Robert B. Parker’s the Hangman’s Sonnet

Without a word, Molly stood up from the chair across from Jesse’s desk and left the office. She came back a minute later carrying an evidence bag. Inside the clear plastic was what seemed to be three old-fashioned composition books, the kind with the rigid black-and-white cardboard covers and the black fabric binding. The kind Jesse had used as a kid in school but were no longer very common.

“In all the excitement, I forgot about it,” Molly said. “I found them in the basement. They’re pretty beat up and they’re more about financial recordkeeping than they are registration books, but there are plenty of names in them.”

“Recognize any of them?”

Molly shrugged.

“All right, get out of here. Come in tomorrow when you want, but once you’re here, you’re going to get all the overtime you can handle... for the right reasons.”

She left without another word. When the door closed behind her, Jesse reached into his drawer for some gloves. But before examining the notebooks, he stood, looked out his window at the water, at Stiles Island. When he turned back around, he reached for his desk phone and dialed Dix’s number.

43

He hadn’t seen Dix for months. They had spoken on the phone once or twice since Diana’s murder and Dix had made some noises about the possibility of Jesse coming in to talk about what had gone down. He had offered the sessions free of charge. It wasn’t standard operating procedure, but most cops don’t become psychotherapists. Dix had a unique perspective. He understood the kinds of risks cops and those close to them live with day to day and, for that reason alone, he was willing to waive his fee. But Jesse couldn’t bring himself to do it. He’d made an appointment and canceled it a few days before he was to go. That was two months ago. Now here he was again, finally.

They shook hands, Dix holding on to Jesse’s hand a little longer than usual. He stared into his eyes a little deeper than normal. Jesse understood that this was Dix’s way of expressing his sorrow beyond the words he had spoken to him over the phone last night. Dix gestured to the chair Jesse had sat in for most of his previous sessions and Jesse took it with little ceremony. They sat there in silence for a few minutes, feeling each other out. This was how it went unless Jesse came in to discuss a case in the guise of coming for a real session. Dix got paid either way.

“You called me, Jesse,” Dix said, prodding his patient. “That means you’ve got something to talk about.”

“Uh-huh.”

“A case?”

“No.”

Another two minutes passed before Jesse broke the silence.

“You think I’m selfish?”

“Do you?”

Jesse smiled at the corners of his mouth, not because Dix was funny, but because he answered Jesse’s question with a question. This was how it went with them, and Jesse found some small comfort in Dix’s predictable responses, even if they often infuriated him.

“I don’t usually think about it.”

“But you’re thinking about it now?”

“Yesterday, Molly and Tamara Elkin—”

“Tamara Elkin?”

“The county medical examiner. I’ve mentioned her before... I think. Both Molly and Tamara told me I was selfish.”

“Do their opinions matter?”

“I’m here.”

Now it was Dix’s turn to smile. “You pay more per spoken word than any other client I have ever had, and that’s saying something.”

“They didn’t say I was selfish, not exactly, and it was more than what they said.”

The light of understanding went on behind Dix’s eyes, but all he said was “Go on.”

More silence. Then, “They said my drinking was selfish.”

“You’re drinking heavily again?”

Jesse made a face that betrayed his feelings, which, for Jesse, was out of the ordinary. Part of his whole self-contained aura was that he didn’t give away what was going on inside him. He supposed he paid a price for that, but it was how he was wired. Even Dix was surprised by it.

“I know you think some of my questions are obvious ones,” Dix said, “but why don’t you put that expression into words?”

“If I wanted to do that, I wouldn’t have made the face.”

“Okay, I’ll do it for you, Jesse, since we’re already being a little unconventional today. Your expression says to me that the woman you loved and had asked to marry was murdered in front of you and that you blame yourself for it. So only an idiot would ask if you were drinking. That about sum it up?”

“About.”

“But see, Jesse, here’s the thing. Not everybody would be drinking heavily again, not even all alcoholics.”

“Well, they’re not me.”

“Nobody is. Would anybody want to be?”

“Getting metaphysical on me now, Dix?”

But Dix wasn’t having it. “What happened that made these two important women in your life choose yesterday to tell you your drinking was selfish?”