Misfortune (40 page)

Richard didn’t acknowledge her when she entered the room.

“Dad,” she said softly as she approached the bed. He looked up. His eyes were glassy. “How are you feeling?”

He said nothing.

“I need to ask you one question. It’s about Clio.”

Still nothing. Frances looked back toward the door, where Lily hovered. From her expressionless face, Frances couldn’t tell whether it was all right to continue or whether she should leave. She cleared her throat and took a step closer to her father.

“What does ‘RC’ stand for?” she asked.

Richard’s jaw shifted. She watched as a word formed on his lips. “Where?”

“Clio’s diary contains a notation. Every Friday at ten. ‘RC,’ it says. Do you know what that means?”

“Where…was…the…diary?” Richard’s sentence seemed to take a minute.

“It was in the drawer of her desk. I found it the day of her memorial service, although I assume the police have it now. Lily told me they came back with a warrant.”

Richard nodded.

“There are references in the book to her appointment with Dr. Prescott, the psychiatrist you told me about, on Wednesday afternoons. Then there’s this entry every Friday morning.”

“You … shouldn’t … have … gone … through … her … things.”

“Dad, I’m only trying to figure out what happened,” Frances said, feeling defensive. Maybe she had trespassed over Clio’s clearly erected barriers, but, she reminded herself, she had done nothing wrong in trying to uncover what happened.

“Privacy—” He coughed. Frances heard mucus rattle in his throat. “She…wants…her…privacy.” He tried to push his hands into the wedged pillows to prop himself farther up in bed. He moved his torso back and forth, but his arms slipped out from under him. Lily stepped forward to assist, but he stopped her. “No,” he said loudly. Then, turning back to Frances he continued, “You… should … not … have … gone … through … her … things.” He collapsed back.

Frances looked at her father, trying to read from his distorted face what secret he was hiding. He appeared desperate to shelter something about Clio or their marriage or their life together, something that was so sacred, it might be worth letting her killer go free. Frances recalled their discussion of shame, of Clio’s emotional troubles, and wondered if her father was too proud to reveal anything that might be perceived as instability or character imbalance. It astounded her that even in death, societal ostracism could be his overriding consideration. He was obviously protecting Clio’s memory, but from what, she couldn’t begin to imagine.

“I’m sorry. I don’t mean to upset you. I really don’t.”

Richard said nothing. His breathing was loud. The air crackled in his lungs. He closed his eyes. “Let her memory be dignified.” His words ran together. One foot had slipped off the mattress and dangled awkwardly over the side of the bed. Lily cradled it in her hand and gently repositioned it back under the covers.

“Why are you doing this?” he asked.

“I…I,”Frances stammered, surprised by his question. She took a step backward to keep from losing her balance. Had she been wrong to think he would want an answer about his wife’s death? Was she actually making his pain worse? She couldn’t bear to see him so upset. She had never imagined that this investigation would uncover such personal secrets about her stepmother. “I’m sorry…” She searched for words but was unsure of what else to say. “I’ve only wanted to help for you. For Clio.” Her voice sounded strange, high-pitched and timid.

“It won’t bring her back. Nothing will.”

A string of sleigh bells rang as Frances pulled open the door to the small coffee shop. The air smelled of stale cigarettes and grease. Several people sat at the stained Formica counter with their backs to the door. No one turned around despite the ringing. A line of banquettes ran along the wall by the windows facing out to the street. Several doctors, still in their green scrubs, filled the booth closest to the door. Despite the evening hour, they appeared to be eating breakfast. Their plates were piled high with eggs, hash browns, and muffins.

Frances looked past them. In the corner, an attractive man in his early forties stood up. He must have seen her approach.

“Dr. Prescott?” she asked, although she was quite sure she knew the answer to her own question. He nodded. They shook hands briefly, and she slid into the banquette across from him.

“Can I get anything for you?” he asked. “I’ve just ordered myself a cup of coffee.”

“Coffee would be great.”

Dr. Prescott signaled something to the waitress. Frances picked at a strip of duct tape that covered a rip in the vinyl seat. She stared at a lump of what looked like hardened mayonnaise on the table.

“This isn’t the most hygienic place in Manhattan, but the coffee’s drinkable and it’s open twenty-four hours, so they do a good business with the hospital staff.”

“Thank you for meeting me,” Frances said. She felt disoriented, having traveled to 168th and Broadway to try to find out details of her stepmother’s life that only a psychiatrist could know. She didn’t know where to begin and, for the second time that day, felt like an interloper.

“I understand you and Henry Lewis are friends,” she said, fumbling for some pleasantry to ease into a conversation.

“We were medical school roommates,” Dr. Prescott explained.

“And you consult with him still?”

Dr. Prescott gave her a quizzical look. “I wouldn’t say that. We discuss medical issues from time to time. Our discussions are more informal, not exactly what I would call a consultation. Why do you ask?”

“Henry Lewis recommended you to Clio Pratt,” Frances declared.

“That’s right,” Dr. Prescott replied, as if her comment required verification.

“When did you start seeing Clio?”

“Last December.”

“Did she say why she wanted to see you?”

“Ms. Pratt, you must understand. I would like to be helpful, but I can’t reveal anything that she and I discussed. She was my patient. For her sake, for the sake of my other patients, I am prepared to challenge the validity of any subpoena.”

“Dr. Prescott—”

“Please, call me Fritz,” he interrupted.

“Okay, Fritz.” The name stuck in her throat. “You and I both know that the psychiatrist-patient privilege keeping your communications private is recognized under New York State statute, rule 501 of the Federal Rules of Evidence, and the Supreme Court’s 1996 decision
Jaffee
versus
Redmond.
”

“I see you’ve done your homework, Ms. Pratt.” His tone was flat.

He was right. En route to this meeting, she had stopped at the Suffolk County Bar Association library in Riverhead for last-minute legal research. The detour had almost made her late, and she had violated every speed limit between Long Island and Manhattan to make Dr. Prescott’s appointment. She needed to use the little she had learned to make her case.

She continued. “Although communications between a patient and psychiatrist appear protected from disclosure and inadmissible at any kind of trial, whether that privilege survives the death of the patient is unclear.” That the law didn’t necessarily protect such communications once the patient died, a possible loophole, was her only hope. “We have a murder, a high-profile murder that the Suffolk County district attorney is very anxious to solve. There’s a compelling public interest, from the court’s point of view, in disclosing what you may know about Clio. In fact, based on my reading of existing case law, I’d wager good money that a court would compel you to talk,” she bluffed, surprised by the calmness and certainty in her voice. She seemed to speak with an authority she didn’t have. “As of now, nobody but me, my father, and Henry Lewis knows of your relationship to Clio. My father is unlikely to speak up. Dr. Lewis seems to feel quite an ethical duty to keep his mouth shut. However, if I disclose that information, you will undoubtedly be subpoenaed, and you may well be forced to abandon any pretense of maintaining your patient’s privacy.” She had rehearsed this response over and over as she’d driven into the city, in order to sound convincing. She hadn’t meant to threaten.

“What exactly are you saying?”

“I’m saying you should tell me what I want to know because, ultimately, it may serve your patients better. You won’t have to challenge a subpoena, and risk losing. I’m not part of the district attorney’s office, or any law enforcement office. I was, but I’m not any longer. I have no obligations to the court or anyone else to disclose what I learn.”

Dr. Prescott was quiet, mulling over the implications of what she said.

“I’m not asking for details of Clio’s troubles. I know from my father that she had them, that she turned to you for help, and that you were helping her when she got murdered. Her personal demons are her own, and frankly, I’d rather not know. But there are some things I do need you to tell me.”

“Such as?” He fixed his walnut eyes on her.

“Was Clio afraid of anyone?”

He sighed. “She didn’t give me any information that, in retrospect, would provide you with a suspect.”

Dr. Prescott paused as the waitress arrived with coffee and a bowl filled with individual creamers and packaged sugar. He ripped the end off a packet of artificial sweetener and stirred the contents into his coffee.

“Your specialty is spousal incapacitation?” Frances asked.

“‘Specialty’ is not a word I would use. I do a lot of work with people who need to come to terms with a sudden change in a relationship through death, disability, or, in some cases, abandonment. I try to help them to assimilate what has happened, to grieve, and to figure out a way to reconstitute their life.”

“You saw Clio once a week?” He didn’t reply. “I’ve gone through her appointment book. She indicated that she saw you on Wednesdays, here at the hospital,” Frances said.

“Twice a week, at first. More recently, once a week,” he offered, slightly defeated.

“Why did she reduce her visits?”

“Patients cut down on their therapy for a number of reasons. Sometimes it’s because they feel they’re making progress, sometimes the reasons are financial, or there can be other commitments.” Dr. Prescott was obviously more comfortable answering her questions in generalities.

“Did you think that Clio was making progress?”

“I’m not going to answer that.”

“Well, she had no financial constraints.”

He said nothing.

“Do you use drugs in your therapy?”

“I believe that judicious use of psychotropic medicine is extremely beneficial. However, it must be part of intensive therapy. I do not prescribe any medication alone.”

“Therapy meaning discussions with you?”

“I don’t know that I would characterize them as discussions. How much do you know about analysis?”

“Was Clio in psychoanalysis?”

“No. That is very intensive.”

“What are you saying? That Clio’s sessions weren’t intense? What were you doing, then?”

“You’re misunderstanding me,” he said, his voice suddenly paternalistic. “Psychoanalysis cannot be done in weekly meetings, or even biweekly. It requires daily sessions so that the patient stays emotionally open, able to explore herself and her subconscious thought. Too much time passes, and a person’s defensive mechanisms take over. Clio’s and my work was simple therapy.”

Frances thought for a moment. She reached into her pocket and produced the plastic prescription bottle that she had taken from Clio’s medicine cabinet. She looked at the label. “You prescribed phenelzine for Clio,” she said, handing it across the table to him.

“I did.”

“Why?”

“Nardil, or phenelzine, can be efficacious in certain limited circumstances.”

“What would those be?”

“Severe hypochondria is the most common application.”

“Did Clio suffer from hypochondria?”

“Ms. Pratt, I don’t mean to put you off, but that question is simply not appropriate for me to answer.” He took a sip of his coffee. “Why don’t we try this. You tell me what you know, and I will do my best to confirm or deny the accuracy of your knowledge based on my own experience with Clio.”

Frances eyed him intently. Was this his way of acquiescing to her threat? Was he prepared to tell her information if he could never be credited as the source? She was willing to play along with his game if it got her the information she sought. “My father told me that Clio had irrational fears about her own health. That she became obsessed with the idea that she would die. Would you call that hypochondria?”

“Concern for one’s own well-being is a common manifestation of extreme anxiety.”

“My father claims that Clio was healthy, physically, I mean.”

“I was not aware of any physical illness or health problem, either.”

“Phenelzine has a variety of contraindications.”

“That’s correct. Alcohol and many foods can’t be taken with the drug. Of course, we always need to be concerned about interaction with other medications.”

“Was Clio aware of the contraindications?”

Dr. Prescott paused. Frances couldn’t tell whether he considered this question inappropriate as well or if he was focused on his own self-interest. He had to know that he wouldn’t fare well before a medical malpractice tribunal if he prescribed such a potentially lethal medication without proper explanation. “I believe that Clio understood that her diet was restricted. She didn’t drink any alcohol. We reviewed the particulars at length. I had no reason to think that she wasn’t following them.”

“Did she ever discuss with you that she was taking diet pills?”

“As far as I was aware, Clio was not taking any other medication, either prescribed or over-the-counter.”

“Clio’s body had five hundred milligrams of Dexedrine in it at the time of her death.”

Dr. Prescott’s shock was visible on his face. As he reached for his coffee cup, Frances could see his hand shake slightly. Apparently the details of his patient’s death were difficult to hear, even for a trained professional. “With or without phenelzine, that quantity of an amphetamine would have killed her,” he said almost to himself.

“That’s what I understand.” Frances took a sip of her coffee, which had grown tepid. The liquid left a bitter taste in her mouth after she swallowed. “In your opinion, was Clio suicidal?”