“This isn’t a courtroom,” she said.

He held up his palms defensively. “I’m not trying to be an obstructionist, Agent Saint Clare. I’m trying to honor my patient’s privacy.”

“Kyra Klein doesn’t care what you tell me. She’s dead.”

“She has a family.”

“What do you feel comfortable giving me?”

“Information about mental health matters in general. Descriptions of various disorders and how they’re treated. Side effects of drugs. Anything beyond that—well … I’d have to consult with my attorney before talking to you.”

Another helpful citizen trying to trump her with the lawyer card. Bernadette decided to hurl her bluntest questions and observe his reaction: “Did Kyra Klein commit suicide?”

He didn’t flinch or hesitate in his answer. “I suggest you ask that of the Hennepin County medical examiner. He must make that determination.”

“She may have overdosed on the lithium you prescribed for her. Doesn’t that concern you?”

He flipped open the file in front of him and trained his eyes on it. “The welfare of all my patients and their medication use concerns me.”

“There’s also the possibility that a murderer laced her wine with the lithium to make her easier to subdue. Wouldn’t it bother you to know that a bottle with your name on it was used to dope your patient and facilitate her homicide? Doesn’t that make you want to help find her killer?”

“The fact that Miss Klein is dead troubles me greatly.” He looked up from the folder. “But this theory that she was the victim of murder …”

She leaned forward. “I’m listening.”

“Without commenting on the specifics of Miss Klein’s case, let me say this. Mood disorders are by far the most commonly diagnosed mental illness in suicide deaths, and patients with bipolar disorders are at a particularly high risk. In fact, a quarter to one-half of all patients with bipolar disorder attempt suicide at least once.”

“There are things about Miss Klein’s death that indicate it was something other than suicide,” said Bernadette.

“What things?”

“If she was murdered, who did it? Who wanted her dead? She must have told you if she was having problems with someone in her life.”

“Agent Saint Clare—”

“I just want to know what you think. Who should we be looking at for this?” She dropped her pen and pad back into her pocket and held up her empty hands. “Look. No notes.”

“No notes?” He offered her a tight smile. “I’m an educated man, Agent Saint Clare. Do you really think I’m that naïve?”

“I think you’re hiding something or protecting someone,” she said. “That’s what I think.”

“I’m trying to protect my practice.”

“Protect it from what?”

“Let’s say for a moment that her death is indeed ruled a suicide. I am not saying that it was or wasn’t. But let’s say, for the sake of argument, that’s what the medical examiner determines.” He folded his hands atop his desk. “Who might be blamed for that suicide? In this litigious society, who might end up drawn into a protracted and expensive legal battle?”

She leaned back in her chair. “That’s what this is really about, isn’t it, Doctor? You don’t give a damn about patient privacy. You’re covering your rear end in case her family comes after you.”

He checked his watch again. “I’ve got to get some paperwork done before my afternoon patients.”

She picked up the family portrait and studied it. “Pretty girls.”

“Thank you.”

“Emily and Melissa, right?”

His posture stiffened in his chair. “If you’re finished, I need to get back to my—”

“Pretty wife, too. Elizabeth, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“She and the kiddies are in Arizona right now, isn’t that correct? Where was your vacation home again? Scottsdale? How’s the golf game these days?”

“How do you know where my family is and—”

“You’ve got it all, haven’t you?” She set the photo back down on the desk and spun it around so it faced the psychiatrist. “Picture-perfect family. Successful practice. Kudos from your colleagues hanging up on the wall.”

“I’m not liking your tone, Agent Saint Clare.”

“Big fancy house in Scottsdale. Big fancy house on Summit Avenue. Nice cars. Did you drive the Lexus today or the good old Volvo wagon? Actually, it’s not old, is it? It’s brand spanking new. It’d be a shame to lose all that nifty stuff.”

His jaw tensed and his eyes became slits. “How do you know where I live and what I drive?”

“You are naïve, Doctor,” she said.

He stood up. “Are you attempting to intimidate me?”

“Not at all,” she said evenly. “I’m just trying to figure out why someone with so much to lose would refuse to cooperate with his government.”

“My government has no business trying to force me to—”

Someone tapped.

“Yes!” VonHader barked.

Charles opened the door. “Do you two need coffee or anything?”

“I need you to see Miss Saint Clare to the exit.”

“Certainly, Doctor.” The receptionist opened the door wide and held it for the agent.

Bernadette sat frozen for a moment, staring at Luke VonHader from across the desk. She stood up, pulled a business card out of her trench coat, and slapped it down on the corner of his desk. “In case you change your mind.”

“I won’t,” the doctor said.

“This way, please,” said the Candy Man.

“I know the way out,” said Bernadette, walking through the door.

Chapter 18

“THAT COULD HAVE gone a lot better,” said Bernadette, stomping into the cellar and throwing her notebook on her desk.

Creed was there and he looked up from his computer. “Now what?”

She took off her coat and tossed it over the back of her chair. “I met with Kyra Klein’s prof this morning and her psychiatrist over lunch. Neither one would tell me anything.”

“I’m not surprised about the shrink. Patient privacy laws are a pain.”

“He’s just covering his rear,” she said, dropping into her seat. “He’s afraid of getting sued for wrongful death. That’s what this is really about. Hind End Covering 101. They teach it in med school. It’s a required class.”

“The prof, though. Why wouldn’t he want to help?”

“Klein is the second of his students to be found floating.”

“The second?”

“The other was the June victim. Alice Bergerman.”

“Damn. You’re on to something.” He nodded toward his computer screen. “But what about—”

“Don’t worry. I’m not bailing on the idea that these murders could be the result of some sort of water bondage thing. In fact, he kept using the word tortured. Some of his female students have these tortured souls.”

“Sounds like he was dangling it in front of you. Waiting for you to bite.”

“My thoughts exactly. I’m putting together a surveillance of him over the weekend. I want his ass watched.”

“Since we’ve latched on to the scintillating subject of butts”—he pointed at his monitor—“I’ve got something for you.”

“More porn? Are you becoming addicted to the stuff or what?” She got up from her chair and went over to his desk. “Am I going to have to organize an intervention?”

“You’re killing me,” he said.

Instead of dripping naked bodies, she saw a completed form for MapQuest. The Starting Location was the address for the cellar. She didn’t recognize the address of the Ending Location. She put her hand on the back of his chair and frowned at the screen. “Where are you sending me, Ruben?”

“To a studio across town.” He put his cursor over Get Directions and clicked his mouse. “The Land of Ten Thousand Lakes is home to a major producer of these aquatic films and other fetish adventures. Visceral Motion Pictures.”

She took her hand off his chair and stepped back. “You’re kidding me.”