I kept a low profile well into November—exercising, reading, and taking long hikes—becoming yesterday’s news with each passing day. I kept abreast of the latest about Father James and the Gateway University scandal. As the days passed the number of phone messages diminished, I returned a select few. My few minutes in the limelight faded and that was good. I met with Dr. Peltzer once a week who helped me better understand The Stranger. Everybody has one. How we handle him (or her) defines us. Violence and hate are like ripples in a pond after a stone is thrown into it. As Tony likes to say, “We’re all God’s children.” I’d forgotten that. It’s easy to do these days. Even Father James, who wasn’t born a multiple murderer. We can choose to help those in pain or act like they don’t exist.
One November day I drove downtown to meet with the NASW board and face the anonymous complaint. The board kept me waiting thirty minutes. I was brought into a room before five social workers, four women and one man, who looked down on me from what looked like a judge’s bench.
An older African-American lady sat in the middle of the panel. She wore a dark blue power suit and had lavender highlights in her hair. She put down her yellow legal pad and said, “Thank you for meeting with us today. I will call you Dr. Adams and you may address me as Miss Washington.” She referred to her legal pad. Her lavender hair didn’t move with the rest of her, apparently welded in place by a can or two of spray.
“I see before me extremely serious accusations, charges of such a grave nature that, if true, will result in the immediate forfeiture of your license and practice, Dr. Adams. Do I have your attention?”
I nodded my understanding.
Miss Washington pursed her thin lips. “When, and under what circumstances, did you first meet Kristin Marie Gray?”
I rattled off the date of our session and passed her copies of the dated invoice and my progress note. “As the note reflects, Miss Washington, Miss Gray had decided to divorce her husband before she made the appointment with me. She was not clinically depressed, psychotic, or schizophrenic. Her goal was an amicable divorce and, since he was not present nor did she know how to reach him, I made suggestions, most she’d already thought of on her own. She did not discuss details or her feelings about the separation. She wanted a sounding board, to make sure she was on track. I spent fifteen minutes with her. I didn’t plan on charging her, but she insisted. She paid her co-pay and I submitted a bill to her insurance. She thanked me. She didn’t want to schedule another meeting unless her husband agreed to come. He didn’t. She said she no longer needed my help.”
Miss Washington said, “Did you have any further professional interaction with Miss Gray after the follow-up session?”
I noted the emphasis and said, “No, Miss Washington.” In therapy years, fifteen minutes is an eye blink.
The chairwoman made a harrumphing sound and said, “I see. Did you begin a romantic relationship with Miss Gray and, if so, when?”
“Yes, I did. One year and six days after our first meeting. I was in the Gateway Medical Center cafeteria visiting a colleague who worked second shift. I sensed a set of eyes staring at me from the table next to ours. When my colleague’s break ended and he returned to his floor, the woman approached me, apologizing for staring. She said I looked familiar. She looked familiar to me but I couldn’t place her. She said her name, I said mine, and then we remembered. She asked me to stay for tea. We became friends, found out we had a lot in common, and started to date.”
Two compatible equals. End of story, or so I hoped.
Miss Washington frowned. “Our profession has strict standards about dating clients. Once a client, always a client. Psychologists and MDs can date, even marry, their clients and patients, but not social workers.” She removed her reading glasses and leaned forward. “Did you date Miss Gray when she was married?” Miss Washington asked.
“No.”
“Do you use or deal illicit drugs of any kind, Dr. Adams?”
“No. Where are you going with this, Miss Washington?”
“Did you use drugs when you treated Miss Gray?”
“I did not treat Miss Gray, nor have I ever used or dealt illicit drugs.”
“Did Miss Gray use drugs?”
“Not to my knowledge.”
“When did you last see Miss Gray?”
“About four months ago, when I identified her body in the city morgue.”
For a moment I thought I saw her lavender hair move ever so slightly out of place.
“Excuse me, Dr. Adams. Did you say the morgue?”
“I did, Miss Washington. One of my recent clients, a sociopath, had a fixed, paranoid delusion involving me. He finagled his way into becoming my client. He killed several people before he murdered Miss Gray, then tried to frame me for her murder and kill me. He’s behind bars now, awaiting trial.” Have you been living in a cave?
She covered her microphone as a council member whispered into her ear. “Dr. Adams, would you mind waiting in the hallway while the panel convenes?”
They summoned me back thirty minutes later.
Miss Washington said, “Dr. Adams, this is a highly unusual case and, I believe, requires special consideration. This grievance was not filed by Miss Gray. The complaint was scathing, dramatic, and at times rambling, it mentioned specific criminal activities that did not pan out when we checked your police record. The complainant named you as the cause of Miss Gray’s failed marriage, claimed you used and dealt heroin, and that you forced Miss Gray and other female clients to work the streets to supplement your income and support their drug habits. The letter we received was signed, ‘Respectfully yours in Christ, the Honorable Father James Fogerty.’ Is this your sociopathic client, the man in jail for murder?”
“Yes.” Had he injected me, and if I’d been sent to jail, no one would’ve believed me.
She nodded to the panel. “I am from Jefferson City. I want to thank my St. Louis colleagues for informing me about the uniqueness of this case and your involvement in this tragic local story. On some levels, it places the grievance in a whole new perspective.”
On every level.
She took a sip of water and pursed her lips again. “That said, I still believe you violated our Code of Ethics, Dr. Adams. You made an egregious error in judgment. You probably don’t feel lucky right now, but you are. Had your relationship with Miss Gray ended in a bitter break-up, if she had deeper psychological scars, or harbored a lingering antipathy toward men and wanted to hurt you, she could have made your professional life a living hell. You would have lost everything.”
I did lose everything. Please don’t take my practice too.
“Our profession lost a promising student. You may have helped catch a bad man and attain some degree of notoriety for yourself and our profession, but Miss Gray would be alive today if not for your actions. In light of this new evidence, the extenuating circumstances, and given the source and motivation behind this complaint, it is the decision of this board to allow you to return to practice with our stern reprimand. I’m sorry for your loss. I hope I never see you before this board again, Dr. Adams. You are free to practice. Consider yourself lucky.”
You don’t know half of what I’ve done, Miss Washington. If I’d done everything by the book, Father James and Warren Green would be free and I’d be in jail or dead.
I swallowed my pride and bit my tongue. What she said was true, given our Code. Sometimes it’s best to keep your mouth shut and take your lumps like a man. “Thank you, Miss Washington, members of the board.”
During Thanksgiving week, I saw a few established clients. Bob Vale had returned home from the hospital, progressing in his outpatient physical rehab while I helped him with post-traumatic issues. He faces a series of surgeries to hopefully regain vision in that eye. Before discharge, Nurse Patti turned matchmaker and set him up with a cute young lady volunteer at the hospital. They’ve gone to dinner and movies together. I’ve never seen him smile so much. My efforts to put the dark man Frank DeLuca behind bars failed, but the negative press and public outcry forced him to pull up stakes and move Dolly’s deeper into rural Missouri, away from the metropolitan area. I saw Lisa and Harold Carter in a joint session; they decided to work on their marriage. Rick Arno was back in jail awaiting arraignment on a statutory rape case involving a sixteen-year-old girl. Wolf Paxton and Father James of course had more pressing legal matters than to see me.
The first touch of winter hit early this year; cold northwest temps and winds froze the ground and blew snow flurries that amounted to nothing but nevertheless drove frenzied residents rushing to the stores to buy all the bread, milk, and eggs. Do St. Louisans make nothing but French toast during winter storms?
The day before Thanksgiving I received a surprise visitor at the office.
I didn’t recognize her at first as her lustrous black hair flowed unencumbered past her shoulders. She wore a simple white denim shirt over form fitting tan jodhpurs. She held a lush sable coat in her lap. The first time we’d met her long legs and athletic body remained concealed by a full-length gown. The rosy glow to her cheeks made her look as if she’d just come from a long ride on one of her stallions.
Elizabeth Green extended her hand to me. The left was sans wedding ring.
We offered condolences to each another; I made her a cup of chai tea.
“Before I tell you why I’m here, I want to apologize for my husband. I know he wanders. I’ve heard a litany of rumors involving him with many women, including Kristin. I know what you’re thinking, but I will not go down that path. I don’t know anything about the two of them and I don’t want to know. He married me for my money and my presentability. Warren squandered the lion’s share of his family fortune before we met. At least I had the foresight to insist on a pre-nup. I was unaware of his horrid business venture. I want to repair the damage Warren has done to my name and help the community. That brings me to you.”
“I’m sorry, I don’t follow.”
She crossed her legs and looked me in the eyes. “I’m divorcing my husband. I’m building a comprehensive women’s health care center in St. Louis. The finest, state-of-the-art facility in the bi-state area. It will have medical buildings, a mental health clinic, and a shelter for women and children. I want you to be involved in the planning and organization of the mental health facility. You can be the director, a consultant, or therapist. Whatever you wish, if you’re interested.”
I had received a gracious rejection letter in today’s mail from the CEO of a downtown marketing firm I’d met with in October. My heart wasn’t in the presentation and the CEO chose to go with a cheaper offer from a bigger counseling agency to provide EAP benefits to his company.
One door closes….
“I’m surprised and flattered, but why me?”
“I have many contacts within the mental health field and the police. I’m aware of the break-in that my husband apparently ordered at Kris’ apartment, your visit to our home that night, and of your trial with the police to find her killer. You protected the confidentiality, well-being, and safety of your clients throughout it all. Even the more odious ones. My understanding is that you challenge your clients, but you also go to bat for your people and fight for them. I’m looking for qualified professionals with integrity to run my center. Like you.”
Good thing she didn’t consult Miss Washington or Rick Arno or Wolf Paxton.
She had me investigated and tactfully acknowledged my Channel Four fight with DeLuca over Bob.
“I’m … not back, but I’ll consider it. If I agree, I’d rather be involved in the treatment aspect rather than an administrative or consulting role.” I thanked her and we exchanged cards.
That night I sat in my toasty living room with a fire blazing and printed out a boarding pass for a flight. Next to the printer sat Kris’ unopened fortune cookie from the Chinese delivery we had the night after Warren Green’s party. I put down my hot chocolate and popped open the crinkly cellophane wrapper. I tore the thin folded cookie in half and read the message: Your spirit will live forever among the stars.
Try telling that to Jay Gatsby, Confucius.
With Father James in custody and the case against him taking shape, Kris’ remains had been released to her parents, Joseph and Marie Gray, who had the horrific task of burying their oldest daughter the day after Thanksgiving. I’d talked to Kris’ mom on the phone a few times since the murder, but not as much as I probably should have because we sounded like two open wounds.
I finished boxing her belongings and photos to bring to her parents and younger sisters when I told myself now was the time. I had a decision to make. I’d found something when I moved her belongings from her apartment after the arrest of Father James. The cops had overlooked it; I stumbled upon it by chance only after removing the mattress and box springs and dismantling the bed frame. I stepped on an uneven area of carpet near the baseboard previously covered by the bed. The carpet was pulled up slightly from the tacking strips. Hidden underneath lay a small bound book. I held it now, turning it over in my hands like Wolf with his Fedora. I really wanted, and really didn’t want, to read it.
I’d nearly turned the latch a hundred times—I had caved and played the answering machine tape those nights I really missed her, nights that ended with a visit from The Stranger—but left it unopened. So far.
I told myself that inside may contain more evidence for the police to use against Green or Father James. It could also tell me much more about Kris.
I toyed with the latch. Kris had taught me how to love without condition, without measure. She showed me that love never ends. For that I will never forget her. I’d become too cynical and judgmental, too self-centered, less forgiving, and too hard on my clients and myself. I owe people apologies and need to ask for their forgiveness. There’s a Stranger inside us all. When we think we have it all figured out, life reminds us we’re never too smart or too old to stop learning. Given where I’d found the diary, she’d been hiding it from me.
Should I give it to her family, along with her pictures?
The Stranger drank hot chocolate and opened the latch to Pandora’s Box.
I exposed the pages and tossed it into the fire without reading a word. The corners of the pages curled and turned brown well before the spine of the book broke down. The logs beneath popped and sputtered.
I never thought burning a book would feel so right.
“Keep your secrets, Kris.” I watched the flames reach out and consume the cover. Green light and smoke swirled and rose, drifting up and out of sight, through the chimney and into the darkness, where it would live forever with the stars.