“It cracked the lid,” he said. “But the miracle, if you will, was an intense and volatile dialogue he got into with his father, who was imagined to be sitting in an empty chair in the center of the room.
As this dialogue intensified, the therapist sensed what was happening and slipped into the chair and began playing the part of Al’s father. By now Al was so involved he was almost in a trance. He could not distinguish the real from the imagined, and finally his rage broke.”
“How did it manifest itself? Did he become violent?”
“He began to weep uncontrollably,” Dr. Masterson replied.
“What was his ‘father’ saying to him?”
“He was assaulting him with the usual brickbats, being critical, telling him how worthless he was as a man, as a human being. Al was hypersensitive to criticism, Dr. Scarpetta. This was, in part, the root of his confusion. He thought he was sensitive to others, when, in truth, he was sensitive only to himself.”
“Was Al assigned a social worker?”
I asked, continuing to flip through pages and finding no entries made by any therapists.
“Of course.”
“Who was it?” There appeared to be pages missing from the record.
“The therapist I just mentioned,” he replied blandly.
“The therapist from psychodrama?”
He nodded.
“Is he still employed by this hospital?”
“No,” Dr. Masterson said. “Jim is no longer with us–”
“Jim?” I interrupted.
He began knocking burnt tobacco out of his pipe.
“What is his last name and where is he now?” I asked.
“I regret to say that Jim Barnes died in a car accident many years ago.”
“How many years ago?”
Dr. Masterson began cleaning his glasses again. “I suppose it was eight, nine years ago.”
“How did it happen, and where?”
“I don’t recall the details.”
“How tragic,” I said, as if the matter were no longer of any interest to me.
“Am I to assume you are considering Al Hunt a suspect in your case?”
he asked.
“There are two cases. Two homicides,” I said.
“Very well. Two cases.”
“To answer your question, Dr. Masterson, it isn’t my business to consider anyone a suspect in anything. That’s up to the police. My interest is in gathering information about Al Hunt that might assist me in verifying that he had a history of suicidal ideations.”
“Is there any question about that, Dr. Scarpetta? He hanged himself, didn’t he? Could that be anything other than a suicide?”
“He was dressed oddly. A shirt and his boxer shorts,” I responded matter-of-factly. “Such things often lead to speculations.”
“Are you suggesting autoerotic asphyxiation?”
He raised his eyebrows in surprise. “An accidental death that occurred while he was masturbating?”
“I’m doing my best to obviate that question, should it ever be asked.”
“I see. For insurance reasons. In the event his family might contest what you put down on the death certificate.”
“For any reason,” I said.
“Are you really in doubt as to what happened?” He frowned.
“No,” I replied. “I think he took his own life, Dr. Masterson. I think this was his intention when he went down to the basement, and that he may have taken his pants off when he removed his belt.
The belt he used to hang himself.”
“Very well. And perhaps I can clear up another matter for you, Dr. Scarpetta. Al never demonstrated violent tendencies. The only individual he ever inflicted harm upon, to my knowledge, was himself.”
I believed him. I also believed there was much he wasn’t telling me, that his memory lapses and vagueness were patently deliberate. Jim Barnes, I thought. Jim Jim.
“How long was Al’s stay here?” I changed the subject.
“Four months, I believe.”
“Did he ever spend time in your forensic unit?”
“Valhalla doesn’t have a forensic unit per se. We have a ward called Backhall for patients who are psychotic, suffering the DTs, a danger to themselves. We don’t warehouse the criminally insane.”
“Was Al ever on this ward?” I asked again.
“It was never necessary.”
“Thank you for your time,” I said, getting up. “If you would simply mail a photocopy of this record to me, that will be fine.”
“It will be my pleasure.”