Chapter 2
"Dr. Fleur's office, how can I help you?" said a crisp and efficient masculine voice on the other end of the telephone line.
"This is Detective Gold. I'd like to speak with the doctor or leave a message with her secretary."
"I'm her administrative assistant. I'll see that she gets any message you leave."
What is this world coming to, thought Gold. A man's voice as administrative assistant--what next? "Okay buddy, would you have her call me, it's police business and very important?"
"Certainly, Detective Gold, she should be finishing her current session with a patient any time now. He paused a moment before continuing. If you hold on a minute, her office door is opening and I think she'll be able to take your call shortly."
"Good, thanks a lot. Keep up the good work." And get a real job, he thought.
The forensic psychologist dictated some notes into a small tape recorder for a few minutes before picking up the telephone. "Good morning, Detective. Sorry to keep you waiting. If I don't dictate my progress notes immediately after a session I either forget to or they are not as complete or helpful when I refer to them later. But enough of that. I hope you slept well after our grisly adventure last night."
"I sure did, Doctor. It wasn't any fun being at the crime scene with a dead body either," he responded with an ever so slight chuckle.
Is that an attempt at rapport via humor or simply an insult about being with me last night, she thought to herself. Chantal let the comment pass--for the moment anyway. Maybe her progress notes were not always the greatest, but her memory was!
"Dr. Fleur, I need your help. You seem somewhat knowledgeable about spiritual matters and Church related issues."
"Well, Detective, I minored in philosophy and went through Catholic school, and have--had--a friend whom I just lost who is--was--a former nun." Don't cry now Chantal, or this neanderthal will really think that you are a wimp.
"Sorry I didn't pick up on your pain last night, Doctor. I was given a gold shield when I became a police detective and an emotional shield when I became a cop. It was a loss for you, wasn't it?"
"Yes. Yes it was, Detective, but I try to be professional in situations like that. I=ll deal with my mourning in my own way and on my own time." He received his emotional shield when he became a human being, Chantal mused.
"Our forensics people are trying to make sense out of the biblical quotation about leading little ones astray and having a rock tied around your neck and being thrown in the water if you do, and how this may relate to the suicide, murder, whatever it turns out to be."
"Detective, Beth was a theologian. She spent her life trying to draw closer to the sacred and to make sense out of it for the rest of us. Maybe she was struggling with that passage for some personal or academic reason. Does the coroner have any sense of whether her death was suicide--she paused before adding--or murder?" Both of those words choked Beth as she said them. Breathing became difficult as she though of Beth underwater.
"It looks like murder at this point, Doctor. You see there was a rock carefully tied to a rope and then just as carefully tied to your friend's neck when we found her."
"Oh,@ in a choked voice, Chantal gasped, AMy God, what a horrible death!"
Gold, belatedly remembering that the deceased was Fleur=s friend, quickly suggested, "We can talk later if you like, Doctor. I know that you are busy."
"Oh no, that's all right. I'm just a little shaken. I'd really like to find out what happened and help in any way I can."
"Doctor, is there a priest you know or someone at the office building at the Diocese that we can bounce some of this off of to try to make sense out of it? He would need to be someone willing to spend some time with us processing all of this, someone with a flair for investigative work. Perhaps someone like yourself."
"I know people at the Chancery offices because I do some consulting for the Marriage Tribunal-- you know--dealing with the petitions for marriage annulment of people married in the Catholic Church who've been divorced so that they can marry again in the Church. I've also done some psychological assessments on candidates going into religious life as Sisters or Religious Brothers, or becoming monks or nuns, for people--only men at this point--going into the Diocesan priesthood and diaconate, and for an ever growing number of lay people in ministry, so I have my connections, Detective, but I think there's another person that would better serve our needs."
"Here comes a thought--I bet he's a woman."
"Wrong, Kreskin. I went to graduate school and interned with him. He's a Catholic monk and clinical psychologist who specializes in behavioral medicine. He is, what shall I say, gentle but firm. That is, he has a gentle strength."
"Pardon my Judaism, but I though monks baked bread or made wine or something, and never talked."
"You are not alone, Detective, many Catholics stereotype us that way also. Some monastics continue to support themselves by baking bread or making wine, but there are many small monasteries and religious communities of men and women springing anew up since the Second Vatican Council when all the changes occurred in the Church. They are refashioning religious life and, in some ways, going back to its early roots and doing contemporary work to support themselves. They spend a good deal of time in silence, not as penance, but in order to have a quiet spirit which can hear the Lord and others better. My friend says it's like getting the static out of a radio so the message comes through more clearly. They don't have a TV; I guess that's why he used the image of a radio."
"My Aunt Elsie would have used the image of a Victrola. At any rate, you trust the guy and he's got good credentials, right?"
"The best, Officer."
"The best, Detective," he corrected.
"Detective, please understand that I don't want to >bother your people,= to put it in your words."
"All right, all right, I deserve that. You're beginning to sound like my ex-wife."
"Tell you what, Detective, I have a few more patients to see and then a break from late afternoon till early evening. You could, if you like, pick me up around three. I can go over to the monastery where my friend is with you for a few hours. I'll put my mounds of insurance forms, managed care--or as many of us call it "managed uncare"--applications and treatment reports aside in honor of Beth."
"That sounds good, Doctor. You're a great guy--I mean person--I mean professional.
"Humph."
Bzzzzz.