27

That weekend, I went to the gym with Dr. Gillespie for what we both knew was a therapy session. During my college years, I competed at a national level in kayaking and became a workout fanatic. During law school, I worked part-time as a trainer at a downtown gym. So it came as no shock that the big and somewhat-awkward psychiatrist had a hard time keeping pace with me.

I pushed him pretty hard because he needed it. But that didn’t keep him, while catching his breath between exercises, from asking a lot of questions about how I was doing. I pretty much blew him off while we worked out, but afterward we grabbed bottles of water and sat down in an aerobics room that was not being used. Leaning against the wall, sweat pouring from his body, Gillespie told me to put the ambulance on speed dial.

He asked me again how I was coping with my father’s death, and I told him the truth—not very well. Nightmares about the shooting from twelve years ago were coming back with a vengeance and I had been sleeping very little. In fact, I hated going to bed at night because I knew the nightmares would start. Gillespie said this didn’t surprise him, given the fact that I was still living in the same house where my mother died.

He suggested some sleeping pills, and I politely listened but had no intention of following through. I had always been careful about what I put into my body, and even now, fighting with nearly debilitating sorrow, I was determined not to become dependent on chemicals just to survive.

I eventually managed to shift the conversation away from me and to my theory about Rikki Tate’s death. “I know you can’t discuss your sessions with her, but we do have your notes,” I told Gillespie. “And we’ve learned a few other things.”

I told Gillespie about the recent developments in the case, everything except the fingernail-testing evidence. We discussed the polygraph test, and I told him how I thought Tate passed.

He wasn’t buying it.

“Caleb Tate is a control freak. Even if he practiced beating the machine and had done it four times in a row, he would have known that there was a substantial chance of getting a bad result on live TV, particularly with stakes that high and the adrenaline pumping. He doesn’t strike me as the kind of person who would take that chance.”

I stood and started stretching. First one arm, then the other. I suggested that Gillespie might benefit from a little postworkout stretching too.

He was now seated on the floor and made no effort to move.

“So what’s your explanation for the test?” I asked.

“I’d check out Dr. Feldman,” he said. “I’ve spent a lot of time in my professional career studying the polygraph and even testified about it a few times. If the test is administered right, it’s not as easy to beat as you think. I see three possibilities. Either Feldman did a poor job, Caleb Tate took an uncharacteristic risk, or maybe Feldman is not as much on the up-and-up as his reputation suggests.”

I sat down, spread my legs, and leaned toward my right leg, stretching the hamstring. I liked the way Gillespie was thinking. Like me, he was committed to the victim and therefore wouldn’t even consider the reason some people thought the polygraph test came back negative—because Rikki Tate had died of an accidental overdose.