By the Time You Read This

38

CARDINAL HELPED DELORME WITH her child porn case that morning and afternoon, but thoughts of Dr. Bell kept running through his mind like a persistent radio signal. Several times he had to ask Delorme to repeat something she had just said. Even so, the investigative work brought him some relief—relief enough that he found himself dreading going home.

For Cardinal, home had turned into a house made of knives; there was nowhere he could move that did not hurt. That night he lay in bed, but sleep was out of the question. After a while he got up and hauled the television into the bedroom and set it on top of the chest of drawers. It was a bad viewing angle, and he didn’t much like the idea of a TV in the bedroom, but he had a faint hope of perhaps watching an old movie until he fell asleep.

He flipped through all forty channels before he gave up. He went into the kitchen, poured himself a glass of milk, and stood in bathrobe and slippers contemplating Catherine’s computer, a slim silver laptop that sat on a little desk beside the telephone. She was much more computer savvy than Cardinal, and used her Mac for everything from paying bills to making travel arrangements to buying camera equipment.

But a computer was private, and Cardinal had never touched Catherine’s. He didn’t like to use computers at home, anyway. Whenever he needed to check e-mail on a weekend, he logged on to a dial-up network on a clunky old PC in the basement.

But now he sat down and opened the laptop, and it came right up with Catherine’s desktop screen, a dreamy turquoise. He clicked on the Web browser icon, which opened to Catherine’s home page, a photographers’ site that offered a button for today’s “hot shots.” Cardinal ignored this and clicked on the pull-down menu of bookmarked sites. She had everything neatly sorted into folders. He clicked on one labelled Health. He knew there was an online support group she liked, for people who suffered from bipolar disorder.

He found something labelled bipolar.org and clicked on that. A window opened up asking for a log-in name and password. The log-in slot filled itself in with the name IceFire, but the password field was blank. He knew Catherine used the word Nikon as a password on some of her accounts, but when he typed it in, the site informed him in red type that it was incorrect. He tried to remember the make of her digital camera. He typed in Cannon, and was once again scolded. He retyped it, this time omitting one n, all lower case.

The screen flashed and took him to a list of threads. There were themes of medication (“Why I hate/love lithium;” “Suicidal reactions to SSRIs”), themes of resolution (“High Goodbye: Saying yes to sanity”) and finally one that looked more promising: “Shrink Raps.”

He opened the thread and scrolled down for postings bearing Catherine’s log-in. The first one he found was a reply to someone else’s thread.

“Sorry, sweetheart,” Cardinal whispered, and clicked on the message.

If you’re not comfortable with your therapist after six sessions or so, I’d look for someone else, she had written. You don’t want to give up too soon, because it takes a while to establish rapport. On the other hand, if the relationship isn’t productive by then, there’s a good chance it may never be.

That was Catherine: cool and deliberate and decisive about the things that mattered. She had written this just three days before she died.

Cardinal read a few more of her messages. None was about Dr. Bell. Mostly they were replies to queries, telling people where to turn for referrals or recommending books she had found helpful.

He clicked on a New Message button and wrote the following:Urgent: I need to hear from anyone who has had experience with Dr. Frederick Bell, currently in practice in Algonquin Bay, Ontario, formerly in Toronto and before that in England. Any comments, positive or negative, gratefully received.

He read the message over, hit Enter and closed the computer.

When he woke the next morning, he went straight to the kitchen and logged on. The website informed him there were three replies.

Hey, the next one began, thought you loved your shrink. What gives?

The third was from England.

Cardinal closed the computer and reached for the phone. The number for Dr. Carl Jonas at the Clarke Institute was still on the list of frequently dialed numbers on the fridge. There were several numbers for Dr. Jonas, including his cell; he was that kind of doctor. It was eight-thirty in the morning. Cardinal dialed his cellphone, not really expecting to get hold of him.

“Hello! Jonas!” the doctor yelled. It was always the way he answered the phone. Forty years in Canada, he still sounded as Hungarian as goulash.

“Dr. Jonas, it’s John Cardinal calling.”

“John Cardinal. Hold on a moment, you’ve just caught me trying to avoid being decimated by a lady parking her sport-futility vehicle. I could drive right inside this machine and still have room to turn around. Hah! She’s given up. Looking for a landing strip to park in, I suppose. Such monsters they are, it’s an incredible. What I can do for you? Catherine is all right?”

When would he get used to this question? Even knowing it was going to come was no defence.

“No,” was all he could manage.

“No? What means this ‘no’? What’s going on with Catherine?”

“She’s dead, Doctor. Catherine is dead.”

There was a long pause.

“Doctor, are you there?”

“Yes, I’m here. I’m just so—If you’re calling me, I’m thinking she did not die by accidental means.”

“She went off a nine-storey building. Leaving a suicide note.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry. What a sad, sad thing. I don’t have what to say, Detective. Such a brave, creative woman. It’s too sad. I was very fond of her.”

“Well, you meant a lot to her, I hope you realize. She could never say enough good things about you. In fact, she referred someone to you just the other day. Really, you would blush to read the things she had to say about you.”

“You make my heart glow,” the doctor said quietly. “Tell me, Detective, if you don’t mind, was Catherine hospitalized?”

“No. Out for a year now.”

“But she was seeing the Englishman, was she not? Dr. Bell?”

“Yes, and frankly, she seemed to like him okay.”

“Naturally, you believe he failed her. Perhaps you believe the same of me.”

“Not at all. You hadn’t seen her for a long time.”

“Was she despondent before she died?”

“No. I thought she was in good shape. You know, busy, working on a project.”

“Sadly, this is often the way. They make up their minds and—boom, they leave the rest of us to cry. I never expected this of Catherine, though, I must say. She loved too much to do this, I always thought. That’s why, despite the severity of her problems, she always managed to get to the hospital in time. She wanted to survive, and above all she did not want to hurt you or your daughter. Ach, so sad it is. Was there something I can do for you, John?”

“I just have one question. And since you treated Catherine for many years, I hope that you’ll be able to give me a clear, solid answer.”

“I’ll do my best. Though things, as you know, are not so often black and white. What is your question?”

“Would you ever ask a manic-depressive to write a suicide note? Or a depressive of any kind?”

“Never. Absolutely not.”

“Not even as part of therapy? Maybe to get their suicidal thoughts out on the table?”

“Never. The first question one asks of a depressed patient is, Have you ever considered suicide? And if the answer is yes, there are two follow-up questions: How often? and Have you taken any concrete steps? That is how you gauge the seriousness of suicidal ideation, if they have taken steps. By getting them to write out a note, you are making real what was previously only fantasy. They are taking a concrete step.”

“Put that in context for me. Is that your personal view, or is that general practice?”

“No, no, it’s basic, basic, basic. Anyone trained in psychotherapy will tell you the same. A suicidal patient is seeking help with such thoughts. Asking them to write a suicide note would be sending the message that writing suicide notes is a healthy thing to do. It is not. Suicide notes are intended either to accompany the patient’s extinction or they are meant as a cry for help. Since in the first place we don’t want the patient to become extinct and in the second place they are already crying for help, such a note would serve neither of these purposes.

“Look, a terminal cancer patient in terrible pain, no quality of life, a few weeks left to live, by all means, if you want to end your pain, that’s a legitimate choice, maybe a positive choice, so practise a few notes, say exactly what you want to say. But as therapy for suicide? Please. It’s like suggesting to a pedophile, why don’t you draw me a few pictures of your fantasies. Or to a serial killer, why don’t you write out a nice description of your ideal victim and we’ll talk about it. I’m sorry, I make depressed people sound like criminals now, and I don’t mean to, but you get my point. Perhaps it’s more like saying to someone killing themselves with anorexia, why don’t you bring me in some pictures of the models and actresses you’d most like to look like. They already suffer from extreme negative self-image, extreme body dysmorphia, and you’re going to help them by such an enterprise? No, no, it’s an incredible.”

“All right, well, that’s clear. But isn’t it possible another therapist would see it as a way of clarifying a patient’s negative feelings?”

“I sincerely hope not. It’s completely irresponsible. Are you saying Bell asked this of Catherine?”

“Her suicide note had his thumbprint on it. He admits seeing it before she died, but he says she brought it in on her own. It was her idea.”

“Well, that’s totally different. Obviously—”

“The thing is, I’m not sure I believe him. Another patient told me he asked her to bring in a suicide note. She was extremely depressed at the time and he asked her to write one out—for therapy—and to bring it in. She dumped him because of it.”

“Well, I’m sitting here shocked, Detective. The parking enforcement is eyeing me suspiciously and I’m sitting here not knowing what to make of this. It strikes me as extremely bad therapy, if true. I can’t believe. And anyway, even if he didn’t ask for Catherine’s note, he should have hospitalized her when she wrote it. There was no discussion of this?”

“None that included me.”

“I can’t believe. Okay, so question is what to do. Suppose he did ask for the note, it’s now a legal matter on which I can’t advise you. He’s negligent? It’s malpractice? Those are questions for lawyers and ethics committees. You’re planning to pursue such an avenue?”

“Ethics committees?” Cardinal said. “No, I have something a little different in mind.”