Free Therapy by Jonathan Kellerman Page B

double-plush deep blue wool, and furnished with a glass desk on a black granite base, a Lucite desk chair, oversized, baby blue leather sofas and recliners arranged with a designer’s eye. The ceilings were cork—soundproofing. Nothing was nailed to the highly figured wood walls. Her diplomas and a framed psychologists’ license were propped in a glass étagère off to one side, along with crystal paperweights and what looked to be pueblo pottery. Sea-green drapes concealed what I assumed were the windows. Their placement meant a view of the parking lot and the alley. The room managed to be generous yet cozy. Airy yet proportioned for intimacy . . .
    Mary Lou Koppel sat behind the glass desk. I took the nearest soft chair. Very soft. I sank low, was forced to look up at her.
    She said, “This is horrible. I just saw Gavin last week. I just can’t believe it.”
    I nodded.
    “What happened?”
    I gave her the bare details, ended with the unidentified blond girl.
    She said, “That poor boy. He’d been through so much.”
    “The accident.”
    She placed her hands on the glass desktop. Her wrists were tiny, her fingers short but thin, the nails coated by clear polish. Near her right hand was a Limoges box filled with business cards, a pair of reading glasses, and a small, silver cellular phone. “Do the police have any idea what happened?”
    “No. That’s why I’m here.”
    “I’m not clear what it is that you do for them.”
    “Sometimes the same goes for me,” I said. “This time they’ve asked me to make contact with you because we’re peers.”
    “Peers,” she said. “They think I can help solve a murder?”
    “We’re talking to everyone.”
    “Well,” she said, “I was Gavin’s therapist, but I don’t see how that can be relevant. Surely you don’t think this had anything to do with Gavin’s treatment.”
    “At this point, it’s an open book, Dr. Koppel.”
    “Mary Lou,” she said. “Well, sure, I can understand that logic . . . in the abstract.” She fluffed her hair. “Before we go any further, perhaps I should see some sort of written release. I’m aware that with Gavin deceased, there’s no legal confidentiality. And I certainly don’t want to be seen as obstructive. Again. But . . . you understand, don’t you?”
    “Absolutely.” I gave her the release form the Quicks had signed. She glanced at it. “Can’t be too careful. Okay, what would you like to know?”
    “Gavin’s parents implied there were personality changes following the accident. Some falling off in his personal hygiene, what sounds like obsessive behavior.”
    “Are you familiar with the sequelae of closed-head injuries, Dr. Delaware?”
    “I’m not a neuropsychologist,” I said, “but it sounds as if there was postconcussive syndrome and some personality changes.”
    “With closed-head, anything goes—may I call you Alex?”
    “Sure.”
    She showed me gorgeous teeth. Switched back to serious. “This was a prefrontal-lobe assault, Alex. You’re aware of the role of the prefrontals in terms of emotional reactivity. For all we know, when Gavin’s head hit the back of the seat, he received the equivalent of a minor lobotomy.”
    “It had been ten months,” I said, “and he hadn’t recovered fully.”
    “Yes . . . I found that worrisome. Then again, the human brain—especially the young human brain—can be wonderfully plastic. I was hopeful.”
    “For full recovery?”
    She shrugged.
    “Plasticity,” I said. “You do neuropsych.”
    She studied me for half a second. “I keep up with the journals. There was no need for neuropsych because the organic end was being handled by a neurologist. He and I agreed there was nothing further to be gained by subjecting Gavin to yet more tests. What the patient needed was emotional support, and my job was to provide it.”
    I pulled out my notepad. “Dr. Singh.”
    “Very good man.”
    “Did he refer Gavin?”
    She nodded.
    “When?”
    “Gavin’s