Chapter 7
"So what's with the male administrative assistant, Chantal? Is this some type of a feminist thing or perhaps a nineties statement?"
She sighed. "No, David, it's simply the case of a young man who's struggling in graduate school at the university and I am part of his work/study program. In other words, he gets paid to help me and it gives him a bit of experience in the area of clinical psychology. He's here twenty hours a week and, by the way, does a super job."
"Any problems with ethics or confidentiality thus far, Chantal?"
"No, Carl seems very ethical and we had a long talk about confidentiality and privileged communication. He's been trained at the university but if there are any slip-ups it's on my license and I'm the one that will be in trouble. It's an occupational hazard, Dave."
Dave scratched his head. "What's the difference, if any, between confidentiality and privileged communication?"
"Confidentiality is an ethical obligation whereby a professional is required to keep his or her dealings with a client or patient secret, as it were. Privileged communication, on the other hand, is granted to licensed professionals such as clinical psychologists, physicians, and religious leaders and essentially makes them immune from divulging information about others in a court of law. There are some limits to the privilege, for example information about child abuse. In fact, we are mandated to report that even if we are not in court."
"I think I got it! Some states don't license certain professionals, for example, counselors. So they would be bound to ethical confidentiality but not have privileged communication before the law."
"Exactly, my friend. Psychologists are licensed in all fifty states and the District of Columbia and have privileged communication in one form or another in all jurisdictions."
"Moving from the world of the abstract to reality, Doctor, how's that psychological autopsy going on Beth?"
"It's just about completed; I'm going over to the monastery to talk to Francis about it tomorrow and to get his input."
"Mind if I tag along, Chantal?"
"No, Dave, as long as you don't interfere with my work! How's that for reversing the roles?"
"Well, not too bad, especially since we are on our way out to dinner under the guise of working, and I am getting the distinct impression that we might almost be enjoying one another's company."
"Don't push it, Detective."
The ambience was delightful, complete with checkered tablecloths, perfect bread sticks, a friendly but not overly friendly waiter, and a bottle of wine. "I really like Italian food, Dave. Thanks for suggesting this place. We'll probably get good service because your dark Mediterranean complexion makes you look Italian."
"I think we'll get good service because you're beautiful. But don't mind me; I think it's the oregano talking."
"You know, Dave, I think I must have been Italian in a past life. This place really is fun."
"Past lives, Chantal, do you really believe in that?"
"Oh, I don't know what I believe. That was just a little attempt at humor."
"Are you sure you don't really believe in that? At times you seem pretty gullible to me."
"Gullible? What's that supposed to mean, Detective?"
"Oh, I don't know. You tend to take people at their word, you know, you believe most people when they tell you something."
"Well, don't you, Dave? How about when you said you were beginning to like me, or when you mentioned that you thought I was pretty. Was that true or was I being gullible?"
"You'll never know, Doctor."
"So, I'm gullible and now you're playing mind games with me. What else do you want to do to ruin our evening?"
"Me ruin our evening? You're the one who's getting cranky."
"Cranky? Dave, you've just insulted me a couple of times over. Who wouldn't be a little perturbed?"
"A little perturbed? You're annoyed, I can tell it, just like my ex-wife, what a woman! Couldn't look at her crooked without her bursting into tears and becoming angry."
"Well, Dave, I'm not a tear-burster. I'm strictly anger. Do you have some unresolved issues still brewing with your ex, Dave?"
"No, why do you ask?"
"Well, you brought her up a couple of times and it's a pretty intense feeling level emitted when you bring her up."
"Don't get shrinky with me. We're here to have fun, not to pick each other's brain."
"Dave, you're the one who started the mind games. Maybe it'd be better if I left now, okay?"
"Suit yourself." Chantal stood up and started to walk toward the door. A waiter came over and asked if everything was all right. She said that everything was fine. "I'm just getting to know someone whom I believe I probably don't want to know. Thank you."
She was out on the street, hailed a cab, and was back home before Dave had even left the restaurant. Chantal didn't turn to the junk food she was tempted to binge out on but worked out on her treadmill instead and followed that with a long, hot shower. She was on the couch in her robe and watching the late news when the intercom buzzer to her apartment rang. A little startled, she got up and pressed the talk button and asked who it was.
Dave's voice boomed through the speaker saying: "It's a jerk with a pizza. He looks Italian, but he's not, and if you let him in he won't bring up his ex again or play mind games."
"Did you bring any wine?" she hollered back.
"Maybe, but I'm not going to bribe you. I'm not just another pretty face."
"Okay, handsome, I'll buzz you in." Pizza on TV trays with a little Anne Murray music in the background--what could be more delightful? "When we both apologize, we might try to figure out what it is that irritates the other. Then again, maybe the hour is too late for that sort of heavy conversation. What do you think, Dave?"
"I'm too tired, Chantal. I'm just happy we're talking. I'm not the shrink but I think it has something to do with our backgrounds and this case."
"Oregano," she said with a twinkle in her eye.