Social graces

On a Christmas Day of this year, I knocked on the door of my psychotherapist's house, demanding that he see me, even though I didn't call ahead of time, and he already had company over for the dinner. He took one long look at me and said, "This had better be good, Roberto. You have an hour." I've seen Dr. Hammer on and off for ten years now. I'm reasonably sure that I helped pay for the fancy black Porsche he's driving. From the outset, he diagnosed my persistent flare-ups of depression as “Lack of awareness of self-impact" and “Diminished expression of ordinary social graces" after running me through a battery of questionnaires and puzzles and two weeks of probing questions. He didn't identify homicidal tendencies. I didn't tell him. He failed to ask me. The tests didn't reveal any.

On the way to his house, my mind was plagued with a question if and when the bodies would be found. I was not calm, cool, and collected in the aftermath as I had expected. I had an irresistible urge to see Hammer. He led me to his study after telling his dinner guests that he would be back after an hour. They looked at me with a barely concealed disgust and annoyance. I glared back. He closed the door, asked me to sit down and inquired if I needed a glass of water or something. I replied that a glass of water would be indeed appreciated.

He came back with two glasses, one for each of us, leaned back in his chair, and said, "What was wrong?"

And I told him, slowly, clinically, with all details I could remember. I could tell he was trying to remain impassive and professional, but flashes of anxiety and anger appeared on his intelligent, though lined face. After I was through, he asked me, "What do you expect me to do now?", instead of "Why? Why? Roberto! My goodness! What the fuck did you put yourself to?" as I had expected.

-I really don't know, Joshua (he and I were on first name basis. Hammer did care about me, despite his name and his ethnic background).
-You came here in full view of my friends. They must have guessed you were a patient of mine. And if the police know you were here, it would be hard for me to tell them that no, you never talked anything about two persons you had sent an exit tickets on Christmas Eve. I might be accused of hiding from them crucial information, even of aiding and abetting a criminal.
-But I won't tell them. I won't.
-You would just tell them that you were here on a social visit, that you missed your shrink, that you had nobody to talk to on a Christmas Day?
-Improbable, but not implausible reasons.
-Roberto, all these years I never thought you were capable of such stupid, useless act. You must have known killing in anger, and not in defense, didn't solve anything.
-Joshua, I did know that. But when I saw his piggy face, and the smug, arrogant expression on it, I flipped out.
-But why his wife also? Why her?
-She screamed and screamed. I couldn't stand the noise.
-Roberto, here is my advice. Run. Liquidate your assets fast. Change your identity. Change your appearance. Don't say anything to anybody. Don't confess. Deny everything. And hope they couldn't find you. Hope you will finally change for the better. Use your mind. Put it to good use. Go to Las Vegas or some big city where transients would not attract attention. Do let me know how you turn out, but be discreet. Don't get me into trouble. Now get the fuck out of here. Drive carefully. Be easy on the booze. Good luck to you.