Urge to Kill

64

Dr. Beeker knew how to play the role. He looked like a high-priced psychiatrist this morning. He was wearing a brown suede sport jacket with a yellow and black tie, darker brown slacks, and brown loafers. His glasses were dangling from a cord around his neck, nestled against his chest next to a gold tie clasp. His damp, thinning hair seemed longer and was curled above his ears and at the nape of his neck, reminding Quinn of a nest of snakes.

When he entered and saw Quinn in his office anteroom his features tightened and his intense dark eyes darted to his receptionist, then back to Quinn.

“Detective Quinn insisted on waiting,” Beatrice, the middle-aged, attractive blond woman behind the desk, said in her defense.

Without smiling, Beeker nodded to her.

Quinn stood up from the black leather sofa that seemed to have grown to him. “We need to talk.”

“I have appointments soon,” Beeker said.

He strode into his office and left the door open. Quinn took it as an invitation and went in, noticing that the doctor had left in his wake a lemony scent of cologne or shaving lotion. He closed the door behind him.

Beeker was sitting behind his desk, doing the tent thing with his fingers.

Quinn remained standing. “I visited your Web site,” he said.

Beeker smiled slightly. He had a slow way of smiling that seemed to give his expression added meaning. “I’m sure you enjoyed it.”

“The photos of Zoe—”

“Aren’t bad, are they?” Beeker shifted his weight slightly in his chair so it tilted backward, but not so far that he had to remove his elbows from his desk. “Zoe’s a beautiful woman. But you knew that.”

“I’d like you to delete the photos of Zoe,” Quinn said.

“If Zoe makes that request, I’ll consider it.”

“I’m making the request for her.”

“I don’t accept that.” Beeker leaned forward again. “You might not like it, Detective, but Zoe enjoyed posing for those photos. She’s proud of her body and doesn’t mind revealing it. The shots I’m sure you’d find the most disturbing aren’t on the Internet. She enjoyed posing for those, too.”

“It was another time, another place,” Quinn said.

“But not another Zoe. She doesn’t necessarily fit your concept of her, Detective Quinn. You don’t really know her at all. I’m not sure I do. Like each of us, she’s many different people wrapped in the same skin.”

“I didn’t come here for psychobabble,” Quinn said, and moved closer to the desk.

Beeker didn’t react. “You don’t intimidate me, Detective Quinn.”

“I’m not interested in intimidating you. I’m simply telling you to delete the photos.”

“If Zoe calls me, I’ll do that. It’s a part of our former relationship that’s between the two of us.”

“If I don’t intimidate you, why are you agreeing to delete the photos?”

“I’ll delete them if Zoe requests it. Not you.”

“I’ll let you keep that distinction,” Quinn said.

“Our Zoe has sides to her you’ve never seen. As you have sides she’s unaware of. Wouldn’t you say that’s so, detective?”

“Not everyone goes around pretending to be what they aren’t,” Quinn said.

“You mean like a sexual deviant pretending to be a respectable Park Avenue psychiatrist? Overcompensating behavior used as a disguise? I’m not putting up any kind of defensive subterfuge, and neither is Zoe. The idea of either of us living secret lives is all in your mind. She posed for photographs often and willingly and knew what I was going to do with them. What we’ve done and photographed is all legal, Detective Quinn. You can check with the vice squad. Zoe and I were part of a club whose members share certain modes of impulse and behavior. It’s the other photographs that might worry you. The ones with the interesting props. They’re the real Zoe, too.”

Quinn was fighting to keep his temper, but at the same time was somewhat surprised. Beeker was taunting him now, daring him.

“The most outwardly respectable people are the most likely to have diametrically opposite components to their personalities, Detective. Surely you’ve noticed that. The reformers who consort with prostitutes, the Bible-thumpers who steal from the church, the gay-bashers who are latent homosexuals, the upright family men who are serial killers.” Beeker gave his slow smile again. “Then there is the healer of the mind, Zoe, who accepts and lives with her own various facets of self-identity. Her other sides, but not her secret sides.”

“I get it, already,” Quinn said. “We’re all two people.”

“No, no, no. We’re all many people. We simply have to accept and integrate our various selves. I help people to do that.” Beeker stood up behind his desk. “But if someone does have a secret self, Detective Quinn, you might do well to look for it as the opposite of their public self.” He walked out from behind the desk. “A zealous cop crusader, for instance, might also be a serial killer. Hasn’t that happened in our fair city?”

It had. And Quinn had been fooled by it too long and people had died. Beeker must know that.

“You seem to have researched me,” Quinn said.

“Somewhat. I’m interested in whoever’s interested in Zoe. As you are. Why pretend otherwise?”

“I do believe you’re practicing your dark art on me, Doctor.”

“I specialize in dialectical behavior therapy, Detective Quinn. It requires the cooperation of the patient. I don’t believe you’re capable of that.”

Quinn knew it was time to go. He hadn’t come here to physically assault Beeker, but things were moving in that direction.

He moved toward the door. “Delete the photos, Dr. Beeker.”

“Have Zoe call me.”

“You’re a stubborn one.”

“Notice I’m not the type,” Beeker said.

The slow smile was forming as Quinn turned away.

Quinn was perspiring when he left Beeker’s office. He knew he’d lost a round, and he didn’t like it.

He didn’t like it that there were more, and more explicit, photographs of Zoe. He didn’t like what Dr. Beeker had told him, which was, in effect, the same thing Helen Iman had told him about contradictory behavior.

If they were right about reformers, Bible-thumpers, and gay-bashers, were they right about serial killers?

And weren’t serial killers supposed to be his area of expertise?