Author's Note: I own nothing by F/X or Elmore Leonard or NBC or Thomas Harris; none of this will ever make me a penny. Written to make a friend laugh – an improbable crossover, especially geographically. But there's the fun. How to make it happen. Maybe a visit to Arlington Cemetery? It's not too far from Baltimore...
The Hunter
Tim sat in the waiting room, early as always, and alone.
Therapists' waiting rooms were amusing to him that way, arranged so that you never had to see other patients or be seen by other patients. Tim often wondered at the wisdom, or tradition maybe, of that arrangement. The way he figured it, if the patients were allowed to mingle, if everyone sat around and told everyone else in the waiting room why they were in therapy then at least half of them would feel better about themselves. Instead, they were made to sit in clinical isolation and let their neuroses feed happily in the silence, grow and multiply. Maybe it was the profession's way of ensuring repeat customers.
The room was perfect, strangely so. The magazines were high-end, European, glossy with heavy paper, stacked precisely on the table, no scribbles on the covers or tattered corners to detract from the lines. The table on which they were displayed was also perfect, glass, not a smudge anywhere and visible through it, the carpet, Persian, authentic, no doubt. Not that Tim knew anything about interior decorating but he knew that the carpet would be authentic. It had that look. The entire room had that look – nothing cheap or imitation.
He checked his watch, 2:56pm, and stood up and paced. He checked his watch again after two circuits of the room and watched it roll over to 3pm and the door across from the one leading to the exit opened, precisely on time.
"Good afternoon," a cultured voice spoke in an accent that Tim couldn't place – European, northern probably. "Deputy Gutterson, I presume?"
Tim stepped over and walked through the door into the office, the psychiatrist smiling thinly and holding the door open with practiced poise.
"Please," he said, an elegant gesture, "have a seat."
Tim sat in a leather chair in the middle of the cavernous room, avoiding the obvious choice of the sofa. He felt distinctly under-dressed and out of place.
"I'm surprised you agreed to see me," he said looking around at the books and expensive furnishings. "I don't have the money to pay you."
The psychiatrist smiled, amusement adding creases around his eyes. He patted his jacket to preserve the form as he seated himself across from Tim. "How could I say no to the lovely Miljana Cajic?"
"Nobody says no to her."
"Especially not you."
Tim grinned, lop-sided.
The Doctor continued, "I admit to a professional curiosity. I am not a philanthropist, I am ashamed to say. I don't do much charity work unless there is some gain for me – a character flaw. As it happens, you have something that I want. I have not had the opportunity in my practice to speak to someone with your background. A sniper interests me. There are so many stereotypes that come to mind when one mentions the word 'sniper' – I am eager to see which should be laid to rest."
"I'm not really a broad enough study sample, Dr. Lector."
"But a good start." He picked up a folder and pen, jotted a note quickly, raised his eyebrows and looked pleasantly across at his patient. "Do you hunt, Deputy Gutterson?"
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