Fatal Analysis

By Tom Bierdz

A tormented patient. Her tantalizing sister. One psychiatrist caught in the middle...

Grant Garrick has built his practice around the bedrock of doctor-client confidentiality. So when the psychiatrist gets an invitation to rendezvous with the sister of his most troubled patient, he says it’s out of the question. But the alluring Megan won’t take no for an answer...

After Megan’s suicidal sister refuses to attend appointments, Garrick lowers his defenses. Against his better judgment, he lets the irresistible woman into his world... and into his bed...

As tragedy strikes Garrick’s practice, the psychiatrist struggles with a disturbing question: is there more to his mistress than meets the eye? He’ll need every ounce of his analytic expertise to uncover the truth, but even he won’t be prepared for what lies beneath the surface...

Fatal Analysis is the standalone second book in a series of mystery thrillers. If you like psychological suspense, captivating characters, and mind-bending plot twists, then you’ll love Tom Bierdz’s edge-of-your-seat story.

Buy Fatal Analysis to journey into the dark corners of the mind today!

What people are saying about Fatal Analysis

"Book 2 of the Grant Garrick series was nothing like any thriller I've ever read. Very well written, descriptive, and easy to read...'on the edge of your seat' thriller" Vicki Stratten

"Don't miss this one. Grant Garrick's narrative keeps the story moving at a fast pace. The intriguing plot kept me turning pages until the very end." Anonymous

"Fantastic storyline. I was enthralled by the main characters from start to finish. I must admit that when picking up a book, I try to guess the ending early on in the book, but with Fatal Analysis I couldn't do it." Tony Marsh

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tom Bierdz
• Release date: Apr 27, 2017
• ISBN: 9780998364728

Tom Bierdz

Tom Bierdz, a retired psychotherapist, was born and raised in Kenosha,WI. He earned a BA degree from Marquette University and a Masters degree in social work from the University of Chicago. He worked in public welfare in Milwaukee and Kenosha before becoming the Director of Catholic Social Services in Racine, WI. From there he went into the private practice of psychotherapy.Several years later he retired his psychotherapy practice, earned his insurance and stockbroker's license,secured a CFP degree and practiced as a Certified Financial Planner.Tom has been passionate about needing to express himself artistically. He dabbled with writing from time to time before giving it full energy during his retirement. Finally, he has committed to publish independently.He and his wife, Susan, reside in Washington State.

Book preview

1

Monday morning. My head hurt. Once more I shut off the alarm for fear the reverberating ring would shatter my skull. I remember reading somewhere about ancient cultures using sound vibrations to build and destroy structures. So, maybe, it could really happen. I was still dragged out from the weekend. I didn’t recover like I used to when I was thirty. I wanted to turn over and go back to sleep but I was already late for work.

I was a psychiatrist and had a small, private practice that once was lucrative until patients started leaving me. Normally I was at work by eight, but today my first patient was due at eleven. The alarm clock showed nine-thirty-eight. Time to drag myself out of bed, which I did grudgingly. I shaved and showered, telling myself I needed to stop my destructive behavior. Since my divorce from Hanna I felt I needed to prove my worth. I knew better. I was just avoiding and masking deeper issues. That’s what I told my patients. I should follow my own advice. My reckless drinking had left me without wheels. I swallowed a small handful of aspirin, dressed in my suit and tie, and delayed breakfast till later, and left for work.

I walked to my office, a half mile away in a commercial neighborhood at the edge of downtown Seattle. It was late spring with a brisk chill in the air that I welcomed as invigorating, helping me to revitalize. The sun had begun to break through the clouds. Cars passed but no one else was on the street of old-refurbished Victorian homes that had been turned into cozy, professional offices. White-collar workers had already begun their day.

My practice was on the second floor of a Victorian, handsomely painted in mauve and mahogany, which I rented from attorney Mike McBride. I used to work for Mike as a pseudo private eye before I returned to med school and completed my psychiatry degree. On the block were three other attorney offices, a financial planning firm, a real estate title company, a rare coin shop recently opened to buy gold, and the Noble Company whose purpose remained a mystery. Carrie McBride, Mike’s attorney daughter who worked in her father’s firm and was there more often than he, jokingly said the Noble Company was a front for something nefarious, possibly drugs. But none of us had ever taken the time to find out what they did. Possibly because it was more fun to play conspiracy games, speculating. Yesterday, Bobby, my brother-in-law, suggested they were in the sex trafficking business because he saw a shapely, young girl with well-turned legs in a short leather skirt enter the building and never come out. Bobby was my ex-wife’s younger brother, but I still called him my brother-in-law because ex brother-in-law didn’t sound right. The words just didn’t flow.

Bobby was twenty and was subbing as my receptionist while my anchor and regular receptionist, Grace, was on vacation in Europe, celebrating her twenty-fifth wedding anniversary. Although she was a saver, the trip was mostly on her husband’s dime because I didn’t pay her what she was worth. If she didn’t have the need to mother me, she’d be long gone by now. I demanded very little from Bobby. Simply, that he welcome my patients, handle my phone calls, and perform some minimal secretarial duties like opening the mail, typing an occasional letter, and rescheduling patients when necessary. In turn, he played games and watched movies on the computer. Yesterday I allowed Bobby to bring in his Wii since I had anticipated a slow patient week. Bobby was studying to be a chef at the local community college. The only thing I knew about Bobby’s cooking was that he burned the hamburgers at a cookout at our house last year when I was still married to Hanna. I’ve decided not to judge his culinary skills on that one occurrence since he had had quite a few beers and, I suspected, had been high before he came to the party. I’ve long ago concluded that Bobby will be a success no matter what he does because he was so likeable. I think he got all his family’s likeable genes, but that’s another subject entirely.

Carrie McBride leaned over the railing on the porch smoking a cigarette. Her face lit up when she saw me. Petite and pretty with olive skin and dark hair that fell to the middle of her back, she was dressed casually in a jacket and jeans, apparently not expected in court. Off to a late start, I see, she said. She tossed the remains of her cigarette on the grass, placed her hands on her hips. I don’t know why you work so hard at getting laid. All you need to do is pick up the phone.

You’re assuming I’m late cause I’m hung over from partying, I said, from the base of the stairs.

Am I wrong?

No, you’re not. Carrie was divorced, a few years younger than I. She had kept her maiden name. She never let me forget that we had a brief fling some fifteen years ago, before we were both married, after a Christmas party when I was working for her father. She got a kick out of teasing me. Would she jump in the sack with me as she suggests? Probably, but it would take a lot more than a phone call. But I was into conquests, not relationships and she was much too close to home. It was preferable we stuck to sexual banter which I was not up to this morning. Talk to you later.

No come back? You are in a bad way. Carrie said, watching me enter the building.

As I opened the door and peered into my waiting room a stunningly, attractive woman with long, flowing blonde hair was bent in a crouch swinging her arm as if she was bowling. Her skirt had crept half-way up her nicely toned thighs that drew my eyes before I quickly lifted them to gaze at her smiling face and then at Bobby’s. His was an angelic baby face that was a magnet for summoning the female gender as if he was every woman’s kid brother.

Strike! she shouted, raising her arms over her head and leaping. I win!

Hi Grant, Bobby said, You have a new patient. Meet Megan Wilshire.

I nodded and smiled, thinking maybe Bobby was too likeable for the receptionist job and that I shouldn’t have allowed him to bring in his Wii. I could envision him fencing with my suicidal patients, or playing some deadly game with knives or guns.

I told her you’d be free an hour ago.

I glanced at my watch. It was just past ten-fifteen. Did I know, Bobby? Did you call me?

I assumed you’d be in by eight o’clock, your usual time.

I rolled my eyes. Bobby made a lot of assumptions, including one that I wouldn’t discipline him for any wrongdoing. He had me pegged in that regard.

We got carried away bowling, Megan interjected, captivating me with her sapphire blue eyes. If you’d come in earlier I’d never have gotten a turkey.

Chalk one up for Bobby. I’ll grab a cup of coffee and then you can come in Megan.

Oh, jeez, Bobby said, slapping his forehead with his hand. We drank it all. I meant to put on another pot.

Silently counting to ten to contain myself, I forced a smile and invited Megan into my office, and softly mumbled. Bobby, knock when the coffee’s ready.

I required a couple of caffeine-laced coffees to start my engine. With a hangover and no coffee I would have to focus extra-hard to give Megan her money’s worth. I took a seat on a soft chair in the corner of my office, beside my desk. Only with extremely hostile patients did I sit behind my protective desk. I believed the informality afforded a more intimate therapeutic atmosphere, one less authoritarian.

Instead of sitting, Megan wandered about the office, shuffling over the gray Berber carpet, and checking out my wall-hung movie posters: Ordinary People, One Flew over the Cuckoo’s Nest, Final Analysis, and Primal Fear. She brushed a few strands of hair from her face, formed her lips into a moue. "Interesting. Films with psychiatric problems. Apropos, but where is Psycho, or Three Faces of Eve, or Sybil?

"Actually, I have them in storage, plus a few more."

Why not continue the theme in the waiting room? She smoothed her ivory silk dress, reclined on the burgundy couch across from me, and crossed her shapely legs. A soft splash of light from the window on her left, fell across her lap and down the floor drawing attention to her legs.

Lifting my eyes, I said, I don’t want to scare patients away. Here, I can respond to their feelings.

Why would they frighten anyone?

Well, if someone thought they were going crazy the poster might reinforce the feeling. She was testing me. The reaction to the posters was obvious.

She stared at me, giving me an intensive look-over as if she were buying an ensemble off a model. I see why you needed the coffee. Those bags under your eyes make it hard for you to keep your head up.

My mouth must have dropped because I didn’t expect her punch. I had a hostile patient but also a clever one. Tough weekend, but we’re not here to talk about me. How about you tell me why you’re here.

Ignoring me completely, she asked, How much do you charge a session, Grant?

Patients in the initial interview usually call me doctor. That Megan chose to call me by my first name could indicate her comfort level. But I didn’t think so. Her familiarity could also be used to downplay my expertise, which I speculated it was. Two-hundred.

She reached in her pocket, pulled out a roll of bills, peeled off two Ben Franklins and tossed them on the coffee-table between us.

It’s customary to pay after the session. Didn’t Bobby ask for your insurance cards?

Money is no object. And, I don’t want to use my insurance.

Still, I said, picking up the bills and offering them to her, take this. You can give this to Bobby when we’re through here.

A Mount Rushmore hardness crossed her face. By paying you now, you have to give me the allotted time. That’s my insurance you won’t prematurely kick me out.

My stomach did a flip-flop. What was I in for? Despite what she said, I could still toss her out if needed, give her the money back. Just then Bobby knocked with the coffee. Thank God for small favors.

In addition to the coffee, Bobby gave me a pink slip with a phone number. Mrs. Merriweather canceled her appointment. Says she doesn’t want another.

A master of discretion, Bobby could have given a carbon copy of the message to Megan. I gave Bobby the evil eye, laid the message on my desk and made a mental note to call her later to try to get her back as it was the wrong time for her to quit therapy just when we were making significant gains.

Interesting cup, Megan said, a smirk on one side of her mouth.

A black skull and crossbones poison label was plastered on her white cup. I rolled my eyes. Bobby’s sense of humor.

She smiled. As long as it’s drinkable.

I swallowed long and deeply, felt the caffeine course through my system; I imagined it flowing through my veins sounding a wake-up alarm. Why don’t you tell me why you’re here, Megan? How I can help you.

I’m not here for myself. I’m here for my sister.

Go on, I said, curious.

I’m worried about her. Afraid she might hurt...kill herself. Her whole body tightened, perceptively shrinking, as if she wanted to disappear and avoid discussing the painful topic.

The threat of suicide sent a jolt of adrenalin through my body, waking every single nerve ending. Not only did I believe such threats could be real and that as a doctor I must do what I could, but I was still raw with emotion. My eyes began to well. I rubbed them. I fought to refocus. This was about her, not me. Why do you think that?

She’s been so depressed. She spends countless hours in bed. She doesn’t want to do anything with me. Sasha and I are like best friends. We do everything together. If we didn’t see each other every day, we’d talk for hours on the phone. She cradled her coffee cup, stared at it, let it steam her face before continuing. She used to give me hollow excuses. Now, she says she’s too depressed, just wants to stay in bed. And she has this big bottle of pills. She’s hinted at taking them all.

Has she overdosed before?

No.

What kind of pills are they?

I can’t remember the name. I think they begin with S. I know they’re anti-depressants.

Taking a long breath of air, I pondered the situation. Most doctors wouldn’t prescribe a lethal dose of medication. But that didn’t mean she couldn’t have stored and accumulated a lethal dose or took them in combination with other meds. I think you’re right to be concerned about your sister. She should be seen by a professional. Can you bring her in to see me?

She won’t come in. I’ve pleaded with her.

I put on my most reassuring smile. It’s not uncommon for people to resist getting help for a variety of reasons...

Doc, you don’t understand. Her therapist fucked her! She won’t let it happen again!

Her words struck my solar plexus like a heavyweight’s punch knocking out all the air, leaving me breathless. I was stunned. As a therapist I could relate as I’d been attracted to many alluring female patients. In a private setting where patients shared intimate details and perceived me as helpful, sensitive and understanding, it frequently took a Herculean effort to resist the patient’s sexual flirtations, some which were blatantly profane. This was especially true for women I’d find attractive outside the confines of the office. Countertransference feelings of the therapist could be as strong and unrelenting as the patient’s transference, particularly if the psychotherapist hasn’t worked through his own issues. But taking advantage of a fragile patient was the most dastardly thing a therapist could do, sometimes permanently destroying her trust in humanity; it was rape pure and simple even if it appeared consensual. How long ago?

Within the last six months.

Has she taken any action against the therapist, legal or otherwise?

No.

No? Why not? He’s a danger to his other patients. And, it would help Sasha therapeutically. Turn that depression into anger.

Her husband would blame and kill her if he knew. He’s a jealous monster. He beat her when he learned she was seeing him. Nick fielded the doctor’s returning call.

I suspected she wouldn’t give me the name of the therapist, but I had to try. Who is the therapist?

She gave me one of those ‘I’d tell you if I could, look’. I promised Sasha I wouldn’t tell.

I glanced at my watch. It was almost time for my next patient. "I feel for you Megan, and for Sasha. But if she won’t come in, I don’t know what I can do.

You can help me help her. Make suggestions. A treatment plan.

I can offer general guidelines but I don’t know how effective I can be working through you. Sasha can’t tell you everything. What she does say will be lost in translation. And, I’m unable to observe any of the non-verbal clues that are often more telling than what is said. This just seems doomed to failure. If I took this on and she killed herself I couldn’t handle it. It was too close to home.

Grant...

Using my first name again.

You need the business. You’re losing patients right and left.

You seem to know a lot about me.

Your DUI was a media highlight. I think everyone in the area knows about it.

This was another of those embarrassing, humbling moments when I wished I could go back in time and redo the day. Had I been an electrician or a plumber you’d have to dig to find the story. As a psychiatrist I was front page news.

Besides, she added, we had to be sure lightning didn’t strike twice.

And you think I’m a safe choice?

"I’m familiar with your article on The Ethics of Transference in the Journal of Clinical Psychiatry and that you delivered your paper at the annual American Psychiatric Association."

As a group, psychiatrists advocate potential patients seek out information on the therapist before selecting who to see to zoom in on their specialties and find one most compatible. The internet has simplified the process, but rarely did a patient go to such due diligence. The paper was well-received. I discussed how to be professionally seductive without seducing the patient. I sighed. I needed to rebuild my reputation. What harm could there be? Even if the situation was far from ideal my advice was better than a layperson’s. She was willing to pay for my services. Okay, I’ll give this a try but only as long as I believe it benefits your sister. And, I offer no guarantees.

There are never any guarantees in life.

I schooled her in what things to look for, and what questions to ask and sent her to see Bobby to set up the next appointment.

I jotted down a few notes and went out to the waiting room to get my next patient. My waiting room was small with six straight-back chairs with burgundy leather cushions, and a table with a lamp that held copies of Sports Illustrated, Time, and People magazine. Instead of movie posters, I hung a local artist’s oil painting of Mount Rainier, an aerial photo of the San Juan Islands, and a head shot of Sigmund Freud who most of my patients recognized. I did have a female adolescent patient who asked if he was my father or grandfather. She wasn’t that far off since Freud was the father of psychiatry. A wall with an open window separated the waiting room from the business office which housed the case files, office equipment, and where Megan still sat there across from Bobby.

Where’s Bonnie? I asked, thinking she may have been in the bathroom.

She didn’t show.

Did she call?

Uh-uh.

Megan rose from her chair, winked and smiled at me, then vacated the office.

Back in my office I went to the window and watched her walk away. I watched Megan get into her car, her dress ride up her legs, flashing a perfect pair of thighs. She was sensational. Was I letting my attraction get in the way of my professionalism? Could I really help her sister from a distance? Self-awareness was critical. At the moment I could make a case for both sides. I knew I’d have to eventually sort it out but now was not the time.

2

Bobbie drove me to the adolescent group home, one of the places where I was currently doing my community service. It was only a mile away. I could walk there if I had to but it was in the opposite direction, making the walk home two miles. Since I’ve been forced to walk more often I find it gets easier all the time. Assuming, that is, I’m sober. But I’m still enough of a snob to feel uncomfortable walking any distance in a suit and tie carrying an attaché case.

How are you getting home? Bobbie asked behind the wheel of his Mustang.

Taxi.

That’s gets expensive.

True...maybe the bus. I think one runs right by there. Did I say bus? I hadn’t been on a bus since high school. I had relegated a lower status to bus riders, unconsciously unaware until I was forced to consider it as a valid means of transportation.

When you going to get your car out of storage?

I had to surrender my license after the DUI. My screaming red, 2013 Porsche 911 Carrera was stored on the other side of town so I wouldn’t be tempted to drive it. It symbolized a high water mark in my evolution, my arrival as a psychiatrist. Not for several more months yet.

Shame to have that baby sitting idly, rusting away. You could sell it to me. I could make payments.

We’d been over this ground before. I gave Bobby a look that changed the subject.

I can hang around. We can do happy hour.

No way. I’m still recovering from the weekend.

Megan’s kind of hot, huh? I’d give her a ten. How about you?

Any red-blooded American male would give her a ten. Yeah, she qualifies.

I’m glad you’re going to see her again.

You should be so compassionate about all my patients.

He laughed. What’s her problem?

Bobby, you know I can’t talk about my patients. Sometimes I wished I could unload. Keeping all my patient’s problems inside could be a heavy weight to bear, especially if they tapped into areas I hadn’t fully resolved. Confidentiality was paramount. When I had been in therapy, or under supervision, I had an outlet. Now, practicing independently I didn’t. I relied on my own maturity as a therapist.

He dropped me off at the group home.

I was given a year of community service, eight hours a week, the equivalent of one full day. I think the court also jumped at the chance to acquire free psychiatric services. At my $200 hourly fee I was providing community services worth $1600 a week. That came to $83,200 a year, an expensive lesson, but it was only money. I shudder to think how much worse it might have been had I hit someone. I didn’t want to think I was capable of causing so much destruction.

The group home was in another of those old Victorians that had been abandoned, refurbished, and retrofitted. It was licensed for eight teenage boys by the State of Washington under the supervision of the Department of Social and Health Services. It was in a commercial area, surrounded by stores and professional offices. Not in an ideal neighborhood, by any means, but far better than an institution which is where many of the boys will end up, and in some cases, far better than where they came from. Also, the community was more supportive of homes that didn’t sully their neighborhood.

I entered the home, causing a bell to ring alerting my arrival. The tall-ceilinged room was round and modestly furnished. Two boys sat on a leather couch watching TV. Another, who appeared younger than the minimum thirteen age, sat in a corner texting. I walked into Administrator Carlos Gutierrez’s office. Painted maize, it was functional and basic with a Spartan metal desk and file cabinets, lacking a woman’s touch. Wearing a dingy, white shirt with a frayed, unbuttoned collar and a beige, knit tie hanging loose, he sat behind his desk doing paperwork, showing the bald spot on his oily, curly black hair.

He looked up, his dark eyes hinting with amusement. Athletic in his prime, Carlos had gotten soft behind the desk, his gut bursting against the confines of his shirt. He still sported a doughy, but friendly face. You’re a week late, Doc.

Last week was a living hell, I said, lifting his blue blazer off the chair seat and hanging it on the back of the chair before sitting.

You know Carlos has got your back but you got to keep me in the loop, Doc. You don’t call. Nothing. He put down his pen, the chubby fingers of his left hand displaying a silver ring with a large onyx stone

Did you mark me in for last week?

Last time I told you I wouldn’t do it again. What if your bulldog probation officer calls and I lie. He finds out. My ass is also on the line. We’re a multi-national corporation now. You know what that means? That means my boss who lives out East somewhere, don’t know who the fuck I am. I’m a number. Not a person. And, judging by the budget cuts this facility ranks low on the totem pole. And, that makes me a low number. I give them any excuse and they cut me out quicker than a Hernandez fastball. And if they think I’m dishonest...

I understood Adam was AWOL

So? Every kid in here could use a shrink. Maybe if our county fathers put more money here we wouldn’t have those high incarceration bills. Do you want to know how much this nation puts out for prisons each year?

No, Carlos, I don’t. Save your soapbox talk for someone who does. Mark me down and I’ll come in another time this week.

You come in another time and then I’ll mark you down. And, he said, pointing his finger, have your player friend get me two tickets to a Mariners game.

Mariner pitcher Bruce Dieter was a teammate of mine when we played for the University of Washington Huskies. We’ve kept in touch and every so often he gives me tickets to a game.

Carlos, you always put the squeeze on me.

That’s because I love you, Doc. He dug into his desk drawer, pulled out a file and handed it to me. Here’s the kid I’d like you to see today. His shell hasn’t hardened all the way. You might be able to break through.

I took it, nodded, and brought it with me upstairs to the multi-purpose room used for interviewing. A quick review told me he came from a broken and abusive home. School truancy, his inability to get along with his volatile mother, and the fact that he torched an abandoned car brought him to the group home. I hiked to his room, knocked on his door, first lightly then loudly. Locked doors are not allowed. So I opened the door when he wouldn’t answer. Greg Liendecker laid on his bed staring at the ceiling, earphones plugged between strands of his shaggy blond hair, listening to music. I was grateful I couldn’t hear the music because I didn’t think it was Billy Joel or Tony Bennet. I was practically on top of him before he jumped, seeing me. Scooting to a sitting position, he ripped off the earphones, turned off the radio. Greg was a nice looking sixteen year old with acne and peach fuzz on his face. Thin, and slightly undersized for his age, he had piercing cobalt blue eyes, and teeth in need of dental work.

I’m Dr. Grant Garrick, I said, offering my hand.

He gave me a damp, limp, handshake. Confusion on his face. Fear in his eyes.

I’m a shrink, I said, pulling up a chair, here to help. The court, your parents, Mr. Gutierrez, no one has ordered me here. I’m here voluntarily to give you someone to talk to. I know this is stressful for you. It helps to talk. Unless what you tell me is a matter of life and death, I won’t share what you tell me without your permission.

He looked me over, assessing my trustworthiness.

Want to tell me why you’re here?

He stared me down, slowly shook his head.

I