She didn’t quite frown. “About one of our clients?”
“A man named Eberhardt.”
“Eberhardt? The name isn’t familiar.”
“He had an appointment for two o’clock last Tuesday.”
Ms. Scott opened an appointment book, flipped back a few pages. “Oh yes, now I remember. A Mr. Eberhardt did have an appointment but he called to cancel.”
Which explained the cell phone call at 1:07 that afternoon. “What reason did he give?”
“I really can’t say. May I ask why you’re inquiring about him?”
“He was a friend.” I gave her one of my business cards.
“Was?”
“He committed suicide last Wednesday morning. I’m trying to find out why.”
She said automatically, “Oh, I’m sorry,” and glanced at the card. “But I’m sure we can’t help you.”
“I understand about doctor-client confidentiality, but under the circumstances—”
“No, I’m afraid you don’t understand. Mr. Eberhardt was not a client of Dr. Disney’s.”
“He wasn’t? You mean the Tuesday appointment was his first?”
“That’s correct. We never saw him.”
“When did he make the appointment?”
“The day before. Monday.”
“How? By phone?”
“I believe so, yes.”
“Did he say how he came to pick Dr. Disney?”
“He was referred to us. Most of our clients come to us as referrals.”
“Who referred him?”
“I can’t give you that information.”
“Can you at least tell me why he wanted to see the doctor?”
“No, I can’t.”
“Look, Ms. Scott, I knew the man for thirty-five years and it’s important to me to find out why he killed himself. If you could just give me some idea—”
“That is out of the question.”
Those words weren’t hers; they came from a tall, spare party standing in the right-hand doorway. I hadn’t heard him open the door, so he must have moved as quietly as a sneak thief. I wondered if he’d been standing behind it, maybe with it cracked open, eavesdropping on my conversation with Ms. Scott.
“Dr. Disney?”
“Yes.” He was about forty and he might’ve been craggily good-looking in a Lincolnesque way if it hadn’t been for the fact that he was missing most of his chin. The lower quarter of his face had an incomplete look, as if his chin and jawline had been made of some substance like wax that had melted and run before it had time to solidify. “I’ll have to ask you to leave.”
“If you heard what I said to Ms. Scott...”
He nodded stiffly. “Your reasons for coming here may be valid to you, but not to me. We do not give out information about my clients or my practice. Not for any reason or under any circumstances. Ms. Scott knows that, don’t you, Ms. Scott?”
The rebuke had an arrogant edge, as if he were speaking to a naughty child. She took it without expression, and her “Yes, Doctor” was neutral, but her body language said she didn’t like it much.
I was not going to get anywhere with Disney, so there was no point in arguing. I ignored him and said to the woman, “Thank you for your time, Ms. Scott,” and smiled at her before I turned away. As I went along the hallway, the door back there shut behind the brain-picker with a lot less stealth than it had been opened.
I had the front door open and was starting out when I heard the rustle of clothing behind me, the quick muffled slide of shoes on the carpet. Ms. Scott, wearing a tight, defiant little smile. When she reached me, she said in an undertone, “Dr. Disney can be a pain in the ass,” surprising me a little. “I’m thinking of quitting.”
“Good jobs are hard to come by.”
“Not if you’re skilled at what you do. If I remember correctly, Mr. Eberhardt didn’t give a specific reason for wanting to consult with the doctor. He seemed reluctant, as many new clients are. Last-minute cancelations are common in a psychologist’s practice.”
“Who referred him to Dr. Disney?”
“I believe it was Dr. Caslon at San Francisco General.”
“Caslon. Attached to the staff there?”
“Yes.”
“In what capacity?”
“He is an ER night resident.”
“ER? You’re sure?”
“Certainly.”
“How did he know Eberhardt? How did he come to refer him?”
“I can’t answer those questions.”
“But Dr. Caslon can. Thanks again, Ms. Scott. And good luck, whatever you decide to do.”
“I’ve already decided,” she said, and showed me the tight smile again before she shut the door between us.
First thing at the office I called S.F. General and talked to a nurse in ER. She told me Dr. Caslon had Mondays and Tuesdays off; he would not be on shift again until Wednesday evening at seven. I asked for his home telephone number, saying it was important I get in touch with him. Wasted effort, as I’d known it would be. “We don’t give out that information, sir,” the nurse said in wintry tones. My thanks-and-good-bye went out into dead-line limbo.
I looked up Caslon in the white pages. No residential listing for anyone with that surname. Which meant either that Dr. Caslon had an unlisted home number or that he lived somewhere outside the city. I could have had Tamara run a computer check of the phone listings for all the nearby areas, except that she was busy on another skip-trace and this wasn’t urgent enough to justify diverting her. Besides, for all I knew Dr. Caslon was unlisted wherever he lived and/or was away somewhere enjoying his days off; and in any case I’d have a better chance of getting information out of him if I spoke to him in person. He could wait until Wednesday night.
But that didn’t stop me, once the noon hour rolled around and Tamara went out to lunch and left me by myself, from brooding over the connection between Eberhardt and a night resident physician in the emergency room at S.F. General. It wasn’t likely to be personal; no Caslon listing in his address book, no mention of the name in any of his home or office papers that I recalled. Got drunk enough to hurt himself in some way that had landed him in ER one night? That seemed the most probable explanation, but then why hadn’t somebody mentioned it? At least Bobbie Jean would’ve known...
I hadn’t heard from her, so I called the Hoyts’ number in Ross. Answering machine, but Bobbie Jean was there; when I identified myself after the tone, she cut off the machine and came on the line. Three-minute conversation, none of it enlightening and all of it difficult. Eberhardt’s bank had no record of the five hundred dollar check being cashed, she said. And no, she didn’t know anyone named Dr. Caslon; no, of course Eberhardt hadn’t been injured in any way serious enough to send him to a hospital emergency room or she’d have known about it. I asked her if she would mind calling the bank again in two or three days; she said all right. But her tone, weary and resigned, said she wished I would please just drop the whole thing and leave her be.
I can’t, Bobbie Jean, I thought as I hung up. I wish I could, for both our sakes, but I can’t.
Tamara came back from lunch with the sandwich I’d asked her to get for me. I was chewing on half of it when the phone bell went off. And the conversation that ensued put an end to my appetite, knocked Eberhardt and Dr. Caslon and that mysterious five hundred dollars right out of my head.
A raspy male voice asked to speak to me, and I said he already was, and he said, “My name is Battle, Lieutenant Mike Battle, Sonoma County Sheriff’s Department.”
I didn’t know anybody named Mike Battle. I said, “What can I do for you, Lieutenant?”
“Few questions about one Ira Erskine. Name familiar to you?”
“Yes. A recent client.”
“How recent?”
“Last week.”