The Blue Journal (8 page)

“Looks like you do all right,” he said.

“Thank you.”

He waited for more, but Dr. Conway was obviously not in a chatty mood. “So then, you've heard about Mrs. Knoebel.”

“I still can't believe it,” she said.

“Mind if I ask how you found out?”

“One of my patients called. Then I had a look at the report on the Internet.”

“You want to tell me which patient called?”

“I'm sorry. That would be privileged.”

Walker nodded. “I need to ask you a few questions.”

“What sort of questions.” She noticed that he had not bothered to take out a pad or pen.

“You were Elizabeth Knoebel's therapist.”

“How did you know that?”

“The police chief called her husband last night, took some preliminary information.”

“I see.”

“You're aware of how she died?”

“Yes,” she said.

“Gunshot to the right temple. Awful thing.” He waited for a reply that didn't come. In her line of work, Walker figured she got to be pretty good at waiting people out. “When was the last time you saw Mrs. Knoebel?” he asked.

“Monday afternoon. In a group session.”

He took another look around the small, homey room. “You hold group sessions here?”

Randi shook her head. “In there,” she said, pointing at the door behind him.

“Uh huh. Was she particularly distraught or upset over anything? Mrs. Knoebel, I mean.”

“I'm a psychologist, Officer Walker.”

“That's
Detective
Walker, but we've already been through that tap dance. You can just call me Anthony, if you prefer that.”

“I'm a psychologist, Detective Walker. People come to see me with problems of one kind or another.”

“Fair enough. Putting aside her usual problems, then, did you notice anything out of the ordinary in Mrs. Knoebel's behavior the last time you saw her?”

Randi Conway stood up and walked to the window overlooking the town's main street. She watched the morning traffic crawl by as she recalled the scuffle between Elizabeth and Fran. She also thought about some of the many other things she could tell him about Elizabeth. “I would like to help you, Detective, I really would.” She turned from the window and faced him again. “As you know, whatever my patients discuss with me is strictly confidential. Elizabeth's death doesn't change that.”

“Look, Doctor, would you mind sitting? I have trouble with people talking down to me.” Walker smiled in apology. “Must be some sort of hang-up I should look into. What do you think?”

Randi returned to her chair without answering.

“Thanks,” Walker said. “You do a lot of marriage counseling, that right?”

“That's the basis of my practice, yes.”

“Your specialty is working with couples—talk with them about their relationships, their personal lives, deal with their children, all that?”

“You've come here prepared, Detective.”

“It's my job. Sorry.”

“You should never apologize for doing your job well.”

Walker grinned. “Is that free professional advice?”

“Call it an observation.”

“That's all I'm asking for. Some observations about Mrs. Knoebel.”

“No, in her case you're asking me for specific information about a patient.”

“Former patient.”

Randi shook her head slowly.

“You say the last time you saw her was in the group?”

“Right.”

“Was that a regular meeting?”

“That group usually meets on Monday. I occasionally saw Elizabeth for private counseling.”

“No regular date for that?”

“It varied. Some of my patients need flexibility in their appointments.”

“Mrs. Knoebel worked, did she?”

“She was a freelance software consultant. But I assume you knew that already.”

“Did you ever see Mrs. Knoebel anywhere else?”

“Besides my office, you mean?”

“Yes, anywhere else.”

“No.”

“Never saw her socially?”

“Never. She was my patient.”

“Never ran into her on the street, in a grocery store, nothing like that?”

“Not that I can recall.”

“It's a small town, Doc.”

“If I see a patient on the street, I generally head in the other direction. Protects their privacy, avoids embarrassment.”

“She ever phone you?”

“Certainly, from time to time.”

“Would she talk about her problems or would she just call to make appointments?”

“From time to time patients call to talk things over.”

“She call at your office? Your home?”

“My office. I also have a line for patients to call me at home in the event of an emergency.”

“What about Mrs. Knoebel? She ever have an emergency?”

“I can't recall Elizabeth ever telephoning me at home.”

“Did you speak to her at any time after Monday's group meeting?”

“No.”

“Did she ever mention that she was having an extramarital affair?”

Randi frowned. “Come on, Detective. You can do better than that.”

Walker offered another smile. “Just doing my job. You said you can't blame me for that.”

“No, I said you shouldn't apologize for doing your job well.”

Walker sat back and rubbed his eyes with the palms of his hands. “No offense, Doc, but this isn't a whole lot of help. I have a dead woman in the morgue and I need to know where to go to start chasing down her murderer. I realize you've got to preserve her reputation—and your own ethics—but I need help.” He looked directly into her soft, brown eyes. “I'm not asking you to tell me any of her deep, dark secrets.”

“That's precisely what you're asking.”

Walker shrugged.

Randi leaned forward, her voice quiet. “Elizabeth was an exceedingly smart woman. Complicated, troubled, no question about it.” She shook her head again, dismissing an unwelcome thought. “Look, Detective, as a human being, not to mention as her therapist, I'd like to give you whatever help I can if it would identify the person who did this. At the same time—how did you put it? I've got to preserve her reputation. And my own.”

Now Walker leaned forward. “What about her husband?”

“What about him?”

“She ever say anything about him?”

Randi laughed, breaking the tension Walker was obviously working hard to create. “We've already established that I specialize in marriage counseling. I think it's fair to say she discussed her husband.”

“Think he could've killed her?”

“No.”

“That's a fast answer, Doctor.”

“That's because I've seen the question coming since I found you waiting in my hallway.”

Now Walker laughed.

“That's what you came to ask me, isn't it? If I thought Stanley Knoebel was capable of murdering his wife?”

“That's one of the reasons,” Walker admitted. “How about this one . . .”

“Is there anyone else she ever mentioned who might have had a reason to kill her?” Randi said.

Walker offered an appreciative nod.

They heard a knock. Randi excused herself, went to the door, and opened it slightly. Speaking to someone out of Walker's view, she said “I'm just finishing up. I'll be with you in a couple of minutes, just have a seat in the group room.” Then she closed the door and turned back to the detective. “That's my next patient.”

“
Next
patient? Am I being analyzed?”

She showed him a slight smile but said nothing.

It was apparent she would not be sitting down again, so Walker stood up. “You still haven't answered my question.”

“Whether she ever mentioned that someone might want to murder her? No, I would remember that.”

“All right. Anything else she might have said about anyone that might be useful, anything at all you can share with me?”

“I'll have to think about this. I'm sorry. I probably need to get some legal advice.”

“What a world,” Walker sighed. “Everybody's got to call their lawyer for everything.” He shook his head. “All right. You look into it and we'll talk again.”

Randi paused. “I'm not sure how far I can go with this, but I feel I can tell you that she never said anything about being in danger.”

“Nothing that might suggest a problem with someone?”

Randi stared at him without responding. That was a different question with more answers than she was willing to contemplate right now. “That's not what I said. I mean that she never expressed any particular fear that someone might want to harm her that way.”

“
That way
? Meaning what? Did she ever say someone might have wanted to hurt her? Other than murder, I mean.”

“No, she didn't.”

“Elizabeth Knoebel had scratch marks on her neck. The coroner says they were made a day or so before the murder. Know anything about that?”

This time, Randi Conway's silence spoke volumes.

Walker nodded. “You know we found Mrs. Knoebel in bed. Naked. Probably late afternoon when someone put that bullet in her brain.”

Randi shook her head. “Is that a question? Because if it is, I really don't know how to respond.”

Walker sighed. “They're working on the autopsy. You never know if someone might have drugged her first or whatever. Anyway, it was sure a strange setup.” He shrugged. “Look, you and I know that in a homicide investigation a judge can sign an order that overrides your confidential privilege. Then you'd be forced to give sworn testimony about anything you know that might help in the investigation. I'm just trying to keep things simple. I'm not interested in hurting your practice or broadcasting any of the woman's secrets, but there may be things you know that have a bearing on this case. Things you may not even realize could be important.”

“I understand. For now it doesn't change my obligation.”

“Right.” Walker decided to give it one more try. “Suppose she had mentioned another guy—just suppose, you don't have to say if she did or not. Would she have given a name?”

There was a long pause. Then Randi said, “No, she wouldn't. She wasn't the type.”

“Wasn't the type. Perfect.” He took a moment to think that one over. “The shooter was probably someone she knew well, maybe even trusted. Someone got extremely close to pull that trigger right beside her head. No sign of a struggle or forced entry into her home. Think about it—someone she knew and trusted.” He watched her. “You might want to consider helping me here.” They were standing face-to-face as Walker reached into his jacket and pulled out several photographs. He held them out to her.

They were graphic, providing several views of Elizabeth Knoebel's corpse, her blood-stained bed, and close-ups of her fatal wound. As Randi looked at them, she was no longer involved in a clinical discussion with a police officer. She felt as if she was in Elizabeth's bedroom, a witness to her violent death. She drew a deep breath, then handed the pictures back to Walker. He gave her his card in exchange.

“You know, Doc, your answers, or should I say your nonanswers, make me think you might just know something you should be telling me. So what gives? What could possibly be so confidential you wouldn't want to tell me if it could help find her murderer?” Walker shoved the photos back in his jacket pocket.

Randi was still thinking about the pictures.

“There's one more thing,” he said, “something you may have considered yourself. Mrs. Knoebel was your patient. She talked to you, confided in you. Whoever murdered her might feel the way I do, that you know enough to help us solve this case. Which means you're a potential liability to the killer. Like I say, something you probably thought of yourself.”

Randi stared at him. “Yes,” she admitted, “I have.” She did not reveal any of the other fears that were already forming.

“Well then, give me a call when you're ready to talk. And if you think any of your other patients might know something useful,” he gestured toward the business card she was holding, “you know how to reach me.”

As soon as he was gone, Randi closed the door and hurried to her desk. She opened the drawer and pulled out the plain white wrapper. It was not sealed. Inside was a single sheet of white paper. On it was typed:

DR CONWAY
I AM SORRY

She read the short message twice, turning the note over to its blank side and back again, as if there might be something else to see, something she was missing. She returned the note to the drawer, placing it beside the other plain envelope she had received just a day earlier. Once again, there was no name or address on the message or the envelope.

Randi slowly closed the drawer and then, before attending to her waiting patient, she sat back and stared straight ahead without seeing.