was modified from the Finnish word velkommen, which was a soft, incredibly cuddly arctic hare, to that his great-great-grandfather had it officially changed to Welcome from the Welsh, Getthehellawayfromhere.
“Thanks for seeing me,” he said this time.
“No problem at all. When a person calls with something to talk about pertinent to a multiple-homicide investigation, well, naturally that person becomes an immediate priority. Now, let’s go chat in my office.”
The sprawling redbrick, one-story station was, according to its cornerstone, just four years old. Stone’s office occupied the entire end of one wing. Two long opposing walls of glass were shielded by drawn blinds, the wall facing his massive oak desk was a bookcase filled with law tomes and other professional volumes. In addition, there were a number of contemporary thrillers, including what appeared to be close to the entire Colors collection of John D. MacDonald, one of Lou’s favorites. The wall behind the desk featured laminated testimonials and a variety of photos of Stone, posing with a who’s who of state and national dignitaries.
Nice digs.
On the trip back to Kings Ridge, Lou had wrestled with a serious moral dilemma: how to discuss his relationship with John and Carolyn Meacham without violating the legally protected confidentiality of the PWO. It certainly seemed from news broadcasts as if Walter Filstrup had already released details of the murderer’s relationship with the organization. It was safe to assume that wily Gilbert Stone knew at least some of Meacham’s history, information probably unearthed beginning the day the physician first moved to the area.
How much Lou should disclose now was the issue. Since he’d signed on as an assistant director of the program, he had protected its clients the way he protected the anonymity of people in AA.
Still, as things stood, the odds of his winning reinstatement from the PWO board of directors were about as long as those of a mule taking the Kentucky Derby. To win out, Lou would need to prove that Meacham’s actions were the result of something that no monitoring program could ever have predicted. And to do that, he was going to need Gilbert Stone’s help.
First, he had to convince the chief of police, and himself, that there might be something wrong at the DeLand Regional Hospital and in his town.
Stone took a spiral-bound notebook from his desk drawer and motioned Lou to a Danish modern chair across from him. “So, let’s have it,” he said.
“Okay,” Lou replied, leaning forward. “Beyond the obvious, I’m beginning to wonder if there might be something really strange going on in Kings Ridge.”
“Son, I’ve been chief of police here for over twenty years. Trust me when I tell you, there’s a lot of strange things going on in Kings Ridge. Now, if by strange, you mean an explanation besides insanity for John Meacham’s rampage, well, I’m all ears.”
“What if I told you that the shootings were a case of flawed reasoning on John’s part, and that there might be a similar pattern of seriously flawed reasoning at work in other people?”
“I’d want to know about it right here, right now.”
It took fifteen minutes to share what Lou had decided he would—his role with the PWO, Meacham’s alcoholism and anger management issues, the verbal abuse of a patient four years ago that had gotten Meacham into hot water with the D.C. board of medicine, and finally the verbal assault reported to the police by his patient, Roberta Jennings.
“First of all,” Lou went on, “there was no alcohol in his system. Tests for other drugs of abuse are pending, but alcohol was always the one for him—the trigger for his outbursts. Secondly, it seems as if he kept repeating ‘no witnesses’ during the attack. What did he mean by that?”
Stone’s expression was puzzled. “We know all this, son,” he said. “Our detectives and the staties are the ones who are conducting the
“Thanks for seeing me,” he said this time.
“No problem at all. When a person calls with something to talk about pertinent to a multiple-homicide investigation, well, naturally that person becomes an immediate priority. Now, let’s go chat in my office.”
The sprawling redbrick, one-story station was, according to its cornerstone, just four years old. Stone’s office occupied the entire end of one wing. Two long opposing walls of glass were shielded by drawn blinds, the wall facing his massive oak desk was a bookcase filled with law tomes and other professional volumes. In addition, there were a number of contemporary thrillers, including what appeared to be close to the entire Colors collection of John D. MacDonald, one of Lou’s favorites. The wall behind the desk featured laminated testimonials and a variety of photos of Stone, posing with a who’s who of state and national dignitaries.
Nice digs.
On the trip back to Kings Ridge, Lou had wrestled with a serious moral dilemma: how to discuss his relationship with John and Carolyn Meacham without violating the legally protected confidentiality of the PWO. It certainly seemed from news broadcasts as if Walter Filstrup had already released details of the murderer’s relationship with the organization. It was safe to assume that wily Gilbert Stone knew at least some of Meacham’s history, information probably unearthed beginning the day the physician first moved to the area.
How much Lou should disclose now was the issue. Since he’d signed on as an assistant director of the program, he had protected its clients the way he protected the anonymity of people in AA.
Still, as things stood, the odds of his winning reinstatement from the PWO board of directors were about as long as those of a mule taking the Kentucky Derby. To win out, Lou would need to prove that Meacham’s actions were the result of something that no monitoring program could ever have predicted. And to do that, he was going to need Gilbert Stone’s help.
First, he had to convince the chief of police, and himself, that there might be something wrong at the DeLand Regional Hospital and in his town.
Stone took a spiral-bound notebook from his desk drawer and motioned Lou to a Danish modern chair across from him. “So, let’s have it,” he said.
“Okay,” Lou replied, leaning forward. “Beyond the obvious, I’m beginning to wonder if there might be something really strange going on in Kings Ridge.”
“Son, I’ve been chief of police here for over twenty years. Trust me when I tell you, there’s a lot of strange things going on in Kings Ridge. Now, if by strange, you mean an explanation besides insanity for John Meacham’s rampage, well, I’m all ears.”
“What if I told you that the shootings were a case of flawed reasoning on John’s part, and that there might be a similar pattern of seriously flawed reasoning at work in other people?”
“I’d want to know about it right here, right now.”
It took fifteen minutes to share what Lou had decided he would—his role with the PWO, Meacham’s alcoholism and anger management issues, the verbal abuse of a patient four years ago that had gotten Meacham into hot water with the D.C. board of medicine, and finally the verbal assault reported to the police by his patient, Roberta Jennings.
“First of all,” Lou went on, “there was no alcohol in his system. Tests for other drugs of abuse are pending, but alcohol was always the one for him—the trigger for his outbursts. Secondly, it seems as if he kept repeating ‘no witnesses’ during the attack. What did he mean by that?”
Stone’s expression was puzzled. “We know all this, son,” he said. “Our detectives and the staties are the ones who are conducting the
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