up for the phone, Roger wrenched it away and threw Karen back to the floor.

The door swung open, and Michael stepped in. “What the hell’s going on here?”

Karen screamed, “Michael…Michael…”

When Roger turned to face Michael, his face was taut and pupils widely dilated. He put his hand in his pocket. “Don’t come any closer. I have a gun.”

Michael stared at Roger, smiled, and moved slowly forward. “I don’t think clerks carry guns.”

Roger’s mouth was agape, and he shook. He spoke with a trembling voice. “I’m warning you. Stay back. You have no idea what I’m capable of.”

“But I do,” Michael said as he continued to move closer until they were standing nose to nose. He slapped Roger twice across the face. Roger’s face reddened, but he kept his hands at his side his fists tightly clenched. Michael slapped him twice more, pulled Roger’s belt off, pushed him to the floor, and bound his hands behind the back with the belt.”

“I’m a taxpayer,” Michael said. “Some spook. I want my money back.”

Carrie held several wadded tissues against Karen’s bleeding forehead while Michael placed the 911 call.

“I’m okay, Carrie,” Karen said. “So much for my martial arts training.”

After ten minutes, two police officers arrived. They handcuffed Roger and took him away as he shouted and stared at Carrie. “I’m not finished with you. You’ll regret what happened, I promise.”

Carrie sat on the couch holding herself and rocking. “I need protection. You have no idea what he’s likely to do.”

Afterward, Michael and Karen sat with Carrie. “You don’t have to worry about Roger, I promise.”

Karen stared at Michael. “Even someone with Roger’s personality can become dangerous, especially as we’ve exposed him.”

Carrie looked into Michael’s eyes. “Exposed him? I don’t understand…a clerk…expose Roger for what?”

Michael nodded to Karen.

Karen took Carrie’s hand. “Even more than you know, Carrie, you’ve been Roger’s victim. He’s a man with a severe personality disorder.”

“What disorder? I know his personality leaves something to be desired.”

“No, we mean personality in a technical way. We call it an Avoidant Personality Disorder. It explains a lot about Roger.”

“Like what?”

“Roger feels inadequate, unworthy and insecure and to deal with it, he outwardly expresses the opposite.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Roger does work for the CIA, but he’s not a spook or an analyst…”

“What is he?”

“He’s a clerk.”

Carrie’s eyes widened. “A what?”

“He’s a records clerk.”

Carrie lowered her head and wept. After a long moment, she grabbed a tissue and blew her nose. She looked at Karen and Michael. “All that just so I’d see the image he had created for himself. It was unnecessary. I’d have loved him anyway.”

After Carrie left, Karen studied Michael and smiled. “I don’t know if I’m disgusted with Carrie or in awe of her. Maybe I see a quality in her that I admire.”

Michael grasped Karen’s hand. “That’s a fantasy. Love on a one-way street is obsession.” He pulled her into his arms. “We love each other as we are…what more can we ask?”

Karen removed the tissues from her scalp. “How does it look?”

Michael studied the laceration. “It needs stitches. Want me to do it?”

“You have my heart and my psyche, but let’s get a plastic surgeon to protect my status as a ‘beautiful woman’.”

Michael smiled. “You remembered that line?”

Karen laughed. “That was no line, Michael. You meant every word.”

Chapter Forty-Four

Fiona placed her notepad in her purse and walked up to Randy Beck, her favorite photographer. “I’m meeting with Denny Hayes, and I don’t want to be alone with him. He frightens me.”

Randy smiled. “At your service, Ma’am.”

When they arrived at Starbuck’s, Denny was sitting in the rear sipping on a Grande Cappuccino.

“What in hell is he doing here? I didn’t agree to no pictures.”

“No pictures. We were on another assignment.”

Fiona sat at the table with Denny while Randy ordered coffee and sat across the room.

“Thanks for meeting me, Mr. Hayes.”

“It’s Denny. I figured this was the easiest way to get you off my back. Dollars to donuts you ain’t married.”

Fiona ignored his comment. “I’d like to talk with you about Maggie.”

“What about? The papers are already full of crap about her. Ain’t you people got any decency?”

“I’m sorry. Everyone says she was a wonderful woman…I don’t know where the rest came from. Through me, you have a chance to set the record straight.”

“Okay,” Denny said, “but make it quick.”

“Do you know of any reason why Father Ware would have killed Maggie?”

Denny’s eyes widened. “What are you nuts? They were tight. He never would have hurt a hair on her head. My God, he’s a priest. Them drugs must have did it.”

“You and Maggie had problems.”

“Who told you that?’ He paused. “The Benders, I bet, or that bitch, Cindy Green.”

“They loved Maggie, and they’re in pain over her death,” Fiona said.

“They’re in pain. What about me? She was my wife. I loved her.” He paused. “They don’t give a shit about me.”

Fiona looked up into Denny’s eyes. “I’ll bet Father Ware did…does.”

“The Father’s a good man…more like one of the guys than one of those snotty priests looking down on us from the altar.”

“You miss him?”

“What’s that supposed to mean? It’s a guy thing. You broads just don’t get it.”

“I’m sorry.”

“The fucking press always looks for the worst in people. Father and me, we went to the shooting range to teach the kids and even went sailing to Bodega Bay. Father crewed on racing sailboats when he was young. He took real good care of those kids.”

“If you don’t want to talk about the problems you and Maggie were having, I’ll let it go.”

Denny softened his voice. “Look, I drank too much. I’m not one of those happy drunks, you know. I got mean, and Maggie took the worst of it. I got on her case, too about how much time she was spending on the church.” He paused. “What can I say—I was a real prick.”

“Sometimes when things aren’t going well at home, a woman will seek friendship elsewhere.”

“You mean like throwing herself into church activities? Maggie did a lot of that.”

Fiona shifted in her chair. “That, and maybe she needed a male companion.”

Denny tightened his fists. “What in hell are you trying to say?”

“Maybe you were jealous of her life outside the home…her friends and associates.”

Denny stood and leaned over the table pointing at Fiona. “You’ve got one hell of a nerve. She wouldn’t fool around on me.”

Fiona leaned back in her chair. “Take it easy, Denny. I didn’t mean…”

Denny’s face reddened. “She knew that if I ever found her screwing around, I’d take the kids, and she’d never see them again.”

When Randy stood and walked toward them, Fiona raised her palm to stop him. “Often, we know the least about the people who are closest.”

“Fuck you, Lady and fuck the horse you came on!”

After Denny stomped out, Randy came over. “It looked scary there for a minute, Fiona. You really got him going.”

“Yeah, and he was stone sober.” Fiona paused for a moment. “He may have been difficult to live with, but I don’t think there’s any question, but that he loved Maggie…tragic for him and their children.”

“Keep away from him, Fiona,” Randy said. “The guy’s dangerous.”

Chapter Forty-Five

When Beverly Craig exited the Superior Court building, his son, Pete, moved to hug his father. Beverly stiffened and pushed him away.

Pete stared at him and shook his head. “Dad, I want you to stay with us for a while, that is until you get your life in order.”

Beverly’s laugh was joyless. “That’ll take some doing.” He paused. “No. Take me home.”

“I don’t think that it’s a good idea for you to be alone, and neither does Dr. Rose.”

“I’m not asking anyone’s permission. I’m going home, and that’s final.”

“We’re just concerned that you’ll…”

“Off myself?”

“You tried it once already,” Pete said. “You’re depressed. Don’t deny it.”

“If I wasn’t depressed, you’d really have something to worry about. I agreed to continue with Dr. Rose in therapy. That and all the trial preparation will keep me busy.”

“What does Bruno Cooper say about the trial?”

“I really don’t give a shit.”

“It wasn’t you, Dad. It was the scopolamine. On your own, you’re incapable of such violence.”

Tears streamed down Beverly’s cheeks. “That’s what they say, but I did kill four innocent people. He paused and took a deep breath. “I killed your mother, my wife, and the love of my life.”

After Pete dropped off his father, he called Michael. “I’m really concerned, Dr. Rose. Dad’s a mess.”

“I’m concerned, too. Your Dad’s severely depressed, but in therapy over the past few weeks, he’s repeatedly denied suicidal thoughts.”

“And you believe him?”

“It’s not a matter of belief or disbelief. His urges may change with mood, medications, and situations. Suicide in patients under active treatment happens. It’s the most horrendous part of my practice. He’s been on an antidepressant for two weeks. It should kick in soon.” Michael paused. “I hate cases like this. Depressed patients seriously contemplating suicide are the ones who refuse to talk about it. I worry about Beverly and patients like him, but absent admissions of active suicidal thoughts, there’s no way we can keep him institutionalized. If we tried, he’d fight it, and he’d win.”

“When are you seeing him?”

“Tomorrow.”

“You’ll tell me what I need to know?”

“Of course, Mike. Don’t hesitate to call me if you see anything of concern.”

The next morning, Beverly was pacing in front of Michael’s office door when he arrived at 9:00 a.m.

“I’m glad that you’re so eager for therapy.”

“That isn’t exactly the work I’d choose.”

Michael opened the door to his therapy room, and Beverly moved to the couch. “What word would you choose, Beverly?”

“Numb, lifeless, listless, exhausted…classical depression, but you’re going to fix me right up.”

“Be sarcastic…be angry. To me those are encouraging signs. Let’s get real, Beverly. I never minimized any of this for the reality of what’s facing you emotionally or legally. If you want me to judge you, you’re out of luck. Intellectually, at least, you must understand that absent scopolamine you would never have done these things. Do you get that?”

“Yes, but it doesn’t make things any better.”

“Antidepressants and psychotherapy are going to help…trust me about that.”

After a largely unproductive fifty minutes, Michael looked at his watch. “It’s time. It’ll help if next time you’d be a little more forthcoming.”

“I’ll make notes.”

Michael reached for Beverly’s thick arm and held it tight. “You are taking your antidepressants?”

“Of course, Doc. I won’t let you down. I’ll see you tomorrow. Same time. Same place.”

The next morning, Michael felt disappointed when Beverly wasn’t standing at his door. He opened his office and checked the answering service for messages, but found none. Michael stared at the clock, and when it reached 9:30, he dialed Beverly’s number. After the answering machine picked up, Michael said, “Beverly, give me a call as soon as you can.” He called Pete’s number and left a message.

Michael couldn’t concentrate on his morning patients. His mind was filled with fear and anxiety over a worst-case scenario.

Michael’s receptionist interrupted his session at 11:15. “Excuse me, but I need you for a moment.”

Michael felt a strong abdominal cramp. When he stepped out of his office, his receptionist pointed to the flashing phone line on her desk. He hesitated, then picked it up. “Dr. Rose.”

“Yes…what is it?”

“This is patrolman Heath. I’m at the home of Beverly Craig at his son’s request. Mr. Craig is dead. He hanged himself.”

Michael picked up the phone and threw it across the room. “Shit—shit—shit!”

Chapter Forty-Six

The morning after Beverly’s suicide, Al Russo walked head down into Charlie Connor’s office.

The DA looked up. “You heard.”

Al sank into the chair before Charlie’s desk. “And I was stupid enough to think that things couldn’t get worse.”

“Tragedy compounded by tragedy and I had a hand in it.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Charlie. You had no choice.”

“Once we knew about the scopolamine, I did have a choice. I chose to keep the murder one charges when I knew I couldn’t sustain them. That makes me just like all those other DAs, playing the game rather than seeking justice.”

“We both know that the charges against Beverly had nothing to do with his suicide. He was overwhelmed with guilt. Who could have the strength to deal with his reality?”

“I know, Al, but that doesn’t make me feel any better.”

“Listen Charlie, are you sure that the scopolamine made them do it?”

“No, I’m not. One person has a few too many, and he’s the life of the party. Another does the same, and he starts a fight or goes home and kicks the shit out of his wife or kids. The literature doesn’t support the premise, take the drug, and you’ll assault or kill. I wanted the jury to decide.” He hesitated. “No I wanted them to decide for me, the coward’s way out. Maybe I’ve been in this business too long.”

“What are you going to do? We have two defendants left, Carrie Nelson and Father Ware.”

“Right. Mary Poppins and Jesus Christ.” He opened the case folders. “I’m reducing the charges to involuntary manslaughter. I’m not even sure I can make that stick.”

“Why not dismiss?”

“Alan Krupp and Maggie Hayes. Someone has to speak for them. What I really want is the son-of-a-bitch who drugged them and caused all this misery. Tell me you’re going to get him or her.”

“Or them. I wish I could. If we knew why or how, we might be able to make progress, but we don’t know either.”

“Tell me what you need, and I’ll see you get it.”

“Divine guidance would help.” Al hesitated. “Do we have a psychic on retainer?”

Al called his task force together the next day. He invited Michael and Karen to join them. The group sat around the conference room table in Charlie Connor’s office.

Detective Joe Briant stared at Michael and Karen. “What the hell are they doing here?”

Al shook his head. “Ever the charmer, Joe.” He paused. “They’ve studied the people who received the drug. They’re trying to find a common denominator. They’ll also help us generate a profile on the perp, the person who’s slipped them the scopolamine.”

Briant sneered. “Let me save them the trouble. He’s a middle age white male working some boring job. He’s middle class and until recently lived with his mother or still does. He’s sexually repressed and has never been married.”

Michael smiled. “Very good, Detective. You missed several characteristics of the serial killer include bed-wetting, setting fires and animal abuse.”

Briant shook his head in disgust.

One detective pointed to the officer sitting next to him. “That sounds a lot like you, Ben.”

The officer blushed, and the group laughed.

Michael scanned the room. “That’s all well and good, but I’m convinced that we’re not dealing with a serial killer.”

The room went silent.

Al stared at Michael. “Six people are dead, Doc.”

“Dead at the hands of others. Dead in different ways and circumstances, and most importantly, the serial killer doesn’t do the deed by proxy. He or she likes it up close and personal.”

Briant smiled. “I told you profiling wasn’t worth shit.”

“You’re a hard sell, Detective Briant,” Mike said. “We need to understand other profiles such as the malignant narcissist and the psychopath.”

“It’s all crap,” Briant said.

“Well, it’s a shame that I’ve wasted many years of my life trying to understand human behavior when all we needed to do was consult with Detective Briant. Go ahead, Detective. Wow us with your brilliance.”

Briant reddened in anger. He clutched his hands and then turned and moved to the rear.

Al leaned over toward Michael and whispered, “You’ve just made an enemy, Doc. I’d watch it.”

“I was a cop in Berkeley for three years. I know all talk and no action when I see it.”

“Work up your profile, Doc. We’ll take a look. God knows, we need all the help we can get.”

Karen looked across the room. “We can tell you one thing and one thing only. Whoever’s doing this has his or her reasons. Once we know what they are, we’ll solve these cases.”

Al turned back to the group. “Who’s investigating the scopolamine source?”

An officer raised his hand. “The most common use is in patches for motion sickness. It’s available in other forms, tablets, liquid, and gel, but only by prescription. On the Internet, you can buy it without a prescription from Canada, Mexico, and who knows where else. Tracking it down is going to require a miracle.”

“Maybe Father Ware can order up one, “Briant said.

“How is it administered?” Al asked.

“Through any orifice, through the skin, as eye drops and painted on hookers where Johns are likely to lick.”

The dark-coated figure strolled north up College Way, turned right on Dwight Way and entered Newman Hall. The figure walked to the alcove, extracted a plastic bag filled with wrapped candy, placed them in a serving dish, smiled, turned, and walked out the front door.

Chapter Forty-Seven

Ten days later, Al knocked on Charlie’s door and entered.

Charlie studied Al. “Please. Not more bad news.”

“Just remember, Charlie that every data point brings us closer to solving these cases.”

“What?”

“Four days ago, the Berkeley Police arrested two U.C. Berkeley students for unprovoked assaults. Nobody was seriously hurt, but with all the attention on our cases, a sharp detective recognized the pattern.”

“Go on.”

“The first, a freshman woman attacked another student for cutting in front of her in the cafeteria and the second, a sophomore man got into a bar fight.”

“A bar fight. You’re kidding,” Charlie said. “Must be dozens of them every night.”

“Just listen, Charlie. Both exhibited the characteristic features of scopolamine intoxication, sudden unprovoked aggression, peculiar eye movements, lip smacking, dilated pupils, and total amnesia afterward. Neither had a psychiatric history.”

“Let’s have the rest.”

“The blood samples delivered through the San Mateo P.D. to a Stanford laboratory were positive for scopolamine.”

“Does the press know about the Berkeley cases?”

“No,” Al said, “but it won’t take them long.”

Charlie stood. “You know what this means, Al? The shit’s going to hit the fan, and we’re standing right under it.” He paused. “Nothing from either student about how they got the scopolamine? Kids use lots of drugs. Maybe they got it that way.”

Al shook his head. “If someone spiked a source of recreational drugs, we’d be seeing many more cases. Two, doesn’t fit.”

“They have no idea how they got it.”

“Not a clue.”

“You’ll take a run at them, Al, won’t you?”

“I’m not holding my breath, and neither should you.”

Charlie sat back in his seat and opened the case folders. “These are the first cases outside the Hillsborough-San Mateo area. What do we make of that?”

“I can only think of three conclusions. First, unlikely in my view, is that we have a copycat. Second, that the poisonings are, in fact, random. Third, someone wants us to think that the poisonings are random when they’re not.”

“Pretty ruthless…”

“Michael and Karen are right, Charlie. This isn’t a serial killer. It’s the work of a psychopath or a malignant narcissist. Michael prefers the former as narcissists react to only those close while psychopaths are happy to destroy up close or afar and couldn’t care less.”

“Talk with Michael and Karen again. Even psychopaths usually have some reason for their antisocial acts, even bad ones.”

Al met with Michael and Karen later that same day.

“I think Charlie’s right,” Karen said.”

Michael sat a moment in thought. “Psychopaths are highly intelligent and perfectly rational except for that huge hole in their personalities. They live without empathy for anyone or anything.”

Al shook his head. “So he had a reason for choosing for each victim?”

“I don’t know,” Michael said. “The victims have nothing in common except that they were, with one exception, Catholic. What about the U.C. students?”

“Catholic,” Al said.

Karen smiled. “It’s quite simple, Al. We need to find someone who has a gripe against the Catholic Church.”

Chapter Forty-Eight

Charlie Connor burst into Al’s office and slammed a copy of the San Francisco Chronicle on his desk. “Have you seen this?”

Al picked up the paper and read:

Byline: Fiona Murphy

Confidential sources in the Berkeley P.D. have revealed that the violent attacks by two U.C. Berkeley undergraduates had been provoked by poisoning with scopolamine, a psychoactive drug. This fits the pattern of similar drug intoxications seen in San Mateo County that resulted in death and injury.

Charlie Connor, the San Mateo DA was unavailable for comment, but the Attorney General of the State of California, Richard Brown said, “I’ve committed the full power of our investigative division to these cases, and I promise prompt resolution.”

The scopolamine poisonings have been a major topic in the press, on cable TV and local talk radio and is beginning to generate the type of hysteria seen in the Tylenol cases in the 1980s.

When Al looked up, Charlie had reddened with anger. “That’s what we get for cooperating with the press. Fiona’s persona non grata around here.”

“Take it easy, Charlie. You’re overreacting. Let’s not give Fiona a bum rap. She’s not released anything from this office, and she’s provided helpful information. Besides that, she’s a good kid.”

“I get it, Al. She’s a friend, but all this is making my office look bad.”

“It’s not Fiona, it’s this damned case. I’ll talk with her, Charlie. Just ease off a bit. She’s not an enemy. She’s a reporter just doing her job.”

Charlie took a deep breath. “I’m sorry. You’re right. I’m just frustrated. Got to take it out on somebody.”

Suddenly, Charlie’s intercom buzzed. He picked up and listened.

He turned to Al. “Speak of the devil. It’s the Attorney General.”

Charlie pushed the flashing line. “Good to hear from you, Richard. It’s no surprise that you’re calling.”

As Charlie listened, he frowned and reddened. “I really don’t need the pressure, sir. I have my best people on these cases.” He paused, listening. “No, I don’t take this personally. Yes, I can use all the help I can get.” He listened further. “You’ll be the first to know, sir.”

Charlie put down the phone and stared at Al. “Our pal, the Attorney General, and my best people means you and your investigators.”

Charlie’s secretary came into his office with a stack of mail. She pointed to the one on top. “This one just came for you. You’ll enjoy it.”

Charlie pulled the letter from an envelope covered with occult symbols. He read it and laughed.

“What is it, Boss,” Al asked?

“It’s an offer of assistance from Brazil Coots, that psychic from Atlanta. He’s volunteering to help in the scopolamine cases.”

Al smiled. “You budgeted for psychics?”

“This case is so frustrating that I might test him. What’s to lose?”

“I took my wife to see the comedian, Steven Wright. He had a great line: I almost had a psychic girlfriend, but she left me before we met.”

Charlie laughed, then dropped the letter into the round file. “Not to worry, Brazil. I’m sure you saw that coming.”

Charlie turned back to Al. “Please tell me that you have something.”

“If this is the doing of one person…”

Charlie interrupted. “You mean more than one person’s responsible?”

“I doubt it, but copycats always come out of the woodwork when we deal with an unusually specific modus operandi. It’s a great way to shift suspicion to away from themselves.”

“Well, consider every alternative, just get the job done.”

“Let’s think out loud for a moment, Charlie. This is what we know: Beverly Craig, Carrie Nelson, and Father Ware have a Hillsborough connection while Jennifer Davis and Mickey Kramer received the drug at or near Stanford. That’s a strong geographic association. Each one, I can say with confidence, had no significant criminal or psychiatric history and as hard as I try, not a hint at why someone would target them. To be sure, we’re getting into their life histories, but so far, nothing.”

“Maybe it was random,” Charlie said, “like the Tylenol poisonings.”

“Let’s not think that because if true, we’re really screwed. Unlike the Tylenol poisonings, which may have been due to an attempt at extortion, we have nothing to suggest such a motive. Furthermore, if it was random, we’d expect a much wider geographic area than San Mateo or Santa Clara Counties.”

“And Berkeley, the U.C. student attacks.”

Charlie shook his head. “Damn.” He paused. “What about the drug, scopolamine? Any clues there?”

“Not yet, but I have agents investigating all possible sources. I’m meeting with Michael Rose and Karen Scott to see if they have any more insights.”

“The Attorney General is covering his own ass. He’s sending us a dozen investigators. Use them, but don’t let them get in the way.”

At two in the afternoon, Al walked into Michael’s office. Michael and Karen were sitting on the couch going over psychometric test results.

Michael rose. “Come on in Al. Take your pick, the seat, or the couch.”

Al smiled. “Keep the couch warm. I may need it soon. We’re getting pressure from all sides, even the Attorney General.”

Karen shifted to the side, making room for Al. “Tell us that you’re making progress.”

“The negative results are piling up, and I can say with certainty that it wasn’t Hitler or Mao. I want to talk with you two about scopolamine and why someone would choose to use it.”

Michael picked up a thick folder labeled, scopolamine. “I knew a lot about scopolamine, but I didn’t know all of its colorful history. It probably goes back in its plant-based form to prehistory and ultimately earned the name, the Deadly Nightshade. They used it until the 1960s with morphine in labor and delivery. They named it Twilight Sleep, and its major advantage was that women using it had no memory whatsoever of their labor or delivery.”

“An advantage to some, but to most women,” Karen said, “the drug removed them from the experience of childbirth.”

“I could go for that,” Michael said. “In addition, the drug had another interesting side effect; it left the user in a compliant state. The Nazis explored scopolamine as a ‘truth serum’ while the CIA used it for mind control.”

Al sat upright. “Roger Nelson’s CIA, but he’s just a records clerk.”

“Listen, Al,” Michael said, “he’s a frustrated and angry man, but I doubt that he has the cojones for poisoning anyone.”

Al smiled. “Anger and frustration are strong motivators…you never know.”

Michael picked up his folder. “Legitimately, we use scopolamine in patches for sea sickness, but it’s been used as a date-rape drug and as a hallucinogen.”

“How is it administrated?”

Michael smiled. “You’ll love this, Al. It’s been placed in drinks, chewing gum, in food, and has been applied to prostitute’s breasts.”

“If I’m going to pay for a hooker,” Al said, “I sure want to remember it.”

“Here’s more,” Michael said. “In high doses, the drug is a means of setting up a person to commit a crime—remember the compliancy induced by scopolamine. The victim could have done the deed, but would have absolutely no memory. No memory…no guilt. Absent guilt, they could easily pass any interrogation or even a lie detector test.”

Al sneered. “Give me a break.” He paused in thought. “You don’t really think…”

Karen shook her head. “Give us a better explanation, Al…”

Al scratched his head. “I love it. Alfred Hitchcock meets Twilight Zone. Someone’s administering scopolamine, seemingly at random for inexplicable reasons. Maybe I should retire.”

Karen smiled. “Catch him or her first, and then retire.”

Chapter Forty-Nine

Michael and Karen were sitting in Bruno’s conference room for trial preparation. Bruno had spread stacks of folders out before them.

“We need to come to an agreement about your testimony, Michael. I’m not sure I’m going to need you, but if I do, the last thing I want in court is a surprise from my own witness.”

“You’re not going to program my answers, Bruno. We’ve worked together before, and you should know by now that it ain’t going to happen.”

Bruno turned to Karen. “I think your partner needs some couch time. He’s attacking me before I say word one.”

She smiled. “We live with shrink stereotypes. You live with shyster ones.”

Bruno laughed. “It’s been a while since someone called me a shyster. Let’s get serious. I haven’t said a word about the substance of your testimony, Michael nor have I asked you to say anything that’s contrary to your opinion, have I?”

“Okay, Bruno. Go ahead, but my outrage is locked and loaded.”

“Effective defense witness preparation is akin to a strategic plan or in musical terms, I’m the conductor, and you are my instrument tuned to ring true.”

“Very poetic, Bruno, but let’s get to the sour notes.”

“I’m going to paraphrase what I believe are the elements of your opinion. Let me finish and then tear them apart if you don’t agree.”

Michael took out his notepad. “Hold onto your purse, Karen. I’m holding my wallet.”

“You’re getting cynical in your old age, Michael.” Bruno paused. “I’ll get right to the essence of the problem. First, we have sufficient evidence that Father Ware had led an exemplary life with no psychiatric problems or violent tendencies. Second, someone poisoned him with scopolamine, a drug that has the potential to produce unpredictable and often violent behavior. Third, scopolamine’s effects on Father’s brain were such that he couldn’t have had the mens rea for the jury to hold him responsible for killing Maggie Hayes.”

Karen looked at Michael, then faced Bruno. “No problems with one and two, but I at least, would want to flesh out number three. It’s ultimately a question of certainty.”

Michael looked at his notes. “This is all abstract until you ask the question, Bruno. Go ahead and ask just as if I was on the stand. Then switch roles and be Charlie.”

Bruno shrugged his shoulders. “Dr. Rose, as a forensic psychiatrist, please tell the jury if scopolamine can cause a normal individual to act in a violent or unpredictable manner, yes or no.”

“Yes, it can.”

“Is it possible, Doctor, in your expert opinion that scopolamine might have caused Father Ware’s behavior?”

“Yes.”

Karen stood. “These are softball questions, Bruno. Would you really ask these in court and in the face of an anticipated vigorous cross-examination?”

“I wouldn’t ask if I wasn’t prepared to defend the answers. Go ahead, Karen, you ask them.”

Karen faced Michael and smiled. “Every woman’s dream…to have a lover on the stand under the threat of perjury.”

Michael smiled at Karen. “You love this, don’t you?”

Karen looked into Michael’s eyes. “Doctor, you testified that scopolamine can cause violent behavior.”

“Yes.”

“Have you seen such behavior?”

“No. I’ve only seen the reports in the medical literature.”

“Can you tell from the literature how likely violent behavior would be in an individual?”

“No. I can’t.”

“Let me make this easy for you, Doctor. On a scale from 10, highly likely to 1, very unlikely, how would you rate Father Ware’s likelihood of being violent from scopolamine?”

Michael smiled and stared at Karen playing the role of the DA and the judge. “I can’t.”

“And yet you expect the jury to excuse Father Ware’s behavior based on the effects of scopolamine?”

Michael sat up straight. “I’ll answer that question, counselor with one of my own. Would you leave your mother or your daughter alone with a man drugged with scopolamine?”

“Unfortunately, Doctor, you don’t ask the questions. I think you’re being evasive.”

“I disagree, Mr. Connor. You’re seeking an answer that I’m unwilling to give you. Humans are complicated. I can’t tell in advance if three shots of Johnny Walker Black will set you on your ass or will it take five or six.”

“You’re quite charming, Dr. Rose, but my next question requires a yes or no answer. Is that clear?”

Michael nodded.

Judge Karen smiled. “Please answer verbally, Doctor. The court recorder cannot take down gestures.”

“Dr. Rose, among the list of scopolamine’s effects, can you tell the jury with a reasonable degree of medical certainty that scopolamine directly caused Father Ware to take a gun and shoot Maggie Hayes in the head?”

“That’s too…”

“Your honor, please ask the witness to respond yes or no.”

Judge Karen smiled again. “Yes or no, Doctor.”

“But your honor,” Michael pleaded.

“Yes or no, Doctor.”

Michael shook his head and whispered, “No.”

“The jury can’t hear you, Doctor.”

“No.”

Bruno stood. “I can’t put you on the stand, Michael.”

“I told the truth.”

“That may work for the DA, but it’s murder, pardon the expression, for us.”

Michael studied his hands. “I’m not okay with this, Bruno.”

“I don’t care. I have an obligation to my client to offer the best defense possible, and you’re not helping.”

“The jury’s entitled to understand,” Michael pleaded.

“I can’t believe that I’m hearing this from an experienced forensic psychiatrist. You’d better go back to testimony 101. You just don’t get it.”

“You’re withholding valuable information from the jury, Bruno.”

“Of course. To do otherwise would be contrary to my ethical obligation to my client.” Bruno shook his head. “Here it is, Michael, if Father Ware came to me and said, yes, of course I killed the bitch, she deserved it, I’m still obligated to defend him. The DA has an obligation to the truth. My obligation is to defend my client to the best of my ability.”

Michael frowned. “What about the truth?”

Bruno smiled. “I’d like to say, screw the truth, but I can’t, not totally. I can’t knowingly allow my client to lie on the stand, and I can’t lie to the prosecutor, but I have no obligation to provide damaging information or testimony. It’s not a perfect system, Michael, but it works better than most.”

Michael sat for a long moment in silence and then looked toward Karen and then toward Bruno. “I think you have it ass backwards, Bruno.”

“How so?”

Okay, DA Karen got me to admit that I couldn’t be 100 percent sure that the scopolamine did it, but the burden of proof should be on the prosecution. Don’t they have to convince the jury that there’s no chance that the scopolamine influenced Father Ware’s behavior? I’m certain that the DA cannot make that argument.”

Bruno stared at Michael. “I’m not sure that I can make that work. It might take a special instruction from the judge.”

Michael reddened. “Use me, don’t use me. I don’t give a shit!”

Afterwards as they sat in Michael’s car and Karen turned to him. “What was that all about?”

“I’m sick of all the game playing. I just don’t want to be a part of it.”

“You either believe in the advocacy system, or you don’t. Bruno was being a lawyer when talking about the truth, but he’s right about his responsibility to defend his clients.” She paused. “You worry me.”

“I’ve had multiple careers. Each time I found problems that I couldn’t abide. I’m getting too old to change jobs again.”

Karen smiled. “You’re an incurable.”

“An incurable what?”

“An idealist…a romantic. You want perfection in an imperfect world.”

Michael smiled and grasped Karen’s hand. “Okay…you’re right, but what’s so wrong with that?”

“Nothing, but let’s not pay too high a price for utopian dreams.”

Chapter Fifty

Charlie Connor sat with an assistant DA and Al Russo at the prosecution table in the Superior Court of California in South San Francisco. Bruno Cooper and his associate sat at the defense table with Father Ware in full clerical garb. This was the end of the second week, and they’d been through with jury selection, police testimony and the forensics.

It was Friday. The clock read 9:00 a.m. when the bailiff stood. “The Superior Court of California is now in session, the honorable Judge Maxine White presiding. All rise.”

The judge took the bench and indicated that all be seated. “Mr. Connor, call your next witness.”

“The people call Mary Cole.”

Mary Cole was wearing her Sunday best as she walked tentatively to the stand. The bailiff swore her in.

Charlie Connor approached with his most disarming smile. “Good morning, Mrs. Cole.”

“Good morning.”

“You know Father Ware?”

She smiled. “He’s God’s voice on earth.”

“Tell the jury what happened on the day in question.”

“Father went crazy. He didn’t know what he was doing.”

Charlie looked up at the judge. “Your honor?”

Judge White looked down at Mary. “Please, Mrs. Cole, just tell us only what you saw.”

“That’s what I saw.”

The judge frowned. “Mrs. Cole. I want you to describe Father Ware’s actions. Specifically, what he did.”

Mary shook her head. “He went nuts.”

The judge looked exasperated. “Mr. Connor, you may treat Mrs. Cole as a hostile witness.”

Bruno Cooper stood. “I object, your honor. She’s his own witness.”

“Overruled. Take a seat.”

Bruno shook his head. “You won’t hear my objection, your honor?”

“You heard this witness, Mr. Cooper. The DA is entitled to use leading questions. Take a seat.”

Charlie smiled for the jury, and then returned to Mary. “Did you see Father step down from the altar?”

“Yes.”

“Did that surprise you?”

“Yes. Father never comes down until the service is over.”

“Please describe for the jury what he did.”

“He pulled his gun and shot poor Maggie in the head.”

Charlie sighed with relief. “No further questions.”

Bruno walked to the stand and smiled at Mary. “Good morning. I only have a few questions.”

Mary nodded.

“When Father stepped into the aisle, did he look normal to you?”

Charlie stood. “Objection your honor, calls for a conclusion.”

“Your honor, what’s good for the goose…”

The judge smiled. “Mr. Cooper, I must have missed your previous objections to this witness’s conclusions during direct examination. Overruled.”

“Sorry, your honor.”

Bruno turned back to the witness. “I’d like you to take a moment and try to visualize Father Ware’s appearance and behavior. Can you do that for the jury?”

“I’ll try.” She looked up and to the right for a long moment. “He moved slowly, and his face, usually so full of life, was blank. Then his eyes…they got me…they looked funny.”

Bruno moved closer to the stand. “Funny in what way?”

“They seemed to drift to one side and then snap back suddenly…and he was licking his lips like when you eat a doughnut, and you get sugar on them.”

“Anything else?”

“Then it was the gun.” Tears ran down her cheeks. “I saw it come out, like in slow motion, but I know it wasn’t slow, then he shot. It happened so fast that I couldn’t do anything to save poor Maggie.”

“What happened after that?”

“It was crazy. Blood was everywhere…on me and even on Eddie, my husband.” She paused. “And Father just stood there like he was lost…like a statue…no emotion…no nothing. Blood covered his face, and he wiped it from his eyes. He didn’t know what he did.”

Charlie rose. “Objection.”

“Sustained.”

Bruno turned to the jury with his best ‘what-can-I-do’ gesture. “One more question, Mrs. Cole.”

Mary straightened up on the stand.

“Do you know of any reason why Father Ware would want to kill Maggie Hayes?”

“Objection, your honor. This calls for a conclusion and is conveniently self-serving for the defense.”

“Your honor,” cried Bruno. “She either knows or doesn’t know.”

“Overruled. You may answer, Mrs. Cole.”

Mary looks confused. “You mean did Father have a reason for killing Maggie. That’s nuts. He loved Maggie. Everyone loved Maggie.”

Charlie called a Stanford clinical pharmacologist. He testified about scopolamine, its chemistry and physiological effects and its uses. When two jurors began to nod off, Charlie returned to the witness. “No further questions.”

“No questions, your honor,” Bruno said.

Next Charlie called Dr. Marvin Siller, an academic psychiatrist, to testify. He was in his sixties, well dressed and with a Van Dyke beard.

Bruno stood. “We accept Dr. Siller as an expert witness.”

Charlie moved close to his witness. “Dr. Siller, it’s accurate to describe you as an expert on the psychological effects of drugs like scopolamine?”

“Yes. We study scopolamine and similar drugs and have reported our results at scientific meetings and in peer-reviewed journals.”

“Tell the jury your opinion regarding scopolamine in the diminished capacity defense.”

“In my opinion, it’s not justified.”

Charlie smiled at the jury. “Please tell the jury the basis for this opinion.”

Siller stroked his beard and turned toward the jury. “Every drug has a long list of physiological effects and an even larger list of psychiatric effects. Trust me, if you took a moment to review the side effects profile of evenly commonly used drugs, you wouldn’t go near any of them.”

Al signaled Charlie to come over. “Make him talk English. He’s going to lose them.”

“I’m sorry, Doctor. Please continue and try to put these facts in a form we can all understand better.”

Siller frowned. “I’ll try. If you look in the Physician’s Desk Reference that lists all drugs and their effects, you find a section giving the frequency of common side effects expressed as a percentage. For example, if we look at how often aspirin causes ringing in the ears, the PDR might show that occurs in 10-15 percent of users. The PDR lists common and uncommon side effects for aspirin.”

“Tell the jury about scopolamine.”

“Common side effects include dizziness, headache, dry mouth, sensitivity to bright light and so forth.”

“How often does scopolamine cause highly aggressive activity and even murder?”

“Objection, your honor. This is beyond the scope of this witness’s expertise.”

“Overruled. This is an expert witness, and I’ll take the answer.”

Siller smiled at the judge, then turned to the jury. “It’s zero percent. The PDR reports no such effects.”

“Thank you, Doctor. Your witness, Mr. Cooper.”

Michael leaned over and spoke into Bruno’s ear.

Judge White frowned. “Any time you’re ready, Mr. Cooper.”

Bruno stood. “I’m sorry, your honor.” He moved toward the stand. “Good morning, Dr. Siller.”

“Good morning.”

“The drug’s manufacturer provides information to the PDR, is that correct?”

“Yes, but they also obtain reports on side effects and compile reports from physicians and others in health care.”

“Can you define for the jury the word mnemonic?”

“Sure, just don’t ask me to spell it.”

The jurors smiled.

“A mnemonic is a short phrase or a poem to assist memory, particularly for lists.”

Charlie rose. “This is all very interesting, but what does it have to do with these cases?”

Bruno turned to the judge. “If you’ll indulge me for a moment, it will all become clear.”

“Go ahead, Mr. Cooper, but get to your point.”

“Dr. Siller, can you give the jury a common example?”

“Yes, of course.” He paused for a moment. “The names of the Great Lakes are: Superior, Michigan, Huron, Erie, Ontario, and you can remember the order from west to east with: Super Man Helps Every One.”

“In medical school, students use mnemonics extensively, is that correct?”

“Yes. We have many lists in medicine.”

Bruno signaled the bailiff who rolled a blackboard into the court. Bruno referred to his clipboard and began to write. He smiled at the jury. “Excuse my handwriting. It’s as bad as most doctors.” He wrote: blind as a bat, mad as a hatter, red as a beet, hot as a hare, dry as a bone, the bowel and bladder lose their tone, and the heart runs alone. “Do you remember this one, Dr. Siller?”

Siller smiled. “Haven’t heard that one in years. It describes the clinical presentation in patients overdosed with scopolamine or atropine.”

“And the defendants exhibited these effects?”

“Yes.”

Bruno circled the phrase: Mad as a hatter. “That suggests severe mental illness, doesn’t it?”

Charlie stood. “Is this defense by poem?”

The judge frowned. “Is that an objection, Mr. Connor?”

“Sorry, your honor.”

“Shall I repeat the question, Dr. Siller?”

“The potential for mental illness, Mr. Cooper, not its certainty.”

“You’re certainly earning your fee today, Dr. Siller.”

“Objection, your honor…that’s inappropriate.”

“Objection sustained. You know better, Mr. Cooper.”

“My apology to the court and to Dr. Siller.”

Bruno picked up a laminated sheet from the defense table. “The defense would like to introduce exhibit three, a 1996 article from the Baltimore Sun referring to a street drug called ‘Murder’. Are you familiar with this article and the studies done at John’s Hopkins Medical Center?”

“Yes. It’s a well-known study, Mr. Cooper and yes the drug involved was scopolamine, and yes, it cited violent behavior and subsequent amnesia.”

“Does that sound familiar to you, Doctor?”

“Yes, but that’s a long way from scientific confirmation of a specific drug effect.”

“Do you know the plants Brugsmansia and Datura?”

“Yes. They contain alkaloids like atropine and scopolamine, and yes, they have mental effects.”

“If I said that these drugs caused hallucinations, paranoid behaviors, and delusions would you agree?”

Siller reddened. “Yes.”

“No further questions.”

The judge looked at Charlie. “Redirect, Mr. Connor?”

“Yes, thank you, your honor.”

“Doctor Siller, science concerning illegal substances is difficult, isn’t it?”

“Very difficult.”

Charlie smiled. “That’s why we must rely on scientific studies rather than fairytales, isn’t it?”

“I wouldn’t go as far as using the phrase fairytale for reports on a drug’s effects. It’s just a less reliable form of observation.”

“Like hearsay evidence versus direct evidence?”

“Yes, that’s an excellent way to phrase it.”

“Based on your experience and your review of the medical literature, how likely is it that Father Ware’s behavior can be explained by scopolamine?”

“Highly unlikely.”

Bruno was on his feet. “Impossible, Dr. Siller?”

“Unlikely.”

“Anything else, Mr. Cooper?”

“Yes, your honor.”

Bruno picked up a thick folder from the table, walked to the witness stand, and held it up. “This is detailed information on the cases of Beverly Craig, Carrie Nelson, Jennifer Davis, and Mickey Kramer, all committing sudden, violent acts. Did you have the opportunity to review them?”

“Yes.”

“Had they been drugged with scopolamine?”

“Yes.”

“Did they have a criminal background or a significant history of psychiatric problems?”

“No.”

“Did they commit sudden, violent acts?”

“Yes.”

“And yet you’re unwilling to accept their behavior as the result of scopolamine.”

“Well, I…”

“It’s okay, Doctor. I have only one more question. When you compared the scopolamine blood levels in these four victims to the scopolamine level in Father Ware, who had the highest value?”

Siller stared at the district attorney and shook his head.

“Answer the question, Dr. Siller,” Judge White said.

“Father Ware had the highest level, much higher than the others.”

“No further questions.”

“Mr. Connor?”

Charlie shook his head.

“Court adjourned until Monday morning, 9:00 a.m.”

Chapter Fifty-One

Charlie Connor was sitting at his desk after the court adjourned when Al Russo came in and slumped into the easy chair. He pulled out a cigarette and tapped it against Charlie’s desktop.

The DA shook his head. “Things may be bad, but don’t even think of lighting that.”

“We’re screwed, Charlie…really screwed.”

“Don’t blame Siller. It was my fault. Maybe I should take a ride on Michael Rose’s couch. I let my need to see someone punished cloud my judgment. I should have dismissed the charges.”

“You believe and still believe that Father Ware has some degree of culpability or have you changed your mind?”

“No, Al, but we must face the fact that the jury won’t convict.”

“What about a lesser charge or a deal?”

“Father had a carry permit?” Charlie asked.

“Yes.”

“I just can’t go from manslaughter to misdemeanor carrying a loaded gun in a public place,” Charlie said. “That will seem petty and vindictive…and it is.”

“Make a deal.”

“Bruno’s a decent guy, but he’s not going to lose the keys to the trial lawyers’ penthouse suite to do me a favor.”

Charlie picked up his intercom and got his secretary. “See if Bruno Cooper is free to meet me this afternoon.”

At 3:00 p.m., Bruno, Michael, and Karen entered Charlie’s office and sat before his desk.

Bruno smiled. “Can’t say that this comes as a surprise, Charlie.”

“Don’t gloat, Bruno. All I see in these cases is tragedy.”

“I’m not gloating…far from it. I have my job, but I too have misgivings.”

“Listen, Bruno, despite the circumstances, we can’t let a man go free who publicly executed an innocent woman.”

Bruno leaned forward. “We go back a long way, Charlie and I wish that I could help you, but you know I can’t. Your responsibility is to the law. My responsibility is to my client. Either way you cut it, the jury will find Father Ware not guilty, or you’ll just have to dismiss with prejudice.”

Charlie turned to Michael. “You’re telling me that Father doesn’t have even an iota of responsibility for the killing of Maggie Hayes?”

Michael smiled. “An iota sets a pretty high standard, Charlie. Father Ware, like the others, was in a daze and acted mechanically, like an automaton.”

“If we could read his mind,” Karen said, “then maybe we could tell you if any element of his actions was purposeful.”

Charlie handled his case file, then stood and faced Michael. “I’m asking you as mental health experts to tell me whether or not, Father had mens rea to commit this crime.”

“This isn’t an exact science, Charlie, we’re not perfect,” Michael said, “but when you put it all together, the behavior, the absence of motive and the known effects of scopolamine, we think he’s guilty, but not culpable.”

Bruno turned to Charlie. “What will it be my friend?”

Charlie shook his head. “I can’t see that I have a choice. I’m dismissing all charges against Father Ware.”

“With prejudice?” Bruno asked.

“Come on, Bruno, you know I have no choice there either. Yes, with prejudice. We can never try Father again on these charges.”

Bruno was suddenly more alert. “I always get nervous when something happens that’s too good to be true. Don’t tell me that you have something else up your tricky DA sleeve, Charlie.”

Charlie smiled. “Life is uncertain, Bruno. We all have our crosses to bear.”

Bruno smiled. “A perfect metaphor for this case, Charlie.”

When Carrie entered Karen’s office a week after the DA dismissed all charges against her, they hugged. “This is our last visit. I’m going to miss you.”

Carrie looked into Karen’s eyes. “Can we get together as friends? I really enjoy your company?”

Karen smiled. “I’ll still have to charge you.”

Carrie’s eyes widened.

“Take it easy, I’m just kidding. I’d love to see you.”

They talked for thirty minutes about Carrie’s feelings, and how the children were doing, then Carrie bit her lip and stared at Karen. “You haven’t asked about Roger.”

“I’m letting you take the lead. I’ll talk about anything you think is important.”

“But you disapprove of my decision to take him back. I can sense it.”

“That’s what psychologists call projection. You’re taking your own feelings about Roger and ascribing them to me.”

“So I’m mistaken, you really like Roger?”

Karen frowned. “What’s not to love?” She paused. “I’m sorry. That was inappropriate. Maybe it’s my own physical and metaphorical scars, or maybe I’ve seen too many dreadful effects of abuse on my patients. I’m sorry.”

“You’re not the only one who feels that way. Family and friends are constantly judging me, but they don’t understand.”

“I’m listening.”

“If people cared about me, they’d trust me to make my own decisions. I’m the one who lived through his abuse. I’m the one who understands Roger and the potential in our relationship. Why can’t they leave me alone?”

“They love you. I love you and don’t want to see you hurt again.”

Tears ran down Carrie’s cheeks. After a minute, she regained control. “I’ve read all the articles in women’s magazines and online, and I won’t deny that I have feelings in common with many abused women. I don’t want to be alone. I don’t want my children to grow up without a father and yes, I’m a Catholic. Something happened to me and to Roger when Al revealed Roger’s secret. You and Michael could have a field day with what makes Roger tick, but I know him as only a wife can.”

“Being too close often makes it difficult to be objective.”

“That’s the point. I don’t want to be objective. I love Roger, and this revelation has torn down the barriers between us. I want to make this work. I’m going to make this work in spite of the naysayers.”

“Don’t put me in that category, Carrie. I’ve learned never to substitute my judgment for that of my patients. It’s hard enough to be responsible for my own life without taking on the lives of my patients. Remember, my door is always open to you as a friend, and if needed, as a therapist.”

Carrie picked up her bag and coat. “I’ll miss you.”

They hugged.

Carrie smiled. “I’m only a phone call away.”

Chapter Fifty-Two

Charlie’s secretary, Helen came into Al office. “I have Mr. Jake Arnold on the phone.”

“From the Los Altos Gun Club?”

“Yes. He wants to see you.”

“Can’t we do this on the phone?” Al asked.

“No, he insists on seeing you.”

“Have him come this afternoon.”

At 2:15 p.m., Helen showed Jake into Al’s office.

Al got up to greet him and shook his hand. “You didn’t have to go through all the trouble of coming down here, Jake.”

“I thought it would be best. Can we talk?”

“Of course,” Al said. “Take a seat. What’s this about?”

“Look, Al, we’re both stand-up guys…”

“Okay, Jake…what is it?”

“Remember you asked about Father Ware’s visits and who accompanied him?”

“You have something?”

“It took us a while to get through the log book…we gotta put that on the computer some day, but finally, we got through it.” He paused. “Look I don’t know what it means and I’m uncomfortable talking about this. Lenny’s a friend.”

“Listen Jake, you’re just providing information, not opinion or supposition, just fact. I’ll take it from there. Now what have you got?”

“We found two occasions when Father came with the same woman.”

“Common’ Jake…”

“It was Maggie Hayes, Al.” Jake paused and studied Al’s face for a reaction. “I’m not jumping to any conclusions, and neither should you. This could be perfectly innocent.”

Al smiled. “Thank you Jake. You’re a good man.”

“What does it mean, Al?”

“Thanks again, Jake. I’ll take it from here.”

Friday at 5:00 p.m. as Al was preparing to leave for the weekend, Fiona barged in.

“I don’t believe it! You guys let Ware off?”

“Had no choice. Either way we cut it, he was going free.”

“Something’s wrong here, Al. I know it.”

“I’m waiting, Fiona.”

“Okay, Ware pulled the trigger, but he’s not legally responsible.” Fiona paused. “I get that. While I’m not sure, I think that Denny Hayes is involved somehow. When a wife is murdered, don’t you always start with the spouse?”

“Except when I have ninety eye witnesses that saw someone else do it. Unless you think that Denny conspired with Father Ware, I don’t see what difference it makes in our decision to dismiss the charges against Father. If anything comes up on Denny, we’re free to charge him, but except for Maggie’s involvement, how can you relate Denny to the other victims?”

“I can’t,” Fiona said, “except for Ware. Cindy Green, Maggie’s best friend said something I can’t forget. She said that Denny’s not what he seems…that he’s super smart and that both he and Maggie got marital counseling from Father Ware.”

“What were their issues? How does it relate to father Ware?”

“It wasn’t bad enough that Denny was a drunk, he had to be a mean drunk, and Maggie got the worst of it. Father helped them get back together, and Denny had nothing but praise for him. While Denny got counseling from AA, Maggie continued with Ware. From what Denny said, at the time of Maggie’s death, their marriage was better than it had been in years.”

“Fiona, you’re not helping me. What else?”

“When I hinted that while they were having their marital problems, Maggie might have sought comfort with another man, Denny went ballistic. He stated that she’d never do such a thing, and that if she did, he’d make sure she’d live to regret it. Moreover, he’d take the children away.”

“Fiona, you’re giving me a headache. These cases are frustrating enough without all your baseless speculations.”

Fiona smiled. “Then you’re going to love this. Have you looked at Roger Nelson?”

“We’ve looked at everybody. What do you know about Roger?”

“Nothing. He refused to talk with me.”

“A wise man that Roger Nelson.”

“The fact that he’s CIA has got to be of interest when we’re dealing with an unusual drug like scopolamine, don’t you think?”

“You might come to that conclusion, but we’re not concerned about Roger Nelson.”

“Why?”

Al smiled but remained silent.

Fiona smiled back. “You love this, don’t you?”

“We each do our jobs in our own way,” Al said. “You know that better than most.”

“You’re piquing my interest in Roger. You may not want to do that.”

“Save your energies, Fiona. Trust an old friend on that.”

“You are dismissing the charges against Carrie Nelson, aren’t you?”

“Of course we already did that. If we couldn’t make the charges stick with Father Ware, we had zero chance with Carrie.”

Fiona shook her head in despair. “This whole thing sucks.”

“Tell me about it. How do you think the DA’s office feels about that? Five people dead and nobody to hold accountable.”

After Fiona left, Al walked to Charlie’s office. “I just can’t let this go, Charlie. The information from Jake Arnold from the Los Altos Gun Club suggests a relationship between Father Ware and Maggie Hayes. That means we need to go even further in investigating Ware. If it’s okay, I’m flying to North Riverside, Illinois where Ware worked before coming to California.”

“Okay, Al, but what’s on your mind?”

“You know me. I’m too compulsive. My gut’s saying that it’s time to get even deeper into Ware’s past.”

Al Russo flew into O’Hare, rented a car, and drove to North Riverside and St. Joseph’s Church. He met Father Newman in the chapel where he was talking with Arthur Collier, a deacon.

“Thank you Father, for seeing me on such short notice. I’m seeking information about Father Leonard Ware.”

Newman faced Arthur. “You’ll excuse us.” He turned to Al. “It’s no problem, detective. Please come into my office.”

Father Newman was in his early seventies. He had a ready smile and exuded kindness and goodwill.

“What can I do for you, Detective?”

“I’m sure you must be aware of the shooting in St. Eugenia’s Church in San Mateo, California. Father Ware served here, and I’m trying to get background information, so we can better understand what happened and why.”

“My Lord. How awful…I can’t believe what I’ve been reading. Father Ware spent eight wonderful years with us, you know. We were quite upset when he left.”

“What were his duties?”

Newman smiled. “What didn’t he do? He was my assistant and fulfilled all his priestly duties and more. He taught here and at DePaul University.  In his free time, he managed many charitable programs, including our local Habitat for Humanity.”

“What lead him to leave North Riverside?”

“The Chicago Archdiocese decided. I assume they had greater things in store for such a talented and dedicated priest.”

Al studied Newman. “No hint of impropriety…”

“We have, I must confess, been less than scrupulous in dealing with the clergy’s moral failures, and we haven’t exactly been forthcoming in informing and protecting the public. Don’t paint us all with the same brush.”

“That’s not my intention, Father. My boss, the DA of San Mateo is as apolitical as it gets. He sent me here simply to cover all bases.”

“We serve as witness to man’s worst behavior toward his fellow man, and you look like a man who fully understands the existence of evil in our world.”

“I do, Father,” Al said, “and whatever the reason, Father Ware took an innocent woman’s life.”

“I provide religious service and counseling at Stateville Prison, and so I, too, know evil as beyond earthly salvation even as we pray for redemption and forgiveness in the afterlife.” He paused and his eyes welled with tears. “How horrible must it be for a priest, a man dedicated to Christ, to have committed such an act? Seek your answers from neurologists, psychiatrists and in His light.”

“Can you think of anything else, Father?”

“No. Leonard has been on my mind and in my prayers. Please give him my best wishes.”

Al rose and shook Newman’s hand. “Thank you and I will pass on your message.”

Al had just pressed the remote to unlock the rental car when he turned to footsteps approaching from behind. It was Arthur Collier, the Deacon, rushing toward Al.

Collier nervously scanned the parking lot and the church behind. “Can I have a minute with you, sir?”

“Yes, of course.”

“You’re here about Father Ware?”

“Yes.”

“Meet me by the Riverside Water Tower in thirty minutes.”

“What’s this about?”

“Thirty minutes,” he said and walked away.

Al paced the open area around the ornate tower, and after he settled on a nearby bench, Arthur Collier walked up and sat next to him.

“How should I address you, Mr. Collier?”

“Call me Artie. Thanks for seeing me.”

“I take it that you have something to share with me that might not have otherwise been forthcoming from Father Newman.”

Artie smiled. “No. It’s not like that at all. Father Newman would be the world’s worst liar, even if he could manage to do so.” He paused. “Father Newman just doesn’t know.”

“Know what?”

“The real reason why the Cardinal of Chicago transferred Father Ware to California.”

“You’re killing me, Artie.”

“It wasn’t bad enough that Leonard Ware had affairs with several parishioners. He had to get a sweet and innocent seventeen-year-old girl pregnant.”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course I’m sure.”

“How?”

“The girl was my niece.”

“My God! How sad for you and your family.”

“Not sad, tragic. When she discovered that she was carrying Ware’s child, she hung herself.”

Chapter Fifty-Three

When Al got off the plane at San Francisco International Airport, he called Charlie at home. “Meet me in the office.”

“It’s Sunday. Can’t it wait?”

“I know you, Charlie. If I waited until tomorrow, you’d have my ass.”

An hour later, they were sitting in Charlie’s office. Al had just finished telling Charlie about his trip and the new information about Ware.

Charlie shook his head in disgust. “That reminds me of the Lily Tomlin quote: No matter how cynical you become, it’s never enough to keep up.”

“What can we do?”

“Ware will find justice in the afterlife, but I’m sure as hell not going to wait.”

At 6:00 p.m. the same day, Father McLean was sitting at his desk editing his sermon when Father Ware entered.

McLean walked to Ware, fell to his knees, and kissed his hand. “Bless Jesus for your safe return, Father.”

“I want you to hear my confession.”

The request stunned McLean. “Of course. Any time you’re ready.”

Ware took McLean by the arm, and they walked over to the confessional. McLean hesitated for a moment, then entered.

McLean was waiting behind the screen as Ware now sat across from him.

Ware stared toward the screen. “In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.”

McLean trembled. “You have my blessing.”

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It’s been one month since my last confession.” He paused. “I’ve transgressed against God by fornication and adultery.”

McLean gasped, then paused for a long moment. “Go ahead, Father.”

“I had an affair with Maggie Hayes.”

Ware’s words stunned McLean into silence. “Father, you didn’t…”

“Of course not, but these sins weigh heavily on my soul.”

“Why didn’t you speak out?”

“Because everyone would have reacted as you did. We had an affair. I ended it. It was over. We were both reconciled and promised not to speak of it again. As you see from the trial, God was with me. He was at my side.” He paused. “Lord Jesus, Son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner.”

McLean sat up straight and stared at the screen. “God, the Father of mercies, through the death and resurrection of his Son has reconciled the world to himself and sent the Holy Spirit among us for the forgiveness of sins; through the ministry of the Church, may God give you pardon and peace, and I absolve you from your sins in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.”

“Thank you, Father McLean. We will never talk of this again. I have no doubts that you fully understand the sanctity of the confessional.”

“Of course, Father. Why do you find it necessary to advise me?”

The door across the screen squeaked open and slammed shut.

Father McLean sat and prayed silently. When he left the confessional, a young woman across the room was staring at him. She waved and approached.

“Fiona Murphy, Father. You remember me.”

McLean paled and grabbed the pew back to steady himself.

“Father, you’re pale as if you’ve seen a ghost.”

“I guess that confession went on too long. I’m starving.”

Fiona smiled. “Father Ware must have had a lot to confess.”

McLean reddened. “Don’t Fiona. Confession is no laughing matter.”

She smiled. “I’m so sorry. It’s just my perverse sense of humor. I’m a Catholic and believe me, I understand. I’m just concerned because you seem so upset.”

“I have nothing more to say, Fiona.” He paused for a long moment. “This will sound a bit unkind, but what goes on between Father Ware and me is none of your business.”

“You’re talking about the confessional, right?”

“Of course.” He reddened. “Don’t you go crazy on me, Fiona.”

“You must do better than that, Father. If you believe I’m letting go of this case, think again. Take it from a pro; if you’re going to lie to me, you’d better get some practice.”

Chapter Fifty-Four

Cindy Green was exhausted when she returned from work. She’d just put a Healthy Choice Chicken Balsamico into the microwave, poured a glass of Chardonnay and turned on the evening news when the doorbell rang.

Not the Mormons again, she thought.

One look through the peephole had her stepping back. It was Denny Hayes.

She hooked the door chain and opened it two inches. “What are you doing here, Denny?”

“Can I talk to you for a moment?”

“Absolutely not. I have nothing to say to you. Go Home.”

Before she could slam the door, Denny wedged his foot into the gap. “Please, Cindy. I just need to talk.”

“If you think I’m letting you in, you’re nuts. I know you, Denny. I know what you’ve done, and no way am I going to be alone with you. Now get your foot out, or I’m calling the police.”

Denny remained silent for a long moment, and when Cindy looked up, a tear rolled down his cheek.

“What is it, Denny?”

“I miss her so much…I can’t stand it. There’s so much I don’t understand…too many things unsaid. Please, Cindy…please help me.”

“We have a Starbucks down the street. I’ll meet you in ten minutes, and Denny, don’t make me sorry.”

Denny waved at Cindy as she entered. He was sitting in the back corner and pointed to two coffees on the table.

When she sat, he pushed the coffee toward her. “Two Splendas and a little half and half.”

Cindy stared at him in amazement.

“I never forget a woman’s drink, in fact, I rarely forget anything. It’s a gift and a burden.”

“What do you want, Denny?”

“That Fiona Murphy was in to see me. That woman’s a piece of work.”

“She’s aggressive, but her heart’s in the right place.”

He shook his head. “I don’t think so.”

“What are you talking about?” Cindy asked.

“Look, I know that I’m not your favorite person. I was a shit. I’m an alcoholic, but I’m in control. I’m not the same man. I didn’t deserve Maggie, but after everything I put her through, we’d finally gotten back together. Am I wrong or just deluding myself?”

“No. God knows why, she loved you and forgave you, I sure as hell wouldn’t have.”

Tears streamed down Denny’s cheeks. “It’s so hard without her.”

“It’s hard for me, too. What did Fiona do to upset you?”

“She hinted that Maggie might have been…”

“What?”

“Having an affair.” He paused and wiped a tear away. “I don’t believe that, but I can’t let it go.” Denny looked into Cindy’s eyes. “You two were close…like sisters, Maggie said. You’d know.”

“I can’t help you, Denny.”

“Can’t or won’t?”

Cindy shook her head. “I won’t. I knew Maggie, and she wouldn’t want me to discuss things held private between us.”

“This isn’t right, Cindy. I’m only going to think the worst.”

Cindy tightened her jaw. “I’m not responsible for what you think.”

Denny reddened and shouted, “Who was it, damn it?”

The room went silent as patrons stopped and stared.

Cindy stood, but Denny grabbed her arm and pulled her back into the chair. “You’re not going anywhere until I get the truth.”

A tall, gangly barista came to the table. He stared at Denny. “Let her go.”

“Listen, slim, this is none of your fucking business.”

“I’m making it my business.”

Cindy trembled. “What’s the matter with you, Denny? You haven’t changed a bit. I’m leaving.”

When Cindy started for the door, Denny rose.

The Barista blocked Denny from following and grabbed his shirt. “Hold on a minute, partner, you’re not going anywhere.”

“I won’t forget you, slim.”

The Barista smiled. “If you’re smart, you’ll know enough to keep away from me. If not…” He shook his head sadly, “It’s your funeral.”

Chapter Fifty-Five

When Cindy got back home, she called Fiona and asked her to come over.

“What is it?

“See you in a bit.”

As soon as Fiona entered, Cindy was on her. “I have you to thank for siccing Denny on me. I met him in public, but even that didn’t stop him from trying to intimidate me. He grabbed my arm just to prove my vulnerability. I don’t know what he would have done in private. It’s a good thing that a Starbuck’s barista intervened.”

“I’m sorry, Cindy. Part of my job is to push peoples’ buttons and see what happens.”

“That’s great. Push buttons and walk away. Pretty reckless, if you ask me, especially when someone else pays the price.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know. I’m new at this business.”

Cindy nodded. “Well, you were remarkably successful with Denny. I can’t believe that you told him that Maggie was having an affair. That was totally irresponsible.”

“I never told him that she had an affair. I only intimated that women in Maggie’s situation sometimes took solace in the arms of another.”

“A distinction without a difference, Fiona.”

Fiona shrugged her shoulders.

“Denny’s not going to quit. I know him.”

Fiona leaned forward. “So Maggie did have an affair.”

Cindy studied her feet.

“Cindy?”

“Can I trust you to keep this totally off the record?”

“Of course, but if you tell me, off the record that Jack is planning to kill Jill, I’m going to inform Jill and the authorities. Other than that, I will maintain my credibility and protect my sources. Without that, I’m dead as an investigative reporter.”

“But you can’t publish, right?”

“Yes, but my editor will need to know. He has the Chronicle to protect. Understand this, Cindy, while I can’t publish, I can use the information to further my investigation.”

Cindy stared at Fiona. She waited for a long moment. “I can’t do this. It feels wrong…like I’m betraying Maggie.”

Fiona remained silent and waited.

“Maggie had an affair with Father Ware, but it had been over for months.”

“Who ended it?”

“Maggie did. For the sake of the children, she wanted to give Denny another chance. Father was angry and depressed, but she said that overall, he took it well. He kept querying Maggie to be sure that nobody else knew. He had much at stake personally and with his position in the church, and he didn’t want to compromise either of their lives.”

“How long did their affair last?”

“Four or five months.”

“Was he in love with Maggie?”

“Yes, Maggie was sure he was.”

“And he just let her go without a fight?”

Cindy stood and paced the room. “Not exactly.”

“How then?”

“They saw each other in church. She headed R.I.C.A., The Rite of Christian Initiation for Adults. They met often on church business, and he made it clear that he was still interested. He was so persistent that she had no choice but to hint that if he continued, she might reveal their affair.” Cindy paused. “I don’t think Cindy would ever do that. She cared for Father and was grateful for his help and guidance.”

“How did he take that?”

“Cindy said that he became silent and walked away.”

Fiona shook her head, then paled. “You don’t think that he could…”

“No. I can’t believe that for a moment. Father’s a good man. He’s a priest, called by God to offer the Sacrifice of the Mass.”

Later that afternoon, Fiona sat before Sam Curry’s desk. The Chronicle’s editor shook his head as Fiona paraphrased Cindy’s story.

“I can’t believe it. I know the man. We play poker together.” Sam stood and paced his office. “You don’t think he’s capable…”

“I don’t know what to believe. The DA’s certain that Ware, like the others, had been drugged with scopolamine. I don’t know what that means. Could he have had aggressive tendencies toward Maggie? Could the drug have lowered his inhibitions?”

Sam stared at Fiona. “Or could he…”

“What?”

Sam shook his head. “I want you on this, full-time, Fiona. Don’t talk with anyone until you clear it with me.”

Chapter Fifty-Six

St. Eugenia’s Church was silent at 2:00 p.m. when Fiona knocked on Father Ware’s door. After a moment with no response, she knocked again and the door swung open.

Father Ware smiled paternally. “My, Fiona, you’re an impatient soul. Come in.”

“Thank you, Father.”

Ware sat behind his ornate desk. “I’m only seeing you because Sam Curry asked me to. He’s an old friend and an easy mark at poker.”

“He said the same thing about you, Father.”

“I think that Sam has a new item for the confessional. Now what can I do for you, child?”

“First, tell me why I needed to go through Sam to get you to see me?”

“Please, Fiona, don’t start this interview on adversarial grounds. This is an interview, isn’t it?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Not an interrogation?”

“Father. I just have a few questions.”

“Yes, you seem to have an inordinate interest in me and my activities.”

Fiona smiled. “You mean your affairs, don’t you Father?”

Ware smiled. “You think you know something, Fiona. Not surprising as you’ve been visiting everyone related to my case, you know the case against me that the court dismissed with prejudice. Let’s see. You’ve visited Maggie’s parents, Father McLean, Cindy Green and of course, Denny Hayes. Have I missed anybody?”

“Yes. The DA, Al Russo, and Michael Rose, the forensic psychiatrist. Michael, in particular, had interesting things to say about the perpetrator of the scopolamine poisonings.”

“You’re thorough and persistent. That should serve you well in your work, but not so much socially, I expect.”

Fiona ran her fingers through her dark auburn hair, then stared at Ware. “Tell me, Father, how long had you been having an affair with Maggie Hayes?”

“You recall Exodus 20:16: You shall not bear false witness against your neighbor.”

“So, they’re lying?”

“‘They’re’ is an interesting pronoun, Fiona and the question is a preposterous one to pose to a priest. Next question.”

“So, you refuse to answer my question. You won’t confirm or deny that you were seeing Maggie Hayes.”

Ware stared at the ceiling for a long moment, then smiled.

“I don’t see the humor, Father.”

“Neither do I. Some reporters, present company excepted, will do, or say anything to get the story. They’re not interested in the truth or the peoples’ right to know.”

“I’m waiting for a substantive answer, Father.”

“You’re an intelligent woman, Fiona, but you presupposed facts by the question itself. In my seminary days, we called that a ‘loaded question’, an entrapment because it narrows me to a single answer. Next question.”

“So you simply refuse to answer.”

“If you have nothing else, I have important things to do.”

Fiona shook her head in disgust. “Your response, Father demeans us both.”

“You’ll get over it, Fiona.”

“How about a simple yes or no answer, Father. Did you have an affair with Maggie Hayes?”

“Maggie and I had an intimate relationship…”

“So you finally admit it.”

Ware crimsoned. “If you let me finish…”

Fiona nodded.

“Intimate, but not prurient; I hope you know the difference. I was her priest. She was my parishioner. I counseled her. That’s all I have to say.”

“This is not going away, Father.”

“But you are Fiona. Goodnight.”

Chapter Fifty-Seven

Charlie Connor’s secretary, Helen came into Al’s office carrying a manila envelope. “This came for you.”

“Who is it from?”

“Sorry, no return address.” She smiled. “I held it to my ear…no ticking.”

“Anthrax doesn’t tick, Helen. Mail threats are no joking matter.”

Helen paled. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. I’m just in a shitty mood.”

Al studied the envelope, then reached into his desk and pulled out his portable fingerprint kit. He dusted the envelope and found smeared prints made by a gloved hand. He cut it open and used tweezers to pull out a single page with shiny magazine cut out letters. He dusted this, too, but again found only gloved prints.

He read: The time is now and the evils of the Catholic Church have gone too far. Sexual abuse of children, stealing money from the poor, prejudice against gays and lesbians, and opposition to live-saving stem cell research. If that wasn’t enough, now we have murder. Yes, Father Ware pulled the trigger, but someone else is responsible. Talk to McLean. Check him out. Check out his relationship with Ware and you may find something that will surprise you.

“Al carried the letter into Charlie’s office and handed it to him. “This just came.”

The DA read the letter and frowned. “I don’t get this. What do you think?”

“I don’t know. Let’s run it by Michael and Karen.”

Later that afternoon, Michael and Karen joined the DA and his chief investigator. Michael read the letter and passed it on to Karen. She read it and put it back on Charlie’s desk.

“Where did you get this?” Michael asked.

“It just arrived,” Al said. “No prints. No indication where it came from except for the San Francisco postmark.”

Charlie stared at Michael. “What do you think?”

“Except for the reference to Father McLean, it sounds like much of the hate mail the church has been receiving for years.”

“If this came at any other time,” Charlie said, “I’d put it with the others and forget about it. With all that’s happened and all we still don’t understand, I’m not about to do that now.”

Al looked at his boss. “We never really interrogated McLean, nor have we investigated him.” He paused. “I think it’s time.”

“You can talk with him, but I don’t see justification for a search warrant or more in depth inquiry.” He turned to Michael and Karen. “You’ve met McLean. What’s he like?”

Karen watched Michael nod. “He’s a dedicated and selfless rather bland personality, a puppy dog groveling at the feet of his master, Father Ware.”

“It was embarrassing,” Michael said, “to watch him bend to kiss Ware’s hand and relax in supplication as if Ware said ‘good dog.’”

Al looked at Michael. “Are you sure that this behavior is so unusual in the priestly hierarchy?”

“I don’t think so, but it’s disheartening to watch such behavior from a mature man.”

Charlie picked up the letter. “What do you make of the ‘check out the relationship’ comment?”

“It suggests homosexuality,” Michael said.

Al shook his head. “He wouldn’t be the first priest…”

Later that afternoon, Al was at St. Eugenia’s Church. As he walked toward the offices, Father McLean came down the corridor with an armful of books.

“A little light reading, Father?”

McLean smiled. “Just a little prep for tomorrow’s sermon.” He paused and looked at the three. “Father Ware isn’t in. Can I give him a message?”

Al fixed McLean in his gaze. “I’m here for you, Father.”

“For me? What about?”

“Can we go somewhere private, perhaps your office?”

“Of course. Follow me.”

When they entered McLean’s small office, he directed them to a corner table.

“Now, how can I help you? I’ve told the police every detail of the shooting.”

Al leaned forward. “We want to understand Father Ware a little better. You do know him well, don’t you?”

“You’re the DA’s investigator, aren’t you, Mr. Russo?”

“Yes.”

“I thought that after the DA dismissed the charges against Father, his business with the DA was over. What’s going on?”

Al smiled. “You’re right, of course, but we’re still trying to understand how and why innocent people were poisoned with scopolamine. Think of the tragic consequences. I’m sure, Father that you’d like to help us.”

“Yes, but I don’t see how I can, and Father was a victim, too. My God, look what it did to him.”

Al opened his briefcase and pulled out a folder, opened it and placed a close-up photo of Maggie Hayes lying dead with a bullet hole in her head. “Who’s the greater victim, Maggie or Father Ware?”

McLean stared at the close-up police crime scene photograph, gasped, tugged at his collar, and turned away in horror. “Lord Jesus! Why do you show me that?”

“So you remember what this is all about,” Al said. “And, Father, you still haven’t answered my question.”

“Well, of course, it’s Maggie and her family.”

“The scopolamine poisonings are the work of a very sick individual, probably a psychopath.”

“Okay,” McLean said. “I’ll do anything I can to help.”

“Tell me about your relationship with Father Ware.”

“After ordination, it’s common for a young priest to work under someone more experienced. I was fortunate enough to find Father Ware. He’s the finest priest…the finest man I’ve ever known.”

Al shifted in his chair. “We’ve heard rumors that there’s more to your relationship with Ware.”

McLean paled. “Where did that come from? Remember Proverbs 18:8: The words of a gossip are like choice morsels; they go down to a man’s inmost parts.”

“Just like you, Father, we seek the truth,” Al said.

McLean shook his head. “You can’t be listening to such unfounded gossip.” He paused. “How does such malicious information support your investigation?”

The DA’s office is under tremendous pressure to solve these poisonings and bring the perpetrator to justice.”

“Not all priests are pedophiles or homosexuals,” McLean said.

“But the church has had more than its fair share of problems in that arena.” Al faced McLean. “Does Father Ware confide in you?”

“We’re friends, and I hear his confession.”

“Of course we respect the confessional’s confidentiality, but do you have any reason to believe that Father had any hostility toward Maggie Hayes?”

“I think I’ve told you as much as I can. Anything else?”

Al stood. “We’d like your permission to search your office and your quarters.”

McLean’s eyes widened. “I don’t get it. Why would you want to search my office and my rooms?”

“I’ll tell you, up front that we cannot get the court’s permission for such a search, but we think it might be helpful.”

“Have you searched Father Ware’s office?”

“Yes.”

“And what did you find?”

“May we have your permission, Father?” Al asked.

“If it will help, then yes. Search away.”

Al stepped out of McLean’s office and returned with a four-man search team. “Two will start in your office and two in your quarters. Perhaps we can wait in the lounge until they’re through.”

Thirty minutes later, an officer entered the lounge carrying two plastic bags and placed them on the table before Al. One contained a vial labeled, scopolamine, and a syringe, the other a collection of chocolate candies.”

McLean stood and stared at the table. “I’ve never seen these before…it’s…”

Al turned McLean around and placed him in handcuffs. “Father McLean, you’re under arrest for attempted murder. You have the right to remain silent…”

The next morning, Michael and Karen were sitting in Bruno’s office when his secretary entered. “I have Detective Russo on line two.”

Bruno picked up the phone. “Al, it’s great to hear from you. I hope it’s good news this time.” He listened for several minutes and smiled. “Thanks, Al. I appreciate the courtesy.”

Bruno turned to Michael and Karen. “You won’t believe it, but they just arrested Father McLean for the scopolamine poisonings. They caught him red handed.”

Karen shook her head. “You’re right, Bruno. I don’t believe it.”

“Take it up with the DA and his investigator. They found scopolamine, and scopolamine laced chocolate candies in McLean’s possession. From my perspective in defending Father Ware, we’re home free.”

Michael shook his head. “I appreciate your zeal, Bruno, but don’t you have some obligation to the truth?”

“Sure. As long as it helps my client. McLean’s arrest can only assist me in any charges the DA tries to pursue. It’s a hell of a lot easier to defend someone when there’s another viable suspect. McLean’s perfect for that.”

“We know him,” Michael said. “He’s just as likely to be guilty of the poisonings as Karen,” he smiled, “unless you cross her.”

Karen smirked. “It’s not funny, Michael. McLean’s an innocent and the perfect patsy.”

“Be that as it may,” Bruno said, “none of this is my doing, but I might as well take advantage of it.”

Karen crossed her arms. “So you’ll stand up in court and point the finger at McLean?”

“I don’t have to point a finger at anyone. All I need to do is call Al Russo to the stand and have him describe his findings and Father McLean’s arrest.”

“Even though you know this arrest is bullshit,” Michael said.

“I don’t know anything such thing, and neither do you. I do my job. The DA and his minions do theirs.” Bruno paused for a moment. “Michael, let me paraphrase you when we first got together on these cases. You said to me that I knew what I was getting when I hired you. I hope my clients can say the same thing about me.”

Karen grasped Michael’s hand. “We don’t like this, Bruno.”

“You two live in a fantasy world. Maybe that works in your idealism, and maybe that’s good for your practice, but in my world, even innocent clients can go to jail or worse. My job is to see that it doesn’t happen…and, I’m good at my job.”

Fiona reached for the phone as it awakened her that same morning. “Who…”

“It’s Al. I have news for you.”

“Shoot.”

“We arrested Father McLean in the scopolamine poisonings.”

“You must be nuts. Father McLean’s incapable of such a thing.”

“We have him cold,” Al said.

“What are you talking about?”

“We found the scopolamine, the syringe, and the candies he injected with the poison.”

“I don’t care what you found, Al. You’re making a big mistake.”

“I don’t think so, Fiona.”

“Can I meet with you, the DA, Michael, and Karen this afternoon? I have something you need to hear.”

“Don’t jerk me around, Fiona. What is it?”

“I’ll be in a little after two.”

Chapter Fifty-Eight

Charlie Connor rotated on his desk chair to face Al Russo. “What’s this meeting all about?”

“I’m not sure, but Fiona Murphy was upset with McLean’s arrest. She says we have it wrong. She wants to meet with us, including Michael Rose and Karen Scott.”

“It’s about the scopolamine poisonings, isn’t it?”

“Yes, but she hinted at more.”

“I thought my worst nightmare was over with McLean’s arrest.”

Michael and Karen knocked, entered, and took their seats across from Charlie’s desk.

Michael smiled. “You certainly have our interest, Al. What’s this about?”

“I don’t know. Fiona asked for the meeting and invited you two to join us.” Al checked his watch. “She should be here soon.”

Fiona poked her head through the door. Her usual warm smile was absent. “Well, I see we’re all present and accounted for.”

Charlie pointed to a chair. “Save the dramatics, Fiona. I don’t have all day.”

“First of all, you’re plain nuts if you think that Father McLean had anything to do with the scopolamine poisonings.”

“Right,” Al said. “We should just ignore our evidence.”

Fiona pulled up a chair. “Will you at least listen?”

Charlie studied her. “We’re waiting, Fiona.”

“I have information about Father Ware. One is directly from an anonymous off-the-record source. The other is suspicion and supposition. I’m comfortable talking about the latter, but not the former.”

“What information?” Al asked.

Charlie pulled out a yellow legal pad and a mechanical pencil. “I’ll deal with the law, Fiona. You deal with journalistic ethics. I have great respect for the press, so I’m uncomfortable when ethics and the law clash.”

Fiona nodded, then turned to Michael and Karen. “What do you two think of Father Ware?”

“That’s too vague a question,” Karen said.

Michael shifted in his chair. “As a priest, as a man, as a psychological profile or as a killer?”

“All of the above,” Fiona said.

“Karen, give them your snapshot on Ware.”

Karen opened Ware’s folder. “These are the results of the MMPI-2-RF, the newest and most reliable we have in use.”

“How good are these tests and can a clever individual skew the results?” Charlie asked.

“While anything is possible, I’d say, in general, no. The test has 600 questions and validity measurements. Father scored high on his need for control, high on femininity and quite low on anxiety tendencies. On evasiveness and denial, he scored low.”

“What’s your conclusion?” Charlie asked.

Karen looked at Michael and continued, “This is a highly intelligent, and controlled man…I wish the test could measure a tendency toward psychopathy, but it can’t.”

“We have another test created by a Canadian criminologist, Robert Hare,” Michael said. He named it, the Psychopathy Check List Revised that would do the trick, but Ware would never agree. We had enough trouble getting him to do any psychological testing.”

Al looked at Karen. “Could any part of Ware’s test results reflect his current level of stress or reflect PTSD.”

“I don’t think so. In many ways, he’s too cool…too controlled.”

Charlie turned back to Fiona. “If this is about the killing of Maggie Hayes, you have an absolute obligation to tell us what you know…or even what you suspect. What agreement did you reach with your anonymous source?”

“I promised not to publish anything that the person said.”

Charlie leaned forward. “Anything else?”

“No, but I suspect that she thought I’d keep the information confidential.”

Al leaned over and touched Fiona’s arm. “You must tell us.”

“Even though Father can’t be tried again for what he did?”

Charlie shook his head. “Don’t play lawyer, Fiona. I won’t know if we can do anything until you tell me what you have.”

“Father Ware had an affair with Maggie Hayes.”

The room remained silent.

“My God,” Charlie said. He turned to Al. “The son-of-a-bitch did it again.”

“Again!” came as a chorus from Michael, Karen, and Fiona.

Fiona crimsoned. “What do you mean, again?”

Al paraphrased his discoveries from North Riverside, Illinois.

“Why am I not surprised?” Michael asked. “Ware’s a malignant narcissist. He doesn’t care who he hurts. That’s why he resisted testing.”

“That changes everything,” Charlie said. “It gives Ware a motive to kill Maggie. The jury sure as hell should have heard about that, but it’s too goddamn late now.”

“A priest, an affair, multiple affairs. I remember when such a thing would have been unthinkable,” Al said.

Michael looked at Karen as she nodded slowly. “No, it’s not.”

Charlie stared at Michael and Karen.

“Karen and I have discussed Ware at length. Karen felt uncomfortable with Ware from the outset.”

Karen crossed her arms. “His body language, stares, and conversation strongly suggested that he was being deliberately seductive…and that he enjoyed it.”

Charlie shook his head. “I always thought that it’s Father’s way…a charming, charismatic personality. He’s always been that way. It explains his success with the church, his community programs and with the parishioners.”

“Don’t Charlie,” Karen said. “A woman knows these things. It’s part of our survival instincts.”

Fiona stood and stared at Charlie. “There’s more. I met with Ware and confronted him about the affair.”

Charlie smiled. “You got balls, Fiona. How did he react?”

“He was calm, unflappable and stonewalled the question. He’s a cool one…icy.”

“How did you frame the question, Fiona,” Michael asked.

“I simply asked how long how long he had been having an affair with Maggie.”

Michael grimaced. “Ware’s too smart to deal with that loaded question. What was his response?”

“He refused to answer and then I went for the home run, and asked directly if he had an affair with Maggie Hayes.”

“His answer,” Charlie asked.

“No answer. He refused, citing confidentiality between priest and parishioner. Then he asked me to leave.”

“Bullshit,” Charlie said. “Outside the confessional, such confidentiality does not exist.”

“Ware has been too facile with all of us,” Karen said. “Michael is right; Ware fits the profile of a malignant narcissist, or maybe a psychopath, or he shares elements of both.”

Charlie turned to Al. “You’re awfully quiet. What do you make of this?”

“It doesn’t make any sense to me,” Al said. “Okay, let’s say he was having an affair with Maggie, and he shot her under scopolamine’s influence. Perhaps he feared exposure and its consequences. Maybe she threatened him. Michael, how would a psychopath respond to a threat?”

“The psychopath would evaluate the equation and make a logical decision in a heartbeat. The narcissist might respond with rage.”

“I still don’t get it,” Al said, “and how does it fit with the multiple scopolamine poisonings and with Father McLean?”

Michael turned to Al. “All those years as cop on the street and as an active DA investigator hasn’t left you cynical enough to recognize pure evil. Father Ware carefully plotted this whole thing from the start. He’s one cold son-of-a-bitch. He got rid of Maggie and poisoned all the others with scopolamine, first to throw us off and second, to guarantee himself an out for first-degree murder. What’s more, he’s depraved enough to implicate Father McLean, an innocent who, I’m guessing, has strong emotional ties…probably homosexual ties to Ware. It all makes sense now.”

“But, Ware was poisoned, too,” Al said.

“And what a great idea,” Charlie said. “He gave himself a potent scopolamine dose, leaving enough time to walk off the stage and put a hole through Maggie’s head. He must have known the drug and its pharmacological profile, its onset of action and its symptoms and signs. He probably planned out each step before he took the stage at St. Eugenia’s Church.”

“He fooled us all,” Karen said, “He deserves an academy award for acting. He’s an iceman, and he’s going to get away with it.”

“Not if I can help it,” Charlie said, and then he froze.

Al stared at his boss. “What’s wrong?”

“Ware played it to perfection. Of all we’ve come to know about the good Father, one’s eating away at my gut.” He paused and stared around the room. “If we’d known that he took scopolamine himself, the involuntary intoxication defense disappears, and a jury would have convicted Ware of at least manslaughter. Add his affair with Maggie, and we’ve got premeditated murder in the first degree.”

Al shook his head in disgust. “That’s great. He’s got McLean by the short hairs and us by the nuts.”

Karen laughed. “I love male metaphors.”

Michael faced Charlie and Al. “You two must find a way to link Ware to the scopolamine and find out exactly how he did it. If that means going back to square one, you’ve got to do it.”

“If we’re right about McLean,” Karen said, “it’s going to be interesting to see how he reacts when he realizes that Ware went to a lot of trouble to implicate him.”

“I can’t believe he doesn’t know,” Al said. “Maybe we can get him to wear a wire.”

“He may not know and may not want to know. Don’t forget that love is blind.”

“Love may be blind,” Michael said, “but it isn’t stupid. McLean may be naive, but he’s no fool.”

Chapter Fifty-Nine

The guard brought Father McLean in handcuffs and chains to the interrogation room at the San Mateo County Jail in Redwood City. He was unshaved and wore an orange prison jumpsuit. He shuffled into the room, staring at the floor. The guard sat him in the metal chair and attached the chain to a floor bolt. Charlie Connor, Michael Rose, and Karen Scott sat on the other side of the table. McLean was pale and expressionless.

Charlie extended his hand across the table. “How are you doing, Father?”

McLean looked up slowly and lifted his manacled wrists. “What do you think?”

“This must be terrible for you, Father,” Karen said. “My heart goes out to you.”

McLean shook his head in dismay. “Your heart goes out to a man responsible for scopolamine poisonings, and for death…I don’t get it.”

“That’s why we’re here, Father,” Charlie said. “We’re prepared to see beyond the obvious, especially if you’re willing to help us.”

“I don’t know what you want.”

Michael fixed McLean in his gaze. “You loyalty to Father Ware is both remarkable and disconcerting.”

“He’s my mentor and my friend.”

“He may be your mentor,” Charlie said, “but he’s no friend.”

Karen looked up from her open folder. “Tell us, Father why you chose to be so reckless as to poison Father Ware and all the others. Didn’t you understand the risks or perhaps, you just didn’t give a damn.”

“Believe what you want, but I had nothing to do with any of that…and, Father Ware, he’d be the last one I’d ever poison.”

“Then who did?” Charlie asked. “If the scopolamine and the poisoned candies we found in your room wasn’t yours, whose were they?”

McLean looked down at the table. “I don’t know.”

“That’s a load of shit,” Michael said, “and you know it.”

“I can’t talk about it.”

Charlie leaned forward and spoke in a calm reassuring voice. “We’re not asking you to violate the confessional, Father. Hell, we already know that Father Ware had an affair with Maggie Hayes. We also know about his sins as a priest in North Riverside, Illinois and why the Cardinal of Chicago transferred him to San Mateo.”

McLean’s eyes widened, and he sat up straight.

“Yes,” Charlie said. “I assume that his affair was the main topic of his confession. Did he tell about his affairs in Illinois, and that he impregnated a teenage girl who committed suicide? Did he admit that he planned the whole thing, the scopolamine and the cold-blooded murder of Maggie because she threatened to expose him? My God, man, you may refuse to protect yourself, but don’t you have an obligation as a priest…as a man to fight against such evil?”

McLean lowered his head to the table and wept.

Karen came over and caressed McLean’s shoulder. “We know that he was more to you than a friend…you love him.”

McLean’s shoulders shook, and his tears streamed down his cheeks.

Charlie straightened up in his chair. “We need your help, Father if we are to find justice for those who died and the others who will be forever damaged by Ware’s evil.”

“You must have suspected,” Michael said, “when we discovered the scopolamine and the candy in your room.”

“I didn’t believe it. I still have trouble believing it.”

“You must have sensed something wrong,” Karen said.

“Only at the end…and there’s more…”

“What?” Charlie asked.

“The clues were before me, but I didn’t or wouldn’t recognize them.”

“Things are always clear in retrospect,” Michael said. “Tell us.”

“I should have known when I began to feel jealous about Father Ware and Maggie’s relationship, the time they spent together and the way he looked at her. Now, I see him standing at the door at the end of mass and handing out candies. Do you really think he was choosing his victims?”

“Yes,” Charlie said, “that’s exactly what he was doing.”

“I even wondered why he made children change their selection saying, ‘the green ones, you’ll like them better.’”

Michael shook his head. “Perhaps even Ware has a limit to his evil.”

“Anything else?” Charlie asked.

“The receipts.”

“What receipts?”

“The receipts from the Internet Café,” McLean said. “I found several reflecting many hours online. I thought it was strange since he has his own computer, and all our computers have Internet access.”

“He was researching his plans,” Charlie said. “I hope you still have the receipts.”

McLean nodded. “Will they help?”

Charlie smiled. “I hope so. My computer people will recreate each search and its results. I’m guessing that we’ll find that he searched poisons and extracted information on scopolamine…not exactly a smoking gun, but good enough. We may not get him for Maggie’s murder, but I’m compiling a list of charges that will put away the good priest for a long time.”

“How long will that take?” McLean asked.

“A few days,” Al said.

Michael looked from Karen to Charlie and nodded.

Charlie turned back to McLean. “Do you really want to help us?”

“Of course. What else can I do?”

“We want you to meet with Father Ware.”

“What kind of meeting?”

“One where you’ll be wearing a wire.”

Chapter Sixty

Al reached for Father McLean’s shirt, closed the top button, and smoothed the front folds. “It’s perfect. Nobody will know you’re wearing a wire.”

“I’ll know.”

“You need to perfect the kind of willful ignorance that we see so often on reality shows where the participants forget that the camera and microphone are recording everything.”

“I don’t watch reality TV, Al.”

“The point is obvious. If your behavior changes in Ware’s presence, he’ll know, and we’ll be wasting our time.”

“I don’t know if I can do it.”

“Neither do I, but if you still want to help us, this is the only way.” Al paused. “Do you know where he’ll be this afternoon?”

“Probably in his office.”

“Do you normally check in with him when you arrive?”

“No.”

“Then don’t do it today. Wait for him to come to you.”

“Am I in danger?”

“No. Father Ware may be a psychopath, but he’s an intelligent one and won’t act without detailed preparation. We’ll be nearby and listening. We’ll come running if necessary.”

“Are you going to give me a code word in case I’m in trouble?”

Al smiled. “Code word? You’re watching too much crime TV drama, Father.” He thought for a moment. “How about ‘holy mackerel’?”

McLean laughed. “Good one, Al.”

“Stay relaxed.”

When McLean arrived at St. Eugenia’s, he stared at Ware’s door as he walked to his office. He entered, removed his coat, and sat at his desk. He tried to read and edit his next sermon, but was unable to concentrate. As footsteps echoed in the hallway or a door opened or closed, he felt his pulse race and his hands tremble.

I’d make one heck of a spy, he thought.

McLean must have nodded off because he jerked awake with the tap on his door. “Come in.”

Ware entered wearing a sweatshirt and jeans. “How are you, Father?”

McLean paused before answering. “How am I? I don’t know how I am. I don’t believe this is happening to me.”

“These are serious charges, Jimmy. How did you make bail?”

“Willard Duncan posted bail provided by the diocese, thank God. I can’t stand the thought of having to stay in that place. How did you do it, Father?”

“It’s Lenny, Jimmy, for God’s sake, after all this time, please call me Lenny.” He thought for a long moment. “I prayed, and God gave me the strength to endure.”

“I don’t have your strength, Fath…Lenny. I don’t know what to do.”

“I’m assuming that this is all a big mistake…that someone put that incriminating evidence in your room. I know you too well. You’re not capable of committing such crimes.”

McLean studied Ware’s face. “I never told them anything.”

“You don’t have anything to tell them, do you?”

“Of course not. I understand my obligations before God, but if they’d known, things could have turned out differently for you.”

“I’m sorry, Jimmy, but I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Okay, Lenny. I get it.”

“Get what?”

“Nothing. I’m sorry.”

“We must deal with your problems some day, Jimmy. Maybe when this is all behind us.”

“Deal with what?”

“Your appetites, your moral weaknesses, and God knows what else you’re into.”

McLean paled. “I stand before you, Father and before Him that I’ve done nothing wrong. You, more than anyone knows that I’m speaking the truth. I had nothing to do with those poisonings.”

“I’m afraid that I can’t help you, Jimmy.”

“As my friend, you must do something. After all, if they’d known about you and Maggie, the DA would have had motive for your actions. That could have made a big difference at trial.”

“I don’t understand what you’re trying to say.”

“About you and Maggie.”

Ware scanned the room and turned his gaze on McLean, studying him intensely. “I’m so very disappointed in you, Jimmy. Perhaps you’re a sicker man than I thought.”

McLean stared at Ware as if he was seeing him clearly for the first time. “I’ve made more than my fair share of mistakes. I trust too much. I love too much, and too often, I see only what I want to see.”

“Spare me.”

McLean stood. “I can’t and neither will He.”

Chapter Sixty-One

The next day at Charlie’s office, Al, Michael and Karen sat listening to the recorded conversation between McLean and Ware. Al pushed the stop button on the tape player. “That’s it. No smoking gun.”

Charlie shook his head. “No, nothing.” He turned to Michael. “Is Ware really that smart?”

“I’m sure he is. Without getting into too much detail about social Darwinism, psychopathic personalities thrive in our culture. They’re our most successful politicians, captains of industry and leaders of every kind. Some estimates have them at 1-2 percent of our population.”

“And about 40 percent of our prison population,” Charlie said.

Karen shook her head. “I don’t think we can count on Father Ware to make any mistakes. We need to nail him on our own.” She paused. “He must have left a trail.”

Al shook his head in disgust. “He did, and it pointed right at Father McLean.”

“Got to give the Devil his due,” Michael said, “but he’s not invulnerable. He’s made mistakes and ultimately, we’ll move beyond knowing that he’s guilty to proving it.”

Charlie pulled out his legal pad and checked his notes. “We can’t touch Ware on anything to do with Maggie Hayes’s death, so we focus on the scopolamine poisonings. If we can tie him to them, I’ll put his ass away for a long time.”

Al stood. “We know he researched the drug so let’s prove that he bought it and show how he delivered it to his victims.”

Charlie shook his head. “We think Ware did the Internet search, but McLean had the receipt, and so far, nobody’s placed Ware at the computer.”

That afternoon, Al looked up as Fiona tapped lightly on his door, entered and sat before his desk.

“Come on in, Fiona, and take a seat.”

She smiled. “Already did.”

“Don’t beat me up on Father McLean. We understand he didn’t poison anyone, but Ware was smart and devious enough to lay his guilt off on his assistant and friend.”

“Friend?”

“Let’s not get into that, Fiona. What can I do for you?”

“I’m writing a series on Maggie’s death and the scopolamine poisonings.”

“Go with God, my child.”

“Very funny, Al. I understand most of it, but I need you to fill in the rest.”

“I can’t tell you anything, and if you plan to incriminate Ware in murder or in the scopolamine poisonings, I’m guessing that Sam Curry isn’t going to let that happen. His editorial ass and the Chronicle’s coffers are on the line.”

“I can go with Ware’s affair with Maggie and let the public draw its own conclusions.”

“Yes, and if you do, Ware’s going to disappear. The diocese will transfer him, or he’ll just skip town. We’ll never find him. Is that what you want?”

“I can’t sit back and do nothing.”

“Help me with the investigation. We place him with the scopolamine and figure out how he administered it, then we’re home free.”

“Maybe I should talk with Cindy and Denny again.”

Fiona knocked on Cindy’s apartment door and waited. She was about to turn away when the lock clicked, and the door opened.

“Fiona. I didn’t know that I’d have the pleasure of seeing you again so soon.”

“It’s my charm. Most can’t resist it.”

“Come on in. I’ll brew tea.”

Fiona sat at the table while Cindy scurried about the kitchen. “How are you feeling?”

“I’m okay, but I’ll be better when this whole thing is off the front pages. I can’t believe they arrested Father McLean. The man’s a pussycat. He wouldn’t poison a rat.”

“I see and so does the DA.”

“They why?”

Fiona stirred her tea. “They had no choice. Ware set him up. He planted the scopolamine in McLean’s apartment.”

Cindy’s eyes widened. “Wait a Goddamn minute! You’re telling me that Ware is responsible for the whole thing, killing Maggie and poisoning all the others?”

“Yes, and we can’t touch him for the murder…double jeopardy, you know.”

Cindy took a sip. “He’ll find justice when he faces the Lord.”

“We can’t wait that long.”

“What can I do?”

“I don’t know,” Fiona said. “We’re reaching at straws, and I’m sure you know nothing about the poisonings.”

“What I know, I got from Maggie. At the start of their affair, he was sweetness and light. Near the end, it was threats and manipulation. She thought he’d do anything to get his way.”

“She was right, wasn’t she?”

“Maggie wasn’t a cynic. She always believed in people’s essential goodness.”

“Do you think that Denny might help?”

“He knows Ware, but I can’t see how he can assist the DA’s case.” She paused for a long moment. “Whatever you do, don’t meet him alone. Make it public or bring a bodyguard.”

Denny picked up the ringing phone. “Oh, Fiona. It’s you again. What’s the matter? You run out of places to haunt?”

“Is that the Denny Hayes charm the girls are talking about?”

“What girls…I ain’t got no girls.”

“That’s a joke, Denny.”

“Some joke. What can I do for you, Fiona?”

“Meet me at Starbucks down the street.”

“You spoke with that bitch, Cindy Green?”

“As a matter of fact…”

“I’ll be there in ten minutes, but this better be good.”

When Fiona arrived, Denny was sitting under an umbrella outside Starbucks with two Cappuccinos. “No room inside, Fiona. This is better, anyway and more private.”

Fiona took a sip. “You heard about Father McLean’s arrest?”

“What a load of shit that was.”

“The DA knows about Ware’s affair with Maggie. That changes everything, but it’s too late. Moreover, he wants Ware for the scopolamine poisonings. He set up McLean to take the fall.”

Denny’s eyes widened. “Everyone knew about what affair with Maggie?”

“Denny—” she paused. “Nobody knew except for Cindy.”

“That fucking bastard. I trusted him. I trusted her and they betrayed me. I was a fool. A first class fool, a joke.”

Fiona touched his arm. “Maggie made a mistake, but in the end, she came back to you.”

Denny sat in silence for a long moment. “Wait a Goddamn minute. Ware planned this whole thing, start to finish, the scopolamine poisonings, Maggie’s murder, and his clever ruse to escape justice. I trusted him. He was a friend, a priest…God’s messenger. I’ve always known evil as an abstraction, but now I see it in its purest form.”

“The DA wants to get Ware on Maggie’s death, but he can’t touch him.”

“Don’t tell me. I was there every day in court. I wish now that I had a gun to shoot that son-of-a-bitch. It’s what he deserves.”

“Don’t even think of it. Your kids can’t lose you, too.”

“What can I do?”

“Nothing. Leave it to the DA. They’re very resourceful.”

“Like hell I will.”

“Don’t do anything rash, Denny.”

“Whatever I do will be duly considered. Smart moves in this world produce the biggest payoffs.”

Denny drove to St. Eugenia and parked. He walked to Father McLean’s door and rapped on it.

“Come in.”

McLean was sitting behind his desk. “Denny, I’m so glad to see you. I’ve wanted to talk with you.”

Denny pointed his finger at McLean. “You knew…you knew about Ware and Maggie. How long?”

“I didn’t know until recently, and once I knew, I couldn’t do or say anything and by that time, it was too late.”

“You heard Ware’s confession?”

“I can’t talk about that.”

“You’re so full of shit…you’re just like him…maybe worse.”

“I’m nothing like him.”

“Yet you gave him absolution. So much evil, and he walks away from the court and God’s justice.”

“No man escapes His wrath.”

“And what about you? Will you escape His wrath?”

McLean bent over with his hands over his face and wept. “He betrayed me, too. I trusted him. He was my mentor, my friend…I loved him.”

“Loved him?”

“You’ll never understand.”

“Why did they place you under arrest?”

“Father placed the scopolamine and the poisoned chocolate candies in my room. How could he do that to a man who worshiped him?”

“I’d like to feel sorry for you, but I can’t. Nobody could be that stupid, that naive. God may forgive you, but I can’t.”

“We’ll all face His judgment some day.”

“Ware won’t need to wait for the afterlife to receive justice…I promise.”

Chapter Sixty-Two

The church secretary knocked softly on Father Ware’s office at 4:15 p.m.

“Yes. Come in.”

“Father. I have Mr. Willard Duncan on the line. He says it’s urgent.”

“Thank you,” Ware said as he waited for her to leave. “Yes, Willard, it’s Lenny. Just don’t tell me that you have bad news. I’m not up for it.”

“Listen, Father. I just barely talked the DA out of immediately placing you under arrest. They finally agreed that I could surrender you to the San Mateo police in the morning.”

“What are you talking about? Arrest me for what?”

“For the scopolamine poisonings and for manslaughter in the deaths of the Simons, Marsha Craig, Alan Krupp and for the attempted murder of several others.”

“This is ridiculous. This is payback for having to dismiss the charges against me in Maggie’s death. They don’t have a thing.”

“I hope you’re right, but let’s not get cocky. Charlie went ballistic when he discovered, too late that you were having an affair with Maggie Hayes. If they’d had that information at your trial, you’d be rotting in jail now. They can’t touch you on Maggie, so they’re going after the scopolamine poisonings and its horrendous effects.”

“What about McLean…they have him cold, don’t they?”

“You should have picked a more likely candidate, Father. Nobody believes that McLean’s capable of harming anyone.” He paused. “Charlie didn’t give it all to me, but I surmise that they believe you had the motive, means and opportunity to commit these crimes. We won’t comprehend all until they give us access to their case through discovery.”

“I could go to jail.”

“For a long while.” Willard paused again. “And if you do, the diocese will be vulnerable to an array of civil suits. It could cost us a small fortune. The archbishop and his advisors know it, and they want these cases and lawsuits to go away. Truthfully, Father, I can’t blame them. More public exposure is the last thing they need.”

“What should I do?”

“Arrange to have someone cover the church. I’ll pick you up tomorrow morning at 9:00.”

“I can’t believe this, Willard.”

“Believe it. See you at nine. Pack a toothbrush.”

Ware slowly placed the phone back in its cradle with a trembling hand. His pulse raced, and he felt beads of perspiration blossom on his upper lip and forehead. He stood and paced the office like a caged animal.

After twenty minutes, he stopped, stared at the door, and walked into the chapel where he knelt before the cross and prayed. “O Lord, Jesus Christ, Redeemer and Savior, forgive my sins, just as You forgave those who crucified You. I long to be true to Your word, and pray that You will love me and come to make Your dwelling place within me. I promise to give You praise and glory in love and in service, all the days of my life. Amen.”

Ware crossed himself, walked back to his office where he pulled away the Pope’s photo to reveal the church safe. He opened it and removed two envelopes filled with cash, then walked to his apartment where he packed his clothes in a black bag with the cash. In the parking lot, he paused, looked back at St. Eugenia’s Church shook his head, then opened his car door and drove away. As he headed toward highway 101, he didn’t notice the Toyota Highlander that followed.

Chapter Sixty-Three

Denny Hayes sat up straight as he watched Ware place the black bag in his car’s trunk and leave the church parking lot heading west. He remained four car lengths behind as they pulled onto the 101 Freeway heading south.

“Ah, Father…Father,” he said to himself, “what are you doing?”

Denny tailed Ware south past San Jose and all the way to Salinas. When Ware exited 101, Denny followed him to a Motel 6 where Ware checked in and went to his room. When the lights went on, Denny parked next to Ware’s car.

Denny grabbed his black backpack, moved to the door and knocked.

“Who is it?” Ware asked.

“It’s the night clerk. You forgot your bill.”

When Ware opened the door, Denny pushed the priest back, holding a Heckler and Koch semi-automatic pistol to his head and shoved the door closed with his foot.

Father Ware’s eyes widened. “Denny. What…how…what in God’s name are you doing here?”

“Don’t cite God to me, you bastard. The better question, Father is what are you doing here?”

“I’m just…I mean, I…”

Denny pointed to the corner chair. “Take a seat.”

Denny grabbed Ware’s black bag, opened it, and emptied it on the bed. The clothes and the cash spilled out. “Taking a trip are you? Maybe you have a good reason for leaving town.” He grabbed his phone, pressed several times, and handed it to Ware. “Press send.”

Ware stared wide-eyed at Denny.

“Push send, damn it.”

Ware listened, and with a trembling voice spoke into the phone. “Dr. Rose. It’s Father Ware. I’m here with Denny. He’s crazy and wants you here ASAP.”

“Denny? What are you talking about?”

“He’s holding a gun on me as we talk. Just listen.”

After Ware gave Michael directions, he said, “and come alone.

Ware put down the phone. He then sat on the edge of the bed with his head down.

Denny sat in an easy chair by the window. He studied the floor for a moment and then looked repeatedly at his watch.

Fifty minutes later, there was a knock on the door. Denny opened it, stared at Michael, and then eyed the parking lot. Denny pulled Michael into the room.

Michael scanned the room. Ware was on the bed face down.

When Michael turned back, Denny was gesturing with the pistol to the chair by the door.

Michael sat. “Denny. What’s going on?”

“Thanks for coming, Doc.” Denny pulled a hundred hundred-dollar bill from his pocket and handed it to Michael.”

“What in hell…”

“It’s your retained. Put it in your pocket, Doc.

Ware turned from the bed. “He’s crazy. Make him stop.”

Denny looked into Ware’s eyes. “How could you?”

Ware managed a weak smile. “How could I what?”

“Please, Father…my God, I’m still calling you Father…”

Ware shook his head. “St. Paul was a celibate. He wrote of his spiritual fatherhood: ‘and I became your father in Christ Jesus through the gospel.’”

“You’re unbelievable…even now citing the Gospel. You make me sick.”

“All things are possible through Him. I’ll repent…in fact, I already repented and asked His forgiveness.”

When Michael started to stand, Denny swung the pistol towards him. “Just stay put, Doc. I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Denny, do you understand what you’re doing?” Michael asked.

“I know exactly what I’m doing. I’m going to deliver justice.”

Michael looked up into Denny’s eyes. “Can we talk for a moment?”

“I’m talked out, Doc.”

“I’m on your side, Denny. Let me help.”

Denny pointed the gun at Ware. “He got away with it once. I’ll make sure that it won’t happen again.”

“He’s going to jail for a long time. The DA has him cold on the scopolamine poisonings and all the misery that followed. All those innocents dead. That’s enough. No more.”

“I’m not taking chances with this son-of-a-bitch.”

Denny reached into his backpack, pulled out a plastic bag with multicolored wrapped chocolates, and placed it on the bedside table. He unzipped the bag. “I found these, Father. Don’t they look familiar? Have one.”

Ware studied to bowl and leaned back, smiling. “No thank you. I’m on a diet.”

Denny stood and slapped Ware across the face.

“You think that’s funny?”

Denny raised the pistol. “I must insist.”

“Stop this, Denny,” Michael said. “Stop it now.”

Denny turned to Michael, shook his head, and then returned his attention to Ware.

Ware’s smile disappeared. “Forget it, Denny. I don’t have any idea what you think you know, but trust me, you’re mistaken.”

“Tell me, Lenny, what did it take to pull a gun and put a bullet through Maggie’s head?”

“I don’t know who’s been filling your head with stories. None of them knows you, even poor Maggie, or me. When they told me what I did, I couldn’t believe it. It just wasn’t possible that I was capable of murder.”

Denny shifted the pistol to his right hand and swung it forcefully across Ware’s left cheek leaving a large bloody gash. Blood ran down his cheek, then dripped on the bedcover. Ware lunged forward, grabbing Denny’s right arm, twisting his wrist and trying to dislodge the pistol. Denny roared and delivered a left hook to Ware’s jaw, dropping him to the floor.

“Without your gun, Lenny, you’re nothing but a pathetic sicko.”

Ware held his cheek with a handkerchief and looked into the mirror. Blood oozed between his fingers and dripped to the floor. “You’re not going to get away with this.”

“Get away with what, Lenny?”

Ware shook his head in dismay. “What do you want?”

“You’re going to tell Doc and me, start to finish, what you did, and how you did it.”

“I don’t think so.”

Denny raised the pistol to strike Ware’s other cheek.

Ware cringed. “Okay…okay…no more.”

Denny threw Ware a towel for his bleeding cheek and then leaned back in his chair toying with his pistol.

“I’ll tell you, but this is coercion. You can’t use it in court.”

“If you don’t tell us, you won’t need to worry about court.”

“She was going to destroy me and everything I worked my whole life for.”

“By she, you mean, Maggie.”

Ware nodded. “I pleaded for her to stop, not to say anything, but she wouldn’t listen. You should have seen the way she looked at me, especially after what we’d meant to each other. What else could I have done?”

Denny tightened his grip on the pistol.

“Don’t Denny,” Michael said. “He’s not worth it. Remember with Maggie gone, your children need you. Don’t make life worse for them.”

“Relax and listen, Doc.”

Ware continued, “I searched the Internet and came up with scopolamine primarily because it made people unable to remember anything, especially about how they’d been poisoned. I wasn’t sure of its side effects, and I didn’t expect anyone but me to commit a violent act.”

“What a load of shit,” Denny said.

“Believe what you want. I gave it out as chocolate candy after mass…just a few. I was careful about who’d get the scopolamine, and I made sure that no children would get the tainted candy.”

“So how did you manage to poison Jennifer Davis and Mickey Kramer?”

“An accident of fate. I think it was Jennifer’s boyfriend. He’s a member of our congregation, and so was Mickey’s wife.”

“What about the Berkeley students?”

“A short trip across the San Francisco Bay Bridge.”

“You didn’t give a shit about who you harmed.”

Michael stood again, but Denny pushed him back. “One student went into a rage, and the police had no choice. He’s dead.”

Denny approached Ware. “You just don’t give a shit, do you?”

Ware smirked. “I’m sure by now that you, Dr. Rose and the DA know that I’m incapable of such feelings.”

“You’re a splendid representative of God, Father,” Denny said.

Ware held the blood-soaked towel against his cheek. “What’s this all about, Denny. You can’t get to me. You can’t prove a thing, and they can’t touch me in the death of your lovely wife.” He paused. “I really hated to kill her that way.”

The pistol shook in Denny’s hand. “Do you still believe in heaven and hell, Lenny? Will you pay for your evil in the afterlife?”

“I don’t fuss over things I can’t control. For the moment, I’m at peace.”

“Save your breath, Denny,” Michael said. “The man’s a psychopath. He’s unmoved by anything that touches the human soul.”

Denny reached over and picked up a candy. He smiled at Ware as he unwrapped it.

“I’m not taking it, Denny. You’re wasting your time.”

“Ah, but it’s my time to waste.”

Denny offered the candy to Ware who shook his head, no and leaned away.

“You’ll never get away with this. Dr. Rose is my witness.”

“A witness bound by patient-physician confidentiality, right Doc?”

“Death is too easy for the good Father,” Michael said, “especially when you and your children will pay the price.”

“So, it’s the consequences that disturb you and not the act.” Denny paused. “So if you caught him raping Karen, you’d just turn him in?”

“If I had a gun, I’d have blown his head off, but we don’t want a world ruled by the moment’s passion.”

“A little passion goes a long way, Doc. Passion may be the last legitimate emotion remaining in this heartless world.”

Denny smiled and then tossed the candy into his mouth.

Ware gasped. “What are you doing…are you crazy.”

“Just crazy enough.”

Denny put the muzzle against Ware’s forehead. “By the time the police arrive, I’ll have suffered the full effects of scopolamine. Thanks to you, Lenny, I’m just another victim of scopolamine poisoning. I’m already beginning to forget. Thanks to your clever ploy, they’ll never convict me.”

Denny turned to Michael. “Right, Doc?”

“Please, Denny,” Michael cried. “Let me help you.”

“Sorry, Doc. You did your best for me, but you can’t control my life. I’m taking my chances.”

Ware paled.

Denny smiled as he pulled the trigger.

The room resounded as Ware’s head exploded, and blood and brain matters sprayed the room.

Suddenly, the door flew open, and the SWAT team rushed in. The team leader studied the scene as his men subdued grabbed Denny, threw him to the floor, and placed him in cuffs.

The leader turned to Michael. “What happened here?”

“How did you find us?” Michael asked.

“Ware’s GPS ankle bracelet. Now what happened?”

Michael studied Denny and then looked at the SWAT team leader. Michael managed a long Casablanca pause as he gazed slowly from Denny to the leader, staring into each other’s eyes. Michael managed a subtle, wry smile and turned to the leader. “Denny just went crazy.”

When Karen awakened the next morning in Michael’s bed, she reached for him, but he was gone. She pulled on her robe and joined him on the balcony. Michael was staring over the city toward the Golden Gate. When he felt her presence, he turned and placed his arm around her. “Beautiful, isn’t it?”

“Yes it is. How are you feeling?”

“Remarkably well. Suddenly, the world’s a better place.”

That afternoon after interviewing Denny, Al walked out of the room at Langley Porter. He moved to the conference room where Michael, Karen, Fiona, and Charlie waited.

When Al pulled up a chair and sat, Charlie asked, “Did you get anything from him?”

“Now that the scopolamine is out of his system, I sure did…that is everything but the shooting itself…that’s interesting, isn’t it?”

Michael smiled. “That he has amnesia for killing Father Ware has a familiar ring to it, doesn’t it?”

“He cleared up a lot for us when he ‘encouraged’ Ware to talk. Unbelievably, the decision about who’d receive the scopolamine-laced candy was, with the exception of avoiding children, random. Either Beverly or his wife picked it up in church. Beverly must have eaten it while in Tahoe or on his way back. Carrie too got it directly from Ware, as did Mickey Kramer’s wife. She gave the candy to Mickey in the hospital to cheer him up.”

“What about Jennifer,” Karen asked. “She’s not a Catholic. How did she get it?”

“It was Jennifer’s boyfriend, a young man who got it at St. Eugenia and gave it to her as a gift. That was one hell of a gift. Ware made a trip to Cal Berkeley and left only a few poisoned candies to throw us off.”

Fiona looked across the room. “Maggie’s father was right about Denny when he told me that Denny was deceptively smart. Now I’m wondering how smart he really is…is he smart enough to get away with murder?”

“If you’re into irony, this will amuse you,” Al said. “Denny did manage to remember Father Ware giving him a chocolate candy to eat when he caught up with him in Salinas. We did find several candies in the motel room, and they’d all been injected with scopolamine.”

Michael smiled. “That Denny got it from Ware has an ironic symmetry.”

“And damned peculiar, if you ask me,” Al said. “You are the only living witness to what happened in that motel room.”

“I tried to talk him out of it, but when the scopolamine hit it was too late.”

“What are you going to do, Charlie?” Karen asked.

“I’d like to prosecute Denny, but I can’t. I’d like to give him a medal, but I can’t do that either.” Charlie stood. “I want to thank all of you for your help in these cases. We’ll be talking about them for years.”

Father McLean took the pulpit in the overfilled St. Eugenia’s Church for Father Ware’s memorial mass a week later. It was a beautiful day with the sun shining through the stain glass windows casting pastel colors over the congregation.

Michael, Karen, Al Russo, and Charlie Connor sat together in the tenth row.

After completing the service, McLean, looked out over the congregation. “Thank you all for coming today. I believe everyone here is familiar enough with Father Ware, Lenny to all who knew him well.

“When Lenny was baptized 56 years ago, it was his first and greatest bonding into a union with Christ. In all the years that have passed since then, Christ was with him. The spirit of the Lord was his constant companion and guide.”

Al Russo subtly shook his head and whispered, “I’m going to be sick.”

“During his work at St. Eugenia, Lenny showed love, kindness, faithfulness, and gentleness. Each day, he showed a love for God, his parishioners and his country. Look around our community and you’ll see the fruits of his love as he demonstrated a likeness in Christ, which is now his merited crown of glory in heaven.”

McLean paused as Robert and Sally Bender, Maggie’s parents rose from their seats and headed for the door. When Sally looked back, and her gaze met McLean’s, he made a nearly imperceptible nod, then continued. “I believe Lenny’s life bible verse would be Psalm 116:1-2: I love the Lord because He has heard my voice and my supplications because He has inclined His ear to me, therefore, I will call upon Him as long as I live.

“Today we celebrate Lenny’s life, but there is also another celebration in heaven because a saint has come home. It will be many years before we again see the likes of Father Leonard Ware.”

Michael took Karen’s hand and whispered in her ear. “Amen to that.”