Rough Weather Part 30

"What specifically would you like to know?" he said.

"What are you treating her for?"

"Neurasthenia," he said.

"Do people still suffer from that?" I said.

He made a slight dismissive motion of his head. Next question.

"How are you treating her?"

"Counseling and medication," he said.

"What are the medications?"

"Nothing you would be likely to understand," Rosselli said.

"Doubtless you're right," I said. "Give me a list."

"Why?"

"So I may show it to someone who will understand it."

Rosselli shook his head.

"I'm sorry, that is really just too intrusive."

"Which cops would you like to give it to?" I said. "City, state, or federal?"

He sat in silence for another time. I thought about arching my brows and and pursing my lips, but decided it was overacting. Then he leaned to his phone and pressed a b.u.t.ton. pursing my lips, but decided it was overacting. Then he leaned to his phone and pressed a b.u.t.ton.

"Betsy," he said. "Please bring me the protocol for Adelaide Van Meer."

We waited, and in a minute or so, Ms. Thighs glided in with a printout page and handed it to Rosselli. He shook his head and nodded at me. She widened her eyes and gave me the printout. It seemed to be legit. I folded it and put it in my inside pocket. Ms. Thighs glided out.

"Would, ah, neurasthenia be causative in her suicide attempt?" I said.

"She denies that there ever was a suicide attempt," Rosselli said. "But certainly neurasthenia can lead one to attempt it."

"Was she ever s.e.xually molested?" I said.

Rosselli seemed almost to recoil, as if I had suddenly shown him something repulsive.

"Molested?" he said.

I nodded enthusiastically.

"Of course not," he said.

"How can you be so sure?" I said.

"I would certainly have learned of it in the five years I've been treating her," he said.

I nodded.

"Do you know what causes her to be neurasthenic?" I said.

"Exhaustion of the nervous system," he said. "It's probably more characterological than anything else."

"And it manifests itself how?" I said.

"Fatigue, depression, general discomfort with no objective cause or lesions."

I said, "Thank you, Dr. Rosselli," and stood up.

He stood and walked me to the door.

"I trust there will be no need for the police," he said.

"No, of course not, no need at all," I said.

He opened the door for me, and I walked out, past Ms. Thighs.

52.

I had worked a few years back on a school shooting in Dowling, out in the middle of the state. During the time Susan was away, and I needed a shrink to talk with my client, and she had suggested a guy named Dix who used to be a cop. It had worked out well, which was why Susan and I went to see him about Dr. Rosselli. back on a school shooting in Dowling, out in the middle of the state. During the time Susan was away, and I needed a shrink to talk with my client, and she had suggested a guy named Dix who used to be a cop. It had worked out well, which was why Susan and I went to see him about Dr. Rosselli.

He had a clean-shaven head and big square hands, and he looked as if he could still put a stranglehold on someone if he had to. He stood when we came into his office.

"Susan," he said. "Nice to see you again."

He looked at me.

"Whaddya got?"

I handed him the list of meds that I'd gotten from Rosselli. He looked at it without comment.

Susan said, "I've gone through this stuff, and I have an opinion, but I'm not sufficiently expert in psychopharmacology."

"What are they being used for?" Dix said.

Susan smiled.

"To treat neurasthenia," she said.

"Neurasthenia?" Dix said.

"That's what the man told me," I said.

"For crissake," Dix said. "That's like saying it's being used to treat the vapors."

"I've explained that to him," Susan said.

"Who is this doctor," Dix said. "Is he a shrink?"

"His M.D. is urology," Susan said. "He bills himself as a therapeutic counselor."

"Rosselli," Dix said.

"You know him?" I said.

"Emil Rosselli," Dix said. "That's who it is, isn't it?"

"Yes," I said. "What do you think of him?"

"Dope dealer to the rich and famous," Dix said. "He's a f.u.c.king disgrace."

"Don't get too technical on me," I said.

"I simply strive for accuracy," Dix said.

He scanned the list.

"There's some vitamins here," he said, "which probably do no harm, and the rest are psychotropic drugs."

"Like sedatives?" I said.

"Some," he said. "There's an a.s.sortment to get you up, calm you down, get a balance between. All of them have legitimate uses, but they are not normally used in this amount or these combinations."

"Pills?" I said.

"Some pills, some injectables, some that come in either form," Dix said. "I can't tell from the list how often the patient received this stuff."

"He went there every two weeks," I said.

"Doesn't tell me if he gave her the same thing every time," Dix said.

"The more he went, I suppose, the more money he made."

"Most Feelgoods use injections," Dix said. "Patient can take pills himself, but the doc can jack up the price if the patient thinks he always has to get a shot."

"Maybe he also did counseling," I said.

"I hope not," Dix said.

"What would be the effect of these drugs on the recipient?" I said.

"It can vary," Dix said. "But certainly it would dull her response to the phenomenological world."

"How about on a young woman who had been s.e.xually molested and attempted suicide."

"Palliative at best," Dix said.

"Harmful?" I said.

"The actual drugs? Can't say without more information. But if she is suffering severe post-molestation psychopathology, it's like putting a Band-Aid over gangrene."

"The pathology will continue to fester," I said.

"A bit dramatic maybe," Dix said, "but yes. She will continue to need help."

"But not from Emil Rosselli," I said.

"First do no harm," Dix said.

"I think Rosselli is governed by a different code," I said.

Dix smiled.

"Show me the money," he said.

53.

In the late afternoon, Hawk and I sat with Valerie Lessard in a big wooden booth in the taproom at the Na.s.sau Inn in Princeton. The room looked like it was supposed to, with dark wood and murals. Valerie had some white wine; Hawk and I drank beer. Hawk and I sat with Valerie Lessard in a big wooden booth in the taproom at the Na.s.sau Inn in Princeton. The room looked like it was supposed to, with dark wood and murals. Valerie had some white wine; Hawk and I drank beer.

"The thing about poor Maurice," Valerie said, "is he was gay."

"Was he out?" I said.

"Not around my parents," Valerie said.

"They didn't know?"

Valerie, as she talked, was obliquely studying Hawk.

"He didn't want them to," Valerie said.