Her office is pristine but cluttered. Framed photos of what look like exotic vacations cover cherry-red walls. Books line floor-to-ceiling shelves, and there’s a cozy seating area off to the side, a plump couch across from an armchair, a table between them with a box of tissues and a dish of wrapped mints on it. There’s a soothing bubbling noise coming from somewhere.

“Please, have a seat.”

She takes the armchair, so I have to sit on the couch, which makes me slightly uncomfortable as if she can read my thoughts and discern my deep dark secrets. The last place I want to be is on a shrink’s couch.

I was there once, years ago. When I was thirty-two, still with the Boston force, my partner and I were called to a robbery in progress. When we got on scene, the suspect had already killed the liquor store clerk, who lay bleeding out behind the counter. The gunman swiveled, perspiration running down the sides of his face, and shot my partner in the shoulder, dropping him to the floor. Then the kid turned in my direction. Time seemed to stand still as he leveled his pistol at me. I don’t remember shooting him. All I remember is his face. Young and scared. I was on desk duty, per department policy while it was sorted out. And I had to go see the department therapist, again required protocol. I didn’t like it. I don’t have anything against people seeking help when they need it. I’m all for that. But for me, it ate away at something inside. Maybe the way I was raised. Don’t know, but I like to keep my own counsel. Not saying that kid’s face doesn’t show up at night sometimes when I’m sleeping. I guess it always will, along with my brothers Ricky and Jimmy and others I’ve lost along the way. But I don’t need a shrink to analyze my nightmares. I get it.

Dr. Westmore leans back in her chair, tents her fingers. “What can I do for you, Detective?”

“I just have a few more questions about Dr. Bradley. You seem to know him as well as anybody.”

She heaves a sigh. “Yes. As I said, Jay and I were close.”

“What do you know about his family?” My eyes follow a bright blue fish as it swims in an aquarium on a credenza behind Dr. Westmore. The source of the bubbling.

“His mother died in a car accident when Jay was a little boy, nine, ten years old.”

“That’s too bad.”

“Yes. He told me he was pretty much left on his own. No siblings. His father worked all the time.” She glances out the window. “Jay became pretty introverted.”

“He get in any trouble that you know about? A boy left to himself.”

She shakes her head. “Jay’s a real straight arrow. He says he spent most of his time in the library.”

“Smart guy?”

“Brilliant.” She smiles.

“Why would anyone want to kill a guy like that?”