The doctor chuckled. ‘Oh, she’s a popular topic. Sometimes it’s reporters. Sometimes it’s political types. Last month I had a man in here who was obviously a private detective. He hinted he would make it worth my while if I spilled some secrets. God knows who he was working for. The whole thing is a pretty sorry business, if you ask me, all these spies looking for dirt.’

‘Diane’s in the same business, isn’t she? Common Way isn’t shy about looking for dirt on its political opponents.’

‘Maybe, but the lady has my vote.’

‘You like her.’

‘I do. Always have.’

‘You mentioned reporters knocking on your door. Did one of them happen to be Rufus Twill?’

Smeltz smiled wide enough to show a row of aging teeth. He leaned back in his chair, which squealed in protest. ‘Oh, sure, Rufus talked to me. He was a patient growing up, and I suppose he figured he could wheedle something out of me. I sent him packing without so much as a “No Comment.”’

‘What did Rufus want to know about Diane?’

‘I suspect you already know, Detective, but if you don’t, I’m not going to tell you. I’m sorry. I have a broad definition of privilege. I don’t talk about my patients, and I don’t talk about what other people say about my patients.’

Cab nodded. ‘I imagine it had something to do with an incident between Birch and Diane shortly before the Labor Day murders.’

The doctor’s face darkened. The bucket on the floor went chunk again. ‘I told you, I have nothing to say.’

‘Was Birch your patient, too?’

‘No.’

‘So he doesn’t enjoy privilege.’

‘That makes no difference,’ Smeltz said.

‘I just want to know what kind of man Birch was.’

The doctor rubbed the layer of fat gathered under his chin. ‘If you’re asking whether I cried when Birch was killed, I didn’t.’

‘I heard he was a bully and a son of a bitch.’

‘I won’t dispute that characterization,’ Smeltz said.

‘Were you surprised when he was killed?’

‘Of course. Nobody expects terrorists to strike in their own backyard.’

‘Some people think Birch’s death was personal, not political.’

Smeltz narrowed his eyes. ‘What are you implying?’

‘I have a witness who overheard Diane’s son, Drew, threatening to blow Birch’s head off. He was seen with a gun that summer. And he got out of a stint in rehab just days before the murders.’

You can’t honestly believe that Drew—’ Smeltz exclaimed, but he stopped in mid-sentence. ‘You’re not going to goad me into saying anything, Detective. Drew was my patient, too. I’m not discussing him.’

‘He’s dead.’

‘That doesn’t change my obligations.’

Cab dug in his suit coat pocket for a piece of paper. ‘You mentioned someone visiting you last month who looked like a private detective. Was this the man?’