Missing Persons

9

Diane had covered my practice while Lauren and Grace and I were up skiing.

Once I’d finished retrieving the dogs from vacation doggie-camp at our neighbor Adrienne’s house, and after I’d finished unloading the car and stowing our ski gear, I phoned Diane to let her know that we were home and that I was on the clock. “We’re back from the mountains. You’re free to go play. No calls, I hope,” I said.

“No calls. Your patients are always well behaved. How was it?” she asked perfunctorily.

“Perfect-great snow, terrific weather. Too short. You and Raoul have a good Christmas?”

“Yeah, you have a minute?”

“Sure,” I said. I was already wary. Diane’s tone was a few degrees too serious. A few as in almost 180. I guessed that we were about to talk, once again, about Hannah, and why someone would want to kill her.

“I need a consultation,” she said.

“Like a clinical consultation?”

“Exactly.”

“Okay.”

“This isn’t a casual thing. It’s a formal consultation, Alan. You can’t tell anyone what I’m about to tell you.”

I was standing in the kitchen and I found myself searching behind me for a stool. Something about Diane’s manner screamed that this was going to be one of those why-don’t-you-sit-down conversations.

“Of course.”

Yowsa, I was thinking. What is this about?

“It’s a consultation about a consultation. In a way.”

“I’m ready, Diane.”

“Did you know that every once in a while Hannah talked to me about her cases? When she wanted an opinion about something she was a little unsure about, she’d run it by me.”

“I’m not surprised. You’re good.”

“I am, but that’s not the point. A few days before she died she asked me out for a glass of wine after work. No big deal, we probably did it about once a month.”

“Okay.”

“She had a specific case she wanted to discuss-a kid she’d seen the previous Friday. I didn’t know the girl’s name at the time, of course. Still don’t, not for sure.”

What Diane was describing was far from unusual. Collegial consultations between psychotherapists are often casual, and usually conducted in a way that protects the patient’s anonymity.

“Yes?”

“The strange thing-the thing that Hannah wanted my consultation about-was that this kid had come in on her own. Her parents didn’t arrange the session. Kid just showed up in her office, sat in the waiting room, and wanted to talk.”

“A walk-in?” I asked. I didn’t know a single private-practice psychotherapist in Boulder who saw patients without appointments.

“A walk-in.”

Diane didn’t treat adolescents. Occasionally I did. I said, “Usually a parent makes the contact, and comes to the first session. That should have been a red flag.”

Diane cleared her throat as a way of letting me know that my unfortunate propensity toward platitudes was interfering with her narrative. She added, “I know that.” Her tone was not only scolding me for being condescending, but was also making clear that even if she didn’t eat fois gras she knew what a goose was.

I tried to remember Colorado mental health law. I thought the age threshold when a child could seek treatment without a parent’s consent was fifteen, but I wasn’t totally certain. I’d have to check.

“How old was the kid?”

Diane answered, “Fourteen, fifteen-I’m not a hundred percent sure. I’m pretty sure Hannah said ‘teenager’ but…” I suddenly guessed where we were going. And I didn’t like the road map I was seeing. At all. I feared that Diane was intimating that Hannah Grant had seen Mallory Miller for psychotherapy less than a week before Hannah died, and only two weeks before Mallory had disappeared. I said, “You’re not thinking Hannah’s mystery patient was Mallory Miller, are you?”

“Everything fits.”

Other questions began making soft landings in my head like a platoon of paratroopers. Why would Mallory seek treatment without consulting her father? And why with Hannah? Had she made a second appointment? Had Hannah made a diagnosis? Was Mallory fearful? Had Hannah said anything about Mallory thinking of running away?

And the most important question: Is there any way I can avoid hearing any more about this?

But Diane had an agenda that was quite different from insulating me from becoming more complicit, and she had a line of inquiry that I wasn’t anticipating. She said, “I can’t tell anybody about this, right? That’s what Hannah had wanted my consultation about. I told her that I thought she had to sit on it, had to wait and see what developed with the kid. Now, I want to hear from you if I was right.”

I hesitated while I considered the peculiar circumstances she was describing. While I pondered, Diane filled in the dead air. “You have the craziest practice within a thousand miles of here. I figured that if you don’t know what to do about something like this, then nobody does.”

I ignored the accusation, or compliment, or whatever it was. I said, “You probably can’t tell anybody anything. But it ultimately depends on what the girl told Hannah during the appointment. And on her age. For legal purposes I think you have to assume that right now you’re Hannah-you have the same confidentiality responsibilities that she had when she saw the kid. Are you wondering about talking to the police? Is that it?”

“Sure, but I’m wondering about going to Mallory’s father, too. I’m sure he’d love to know-”

“You probably can’t talk to him. Other than the usual child-abuse exceptions to the privilege, your hands are tied. Even if you were sure it was Mallory-and it doesn’t sound like you are-I don’t think you could tell anyone about the girl’s session.”

Because it was Diane I expected her to argue with me. She didn’t. She asked, “You want to know what she said? Why she was there?”

“To give you any useful guidance, I probably have to.” That was my way of saying, “No, not really.”

Diane paused before she said, “I don’t really know that much. The girl was depressed about the holidays. And she misses her mom.”