As the weeks pass and spring changes into summer, she finds it harder and harder to distinguish between the two Mike Logans she now knows-Logan-as-Detective and Logan-as-Patient. She still sees the latter once every two weeks for his sessions but she also is a colleague and one who now works closely with the former. He has two distinct, though not to say divergent, personas. Logan-as-Detective is sharp, funny, loyal, impatient, and dedicated, with a roving eye that prompts exasperated but good-natured comments from his new partner, Phil Cerreta, or "Big Daddy" as Logan refers to him. But Logan-as-Patient is a different being altogether. Though he's slowly worked to assuage his anger over his late partner's senseless death, he is reluctant, after those few brief moments of sharing, to tell her anything without her cajoling, prompting, or out-and-out questioning.

They've now established a good working relationship after that first misstep. They are sparring partners outside of their sessions; she tosses back rejoinders to his smug, opinionated comments, his surprisingly sharp wit. She didn't expect that of him. She expected he would be less developed than the stereotypical womanizing Man she studied both in her textbooks and firsthand… he surprised her, and even after the first shock of discovery-that he was not, in fact, as one-dimensional as he appeared-he continued to reveal new facets to his personality. After that first altercation, Logan invited her, offhand and gruffly, to join them for lunch after her interview. When she looked at him in astonishment, he looked at her, grinned, and said, 'I figure even women with triple-digit IQs gotta eat, Doc.'

When advising on a case she often joins Logan and Cerreta for coffee or a meal after her interviews; she shares her opinions with them in restaurants instead of the squad room. Things grow easier; they work well together, to her surprise. Cerreta, she knew, was a good cop, but Logan is, as he had claimed, very good indeed at what he does.

That's not to say he doesn't frustrate her. When she is involved in interviewing a psychotic homeless man, Logan looks upon him with contempt. She understands his feelings-they are human universals, the distaste and disgust for the mad, the dirty, the unknown-and she feels a flicker of disgust herself when the man leans under the table in an attempt to look up her skirt.

'There is honor among these people, you know,' she says, catching his eye. For a long moment they look at each other and something passes between them, but then he looks away.

In July Logan rings her up and asks her to come to the precinct to talk to a witness. She agrees, though he gives her only the basic outline of the witness's profile: a highly-strung woman in her late thirties, possible witness to a murder when she was a child, estranged from her parents. She arrives at the precinct later that afternoon and finds Logan.

'Is she in the interrogation room?' she asks him.

He stands up, shuffling his feet as he approaches her. Phil Cerreta walks through the door with a cup of coffee in his hand and stands between them, listening. 'Well… the thing is, Doc, I was kinda hoping you'd get in touch with her. She hasn't… well, she hasn't agreed to talk with us. I was hopin' that you'd contact her, persuade her to talk to you or us.'

'Me? I can't contact her. It's improper,' she replies, a bit shocked he would ask this of her-not only for its impropriety but also that he of the staunch opinion that what she did was ineffective witchcraft would be willing to recommend psychiatric help.

'We pushed her, it didn't work!'

'It's not only improper, it's ineffective. The woman has to trust me.'

'I'll tell you something,' Cerreta begins, 'if we don't get Conover, we can bury those bones and this case along with it.'

Before she can reply, a cop wanders in. 'Hey, Logan, woman asking for you.' He jerks his thumb behind him to the lobby. Logan follows him, while she refrains from rolling her eyes. Probably yet another one of the women who couldn't resist Detective Logan's charm-they seemed to exist in droves.

A moment later he returns, trailing a woman who is emphatically not his usual type-she is petite, brunette, and haunted, and wrapped tightly in an enormous wooly cardigan. 'There's someone I'd like you to meet,' he says. 'Ms. Atkinson, this is Dr. Olivet. She's a police department psychiatrist.'

She shoots him a curious look and he nods almost imperceptibly. So this is the woman who they were discussing… she extends a hand. 'Hi.'

'Hi,' Ms. Atkinson replies.

'Would you like to talk?' she suggests, and Ms. Atkinson nods, following her as she leads the way to the interrogation room.

When the finish the session two hours later, she walks Julie out of the precinct, gives her her card, and assures her she is always there to talk to her. She reenters the precinct after seeing Julie into a cab. Cerreta takes one look at her and insists on taking her to lunch at an Italian place four blocks down from the precinct-'It has the best manicotti in Harlem, you won't regret it!' She agrees, exhausted from a difficult session.

'So how'd it go? What'd you find out?' Logan bursts out, barely able to wait until they've ordered to ask his questions.

'For the first hour she didn't even remember seeing the boy,' she tells them.

'What about Conover?' Logan asks.

'Nothing. She has this recurrent image-red and blue. She came back to it twice, but doesn't know what it means.'

'What was the Keegan kid wearing?' Cerreta interjects.

'Green shirt, khakis, black sneakers,' Logan replies after a moment's thought.

'How screwed up is she?' Cerreta asks.

'I'd say severely,' she replies gravely.

Logan asks incredulously, 'and she says she never saw a shrink?'

She shrugs. 'She also said she's basically a happy person.'

'What about hypnosis?' Cerreta suggests.

'Unreliable. And almost impossible to get admitted in court,' she tells him.

'Well, not if she doesn't implicate herself,' he replies. 'If she gives us a lead and we corroborate it, we don't need her in court.'

'Yeah, but if we put her under, and then we end up needing her we'll never get her on the stand,' Logan retorts. 'She coming back?' he addresses her, but avoids her eyes.

'We opened a vein. She might want to close it.'

'Maybe, maybe, maybe,' he mocks her gently.

She looks at him and replies sharply. 'My feeling: she wants to know. Any idea what this red and blue is?'

'Your guess is as good as mine,' Cerreta tells her as their lunch arrives.

'Something that might help-' she says after fifteen minutes of silence while they eat. 'We could try a walkthrough of that day. Take her through, step-by-step, starting with what she remembers. It could help awaken old memories.'

'How likely is it?' Logan asks. 'We might be wastin' a whole afternoon on something that gets us nowhere.'

'Recovering repressed memories isn't an exact science. If it was, my job would be a lot easier,' she tells him, fighting and failing to hide a note of frustration in her tone.

'All right, all right,' he says, holding up his hands. 'We'll do it.'

A week later, after two additional sessions with Julie (she returned to her office after that lunch to a message from her, saying she wanted to continue therapy), they spend the afternoon walking through the thirty-year-old routine of a schoolgirl.

She is shaken by Julie's memories; though she has read many studies on awakening memories stored in the subconscious, she has never before tried to dredge up such memories herself. She is floored by her success but disturbed by the memories. It's clear that Logan and Cerreta are disturbed too, though to a lesser extent as they do not quite realize how unlikely this result was.

'I'll go back to the station, write up the report,' she hears Cerreta say as she comforts Julie. 'Mikey, will you and the doctor bring Julie back to her apartment? It's been a long day for all of us and you deserve a break.'

She doesn't hear Logan respond, though a few minutes later the door closes. She looks up; Cerreta is gone but Logan is still there.

'D'you think you'll be all right if we can get you back to your apartment?' he asks the shaking woman.

'Yes,' Julie tells him. 'I'll be all right when I'm home.'

'Good,' he replies. 'D'you want to walk or take a cab? Phil's taken the car,' he explains when she shoots him a curious glance.

'Let's walk. I could use the fresh air, I think.'

He nods, then leads the way down the stairs. Despite the heat of the July day, Julie is still shivering. Liz wraps her arm around her shoulders and Julie leans in to her. Logan, walking slightly ahead of them, looks back constantly and tries to engage Julie in a lighthearted conversation. As they walk back to Julie's building on Central Park West, she gradually relaxes, almost laughing just as they turn the corner to her apartment.

She is surprised once more by him. He is easy and gentle with her, cajoling her, entertaining her, doing a wonderful job at keeping her mind off the horrific memories she's just uncovered.

'We'll walk you up to your apartment,' Logan says easily, drawing Julie's arm through his as they pass through the lobby. She follows them into the elevator and watches as Julie unlocks the door with hands that tremble only a little.

'Do you want some company?' she asks.

'I'll be fine,' Julie says with a small smile. 'Thank you. I think I just need to sleep.'

Logan nods. 'Give us a call if you need anything. You have my number, and Dr. Olivet's as well.'

'I will. Thank you both.'

'Of course, Julie,' she replies. 'We'll talk soon, and I'll see you on Monday.'

She nods and then watches them as they walk away.

'Well, that about wraps it up for the day, I guess. How about we go for an ice cream?' he suggests when they step into the elevator.

She almost laughs in his face. 'An ice cream, Logan?'

'Why not?' he says, gruffly embarrassed. 'It's a Friday in July and it's hot.'

'Surely you have something better to do than get an ice cream with the department shrink.'

He looks down, flushing red.

'What's the matter, Logan? Someone stand you up?'

'So what if they did?'

She raises an eyebrow. 'I never thought I'd see the day.'

'Forget about it.' He turns away angrily, difficult to do in such an enclosed space.

'No, wait,' she says, feeling guilty as the doors open into the lobby. 'Let's go.'

'Okay, then,' he says. She feels an immediate sense of relief that she's agreed to an ice cream when they step out of the air-conditioned marble lobby into the face-slapping heat of the city. She groans quietly as a wave of heat hits her and she turns to look at him.

'I bet we could find an ice cream truck around the corner,' she suggests and he nods.

'Good idea-I don't think I could walk far in this heat, and somehow Mr. Softee sounds like it'll hit the spot right about now.'

She laughs at him and they slide into a comfortable silence as they make their way down Central Park West towards the Museum of Natural History. They find one two blocks away and place their orders.

'That'll be $4.50,' the ice-cream man says.

'I'll get it,' she offers.

'I can afford to buy you an ice cream, even on a detective's salary,' he states ungraciously.

She resists the urge to roll her eyes at this show of machismo and accepts her ice-cream cone.

'So, Logan, tell me-who's the unlucky lady who stood you up tonight? And why'd you invite me in her place? You can't tell me that you'd rather spend the evening with me than picking up some hot blonde in a bar somewhere.'

He flushes bright red and takes a bite out of his ice cream cone.

'I didn't feel like spending my birthday the same way I spend every other Friday,' he mumbles.

'It's your birthday?' she says in shock.

'Is that so surprising?'

'I suppose I never thought of it… you always seem to me like you sprung into existence fully formed.'

'I'm not quite Athena, Olivet.' Noting her surprise at the reference, he says, 'I did learn mythology in school, Catholic or not. One of the nuns had a positive passion for Odysseus.'

She flushes from embarrassment, from the assumption he would not be educated enough to catch her reference. 'Well, we should go to dinner, then,' she hears herself say. 'To celebrate.'

'You really want to spend your Friday night with a detective? Surely you have something better to do,' he turns her statement around on her.

'I'll make my own decisions on how I spend my Friday night,' she states boldly, feeling for some odd reason that a definitive stance is called for. 'Let's go.'