The brows arched further, but still the man said nothing. All right, so don’t ask me in, Sharon thought, and her annoyance made her brave. She strode in uninvited and took a seat in one of the armchairs. Stick to the facts, she told herself. He loves facts.
“Matt Fraser,” she began as he still did not react. “He’s been missing from his apartment for almost a week, and a missing persons report has been filed with the police. Because of his past, and some suspicious evidence at his apartment, the police are concerned about revenge and are taking the disappearance seriously. His sister, however, believes he may have finally decided to kill himself. I was hoping you—”
“Just a minute!” He pulled off his reading glasses with a sweep of his hand, the better to glare at her, she suspected. “By what authority do you believe you can ask me any questions whatsoever?”
“The man’s life may be in imminent danger. Under such circumstances, the law—”
“And who are you? The police? The court-appointed psychiatrist? His next of kin?”
“She’s my wife.” Mike strode into the room and flipped open his badge. “Detective Inspector Green, Criminal Investigations, Ottawa Police.”
Sharon fought back the urge to kill him and the equally strong urge to laugh. She knew Mike as the boyish, impetuous, mercurial and infuriating lover in her life, but had never seen him play inspector. He was good. The two men sized each other up, Emmerson-Jones from over his half-moon glasses and Mike from behind a mask of brisk authority. The psychologist didn’t move, but Mike settled smoothly into the chair opposite Sharon.
“Sharon is helping us with our inquiries,” he said. “At present my prime goal is to ascertain if there’s been a crime committed or any risk of imminent harm to a member of the public, including Mr. Fraser himself. That’s the extent of police involvement, doctor, and the extent of the cooperation I’d appreciate from you. I don’t need to know if this man has decided to relocate to another town in order to escape an unpleasant person or situation here in town. I have two simple questions for you. One, should we be worried about suicide in this case, and two, if so, can you provide some suggestions as to where we should look for him?”
Emmerson-Jones hesitated. His eyes were unblinking, and Sharon could almost see him mentally riffling through the legalities in search of guidance. The issues were not black and white, and Sharon knew how much he hated grey. Not surprisingly, he asked for clarification.
“Is there evidence beyond his sister’s opinion that he may have been contemplating suicide?”
“There is evidence that his past still haunts him,” Mike replied.
Emmerson-Jones shook his head. “That’s a chronic stress, hardly a new condition or a recent shift in behaviour.”
“There’s also evidence that he left his apartment abruptly, without ensuring that his dog was taken care of.”
The psychologist’s brows arched slightly, betraying his surprise before he could bring them back down. “That suggests something unplanned or unintended. It’s not the careful planning of a suicide that’s years in the making.”
“Some suicides are impulsive,” Mike pointed out.
“Not Matt Fraser’s kind. His would attend to every detail. So it’s unlikely—” the psychologist’s lips parted in what could have been a smile. “It seems I’ve answered your question after all, Inspector.”
Mike’s face was deadpan, but Sharon knew he was having fun. Outwitting pomposity was one of his favourite sports.
“Normally, I’d agree with you,” he replied. “I’ve seen the man’s house, and he sets new boundaries for the term obsessive. But I also had the feeling that his grip on reality wasn’t what it should be, and once that begins to go, a lot of details can get lost in the haze.”
Sharon took great satisfaction in the look of astonishment on the psychologist’s face. She’d always known Mike had a wonderful intuitive sense, but he’d also been an adept pupil who’d picked up a lot of wisdom about human failings from discussing work with her. Now she wondered how Emmerson Jones, the quintessential rationalist, would handle Mike’s poetic bent.
“You’re implying he’s delusional,” he replied sharply, as if to bring the discussion back to a more prosaic plane.
To her surprise, Mike laughed, further rattling the man. Then he gave a cheerful shrug. “I like ‘haze’ myself, but yes. The poor man had all his windows nailed shut in thirty degree heat and dark blinds blocking out every sliver of the outside world. He had five locks on his door and—I kid you not— enough newspapers and photocopied articles to fill a tractortrailer. All about his case. Either he was really thorough, or the real world had ceased to exist for him.”
Despite his best efforts, the psychologist grew visibly pinker with each point, then after a moment’s deliberation, he picked up his phone and dialled zero. “Have Leslie Black paged for me, please. Extension 6083.”
As the name blared over the hospital intercom, he hung up and rose to his feet. “Would you both step outside for a minute, please, while I deal with a private matter.”
Outside in the hall, Sharon gave Mike a playful swat on the rear. “Thanks for letting me handle it, schmuck.”
He raised his finger to his lips and positioned himself outside the door. “That doctor didn’t know a damn thing about his patient,” he whispered. “It’s time for some ass-covering.”
“Or buck passing,” she responded. “Leslie Black’s a friend of mine, and she runs anxiety groups. She probably ran the group Janice and Matt attended.”
“In other words, the one who really should know what was going on in Matt’s head.”
Sharon nodded. “She’s a nurse with some graduate psych training. She’s really experienced, but she never got her degree, so technically Emmerson-Jones has to supervise her.”
“And technically, he’s accountable.” He grinned. “Some serious ass-covering.”
Inside, the phone rang, and Sharon heard Emmerson Jones’s gruff hello. A moment later, his voice rose sharply. Sharon joined Mike pressed against the door, but she could distinguish only a few words.
“Police... kill... did you... responsibility... What do you mean, no!” His voice dropped to a low murmur, and for some time they could make out nothing. With a smile, Mike steered her back towards the waiting room.
“I think we may get lucky,” he murmured. He settled into a chair and was looking the picture of cooperation when a frazzled middle-aged woman burst out of the elevator and hurried into Emmerson-Jones’s room. Five minutes elapsed.
“He’s getting their stories straight,” Sharon said.
“And he’s telling her what she can and can’t say. I wish I was a fly on the wall.”
Emmerson-Jones’s door opened, and he beckoned them back in. “This is Mrs. Black, one of our therapists. She’s been treating Mr. Fraser in group therapy, and I thought her input might be useful.”
Sharon glanced at Leslie, who was sitting beside Emmerson Jones’s desk and whose flushed face and erratic breathing belied her pose of pleasant calm. Emmerson-Jones sat down, folded his hands, and embarked on his speech.
“Neither Mrs. Black nor I had any evidence to suggest that Mr. Fraser was at significant risk for suicide. Nor have I heard anything today from you two that clearly suggests otherwise. However, preferring to err on the side of caution, I’m prepared to admit that there may be certain risks of which we were unaware, and in the interests of protecting my patient—as well as others, of course—I’m prepared to share some details of his treatment. I trust this information will be treated with discretion.”
Mike nodded and extracted his notebook, which was his favourite dramatic prop. Sharon