The Night, The Day (21 page)

chapter 39

M
artin Rosen gathered his composure
as he opened the door. For a multitude of reasons, he had decided that the worst thing he could do at this point would be to confront Benoît. First, all he had were suspicions. Second, a confrontation, valid or not, would be certain to drive Benoît away. And most important, Martin thought, if his suspicions were true, he needed to learn more before deciding on his next step.

“Good morning, my dear doctor,” Benoît said as he rose from his seat.

“Good morning, Jacques.”

The two men entered the office and took their places.

“You look a bit stressed,” Benoît observed.

“No, I’m fine,” Martin responded, angry with himself for not having hid it better.

Benoît appeared unconvinced.

“How are things?” Martin asked.

“I can’t complain.”

Silence.

“So, have you thought about my gift?” Benoît asked.

Martin waited a beat. “Yes, I have.”

“And?”

“I’m still considering it.”

“Good. I guess that means you’re not returning it yet.”

“That’s correct, for the time being.”

Benoît smiled.

Martin now understood that smile more fully than he had before. It was a cat-and-mouse thing with Benoît, a sign of enjoying the competition of who’s going to get whom. Only now, the stakes were higher.

“You know, Jacques, in thinking about the brooch, I’m still not sure why you gave it to me.”

“But I told you.”

“I understand what you said, but it seems such an unusual thing to do.”

“I’m an unusual man.” Again, the smile.

“I can’t help wondering if there isn’t some other reason.”

“There you go, playing psychologist. It must be taxing, not being able to take what anyone says at face value.”

“It has its disadvantages. And its benefits.”

“You think I have some hidden reason for giving you that brooch?”

“I do,” Martin said.

“Well, I can’t imagine what it is.”

Martin observed his patient’s discomfort. “Neither can I.”

“Why do you doubt me?”

“It’s not that I
doubt
you, it’s that I believe that things can often have multiple meanings. Take, for example, your statement that you were giving the brooch to me because I am Jewish. However, I’m also your therapist, meaning we have a special relationship, and that makes me think that there was more to your choosing me than simply my religion.”

“But I told you that I chose you because of my fondness for you.”

Martin sensed anxiety in Benoît’s tone. “Yes,” he said, “you did. Only, it doesn’t make sense to me. The Swiss, in the example you used, stole money from the Jews. Therefore, it’s only right that they make restitution. You, however, were given this brooch as a token for your heroism. One would think you would cherish it and display it proudly, rather than keep it locked in a safe-deposit box for decades and then decide to give it away.” Martin hesitated. “Unless, of course, there’s something else.”

“Something else? And what, my dear doctor, could that possibly be?”

“Guilt, perhaps?”

“Guilt? What kind of guilt?” Benoît asked defensively.

“I don’t know. That’s what I’m trying to find out.”

“What could
I
have to feel guilty about?” Benoît repeated.

Martin noticed a slight tremor in Benoît’s hand that hadn’t been there before. He opted for silence.

“I think you are mistaken, my friend, and frankly, I am offended at your implication.”

“Implication?”

“That I somehow had something to do with that woman and her family’s death.”

“Death? You never said anything about death,” Martin said.

Benoît stared at him. “I was just assuming,” he said softly, shifting in his seat.

“Oh.”

They looked at each other in silence.

“Do you think me an imposter or some such thing?” Benoît asked.

“I don’t know how we got here, Jacques, but I haven’t accused you of anything. I simply raised the possibility of guilt having played a role in your decision to give the brooch to me. That guilt could come from many places, from things you may have done, to things you regret not having done. People often feel guilty, for example, because they believe they didn’t do enough. Regardless of whether a person is truly pure and righteous, he can still blame himself for something that was completely beyond his control.”

Benoît looked off into space, then fixed his eyes on Martin. “I am sorry,” he said, appearing to regain his composure. “I believe I overreacted. Perhaps you are correct. Perhaps there are some things that have made me feel… guilty.”

Martin nodded. “And whatever your guilt may be about, it could be playing a more significant role in your life than you think.”

Benoît offered a curious expression, inviting Martin to clarify himself.

“It may help us understand your suicide attempt a bit better,” Martin said. “I’ve always had my reservations about your explanation for that as well.”

“I’m sure you have.”

chapter 40

R
ichard Schwartz looked up from
his pastrami on rye to the man standing over his table. Although his reaction to being disturbed during lunch would typically be frustration, his curiosity had the better of him.

“How did you know where to find me?” he asked.

“I have my sources,” the man responded.

Schwartz bit into his sandwich. “Good stuff,” he said, “you really should try some.”

“Jewish soul food?”

“Well it ain’t any good for the heart, that’s for certain,” Schwartz said as he delivered a forkful of potato salad to his mouth. “This isn’t bad either.”

“I’ll remember that.”

Schwartz finished chewing, swallowed, and said, “So, Mr. Gifford, what is it that I can do for you?”

“May I sit?”

Schwartz held his hands up as if to say,
whatever
. “I don’t own the place.”

Gifford took a seat.

Schwartz waited for an answer to his question.

“I want to know what kind of protection the doctor has,” Gifford said.

“The doctor?”

“As in Rosen.”

“And what makes you think that Dr. Rosen needs protection?”

Gifford swallowed hard. “He knows.”

Schwartz feigned curiosity. “Knows? Knows what?”

“He knows that one of his patients is the guy you’re looking for.”

“And how does he know this?”

“I told him.”

“Seems you’ve been a busy beaver,” Schwartz said.

“I did what I had to.”

“You did everything I warned you not to do,” Schwartz said, stabbing Gifford with his eyes. “Tell me, counselor, are you aware of the consequences for obstructing a federal investigation?”

Gifford didn’t flinch. “Look, as far as I see it, we’re on the same side here. I’m sorry if you can’t understand why I had to get into this, but Martin Rosen is important to me. If there’s something going on that involves him, I have to know about it. It’s that simple.”

“It’s never that simple.”

“It is for me.”

The two men scrutinized each other.

“So, where do we go from here?” Gifford asked.

“How much do you know?” Schwartz inquired, softening his tone a bit.

“I know that your gig is Nazis. Put that together with the two Israeli goons, and voilà.”

“That’s it?”

Gifford had wondered how far he was going to take this before he had even entered the restaurant. He knew that if Schwartz was to give him anything, he would have to come clean.

“I think it’s the guy who sees Rosen after me,” he said.

“And you figured this how?”

“The Israelis. They were only there at the time I was coming out, the same time the other guy was going in. My guess, they weren’t watching Rosen or the building. They were following the other guy.”

“That’s a nice theory,” Schwartz said.

“I’m glad you like it.”

Schwartz grinned.

“Look, Agent Schwartz, I didn’t come here expecting you to confirm or deny my suspicions, only to find out if Rosen is in any danger.”

“This Rosen fellow, he must be good.”

Gifford nodded.

“Maybe I could use a guy like that.”

“I think we all could.”

“How much does he know?” Schwartz asked nonchalantly.

“What I know.”

Schwartz sipped his Dr. Brown’s Cel-Ray soda. “You really stuck your nose somewhere it don’t belong,” he said.

“Depends how you look at it.”

“I suppose.”

“What about Rosen?”

Schwartz looked Gifford in the eye. “I’m not saying your story has any merit at all, you understand?”

Gifford nodded. He knew he was going to get what he came for.

“What I can say,” Schwartz continued, “is that the guy I’m looking at, I don’t think he’s really a danger to anyone at this point.”

“But if he finds out that Rosen knows who he is, wouldn’t he want to protect himself?”

“Still speaking theoretically?”

Gifford nodded again.

“He might, except for one thing. Our guy knows we’re onto him. My guess is, he even knows we’re watching. He’s smart, and probably figures that the reason we haven’t picked him up yet is because we don’t have enough to make it stick. If I were him, I’d just bide my time till the good guys give up. It would be awfully stupid of him to do anything, much less kill anybody. And one thing this guy ain’t is stupid.”

Gifford considered the point.

“Now let me ask you something,” Schwartz said.

Gifford was afraid that this might happen, but the exchange of information had to be even, those were the rules. “Theoretically?”

“Absolutely.”

Gifford waited.

“In your scenario, what do you think this Rosen guy’s gonna do?”

Gifford considered the question that he’d been pondering all day. “I don’t know.”

“Maybe he won’t do anything,” Schwartz reflected. “Bit of a quagmire for a shrink to be in, don’t you think?”

“Yeah, you’re right about that,” Gifford agreed. “But you couldn’t be more mistaken about the first part. You see, I know Rosen. And while I can’t predict exactly what it is that he’s going to do, I can assure you, he
is
going to do something.”

“Hmm… could get interesting,” Schwartz mused.

Gifford considered the possibilities. If Schwartz’ people really didn’t have enough evidence on the Nazi, who knew what Rosen stirring things up might yield? “It seems, Agent Schwartz, that I may have actually done you a favor,” he said.

“Yeah, sure, I owe you one.”

chapter 41

M
artin Rosen walked over to
the window and peeked through the vertical blinds at the park across the way. “Nice view,” he said.

“You burst in on me in the middle of the day to tell me I have a nice view?” Reddy asked.

Martin turned around and looked at his friend. Reddy was leaning back in his burgundy executive chair, his feet comfortably resting on a redwood desk. “I don’t know why I came here,” Martin said.

“You sound like you have something on your mind.”

“I have a lot on my mind. I just don’t know if you can help me with any of it.”

“You are acting like a patient.”

“Maybe I ought to be one.”

“Maybe we all should. It would probably do us and our patients some good.”

“Amen to that.” Martin made his way to the chair and dropped into it.

Reddy scrutinized his friend’s face. “I sense I am about to hear something unsettling.”

“To say the least.”

The two men looked at each other. Reddy waited for Martin to continue.

“It’s about a patient,” Martin said.

“The same patient who gave you the gift?”

“Good guess.”

“No guess at all. When you told me about that, it was obvious that trouble was coming.”

“Obvious?”

“Call it ex-psychoanalyst’s intuition.”

Martin smiled. Once again, he was trying to figure a way to present his dilemma without revealing anything that might lead Reddy to suspect Benoît. “What would you do if you knew that a patient of yours committed a truly heinous crime?” he asked.

“In the past?”

Martin knew where Reddy was going with this. The law, or Tarasoff Decision, as it was known in the mental health community, stated that a patient’s privilege of confidentiality didn’t apply if the practitioner had sufficient reason to believe that the patient posed a serious physical or life-threatening danger to someone else. On the other hand, if a practitioner becomes aware of a patient’s past acts, regardless of the severity, but has no reason to suspect any specific future act that would entail a serious physical or life-threatening danger to another, the patient’s confidentiality must be protected.

“Yes,” Martin said.

“Then there is no question. You wrote the book on confidentiality, Marty – the law is clear.”

Martin had already entertained the irony of being caught up in a situation in which he was a supposed expert, yet hearing it articulated made it all the more jarring. “What if I didn’t learn this information from the patient himself?”

Reddy looked at Martin askance. “Then how did you come by it?”

“Let’s just say, for argument’s sake, that it came to me by way of another patient.”

“And how did that happen?”

“It’s… a bit complicated.”

“I would say it is.” Reddy stopped for a moment. “Let me ask you this: How can you be sure that the information you have is true?”

“I just know it is.”

Reddy took a deep breath. “What did your patient do?”

“I can’t say.”

Reddy looked miffed. “What do you mean, you can’t say?”

“Look, Ashok, there are some things I can’t tell you. I know that I’m speaking to you in a consulting capacity and that everything we say is confidential. But there are things about this situation that could possibly reveal the identity of my patient.” Martin felt safe enough in saying this; Benoît was one of a number of patients Reddy had referred to him.

“Fair enough,” Reddy said.

“The truth is, I don’t really know
what
he did. All I know is that he was somehow involved in something gruesome. Exactly what his role was, I’m not sure. Though I would imagine it must have been pretty bad.”

“And how do you come to that?”

“By the nature of things.” It was obvious to Martin that, in order to have drawn an FBI and Israeli investigation, Benoît must be suspected of having perpetrated significant crimes.

“That is certainly a vague answer.”

Martin sighed. “Sorry.”

“Tell me, Marty, why do you think your patient hasn’t told you anything himself?”

Martin considered the question. “Maybe he has, sort of. He keeps dwelling on the time period in which the crime was committed, but he distorts and lies. I know he isn’t deluded. In fact, I suspect he wants to come out with it.”

“What about confronting him?”

“You know I can’t do that, at least not directly. What am I supposed to say, ‘Patient X has given me information that implicates you in thus and such’? Aside from the fact that I’ll look like an ass, it’s not very professional.”

“What about indirectly?”

“I already have.”

“And?”

“That’s what leads me to think he’s guilty, he became highly defensive, even had me accusing him of things I hadn’t said.”

“But you do not know for certain?”

“No, I don’t.”

“Well, there is your answer. You are asking about what to do with information that you don’t really have. All you have is hearsay and suspicion. You cannot know anything for sure until your patient tells you, and once he tells you, it is…”

“Protected,” Martin interjected.

“Unless, of course, you feel that he is going to do it again, and he reveals a specific plan to you indicating such.”

Martin’s look said,
I was hoping you’d tell me something I don’t already know
. “That’s not the issue.”

“Then you don’t really have an issue, do you?”

“Not from a strictly
legal
perspective,” Martin reflected.

“Aha! So it is the
moral
question you are grappling with.”

“Precisely.”

“It always gets interesting when morality enters into the equation. We are not supposed to judge our patients, you know?” A tinge of sarcasm.

“Yeah, well, that one’s always been difficult. Here, it’s virtually impossible.”

“Must be something rather disturbing,” Reddy said.

“It doesn’t get worse.”

“Well, at least you see that you can’t be nonjudgmental. Many of the sanctimonious asses in this business would never even admit to that.”

“No one would be able to be purely objective with this.”

They looked at each other again, both realizing that they’d taken this about as far as they could.

“So, what are you going to do?” Reddy asked.

“That’s a good question,” Martin responded.