All the Dark Places(14)

“We’ll see you on Thursday,” she says into the phone, ends her call, and smiles up at me. “May I help you?”

“Yes. I’m here to see Dr. Westmore.”

“Is she expecting you?”

“Yes. Detective Myers.”

Her expression changes, eyes dart toward Dr. Bradley’s closed door, but before she can pick up the phone, Elise Westmore walks into the waiting room. “Hello, come on in.”

Her office is pristine but cluttered. Framed photos of what look like exotic vacations cover cherry-red walls. Books line floor-to-ceiling shelves, and there’s a cozy seating area off to the side, a plump couch across from an armchair, a table between them with a box of tissues and a dish of wrapped mints on it. There’s a soothing bubbling noise coming from somewhere.

“Please, have a seat.”

She takes the armchair, so I have to sit on the couch, which makes me slightly uncomfortable as if she can read my thoughts and discern my deep dark secrets. The last place I want to be is on a shrink’s couch.

I was there once, years ago. When I was thirty-two, still with the Boston force, my partner and I were called to a robbery in progress. When we got on scene, the suspect had already killed the liquor store clerk, who lay bleeding out behind the counter. The gunman swiveled, perspiration running down the sides of his face, and shot my partner in the shoulder, dropping him to the floor. Then the kid turned in my direction. Time seemed to stand still as he leveled his pistol at me. I don’t remember shooting him. All I remember is his face. Young and scared. I was on desk duty, per department policy while it was sorted out. And I had to go see the department therapist, again required protocol. I didn’t like it. I don’t have anything against people seeking help when they need it. I’m all for that. But for me, it ate away at something inside. Maybe the way I was raised. Don’t know, but I like to keep my own counsel. Not saying that kid’s face doesn’t show up at night sometimes when I’m sleeping. I guess it always will, along with my brothers Ricky and Jimmy and others I’ve lost along the way. But I don’t need a shrink to analyze my nightmares. I get it.

Dr. Westmore leans back in her chair, tents her fingers. “What can I do for you, Detective?”

“I just have a few more questions about Dr. Bradley. You seem to know him as well as anybody.”

She heaves a sigh. “Yes. As I said, Jay and I were close.”

“What do you know about his family?” My eyes follow a bright blue fish as it swims in an aquarium on a credenza behind Dr. Westmore. The source of the bubbling.

“His mother died in a car accident when Jay was a little boy, nine, ten years old.”

“That’s too bad.”

“Yes. He told me he was pretty much left on his own. No siblings. His father worked all the time.” She glances out the window. “Jay became pretty introverted.”

“He get in any trouble that you know about? A boy left to himself.”

She shakes her head. “Jay’s a real straight arrow. He says he spent most of his time in the library.”

“Smart guy?”

“Brilliant.” She smiles.

“Why would anyone want to kill a guy like that?”

Dr. Westmore reaches for a tissue, takes her time. “I have no idea.”

The fish stops swimming and looks straight at me, its gills and fins flapping. “Do you think it’s possible a patient might have been angry for some reason?”

She clears her throat and reaches for a mint. “I don’t think so. It’s possible, I suppose.”

“But Dr. Bradley didn’t mention anyone in particular to you?” I doodle in the margin of my notebook, drawing the blue fish.

“No. I have no idea how this could’ve happened.”

“You still don’t have any idea what was on his mind? Anything occur to you since we spoke yesterday?”

“Nothing.” She shakes her head.

“Okay.” I shut my notebook. “You mind showing me his office?”

We stand, and I follow her back across the waiting room. Dr. Bradley’s office is sparsely decorated in cool greens and blues but has the same couch-chair setup off to the side.

“Molly called me,” Dr. Westmore says. “She said to give you access to anything of Jay’s.”

“Yes. I spoke to her earlier today.”

I pull latex gloves from my pocket, snap them on. “There anything in particular you think I should look at?” I’m walking around, trying desk drawers and filing cabinets, but they’re all locked. Dr. Westmore removes a key ring from her pocket and shakes out a small key and hands it to me.

“I can’t think of anything,” she says.

I unlock the desk and start sifting through drawers. I take out a red leather-bound notebook. It looks like an appointment calendar, with last year stamped in gold on the front. I skim through the pages. “This looks like personal stuff.”

“Probably. Candace keeps track of patient appointments.”

“I’d like a printout of those appointments going back six months. We’ll need to talk to his patients.”

“We’ll need a warrant, Detective. We can’t hand over patient information without it.”

“You’ll have it.” I take an evidence bag out of my satchel and slide the planner inside. I notice an identical planner in the corner of the desktop underneath a file folder. Looks brand-new and, since we’re only a week into the new year, doesn’t look like there’s much written there, but I take it too.