A Tightly Raveled Mind - Diane Lawson

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to attend that evening’s meeting of the Shrink-Lits, the journal club he’d organized for medical students interested in Psychiatry, and perhaps grab a drink afterward at Billy Goat’s Tavern.

      Dr. Bernstein went on. “It’s one of the disappointments of my life that so much of what analysis has to offer remains potential.”

      “I’m not calling about Richard. Right now I’m worried about something in my practice,” I said. “I have seven analytic patients…”

      “Admirable.” His tone was grudging. Analysts keep score by how many patients they have in a full four-to-five-time-per-week analysis. It occurred to me that he might be thinking I was lying, upping my numbers to make an impression.

      “In the past eight days,” I said, “two of my patients have died. The first death is considered accidental. The police are calling the other a suicide. My intuition tells me there’s some connection.”

      “Your analysis is coming back to me more clearly. I’ll be direct. I’m too close to death to beat around the bush. I suspect your old Oedipal problem is the culprit.” He sounded bored. “You must believe that only you can save your insane father. To be Daddy’s special girl, little Nora must be the all-powerful rescuer, ignoring all of Daddy’s nasty faults to keep his love.”

      I’d forgotten about the condescending singsong he used when he said something he considered obvious.

      “You carry this maladaptive character defense everywhere you go,” he went on. “Even into your work as an analyst. You fear hurting your patients’ feelings. You try to save them with your sweet love and neglect to confront the repressed aggression—yours and theirs—that will, of necessity, if not brought to consciousness by interpretation, lead to destruction. Voila—the bad marriage, the accident, the suicide.”

      In about sixty seconds, he’d managed to dredge up the message of my entire analysis with him: You, Nora Goodman, are to blame. I in turn was thrown right back into the struck-dumb state of my years on his couch.

      “You see why I opposed your interrupting your treatment. Perhaps Freud’s idea of the death instinct is truer than I’d like to think.” His signature sigh indicated our time was up. “I recommend you do some further analysis. We could work by phone.”

      It was the last thing I wanted to do.

      “When could we start?” I said.

      “I expect to have time available in a few weeks. I’ll be in touch.”

      “Thank you,” I said, grateful at that moment for the reprieve.

      I was in bad enough shape already without Bernstein’s help.

      Chapter Seven

      SAPD headquarters sits in the middle of the 200 block of West Nueva, a shadeless stretch of street perpetually lined with squad cars and beat-up American-made vehicles. I parked at the corner in the elevated garage that also serves the historic red brick Bexar County Courthouse. I made my way through the people on the sidewalk—law enforcers, undesirables and what I suspected were law enforcers dressed as undesirables, the percentages teetering in precarious balance.

      I stood just inside the lobby, letting my eyes adjust from the sun, which was already glaring like a floodlight at that early hour. An ATM occupying prime floor space came into focus first. A sign above it read, Sex Offenders Report to the Security Desk. Detective Slaughter had told me to bypass this station, but in that moment I couldn’t bring myself to ignore the armed youngster eyeing me from behind the glass.

      “I have an appointment with Detective Slaughter,” I said.

      He sat straight, neck floating in the collar of his over-starched blue shirt, the look on his face more quizzical than accusing. I imagined him grown into his uniform someday, morphed into one of the oversized guys that climb out of most squad cars.

      “Homicide,” I added, grateful for the urgent legitimacy it conveyed.

      He pointed down the hall to my right. “Have a good day.”

      My heels echoed off the green and white marble floor, turning heads in open doorways as I passed. The tiny hairs on my forearms stood at attention under the scrutiny. Have a good day? I wondered if sex offenders were given the same consideration. And I wondered if a day that included an appointment with a homicide detective even held that potential.

      The hallway ended at another glass booth. A sign resembling a menu hung on a metal door to my left:

      HOMICIDE

      ROBBERY

      SEX CRIMES

      NIGHT CID

      Another sign, this one hand-lettered, warned that parking would be validated only for those having appointments with detectives. I’d left my ticket under the visor, the possibility of such amenities not having occurred to me.

      A tiny woman with a humped back sat at the reception desk, staring over her glasses into a computer screen. I stood with my belly to the window ledge. My presence failed to evoke interest.

      “I’m Dr. Nora Goodman,” I said, when the silence went on past decency.

      “Teresa Rodriguez.” She pointed to her nameplate without turning toward me.

      “I’m here to see Detective Slaughter.” She gave me a blank look. “I have an appointment.”

      “An appointment.” She let the word roll around in her mouth and then yawned.

      For a moment, I thought I might have dreamt it all. Howard’s death. Allison’s suicide. This was followed by a sensation that I might still be dreaming. I cleared my throat. Felt the dryness there. No. It was real. The receptionist’s brown eyes stared. I searched my memory for another bit of necessary information. A password I should know? The word for appointment in Spanish? Appointemiento? No. Fecha? No. Cita. Maybe.

      Teresa stretched her arms up over her head. On the downswing, she brought her hand to rest on a clipboard to her right, studying it as if it had just materialized.

      There were only a few names on the list and even from where I was standing, I could see mine was first. I reached through the window and pointed. “That’s me,” I said.

      Teresa pulled back with a tic-like motion, like my move held a threat. I knew that look from my work in mental hospitals. The look that comes over the face of the nurse on the locked unit when that particular patient approaches. The look that accompanies her jamming keys deep in her pocket with one hand and poising the index finger of the other to punch in the number for Code Red.

      Teresa kept her eyes on me while she picked up her phone receiver. “George,” she said. “Your doctor is here.” Reinforcement on the way, she seemed to relax. “What kind of a doctor are you anyway?”

      “I’m a psychiatrist,” I said.

      “Psychiatrist!” She pointed her finger at me. “Ha!”

      A compact man, pink scalp showing through his red buzz cut, appeared in the doorway. I took him for mid-thirties. He had on a crisp white shirt with sleeves turned up and a banker-red tie. A slick straight scar ran the length of his right forearm.

      Teresa smiled at me and cocked her head. “Hey, do you know Dr. Richard Kleinberg? He’s our consultant. Muy guapo, este hombre.” She fanned herself with outstretched fingers.

      “I know him,” I said. He’s not that good looking.

      “I’m glad you’re getting psychiatric help, George,” Teresa said, noticing him behind her. She leaned toward me. “He needs to see you, Doc. And then the rest of them back there. And if you can’t do nothing with them, have me sent away. This place is driving me seriously crazy.” She laughed, lips held tight, her uneven shoulders bouncing up and down.

      Detective Slaughter shook his head,

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