CHAPTER NINE

The evening with Cole strengthened Shelby’s decision to finish the Psychological Autopsy. She fixed a dinner of a “noble salmon,” so they anointed it, and a Caesar salad, while they grew less serious chatting and listening to music. He talked about a motocross he’d won in Morocco in the Navy and she spoke about her experience in Morocco, too. “Who would have thought when we were kids that we would have managed that?” she joked.

Much of what they spoke about was lighter conversation, in the moment. They agreed they still liked jazz and blues, their favorites, and skirted saying anything more of what was happening between them.

Still, from time to time, Cole thought of some new question about the death of Claude Collette. “What time of day was it?” or “Was there trouble in his business?” or “How about his health?”

Shelby finally said, “Cole, let’s put this thing aside for tonight. It’s hooked us both. She smiled at him. “I’d like to be Scarlet and ‘think about that tomorrow’.” Still, she did think about how flimsy and illogical her suspicions must seem.

They had danced a bit in place, and since she said she had an early meeting next day and Cole had something early, too, he kissed her and said, “Please, just please be careful.” Soon, he left. But after that, Shelby couldn’t rest. She spent more time that night than she wanted in thought. Shelby knew she needed something concrete to clarify her thoughts about the Collette situation.

In the morning, after clients, she left the office and headed into Tampa for the next step in the emotional post-mortem, to see Brad Brezinski at the Tribune and seek consultation with her Ph.D. advisor, Dr. Nathan. She chose her favorite route down 301 where, traffic aiding, her mind could go adrift. She crossed the Hillsborough River under its overhang of trees and moss and flora into the county with its name. Farther on she passed the John B. Sargent Park where one time before she had stopped and encountered a family living in their van. The parents were pale and worn with two sad-faced teen-aged daughters who were selling hand-made crocheted bookmarks. At Fowler Avenue, she turned west toward the University of South Florida, then south again on I-75 until she reach the Selmon Expressway, the Crosstown it was called when she first came there from Chicago. Exiting at Kennedy, she drove through town and past the Bank of America Building and the ochre metal sculpture like a dead chrysanthemum and crossed the Hillsborough River once again, turning south on Parker Street.

The Tribune rested in a complex on the Hillsborough River that included the paper, the NBC station—Channel 8—and a Tampa Web site, TBO.com. She parked in the Visitors lot, walked across the street, headed toward the tower with the NBC peacock perched on top, and turned into the building to the left. She identified herself to two guards at the desk and said that she was meeting Brad Brezinski. They took her name, and in moments he appeared.

Just short of tall and with a shock of wavy, nut-brown hair, he was rumpled like one to whom clothes are unimportant. He met her with a journalist’s style of quickly coming to the point.

“Will these do?” He handed her newspaper clippings.

She glanced down at the headlines and saw they were the ones that Cole had brought her. “LOCAL BUSINESS MAN FOUND DROWNED” and “COLLETTE DEATH RULED ACCIDENT.” Looking back up at Brezinski, she asked, “And how are you?” She offered him her hand. “I’m Shelby Wallace.”

“Oh, yes, yes. Good to meet you.” He wasn’t being rude, she thought; just impatient. “Brad.”

“Can we sit?”

“Oh, yeah. Sure.” He gestured to a waiting area set with leather furniture all in gray. They sat. “What do you want from me?”

“Well, I thank you, but I happen to have seen these articles. Just anything else you might know about this case.”

“Case? What do you mean?” He planted mink brown eyes on her.

“Let me start again. I meant about this man. His death.”

Brad leaned toward her, and his breathing quickened. “Is it not an accident?”

“Sorry, Brad. I’m ahead of myself. What I meant is this, there are things that are unclear about Collette to me. If I knew more, it could help me with a case. I’m attempting to do a Psychological Autopsy, so it’s called. It will be as complete a record of the man’s emotions and behavior just before his death as I can reconstruct.”

“What can I contribute to that?”

“Any feedback might prove helpful.”

“Oh.” He sighed and chewed his lip. “About everything I know is in these stories. But here’s what I remember. It was a weekend. Saturday, I think. I got called out to the quarry. SOUTHERN ROCK. At Quarrytown. There were cops and divers. Later, choppers—TV news. A mess. Looked like a Star Wars back lot.” Brad’s cadence quickened and he gestured vigorously. “I got there early on. Divers found him. Collette’s truck was sitting there. All night, I guess. There was a question for a while. We wondered, was it suicide? But eventually the M.E. ruled it was an accident.”

“How long before that happened? The ‘accidental’ ruling?”

“A month or so, I think.”

“And who is that, the M.E.?”

“A Dr.Vij in Leesburg.”

“Oh, yes. Who did you interview?” Shelby felt like she was the reporter now with all her questions.

“Well, strictly speaking, no one. From your point of view. I got into the site and looked around at all the divers and equipment. And I was in the pool when Leathers briefed us. Reporter pool. I had the Quarry County beat.”

“Leathers? Who is he?”

“Lt. Leathers. Handles media. For the Quarry County Sheriff. T.J. Leathers.”

“What’d he tell you?”

“Just what’s in there.” He pointed to the articles he’d given her. “Not much more than that. This was high profile for Quarry County. I didn’t have a lot of work to do.”

“I believe you said you met the brother? Frenchy?”

“Oh, yeah.” Brad rolled his eyes and smiled. “Met him all right.”
“How?”

“He came to the site. Drove in as I was leaving. Asked me, ‘Is it over?’”

“What? What did he mean by that? And how did he know to come there?”

“I don’t know. Never thought about it. I guess I thought someone had called him.”

“What did he say?”

“Best I can remember, asked me who I was and who’s in charge. I think. I asked him his name. He told me. Then he went on in. I had a deadline so I left.”

“I thought you said you had a beer with him.” Shelby shifted in her chair, removed a note pad and a pen from her purse, and began to scribble notes. She started to wonder if this young man would take offense at all her questions, but he showed no signs of it. His face was bland and he seemed more relaxed than she, if anything.

“I did. But that was later. In the time before the M.E.’s report came out, when I thought it might be suicide, I looked him up. He could have had a story. Met him out there near the river at a bar. The Gator’s Nest. You know it?”

“Well, sort of.” She smiled at him. “I’ve been there once. Could I ask you what he said? This Frenchy. I’m particularly interested in anything he said about his brother’s state of mind.”

“Let’s see ....” Brezinski stopped a moment, then, to think. He glanced out the wall-sized picture window into a brilliant sun and squinted. “He said his brother was successful, I remember. Owned a bunch of property in Quarry. The quarry land itself. And rentals. Kind of stuff like that. Frenchy was the older one, I think. Had come down here from some northern state or other. U.S. citizens, I believe, but born in Canada though. Spoke French at home, he said. And, you might want this. He said something like ... his brother owed him cause Frenchy helped him start in business.”

“I wonder how that is. Have you seen how he’s living?”

“No.” Brad laughed. “But I’ve seen him. Quite a character really. I had planned to meet with him again. Thought I could use him in a profile on the ‘river rats.’ But then I came to Tampa. I don’t know what I can tell you on the brother’s state of mind.”

“Did you see any other Collette family members?”

“No. I never did. Frenchy seemed to have respect for his brother’s wife. Can’t recall her name.”

“Irene.”

“And he said he liked the son. But he had nothing good to say about the daughter.”

“Did he seem sad that Claude was dead?”

Bradley thought again. “Can’t say about that for sure. Frenchy didn’t comment. But, put it this way, he didn’t seem to be in pain.”

Shelby thanked him and said she had to go. As she gathered up her things, she realized she liked this young man. He had a vulnerable candor that fostered trust with her. She stood. “Could I ask you to call me if you think of anything?”

“Sure. Deal. If you tell me what you can.” He stood beside her, looking sunny. “I don’t know just what you’re sensing, but you’ve got me interested now.”

“Deal.” They shook hands and she started to say, “Goodbye.”

He grinned and interjected, “If we do ... come up with anything. There just could be a book in it.”

“You think?” Shelby laughed.

She left the Tampa Tribune, driving north on 75. On the way, she mused on Frenchy’s question, ‘Is it over?’ when he came into the quarry. A curious question. And, as she had asked of Brad, how DID he know to come there? About the question, ‘Is it over,’ it occurred to her, if he grew up speaking French, his way of asking ‘Es’t fini,’ could possibly be the way that he would translate, ‘is it finished,’ into English. (Es’t fini? Est fini? What was correct? It had been so long since she had spoken French.) ‘Is it finished’ could be the way one might inquire kindly, near biblically, about a person’s death when speaking French.

She exited at Busch Blvd and traveled west. The sign in front read “JACOB NATHAN, M.D.” The office was in the area she still thought of as psychiatrist’s row, though a number of those doctors had retired, and their offices now read insurance or computers. Once a house, the ivory stucco office with its brown wood trim and the elephant ears in front had looked the same the fifteen years she’d come here for consultation on her cases. Dr. Nathan was a master diagnostician. This was why she chose him as her clinical advisor for her Ph.D.

The waiting room was undisturbed and empty. One lone table lamp shone on mellow leather chairs. No secretary greeted her with “Shelby, how are you today?” or offered coffee as in the past. This was a practice nearly over. A bell had sounded on her entry and soon the old man walked into the room. Shorter than the average, he was still erect, his once black ample beard and mustache now were nearly white, and his hair had reached his collar. He was expensively dressed in a white short sleeved shirt and light blue linen slacks. His feet were bare.

Some time in his 50’s, so she’d been told, Jacob Nathan redesigned his life. Coming to Tampa from Miami, buttoned down and rigid, it was said that he had therapy himself, divorced, and henceforward did only what he wanted, never looking back. This involved his growing an abundant head of hair, removing suit and tie, and in his office, never wearing shoes.

He lunged toward her like a bear and held her from him for a moment to absorb her. “So, Shelby, you are thriving?” She was enveloped in a hug.

She nodded and followed dutifully into his office, taking a seat before his desk. It and the room itself were always quite a wonder. There were stacks of brochures and books along the floor, choking all the corners. The desk itself was jammed with artifacts—African, Mexican, and Indian figures, several classic bronzes and horses from the West, photographs of children, and several small ceramic bowls replete with candy. In addition, were books, a lustrous ebony pen set, an ivory letter opener, and the requisite box of Kleenex. Absorbing all of it always made her feel like giggling.

Jacob Nathan sat behind the desk and observed her with his dark and piercing eyes. “What brings you?”

She’d been wondering that herself and had to check to keep from squirming. “I’m wrestling with a case ... a situation.”

“Unusual words you use.”

“I have a client ....” She told him of Chere Blanton and the recent change in Chere’s demeanor from when she’d come to her before and of the circumstances in her life. “They’re subtle signs, I know, but I feel there might be something in the father’s death that could explain it. Something that isn’t right.”

“Is she in danger?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Then, is she a danger?”

“Well, I can’t swear to it, but I think she’s much too self-absorbed for that.”

He asked several factual questions about Chere’s original behavior and about her diagnosis, then said, “Shelby, there are many, many ways of handling grief. You know this.”

“That’s just it, Dr. Nathan, she isn’t grieving.”

“That can be normal, too. You know this, also.” He took a yellow candy wrapped in paper, unveiled it, and placed it in his mouth. He offered one to her.

Wallace shook her head. “It’s hard for me to tell you why I think that isn’t so.” Her frustration at her ineloquence was growing sooner than she thought.

“Was she incested?” Nathan was matter-of-fact.

“Well, I don’t think so. But to tell the truth, I honestly don’t know.”

“Then, why don’t you ask?” He shifted in his chair and fiddled with his beard.

It was here that she began, sub-vocally, to justify her work with Chere. She always had to struggle to feel competent in the face of his experience. “She has only asked for help with her divorce.”

“Then what’s the problem, Shelby?” His voice was kind, but he was firm. “You are dancing all around it.”

She chose then to be blunt with no idea how he’d take it. “There’s something in this case that seems to nag at me. Actually, with some prompting from some others, I’ve just begun to wonder if the father’s death could have been a murder.”

“Then who is the client?” She thought at first he joked, but he wasn’t laughing when he said, “You are not Sherlock Holmes, you know. You are her therapist.”

“Yes, I know what you are saying, Dr. Nathan. I am mindful of the boundaries. I just have felt unsettled so I thought I’d perform the Psychological Autopsy of Claude Collette, the father, the one that you suggested. It could end up being helpful to the daughter.”

“Ah, yes, the circumstance you spoke to me about. But, my dear, you sound defensive. I wonder now why you are really here. What do you want from me?”

Shelby tried to mount a smile. “Even though it’s hard for me to hear what you are saying, I guess I want exactly what I’m getting. Reality. I hope to clarify my thinking. For that, I guess I want your view of what I’m doing.”

“And so,” he gestured, “you want, you can have. My first thought is to send her off to someone else—another therapist. Then tell the law of your concerns.”

“There is nothing I can say to them that isn’t confidential. Or is proved.”

The old man stopped and took another candy. He was quiet for considerable time, then asked, “You like it way out there in the country?” He looked both wise and worn.

“Yes.” Shelby knew that where she lived was not the country really, but she didn’t argue that. She was happy for the gentle confirmation in his question though he might see her wrong in her suspicions and though he didn’t understand the unease she had about this case.

Nathan’s eyes were warm. “That is much too far away from civilization for my liking. How would you find a good filet de boeuf or a splendid pinot noir.” He stopped and took an extra breath. “Shelby, here is what I’ll tell you. I believe in intuition. You know that is true. So you must trust and follow that. But you know, in this case you call a ‘situation,’ it puts you on a dangerous ground. You must stay professional. You must watch, at least, for confidentiality, conflict of interest. And, dear friend, you yourself must watch the law. You have the ‘Duty to Warn,’ you know.” He meant the legal requirement that she must intervene if she assessed that someone could be hurt. “And have you factored that you could be sued? About this other hat you’re wearing—Sherlock Holmes, Miss Marple—I don’t know what name to call you, this can of worms I can’t convince my mind to comprehend. I can’t see how you’ll wear this hat and keep all of the others.”

Shelby wasn’t sure what she expected when she came. Jacob Nathan had the credibility of one true to his own convictions. And she knew that he had wisdom. From him, she felt both affirmation and vigorous caution. She thought for several moments, said that she would think on what he’d said, thanked him, and prepared to leave.
As he came around to see her out, he hugged her once again, held her at arm’s length, and asked, “My dear, could you have come here looking for a father?” He looked into her eyes, “If that is so, just don’t forget, it is ‘the father’ who is your ‘Achilles Heel.’ ”

Driving north again on 301, she mused on Dr. Nathan’s warnings. She knew that he was right in urging caution. Some years ago, when she’d known less about herself, she might have been offended at his words. But, she was in uncharted territory here and valued the care he had extended.

Chere hadn’t said a thing that clarified her father’s drowning. There were no actual clues about this death. Shelby simply had a feeling. And, indeed, it was Chere who was the client. If Shelby couldn’t help with what the woman came for, as Dr. Nathan told her, she should refer her on to someone else who would. Chere wanted help divorcing Darley Blanton. That much she stated. Wallace could ask more probing questions, but if Chere deflected them, she would have no choice but to work with what was offered or send her to another therapist.

The issue was her ethics—her valued concepts of “first do no harm” and confidentiality. There was nothing wrong to her in treating those impossible to like if they received the protection and respect of any other. Chere was difficult, and far from being honest. Still, Shelby knew she must not go behind Chere’s back with a veiled agenda. She must be even more up front with Chere about her father or she could put herself in trouble. Ethical trouble.

What disturbed her most was the last thing Dr. Nathan told her, his analysis of her. She didn’t want to re-examine that. A hesitant Pandora who sneaks a peek beneath the lid of her unconscious, she wasn’t sure she was prepared to know what else was operating in this case with Chere. Nathan knew Shelby’s father died when she was young. He had worked with her before. What he had gleaned from her suspicions that he related to her psychological history, right now, she didn’t really want to know.

Coming Friday, August 10: Installment 10: Redneck Wisdom