The MPD shrink wasn’t the property of the Department, but rather a private-practice type who worked on retainer. The guy – a Dr Alec Kavanaugh – had his offices in Spring Hill, not far from the college, in an office attached to a private residence. The house had been built in the fifties, I figured, under the influence of Frank Lloyd Wright. An anomalous style for Mobile, the home was of dark brick, with a long single-story section at one end, a two-story section at the other. Given the land-scaping and overhanging trees, the house less sat the lot than embraced it.
The office area was an add-on in the same architectural style, just on the far end of the garage. A small sign on the door said, A. Kavanaugh, PhD, Psychology. I took a deep breath and popped a few mints. Despite the provocations of the preceding evening, I had slept solidly and taken my vites and such. I had decided to drink a little coffee now and then, since tea – despite its many organic benefits – showed little ability to open my eyes in the morning.
I was preparing to ring Kavanaugh’s bell when the door opened. I saw a woman in her fifties with…
No, check that. In her early forties or so, the first impression coming from white hair pulled back and bundled away. Slim, average height, a bit more nose than standard, slender lips. Her eyes were deep brown and behind large round glasses with tortoiseshell frames. She wore a dark jacket over a white silk blouse; her slacks matched the jacket.
“You must be Detective Ryder,” the lips said as the woman opened the door wide and gestured me inside. “It’s good to meet you. I’m Alec Kavanaugh. Come in, make yourself comfortable.”
Businesslike, I noted. Voice in professional mode, friend-like overtones with we’ve-got-fifty-minutes underpinnings. The room was large, a few planted palms breaking the space into regions: the desk region, the overstuffed analyst’s chair region, the Freud-inspired couch region. The colors were corals playing against cool gray. I smelled air freshener, pine-bodied, something with a name like Winter Forest. Kavanaugh gestured between the couch – spare and futon-inspired, one end up-angled – and the big fluffy chair.
“Do you have a preference?” she asked.
“I’m a traditionalist. I’ll take the couch.”
I thought it would be amusing to lay the wrong way, with my feet elevated. Doc Kavanaugh didn’t seem to notice, or maybe most of her patients were dyslexic.
She took the chair, turning it to face me through five feet of winter-pine air. She crossed long legs. Her smile was clinically perfect.
“I’d like to ask a few generic questions, Detective Ryder. Or may I call you Carson?”
“No.”
She nodded. “That’s absolutely fine. What brings you here, Detective Ryder?”
“I watch a lot of TV, Doctor. Or so I am told by others.”
“How much television do others find to be too much?”
“The average American watches something like five hours of tube a day, Doctor. I average about two.”
“What do you think that means?”
“Someone owes me three hours.”
She just looked over her eyeglasses. A humorless woman. This might actually be fun, batting around words with a humorless chick shrinkadoodler.
She said, “What did you used to do before you started watching television?”
“Masturbate.”
She said nothing for so long that I had to fill the silence.
“Fish, swim, kayak,” I said. “Run in circles. That was my favorite. Running in tiny little circles until I could bite my tail.”
She was either writing down my answers on a pad, or pretending to. She looked up.
“When did you last do one of those activities?”
“I went fishing with Harry one week ago.”
She would have received an overview of my recent work record from Tom Mason, part of the process. Thus she’d know about us finding the kid. She’d now be wondering why I didn’t mention it, then play the denial card which I’d trump by telling her I’d omitted the kid on purpose, leading to a gotcha! moment.
She seemed to study her notes. Looked up at me. “Any thoughts on why you’ve shifted from physical activities to television?”
“Maybe I’m tired of running in those little circles.”
I heard her shift in her seat as she leaned forward.
“Do you think you have angry moments?”
I sat up quickly, slamming my feet on the floor. I shook my fist at her and screwed up my face in angry disgust.
I yelled, “FUCK YOU!”
She smiled. “Very amusing.”
“Thanks,” I said.
“You can leave now.”
“I uh – what?”
“You can leave now. We’re done here.”
I looked at the clock on her desk; four minutes had elapsed. I was supposed to have forty-six more minutes in my session.
“It was obvious I was kidding,” I explained patiently. “Answering a question about anger by pretending to be angry.”
She stood and walked to her desk, showing me her back. She tossed the notepad on the desktop. Stifled a yawn.
Said, “Don’t let the door hit you in the ass on your way out.”