A Slaying Song Tonight, A Dr. Hank Frank Quest

By Leon Shure

New singing sensation Asterix, a wheelchair-bound teen, disappears just before recording her debut album. Also gone is Moonblood, her television mentor, an award-winning country-western singer, scheduled by the record company to produce what could generate a billion dollars in record and downloading sales. The only one who can find them is . . . a psychologist, who is initially as clueless as his patient, a record company public relations man. Why are they driving to Casper, Wyoming to save Asterix?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Leon Shure
• Release date: Dec 18, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463476031

Leon Shure

I am currently writing five mystery series: (1) the Tommy Spevak and Kate Wehring mysteries, about an impaired veteran and an investigative reporter; (2), the Vanek mysteries, about a crusty and devious Chicago Police Detective; (3) the Dr. Adam Karl mysteries, about a medical doctor fighting against his fate; (4) the Cal Hodges mysteries, about a law firm investigator who is haunted by his past, and (5) the City of Brunswik mysteries, which are tales of political skullduggery. My characters vary in age and ethnic backgrounds and each series has its own continuing cast of characters. They run the gamut from good to murderous. My main characters are not extraordinary geniuses and, sometimes, are even bad detectives. They are just people caught up in mysteries they can't avoid. Whatever happens to my main character, he or she must really use all their resources, while trying to keep their objectivity, not to mention their sanity. Each has an unusual and unique way of looking at life. They all have a sense of humor and irony. Sometimes romance is possible, but that is not my main concern. Probably my most unique character is Dr. Adam Karl, a neurologist who struggles against perceptual problems and a difficult family history. His mysteries have received the best reviews, earning five stars. Also, I write in another genre, humor. My tweet collections "#Conversationstoppers: Puns, Non Sequiturs and Impossible Scenarios" have been the most popular of my books. I don't really see my books of puns as being separate from my other work. All my books have a significant amount of word play, and my book titles sometimes are puns, as in the book, "Deep Lucy" which is "deep blue sea." I am a life-long resident of the Chicago area, and have lived both in the city and in the North and Northwest suburbs. A bachelors and masters graduate of Northwestern University's Medill School of Journalism, I worked for the Lerner Newspapers (a chain of weeklies in the city); the Day Newspapers, a suburban daily newspaper chain owned by Field Enterprises, now the Chicago Sun-Times;, and Paddock Publications, a chain of daily newspapers in the Northwest suburbs. I received the Jacob Sher Award for Outstanding Investigative Reporting. Shure also served as an attorney for a Federal Agency and has held elective office in local governments. He is married and has two children.

Book preview

Chapter One

In my imagination, I've already committed murder.

Hank, age 30, Doctor of Psychology, optimistic, cheerful and not depressed, showed only calm and aplomb in the face of his patient's homicidal tendencies.

They often indicate violent ideation. If each actually acted upon the impulse to kill, he'd have no practice left. All of them would be in jail or in a mental hospital. He'd never even had one patient who actually followed up his or her threatening words with real bloody murder.

His ears always perked up, though, at the hint of violent acting out. If a homicide is imminent, he'd need to go to the authorities to ask a judge to send his patient on a one-way trip to the psychiatric ward for evaluation. This is his solemn duty as a mental health professional under Illinois law. [Citation unnecessary]

Harold Hank Frank eased back on his chair. This patient's endless, continuing monologue would probably be good fun. Ironic, which is what he liked the best.

Hank is a five-year veteran of a large psychology practice in Brunswik, a suburb on Chicago's rich and diverse North Shore, which is, of course, on the southern tip of Lake Michigan. He knows his stuff and isn't either smug or arrogant, he believes. He deadens none of his senses, especially his sense of humor, to deal with the vicissitudes of life, about which his patients complain and obsess.

His patient, this little woman, Mrs. Martha Hedge, dreams of murder, wants to kill her daughter-in-law. Why?

Makes no sense, because she probably mourns when she ends the inglorious life of a mosquito. A visitor to her home would be elaborately welcomed and overfed. The milk of human kindness flows in her by the gallon. Except towards this one person, her enemy.

What is the why of it? Anxiety, depression, fear, paranoia, regret, self-pity, anger and in-born temperament.

Any MTB (Murderer To Be) wants to return to a state of infantile satiation. If only this awful person, my enemy, is dead, MTB thinks, I will be happy. No more competition, no more standing in the way of what should be, no obstacle to my most tempting desire. No more this distortion in my life, this roadblock to my pursuit of happiness, this barrier that cannot be scaled.

Why not just give in to that impulse, remove this terrible person, my enemy? Alright to do, because the life of the Murdered One of Choice (MOC) is somehow less important than one's own. That soulless other is not necessary, redundant. Not really a person anyway. Best to be expunged, erased as if never there.

Mrs. Hedge believes she has good reason to commit murder. Because her Daughter-In-Law (DIL) does not treat her husband, the patient's sonny-boy the way she should. Has not established a home as warm and loving as Mrs. Hedge's own.

She believes this: Her terrible DIL inveigled herself into her family, disturbed everything good in her relationship with her son. And is undoubtedly poisoning the grandchildren with junk food. They will suffer forever, their little bones ricketed, they will walk bowlegged into their dismal future.

Why hasn't Mrs. Hedge already jumped up from her comfortable living room chair and shoved a knife into the daughter-in-law?

So far, she is too busy to kill her daughter in law. Her date book is full. She has too many errands to run. Also, too messy. Blood stains on the carpet, a need to repaint the dining room.

Mrs. Hedge grows tired of killing her daughter-in-law with words and switches to her underlying anger.

It all began with her husband's death. Imagine the temerity of her husband to die and leave her a widow! The complaints she had about this man all their married life, the disapproval of him in every possible way, miraculously morphed postmortum into self-pity.

Understandable. She no longer has her husband to berate. Absence makes the heart even less rational. To lose such a paragon! Intolerable!

Uh-oh! Yikes! She's taking a good look at me, Hank thinks. Wondering if she can reform me into someone she can browbeat like her deceased mate.

Marriage can do that to a man. Anything is possible because marriage is the great attitude changer. Maybe if I were married to her, I'd change through the drip by drip torture process.

I should not to judge. I'm really no better, Hank thinks.

I have my own delusions, especially about marriage. I'm not immune from the seduction of marital bliss. Spouse, home, stability, children. All the things I'll hate about my life someday.

Hank does not know exactly when he decided he must marry. It must be something in the mind's preset, he thinks. Maybe, but he still wants to marry and as soon as possible. Of course, the last person he'd discuss this obsession with is Mrs. Hedge.

Back to my patient. There is something even more odd in her manner in this session. Maybe she feels guilty about talking to me, a stranger. In an ideal world, she would have a mother, sister, daughter, to talk this out.

This is almost what Mrs. Hedge actually thinks.

She thinks, but for the blessing of Medicare, I would be paying a stranger to listen to my weird dreams. Why must I, weak thing, poor widow-woman, settle for a person who only listens for money?

On the other hand, patient thinks, going to a wise woman or wise man is as old as time, is forgivable. Her ancestors thought it was alright to go to the wise woman of the village who welcomed the troubled into her shack and offered the panacea of love in a stew of odd-looking roots.

This Dr. Frank is just a nice, smart, wise woman. A rarity, of course. He's my spiritual adviser, not that ridiculously weak clergyperson with his reassuring platitudes.

So what if I tell him my dreams?

Ancient monarchs, kings, always had a soothsayer, their astrologer, their reader of entrails, who, in the disguise of mumbo-jumbo, would tell the king the truth. Have an excuse to predict the bad consequences of the king's decisions without being executed for his honesty.

It's right there in the Bible, somewhere, I'm sure, Mrs. Hedge thinks. These sweaty men of the desert, speaking to the disembodied Lord for counseling. Listen god, I can't lead a revolt against the Pharaoh. I haven't the brains, strength, powers of persuasion to defy the king.

Don't worry, god says, I'll be with you. Give you good advice, allay your fears, give you a voice, transform you.

She doesn't need all that.

All I want to find out from Dr. Frank, she thinks, is what is normal in the real, flawed world, so I can compare myself favorably.

It's not a mistake to place my trust in him. Everyone speaks highly of Dr. Frank. So smart, so accomplished, a socialite compared to herself, eats dinner with the mayor and her husband.

What is it about him? He's a genuinely nice person. Sweet, sympathetic, encouraging. Not so perfect that he can't understand what's my problem. The person my son would be except for the evil intervention of that awful woman.

Hank's mind wanders.

What I'm more interested at the moment, he tells himself, is what I'm to do with myself. I'm tired of all this dating crap. If I told that to my own psychologist---that the next woman who wants me can have me---maybe he'd report me? A panel of my peers would probably yank my license.

I can't help thinking, though, that it would be great to throw a party with just the women I've dated since grad school. So I can take a second look and choose one? Or be auctioned off to the highest bidder. As in, I, of all the contenders will make you the happiest.

Not really a good idea, he decides, although it would be quite an amusing get-together.

Out of the corner of his peripheral vision, Hank saw the office manager. Tallish, young but a very serious person, perhaps leaning towards depression, clearly an extreme introvert.

Substantially in violation of protocol, Office Manager Erica Hysterical stood paralyzed with doubt at the opened office door. Not knowing what to do next.

Hank concluded that either the office is on fire or the whole 10 story building is in danger of collapse. Worse, has one of his patients waiting in the anteroom committed suicide, self-murder?

Um, excuse me a moment, Mrs. Hedge, Hank said to his patient, there must be some kind of emergency in the reception room.

Mrs. Hedge nodded curtly, upset clearly that the time she purchased with her old-age benefits is being treated cavalierly. Oh, don't mind me. Maybe it's one of your family, a personal problem? she asks, hopefully. Wouldn't it be fun if Dr. Frank told me his problems?

Erica, hearing nothing further, emboldened herself to again speak. She kept her voice calm, which did not fool Hank. To her this interruption is the same as a personal assault upon Hank. The horror of that enervates, drains all energy. She gasps for air.

Mumbles out, There are police in the waiting room who want to speak with you.

So what? Are they insistent? Hank asked.

Erica bounced on her feet. I don't know if it was a suggestion or an order.

Best to placate his patient and find out. Mrs. Hedge, would you mind terribly if we take a short recess? I promise we will add some time at the end of the session to make up for this interruption.

Mrs. Hedge actually huffed. Here she was waxing wise about murdering the biggest obstacle in her life. Her ideas in flow, just getting started. Rudely halted, had hit a wall.

Or, could there be another reason for this interruption?

A tiny voice of suspicion screamed in her head. Has Hank detected the chance of real violence from her? Has he secretly pushed a button under his desk with his foot, like a teller signaling a bank robbery?

No, couldn't be. Wasn't he prevented by doctor-patient confidentiality to never tell anyone what she said? Surely, telling Hank of her dream wouldn't alarm him.

Have I upset Dr, Frank?

No.

Tell the officers they can come in as soon as Mrs. Hedge is comfortable in the waiting room.

* * * * *

Chapter Two

An older, rotund, bald, baggy-eyed, policeperson ambled into my office, followed by a young, slim, redheaded uniformed patrolperson, with her hair tied back into a ponytail through a hole in the back of her brimmed hat.

The older took the chair in front of my desk, pivoted towards me and leaned forward. Through force of his will, the desk changed into an interrogation table.

The man stretched to shake my hand, knocking over Tschockes and pictures. I righted up my small treasures.

I wondered, did the duo leave their coats in the waiting room? Probably, because a run coatless from their squad car to the entrance would have been cold indeed. According to my window, the outside was cold and snow white. Is it safer to leave their coats either place because no one steals from a policeman? Or is that a false assumption? Maybe a kleptomaniac really wants to do this?

Still shaking my hand. Hello, I'm Detective Binelli, Brunswik police. This is Officer Hassle.

I withdrew my hand and nodded at them both.

I raised my eyebrows raised in questioning motion. Just enough guilt in my soul to wonder if they'd come to take me away.

This shouldn't take long, Binelli said. I know you get paid by the hour.

I thought, what is this damn obsession about how I'm paid? Do the police get asked how much pay they get when they write a ticket?

The young officer sat herself primly on the couch where, rarely, a patient lies down so he or she needn't look me in the eyes. Or because they are just tired.

Being on duty and aware she was, the woman sat up straight, which lifted her back away from the pads. No slouch this one.

Being outnumbered caused me to feel vaguely intimidated. Why not, I'm only human? No superpowers to avoid the common emotions of the common folk.

This detective brought a witness, so I should have mine. Would you mind if Erica . . . what the hell is her last name? . . . sits in? She's our office manager and will be able to react quickly to whatever you request.

Erica, who'd followed the police in and remained standing, heard no objection.

Finding no way to avoid, she, resigned, she sat on the couch next to the officer, careful to keep her legs together. When she saw that leaning back would make her appear to be slouching compared to Officer Hassle, she sat bolt upright as well.

I wondered, has Erica ever been drafted into the role of a witness before? She's probably be nervous about it, won't dare say a word.

That settled, I asked, What's this all about? I wasn't feeling shy, was beginning to think this was some kind of prank, like sending a phony policewoman/stripper to a stag party. I've been to lots of such parties, and, really, the strippers just seem more cold than sexy. It must be easy to get a uniform at a costume store or at one of those places only open before Halloween.

Again, I observed Officer Hassle. Her red hair must be wonderfully effusive when not pinned to her skull. She hadn't much make-up on. No lipstick, which somehow did not make her look clinical. She didn't need to highlight any feature, being so young, not more than 20, I guessed. A bit too young for me. We'd always have a slight father-daughter relationship which was bad to begin with.

She was staring at me as if I'd done something wrong.

Best to ignore her, not to think of her as a woman at all, I decided, and go on with business.

Couldn't not think about her. I wondered if her voice was as compelling as her form.

It would be interesting to have the young officer as a patient. I imagine officers of the law must be under considerable stress. Reaching for a parallel within my experience, I thought about the time I counseled a process server. That man truly was a wreck and fearful that the next defendant he served would break the new bridge in his mouth.

Binelli spoke. With a deeper voice than in greeting, so I'd know he was a serious person, not to be ignored or trifled with. This is about a client . . .

Patient, I corrected. I could have, but didn't say it out loud, that there is a difference, a big one. I'm not a merchant selling the person I counsel a bill of goods.

Or is that true? I suppose I'm pushing a kind of normality in which everything said isn't noticed and reinterpreted to conform to my patient's current obsession.

Patient, he self-corrected. He took a small paper notebook from his pocket, obviously eager to gain the advantage of being the keeper of the facts. As in, what I know and what you must find out.

He must be thinking, I need to get to the point fast. Was it sibling problems that drove him? Did he need to eat quickly before his brothers and sisters ate his dinner?

Mr. Frank . . . he got out of his mouth.

Doctor, I corrected.

Nothing will ever be better than a title in front of my name. Gives me an advantage. Puts me in a new light. If the speaker is a middle-aged woman, she pictures me married to her daughter. If the person is immature, like a teenager, it places me squarely among the authoritarians in his life. An impression that I will easily puncture, so the child understands I really do want to help.

Dr. Frank, we're a bit into an ethical quandary.

No response from me. I thought, why come to me? Go to an ethicist or priest. I know there is such a thing as professional ethics. Which is not what we were talking about, unless it is.

Also, is this about touching patients? Can't be. I read newspapers. It's amazing how many medical doctors who are allowed to touch patients get themselves into deep do-do. I don't even give hugs anymore. Too fraught.

I try to avoid fraught. I ask right off the bat a list of questions of everyone who comes into my office for the first time seeking help. Trying to find a suicidal ideation or an unusual sensitivity. This way, I'm able to identify the patients most in need of help. If I feel I can't help them, I refer them to a psychiatrist friend who's affiliated with a mental ward at Brunswik hospital.

These police persons, I decided, can't be here to warn me that a patient threatened me. I don't get a lot of threats in my line of business. If a patient is already so angry that they would do me bodily harm, they are probably beyond my ability to help them. This becomes obvious, sometimes with the first word, and I encourage such individual to listen to his family and get some in-hospital care.

I'd like to get Binelli to answer my list of initial questions. He is the poster boy for fraught. Every bit of his body language shouts that he's about to jump up and down, or, if differently positioned, to kick me in the shins.

The long pause on my part bothered Binelli. I'm too smart to ask him what he wants. Usually, a patient will indicate the reason he is in my office within the first five minutes. So I don't make any suggestions, which might be welcome but can lead down on a false path.

Officer Hassle took this moment of my silence to