Free Mirror Image by Dennis Palumbo Page A

podium. “And the most effective tool for examining them is dispassion.”
    Dr. Camden’s students feared and revered him, but rarely liked him. Which was fine with him. An imposing-looking man in his seventies, he’d sit with his legs crossed in the faculty lounge, brandy in hand, and gaze forlornly across the room at the stack of papers to be graded.
    “You know who we attract in the field of psychology, don’t you? They come in two categories: Those who can’t pass the bar, or lack the critical thinking skills for medicine and the natural sciences; or, even worse, those whose psyches are so fragmented that their only sense of cohesion comes from the idea of ‘helping others,’ whatever in God’s name that means. A narcissistic grandiosity masquerading as altruism.”
    I was used to these pronouncements. As his teaching assistant—and the one who would end up having to grade those papers—I’d been on the receiving end of countless rebukes and insults myself.
    Camden was my mentor in the department. He was also my exact opposite in temperament and beliefs. He despised my interest in Kohut, Stolorow, or in any other relational theories of human development. “Postmodernist horseshit,” he’d say. “A flight from objective reality.”
    Phillip Camden was easily the most arrogant, self-satisfied son-of-a-bitch I’ve ever known. I also learned more from him than any other person in the field.
    So it was only natural, if not deeply ironic, that his should be the first face looming down at mine—after ten hours of surgery, following the shooting—when I finally came to in the hospital.
    “ You should have died,” he said. And that was all he said, before turning and walking out.
    Even if he’d stayed, I couldn’t have argued with him. Given the head trauma, I should have died. Everyone said so, including the specialist flown in from Dallas. I lay in a hospital bed over the next three months, tubes going in and out, and didn’t—for some reason—die. After a while, I began to feel I was letting everybody down.
    Especially Phillip Camden. On his second—and last— visit to see me, when I was fully conscious and able to sit up, he just stood in a corner of the room, arms folded across his chest, and scowled at me.
    “Phil…” My voice was a croak.
    “Not a word. I will speak to you when I must. The occasional professional, and therefore unavoidable, consultation. Am I clear?”
    I swallowed hard, at a loss.
    Without another look in my direction, he walked out of the room. I haven’t seen him since.
    I couldn’t blame him for his rage, his hatred. I’d been his assistant in the psych department, his favorite student, however contrary and opinionated.
    Then, not long after graduation, I’d become his son-in-law. Was it any wonder he felt this way now?
    After all, I thought, in the yawning silence of the hospital room, as far as he’s concerned, I’d killed his only child. Gotten her killed. His daughter, Barbara.
    It’s taken me a long time since then to believe otherwise. Phil Camden never has.

Chapter Seventeen
     
    A fist rapped impatiently on the driver’s side window. I was pulled from my reverie by the sight of Sgt. Harry Polk, craggy face framed in flickering red light from a nearby patrol car, peering through the glass.
    “Hey, Doc, ya wanna join the party?”
    I looked over to find that Casey was already climbing out of her side of the car. I got out, too, and stood in a street now filled with patrol units, a lab van, and a scattering of semi-interested onlookers.
    Polk motioned for me to follow him across the street, where Lt. Biegler and Det. Lowrey stood by an unmarked sedan. The lieutenant looked unhappy.
    “The DA wants me to supervise this personally,” he explained. We all stood with our hands in our pockets, shoulders hunched against the icy wind.
    “CSU guys are doing the office now.” Lowrey’s mouth was hidden behind the fur lining of her jacket collar.
    “Just make