"I don't say squat without my lawyer, pig."
He chuckled and handed me a cloth. As I wiped my fingers, he took a small camera out of the case and photographed the prints on the tape. Flipping the cartridge over with the pencil, he dusted, raised more prints on the other side, and took pictures of them, muttering, "Might as well do it right." Then he lowered the cassette into a small box lined with cotton, sealed the container, and put it into the case.
"What do you think?" I said.
He looked at my print form, then at the tape, and shook his head. "They always look the same to me. Let the lab deal with it."
"I meant about the tape. Sound like any movie you know?"
He ran his hand over his face, as if washing without water. "Not really."
"Me neither. Didn't the kid's voice have a brainwashed quality to it?"
"More like brain dead," he said. "Yeah, it was ugly. But that doesn't make it real. Far as I'm concerned, it's still filed under B for "bad joke.' "
"Someone getting a child to chant as a joke?"
He nodded. "We're living in weird times, Doc."
"But what if it is real? What if we're dealing with a sadist who's abducted and tortured a child and is telling me about it in order to heighten the kick?"
"The screamer was the one who sounded tortured, Alex. And that was an adult. Someone's messing with your head."
"If it's not Wallace," I said, "maybe it's some psychopath picking me as his audience because I treat kids and sometimes my name gets in the papers. Someone who read about Becky's murderer screaming "bad love' and got an idea. And for all I know, I'm not the only therapist he's contacted."
"Could be. When was the last time you were in the papers?"
"This summer- when the Jones case went to trial."
"Anything's possible," he said.
"Or maybe it's more direct, Milo. A former patient, telling me I failed him. I started going through my files, got halfway and couldn't find anything. But who knows? My patients were all children. In most cases I have no idea what kind of adults they turned into."
"If you found anything funny, would you give me the names?"
"Couldn't," I said. "Without some kind of clear danger, I couldn't justify breaking confidentiality."
He scowled. The dog watched him unwaveringly.
"What're you staring at?" he demanded.
Wag, wag.
Milo began to smile, fought it, picked up his case, and put a heavy hand on my shoulder.
"Listen, Alex, I still wouldn't lose any sleep over it. Let me take these to the lab right now instead of tomorrow, see if I can get some night-shifter to put some speed on. I'll also make a copy and start a case file- private one, just for my eyes. When in doubt, be a goddamn clerk."
• • •
After he left, I tried to read a psychology journal but couldn't concentrate. I watched the news, did fifty pushups, and had another go at my charts. I made it through all of them. Kids' names, vaguely remembered pathologies. No allusions to "bad love." No one I could see wanting to frighten me.
At ten, Robin called. "Hi, honey."
"Hi," I said. "You sound good."
"I am good, but I miss you. Maybe I'll come home early."
"That would be great. Just say when and I'll be at the airport."
"Everything okay?"
"Peachy. We've got a visitor."
I described the bulldog's arrival.
"Oh," she said, "he sounds adorable. Now I definitely want to come home early."
"He snorts and drools."
"How cute. You know, we should get a dog of our own. We're nurturant, right? And you had one when you were a kid. Don't you miss it?"
"My father had one," I said. "A hunting cur that didn't like children. It died when I was five and we never got another, but sure, I like dogs- how about something big and protective?"
"Long as it's also warm and furry."
"What breeds do you like?"
"I don't know- something solid and dependable. Let me think about it and when I get back we can go shopping."
"Sounds good, bowwow."
"We can do other stuff, too," she said.
"Sounds even better."
• • •
Just before midnight, I fashioned a bed for the dog out of a couple of towels, placed it on the floor of the service porch, and turned out the light. The dog stared at it, then trotted over to the fridge.
"No way," I said. "Time to sleep."
He turned his back on me and sat. I left for the bedroom. He heeled along. Feeling like Simon Legree, I closed the door on his supplicating eyes.
As soon as I got under the covers I heard scratching, then heavy breathing. Then something that sounded like an old man choking.
I jumped out of bed and opened the door. The dog raced through my feet and hurled himself up on the bed.
"Forget it," I said and put him on the carpet.
He made the choking sound again, stared, and tried to climb up.
I returned him to the floor.
A couple more tries and he gave up, turning his back on me and staying hunkered against the dust ruffle.
It seemed a reasonable compromise.
But when I awoke in the middle of the night, thinking about pain screams and robot chants, he was right next to me, soft eyes full of pity. I left him there. A moment later, he was snoring and it helped put me back to sleep.
4
The next morning I woke up tasting the metal and bite of bad dreams. I fed the dog and called the Rodriguez house again. Still no answer, but this time a machine fed me Evelyn's tired voice over a background of Conway Twitty singing "Slow Hand."
I asked her to call me. She hadn't by the time I finished showering and shaving. Neither had anyone else.
Determined to get outdoors, I left the dog with a big biscuit and walked the couple of miles to the university campus. The computers at the biomed library yielded no references to "bad love" in any medical or psychological journals, and I returned home at noon. The dog licked my hand and jumped up and down. I petted him, gave him some cheese, and received a drool-covered hand by way of thanks.
After boxing my charts, I carried them back to the closet. A single carton had remained on the shelf. Wondering if it contained files I'd missed, I pulled it down.
No patient records: it was crammed with charts and reprints of technical articles I'd set aside as references. A thick roll of papers bound with a rubber band was wedged between the folders. The word "PROFUNDITIES" was scrawled across it, in my handwriting. I remembered myself younger, angrier, sarcastic.
Removing the band from the roll, I flattened the sheaf and inhaled a snootful of dust.
More nostalgia: a collection of articles I'd authored, and programs from scientific meetings at which I'd presented papers.
I leafed through it absently until a brochure near the bottom caught my eye. Strong black letters on stiff blue paper, a coffee stain on one corner.
GOOD LOVE/BAD LOVE
Psychoanalytic Perspectives and Strategies in a Changing World
November 28-29, 1979Western Pediatric Medical CenterLos Angeles, California
A Conference Examining the Relevance and Application of de Boschian Theory to Social and Psychobiological Issues
and Commemorating Fifty Years of Teaching, Research, and Clinical Work by
ANDRES B. DE BOSCH, Ph.D.
Co-sponsored by WPMC and The de Bosch Institute and Corrective School, Santa Barbara, California
Conference Co-Chairs
Katarina V. de Bosch, Ph.D.
Practicing Psychoanalyst and Acting Director,
The de Bosch Institute and Corrective School
Alexander Delaware, Ph.D.
Assistant Professor of Pediatrics and Psychology, WPMC
Harvey M. Rosenblatt, M.D.
Practicing Psychoanalyst and Clinical Professor of Psychiatry
New York University School of Medicine
Headshot photos of all three of us. Katarina de Bosch, thin and brooding; Rosenblatt and I, bearded and professorial.