Free Mind Games by William Deverell

power to recommend my suspension, and if Dr. Schulter gets his way, it will. The other pair, Dr. Werner Mundt and Dr. Fred Rawlings, may lack the backbone to defy him. Rawlings is a retired lightweight, Mundt made so many errors in private practice that he was forced to take up teaching and is now an assistant dean at the University of British Columbia.
    Schulter greeted me amiably, not at all perturbed that I was ten minutes late. He is a round-backed shuffling bear who hides his lack of empathy behind the false front of cordiality, and has managed to disguise his inferiority complex with a brilliant feat of overcompensation. Neither of us dares mention the word
rivalry
(or, horrors,
envy):
he was everyone’s favourite forensic sharpshooter until – forgive the self-congratulation – Tim Dare rode into town.
    (I wonder, also, if a remark I made in passing last year at a cocktail party – I was tipsy, others in the trade were present – reached his ears: something to the effect of him being an egregious poseur.)
    A book I wrote about the profession,
Shrinking Expectations: Analyzing the Analysts
, was well received by reviewers but hasn’t made me popular with certain colleagues, and both Schulter and Mundt are reputed to have taken umbrage. The latter is a known pill-pusher, and in one chapter I excoriate colleagues who play lickspittle to the drug conglomerates.
    But Schulter was wearing his usual happy face today. “The good Dr. Dare finally graces us with his presence.”
    Though I’d vowed to be pleasant, my goal was to cut this nonsense short. “Before we get underway, I’d like to offer a few words of caution.”
    “Indeed you may.”
    “I’ll try to put this as politely as I can. There’s nothing to hear at this hearing. Since we last met, Dr. Connelly has been in my office, helping me sort out the shambles my last secretary left in her wake. He can tell you I’m trying to engage a replacement, and am seeing two applicants this afternoon.”
    “You promised
a few
words.” Schulter prompted a chortle from the others.
    “I’ll keep it short for you then. This hearing is a waste of time.”
    Schulter, Mundt, and Rawlings all looked blankly at me. Irwin Connelly, sitting next to me, was tugging my sleeve, urging me – I supposed – to be more subtle, indirect.
    “Because if there is any disciplinary action, I’ll appeal. And I’ll continue to appeal, and it will get into the courts, and the press will be alive to the entire scandal. And then the boom will come down.”
    The matter was of such delicate nature that the discipline committee had forgone the use of a lawyer to lead the case against me; it was thought sufficient that Dr. Schulter had a degree in law – though he’d never practised. Nor was there clerk or notetaker.
    I lost a file a few months ago at the Pondicherry, the very restaurant I took you to, Allis, after having forced you to listen to an hour of my lamentations. I think I left it on the very chair you sat on. Not long after the file disappeared, a tidbit found its way into a column in that pugnacious magazine
Frank
. I think the line went like this:
What high-ranking member of the B.C. cabinet is so addicted to having a spanking good time that he is now seeing a shrink?
    Other media treated the matter as too hot a potato –
Frank
has been sued many times for libel – but the upshot was that I lost the Member for Shuswap South as a client. A byzantine political conspiracy followed, and a message was filtered through to the executive director of the College that Dr. Timothy Jason Dare should have his ears boxed.
    I’d thrown down the gauntlet, but the panel was staring at me in an odd way. Schulter began to smile. “Would you be more comfortable without the helmet, Tim?” A graphic instance of a brain overburdened. I removed the helmet, saying lamely I thought I might need it for protection, and won a brief laugh.
    Professor Mundt assured me that I’d nothing to fear from