Rough Weather

52

I had worked a few years back on a school shooting in Dowling, out in the middle of the state. During the time Susan was away, and I needed a shrink to talk with my client, and she had suggested a guy named Dix who used to be a cop. It had worked out well, which was why Susan and I went to see him about Dr. Rosselli.

He had a clean-shaven head and big square hands, and he looked as if he could still put a stranglehold on someone if he had to. He stood when we came into his office.

“Susan,” he said. “Nice to see you again.”

He looked at me.

“Whaddya got?”

I handed him the list of meds that I’d gotten from Rosselli. He looked at it without comment.

Susan said, “I’ve gone through this stuff, and I have an opinion, but I’m not sufficiently expert in psychopharmacology.”

“What are they being used for?” Dix said.

Susan smiled.

“To treat neurasthenia,” she said.

“Neurasthenia?” Dix said.

“That’s what the man told me,” I said.

“For crissake,” Dix said. “That’s like saying it’s being used to treat the vapors.”

“I’ve explained that to him,” Susan said.

“Who is this doctor,” Dix said. “Is he a shrink?”

“His M.D. is urology,” Susan said. “He bills himself as a therapeutic counselor.”

“Rosselli,” Dix said.

“You know him?” I said.

“Emil Rosselli,” Dix said. “That’s who it is, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” I said. “What do you think of him?”

“Dope dealer to the rich and famous,” Dix said. “He’s a fucking disgrace.”

“Don’t get too technical on me,” I said.

“I simply strive for accuracy,” Dix said.

He scanned the list.

“There’s some vitamins here,” he said, “which probably do no harm, and the rest are psychotropic drugs.”

“Like sedatives?” I said.

“Some,” he said. “There’s an assortment to get you up, calm you down, get a balance between. All of them have legitimate uses, but they are not normally used in this amount or these combinations.”

“Pills?” I said.

“Some pills, some injectables, some that come in either form,” Dix said. “I can’t tell from the list how often the patient received this stuff.”

“He went there every two weeks,” I said.

“Doesn’t tell me if he gave her the same thing every time,” Dix said.

“The more he went, I suppose, the more money he made.”

“Most Feelgoods use injections,” Dix said. “Patient can take pills himself, but the doc can jack up the price if the patient thinks he always has to get a shot.”

“Maybe he also did counseling,” I said.

“I hope not,” Dix said.

“What would be the effect of these drugs on the recipient?” I said.

“It can vary,” Dix said. “But certainly it would dull her response to the phenomenological world.”

“How about on a young woman who had been sexually molested and attempted suicide.”

“Palliative at best,” Dix said.

“Harmful?” I said.

“The actual drugs? Can’t say without more information. But if she is suffering severe post-molestation psychopathology, it’s like putting a Band-Aid over gangrene.”

“The pathology will continue to fester,” I said.

“A bit dramatic maybe,” Dix said, “but yes. She will continue to need help.”

“But not from Emil Rosselli,” I said.

“First do no harm,” Dix said.

“I think Rosselli is governed by a different code,” I said.

Dix smiled.

“Show me the money,” he said.