Blind Rage (17 page)

“Never heard of her,” he said, coming around his desk and motioning with his hand toward the door. “Please.”

“You haven’t been arrested or charged with anything, Professor. I just need you to answer a few questions.” She stood up. “If another girl turns up missing or dead, your lack of cooperation could look bad.”

“I’ve done nothing wrong.” He walked to the door and continued to motion with his hand. “Please leave. Please.”

She stayed standing in the middle of the office, one hand on her gun and the other on a business card. “Look, Professor. It’s obvious the kids like you.”

He shook his head back and forth. “Don’t try to—”

“You may know something that would help. Maybe one of the dead girls said something telling, something that you wouldn’t recognize as valuable.” She set a card on top of
Flannery O’Connor—Collected Works.
“Think about it.”

He walked into the hallway and turned around, waiting for her to leave. “You should think about talking to these girls’ health care providers. Some of these young women were really disturbed.
Tortured
.”

He used that word a little too frequently, thought Bernadette. She wondered what putting the word
water
in front of it would do for him.

SHE WALKED OUT
of his office and felt his eyes on her until she went down the stairwell. When she got outside, she called Garcia. “I want to pull together a surveillance of this Professor Wakefielder. Tonight.”

Garcia said, “You sure?”

“I just left his office. He was sweating bullets. Pulled the lawyer card on me and clammed up.”

“That sure as hell isn’t enough to get a judge to bless a wiretap.”

“I’m not asking for one. Besides, I don’t want to deal with TSS,” she said, referring to the Technical Support Squad. They were nicknamed the Tough Shit Squad, because that’s what they said when turning down the many requests for their tech talent.

“So what do you want?”

“A vehicle parked out front.” She saw Wakefielder exit Lind Hall and ducked behind a tree to continue watching him. He had a lunch sack in his hand and was headed for the student union across the street. “If he drags a body out of the house over the weekend, it might make for a nice Kodak moment.”

“You really don’t have—”

“Two of the dead girls were his students.
Two.
”

“I’ll work on it,” he said. “I suppose Thorsson and his partner could use a little
us
time in the front seat of a car.”

That made her smile. “Sounds good.”

“What’re you doing now?”

She pulled out the square of paper Garcia had given her. “I made an appointment to see a Luke VonHader. He’s in the neighborhood.”

Chapter 17

THE MAN’S ATTENTION SHIFTED BACK AND FORTH BETWEEN
the agent’s blue left eye and brown right eye. “I should have asked if you wanted cream or sugar.”

Bernadette accepted the mug from the receptionist—he’d introduced himself as Charles—and lowered herself into a chair. “Black is fine.”

“Are you sure you don’t want me to take your coat?”

She cupped the mug between her gloved hands. “I’m still trying to warm up.”

“It is cold out there,” he said. “I wouldn’t be surprised if we got snow before Halloween.”

“That’s Minnesota for you,” she said, offering the gold-standard response to any weather report.

He left her side to dote on two girls, twins, who, along with their mother, were sharing the waiting room with her. The girls couldn’t have been more than ten or twelve. Bernadette wondered why such young things needed a psychiatrist.

“I’ve got a treat for you,” he said, and reached into his shirt pocket to withdraw a pair of lollipops. The girls snatched the suckers. Their mother looked up from her magazine and smiled at Charles. He led the twins and their mother into one room and came back and took Bernadette to another.

“Are they identical?” said Bernadette, trying to make conversation during the walk down the hall.

“I think so,” he said as he opened the doctor’s office door for her. “Twins are so…special.”

“They are,” she said, remembering her own twin. She went over to the couch, sat down, and patted the seat next to her. “Is this where all the action takes place?”

His blond brows arched like startled caterpillars. “Action?”

Bernadette smiled pleasantly. “Do the patients actually recline on this while talking to the doctor, like in the movies?”

“Sometimes, if they’ve had a really bad week.” He nodded toward a straight-backed chair facing the doctor’s desk. “But most patients sit over there.”

She nodded but didn’t say anything to extend the conversation. She wanted the candy man to take off.

He cleared his throat. “Can I get you anything else? Another cup of coffee?”

She shook her head.

“Well…if you’ll excuse me, I have some calls to make.”

“Go right ahead,” Bernadette said. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine by myself.”

As soon as Charles closed the door, Bernadette got up to snoop. Her first stop was VonHader’s desk, but the top was bare except for a telephone, an ink blotter, and a black-and-white family portrait. “A neat desk is a sign of a sick mind,” she muttered to herself.

She picked up the framed photo and examined it. A handsome man, obviously the doctor, was resting on his side on a beach with one leg stretched out and the other bent. An attractive woman in a wide-brimmed sunhat was seated cross-legged in front of his bent knee, cradling a baby. Behind the couple, a toddler girl stood with an arm draped over her mother’s shoulder. They were all in jeans, including the baby, but the man nevertheless seemed stiff and formal. While the others topped their outfits with T-shirts, he was in a dress shirt with buttoned cuffs. The group was smiling into the camera, but the man’s grin appeared forced. Almost pained. Bernadette got the distinct impression that Dr. Luke VonHader needed to lighten up.

She set down the photo and tried pulling open his desk drawers. They were all locked. “Figures.”

She went over to the bookshelves that took up the entire wall behind his desk. Taking down one volume tucked into the middle of the library, she examined the cover.
Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders
. “Riveting,” she said to herself, and put it back. She took down another book.
Homicide: A Psychiatric Perspective
. Finding the title more interesting, she flipped through its pages and put it back.

She went over to a wall on one side of the desk and took in the collection of certificates and awards. A framed cover from the
Harvard Review of Psychiatry
caught her attention, and she examined it closely. He’d authored one of the main articles in that issue. It had to do with distinguishing borderline personality disorder from bipolar spectrum disorder. His degree was from Harvard Medical School.

“Another Harvard man,” she muttered.

He had awards from the National Alliance for the Mentally Ill and the American Psychiatric Association.

The brag wall didn’t provide her with much more than she already had on the guy. After researching Wakefielder and the Washington Avenue Bridge that morning, she’d gathered a bit of background on the psychiatrist. Medical professionals didn’t easily surrender information about patients, and shrinks were especially skittish about privacy. She’d wanted some leverage should this doctor put up a fight.

The office door popped open, and a man wearing a mop of blond hair leaned inside. “Are you in the right room, miss?”

Her eyes shot back to the desktop photo, but she still couldn’t tell if this was the doctor addressing her. Outfitted in rumpled slacks and a long-sleeved rugby shirt, he looked more casual and relaxed than the stiff in the portrait. The face and the hair were similar, however. She went over to him. “Dr. VonHader?”

He stepped inside. “No, I’m Matt.”

Charles came in behind him. “This is your brother’s appointment.”

Smiling broadly, Matthew flashed a set of white teeth and pointed a finger at her. “I’ll bet you’re the new drug rep from—”

“She’s from the FBI,” Charles blurted.

Still smiling, Matthew folded his arms in front of him. “Is that right?”

Bernadette had a feeling she’d get more out of this guy than she ever would out of his brother. He looked younger and wore no wedding band. His leering grin had
player
written all over it. She extended her gloved fingers. “Agent Bernadette Saint Clare.”

“Nice to meet you,” he said, accepting her hand. “What’s this about?”

“Can you tell me anything about Kyra Klein?” Bernadette asked.

“Not really,” he said with a shrug. “Sad story, though.”

The doctor had been sharing with his brother. “Maybe you can answer a few general questions about—”

Charles put his hand on Matthew’s back. “Can I see you for a moment—alone?”

“Excuse me, Agent Saint Clare,” Matthew said, and turned to follow the receptionist out the door.

“I’d like to speak with you later,” Bernadette said to his back.

“Sure,” he said over his shoulder, and disappeared into the hallway.

Candy Man’s large fingers reached into the office and closed the door after them. Bernadette put her ear to the wood but heard nothing. Charles had probably taken Matthew into another room for a stern lecture about talking to strange women.

As she returned to her inventory of the senior VonHader’s office, the door opened again. This time she knew it was her man. Wearing a somber suit and expression, he looked as lighthearted as a veteran IRS agent.

Wasting no time with pleasantries, he walked briskly inside and stepped behind his desk. “Agent Saint Clare?” he asked, dropping a briefcase.

She moved toward him with an extended arm. “Dr. Luke VonHader?”

“Yes.” He clasped her hand briefly and released it. He nodded at the chair parked in front of his desk. “Please have a seat.”

“Thank you,” she said, and lowered herself into the chair.

“I assume you’re here about Kyra Klein,” he said, while pulling folders out of his briefcase and setting them on his desk.

“Yes, I am.”

“I’m confused,” he said, snapping the briefcase closed and shoving it to one side of his desk.

“About?”

He sat down behind his desk. “How is her death a federal matter?”

“I can’t answer that question,” she said. “This is an open case and I’m unable to release any details about it.”

“You realize I’ve already spoken with the Minneapolis police.”

“Their investigation is entirely separate from the bureau’s.”

“Also keep in mind that I was her
psychiatrist
, not her psychologist or therapist.”

“I’m aware of the difference.”

“Are you?” He picked up one of the folders and tapped the bottom of it on his desk. “The police seemed to need an education on the subject.”

“You’re a professional who has completed both medical school and training in psychiatry. You diagnose and treat mental illness. You prescribe meds. Psychologists and therapists are more into the touchy-feely stuff.”

“You get an A plus.” He set the folder down in front of him and checked his watch. “I don’t have much time, so if we could get to it.”

She took out her pen and notebook. “For starters, tell me about—”

“Keep in mind that patient privacy regulations prevent me from saying anything about Miss Klein’s medical issues and treatment.”

“She’s dead.”

“That doesn’t change the fact that she was my patient,” he said.

“I’m sure you’re aware that law enforcement may have access,” she said.

“My understanding is that medical records may be subpoenaed for court cases, but even that has been challenged,” he said. “For example, there was that Supreme Court ruling that federal courts must allow mental health professionals to refuse to disclose patient records in judicial proceedings.”