JONATHAN KELLERMAN. THERAPY

Diaz fiddled with a dial and the bird sounds amplified.

Gull said, “Thanks for seeing me, Albin.” The speaker turned his voice tinny.

Larsen said, “You sounded upset.”

Gull: “I am, Albin.”

Larsen crossed his legs and glanced over at the children. Two kids remained. One maid.

Diaz fiddled with another dial, and his camera zoomed in on Larsen’s face. Passive. Impassive.

Diaz backed up, captured both men.

Gull: “The police have been questioning me, Albin.”

Larsen: “Really.”

Gull: “You don’t sound surprised.”

Larsen: “I assume it’s about Mary.”

Gull: “It started out about Mary, but now they’re asking questions that confuse me, Albin. About us—our group, our billing.”

Silence.

“Albin?”

“Go on,” said Larsen.

“About Sentries for Justice, Albin.”

Milo said, “Guy thinks he’s an actor.”

I said, “Today, he is.”

Albin Larsen still hadn’t responded.

We listened to birdcalls, a three-year-old’s shout.

Gull said, “Albin?”

Larsen said, “Really.”

Gull: “Really.”

Larsen: “What kinds of questions?”

Gull: “Whose idea was the program, how’d we hear about it, how long has it been going on, did all three of us participate. Then they got personal, and that’s what’s bothering me. How much I, personally, billed, could I verify the figures. Did Mary or you ever talk to me about intentional overbilling. They were really gung ho, Albin. Fascistic. Sounds to me like they suspect some kind of fraud. Is there something you and Mary never told me about?”

Silence. Eleven seconds.

Larsen said, “Who asked these questions?”

“The same cops who were by the first time, along with some idiot from Medi-Cal.”

Silence. Gull moved closer to Larsen. Larsen didn’t budge.

Sam Diaz said, “This one’s cagey. Bet he’s dry as a bone.”

Fourteen seconds; fifteen, sixteen.

Gull: “Is something going on, Albin? Because if there is, I need to know. I’m the one they’re harassing, and I don’t know what to tell them. Is there something I should know?”

Larsen: “Why would there be?”

Gull: “They—they seem so sure of themselves. As if they’re really onto something. I know you and Mary wanted me to see more Sentries patients, but I told you, I really wasn’t into it. So why would they be bothering me? I had nothing to do with the program.”

Silence. Nine seconds.

Gull: “Right, Albin?”

Larsen: “Maybe they think you’re knowledgeable.”

Gull: “I’m not.”

Larsen: “Then you should have nothing to worry about.”

Gull: “Albin, is there something to worry about?”

Larsen: “What did you tell them about your billings?”

Gull: “That I billed for the few patients I saw, and that was it. They were skeptical. I could see it in their faces. Just about came out and called me a liar and said they found what I was telling them hard to believe. Even though it was true—you know that, Albin.”

Eleven seconds.

Gull: “Come on, Albin. Is there some billing thing I don’t know about?”

Larsen: “This is really upsetting you.”

Gull: “Don’t play shrink with me, Albin.”

Larsen placed a palm over his heart and smiled faintly.

Gull: “I ask you a straightforward question, and you come back with ‘This is really upsetting you.’ I’ve been through the wringer with those fascists, this isn’t the time for Rogerian bullshit, Albin.”

Sixteen seconds. Then Albin Larsen stood, and Sam Diaz said, “Uh-oh.”

Larsen walked several feet away from the table, hands clasped behind his back. Closer to the play area. A professor thinking deep thoughts.

Franco Gull glanced back in the direction of the truck. Helpless expression on his moist face. Looking right at us.

Milo said, “Idiot.”

Larsen returned to the table and sat back down. “You’re obviously upset, Franco. Mary’s death and what it means for us is upsetting.”

Gull: “That’s the thing, Albin. I get the feeling—from them, the police—that they think Mary’s death had something to do with Sentries. I know that’s sounds crazy, but if that’s what they think, who knows where it will lead?”

Four seconds.

Larsen: “Why would they think that?”

Gull: “You tell me. If you know something I should know, you have to tell me, it’s only fair. I’m on the hot seat—you have no idea how they treat you when they suspect you of something. They phone me incessantly, have me break appointments and come in for interrogations. Have you ever been in a police station, Albin?”

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