The Venus Fix

Forty-Nine

When I arrived at the institute at 7:30 a.m., I had to use my key to let myself in. It was dark in the foyer. Allison didn’t come in until eight and those who scheduled earlier sessions had to fend for themselves.

Dark, cavernous spaces never spooked me, but that morning I was already nervous, and I didn’t like being there alone or hearing my footsteps echo on the marble.

Flipping every light switch I passed, I unlocked the annex door and then went upstairs to my office. The shadows receded. The furnishings took on their everyday appearances.

It was cold, too, the way an empty building is before everyone arrives and fills it.

After sleeping less than four hours, I should have been exhausted. But between an espresso, which I’d drunk too quickly while I got dressed, and being unnerved by the empty building, I was wired. Everything that was bothering me was bouncing around in my brain.

I sat down at my desk, checked my watch and picked up the phone.

He answered in the middle of the first ring.

“Bob, I’m in my office.”

“I’m in the garage.”

“I left the annex door open. Just lock it behind you and come straight up.”

He talked nonstop for the first ten minutes, and I sat quietly, trying to keep from reacting with surprise to anything he said. That he was Judge Alan Leightman was the first shock. And as soon as I’d absorbed that, I realized that meant he was married to Kira Rushkoff.

Kira Rushkoff, Alan’s wife, was a prominent lawyer specializing in First Amendment issues. I’d seen her on television, standing on the steps of the courthouse in Lower Manhattan, imposing and imperious, looking down at the camera and speaking with passion about the case she’d just won. A strong wind had been blowing her chestnut hair into her face, but she ignored the annoyance. The civil case-between Kira’s pornography-king client and Stella Dobson- had garnered a lot of media attention. I didn’t notice if she was pretty, or how old she was, or if she was tall or short. I had been too engrossed in her fervent speech about how important her client’s victory had been for the Constitution.

And my client-who was desperately addicted to Internet pornography-was that woman’s husband? I’d been looking at this case, at this patient, with only half a pair of glasses. I needed to reevaluate everything he had ever told me, in light of this new and obviously relevant information.

“Then Detective Perez said-”

“What?”

“I said that Detective Perez had a search warrant.”

“There were two detectives?”

“Yes, Perez and Jordain. I’ve met them before. In my goddamn courtroom. The fucking indignity! This is a disaster. Oh, and the best part is that Kira walked in on the charming scene. She saw me in cuffs.”

“They handcuffed you?” I was having a hard time keeping with him and processing what I’d just heard. My patient was saying my lover’s name.

Was I going to have to step down as his therapist because of Noah? No, we weren’t at that point yet.

“Only because I tried to keep them from taking my laptop. Once I gave in, they took the cuffs off and left. Kira locked herself in the bedroom.” His voice cracked.

I focused on his face, on the expression in his eyes, on his demeanor. “Alan, are you all right?”

“I haven’t done anything illegal. You know that.”

“Yes.”

He hadn’t slept at all and there were deep circles under his eyes. The worry lines in his forehead seemed to have doubled since the last time I’d seen him.

“So how could they think I’m involved with these disgusting crimes?”

“What did they tell you?”

“That two of the victims received e-mail from me.”

“Do they have e-mail addresses for the women right on the sites?”

“Yes.”

I watched him carefully as he spoke. There was no suggestion he was lying. He didn’t look away from me, but held my gaze. He didn’t bite his lips or lick them or put his hands over his mouth when he talked.

“Did you send them any e-mail at all, Bob-Alan?” It was going to take me time to stop thinking of him as Bob-without-a-last-name.

“Of course not. I signed on to their sites, but e-mail? Can you imagine me doing that?” He gave a derisive laugh.

“If you didn’t send either of the two women e-mail, what are the police talking about?”

“Someone is setting me up. It’s obvious. Someone is preparing to blackmail me. My lawyer spoke to one of the detectives late last night and all I know is that the girls both have e-mail from the e-mail address I use to access the porn sites I visit. Mine is the only e-mail the two of them have in common. And apparently the content of the e-mail is damning.”

“What does it say?”

He shook his head. “They won’t tell Adam, my lawyer. And obviously, since I didn’t write it, I don’t know.”

“If the e-mail isn’t on your computer, your lawyer will be able to work this out. You need to focus on that.”

He shook his head furiously. “I’m not concerned that I’m going to be charged. I know I didn’t send the e-mail. But I have accounts at those porn sites. I visited those girls. I watched them. That will come out. It’s going to ruin everything. Once people know that I’m an addict, that I’m seeing you-”

“That’s not going to happen.”

“The police have my computer, Dr. Snow. And there is e-mail to you on my computer-”

“What goes on in this office is privileged information.”

Sweat beaded on his upper lip. He looked like a man with vertigo who had found himself on top of the Empire State Building.

“I need you to tell me about the law of doctor-patient confidentiality the way you understand it. What will happen if they ask you if you treat me?”

“I can’t and won’t tell them you are my patient. The only circumstance that would allow me to talk to the police about you is if you told me that you intended to hurt someone and I believed you.”

The wind had picked up and was blowing tiny pellets of icy snow against the windowpanes. I turned to look. The garden on the small balcony was cut back and wrapped in burlap for the winter. Four or five inches of snow covered all of it, rendering the planters and pots into amorphous blue-white shapes, abstract and strangely foreign. The weatherman had predicted the possibility of a blizzard moving in from the north sometime late this morning, but it looked like it was already here.

“If they get a court order-”

“Alan, think, you know this. They can’t order me to tell them anything. Each and every word between us is protected unless you were suddenly to tell me that you are planning to commit murder or abuse a child and I was certain that you were telling me the truth. And there’s nothing you’ve said to me in the past six months that would even come close to suggesting that you’re a danger to anyone-except possibly yourself.”

Alan buried his face in his hands and sat still and silent for the next sixty seconds.

It was true.

From what I knew about him, I couldn’t imagine that he could be involved in the murders. He’d been in therapy long enough for me to understand his psychology. Yes, he was disturbed, but Alan didn’t have the characteristics of a psychopath. He was addicted to Internet pornography and he had intimacy problems. He also suffered self-doubt and self-loathing. He was torn between needs and knowledge, passion and logic. But no matter how deep and devastating any of those issues were for him, his rage was not directed at the women themselves. He was not capable of making the absurd leap that if he could get rid of the women, he would get rid of his obsession. If I found out that he had killed himself, I would not have been surprised. But to be responsible for those poor girls dying?

No. That was not possible.

“Alan, do you understand that I believe you?”

Of everything I could have said, of anything I could have asked, I knew that it was important for Alan to feel this was a safe place. His wife had invaded his fantasy life, the police had invaded his home and taken away his computer. He’d had to expose not only his secrets to me but also finally, his identity.

Finally he spoke, but into his hands, and his voice sounded as if he were deep under water.

“Yes.”

“No one can come in here and get your files.”

He nodded.

“No one.”

He relaxed just enough for it to be noticeable.

“You can talk to me today the same way you talked to me last week, when I thought you were Bob. Nothing is different except your name. Has anything changed for you? Now that I know your name? Are any of your feelings any different?”

“No. What I do is still repulsive, and I still can’t stop myself. No, I can say that more precisely. I still don’t want to stop myself. The only thing that I care about anymore is the feeling that comes over me when I sit down at the computer, when I bring the image of one of my girls up on the screen, when she’s looking right at me, and moving for me. Kira is gone then. My office is gone, too. The work I have waiting for me, the trials I have on my docket. Not in my consciousness. Shit. The decisions that I’ve made that may not be right, the ones that are definitely wrong, I don’t think about any of that. Not while I am sitting there in the dark, all by myself.”

“Alan, what decisions are you talking about?”

“Decisions?”

I repeated his sentence.

“We have all made decisions that, in retrospect, were not the right ones. We are human. We’re influenced by all sorts of things about people. Hasn’t that ever happened to you, Doctor? Haven’t you ever misjudged a patient?”

Of course I had, but this wasn’t about me. And I wasn’t going to allow him to turn the question around.

“What do these decisions you’re talking about have to do with what’s going on?”

“I am not about to let some overzealous detective turn me into a laughingstock. Do you understand what would happen to me if it came out that I have this problem?”

He hadn’t answered my question. “I understand, Alan, but what I’m asking is-”

“You don’t know why I’m here this morning, do you?” he interrupted me.

“You’re in therapy with me. You wanted a session so that-”

He interrupted again. “No. Not today. I came this morning because I need to know that no matter what the police ask you about me, you plan on keeping silent.”

There was something about the way he was staring at me and the intensity in his voice and his eyes boring into mine that made me afraid. If I hesitated, I was sure he would threaten me. What was going on?

There was a knock on the door.

The judge jerked back and stared at the door.

“Who is it?” I asked.

“Terry Meziac.”

Alan relaxed.

“Come in,” I said.

The door opened and the young man Alan sent to my office once a month to check for listening devices, who was the judge’s driver, and possibly, I thought, his bodyguard, entered the room. He didn’t say anything, but looked with questioning eyes at Alan, who checked his watch and then glanced up at me. “I have to go, Dr. Snow. But we have an agreement, don’t we?”

“We always have. Nothing’s changed.”