Borderline Page 18

  What Brian really wanted was a drink. It was nearly 1 a.m. and he debated whether he should call McFarlane. He knew the cop would be available to him with no concern for the hour but Brian also anticipated a lecture and 12-step clichés. He decided he could get solace from reading the Big Book instead. By handling the dog-eared copy, he felt a connection with the troubled souls who over the years had found solace by working the program. He read a dozen or so pages and then the Serenity Prayer came into his head.

  “God grant me the serenity to accept what I can’t change, the courage to change what I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.” Probably invoked more than any other message, at least in the Judeo-Christian world. Though the Twenty-third Psalm, particularly the “Yeah though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death I shall fear no evil, for I am the meanest motherfucker around” version, had been popular in Vietnam.

  He forced himself to stop thinking about Vietnam and refocused on the Serenity Prayer. Repeating it, breathing in, breathing out. Was Tammy LaFleur’s death something he needed to accept, or something he could change? He couldn’t bring her back, but if she had been murdered, was he responsible for finding her killer? And what would he do then? Don’t mean nothing. Don’t mean nothing. Don’t mean nothing. After a long while, he was ready to try sleeping.

  Hanson was at his desk by eight the next morning, struggling to stay awake with just four hours’ sleep.

  “You’re here bright and early,” Betty Pearlman said cheerily, sticking her head through the doorway. “You look like you had quite a time last night.”

  He fixed her with his bleary gaze, trying to decide if she knew what had happened.

  “Tell me about it,” Pearlman asked, dropping herself into one of Hanson’s patched office chairs. Like most of the mental health center’s furniture, it had been donated to the nonprofit by a wealthier corporation after a few years of use. In the nonprofit world, it would be part of the decor until the stains got too gross or the patches constituted more than the original fabric.

  “About four hundred people, the mayor, a senator, some faces that were vaguely familiar so they’ve probably been in the paper. No Brad Pitt or Angelina Jolie.”

  “Not even Carrot Top,” Pearlman joked. “So why were you invited?”

  “Damned if I know.”

  “No special recognition of the fine work you’ve done? No one offering to build a wing in your honor? No secret handshakes and invitations to join the Freemasons?”

  He instinctively knew the deputy mayor had been behind the invitation. Was it to see the man he was cuckolding or to try and intimidate him? Brian asked, “You know anything about Tony Dorsey?”

  “He used to sit on the board of this agency,” Pearlman said without guile. “Deputy mayor, sharp dresser and political operator, good-looking and he knows it, has a rep as a womanizer. He was a go-to guy—if you want something done sooner rather than later, get him on board. Why?” “Nothing. I spent a few minutes chatting with him.”

  She waited for more information but Hanson said nothing.

  “You look like hell, Brian. You can’t do the late-night carousing you used to do when you were twenty.”

  “Nowadays, if I did the kind of carousing I did when I was twenty, I’d be dead,” he said. At twenty, just back from the war, he had been teetering between numbing intoxication and destruction.

  She stared at his serious face and knew where his mind was going. “You take care of yourself.”

  When Pearlman was gone, he shut the door, leaned forward into his hands, and covered his face. How quickly was he reverting to his Mr. Hydel self with the actions that had kept him alive in Vietnam? Violence without thought. The reactions he had grown up with. His father was an alcoholic carpenter who would beat his wife and kids when things were going badly. When sober he was a great dad. Always willing to toss a football or baseball, or teach Brian how to cut wood safely, make a bookcase or a step stool. Gave solid advice like “Measure twice, cut once” or “Dull blades cut flesh easier than wood.”

  But when the construction business was slow or he had exceeded his tab at the bar he would stagger home and slam the door with a fury that let Brian, his mother, and his brother know they should hide if they could. He had the feeling his mother willingly let herself be battered, rather than have the kids take the force of his father’s fury.

  No one noticed the pattern until Brian discussed it with a therapist a decade and a war later, that the day after his father’s violent drunken binges, Brian would inevitably get in a fight at school. Brian didn’t fight for adolescent braggadocio, he fought to hurt. An A student in middle school, he was already a known troublemaker by high school. After Brian was caught high on pot and joyriding with a couple of friends, a judge suggested the discipline of the Army or jail. The choice was easy, even with the war beginning to heat up in Vietnam. His father died, driving drunk, while he was overseas. Hanson missed the funeral. Hanson’s mother remarried after a couple of years and was absorbed with her new family. He exchanged Christmas and birthday cards with her.

  He loathed the violence within himself, so close to the surface, so easily provoked by the smug deputy mayor. Would he have maimed or killed him? And then what, left him on the floor of the bathroom to be discovered by the police chief or some other big shot? Was Dorsey really ex-CIA or a dweeb with a gun showing off?

  Brian rubbed his face, pressing against his eyes until he saw stars. He glanced at his wall clock. He had forty-five minutes until his first client. Maybe there was something in Tammy’s file that could answer his questions, convince him one way or the other.

  Although he had no clinical reason to be looking through the chart, Hanson strolled to the chart room.

  “Hi, Mary, how’s my favorite guardian of endless paperwork?” he asked.

  “The state’s doing an audit and I’ve got to pull fifteen charts in the next few hours. Don’t ask.”

  “I need one I closed not that long ago, Tammy LaFleur.”

  “I remember, you pulled that one before.”

  “Yeah, the joys of paperwork.”

  “Hold on.” She went back to the closed chart room. Even before she returned, he knew something was wrong.

  “Her chart’s not where it’s supposed to be.”

  “Misfiled?”

  “Doubtful. We usually keep the closed charts in good order. It’s better back here when we don’t have you clinicians coming in and messing things up.”

  “Could I take a look?”

  “Suit yourself.”

  They went into the back room, where floor-to-ceiling metal shelves housed several thousand manila file folders. All the clients that had been seen for the past seven years. A secured warehouse held another twenty thousand charts detailing the lives and suffering of closed clients. The agency was hunting for a grant to fund scanning them and storing data electronically. He watched as she ran her finger down the tabs, lips moving slightly as she quickly read the letters. “It’s gone,” she said with a frown. “I’ll put in a lost-file form.”

  Numerous active charts were misplaced, usually because one member of the staff had a file out that another one was looking for. For a closed chart to be AWOL was unusual, and both he and Mary knew it.

  “Let me look at the tracking record,” Mary suggested. With federal HIPAA requirements, all health care entities had to diligently record any time a file was reviewed by someone outside the agency.

  “It was last checked out to an Adam Dawson, deputy district attorney.”

  “A copy?”

  “No. He had the original. Viewed it on site, then it’s signed in. See, here’s Ginger’s signature.” Ginger was the young receptionist-file clerk who Hanson suspected had a meth habit. He had argued vehemently for more serious screening of the low-paid file clerks who had access to the most confidential material. One file clerk had been caught arranging drug deals on a company phone in the chart room.

  Hanson asked Mary a few ques
tions but she grew increasingly defensive, like a Pentagon general not wanting to believe anyone could breach a fail-safe missile system. He left her muttering and looking over the papers.

  The counselor had ten minutes before his first client, and called the district attorney’s office. “Adam Dawson, please?”

  “I don’t have anyone in my directory with that name,” the operator said.

  “Uh, could you double-check. It’s important,” Hanson said.

  “One minute.” The operator got back on the line after close to two minutes. “I checked both new and former employees. No one by that name.”

  “Thanks.” Hanson hung up, feeling a heady mixture of relief and concern. It was evidence that something was going on, but what did it mean that someone had made the file disappear? What was in the file that was so valuable?

  He hurried to Ginger, who was, as he had expected, useless.

  She had no recollection of checking the file out, and launched into a monologue about how busy she was. He was pondering his next step when the receptionist buzzed and told him his client had arrived.

  Dorsey had enjoyed humiliating Jeanie Hanson right in front of her husband with the jerk not even knowing it. But then there had been the bathroom scene, where Hanson had been in control, even though Dorsey had the weapon. The deputy mayor had gotten home filled with anger and arousal and pretty much raped his wife. Arlene’s docile acceptance had added to his fury. He had fallen asleep to her pathetic stifled weeping. Not the first time either.

  At work he ruminated on the horrid panicky feeling as the counselor had held him by the neck. His voice was still scratchy—Edith had even asked if he was coming down with a sore throat. Clearly Hanson was a sadistic psycho, a danger to the community.

  Dorsey could barely concentrate as he reviewed his morning e-mail. Nearly fifty messages had piled up. He fumed as he waded through a dozen or so between the water bureau and the city comptroller, arguing deferred billing practices for the city’s larger commercial properties. The water bureau chief and the comptroller were little kids calling each other names, wanting as large an audience as possible. His index finger savagely jabbed the Delete key.

  He was snappish with Edith and terse with the press secretary, who was trying to arrange for him to fill in for the mayor at a library-opening photo opportunity. “Listen, C.J., no one gives a fuck about this ribbon-cutting bullshit. Let some lightweight from the county get his picture in the paper.” He’d hung up before she could respond.

  Dorsey dialed a phone number. After three rings, the machine picked up. “Let’s talk, Doc.”

  FIFTEEN

  Jeanie Hanson shuffled through the stack of papers on her desk a couple of times, in no mood to interpret or analyze spreadsheets. She gazed at the papers, but all she could see was Dorsey’s smirky face. And her husband’s placid face afterward. There had been flashes of anger, which she had been grateful for. She could understand anger. But then Brian had gotten that calm, distant expression. She recognized the irony in the situation, that her always alert husband hadn’t known what was going on under the table right next to him. Or maybe he had. How much did Brian know? What would he do to Dorsey? What could Dorsey do to him? She had to salvage what she could.

  Hanson met with a couple of clients who fortunately were in a maintenance mode. One needed validation that staying clean and sober and not returning to live with an abusive girlfriend was the right thing to do. The other had housing and food basket problems. Hanson did a little basic case management, hooking the client up with an advocate. His mind, however, remained stuck on the night before.

  Greg Burkett was a surprise to Hanson. He had come in for a second appointment after their initial crisis session in the hotel. Though guarded in his comments, Burkett was less antagonistic, and had an almost playful air as he bantered with Hanson. He admitted that his parole officer was pressuring him to get treatment.

  “So what should we focus on today?’ Hanson asked, after Burkett talked about a Trail Blazer game he had seen on TV, the weather, and a woman he had dated several years earlier.

  “You ever think about drugs?” Burkett asked.

  A clinical dilemma, since as an addictions counselor he’d be open about being in recovery, while mental health counselors were guarded in disclosure.

  “We can talk about it, but I’m curious as to why you ask.”

  “You can’t understand it unless you’ve been there.”

  “Whatever my experience, it’s not exactly the same as yours. Are you feeling that I can’t understand you?”

  “You ever get the hunger down so deep and so strong that you can’t think of anything else? That you can’t go another second without a hit? Like the world just isn’t complete?”

  “It sounds like it’s very important to you. When did you last use?”

  “It takes a druggie to know a druggie,” Burkett said with a smile. “You still got the cravings, don’t you? Want it so bad you can taste the taste, smell the smell.”

  “We may think about things but never do them,” Hanson said. He could feel he was on the defensive. The session progressed, not really therapeutic, but at least not harmful, Brian hoped. Afterward, Hanson reflected back on the session. A good counselor used his feelings the way a musician used an instrument, monitoring the vibrations and trying to compose something artful. The session had struck a discordant note. Did it mean Burkett was suicidal? Homicidal? Did I miss something? Hanson wondered. But he had to field a crisis call from a school counselor, and then his next client was waiting.

  Anna was a trauma survivor with borderline personality traits. She instantly knew he was distracted. She was the kind of client that, while completely overwhelmed by emotional dramas of her own creation, had highly developed antennae for picking up the emotional state of those around her. Growing up in a home where physical and emotional violence was the norm, knowing whether it was an ill wind blowing in could save her from abuse.

  An old phrase stuck in Hanson’s head even as he welcomed Anna. He was in Indian country. Not politically correct, but the way they thought of it in Vietnam. In the wilds, and not really sure who was going to be shooting at him from behind which tree. What should his next step be to avoid a trap?

  “You don’t care about me, do you?” Anna asked. Petite, usually wearing fashionable clothing that she boasted she had purchased at the Goodwill, she had a pretty heart-shaped face, marred only by the crooked teeth that gave away her impoverished background. She had initially made it clear she was coming to see Hanson only because her Department of Human Services (DHS) caseworker mandated therapy as a condition of getting her children back. But gradually she had opened up, talking about her abuse by her stepfather, her feelings of failure around parenting, her desire to be a better mother than her mother had been to her, and anxiety over what would happen if she got her kids back.

  Hanson had worked, successfully, to build her trust. He knew that lying to her would take them a couple steps backward. “You’re right, I’m distracted,” he admitted.

  “What happened? Did DHS tell you they wouldn’t give my kids back?”

  “No, Anna, it’s more about me than you. I’m sorry, I’m caught up in an outside problem. Not really here with you the way I should be.”

  “You’re telling the truth?”

  “Yes. I always do.”

  She stared at him. “Want to tell me about it?”

  “They don’t pay you enough to listen to my problems.”

  She giggled, a sound he had never heard from her. “You’re an okay guy, Brian.”

  “Thanks.”

  “If you ever need anything, you let me know.”

  “Thanks. Now, let’s get back to how you are doing.”

  It was a simple prearranged meeting code. They had a half dozen different sites. Dorsey would get there first. Wolf would arrive a couple minutes later and watch, making sure no one was tailing either one of them. Wolf would follow Dorsey as he walked at a leisure
ly pace to an out-of-the-way location where they could talk. If there was anything out of the ordinary, Wolf would avoid contact. It had happened a couple of times, when people who knew Dorsey had come up and begun conversations. Dorsey had politely chatted, and then been forced to reschedule.

  By using the name “Doc,” Dorsey had signaled that they should meet on Pill Hill, home to Oregon Health Sciences University, the Veterans Administration, Doernbacher Children’s Hospital, and a half dozen major medical institutions. By using three words, Dorsey had signaled to meet at 3 p.m. Dorsey had learned early on that hospital complexes were a good place to meet. Lots of people moving in a hurry, lots of strangers. Most people were either worrying about life and death or expensive medical procedures, or they were overworked medical staff. The hospitals and clinics offered a warren of confusing multilevel connecting passageways, with numerous entrances and exits. Even if he was recognized, he would say he was visiting a friend.

  Dorsey had chosen the pedestrian cable-suspension sky bridge, the longest in North America, connecting the ninth floor of OHSU with the second floor of the Veterans Administration Hospital. Meeting midway on the 650-foot-long bridge, Dorsey and Wolf could see several hundred feet in either direction.

  They stood a few feet apart, gazing out the window at the great view of Mount Hood and the east side of the city, leaning slightly toward each other, but not directly facing. A casual passerby wouldn’t even know they were talking.

  “I’ve got another one for you,” Dorsey whispered.

  “The pace is picking up,” Wolf said.

  “We’re making inroads,” Dorsey responded. “We’re at a tipping point. I already heard from a law enforcement source that we’re getting a reputation in the criminal world. You know Los Angeles, back in the early to mid part of the twentieth century, used to have the goon squad that would beat up lowlifes trying to get established in town. And look at how Los Angeles grew.”