Free The Analyst by John Katzenbach Page B

talk, talk, talk, and sooner or later it all gets figured out?”
    “That would be an oversimplification, detective. But not inaccurate.”
    “I had a sister who saw a therapist after her divorce. It really helped her get her life straightened out. On the other hand, my cousin Marcie who’s one of those types always got that black cloud over her head-she saw some guy for three years and ended up more authentically fucked-up than before she got started.”
    “I’m sorry to hear that. Like any profession, there are wide degrees of competency.” Ricky and the detective sat down at the desk. “But-”
    Detective Riggins cut him off before he could get further with his question. “You said you were Mr. Zimmerman’s therapist, correct?”
    She pulled out a notepad and pencil.
    “Yes. He’d been in analysis during this past year. But…”
    “And did you detect any heightened suicidal tendencies in the last couple of weeks?”
    “No. Absolutely not,” Ricky said with determination.
    The detective raised her eyebrows in modest surprise. “Really, no? None whatsoever?”
    “That’s what I just said,” Ricky replied. “In fact…”
    “He was making progress in his analysis, then?”
    Ricky hesitated.
    “Well?” the detective asked abruptly. “Was he getting better? Gaining control? Feeling more confident? More ready to take on the world? Less depressed? Less angry?”
    Again, Ricky paused, before replying. “I would say that he had not made what either you or I would consider a breakthrough. He was still struggling deeply with the issues that plagued his life.”
    Detective Riggins smiled, but without humor. Her words had an edgy tone. “So, after almost a year of near-constant treatment, fifty minutes per day, five days per week-what, forty-eight weeks per year-it would be safe to say that he was still depressed and frustrated by his life?”
    Ricky bit down on his lip briefly, then nodded.
    Detective Riggins wrote a few words down on her pad. Ricky could not see what she scribbled. “Would despair be too strong a word?”
    “Yes,” Ricky said with irritation.
    “Even if that was the first word that his mother, whom he lived with, used? And the same word that several of his coworkers came up with?”
    “Yes,” Ricky insisted.
    “So, you don’t think he was suicidal?”
    “I told you, detective. He didn’t present with any of the classic symptomology. Had he, I would have taken steps…”
    “What sort of steps?”
    “We would have tried to focus the sessions more specifically. Perhaps medication, if I actually thought the threat was sincere…”
    “I thought you just said you didn’t like prescribing pills?”
    “I don’t, but…”
    “Aren’t you going on vacation? Like real soon?”
    “Yes. Tomorrow, at least I’m scheduled to begin, but what has that…”
    “So, as of tomorrow, his therapeutic lifeline was going on vacation?”
    “Yes, but I fail to see…”
    The detective smiled. “Those are interesting words for a shrink to use.”
    “What words?” Ricky asked, his exasperation reaching deep within him.
    “‘Fail to see…,’ ” Detective Riggins said. “Isn’t that pretty close to what you guys like to call a Freudian slip?”
    “No.”
    “So, you just don’t think he committed suicide?”
    “No, I do not. I just…”
    “Have you ever lost a patient to suicide in the past?”
    “Yes. Unfortunately. But in that case the signs were clear-cut. My efforts, however, weren’t adequate for the depth of that patient’s depression.”
    “That failure stick with you for a while, doc?”
    “Yes,” Ricky replied coldly.
    “It would be bad for your business and real bad for your reputation if another one of your long-term patients decided to take on the Eighth Avenue express one-on-one, wouldn’t it?”
    Ricky rocked back in the chair, scowling.
    “I don’t appreciate the implication in your question, detective.”
    Riggins smiled, shaking her head slightly. “Well,