Almost Dead: A Midnight Shrink Novel

By Edward A. Dreyfus

Dr. David Edminson is a thirty-six-year-old street-smart, iconoclastic clinical and forensic psychologist who works out of his customized van treating the inhabitants of Skid Row between midnight and 5:00 a.m. David’s patients and others in the area know him as the “midnight shrink.” He divides his practice between treating people in his van and his office in Hollywood, his work as a forensic psychologist with the LAPD and as a clinical professor at County-USC Medical Center, where he consults and teaches psychiatric residents and psychological interns.Someone is trying to kill David. With the help of his longtime friends, LAPD Detectives Sal Catena and Paul Burns, David goes after the would-be assassin. Is it one of his patients? Is it his girlfriend’s ex-con brother? Or a mafia capo with whom David had a run-in (in the first book in the series) when trying to learn about his grandfather’s underworld connections? In the course of pursuing the shooter, we meet several of David’s patients both from Skid Row and from his Hollywood practice.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Edward A. Dreyfus
• Release date: Sep 17, 2020
• ISBN: 9798666512050

Edward A. Dreyfus

At the young age of 75 I decided to turn my full-time attention to writing. I had already written five nonfiction psychological books, but figured I could reach a lot more people by writing psychological fiction. I have now completed seven novels. Each one delivers a psychological message about the human condition framed in various genres: thriller, mystery, drama, to name a few. Each book represents a composite of people whom I have met in my practice as a psychotherapist and tells their story in a manner that I hope will cause the reader to reflect on his or her own life. The stories are fiction, but many of the characters are real and the issues they face are challenging.I was born and raised in New York City where I attended grade school, high school and college. I received my doctorate in clinical psychology from the University of Kansas in 1964. I was in independent practice for 55 years before retiring and am now a full-time writer. I live in Los Angeles with my wife and two dogs.

Book preview

Chapter One

At 3:00 a.m., the streets were quiet except for the sanitation trucks picking up trash bins. Two customers sat in the twenty-four-hour coffee shop off Broadway in the Skid Row area of downtown Los Angeles. One, a fifty-something-year-old man, sat at the counter, holding his coffee cup with both hands. He wore a wool cap and a gray hooded sweatshirt. Looking at him, you’d think it was winter, not middle of the summer in Southern California.

Joe, the tall, skinny Jamaican cook, was busy in the kitchen; he’d worked in the shop for more than half of his sixty years. Bella, the portly fifty-five-year-old server with pink hair, had gone to the restroom. They’d worked together in the coffee shop for the bulk of their adult lives.

The other customer sat at one of the tables, working on his laptop. He was Dr. David Edminson, a thirty-six-year-old clinical and forensic psychologist, who, working out of his customized van, treated the inhabitants of Skid Row between midnight and 5:00 a.m. David’s patients and others in the area knew him as the "midnight shrink." He divided his practice between treating people in his van and his office in Hollywood, his work as a forensic psychologist with the LAPD, and as a clinical professor at County-USC Medical Center, where he consulted and taught psychiatric residents and psychological interns. He enjoyed the variety of clinical practice, consulting, and teaching. He wasn’t the type of guy who could sit in an office all day, nor could he deal with the endless bickering of academics teaching full-time. He was one of those listen-to-your-own-inner-drummer guys who enjoyed coloring outside the lines.

David was reading The New York Times on his laptop, his way of keeping in touch with life in the sunshine. He was between patients, his van parked in a lot a couple of blocks from the coffee shop, closer to Skid Row. He was reading a story about terrorists who had attacked people on the streets of Paris. Lately terrorism and mass shootings were becoming a routine part of life. Slum areas weren’t the only dangerous places for ordinary citizens; violence could happen in broad daylight in any crowded city.

Shaking his head, David ran a hand through his crop of curly, black hair. He picked up his coffee cup for a sip, accidently knocking his spoon onto the floor. As he bent down to pick it up, he heard the shot; the bullet grazed his hair. He immediately dropped belly down onto the floor.

Joe rushed out of the kitchen. Seeing a man in a ski mask holding a gun in the doorway, he pressed the under-the-counter alarm button, ducked back into the kitchen, and called 911 on his cell phone.

The shooter took off.

The guy drinking his coffee simply got off his stool, dropped a couple of bills on the counter, and left, walking in the opposite direction.

Bella came out of the restroom, but when she saw David hiding under table, she jumped back inside. Slowly she opened the door and peeked out to see what was going on. When she heard the police sirens, she reemerged.

Shaken, David pulled himself up into a chair and stared at the bullet lodged in the monitor of his laptop, his face drained of blood. The door to the coffee shop opened for the second time, and two police detectives entered.

Looks like someone’s got a hard-on for you, Doc, said Detective Lieutenant Sal Catena, pointing to the bullet in David’s laptop.

David looked up and saw the face of his longtime best friend. Sal stood at five feet ten, had a muscular build and weighed about 180 pounds with a swarthy complexion, movie-star good looks and a dazzling smile. He stood next to David with his trademark crooked grin, halfway between a smirk and a smile. Sal’s partner, Sergeant Paul Burns, also a close friend, was questioning Joe and Bella. No hellos, just business. David stood up, but finding his legs a bit wobbly, he sat down and wiped his brow with a napkin.

Did you get a look at the shooter? asked Sal.

David shook his head. No, he replied, still in shock. If I hadn’t knocked my spoon to the floor, I would’ve been a goner. He continued to stare at the cracked computer screen with the lodged bullet. He took a deep breath and slowly let it out to steady his nerves.

You’re one lucky fuck, said Sal, picking up the spoon. Maybe you should frame this puppy and call it ‘the spoon that saved my life.’ He chuckled. Tell me what happened.

Not much to tell, replied David. "I was sitting here reading The Times before writing my patient notes, and then I bent down to pick up the spoon, and bang!" He brushed his hand along the top of his head, indicating the trajectory of the bullet.

Why’d you come here? You usually go to The Pantry, said Sal.

I wanted some peace and quiet. The Pantry is always busy. This place not so much.

Some peace and quiet. Sal smirked. I’ll need a complete list of anyone you might have pissed off. It’s time for you to do some serious thinking about who might want to take you out. From the size of the bullet in your laptop it looks like a 9mm. Whoever did this meant business, my friend.

David stared at Sal, ran both hands through his curls, his racing heart gradually returning to normal. Most of the people who might be angry enough to want to take me out are either dissatisfied patients or people connected to patients, he said. You know, husbands, wives, or lovers who might be pissed about something I might’ve said to a patient. You’d be surprised by how many abusive men get angry at a shrink when their wives or girlfriends have the audacity to threaten to report them to the cops. I imagine some pimps might be upset when one of their girls wants to get out of the life. Even drug dealers might be pissed off. They don’t like losing their clients. Loss of revenue can cause anger.

Okay, put together a list, said Sal.

Can’t do that, Sal. Doctor-patient privilege. I can’t give you the names of present or past patients.

Sal rolled his eyes. So how about putting together a list of other people, not present or former patients, who might have it in for you.

That I can do. It’ll be a short list. I’m such a lovable guy. David grinned. He felt more relaxed now.

Paul Burns walked over to Sal and David. Paul was slightly over six feet tall, blonde with a fair complexion, and could have been a model in GQ magazine. All of his clothes were custom made. He even wore custom fitted LAPD dress blues. Unlike most police detectives, Paul never looked like a cop. David always thought of Sal and Paul as Starsky and Hutch from the old TV show even though they dressed more like Oscar and Felix from The Odd Couple.

Neither the cook nor the waitress saw anything, Paul said. The cook told me there was a dude sitting at the counter having a cup of coffee; he thinks he came in just after you, David. He didn’t blink when the shot went down. Strange. He finished his coffee and left before we got here.

What do we know about him? asked Sal.

Bella and Joe didn’t recognize him, replied Paul. Joe said he was a bit weird. He didn’t react to the shot at all. It was like he expected it.

Or maybe he’s deaf, said David. Or a veteran who’s survived bombs and bullets on the battlefield. They get used to it. He sits at the counter facing the mirror. Sees the guy open the door, fire a round, and leave. Maybe he can identify the shooter.

If we can find him, we’ll ask him, said Sal. Listen, David, I’d like you to think long and hard about that list of possible suspects. I know about the doctor-patient privilege and all, but we’re talking about your life.

As I said, I can’t reveal names of past or present patients, said David. All info is confidential. It’s like the confessional. It all falls under the seal.

I have the same problem with priests, replied Sal. The seal of the confessional protects the guilty as well as the innocent. Something’s wrong with that.

I get it, said David. But think of it this way. If I break confidence with some, what happens when word gets out? Do you think anyone would want to talk with me in the future? Same for a priest and the confessional. The confessional—or in my case, the van—has to be sacrosanct. It’s got to be a safe place where anything can be discussed, whether real or fantasy.

I thought there were some situations where you could break confidence, Paul said. Aren’t there situations where you’re mandated to report?

That’s true, said David. When there’s child abuse, elder abuse, potential harm to self, or when the patient specifically identifies that he or she intends to do harm to a specific person. Under any of those conditions, I am mandated to report. But the threat has to be real and clearly spelled out, not just a general threat like, ‘You’d better watch your back, Doc!’

Man, I hope you don’t get popped by one of your pissed-off patients, my friend, said Sal, flashing his smile.

David smirked. No good deed goes unpunished.

And you’d better have eyes in the back of your head, added Paul. Speaking of which, where are you parked? We’ll take you to your van.

I’ll be fine, said David. I’m only a couple of blocks from here on Sixth Street. I’ll see you tomorrow. He leaned over to pick up his computer and put in his backpack.

Wait a second, said Sal. You can’t leave with that. He pointed to David’s laptop. Evidence. You’ve got the bullet still in there. We need to take it to ballistics.

David gave Sal a blank look. Oh, yeah, sure, here, he said, handing the laptop to Sal. By the way, how did this little incident require the presence of two of LAPD’s finest detectives, a lieutenant and a sergeant, no less? He looked at Sal. Aren’t you a desk jockey these days?

Simple. We were close by when the call came in, replied Sal. We were just pulling into the house.

Are you sure you’re okay? asked Paul.

Yeah, I’m fine. No worries, said David.

Okay, we’ll see you tomorrow, Sal said. Come down to headquarters with your list and to sign the report.

Are you guys going to be working this case or will you hand it off once you’re back in the office? asked David.

Sal looked at Paul then back to David. Given that it’s you, we’ll keep it in the family.

David smiled and left.

Joe and Bella were still rattled. Robberies were fairly common in the area but not shootings. Being located close to central police headquarters, however, gave shopkeepers and residents a sense of security.

Sal and Paul stayed behind to ask a few more questions. Joe described the shooter as a man wearing a black ski mask, a black sweater, and jeans. Nothing else was visible. As far as Joe could tell, he just took a shot and left as quickly as he could. Sal discovered that the coffee shop had a surveillance camera. He and Paul reviewed the tape. It was an old camera and the tape had been reused so many times that the images weren’t clear. First, they saw a man wearing a baseball hat and carrying a backpack go into the coffee shop. Without stopping, he walked through the shop toward the back. A moment later, David walked in and went to the restroom. Within a minute, another man came in, sat at the counter, and ordered a cup of coffee. David came out of the restroom and took a seat in the corner with his back facing the door. Then they saw the shooter open the door to the coffee shop. He looked like the guy Joe had described—all in black, including black gloves. He opened the front door with his left hand and shot with his right, picked up the casing, and left. They watched openmouthed as David bent down to pick up the spoon just as the bullet entered his computer.

All four men had arrived within a minute or two of one another.

One lucky fuck! exclaimed Sal.

Where’s the other guy? asked Paul. He hasn’t come out. And he’s not here.

Hey, Joe, said Sal, is there another way out of here?

Yeah, in the back, past the restroom, said Joe. It leads to the alley.

Any other surveillance cameras out there? asked Paul.

Not here, but some of the other merchants have cameras in the alley, Joe replied. You might have noticed, Lieutenant, this ain’t the safest neighborhood in town.

Paul went out into the alley. Trash was strewn everywhere. A couple of vagrants were sleeping in doorways. He spotted a few video cameras and made note of where they were. He planned to examine them when the shops opened in the morning.

Sal turned to Paul. We don’t have much to go on. We have guy in black wearing a ski mask and gloves; no prints. We have a bullet. We know there were two men along with David. But no ID on either. One was a customer and left through the front door and one walked through and left by the rear without ordering anything. Why? He must have been familiar with the coffee shop enough to know there was a rear exit. And who was the customer and what did he see?

I saw a CCTV camera out front, said Paul. We should take a look at it to see if there’s a better picture of the shooter.

Okay, said Sal. Get on it.

Chapter Two

It was a first for David. That bullet had come awfully close. If it weren’t for the spoon, I’d be dead, he thought. I know a lot of people who might be angry with me, but not enough to want me dead. And how am I going to help Sal find the shooter?

Life on the street could be dangerous, especially during the hours he worked and with the demographic he treated. He’d had people throw things at him from time to time. He’d even been in fights. He fought against people with knives and bats, but never against guns. And never had someone tried to shoot him.

His head spun as he tried to figure out who hates him enough to want to kill him. He lived his life on the edge. He often didn’t know much about the men and women he treated on the streets. Sometimes he didn’t know their full identity and only had the street name they gave him. They’d reference a lover, a pimp, a friend, but not in any way that could be used to identify them. Street people tended to be distrusting of anyone they perceived as being an authority. So, even if David wanted to give Sal names, he couldn’t.

Just as he was about to pull away from the curb, a tall black man knocked on the passenger-side window. David lowered it.

Hey, Tommy, David said with a smile.

I heard what happened, Doc, said the big man. Are you okay?

News sure travels fast. Yeah, I’m fine. A little rattled, but otherwise I’m good.

Tommy Wilkinson stood about six foot five; people referred to him as Big T or Tommy W. He and David were longtime friends. Tommy was a former alcoholic, who, though sober for over five years, preferred to live on the street. When his wife of ten years was killed in a drive-by shooting, Tommy was bereft. He took to drinking, made some bad choices, and lost his job as a cop. He hit rock bottom and was forced to turn over the parenting of his only child to his mother. Both Sal and David had