Riders on the Storm

The name Lindsey Shepard put me in mind of a glacial Grace Kelly blonde but she was instead a winsome little thing who would look young even in her sixties and seventies.

She wore a red blouse with nubby red buttons and a black skirt. She had winsome legs, too, and tiny feet in tiny black flats. Lindsey Shepard, High School Shrink.

She seemed too diminutive for the enormous Victorian house that she and her husband had turned into a fashionable site for both their practice and their living quarters.

“I’m glad to know that Will has you for a friend, Mr. McCain,” she said. “But I really can’t help you. I guess I’m old-school, but when I was in grad school my favorite instructor always said that one rule was absolute. We aren’t to discuss confidential information with anyone unless we feel that a patient is a danger to himself or to someone else.”

“You don’t consider Will a danger to himself at least?”

“Not enough that I want to talk about him with anyone else.”

“Not even the police?”

Her office was a rain forest of heavy plants and an art museum of Chagall and Impressionists. Contradictory styles of art but it worked. From her wide, square window you could see in the distance the limestone cliffs above the river. Peaceful.

“I care about Will, Mr. McCain.”

“Sam. Please.”

“I care about Will as I do all my patients. Especially the vets. Very few people seem to appreciate what these young men have been through and the price they’ve paid. And as for the police, Sam... we’re social friends with the chief. I guess he expected that I’d pretty much open my files on Will to him but I didn’t. He was very disappointed. He even tried to get my husband Randall to help him. Randall saw Will for three months before I did. Then Randall decided that maybe how I approached things might be more productive for Will. But Randall wouldn’t help the chief, either. Foster looked angry when he left here earlier.”

The smile was pure imp. “Randall tells people we arm-wrestle to see who has the better approach. We actually do argue about it sometimes. My husband has a great sense of humor.”

I’d come here hoping she’d give me the kind of information that would buttress the case I was making that Will was an unlikely killer. The only solace I had was that Chief Foster hadn’t gotten anywhere, either.

Her phone line buzzed.

“Excuse me a minute.” Then, “Oh, sure, Randall. Please do.”

After hanging up she said, “Randall would like to stop in and say hello.”

I nodded.

Within a minute there was a knock and then a tall, professorial, not unhandsome man with a Vandyke beard and an imposing bearing appeared in the doorway. Both dark hair and beard were streaked with gray. The blue three-piece suit had to be Brooks Brothers. He moved with the ease of a politician comfortable with the meet-and-greet. The hand that clasped mine was firm but not inclined to show off. He was probably eight years or so older than his wife but in very good shape.

“We’re very sorry about Will. We know how close you two are. He’s talked to both of us about you in sessions. I just wanted to let you know Lindsey and I will do anything we can to help Will and his family without violating our professional ethics.”

“I know Karen appreciates that. In fact she appreciates everything you’ve both done for Will.”

“The wives become stress victims themselves,” he said. “The man who went overseas is rarely the same man who comes back.”

Car horns; a few shouts. Both sounded vulgar on the reticent air of the Victorian house.

Randall Shepard walked over to the window and looked out. “They’ve been here twice with cameras already. I’m very much a liberal but I can see why people get annoyed with the press. The intrusiveness.” He turned back and gave me a smile he’d bought at a store. “People hear this story and they think we’re all snake-oil peddlers. It discourages people from coming here. People really do need to come here.”

“Randall’s right. There are so many people we could potentially help. But bad publicity doesn’t help.”

“Well, right now the only person I’m concerned about is Will,” I said.

“Of course,” Randall said. “And we feel the same way.”

Lindsey checked her watch. “I’m afraid I’ve got another session in ten minutes.” To Randall, “Honey, would you ask Myra to get me something edible from the fridge and get it up here fast?”

“Sure will.”

Another handshake.

Then he did one of the damndest things I’ve ever seen. He gave me a thumbs-up. The beard, the suit, the slight air of stuffiness, the position in the community — I didn’t expect it from somebody like him. From Kenny maybe or from one of my clients or from Nick who worked on my car. But not this guy. I wanted him to stay the comfortable stereotype of the somber shrink. You don’t want your MD coming in with drinking straws sticking out of his ears.