Trigger Finger by Jackson Spencer Bell Page B

have no idea.”
    He joined me at
the window.   He had eschewed the informal
attire this morning, and now his skinny neck poked out of a white collared
shirt, the inverted noose of a necktie falling down towards his beltline.   He had important obligations today, people to
do, things to see.   Drive over to the
university in Chapel Hill, maybe, give a
lecture to the next generation of psychotherapists so that they could
adequately counsel the next generation of neurotic lawyers.   Dr. Koenig had a life.   When I wasn’t in his office, he probably
didn’t even think about me.   He ran
marathons.   He made organic salads.
    “She’s got
Alzheimer’s,” I said.
    “How do you know?”
    “I don’t,” I
replied.   “It’s a guess.   More than a third of the population has
dementia by her age.   Maybe it’s not
Alzheimer’s, but it’s something.   Pick’s
disease, Lewy Body disease, vascular dementia, could be anything, I guess.   Look at her.   Did I ever tell you I have a little experience in the mental health field?”
    “You didn’t.”
    “I do.   When I first started at Carwood Allison, they
really hadn’t figured out what to do with me yet, so they had me running around
doing all this random shit for this partner or that.   I used to tell people at the courthouse I was
like a hooker, only I had seven pimps.   One of the things they had me do was Guardian Ad Litem work, where you
get appointed by the Clerk of Court to represent the respondent in an
incompetency proceeding.   You know, make
sure nobody’s trying to take advantage of them or anything, look out for their
best interests.”
    The old woman
chewed her popcorn.   A pigeon lit on the
sidewalk at her feet and she stared at it for several seconds before tossing it
one white piece.   The bird gobbled it
whole.
    “I get appointed
to represent these people, and ninety-nine percent of the time, they’re out to
lunch.   They have no idea what’s going
on.”
    I paused, watching
her and thinking.
    “Once upon a time,
I felt sorry for them,” I remarked.
    “And now?”
    “Now I’m jealous.”
    I turned away from
the window and walked to the suede sofa where I’d unburdened myself and gotten
nowhere.   Dr. Koenig took his customary
seat.   He reached into his briefcase and
out came that legal pad, the one where he scribbled notes that he wouldn’t
share with me, notes that ostensibly helped him reach a care plan that he
wouldn’t share with me, either.   I’d
grown tired of not sleeping, but I’d grown tired of this, too, this
talking.   I was sick of talking.
    I was sick of
everything.
    “You’re jealous of
Alzheimer’s patients?”
    I sighed and shook
my head.   You couldn’t say anything
around a shrink.   They’d take it and
twist it, and before you knew it, they’d have you strapped into a straitjacket.   “It’s just an expression.”
    He looked down at
his pad again.   There came a long pause,
as if he had to think hard about how to approach a difficult task.
    Then he asked,
“Have you talked to Allie about coming in to speak with me?”
    “No.”
    “Why?”
    “A number of
reasons.   Main one being, I disagree with
your little theory.”
    “My ‘little’
theory?”
    “That I could have
laid unconscious for longer than I think—that Pinnix and Ramseur had their way
with my wife, my daughter or both and I nailed them on their way out.   I mean, don’t get me wrong; it’s an
interesting point.   And a valid one—the
timing is one of the miracles that night.   But I talked to them about it.   Allie and Abby.   It didn’t
happen.”
    “Do you think that
if someone’s willing to go to the lengths necessary to block something out that
they’re just going to tell you yes, this terrible thing actually did happen to
me?”
    I chuckled and
shook my head.   “No, Doc, I don’t.   But I do think that there’d be some kind of
cue when you confronted them about it.   If a woman gets held down