Butterfield Institute - 01 - The Halo Effect by M. J. Rose

Killings.
    And then the wind blew the paper away.
    I went over the stats I’d read earlier in the paper, thinking that at least all the girls I worked with in prison were safe. Safer behind bars than they were on the street.
    And Cleo was safe. She was too savvy to get messed up with anyone she didn’t know. I knew enough about how she worked and how careful she was about screening clients. She would never go to a hotel with a complete stranger. Would never allow herself to be put in a position where she wasn’t protected.
    And yet, and yet, what if some man was smarter than she was? What if this psychopath was clever enough to—
    I sat down under the wisteria arbor on the West Side and pulled out my cell phone. I dialed my office number, listened to it ring and then punched in the code to play back my messages.
    I wasn’t usually this nervous about a patient. But the news preyed on me. And Cleo mattered to me.
    I had three messages.
    The first was from a client requesting a second appointment that week.
    The next was from another therapist at the institute requesting a consult later in the week.
    I waited for the third message, desperately wanting it to be Cleo, worried that it wouldn’t be, concerned that if it wasn’t, my imagination would take off like the newspaper had.
    The third message was from my ex-husband to say hello and talk about the rest of Dulcie’s summer schedule with him.
    There was no word from Cleo.

13
     
    O n the other side of the world from my office at the Butterfield Institute lay the women’s state penitentiary in upstate New York. Almost three hours from the city, the redbrick building sat at the bottom of a hill on a lonely stretch of road near a state park. Every Thursday morning Simon Weiss, a fellow therapist at the institute, and I drove there. Between us we met with anywhere from two to six patients, prostitutes who had either requested to see a therapist or who were required to see one.
    This gig started as part of my graduate-school work, but I kept doing it, because I was still innocent enough, or dumb enough, to think that I might actually make a difference. And Simon, who was one of my closest friends, in addition to being an associate, had been doing it with me for the past year.
    Since the first prostitute’s killing, the women were angrier and sadder than usual. Worried about their friends on the outside and about themselves when they would be released.
    As Simon navigated the city traffic we shared office gossip and then fell into a companionable silence. I was looking out the window, but I could see him in my peripheral vision.
    Between the curly, dirty-blond hair, dimples and lively blue eyes, and a mind that leaped ahead when other people were still trying to figure out what direction to take, he was impressive. But it was more than that. He had that rare male attribute: he loved women. He loved to talk to us, spend time with us, listen to us and bond with us. Sometimes, when we were out having a drink, along with a heart-to-heart, he joked that he was a chick with a dick.
    “You know, you are really quiet,” he said.
    “How does that make you feel?”
    He laughed. It was our joke, the jargon we used on each other. We made each other laugh by dipping into patient-doctor talk. One day we’d have to dig deep and find what we were covering up with all the teasing. But I was hoping it wouldn’t be for a while.
    “Seriously,” he said, “what’s going on?”
    “I have a patient who missed an appointment yesterday and didn’t call. I hate to admit it, but I have a feeling that something might be wrong.”
    “Did you call her?”
    “I tried to. Late yesterday afternoon. I wasn’t sure I should.”
    “Why?”
    “I don’t usually.”
    “But she’s special?”
    I nodded.
    Simon smiled. Every once in a while, a patient got to me the way Cleo had. But it had been a long time.
    “She didn’t call back?”
    “No.”
    “Who is it? Cleo Thane?”
    I