“A flower…a beautiful spring bloom. The first rose to explode after the snow, blossoming in all its glory.” The young man grinned joyfully, pointing to the Rorschach card held tightly by the doctor, like a shield between them. Smiling thinly, the physician placed another on top of the first, doubling his armor.

“Yes…” Cradling chin in hand, the intense green eyes stared once more. “I think…of course! It is a mother, suckling her newborn.”

Sighing, the doctor pressed the stop button on the VCR and swiveled his chair to face the detective. “This was the last tape. You can observe for yourself the remarkable change in both personality and perception that four years of intense one-on-one therapy brought about.”

Nodding, the detective flipped idly through a stained spiral notebook, flopped it shut and asked, “The other gentleman – the doctor in the video – that would be Doctor Solano?”

“Yes, although at the time he was an intern working under my guidance. He implemented the therapy procedure, the progressive purging if you will, that I developed over the last two decades. He was quite enthusiastic about serving his internship at our facility. The patient was Peter Wolberg, as you know.”

Tapping his forehead with the folded notebook’s edge, the detective gazed at the blank television screen. “Forgive me doctor, but it didn’t appear – my opinion only – that Solano was all that enthusiastic in that last tape.” He raised his hand, “I am not a doctor, but I have learned through my work to judge people’s mannerisms and expressions.” Lowering his hand, he waved in the general direction of the video equipment. “That doctor did not seem to be a happy camper.”

Lowering his eyes, the psychiatrist cupped his hands around a mug of coffee long cold. “You are astute, detective, and everyone is allowed opinions. An opinion is not a diagnosis, so have no fear of treading on sensitive toes here.”

Sighing once more, he continued. “Dr. Solano was not, as you so quaintly put it, a happy camper. His performance of therapy was impeccable, focused and he took quite seriously our credo at Nordstrom Hospital. Fabricatio multitudo meliuscule. Making people better. His disgruntled expression was vectored from a diagnostic schism between attending physicians.” The detective’s eyes narrowed. “Excuse me?”

“We disagreed on the progress of the patient.”

“Ah, then sit-rep the therapy M.O. if you please,” replied the detective.

The psychiatrist’s eyes narrowed. “What?”

“Tell me about the therapy and the disagreement.”

“Touché,” chuckled the psychiatrist. “We will restrict ourselves to the universal language known as layman. Might I get you to prescribe another cup of this caffeine alkaloid?”

“Your stomach.” Turning the detective dumped the stale coffee into a wastebasket and refilled it from an antique Mr. Coffee machine. “Precinct coffee isn’t renowned as gourmet quality.”

“Nor is hospital coffee, but to your question. A man’s life-style is the very core of his being. His mannerisms are all learned and unconsciously decided upon, based on what he perceives in the world around him.

While one person might see a homeless man, dressed in rags wandering the street as an object of pity, another will view the same chap as a skulking threat. A dangerous and dark stranger who instills fear. Perception is everything,” he emphasized.

“Our therapy teaches the patient to observe and interpret things – people, events, actions if you will – around them in a positive and pleasant fashion.” He sipped his coffee and warmed to the explanation.

“It was explicitly put to me by a former patient who told me after treatment, ‘I realized that the crowds of people gathered around me were not there to harm me. They were there to help me.”

“And the disagreement?” Prodded the detective.

“Ah, yes. Solano and I were not at total odds. Both of us agreed that the patient now viewed the world in a positive manner. We were united in our belief that the anger and fear were gone from Peter.

We butted heads because Solano maintained that there was a flaw in the therapy. He felt,” the psychiatrist shrugged, “that there was something missing. Yet he could not identify the missing factor. He acknowledged the success in previous clients, but with Peter…well, he believed that the patient was – in Solano’s own words – ‘out to get him.’ Sound familiar?” The psychiatrist smiled. “Solano’s beliefs bordered on paranoia, and I never use that term lightly. Indeed, if pressed, I would sign that as a diagnosis. Solano freely admitted that the new perception by Peter was not faked. He simply refused to believe that the patient had inherently changed.”

The detective shook his head. “If you would please, doctor, accompany me. There is something you should witness.”

Their footsteps echoed down the deserted nighttime corridors until they entered an unmarked door. Inside the lights were off allowing a darkened view through a one-way mirror. The voice they heard was clear, if tinny, coming from the cheap speakers built into the wall.

Gesturing, the detective stated in a flat voice. “By half-assed reassembling what body parts we could find, we know the blood is probably from Solano – but that’s my opinion. DNA and dental will give us our final diagnosis.”

Before them sat Peter Wolberg, shirt stained and covered with gore. Slowly and with careful movements, he pointed to each bloodstain and spoke to himself.

When his attention was drawn to the blood caking his arm, he touched it gently and said, “A flower…a beautiful spring bloom. The first Rose to explode after the snow, blossoming in all its glory.”