“So what’s the point in sending them to college, if they’ve already had college?” Marge grabbed her temples. “Talk about anxious kids. What about anxiety for the adults?”

“We deal with lots of anxious parents,” Maryam stated. “A lot of the time, they’re the problems. They want perfection from the kids, while they were anything but perfect in their own youth. Things are much more rushed these days. You have to get a jump start if you want the results. It’s the digital generation, Detective. Gen-D. The computer waits for no man.”

“In the old days, we called this kind of behavior being a pushy parent.” Oliver smiled. “It was considered a big no-no among the shrinks.”

“Pushy is one thing. Motivation is quite another,” she preached. “Most of the Baldwin clientele are highly motivated. They want to do the right thing.”

“The right thing?”

“What will help out the odds.”

“Like what?”

Maryam gave them a half-smile, and it was condescending. “That’s what the therapy is all about. Even if I told you trade secrets, you couldn’t do anything with them anyway. You have to be in the hands of the right therapist. Anyway, I do believe we have digressed. In answer to your original question, I don’t know of any disappointed child who would have come back to wreak havoc because he or she hasn’t gotten into their first-choice university.”

“You never know,” Oliver said. “Look at that mother in Texas—the one who tried to murder her daughter’s classmate because she was competition for the cheerleading squad. People have been murdered for very trivial reasons.”

Her face turned ashen. “You don’t have to be so brutal.”

“Dr. Baldwin’s murder was brutal.”

“It has nothing to do with his patients—” Maryam’s pager went off. “Oh boy! Another one on the emergency line. They’ve been calling almost nonstop since the dreadful news came over the media. They must be in a state of shock. I must take the call.”

“That’s fine,” Oliver said.

“But I can’t talk while you’re here.”

“I thought you said there are other offices.”

Maryam frowned. “It may take a while.”

“We can wait.” Oliver tried to look earnest.

Slowly, she got up. “I’ll be back. And I trust you won’t touch anything?”

“Of course not,” Marge said.

“That would bode very badly for you…if I found you rifling through things.”

“It’s a felony,” Oliver stated. “You know what they say about cops who go to jail.”

She still was dubious. A final look over her shoulder, then she left without closing the door. Oliver waited for a few moments, until one of the phone lines had been illuminated. Then he jumped up and shut the door softly. “Keep your eyes glued to the line.” He headed for the file cabinets that lined the back of the room. “Tell me when the light goes off.”