ELEVEN

I spent Monday and Tuesday incarcerated in the horrible Boston Organization Against Sexual and Other Harassment in the Workplace. Naomi had left me a note to remind me that she was attending a two-day rally for some worthy cause outside the State House and that I should familiarize myself with the monstrous folder she’d left out for me. I was welcome to come find her later that afternoon.

If she thought I was going to sit in this room reading from nine to five, she was nuts. After two hours of trying to digest harassment facts, I decided to start on a social work school assignment I’d been putting off. Our General Practice professor had assigned us the task of detailing our field placement experiences in a journal in which we were free to write about whatever we wanted.

“Day 1,” I wrote. “Am forced to read lurid stories of workplace harassment while confined to poorly decorated minioffice. Management has opted not to include windows in decor so as to keep staff (me and Naomi) diligently focused on work at hand. Have avoided answering calls all morning since cannot recall exact name of organization. Every time the phone rings I must pretend to be so engrossed in literature that have not even heard incessant ringing. Naomi has encouraged me to take on projects on my own and am considering painting office and creating new filing and storage space. (May not be traditional social work per se, but would contribute to staff morale and psychological well-being). Will order tons of stuff from Hold Everything catalogue and write off for tax deduction. Will discuss with Naomi next week. Am pleased that am not forced to work in community mental health center or hospital psych ward, like some peers, and do not have to deal with those with schizophrenia or other pathological disorders. Although, may go cuckoo in this office come May. Naomi seems to be a hands-off supervisor since is not here today or tomorrow—very nice. Looking forward to stimulating field placement this year.”

I left at two on Monday. On Tuesday I left at one, having written Naomi a note to say that on the previous day, I’d looked everywhere for her in front of the State House and that although I hadn’t found her, I’d still stood with other women chanting and holding a sign that read No More! I had, in fact, only passed through the crowd on my way to the T and, unable to determine exactly what the group was protesting, had chosen to participate in a protest of my own by objecting to being stuck in a dimly lit office on a sunny September day.

That afternoon I finally reached Adrianna on the phone. “You found a date at Eric’s funeral!” she screamed with delight. “That’s the Chloe I know and love!” After a short rendition of “Back in the Saddle,” she wanted every detail about Josh. “He sounds amazing. And a chef! Oh my God! I can’t believe we’re going to Magellan. This is going to be unbelievable!”

Now that’s a best friend. No irritating questions about guilt or innocence—she knew that the only concern here was what the hell I was going to wear.

“So,” I begged, “will you come over on Friday and help me get ready? And can I borrow something to wear? The nicest thing I have is the blue dress you made me, but it seems sort of disrespectful to wear it again since that’s what I had on when I, uh, went out with Eric.”

“I’ll be there at four, okay? Um, make it three o’clock. Miraculously, I’m off for the weekend after eleven, so I’ll come over early. Will you be done with classes by then?” she asked.

I said I would, and she promised to bring over an assortment of outfits for me to choose from. Owen would pick us up and drive us to Magellan so we could both drink. At the very least, I’d need some wine to calm my jitters.

Josh had left me a message on Monday to make sure we were still coming. So far, I’d replayed it about forty times, just loving the sound of his voice. When I told Adrianna about the message, she squealed, “Oh, I want to hear it!” I gave her my voice mail password and hung up. A minute later she called back. “He sounds totally dreamy. I can’t wait for Friday.”

“Tell me about it,” I agreed. We said good-bye, and I went back to reading the Social Work Code of Ethics for class on Wednesday. I had Group Therapy first and General Practice after that.

Group Therapy met at eight in the morning, which I thought totally went against the social work code of respecting all individuals (and allowing them to sleep late). But on Wednesday, I managed to show up on time and found an empty seat between two women, one about my age and one who was probably in her forties. I’d noticed that approximately half my classmates were middle-aged, and last week when we were all forced to introduce ourselves in each class, learned that a lot of people were making drastic midlife career changes by coming to social work school. The woman next to me was in another of my classes, and I remembered her telling my Research Methods class last week that she had left her job as a CPA and had a field placement at a homeless shelter.

Professor Buckley entered the room and instructed the class to move their chairs into a large circle, a ploy I hated, a transparent technique meant to encourage participation. So now I couldn’t hide in the back and watch the minutes tick by. Professor Buckley pulled his own chair into the circle and sat back. We all waited for him to start lecturing or leading or doing something. Anything. But he just sat there, expressionless, looking around at his students. We all looked around at each other, wondering if perhaps our professor was having some sort of amnesic episode. Uncle Alan was paying for this?

After another few minutes, the change-of-career student next to me spoke up. “Should we be doing something?” she asked expectantly.

“This is it,” our professor said. “We are doing it.”

Students looked at one another in confusion. Oh, shit. I wasn’t confused. On the contrary, I knew what was going on here. This was supposed to be some sort of self-analytic group where we all “processed” what was happening in the “here and now.” I’d read about this crap in college psych. We were in for a long two hours.

Students began trying to get the professor to elaborate, but his only responses were things like “This is the group,” and “There is no agenda,” statements that did little to appease his annoyed class. I decided that I could sit there and listen to the squabbling or I could do something to make time fly by faster.

“Okay, I know what this is,” I announced with unusual boldness. The class stopped talking and looked at me. “This is some sort of Gestalt therapy thing where we discuss what’s happening right now, the dynamics of the present, and lots of other abstract stuff. How we’re relating to each other, blah, blah, blah.” I was barraged with questions and could only reply that since this was a course on group therapy, we were apparently expected to partake in our own group therapy process right here. Groans and whispers followed. The professor smirked and nodded his head slightly.

“So what are we supposed to talk about?” demanded a man from the other side of the room.

I said, “Anything we want. I think that we determine how to use our two hours.”

We all sat there quietly, waiting for someone to come up with a topic.

“All right,” I started. “How about this,” and I launched into the story of Eric’s murder. I omitted the details of my kissing bonanza with Josh, and in accordance with the Code of Ethics of the National Association of Social Workers, I changed everyone’s name to protect privacy, even though in reporting the murder, the media had used real names. In a flash of genius, I dubbed Eric “Mr. Dough.” Faced with this audience of students, all glued to my every word, I realized that I did need impartial advice. Maybe this group could help absolve Josh of any wrongdoing in Eric’s murder. After I finished, I sat back and waited.

“I heard about this on the news,” someone said. “And they still don’t know who did it, right?”

I nodded.

A tall brown-haired woman spoke next. “I’m Gretchen, and I’m a first-year student here.” Continuing slowly and emphatically, she said, “As a social worker, my first concern would be to address your feelings of loss and find out whether you’re having any symptoms of post-traumatic stress.” Although she seemed like a caricature of the touchy-feely social worker, her sincerity was apparent. She continued. “Death is hard on all of us.”

The rest of the class nodded in sanctimonious agreement, thus tempting me to rebel by arguing the opposite, namely, that death was easy on all of us if we were survivors who hadn’t known or cared about the deceased. Or had outright hated the deceased. Exactly how hard was death on the murderers who caused it? What if they weren’t remorseful at all, but were thrilled with the consequences of their deeds?

Gretchen went on. “And I think that one of the ways we cope is through denial. Denying the grief that we’re experiencing deep down. I wonder if maybe you’ve been so caught up in pleasing Mr. Dough’s parents and everyone else that you’ve failed to take the time to process how this experience has affected you?”

Oops. While I’d been summoning examples to counter the death-is-hard platitude, I’d become the group’s client. Abandoning my silent rebellion, determined not to flunk out of social work school, I fought platitudes with platitudes. “Actually,” I said, “I feel as though I have done a lot of introspective thinking about the impact that finding the body may have had on me. I’ve talked at length with family and friends, who’ve all been terrific. And I feel that I have tapped into the painful reality of man’s inhumanity to man.”

“Person’s inhumanity to person,” someone piped from across the room.

“Person’s inhumanity to person,” I corrected myself. “I have borne witness to one of the world’s atrocities, murder, and have come out stronger and more driven to understand human nature. And whoever committed this murder may not have had access to proper mental health counseling. There may have been some familial dysfunction that caused an intrapsychic break that led this person to kill another.”

Thankful that I’d done my psychopathology reading last weekend, I paused dramatically. “But you’re right. Discovering a murder victim was devastating. So I’m glad I have this forum in which to process my feelings.” I covered my mouth and faked a coughing fit. “And I think that part of my recovery process might be to figure out who the murderer is.”

Gretchen nodded. “It’s important that you have a support system in place to get you through this. So, have you had disturbed sleep, a change of appetite, any generalized anxiety?”

I shook my head. Gretchen looked disappointed at my failure to display symptoms of stress or depression.

“I think we should discuss Mr. Dough’s family,” came a voice from the circle. I looked to my right and was happy to see Doug, my bookstore savior. “Hello, everyone. I’m Doug. I’m a doctoral student, and I’m your TA for the class.” Rather sneaky of him to covertly embed himself in the group as though he were a first-year student. I liked him.

A girl named Julie joined in the discussion. She was a petite twenty-something dressed in all black with tiny black eyeglasses that kept sliding down her nose. “I think it’s clear that Chloe is in good shape emotionally and that her real concern here is who the murderer is. She seems to have the sense that this chef that we’re calling Chef Tell”—she rolled her eyes—“isn’t a likely suspect. She’s highly motivated to clear him of any suspicion since he appears to be a possible romantic interest?” She looked at me.

I nodded slightly.

She pushed her glasses back in place. “So, Chloe, what about Mr. Dough’s parents?”

“You think his parents killed him?” I asked.

“It’s worth exploring. I gather Mr. Dough was well off financially. Maybe they were hoping to get hold of his money.” Julie cocked her head to the side. “If you ask me, I think their behavior following their son’s death was erratic and odd.”

“They certainly were weird,” I admitted.

“And I think we should question their inability to grasp the true nature of your relationship with their son. Why were they so eager to believe that you and Dough were engaged? Why, on the day of the funeral, did they latch on to you so intently? I’m sure they must’ve had close family members who would’ve been more appropriate supports to them.”

“I don’t know why they wanted to believe Mr. Dough and I were a couple. But I didn’t feel like I could tell them the truth. And I don’t think they would’ve believed me even if I tried. They were both so upset that I just went along with it. I mean, what’s the harm?”

“I’m not sure,” said Julie. “Maybe none. If they thought you were engaged to their son, then maybe they needed to be close to the person they thought was closest to their murdered child. If one or both of them is guilty, though, maybe they clung to you to demonstrate their supposed grief. They couldn’t exactly show up at their son’s funeral jumping for joy.”

I saw Julie’s point. And liked it. Better Eric’s parents than my Josh. “So you think they were in his will?” I asked. “And they knew that and they killed him? But they seemed to have plenty of money of their own, so why would they need more?”

Julie had an answer. “It might not be about needing more money but about wanting more. For some people, there’s never enough money. And who knows what their relationship with their son was really like. It doesn’t sound like this set of parents was connected in any meaningful way to their only son. To them, his money may have represented a symbolic way to tie themselves to an emotionally unavailable and distant son. If they couldn’t have him in any appreciable sense, they may have taken what they could from him. His money.”

By now, the group members were on the edges of their seats. “Hm … that’s possible, I suppose,” I said. “And by grabbing onto me, they could at least pretend that they’d had enough of a relationship with their son that they could grieve with his fiancée? In other words, me. One united and loving family mourning a common loss. So they could be completely nuts, huh? Delusional enough to think that murdering him would bring them closer to him?” Scary thought. “Or they’re just peculiar people, of which there are many in this world, and they were overwhelmed by a real loss.”

Doug stepped in again. “And what about the owner? Mr. T?” (That’s what I’d called Timothy.) “Was his divorce friendly? It sounds like it, in fact, was. But what else?”

“What about this?” began a student who introduced herself as Barbara. “I used to work in marketing, and we all know the saying that bad press is better than no press. Mr. T could have murdered Mr. Dough to publicize his restaurant. Although it might seem like having a murder at your restaurant would be bad for business, the opposite may very well be true. Think about how much press coverage you get. The restaurant’s name is all over the news and the papers. And we all know what advertisers do. They bombard you with a product’s name until it’s so ingrained in your head that when you go shopping you’re more likely to buy their product. Same thing here. The more the public hears about the restaurant and the owner, the more likely people are to check it out. Out of curiosity if nothing else.”

People looked to me for a response, but I kept quiet.

Giving up on me, Barbara elaborated on what she’d been saying. “And it depends on what happens now. If Mr. T seems appropriately upset but continues to do interviews and press about this story and acts like he was the victim here, too, it might work for him. Now everyone knows about his restaurant, and if he’s smart, he can turn the focus onto promoting the food, the staff, the location, et cetera.”

“That’s not a bad theory,” I said excitedly. Tim had been all over the news last week, tearfully talking about how wonderful Eric had been. Tim had lied: anyone who’d ever met Eric had known he was obnoxious and arrogant. “Except for the fact that Mr. T honestly just seems like a guy devoted to his restaurant and his food and his customers. He doesn’t seem like a murderer.”

“Of course he doesn’t,” Barbara said. “He has to come off like that. Murderers don’t usually walk around flailing guns and knives about. But your chef, he admitted to not being perfect. He acknowledged that he tried to hinder the competition by giving its chef partial recipes and leaving out ingredients. He was honest. He admitted that he’d done something unfriendly, let’s say, or competitive, but not murderous. Same thing with. Mr. T’s ex-wife, Mrs. M. She sounds tough, but she’s so outwardly tough and true to herself that she has nothing to hide. She’s got control of her life, while Mr. T is having to start fresh after the divorce and is probably more desperate for success. He left a great situation business-wise and has everything riding on this new place. Considering the circumstances, I think Mr. T is acting a little too perfect.”

“I hadn’t thought of that,” I said slowly. “I hadn’t thought of that at all. Mr. T did rush in and come off like a hero when he tried to ‘save’ Mr. Dough. And he got his fingerprints all over everything.”

Professor Buckley finally spoke up. “I’d like to hear how the class feels about the fact that Chloe has dominated this conversation today. What does that say about her and the kind of participant she is in a group setting? Are we, as a whole, resentful?” We all ignored him and continued with our theorizing.

I turned back to Barbara. “But why kill off a potential investor? If he’s so driven to make his restaurant succeed, why get rid of a source of income?” I asked. “Is that less important than publicity?”

“Good question. But you don’t know everything about their relationship. It does sound like Mr. Dough was becoming more of an annoyance than a great investor. He latched onto this group of restaurant owners and their world, and he was intrusive and bossy and generally made a pest of himself. And how do you know that Mr. Dough was really going to invest, anyway? Maybe he was so desperate to work himself into this crowd of people he obviously admired so much that he only pretended he was going to get involved. He certainly doesn’t sound like the most personable person. Maybe he was desperate for friends.”

I nodded enthusiastically. “Now that I think about it, it does seem like, uh, my date had been toying a bit with Mr. T, you know, getting as many free meals as he could, acting like he ran the place, ordering the staff around. And at the same time that he was yabbering about all the money he had to invest … I don’t know, but he also seemed like a pretty serious cheapskate. Maybe he wouldn’t have wanted to part with his precious money if he wasn’t going to be guaranteed a return.”

“Again,” began our exasperated professor, “let’s shift the focus to the current dynamics in this room. To what’s going on right now. What processes are present here?” He looked around hopelessly. “All right, let’s take a break. Everyone back here in ten minutes.”

Doug caught up with me in the hall. “I knew you were going to be trouble when I found you in the bookstore. Good group work today, Chloe.”

I smiled. I was beginning to enjoy Group Therapy. So far we’d cast suspicion off Josh and onto other possible suspects. Unfortunately, when the class resumed, Professor Buckley slipped out of his nondirective role by insisting that we quit talking about the murder, and then a lot of students got annoyed with him, so the remainder of the class was somewhat satisfying in terms of group process but disappointing with regard to exonerating Josh.

Still, the class had been productive. As soon as it ended, I went home to call Detective Hurley and let him know what my social work cohorts and I had come up with.

Detective Hurley miraculously picked up after the first ring. “Aren’t you supposed to be out catching criminals?” I asked him.

“Yeah, theoretically. Only this case isn’t moving as quickly as I’d hoped. Did you remember something that could help?” he asked.

“Well, I’ve been talking to Josh, and I have the impression that he’s your main suspect right now. But I definitely don’t think he did it.”

Hurley groaned. “Let me guess. You and Josh are …” He didn’t bother to finish the sentence.

“Well, yeah. No, not exactly. But listen,” and I ran through my social work class’s alternative theories. “I suggest you look at Tim and at Eric’s parents. I didn’t see Tim during the exact moment Eric was murdered. And his parents are whacked, if you want my opinion. Where were they that night?” I also stressed that Josh had been up-front about sabotaging Garrett’s food, and I dished out some of my classmates’ theories about restaurant promotion, parental pathology in relation to an emotionally distant son, and so forth.

“Chloe, I can’t tell you who to spend your time with, but I’d advise you to stay away from all suspicious parties. You don’t have any connection to these people. Leave it that way.”

But Detective Hurley was wrong. I was connected to Josh.