Free Confession by Carey Baldwin Page B

this very serious matter. You wanna Coke or something?” He snapped his fingers and addressed the camera. “Somebody bring Dr. Clancy a Coke. She thinks we don’t treat her right.”
    â€œNo, thanks.”
    â€œCoffee? I can’t really recommend the brew here, but we’ll scare some up if you like.”
    â€œNo, thanks. You said you wanted to talk to me about Dante Jericho?”
    â€œIf you’re sure, then.” He trailed a hand through his close-­cropped wheat blond hair. “Heard you had a possible break-­in at your home last night.”
    â€œNot a possible break-­in. I saw a man in my kitchen.”
    â€œBut there was no sign of forced entry. Nothing missing.”
    â€œNot that I can tell so far, no. But I saw a man in my kitchen window. It wasn’t my imagination.”
    He gave her the once-­over. “If he wasn’t after money, maybe he was after you. If I were a pretty lady living all alone, I’d keep my doors locked.”
    â€œThe doors were locked. But thanks for the tip.” The sarcasm in her tone matched the condescension in his. Bring it on. She’d rather be mad than scared any day, and the macho detective was providing a nice, fat, diversionary target.
    â€œYou look beat, Doc. You sleeping okay?”
    â€œNo,” she snapped. “Look, Detective, I came down here voluntarily, and I’m prepared to give you all the help I can. But I don’t know what you want from me. I’ve already told you everything I know.”
    â€œDoctors got a funny way of thinking their responsibility is to their patients. But a cop’s responsibility is to the public. See, my job is to look out for Jericho’s victims.”
    â€œAllegedly, Jericho’s victims.”
    â€œHe confessed. But okay, allegedly. And you just proved my point with that remark . . . little lady. ” Johnson leaned as close as he could get without touching her.
    She could smell that coffee he couldn’t recommend on his breath.
    â€œSo maybe you can understand how I might want to be sure I’m getting the whole story from you. That you’re not holding anything back.”
    Her hands twisted in her lap. Johnson’s argument wasn’t without merit. She had a duty to warn the public about a potentially dangerous criminal, both legally and ethically, and she’d fulfilled that duty. But Dante Jericho was technically still her patient. She had real moral and legal obligations toward him, too, and she felt the weight of those rather heavily at the moment. What the Saint had done to his victims froze her bones and cracked her heart into little pieces, but what if Dante Jericho wasn’t the Saint?
    Dante’s grasp on reality ebbed and flowed with the phases of the moon. Surely, the police should confirm the facts, gather some evidence, before accepting his confession and closing the case.
    â€œWe’ve subpoenaed your records on Dante Jericho,” Johnson said.
    â€œAnd they’ve been provided to you.” Faith used an EHR, an electronic health-­record-­keeping system, and that meant no waiting for transcriptions or photocopies like the old days. The police had been given full access to everything in her files the same hour she received the subpoena.
    â€œThey weren’t much use.” Johnson shrugged and slid a consent for release of information, signed by Dante, into her line of vision. The release wasn’t necessary. Unlike the communication between a lawyer and a client, doctor-­patient confidentiality didn’t extend to criminal matters. Plus there was the subpoena. The fact that Johnson obtained a consent that was entirely superfluous confirmed her belief he didn’t trust her. He was trying to preempt any possible protest on her part.
    She tried again to set him straight on her intentions. “Detective, I’m not going to pretend I enjoy being