Loving Time by Leslie Glass

crowd grew as they waited. A number of the people waiting were wearing white coats. Others had interesting patterns shaved into their heads, multiple pierces, weird-colored hair, and strange clothing. Mike looked increasingly unhappy.
    It took an eternity to get to the third floor, to find the head nurse, give up their bullets, watch them being labeled, bagged, and locked in a filing cabinet. Standing at the elevator a second time, April saw Mike drop two replacement bullets into his pocket, just in case.
    It was one-forty by the time they got to the nineteenth floor, and the matronly woman at the desk rang Dr. Dickey’s office to see if he was free.
    “Dr. Dickey, two police officers are here to talk to you.” She turned her shoulder to shield the receiver. “No, they didn’t.… Yes, Doctor.”
    The receptionist hung up the phone. “Fifth door on the left,” she told them crisply.
    Fifth door on the left
. April’s lips tightened as she thought of Raymond Cowles with the neatly pleated plastic bag over his head. Ray had had two shrinks. One turned out to be the Director of the most prestigious psychiatric hospital in the city—maybe the whole country—a woman, no less. And the other was who knew what. No one was going to be happy with this case.
    The fifth door on the left opened before they got to it. A plump man in a gray suit stood in the doorway, warily watching their approach. His bushy eyebrows and expressive mustache, along with dark eyes that kept moving as if they didn’t intend to miss a thing, dominated his pink-cheeked face. The man was past the midpoint of his life but still radiated a feeling of power and energy as he sprang back into his room and motioned for the two detectives to enter.
    “Dr. Dickey,” he said mildly, introducing himself. “How may I help you?” As shrinks often did, Dickey gave the impression of already knowing how he could help them.
    “I’m Sergeant Sanchez and this is Detective Woo,” Mike said.
    “Is there a problem?” Dickey cocked his head.
    “Do you know a man by the name of Raymond Cowles?”
    Dickey moved his head over to the other shoulder.
Yes, no, maybe so
. “Should I?” he asked.
    Mike shrugged.
    Dickey regarded him coolly. “Why don’t you fill me in on the facts, and we’ll see what I can do to help.”
    “Fine. Raymond Cowles was found dead in his apartment this morning.”
    Dickey’s bushy eyebrows moved together into a deep frown while his eyes darted back and forth, as if searching for some clarification. “This is not a person I know,” he murmured finally. “I’m puzzled …” He opened his hands questioningly.
    The three of them still stood in the small space in front of Dickey’s unimpressive wooden desk. Dickey didn’t ask them to sit down. His hands were open, palms up. “What does this have to do with me?”
    “Raymond Cowles wasn’t a patient of yours?” Mike asked.
    Dickey shook his head. “No,” he said emphatically.
    “You didn’t know him?”
    “No.”
    “Your name and number were on a notepad beside the body.”
    Dickey winced, then shook his head again. “A lot of people know of me. That doesn’t mean I know anything about this. I never met the man.”
    “He had your number. Did you speak to him?”
    “I never spoke to him.”
    “Do you know Dr. Clara Treadwell?”
    Dickey’s dark eyes darted from one to the other. “Of course, she’s the Director of the Centre. Is she …?” He flushed.
    April kept silent, watching the doctor’s face. She noted that he was cool and reserved, was not concerned enough even to ask how Raymond had died. Then Dr. Treadwell’s name came up and he blushed like a girl.
    “What about Dr. Treadwell?” Dickey asked suddenly. “Does she have some involvement with this? What happened? I’d like to know what happened.”
    “You didn’t know the deceased?”
    “No, but anything that involves the Centre … I’m the chairman of the Quality Assurance Committee.” Dickey