I could tell Dr. Wagner found this confusing, if not ridiculous.
"There are other things," I went on, getting increasingly uncomfortable with the sound of my own voice spinning what seemed such a fantastic web. "E-mails asking calls to be rolled over to my deputy chief, and worst of all, this socalled chat room I'm doing on the Internet."
"I know about that;" he grimly said. "And you're telling me that whoever is doing this Dear Dr. Kay stuff is the same person using your password?"
"It's definitely someone using my password and posing as me."
He was silent, sucking his pipe.
"I'm very suspicious that my morgue supervisor is connected with all this," I added.
“Why?„ "Erratic behavior, hostility, disappearing acts. He's disgruntled and up to something. I could go on.".
Silence.
"When I can prove his involvement," I said, "I'll take care of the problem."
Dr. Wagner returned the pipe to the ashtray. He got up from his desk and came around to where I was sitting. He settled into a side chair. He leaned forward and looked intensely at me.
"I've known you for a long time, Kay," he said in a kind but no-nonsense voice. "I'm well aware of your reputation. You're a tribute to the Commonwealth. You've also been through a horrendous tragedy, and it wasn't that long ago."
"Are you trying to play the role of psychiatrist with me, Sinclair?" I wasn't joking.
"You aren't a machine."
"Nor am I given to wild thinking. What I'm telling you is real. Every brick of the case I'm building. There are just a lot of insidious activities going on, and while it may be true I've been more distracted than usual, what I'm telling you has nothing to do with that."
"How can you be so sure, Kay, if you've been distracted, as you put it? Most people wouldn't even have returned to work for a while-if ever-after what you've suffered. When did you go back to work?"
"Sinclair, we all have our ways of coping."
"Let me answer my own question for you;" he went on. "Ten days. And not a very happy environment to return to, I might add. Tragedy, death."
I didn't say anything as I fought for composure. I had been in a dark cave and scarcely remembered scattering Benton's ashes out to sea in Hilton Head, the place he loved most. I scarcely remembered clearing out his condo there, then attacking his drawers and closets at my house. At a maniacal speed, I removed everything right then that would have had to go eventually.
Had it not been for Dr. Anna Zenner, I couldn't have survived. She was an older woman, a psychiatrist who had been my friend for years. I had no idea what she did with Benton's fine suits and ties and polished leather shoes and colognes. I didn't want to know what happened to his BMW Most of all, I couldn't bear to know what had been done with the linens that had been in our bathroom and on our bed.
Anna had been wise enough to keep all belongings that mattered. She didn't touch his books or jewelry. She left his certificates and commendations hanging on the walls of his study, where nobody would see them, because he was so modest. She wouldn't let me remove the photographs arranged everywhere because she said it was important for me to live with them.
"You must live with the memory," she told me repeatedly in her heavy German accent. "It is still present, Kay. You cannot run away from it. Don't try."
"On a scale of ten, how depressed are you, Kay?" Dr. Wagner's voice sounded somewhere in the background.
I was still hurt and unable to accept that Lucy had never shown up once during all of this. Benton left me his condo in his will, and Lucy was furious with me for selling it, although she knew as well as I did that neither of us could ever pass through its rooms again. When I tried to give her his much-loved, scarred, scuffed bomber jacket he had worn in college, she said she didn't want it, that she would give it to someone else. I knew she never did. I knew she hid it somewhere.
"There's no shame in admitting it. I think it's hard for you to admit you're human," Dr. Wagner's voice surfaced.
My eyes cleared.
"Have you thought of going on an antidepressant?" Dr. Wagner asked me. "Something mild like Wellbutrin."
I paused before I said anything.
"In the first place, Sinclair," I said, "situational depression is normal. I don't need a pill to magically take away -my grief. I may be stoical. I may find it difficult to show my emotions around others, to show my deepest feelings, and yes, it's easier.for me to fight and get angry and overachieve than to feel pain. But I'm not wrapped tight in denial. I've got sense enough to know that grief has to run its course. And this isn't easy when those you trust begin to chip away at what little you have left in your life."
"You just switched from first person to second person," he pointed out. "I'm just wondering if you're aware..:' "Don't dissect me, Sinclair."
"Kay, let me paint for you the portrait of tragedy, of violence, that those untouched by it never see," he said. "It has a life of its own. It continues its rampage, although with more stealth and with less visible wounds as time moves on."
"I see the portrait of tragedy every day," I said.
"What about when you look in the mirror?" he asked.
"Sinclair, it's terrible enough to suffer loss, but to compound that with everyone looking askance at you and doubting your abilities to function anymore is to be kicked and degraded while you're supposedly down."
He held my gaze. I had just switched to second person again, to that safer place, and I saw it in his eyes.
"Cruelty thrives on what it perceives as weakness," I went on.
I knew what evil was. I could smell it and recognize its features when it was in my midst.
"Someone seized what happened to me as the longawaited-for opportunity to destroy me," I concluded.
"And you don't think this is perhaps a little paranoid?" he finally spoke.
"No:' "Why would someone do that, besides being petty and jealous?" he inquired.
"Power. To steal my fire."
"An interesting analogy," he said. "Tell me what you mean by that."
"I use my power for good," I explained. "And whoever is trying to hurt me wants to appropriate my power for his own selfish use, and you don't want power in the hands of people like that."
"I agree;" he thoughtfully said.
His phone buzzed. He got up and answered it.
"Not now," he said over the line. "I know. He's just going to have to wait"
He returned to his chair and blew out a long breath, took his glasses off and set them on the coffee table.
"I think the best thing to do is send out a press release informing people that someone is impersonating you on the Internet, to do what we can to clear this up as much as possible," he said. "We'll put an end to it, even if it requires a court order."
"That would make me very happy," I said.
He got up and I did, too.
' "Thank you, Sinclair. Thank God I have a shield like you:' "We'll just hope the new secretary will be the same," he remarked as if I knew what he was talking about.
"What new secretary?" I asked as anxiety hummed again, this time more loudly.
A strange expression passed over his face. Then he looked angry.
"I've sent you several memos marked private and confidential. Goddamn it! Now this is going too far."
"I've gotten nothing from you," I said.
He pressed his lips together, his cheeks turning red. It was one thing to tamper with e-mail; it was another to intercept the secretary's scaled, classified memorandums. Not even Rose opened anything like that.
"Apparently the Governor's Crime Commission's gotten stuck on the notion that we should transfer your office out of Health and into Public Safety," he told me.
"For God's sake, Sinclair," I exclaimed.
"I know, I know." He raised his hand to quiet me.
This same ignorant proposal had come up shortly after I'd been hired. The police and forensic labs were under Public Safety, meaning, among other things, that if my office fell under Public Safety, too, there would be no checks and balances anymore. The police department, in essence, would have a say-so in how I worked my cases.