Chapter 12 #3
Leroux nods, wiping his brow with a handkerchief, which he then stuffs into his pocket. “Yeah, he retired a couple of years ago. He’s writing a book or some shit.”
“I guess this is the ‘some shit,’” she says, knocking on the door.
Almost immediately it swings open, revealing a tall man who appears to be in his late fifties. His salt-and-pepper hair is combed into an almost Jazz Age style, with a slight curl in the front and not a strand out of place.
“You must be the only visitors I was expecting,” he says, a bright smile crossing his face.
“Please, come in.” He starts to open the door wider but first peers around the doorframe to look outside.
“Oh, good. He finally ate something,” he says almost to himself before picking an empty plate up off the porch floor.
“He?” Wren asks, pausing before she steps into the house.
Dr. Price looks at her for a split second before bursting into laughter.
“Oh, Lord have mercy, you must think I’m a few sandwiches short of a picnic.
” He holds up the empty plate, beckoning them to come across the threshold.
“I’ve been trying to feed a stray dog that’s been hanging around here recently.
Poor thing is so thin, I made some extra ground meat and left it out here.
I saw him peeking at it earlier, but I’m so relieved he actually dug in. ”
Immediately Wren’s enamored with this man’s entire vibe. She and Leroux step inside, and he closes the door behind them. “I feed the strays around my house too,” she says. “I just can’t ignore their little faces. I actually like their company.”
They share a warm smile for a moment, and the awkwardness of this clandestine meeting feels like it begins to dissipate.
Leroux clears his throat, thrusting his hand forward for Dr. Price to shake. “We really appreciate you meeting with us, Dr. Price. I’m Detective John Leroux, and this is my colleague Dr. Wren Muller.”
Dr. Price shakes his hand with a nod. “Nice to meet you, Detective. You are exactly who I pictured on the phone.” Leroux’s brow quirks up, and Wren loves how confused he looks.
He can’t tell whether Dr. Price just roasted him or complimented him.
The doctor turns to Wren, holding his hand out to her as well.
“Gabriel Price. Nice to meet you too, Dr. Muller.”
She shakes it firmly. “Please, call me Wren,” she says warmly.
He nods, placing a hand on his chest. “Now that we have met, I feel it is important for you to know how sorry I am for your loss, Wren.”
She smiles, a hollow movement that doesn’t convey anything more than what is expected of her.
It’s become a choreographed dance now, a response to the same words of condolence and the same looks of pity in people’s eyes.
Once again, Wren is being treated like a Fabergé egg, so delicate and fragile, to be kept in optimal conditions and never handled without gloves.
“Thank you, Doctor,” she says as warmly as she can muster.
For what feels like several minutes, they stay like that, marinating in the uncomfortable silence, until Dr. Price breaks it with a clap of his hands.
“Well, welcome to my home. Can I get anyone something to drink?” They follow him toward the kitchen, all the while taking in the beauty of the decor. Wren doesn’t know where to look first, but not because it’s cluttered. In fact, it’s neat as a pin, like a showroom featured in a magazine.
“I would love a water if it’s no trouble,” she says, admiring the sitting room’s elaborate tin ceiling.
“It’s no trouble at all,” Dr. Price says, grabbing a fancy green bottle from his refrigerator. “Coming right up.”
When he hands her the water, the glass bottle is ice-cold and feels incredible in her hands.
Lately the Louisiana heat had been more oppressive than usual, especially for October.
She had been looking forward to the clearer air that usually comes with fall, but this year, it’s like it’s afraid to arrive, like it’s waiting for something to move out of its way.
Today, she’s found herself anxious and hot, which is a dangerous combination.
“Is that an original Arceneaux you have here?” Leroux points to a painting on the wall.
Dr. Price nods, a proud grin breaking out across his face. “Good eye, Detective. I always said I would have one of his original works, but I never imagined I would have one like this. His love of New Orleans is infused so deeply into his work, don’t you think?”
“Man, he just captures the city’s entire soul,” Leroux says, an almost dreamy look in his eyes.
The painting’s frame is intricate and stately, a perfect companion to the art it holds.
The picture is a splash of color. It looks like acrylic paint judging from the three-dimensional nature of some of the brush strokes, which layer onto each other in spots.
It’s a positively dynamic rendering of the French Quarter with a band, dancing, and embracing lovers at candle-clad bistro tables: every lovely facet of humanity that one can imagine.
It’s a true piece of art that evokes a longing for it to be a portal into that world.
Leroux is just as entranced by it, and suddenly it occurs to Wren that another level of him has opened to her. “Leroux, you surprise me every damn day.” She shakes her head slowly.
He can’t stop his chuckle. “My grandmother loved his stuff. Makes me think of her.”
“You big softie,” Wren teases.
There is a comfortable silence that falls over the room, everyone retreating into their own mind for a minute as they let the piece of art take up the focus.
After a few quiet moments, Dr. Price says, “Well, I know you two aren’t here to discuss art.
Although I would love to.” He shifts back and forth, lightly tapping the glass of mysterious liquid he’s holding.
“Why don’t we all go into my office? I feel like this kind of conversation belongs there. ” He gestures for them to follow.
They walk into a warmly lit room with two overstuffed leather chairs on one side of a big oak desk. The walls are lined with bookcases and knickknacks, but it’s just the same as the rest of the house, where everything feels like it has a place.
Everyone finds a seat, settling into the heaviness of what’s to come.
Leroux clears his throat. “We are looking for any information you can give us about Philip Trudeau.”
“My former patient.”
“Yes, I know the ethics are muddy here, but it could end up saving some lives if we’re right,” Leroux says.
“And if you are wrong?” Dr. Price asks, a sudden seriousness to his tone.
Wren watches Leroux’s face tighten, so she interjects.
“He was there when my husband was killed, Dr. Price. He might have even participated.” Her voice cracks, an involuntary jerk of her vocal cords that she tries to cover with a clearing of her throat.
She doesn’t even know if she believes what she said, but she doesn’t care anymore.
Ethics, rules, and red tape have failed her.
She went along with everyone’s plan the day Richard was killed, and it cost her everything.
At this point, she doesn’t see anything left to lose, or nothing worth much, anyway.
Dr. Price stares at her, a soft expression in his eyes.
He begins speaking, gently opening the wound with the expertise of a physician.
“Philip Trudeau was my patient from the time he was about six years old until he moved to Massachusetts in middle school. I never saw him again afterward.” His voice has a sadness to it now, like there’s a loss.
“I’m only going to speak with you two about this because I feel that there is merit to your concerns. ”
“Can you tell us why you feel that way?” Leroux asks, pulling a little worn notebook from his pocket.
Dr. Price wordlessly hands him a pen from a bronze cup on the desk. “Philip was seeing me because he was struggling. His parents had witnessed some disturbing behaviors, and they were at a loss for how to deal with them.”
“What kinds of behaviors were they concerned about?” Wrens asks, feeling her heart jump at the implications.
“Animal abuse. He was hurting animals,” Dr. Price said, leaning forward onto the desk. “Their family cat turned up dead under unusual circumstances. That was the inciting incident.”
“And Philip killed it?” Leroux asks, a look of disgust dominating his features.
Dr. Price pauses, as if replaying the conversation in his mind.
“His parents didn’t see it actually happen, but they found Philip outside with the creature.
He was lying next to it in the grass, just staring into its eyes, like he was looking at something beautiful.
” His voice becomes breathy, like emotions are welling up.
“They thought it was incredible at first, this boy and his cat lying like that, studying each other in the grass. But when they got closer, they realized it was dead. A snapped neck.” He shakes his head, leaning back in his chair and letting his gaze wander the room.
“It didn’t stop with the cat, either. There were some other small animals they were worried he had hurt or killed. Mice, a bird, a turtle, to name a few.”
“That’s fucking repugnant,” Leroux says, not even bothering to clean up his language.
“Correct. It was difficult to hear about,” Dr. Price says, apparently unfazed by Leroux’s brash words.
“He would have these explosive tantrums too. The anger would be almost too much for his body to handle. He would scream and spit and break things, become an agent of destruction. Then, after he stopped, he would apologize profusely, as if something had possessed him. He would almost become repentant.”
Wren and Leroux look at each other. The pieces are beginning to click into place.
This is the first they’ve heard about Philip’s true nature, and from the doctor’s account of his troubled childhood, they can imagine his path to becoming the cold, calculated pastor they’d seen who was brimming with rage beneath his cool exterior.