Authors: Timothy Allan Pipes
"I can’t believe you’d ask such a thing of me, Oliver,” Doctor Alicia Merrill stated as flatly as her Georgian accent allowed. “Information between counselor and client is strictly confidential.” She fixed a disproving eye on him. “You of all people should know that!”
Oliver winced inwardly but continued to stare impassively at his former therapist. “Alicia, you know that’s not what I asked...”
“Oliver,’ she cut in. “After all our time together, do you think I will allow you to hide behind semantics?” Her disapproving stare grew into a frown, causing Oliver to shift uneasily in his seat, as he’d often done under the glare of those clear searching eyes.
Upwards of seventy years old, the doctor’s short but stylish gray hair gave the impression of a trendy grandmother. From their first session on, her large aqua-green eyes had always been ready to flash onto whatever was not completely honest and forthright. Something he’d been unable to do by himself at one time.
Following the previous summer’s fiasco and Linda’s eventual departure, he’d started to break down, bit by bit. After chewing out the Duty Sergeant for the third time in a week, Chief Williams had put him on administrative leave, handed him Alicia’s business card and told him to show up the following Thursday at the address listed on the card. That first session with her had begun what developed into two solid months of twice weekly therapy.
Every Tuesday and Thursday at 4:00pm, he’d shown up to face the tragedy which had broken his marriage, nearly derailed his career and, in general, turned his life upside down. It had not been pleasant but it had worked. During their last session together just two weeks ago, she'd taken him to lunch, pronounced his mental state healthy and told him to stop calling her, 'Dr. Merrill.'
“Okay, okay.” Oliver held up his hands in surrender. “I admit to eventually wanting more than the name of her therapist. But a woman is dead and I have good reason to believe that whoever was seeing her may have important information toward catching her killer.” He looked at Alicia and saw with relief her piercing eyes had lost a measure of their intensity.
“What you say may be true, Oliver dear,” her lilting drawl suddenly became more pronounced. “But it does
not
negate the issue of client-therapist confidentiality.”
“I’m not saying it does, Alicia. I’m simply making the point that, with the approval of Carol’s family, we may find something that will lead us to her killer.” He crossed his legs and fished his notepad out along with a worn looking pen. He scribbled his home and work numbers onto it, then ripped off the small page noisily and passed it to her.
“I’m just asking for the name of her therapist, nothing more,” he said smiling. "And I don’t know of anyone more capable of finding out who that person is than you.
“Flatterer.” She said, returning his smile.
“Guilty.”
Several long seconds passed as Alicia stared at the numbers, then with a nearly inaudible sigh she set the paper aside with a slight trembling of her hand.
“Very well, Oliver, I will find this poor woman's therapist for you, but be aware...” The elderly doctor leaned forward slightly. “Those in the counseling professions feel quite strongly about this subject and more than likely a receptive audience will not be waiting.”
“Fair enough, Alicia, I consider myself warned.” He rose and saw too late the look in her eyes.
“Please, Oliver, sit.” She waved him back toward the seat. “I have a few minutes before my next client comes in and I’d love to know how things are in your life.”
Twenty minutes later he escaped the probing inquiries he'd needed at the trial's end, but which now felt as if somebody were digging into a nearly healed wound. Climbing into his cruiser he radioed PG central.
“Hello, Ollie,” the dispatcher responded. “Glad you called in.”
“Yeah! How come, Tom?”
“John left you a message, said he tried your cell but to no avail," Richardson responded. "Wants to meet you at The Poppy at one-thirty, so you got...” Oliver felt Richardson look at his watch. “...about eight minutes to get there. Said to tell you he had a good meeting with the deceased’s family.” Oliver wondered what Collinson meant by that but knew he'd find out soon enough.
“Okay, Tom, thanks. I’ll be there if you need me and if he calls, tell him I’m on my way. Oh, and one more thing, would you check my box for an address I requested this morning. I’ll call back in for it after lunch.”
“You got it, Ollie, PG central out.”
Oliver replaced the microphone to its cradle and brought the car’s engine to life. Easing out of the typically small Carmel parking lot, he was careful to not duplicate his exit from JenelCo. Once onto Santa Fe however, his speed picked up to where he might have a shot at meeting Collinson on time.
Luck was with him in Monterey and he found a space the first time he cruised down Alvarado Street. A shiny new Accord pulled out less than a hundred feet from where he saw Collinson sitting in the restaurant window. Despite its perverse tendency to add an hour occasionally, the digital clock said he’d made the trip from Carmel in just under ten minutes.
“Cops get ticketed as well, Ollie," Collinson said to him he slid into the booth opposite of him.
Years ago he and Collinson had begun frequenting the aging Poppy Restaurant and for some reason, had continued to patron it. While he'd sat out the investigation process from the Monterey jail, Oliver had had more than a little time to think about such things and he’d reached a epiphany or two. The food at the Poppy was passable on most days, the service adequate and the staff helpful. But he’d realized then that if that had not been true, they would still have eaten there.
The Poppy was
their
place and the staff, especially, Carla, who treated them like anybody else: much as a sister might give you crap, just so didn't get a big head. Opening the yellowed menu, Oliver ignored Collinson’s self-righteous sounding comment and hunted for something he hadn’t eaten twenty times in the last three years. The roast beef sounded best and closed his menu.
“Hello, boys,” Carla said, appearing and placed cold water glasses before them.
“Hi, Carla,” they responded in near unison.
“What’s the special today?” Collinson reopened his menu as if he’d missed some key item.
“Fried chicken with mashed potatoes,” Carla offered with minimal enthusiasm.
Collinson seemed to consider briefly, then closed his menu before handing it to Carla. “The bologna on white with extra pickles and lettuce.”
Carla sighed and said, “Only for you, John." Collinson ignored the sarcasm as she began to write his order, then turned to Oliver.
Oliver stared at Collinson for several seconds, then handed his own menu over to the waitress.
“Roast beef on a Kaiser roll, with a soda." Scribbling briefly, the waitress turned and was gone.
Oliver again looked at Collinson, who after several, seconds noticed his attention.
“What?”
Oliver sat back in frustration. “Why do you do that?”
“Do what?”
“Go through the same old menu every time, then ask what the special is when you’ve yet to order something other than a baloney sandwich?”
Collinson eyed him before answering.
“I am a creature of habit, Peidmont. You’d think you’d know that by now, after working with me for three years.”
With that he pulled out a small note pad from his side coat pocket and flipped through several pages. Oliver decided to drop the issue and again understood why Collinson had never married.
“Carol Montoya grew up in Salinas,” Collinson began, his tone all business now. “However, because of the gang problem there she went to junior high and high school in Monterey, using an uncle’s local address. A good kid overall, she dated around and after a few years of low paying temp jobs, got on at JenelCo. She has no siblings and her parents are well into their seventies.”
“Late baby!" Oliver said in amazement. "Carol’s mother had to have been in her forties when she had her.”
“Forty-seven, to be exact,” Collinson said, consulting a particular page. “Both mother and daughter nearly died during the birth.” The restaurant seemed quieter suddenly and the Detective spoke in somewhat hushed tones. “Needless to say she’s utterly devastated by her daughter’s murder, could barely speak actually. Most of this came from her father and uncle.”
“How bad?” Oliver asked as Carla appeared with their orders.
“Total and complete rage,” Collinson replied as their plates were set before them. “I honestly believe that if either of them were twenty years younger, both would be out hunting for her killer.”
He nodded thoughtfully as Collinson set his note pad aside. “Can’t say I’d blame‘em.”
Without comment, both turned their attention toward the food and for several minutes only the sounds of eating passed between them. Finally, Oliver pushed his plate forward with a half sandwich still on it. A minute or two later Collinson followed his example and snagged a passing busboy to clear the debris.
“Does the family have any idea who might have killed her, an old boyfriend maybe or even a jealous wife?” Oliver pulled a nearby coffee cup toward him, then placed it upright onto its saucer.
“Not a clue. In fact, her father believes the murder was some kind of robbery gone awry and I wasn’t about to tell him she was murdered execution style.” Collinson halted as Carla appeared with a pot of coffee.
“Anything for you, John?” she asked, filling Oliver’s cup.
“No, no, I think that’ll do it, Carla. Just the check.”
Fishing in her worn apron, Carla pulled out the green and white slip, set it down then turned and left.
“Be right back,” Collinson said, sliding from the booth and then walked toward the restroom.
Oliver sipped the hot liquid, savoring the dark flavor and thought of Jenny for several minutes, hoping she was somewhere safe, perhaps even trying to find a new life. Carla reappeared, replenished the half-cup he’d drunk and disappeared without a word.
He added some cream and stared out the window as he stirred the cloudy mixture. Some kids were hanging out across the street, many with cigarettes tucked between their fingers. He watched them for a few minutes before Collinson slipped into the opposite booth, but kept his gaze on the group milling about across the street.
“Monterey cops ever bust kids for smoking?” Oliver motioned toward the youths.
“Rarely. Most know it’s a misdemeanor and don’t even bother to hide it.”
The two watched as an impromptu game of hacky-sack began. The palm-sized leather bag traveled around the constantly shifting circle, bouncing from foot to foot for close to a minute before going astray. Wild hoots erupted from all but the boy who’d missed the ball. This boy slunk over to retrieve the now inert ball and soon the game was in motion once again. Oliver turned his attention back to Collinson.
“So what did you learn about Carol’s engagement to Jesse Beeler?”
“Not a single thing.” Collinson settled back against the booth. “In fact, they’d never heard of him or their engagement plans and I was a little embarrassed to tell them about it. Only a month before, she’d told her mother there was nobody in her life.” For a minute Collinson looked shaken before a frozen stare settled on Oliver. “Do you know what her mother said after I told her about the mystery engagement?” Oliver shook his head, visualizing the grief stricken elderly mother and braced himself.
"She said," Collinson swallowed thickly as he spoke. "'I guess there never will be a wedding now.'”
Oliver felt his gut turn hollow and in a practiced defense, downed the last of his now tepid coffee.
"I thought Richardson said you’d had a good meeting with them,” Oliver said, putting the cup down. “Seems like they didn’t have anything new to tell us.”
“They did," Collinson replied, sipping his water. "Just not in the way we expected. Turns out Carol had a real bad experience over at JenelCo and went from star employee to a total wreck in less than a month, wound up seeing a therapist over it according to her father.”
“Did you get the name of the therapist?”
“No,” Collinson shook his head. “Carol mentioned it only once and they were too embarrassed to ask."
Oliver thought about this and nodded.
“I heard the same from Carol’s boss, though with a different take on the counseling aspect. A friend of mine is trying to find out who was seeing her.”
“Anything more about her work place, about Mrs. McKenny or where she might have gone?” Collinson asked.
“Nothing significant." Oliver hesitated before answering. "But something tells me her husband or his associates don't need to know she's no longer under our protection.”
Collinson nodded grimly, then looked at his watch and slid to the booth’s edge.