Vanished

1

– 1 –

Cory couldn’t shake an odd feeling—like a hint of doom lurking on the horizon as she peered out her office window, at another glorious day in southern California. Hummingbirds hovered over the red and yellow rose bushes in search of choice nectar and a gentle breeze brushed the quivering leaves on the palm tree. Despite the tranquil scene, she stiffened in expectation.

The doorbell rang, jolting her in surprise as no one was expected until a few hours later. She checked the security video screen. Recognizing her postman, she opened the door. He handed her a certified letter requiring her signature. Although the sender’s name was unfamiliar, she signed for the letter.

Seated at her uncluttered teak desk, she tore open the sealed envelope, and gasped as she read:

Doctor Cohen,

This is to alert you that your bad advice has caused me grave consequences for which you are professionally responsible.

My attorney states you have committed malpractice. He recommends I request a five thousand dollar certified bank check from you made out to CAROLE ROY and sent to P.O.B. 666, Oceanside, CA.

You have one week to stop the case from going forward. I assure you, if you don’t comply with this request, you will regret it.

The cost of my litigation will be your responsibility. Your income, your reputation, and your license are at stake.

Your former patient,

Carole Roy

Startled, and almost overcome by a queasy feeling, her hands trembled as she placed the letter on her desk.

The sender’s name was totally unfamiliar to her. After reading the letter again, she figured it must be a hoax—mischief from a sociopath, a blackmailer, probably sending the same letter to select professionals practicing in wealthy areas across the country, gambling on the possibility someone would just pay to avoid the hassle.

Cory strongly doubted that any intelligent person would fall for such a scheme.

Although she regarded the letter as a threat without a shred of substance, she knew she had to do something about it as soon as possible.

She thumbed through her file cabinet crammed with the last seven years of patient records as required by the California Psychology Licensing Board. She had carefully stored her files within partitions representing each of the last seven years. Every case that had ended during that time frame was filed alphabetically within the appropriate section. It took her over half an hour to reveal, just as she had figured, that no one by the name Carole Roy had been her patient in the past seven years.

Cory shook her head. Perhaps a person identifying herself as Carole Roy had made an appointment, but had not shown up for it.

She ran her fingers down the pages of her current appointment book dated from the last five months, but the name did not appear.

She whipped out her last two years of appointment books from the file drawer. Finally, she found “Carole Roy” scrawled with a fine line drawn across it next to a phone number. NS—the notation she used for “no show”—appeared next to Wednesday 4:00 p.m. exactly two years ago.

Out of curiosity, she called the number. It belonged to a tailor unfamiliar with anyone named Carole Roy.

“Has anyone else called asking for this person?” Cory asked.

“No. I’d remember. We don’t get many calls, being new to the neighborhood,” the man said.

Cory phoned several local colleagues and a few practicing in wealthy areas across the country. She figured a blackmailer would target practitioners with deep pockets. If her calls weren’t fruitful, she would have to fish in a larger pool—an annoying, time-consuming task.

Cory called fifteen psychologists. None were available to speak with her. She left messages requesting a call back on her mobile, hoping to learn if any were afflicted by the same bug and were willing to discuss the situation.

Blackmail was considered a crime, a statutory offense. If she could establish a high volume of complaints of attempted blackmail made to mental health professionals, it could result in quicker action from authorities and prevent future threats.

If she were the only professional known to have received such a threat, she would immediately consult her malpractice insurance attorney.

Re-reading the certified letter, she stopped at the paragraph citing the post office box number 666 and smiled. “666” equals sick, sick, sick,” she murmured. Chuckling, she began to feel better.

Cory figured the blackmailer could be a mentally ill person who sought retribution for some negative psychotherapy experience.

More likely, the blackmailer learned about billing and records and malpractice in some other way, and regarded a psychologist as an easy target. Perhaps the blackmailer had worked in the billing department of a health care facility.

Powerless to immediately change the situation, Cory realized she needed to distract herself from worrying about it. She would take the advice she gave to patients: worry is a counterproductive waste of energy.

Glad for the extra set of running gear she stored at the office, she decided to spend the free time relieving her tension by running on the beach. She expected to come back energized by endorphins, and better able to cope with the distressing blackmail letter.

Tucking her long, black hair into a ponytail, she noticed it was the proper length for a donation to the Wigs for Kids project. Her good deed—a traditional mitzvah would uplift her spirits. She grabbed the phone and made an appointment.

Wig makers preferred Asian hair. Cory’s contributions were reminders of her bi-racial heritage—a Japanese mother she had never known, who preferred an international musical career to a family.

Cory never experienced anger toward the unknown birth mother; rather she felt privileged to be raised by her loving paternal Jewish grandparents.

Just as she was about to change her clothes, she heard a buzz at the front door.

The image of a pale young woman with a distraught expression on her face appeared on the security video screen.

“May I help you?” Cory asked

“I so much hope you can. I’m desperate and need to see you right away. Ann referred me,” pleaded the woman.

Responding to what could be an emergency, Cory buzzed her in and hurried to greet her at the front door.

The young woman followed Cory from the cozy reception room into the office.

Petite, with small facial features, brown eyes and dark blonde hair neatly rolled into a bun, she appeared to be in her twenties. Her black suit and white blouse were well tailored and somber, next to her pale face.

She scanned the room, furnished with teak chairs, table, and desk, and ran her hand over the top of the soft black leather couch. She seemed unduly cautious of her surroundings, like an animal sniffing around a new environment to determine if it was safe.

She paused to examine Cory’s framed credentials on the wall. Supposedly reassured, she turned to the books lining the shelves as though shopping for the right one that would hold a solution to her vexing problem.

From desperation to uncertainty about her surroundings, she seated herself opposite Cory, leaned forward, and rested her hands on her lap.

Pad and pen on her lap, Cory asked, “What’s your name?”

“That’s just it. I don’t know who I am.”