She Wore Mourning by P.D. Workman (best desktop ebook reader .txt) 📕

Zachary leaned forward. “What did he say?”

She shook her head slowly. “I don’t remember what it was… I don’t think he told us anything specific. Just that… he had to do something to get them out of his head. He didn’t know how long he could keep fighting them.”

Apparently, he had kept fighting them for two more years, alone.

And then what had happened?

Finding the name of Spencer’s therapist turned out to be easier than talking Molly into giving up the OCD Anonymous group. He told the group that Spencer had suggested he go to a doctor that he had seen for a while. A Dr. Bloom…? Or was it Chen? He had gotten so many different recommendations; he couldn’t remember which had been Spencer’s.

“Dr. Snowdon,” Dave supplied. “I went to him for a couple of years too. He specializes in anxiety disorders.”

“Snowdon…” Zachary mused. “I don’t think that was it… are you sure?”

“Yes. He works out of the health center in Vermont Plaza. An old guy, but he knows his stuff.”

“Is he still around? Maybe Spencer is seeing someone new now. Didn’t Snowdon retire?”

Dave grew more vehement. “No. No, I saw him just a couple of weeks ago. He’s still practicing. That’s where Spencer went. I don’t know if he is still seeing him or not, but he was using Snowdon. I’m one hundred percent sure.”

So, Zachary had the name of Spencer’s therapist. Other members of the group had given him other suggestions as well in case Snowdon wasn’t taking any new cases or wasn’t a good fit for Zachary.

Zachary went home, back to Bowman’s couch, feeling good about himself. He was making progress. The case was going to go somewhere; he would soon be able to lay everything out for Molly and the police. He’d had a couple of cookies at the support group, a treat he didn’t allow himself very often.

When morning rolled around, he looked up Dr. Snowdon’s address and credentials. He anticipated that getting in to see Dr. Snowdon and getting any information out of him was going to be very difficult. Who else was going to have better insight into Spencer’s psyche than his therapist?

He camped out in the waiting room after introducing himself to the receptionist. She said that he would not be able to see Dr. Snowdon, who was completely booked with sessions for the day. When Zachary sat down to wait, she shook her head and ignored him for the first hour. After that, Zachary watched her get more and more fidgety, looking at him when she didn’t think he was looking and whispering to other office staff behind her hand. Zachary continued to leaf through magazines, covertly studying the patients who came in for their sessions.

They all looked remarkably normal. At the support group, there had been a few people who were dressed strangely or had an odd personal appearance, and some who were obviously bacteriophobes, constantly rubbing their hands with sanitizer, or wiping down their chairs. At the doctor’s office, everyone gave the appearance of perfect normality. Zachary examined himself. He supposed he had some obsessive-compulsive tendencies himself, but he took care to look normal to other people. He had it down pretty well. No one gave him a second look. Most of the time.

The receptionist was talking to a white-haired, heavyset man in a t-shirt and khakis, making frequent glances in Zachary’s direction. Zachary turned his head and made eye contact with the man he assumed was the doctor. He walked over to Zachary, his creased face showing his puzzlement.

“Mr. Goldman, is it?”

“Are you Dr. Snowdon?” Zachary stood up and offered his hand.

Snowdon shook it. “Yes. I must confess, I’m not sure why you’re here…”

“Could we talk privately?” Zachary glanced around at the other people in the waiting room, who although they didn’t look at him, were all ears.

Snowdon sighed and shook his head. “Follow me.”

He led Zachary to an office. It was pretty much like Zachary expected. A computer and desk. A couple of chairs and a couch. More magazines, fake plants, a few bookcases lined with books, certificates on the walls, a picture of his family on his desk.

Zachary sat in one of the chairs and made himself comfortable. “This is very nice.”

“Now, if you would explain to me what you’re doing here…?”

“I’m a private investigator. One of your clients has come up in one of my investigations, and I wanted to talk to you about him.”

“You must know I can’t do that. Doctor-patient confidentiality applies.”

“I didn’t say I was going to ask you questions about him. I said I was going to talk to you about him.”

Snowdon scowled. “Really, I don’t see how I can help you.”

“One of your patients is Spencer Bond. He has OCD.”

“I can’t give you any information on any patients.”

“Spencer is married to Isabella Hildebrandt, The Happy Artist, who also has OCD.”

“That may be.” Snowdon shook his head. “I am sorry I can’t help you.”

“They have a son named Declan, or they did until he died last summer.”

Snowdon’s gaze sharpened and he didn’t make any objection.

“I know that one of the exceptions to doctor-patient privilege is when you think that someone might harm themselves or others.”

“Yes, of course.”

“If you knew that Spencer was going to harm his child, you would have had to speak up. You would have gone to the authorities and had him committed.”

“That never happened.”

“No. So, I guess you didn’t know ahead of time that he was going to harm Declan.”

“Do you have proof that he had something to do with his son’s death?”

“You didn’t say, ‘Spencer would never do that.’”

“Is that a question?”

“No. I just think that if I was a psychologist, I would have some idea as to whether a patient was capable of something like that.”

“I don’t think anyone could claim to know what their patients were capable of. Not one hundred percent.”

“No. You didn’t think Spencer would hurt Declan, did you?”

Snowdon just looked at him.

“I know