“Going inside my uncle’s office,” Moth replied.
The man hesitated. “Are you Timothy?” he asked.
“In the flesh,” Moth replied aggressively.
“Ah,” the man said, “your uncle spoke of you often.” He moved toward them, extending his hand. “I am Doctor Ramirez,” he said. “My practice has been next to your uncle’s for, oh, I don’t know how many years now. I am so sorry for what happened. We were friends and colleagues.”
Moth nodded.
“I did not see you at the funeral,” Doctor Ramirez continued.
“No,” Moth replied, and with a fit of nervous honesty that surprised Andy Candy, he added, “I went on a bender.”
The doctor looked noncommittal. “And now?”
“I hope I’m back under control.”
“Yes. Under control. This is difficult. Sudden great emotional blows. I have had many patients in treatment for years, and then the unexpected topples them when they least expect it. But you know, your uncle was very proud of the sobriety the two of you shared. We would often go to lunch between patients, and he would speak with great pleasure and obvious pride about your progress. You pursue a doctorate in history, I believe?”
The doctor had a half-lecturing way of talking, as if every opinion he voiced should be immediately rendered into a life lesson. In some people, this might have been pretentious, but in the almost roly-poly psychiatrist, it seemed welcoming.
“Working on it,” Moth said.
They were quiet for an instant, before Doctor Ramirez said, “Well, should you want to speak about matters, my door is open.”
“That is kind of you,” Moth replied. This was a psychiatric act of grace-I know you are troubled and the best I can offer is an ear. “I might take you up on that.” Moth thought for a moment, before asking, “Doctor, your office is right next door. Were you there when my uncle…”
Doctor Ramirez shook his head. “I did not hear the gunshot, if that is what you are asking. I had left already. It was a Tuesday, and your uncle was routinely the last person on the floor to leave on Tuesdays. Typically a few minutes before six. On Mondays, I have a late patient. Other days, some of the other psychiatrists on the floor stay a little late. There are only five of us with offices here, so we always try to keep each other’s schedules in mind.”
Moth seemed to process this.
“So, if I had come up to you and asked, ‘What evening is my uncle alone on this floor?’ you, or anyone else, would immediately have replied, ‘Tuesday,’ right?”
Doctor Ramirez gave Moth an appreciative look. “You sound like a detective, not a history student, Timothy,” he said. “Yes. That is correct.”
“Can I ask a personal question, Doctor?”
Doctor Ramirez looked a little surprised, then nodded. “If you like,” he said. “I do not know if I will be able to answer.”
“You knew Uncle Ed. Did you think he was suicidal?”
Doctor Ramirez thought for a moment, his face marked by a processing of memories and suspicions. Moth recognized this. It was a quality his uncle had, a psychiatrist’s need to assess the impact of what he would say, why he was being asked, and what was really behind the question, before responding.
“No, Timothy,” he said cautiously. “There were no overt signs of depression that I saw that suggested suicide. I told this to the police who questioned me. They seemed dismissive of my observations. And the mere fact that I noticed nothing does not mean they didn’t exist, and that Edward didn’t do a better job of hiding them than others might. But I saw nothing to alarm me. And we had lunch the day before his death.”
He paused, then pulled out a pad and rapidly wrote a name and address down. “Ed saw this man many years back. Perhaps…”
The doctor then reached down into his pants pocket, removed a set of car keys, and sorted through them. He deliberately removed one key from the chain and with an exaggerated, theatrical motion, dropped it to the carpeted floor. “Ah!” he said, with a grin. “The spare key I have to your late uncle’s office door. I seem to have misplaced it.”
Then the doctor gestured at the door. “If you are going to break in, would you wait until I leave? I would prefer not to be too much of an accomplice here.” He laughed a little at his obvious lie. “I’m sorry,” he said, slightly apologizing, his tone turning both sad and cautious. “I do not know what you will find inside, but perhaps it will help you. Good luck. I do not ordinarily turn my back on people seeking answers. You can slip the key under my door when you are done.”
Doctor Ramirez turned to Andy Candy, made a small, polite bow, and then retreated down the hallway and disappeared into the elevator.
Moth and Andy Candy sat uncomfortably side by side on the couch that his uncle had used for his few remaining psychoanalytic patients. Behind them was a large multihued photograph of an Everglades sunset. On another wall was a bright, abstract Kandinsky print. One wall had a modest bookcase-medical texts and a copy of The Fifty-Minute Hour. There were three framed diplomas near the desk. But there was little that said much about the personality of the man whose office it was. Andy Candy suspected this was by design. Moth was staring at his uncle’s solid oaken desk, an edgy intensity in his gaze.
“I can’t quite see it,” he said slowly. “It’s like it’s right there, and then it fades away.”
Andy Candy was caught between trying to guess what Moth was eyeing and trying to imagine what he would do next.
“What are you trying to see?”
“His last minutes.” Moth suddenly stood up. “See, he’s sitting there. He knows he’s supposed to meet me and it’s important. But instead he takes the time to write ‘My fault’ on a prescription pad, reach for a gun that wasn’t the one he’d owned for years, and shoot himself. That’s what the cops and Susan the prosecutor want to say happened.”
Moth paced around, approaching the desk, maneuvering past a single armchair for nonanalytic patients. He nearly choked when he saw the dried maroon bloodstains on the beige carpet and the wooden desktop. When he spoke, his voice was a little shaky. “Andy, what I see is someone in that chair, with a gun. Making my uncle do…” Moth stopped short.
“Do what?”
“I don’t know.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know.”
Andy Candy stood up. “Moth, we’ve got to leave,” she said softly. “Every second you stay here, it’s just going to make it harder for you.”
He nodded. She was right.
Andy Candy made a small wave toward the door, as if to encourage Moth to lead the way. But suddenly an idea occurred to her. She hesitated a second before speaking.
“Moth,” she said slowly, “the police and Miss Terry-they would have to be certain this wasn’t a killing, right? Even with the gun right there on the floor next to your uncle. So, first thing, they would check out all the usual suspects. The usual suspects, just like the movie name. That’s what she said they did: They went over his patient list-probably his ex-patient list, too-talked to friends, neighbors, see if he had any enemies, right? See if there was someone threatening him. They made sure he didn’t owe money to gamblers or drug dealers. That’s what she said, right? They would have ruled out all sorts of things before coming to their conclusion, right? Right?”
She repeated this last word with an icy determination.
“Yes,” Moth said. “Right and right.”
“So, if it is what you think it is and what they don’t think it is, we have to look in the places they didn’t look,” Andy Candy said. “That’s the only thing that makes sense.”
She was a little surprised at her logic. Or antilogic. Look in the places that don’t make sense. She wondered where this idea had come from. She gestured toward the door again.