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Designed Intent

Chapter 31

Thursday Afternoon

Bobby stood at the door to IR3 waiting for Dr. Stephens. He was miserable, his head hurt, his gut burned, he was thirsty and he sure as hell did not want to talk with this shrink.

"Have seat, Detective," Dr. Stephens said as she laid her coat over the back of the chair and set her bag on the floor. She sat across from Bobby and opened her notebook, her pen in her right hand, ready. He took his seat after she sat and leaned forward, arms on the tabletop. She recognized the posture of willingness but wondered if he was just putting it on. Dr. Stephens knew how intelligent and perceptive this man was when it came to human behaviours.

"All right, Detective, what's going on?"

Bobby sat back, stuffing his hands into his pockets, now assuming a posture of reluctance – a more authentic pose, given his current circumstance. He just wanted to go back to his apartment and open up a fresh bottle. Dr. Stephens waited, staring at him.

Bobby stole glances at the woman sitting across from him. He was so sorry for so many things. "I, uh, I'm sorry for canceling yesterday; and, for causing you to have to come here today."

"Why did you cancel?"

Bobby exhaled in a whoosh, leaned forward and put his face in his hands. Then he pushed up and began to pace. He had no bookshelves to retreat to, no islands of certainty. "I, uh, I knew I was going to get drunk and didn't want to talk with you about it."

"Why did you want to get drunk?"

"Because I don't want to think anymore; I don't want to feel anymore."

"What don't you want to feel?"

"Anything, everything. I want to be empty. Being empty means that I'm not full of loathing, anger, hatred. I, I have never been this miserable."

"What's happened? Why are you so unhappy?" Bobby didn't respond for the longest time. "Detective, how is Gleason?"

Bobby's shoulders slumped and he dropped into the chair, sitting sideways. "It's over. She, she went back to Evanston early. We haven't spoken since Sunday when she left."

This did not surprise Dr. Stephens. "Why did she leave?"

"Uh, the fighting, she said she was tired of the fighting. I cause the fights. I cannot control my temper. I drove her away." Silence filled the room. "I hate myself."

The way he said that last bit told Dr. Stephens that Bobby hated himself for more than driving Gleason away, something else was eating at him. "What have you done?"

Bobby turned and looked at her; his surprise was clear, "What do you mean?"

"Your remorse is out of proportion with Gleason leaving you. She left you before and came back to you; a typical response in your current situation would allow for a glimmer of hopefulness. However, it is clear that you can see no hope. Something else is compounding your emotional state.

"Detective, you've gotten drunk the last four nights. Keep that up and you'll kill yourself or lose your job before you and Gleason have a chance to reconcile. What else has happened? What have you done that is eating you up like this?"

Oh, God. He would not talk about last night. He did not want to believe he had done that. He had accused Gleason of it while knowing she would not, could not, did not. And here, he slept with a chippy and then paid her for it.

I am not like Frank and Dad, he told himself, I'm not; I don't want to be, I'm not – don't let me be like them. Bobby stood up and suddenly realized how small the IR was. He wiped his face with his hands then put both hands up, even with his shoulders, palms out.

"Detective?"

"I, I can't talk about it. I cannot." He ran his left hand down the back of his neck, turned and caught sight of himself in the one-way glass – he looked twenty years older than his age. He was looking at his father's face and it knocked the air out of him. Oh, God, oh, Christ, he thought, I am just like my father – my no good, cheating, lousy father.

Dr. Stephens watched Bobby's anxiety shoot through the roof. "Detective, sit down, please."

"I need to get some air. Let's finish this tomorrow. Ok? I'll come to your office." Bobby moved to the door and Dr. Stephens waited to see if he would really leave; she didn't think he would, he needed to come clean. Whatever he had done was gnawing at him; his guilt was consuming him, and he needed to give it to someone. It was her job to help him carry it.

She was right; Bobby stopped with his hand on the door handle and stood there. Dr. Stephens watched him, suspended between two choices, and then she said, "Come sit down and get rid of what you have done. Let me hold it for you. Tell me what happened."

Bobby gave the doctor those sidelong glances and slowly crossed to the table. He dropped into a chair and put his face into his hands again. Dr. Stephens waited.

When he was able, Bobby said from behind his hands, "I paid a woman for sex last night."

Dr. Stephens was suspecting something like this; however, to be honest, she was slightly surprised.

"A prostitute?"

He didn't answer at first, and then said softly, "No."

"An escort?"

He shook his head.

Dr. Stephens was confused, he did not engage a working girl, yet he paid the woman? "This is a woman you know?"

Bobby leaned back in the chair and asked, "Does it even matter?"

"Yes, Detective, it does. The relationship between you and this woman, and the fact that you say you paid her, combine to illustrate your state of mind, your rationalization for doing what you did. It will help us sort through the 'why' of it."

Bobby would have enjoyed this conversation if it had been about someone else. The psychology of these scenarios fascinated him; however, the fact that they were dissecting the psychology of his actions repulsed him. The silence built as Dr. Stephens watched Bobby process the event and then determine how he was going to begin.

"Detective, who is the woman you slept with?"

His head tilted to the left and he said softly, "A girl from the gym."

"Are you having an affair?"

"No! No, I –," he almost said that he would not do such a thing and then realized that he had done just that. "She's, uh, she's flirted with me before. I was, I was tempted once before, but didn't . . . I, I didn't."

"Why last night?"

Bobby felt like a caged animal. He was going to lose his mind if he had to keep this up. "Look, I can't talk about this. Please, can we be done?"

"No. Why last night?"

"I don't know! Why does it matter? I fucked another woman and then paid her. What's the big deal, huh? I paid her for chrissakes!" He was getting angrier and angrier. He had to get out of that room – it was shrinking around him.

"Detective, sit down. Do you want something?" Dr. Stephens watched him closely. This had gone just as she had expected – his initial reluctance had given over to cooperation because this man is desperate to make things right. He would do what he had to do to fix his life, but it would be a long, difficult process. His intellect and emotional vulnerability would convolute his efforts. He is an over-thinking thinker, the worst kind of patient.

Bobby wanted this to be over. He wanted to go home and drink himself into oblivion. He didn't want to have to think ever again. "Yes, I want something to drink! I want a scotch neat, a double, and then six more after that! Can you make that happen?" Bobby was on his feet and he ran his hands over the top of his head then his fists curled and uncurled at his sides, he paced in a two-step pattern.

"Did you take her to your place?"

"What?" He was lost in his own misery and didn't hear the question.

"Last night, did you take this woman to your apartment? Did you have sex with her in the bed you share with Gleason?"

Bobby was shocked. "What the hell kind of question is that?" He couldn't believe the doctor would even consider him doing such a thing.

"Did you?"

"NO! For chrissakes! What do you think . . .?" he couldn't continue.

"Then where did you have sex? Her place?"

"No!"

"A hotel?"

"Jesus Christ, Dr. Stephens!"

"Then where?"

"In my fucking car! In the parking lot! In the backseat of my car! Ok? She sucked me and then I fucked her! Is that what you wanted to know?" It was a good thing the interrogation rooms were soundproof.

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Gleason cancelled her afternoon office hours and went back to her apartment. She put the pork chops to marinate, set the table and looked around. Her place was small and easy to keep neat. It took but a minute to drag a cloth over the flat surfaces and push the dust mop over the floor. She wiped off the counter top and checked the fridge. Everything was ready.

She went to the bathroom and then made sure it was tidy; then she walked into the bedroom to decide what she would wear this evening and stopped at the bed. She knew what would probably happen in here tonight. A part of her wanted it. It was over with Bobby, she could no longer love him. Malcolm wanted her and she wanted him. It was exciting being around a man who found her exciting. She liked the way he played with her, flirted with her. Bobby was so serious, dark.

Gleason began pulling the sheets from the bed and then went for the other set.

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