The Best American Mystery Stories 2012 (15 page)

Mr. Potter's eyes snap open like a man tied to train tracks who hears a loud whistle. “I didn't do anything. I didn't hurt her. It was you, I know it was you.”

“Ms. Cook. Tell me what happened to Ms. Cook,” Dr. Bell presses.

Mr. Potter grows more agitated. He waves the weapon like a dowsing rod and Dr. Bell flinches involuntarily.

“I found her that way. Hanging there. From one of those pull-up bars you put in a doorway? She'd tied the sash of her robe around her neck and . . . or so it appeared . . . Maybe someone arranged it to look that way.” Mr. Potter lowers his head.

“Go on, Mr. Potter,” Dr. Bell says, voice thickening. “How did you happen to be at Ms. Cook's apartment—were the two of you . . . friends?”

“I didn't know her. But I loved her.” Mr. Potter's eyes cloud and he looks close to crying. “It was an awful thing to see.”

Dr. Bell says nothing, waits for more. Mr. Potter wipes his eyes and nose on his right sleeve. He looks up, angry now, and points the gun once more in Dr. Bell's direction. Dr. Bell recoils.

“I know what you're thinking, but it wasn't like that,” Mr. Potter says. “I really did love her. From afar, yes, but it was pure and true.”

Bell takes a shot. “You've been following her?”

Mr. Potter reddens again. “Yes, yes. I followed her. I saw her in that supermarket at Burbank and Laurel Canyon, buying vegetables. She looked familiar, and then I realized I'd seen her in a commercial, the one for cat food.”

He waits for Dr. Bell to register a sign of recognition.

“I'm sorry, Mr. Potter. I haven't seen it. I don't watch much television, and when I do it tends to be CNN or MSNBC. I don't recall seeing this cat-food commercial.”

“Ms. Cook was wearing a long-sleeved sweater,” Mr. Potter continues, as if Dr. Bell had said nothing, wasn't even there. “It was beige, almost the color of her hair, and a pair of worn jeans. Those big blue eyes . . . I wanted to say something right away, but I was too shy. So I followed her to her car and watched her load the groceries. I knew it wasn't right, but what was the harm so long as I didn't harass her? Lots of men look at someone like that, all day long I'm sure.”

Dr. Bell just stares back, regaining some leverage.

Mr. Potter looks away again, flustered. “Well, I went back to the grocery store the next day at the same time, and there she was again,” he continues, looking beyond Dr. Bell into some darkened corner. “At first I just followed her around the store, watching her and wondering what it would be like to be with her . . . you know, shopping with her. Going through a day with her.”

Dr. Bell sees an opening. “But that's not where it stopped, is it, Mr. Potter?”

“No, it's not,” Mr. Potter says, mostly to himself. “I looked her up on the Internet, found her on IMDb, familiarized myself with her background. She grew up in Ohio. Went to NYU, where she studied theater. Came out here to follow her dreams, like a lot of us do, right, Dr. Bell?”

“Would you say this was a healthy fixation, Mr. Potter?”

“Is love a fixation, Dr. Bell? I suppose it might be. But I did hope to talk to her one day, so why wouldn't I be prepared? I went back to the supermarket every day at the same time and saw her there. She only ever picked up a few things. Sometimes it seemed like she just did it for the routine. Routines can be comforting, Dr. Bell.”

“They can be, Mr. Potter, but some are more appropriate than others. Did you ever speak to Ms. Cook?”

“I was too shy to approach her in the grocery store. I didn't want to seem like . . . well, I didn't want to intrude. Finally I did follow her to her apartment building—”

“You followed her home?” Dr. Bell cuts in, accusingly.

“Yes, I did, but only because I was so enchanted. I watched her unload the bag of groceries. I sat in my car, telling myself to leave, that this was silly, but then she came right back out again and got in her car.”

Mr. Potter stops, raises his head again, and stares directly at Dr. Bell. “She drove here, to your office, Dr. Bell.”

“So you say, Mr. Potter,” Dr. Bell says, turning in his chair, putting his back to Mr. Potter, “but why should I believe any of this? I don't know you. I don't know this woman you speak of. You're obviously going through something and I'd like to help you—”

“Please face me, Dr. Bell. I can shoot you just as well through that chair and I'll be inclined to do it sooner than later if you don't turn around so I can see you.”

Dr. Bell takes a deep breath and turns back around to face Mr. Potter.

“Okay, Mr. Potter. You say this woman, Ms. Cook, came here?”

“Yes, here. I followed her here.”

“What day was that, Mr. Potter?”

“Tuesday . . . of last week. She was here for nearly two hours,” Mr. Potter says, fondling the gun. “Yet these appointments last fifty minutes, yes?”

“But I don't have a client named Katie Cook. There was no Katie Cook here last Tuesday. I'm positive, but if it makes a difference, I'll check my appointment ledger.”

Dr. Bell flips backward through his calendar to the date in question and runs his index finder down the page. “No, no Katie Cook, or Katherine Cook, Mr. Potter. I'm sorry to disappoint you.”

“But you have an appointment booked with someone named Katherine, don't you, Dr. Bell? Didn't you? Goddammit, didn't you!”

Dr. Bell tells himself to stay calm, show nothing.

“Yes, Mr. Potter. I did book a double appointment, with a woman named Katherine Friedman, a relatively new client. I was just getting to know her. She double-booked because she was going to miss the following week, going to Hawaii or something. Patients do that all the time, book double appointments. You understand, right?”

“I understand that you're telling your story, Dr. Bell. I also understand that Katie Cook was Katherine Friedman's stage name, but I'm sure you know that, don't you?”

“No, Mr. Potter, I don't know that. I don't know anything you're talking about. All I know is that someone whom I suspect is delusional is pointing a gun at me and talking in riddles.”

“What about that night, Dr. Bell? What happened later that night?”

“I don't know,” Dr. Bell replies, feeling an icy ripple up his spine, “but I'm afraid you do.”

“I waited outside in my car,” says Mr. Potter, pointing his gun toward the window facing the street, “for two hours, Dr. Bell, while she was in here with you. Then I followed her home. I parked outside her apartment. I tried to get the courage to walk up and introduce myself but just couldn't do it, you know? I just couldn't. I'm shy around pretty girls. Lots of men are.”

Dr. Bell could see Mr. Potter getting more excited, his pupils dilating now, his hands wavering, one foot tapping steadily.
He's coming down from some kind of meds,
Dr. Bell thinks.
He may already be having some auditory or visual hallucinations.

“May I change the subject for just a moment, Mr. Potter? If you don't mind my asking, are you, or have you been, on psychotropic medication? Are you taking anything for stress, anxiety, PTSD?”

Mr. Potter sneers and grips the gun tightly. “You shrinks are all alike. Don't try to twist things around. That's not going to work with me.”

“I'm sorry I interrupted,” Dr. Bell says soothingly. “Please continue. You were parked on the street outside when Ms. Friedman, or shall we say Ms. Cook, came to see me?”

The door to the waiting room opens, a buzzer sounds. Dr. Bell stiffens in his chair. Mr. Potter raises the gun.

“Wait,” Dr. Bell says. “I haven't scheduled anyone else.”

“Send whoever it is away or I'll kill you,” Mr. Potter says under his breath, leaning forward but not standing.

“If you kill me there will apparently be a witness.”

“You are the murderer,” Mr. Potter hisses. “You killed a patient. How could anyone blame me for killing you?”

“I've killed no one,” Dr. Bell replies with as much even-voiced authority as he can muster. “I'm so sorry, but whatever you're going through here, it has nothing to do with me other than the fact that I happened to treat Ms. Friedman the day you followed her home. They call that stalking, Mr. Potter. Let me help you. Perhaps I can prescribe something that will give you some rest.”

“No more pills!” Mr. Potter yells, almost infantile in his fury. “I'm tired of the damn pills. You guys have a pill for everything.
I saw you.
” Mr. Potter's lips curl and quiver. “I saw you go into that girl's apartment. I saw you run out a few minutes later and drive away. Something about the way you left made me fear for her safety. So I went to Ms. Cook's apartment and found her. You tried to make it look like a suicide, but I know the truth, I know you killed her. What happened, did she threaten to take you to the professional board, cost you your license, tell your wife?”

Dr. Bell rises from his chair, puts his hand on his desk, and speaks slowly. “I honestly don't know what you're talking about, Mr. Potter.
Mr. Martin Potter,
of 3712 Moorpark Street, Apartment 11. But I do know you're very upset right now, and that things feel like they have gone . . . out of focus. Please don't do anything rash when an event such as this is taking place. You're not stable. During these . . . these breaks, things that seem certain to you are not at all what you think. The subconscious is out on parade in full daylight and the normal consciousness—reality, as it were—is in the shadows. Do you understand, Mr. Potter? Do you realize you're just passing through something that won't be here when you come back?”

“No, no. It's not like that. It's not how you say. I have proof. I'm not crazy, Dr. Bell.”

Mr. Potter reaches inside his pants pocket. Dr. Bell clenches and retreats to his chair.

“Proof? Proof of a manic episode?” protests Dr. Bell.

“You were there,” Mr. Potter says. “See?”

Mr. Potter holds up his cell phone, which is playing a short clip of video. Dr. Bell squints. “That simply isn't me,” he says. “You have a blurred image of someone my general size and weight, Martin.” He pauses for a moment. “Wait, and how did you think you knew what I looked like in the first place?”

“You walked her to the outside door, Dr. Bell. I saw you say goodbye to Katie Cook,” Potter says triumphantly. “You hugged her.”

“I often hug my patients, Mr. Potter. It's not something the board necessarily approves of, but it is a natural human response to a developing connection and not out of the ordinary with relatively new clients. Empathy, nothing more. And I resent the implication I'd get romantically involved with someone such as poor Ms. Friedman, or Cook as you know her.”

“Sure. Protest all you want.
I know.
”

Dr. Bell leans forward. “Mr. Potter, what I know is that you are off your meds, you've been stalking a beautiful young woman, and that you're at minimum hiding valuable information from the police. Perhaps this was a suicide. If not, you may even be implicated in a murder. And I still want to know what happened to your leg.”

“Never mind my leg. Dr. Bell, why don't you tell the truth? Your fifty minutes are just about up.”

“I've told you the truth, Martin. I can't tell you any more. I had a new client who fits your description. She booked a double appointment last week before she was to go away on business. And now you say this woman is dead and you are the only person who we know was at the scene of the death and you've admitted to me that you've been stalking her. I'm sure if I wanted to, I could go to the board and find a record of your psychiatric treatment.”

“Wait, wait, you're turning this around on me.” Mr. Potter looks drained, his composure gone. “You, you're the one. I know it.” Mr. Potter raises the gun with trembling hands. It wavers in front of him for what seems like an eternity. Something in Dr. Bell tells him this is it. He ducks behind his desk. A shot rings out and the bullet thumps into the wall above his head. The sound is dull, lifeless, like a staple gun shooting into a piece of wood. It's not at all what he would have expected. Dr. Bell stays down and waits. But there is nothing more, only the sound of Mr. Potter running out the door.

Dr. Bell holds still for a minute. Silence. He thinks about what to do next. Gingerly he opens the door to the waiting room and finds a kid there cowering on his couch, looking like he'd seen a ghost.

“Who are you?” Dr. Bell asks.

“Look . . . I'm, I'm just here to sell magazine subscriptions. What . . . what just happened?”

“Wait here,” Dr. Bell says, locking the front door. “I'm calling the police. Did you get a good look at the guy? Could you describe him? He may be a murderer.”

“Yeah . . . yes. I think I so. Yes,” the kid stutters.

Dr. Bell goes back into his office and picks up his phone to call the authorities. But first he erases the message from Kathe­rine Friedman, the actress who goes by the stage name Katie Cook, the one who'd left yet another rage-filled outburst on his office voicemail in which she said that they must speak about what was going on with them, how she'd had enough of his empty promises, how she was going to Hawaii for a couple weeks, and how she expected him to have told his wife by the time she got back or she didn't know what she would do, maybe
she'd
tell his wife, or maybe she'd kill herself; there was also something else about how the board might be interested in his methods . . . Dr. Bell hadn't listened all the way through. He was familiar enough with these rants by now, familiar enough to know these were no longer idle threats.

All that was left to do now was call the police. Then he could, for the first time in fifty minutes, thank god, or whatever you want to call it, for Mr. Martin Potter.