Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 36, No. 6, June 1991

Richie went out and slammed the door. His squatty shape blurred on the other side of the frosted pane and seemed to drift away through murky water.

Dr. Kessler moved a hand as if to call him back. Then he sank onto the couch while the office slowly turned gray and the aching blood-throb pulsed past his left temple. He massaged the ache ritualistically with the fingertips of his left hand, the way his mother used to do, knowing it was anger at himself — and fear. Also guilt and uncertainty, for losing his professional control, and giving in to exasperation — letting Richie have such an unprepared shocking broadside of cold truth.

Really shook Richie up, though, the doctor reflected. Shocked through his defenses a little. Really frightened him, without warning, without preparation. Suddenly switching from the role of warm, supportive, sympathetic listener to hard, uncompromising, directive coercion. Sometimes that can be effective; so can shock therapy — sometimes. Coercive, manipulative, authoritarian methods can also be dangerous. He really did not approve of the technique, especially with a patient about whom he still knew so little. It was almost like performing a surgical operation in the dark. Sometimes it seemed necessary to take risks, but he should be ready to assume responsibility for the result.

Dr. Kessler stood up heavily. He kept massaging his temple as he went to the window and opened the Venetian blind and realized that it was the first time all day that he’d looked out on the world. It had been snowing for hours, and it was nearly dark. There was no sky or earth in the falling quiet, only sifting snow. The world could end and he would never know it as he sat immersed in the debris of some wrecked personality.

He sat at his desk, switched on the green-shaded lamp, and a tatter of white caught his attention. The tom bit of shirt cuff fluttered on the rug near the door like a dead moth.

After peering at it for a moment, Dr. Kessler picked up the phone book and flopped it onto his desk. He riffled nervously through the yellow pages.

Dreams, delusions, lies — they are helpful clues to the unconscious; but first you must have a fair idea what is or is not true.

Ice Cream... Ignition Service... Illustrators... Incinerators... Insurance...

Investigators — Private.

“Flynn Detective Agency,” he read. “Investigations made everywhere. Domestic troubles, personal relations, shadowing, tracing missing persons, locating, surveillance. Skillfully performed — low rates — quick results. Strictly confidential.”

He called and told Mr. Flynn to start work at once, that same Friday night, even though it would count as a full day, at fifty dollars a day plus expenses. When Flynn found out anything — or an indisputable absence of anything — he was to phone Dr. Kessler at home or at his office.

Dr. Kessler waited with a tension of which he was conscious even while listening to other patients. Richie did not turn up for his Monday appointment, nor for his Tuesday or Thursday appointments, and he didn’t call.

Mr. Flynn phoned Thursday night. “Mrs. Brocia never played around, I can assure you of that. And I’m absolutely sure she isn’t playing around now. I’ll have a full report for you tomorrow, but first I want to check something out. Something’s weird here, doctor.”

“Weird?”

“Yes, I think it’s weird. I’ll call you later.”

Friday morning, as Dr. Kessler showed his ten fifty patient out, a heavy, solid man wearing a dark suit of uncertain vintage and a porkpie hat stood in the waiting room.

“Dr. Kessler?” he said softly. His face seemed dour and inflexible, with a permanent cleft of distrust between thick eyebrows.

“Yes,” Dr. Kessler said, noticing that the man also had an odd sadness marking the corners of his eyes.

He opened a worn wallet. A golden badge glittered. “Detective Bates,” he said. “Homicide.”

Dr. Kessler felt a drop of sweat slide down the left side of his nose. It loosened a nervous flush down his back that rippled painfully. “Homicide?”

“We just took Richard Brocia into custody on suspicion of murder. You know him?”

Dr. Kessler realized that his mouth was open and the inside of it was dry. “He’s a patient of mine.”

“So Mr. Brocia has been telling us.”

Dr. Kessler touched his fingers to his left temple. “Can you tell me what happened? Can I see him? I’d like to see him as soon as possible.”

“He said he didn’t want to see you,” Detective Bates said without expression. “But he wanted me to give you this.” He held out a folded paper.

Dr. Kessler took it, unfolded it, and read: