“DETECTIVE.” THE woman who enters the room is tall and thin, with ash-colored hair pulled back, wearing black-rimmed glasses and a sleeveless red dress and heels. I try not to stare, because I’m a gentleman.
“I’m Dr. Jagoda,” she says.
I rise from my seat and shake her hand. “Billy Harney.”
She sits across from me. Lush, high-backed leather chairs. Like something in a reading room somewhere. All we’re missing is a fireplace and a snifter of brandy.
She doesn’t just look nice—she also smells nice, her perfume fresh and clean, not overpowering.
On the dark walls: diplomas from Harvard and Yale, certificates from various psychology associations.
“So how does this work?” I ask. “I tell you my mommy didn’t show me enough affection? And then I realize…” I shake my fists and bite my lip, as if in a moment of self-discovery. “I realize that…I’m not a bad person! And then we both have a good cry, and I go find happiness.”
She observes all this with a poker face. No tell whatsoever. “How do you want it to work?”
“The truth?”
“Preferably.”
“I don’t want to be here at all.”
“I never would have guessed.”
“But I have no choice. The department says I gotta see a shrink. Y’know, on account of my traumatic experience and all.”
Her eyes narrow. That psychologist-appraisal thing. “You did this before,” she says. “Three years ago.”
“Three years ago I didn’t wanna do it, either.”
“But did it help?”
“Not really.”
“So.” She claps her hands and leans forward. There is a table separating us, a small round wooden job with a design on it that looks Middle Eastern. “What do you hope to get out of it this time?”
“I hope to get out of here, period,” I say. “No offense. But I don’t need a shrink.”
“Why don’t you think you need a shrink?”
I look at her. “Do you just ask questions? Do you ever make affirmative statements?”
“Do you want me to?” She allows a small curve of a smile, her face otherwise deadpan. At least that time she was joking.
“What kinda name is Jagoda?”
She sits back in her chair, crosses her legs. “Polish,” she says.
“You know how many Poles it takes to screw in a lightbulb?” I ask. “Three. One to hold the bulb and two to rotate the chair he’s standing on.”
“You know how many cops it takes?” she replies. “Three. One to screw it in and two to violate the civil rights of a black guy standing nearby.”
Well played. “You wanna know the thinnest book ever written? The Complete List of Polish War Heroes.”
“Oh, but the Irish have made a real contribution to the world.”
I could mention beer and potatoes, but I don’t.
“How about you just give me a diagnosis and send me on my way?” I say. “Let’s go with post-traumatic stress disorder. Write me up a prescription, and I’ll promise to take my meds.”
She cocks her head. “I’m good at what I do, Detective, but somehow I don’t think I’m prepared to make a full diagnosis after meeting you for five minutes and simply reading your file.”
“I’ll settle for a partial diagnosis, then.”
“Oh, a partial one? That’s easy,” she says. “You’re batshit crazy.”
I actually let out a laugh. The first one I can remember. Okay, she’s good for a chuckle or two, but this is still a waste of time.
I get out of my chair. “See you around, Doc,” I say.
“You’re extremely intelligent,” she says as I’m headed for the door. “Far more so than you’re willing to let on. You’re emotionally wounded, probably from what happened three years ago as well as what just happened, but you bury it all underneath this facade of being the smartass, the comedian. Humor is your shield. You’re hiding. You’ve probably been hiding for so long that you don’t even realize it anymore.”
I don’t respond. I don’t move.
She turns and looks at me, eyebrows raised. I break eye contact.
“You’re broken,” she says. “You know it, and I know it. But I can help put you back together. Who knows? I might even help you get your memory back.”
I look at the door, even reach for it with my hand.
“Go ahead and walk if you want. I won’t stop you. Make a decision, Billy.”
I draw my hand back from the door. I slowly swivel around and look at the shrink. Then I return to the chair and sit down.
“You can get my memory back?”
“No guarantee,” she says. “But I’m your only shot.”