of town until tomorrow. Brownlee intended to tell him about the letter he’d tossed and the two waiting for him in the magazine. It upset him that he’d tossed the first letter into the fireplace; it had been an unprofessional and uncharacteristic lapse in judgment.
Even if it was a child or an adolescent—anyone who caused the death of an animal, especially a pet that would come up to strangers, trusted humans, and liked to rub against everyone’s legs at the drop of a hat as Noodles had done—a person who would destroy a pet like that would grow up to be very violent, if they weren’t already. It was a pattern of criminal behavior every student learned about in Psych 101.
He’d seen a number of his patients after they’d been incarcerated for doing such things, or worse. It devastated their families. It was as if everyone in the family was placed behind bars.
Even though the Detective said it wasn’t, Brownlee thought this was personal. He just wasn’t sure whether it was against Libby, or him. He would call her; make sure she was somewhere safe. Or… Oh. My. God.
“Yessir?” Detective Bamer looked up from his notes.
“Libby. My daughter Libby.” Brownlee was short of breath from the quick run across the lawn. “This is Libby’s cat. She didn’t come home last night.”
The detective was going to call something into his shoulder radio when Brownlee heard his daughter’s screams coming from inside the house. With a mixture of relief and sadness, he saw her run toward the edge of the pool, where the small, dark body of the wet feline lay on a yellow plastic sheet. It was guarded by a member of San Diego’s finest, one who was way too short for his girth.
“Noodles!” she screamed. It broke his heart. She ran past him, sank to her knees and wailed over the dead animal. “No. No.”
Brownlee was filled with panic and stood watching his daughter unravel, unable to move. She was hysterical. He wasn’t sure what to do.
Carla ran past the doctor on her way to her daughter’s side, giving him The Look.
“Carla,” Brownlee whispered as he caught Carla’s arm and pulled her back to his side. “Where’s she been?”
“She’s been with Him .”
“Shit,” he whispered. It got the attention of the investigating detective.
“Now is not the time, Austin. Would you just shut up for once?”
She was good at showing him non-verbally something he could never say to any of his patients: “Are you out of your mind?”
An hour later, all the police and rescue workers left the Brownlee back yard. A report had been made. Libby had gone upstairs with Carla. He heard the two women talking in whispers, an occasional sob punctuating the echoes.
Like the whispers in my own head. Perhaps he was losing it, after all. He knew many of his patients heard these whispers, commanding them to do things. Unspeakable things. Could one of them have killed Libby’s cat?
After verifying it was after three o’clock—his personal rule governing when he could have his first drink before dinner—he poured himself what he knew would be the beginning of several drinks of the day. Dinner would take care of the first buzz. The second buzz would put him into a comatose sleep, until he woke up sweating at about three in the morning, unable to sleep again. He knew he needed help. As a doctor, he recognized it. As a patient, he was powerless over the grip of the fear immobilizing him.
With his drink in one hand, he sat back down at the table and continued his mail perusal. There were those two smiley-faced letters. He took a sip of courage, inhaled and slit open the first one with a steak knife. He pulled the letter from the envelope. Did he really want to know what it said?
Hell yes. Denial again. He wasn’t afraid of anything. Not yet.
Placing his hands in sandwich baggies so he wouldn’t taint the evidence, he slipped the letter out from the envelope. A single piece of paper. Perfumed. Something familiar about
Even if it was a child or an adolescent—anyone who caused the death of an animal, especially a pet that would come up to strangers, trusted humans, and liked to rub against everyone’s legs at the drop of a hat as Noodles had done—a person who would destroy a pet like that would grow up to be very violent, if they weren’t already. It was a pattern of criminal behavior every student learned about in Psych 101.
He’d seen a number of his patients after they’d been incarcerated for doing such things, or worse. It devastated their families. It was as if everyone in the family was placed behind bars.
Even though the Detective said it wasn’t, Brownlee thought this was personal. He just wasn’t sure whether it was against Libby, or him. He would call her; make sure she was somewhere safe. Or… Oh. My. God.
“Yessir?” Detective Bamer looked up from his notes.
“Libby. My daughter Libby.” Brownlee was short of breath from the quick run across the lawn. “This is Libby’s cat. She didn’t come home last night.”
The detective was going to call something into his shoulder radio when Brownlee heard his daughter’s screams coming from inside the house. With a mixture of relief and sadness, he saw her run toward the edge of the pool, where the small, dark body of the wet feline lay on a yellow plastic sheet. It was guarded by a member of San Diego’s finest, one who was way too short for his girth.
“Noodles!” she screamed. It broke his heart. She ran past him, sank to her knees and wailed over the dead animal. “No. No.”
Brownlee was filled with panic and stood watching his daughter unravel, unable to move. She was hysterical. He wasn’t sure what to do.
Carla ran past the doctor on her way to her daughter’s side, giving him The Look.
“Carla,” Brownlee whispered as he caught Carla’s arm and pulled her back to his side. “Where’s she been?”
“She’s been with Him .”
“Shit,” he whispered. It got the attention of the investigating detective.
“Now is not the time, Austin. Would you just shut up for once?”
She was good at showing him non-verbally something he could never say to any of his patients: “Are you out of your mind?”
An hour later, all the police and rescue workers left the Brownlee back yard. A report had been made. Libby had gone upstairs with Carla. He heard the two women talking in whispers, an occasional sob punctuating the echoes.
Like the whispers in my own head. Perhaps he was losing it, after all. He knew many of his patients heard these whispers, commanding them to do things. Unspeakable things. Could one of them have killed Libby’s cat?
After verifying it was after three o’clock—his personal rule governing when he could have his first drink before dinner—he poured himself what he knew would be the beginning of several drinks of the day. Dinner would take care of the first buzz. The second buzz would put him into a comatose sleep, until he woke up sweating at about three in the morning, unable to sleep again. He knew he needed help. As a doctor, he recognized it. As a patient, he was powerless over the grip of the fear immobilizing him.
With his drink in one hand, he sat back down at the table and continued his mail perusal. There were those two smiley-faced letters. He took a sip of courage, inhaled and slit open the first one with a steak knife. He pulled the letter from the envelope. Did he really want to know what it said?
Hell yes. Denial again. He wasn’t afraid of anything. Not yet.
Placing his hands in sandwich baggies so he wouldn’t taint the evidence, he slipped the letter out from the envelope. A single piece of paper. Perfumed. Something familiar about
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