Free Delusion by G. H. Ephron Page A

not. She had the persistence of a terrier and the power of a pit bull.
    â€œGood morning,” I said.
    â€œGreat picture,” Kwan said. It was his cologne that was competing with the coffee smell in the small space. Gloria wasn’t a perfume person. “Especially if what you were striving for is the Johnny Cochrane, just-rolled-out-of-bed look.”
    The rumpled look was anathema to Kwan. He had a standing appointment to get his dark hair trimmed every two weeks, and the cut of his three-piece suit was impeccable.
    â€œYou do look a bit scruffy,” Gloria said, standing on tiptoe. “Probably hadn’t had time for coffee. No, wait, look there.” She pointed to the Dunkin’ Donuts cup I was holding in the photograph. “It’s our Peter.”
    â€œGive me a break,” I said. “And clear the way. I haven’t had my morning quota.”
    Gloria squinted at me and stepped aside. “You sure you’re ready for this?”
    I poured myself some coffee and kept my head down. I should have been grateful. Gloria was worried about my getting involved in another murder. But instead I felt a flicker of annoyance. I had a mother who did that. I didn’t need it from friends.
    I checked my watch. “Shouldn’t we get going?”

    As we walked down the corridor, I asked Kwan, “You ever heard of a psychiatrist, Dr. Richard Teitlebaum?”
    â€œI can’t say the name rings a bell. Why?”
    â€œThis case I’m working on. He was the victim’s therapist. I’m just curious to know if he’s got any kind of a reputation, one way or another. He did his residency here about eight years ago. Then moved to Rhode Island. Moved back about a year ago.”
    â€œRichard Teitlebaum,” Kwan said, turning over the name.
    â€œSounds like he’s well connected.” I mentioned a few of the doctors at the Pearce that Teitlebaum said he knew.
    â€œI’ll ask around,” Kwan offered.
    By the time we got to the conference room for rounds, the others were waiting. Our social worker, physical therapist, and lead mental health worker were at the table. A young psych postdoc, Roger Burnaby, was sitting in a chair against the wall, writing in a notebook. He looked up and nodded when we arrived. Then he pulled his chair up to the table.
    The tall, narrow room, with its glorious but now defunct marble fireplace, was looking a bit spiffier than usual. The holes in the plaster had been repaired, and the formerly pink walls were now a tasteful eggshell. It had been only a month or so since the hospital’s chief financial officer had departed rather than face an investigation of his personal financial ties to pharmaceutical companies. The place was becoming more humane with him gone. One thing hadn’t changed. Spring or no spring, the all-or-nothing heating system was going full-blast.
    Kwan went over to open the window. He pulled and strained, but it wouldn’t budge. Apparently it was painted shut. “Move over, Schwarzenegger,” I said.
    I took a crack at it with no results beyond a spasm in my lower back.
    â€œMen,” Gloria snorted as she sized up the problem. She systematically whacked the window frame all the way around with
the heel of her hand, gave a yank on each of the window ropes, blew into each of her open palms, and effortlessly raised the window.
    â€œI guess it takes brains and beauty,” Kwan said.
    â€œFinesse,” Gloria said as she took a little bow. “Always works better than brute force.” The message wasn’t lost on either of us: Women do heavy lifting better than men. I didn’t disagree.
    We turned our attention to the white board and the list of eighteen patients we had on the unit. There was only one new admission. Elizabeth Smetz.
    Kwan said, “She thinks she’s the Virgin Mary, and she’s here to give birth to the Messiah.”
    Gloria took up the tale. “She