Pop Goes the Weasel

tell me about it because of the hurt or shame he felt, I would understand.”
    “And if he committed cold-blooded murder — and did not want to tell you?” the prosecutor asked, then turned to the jury.

Chapter 95
    ELIZABETH “BOO” CASSADY was in her late thirties, slender and very attractive, with lustrous brown hair that she had worn long since she was a young girl. She was a regular shopper at Neiman Marcus, Saks, Nordstrom, Bloomingdale’s, and various chic specialty shops around Washington. It showed.
    She had gotten the nickname Boo as an infant because she always laughed and laughed whenever she heard the sound of somebody playing peek-a-boo with her. She soon learned to do it herself, muttering “ boo, boo, boo, boo .” In school, right through college, she kept the name, friends said, because she could be a little scary at times.
    For her important day in court she’d chosen a single-breasted pantsuit, beautifully cut, very soft and flowy. Her outfit was an eye-pleasing mix of coffee and cashmere cream. She looked like a professional person, and a successful one.
    Jules Halpern asked her to state her name and occupation for the record. He was amiable but businesslike, a little cooler than he had been with other witnesses.
    “Dr. Elizabeth Cassady. I’m a psychotherapist,” she replied evenly.
    “Dr. Cassady, how do you know Colonel Shafer?”
    “He’s a patient of mine, and has been for over a year. He sees me at my office at twelve-oh-eight Woodley Avenue once or twice a week. We increased the frequency of the sessions recently, after Mr. Shafer’s attempted suicide.”
    Halpern nodded. “What time are the sessions?”
    “Usually early evening. They can vary according to Mr. Shafer’s work schedule.”
    “Dr. Cassady, I direct your attention to the evening of the murder of Detective Hampton. Did Geoffrey Shafer have a therapy session with you that night?”
    “Yes, he did. At nine P.M ., from nine until ten. I think he may have arrived a little earlier that night. But the session was scheduled for nine.”
    “Could he have arrived as early as eight-thirty?”
    “No. That isn’t possible. We were talking to each other on cell phones from the time he left his house in Kalorama until he arrived at my building. He was feeling a great deal of guilt about his latest dark mood’s coming too close to his daughters’ birthday party.”
    “I see. Was there any break in your conversation with Colonel Shafer?”
    “Yes. But it was a very short one.”
    Halpern kept the pace brisk. “How much time passed between the time the two of you stopped talking on the cell phone and his arrival at your office?”
    “Two or three minutes — five at the most. While he parked and came upstairs. No more than that.”
    “When he arrived at your office, did Geoffrey Shafer seem unsettled in any way?”
    “No, not at all. He appeared relatively cheerful, actually. He had just hosted a successful birthday party for the twins. He felt it had gone very well, and he dotes on his children.”
    “Was he out of breath, tense, or perspiring?” Halpern asked.
    “No. As I said, he was calm and looked quite fine. I remember it very clearly. And after the intrusion by the police, I made careful notes to keep everything accurate and fresh,” she said, then glanced at the prosecution table.
    “So you made notes for the sake of accuracy?”
    “Yes, I did.”
    “Dr. Cassady, did you notice any blood anywhere on Colonel Shafer’s clothing?”
    “No, I did not.”
    “I see. You saw no blood on Shafer. And when Detective Cross arrived, did you see any blood on him?”
    “Yes, I saw dark stains or streaks of blood on his shirt and suit coat. Also on his hands.”
    Jules Halpern paused to let everything sink in with the jury. Then he asked a final question: “Did Colonel Shafer look as if he had just murdered someone?”
    “No, certainly not.”
    “I have nothing further,” said the defense attorney.
    Daniel Weston did the cross-exam for the prosecution. He was twenty-nine years old, bright, quick-witted, a rising star — and known to be a ruthless hatchet man in the prosecutor’s office.
    Dan Weston was also good-looking, blond, and rugged. He got physically close to Boo Cassady. They made a fetching couple, which was precisely the visual idea he wanted to communicate.
    “Ms. Cassady, you weren’t Mr. Shafer’s psychiatrist , were you?”
    She frowned slightly, but then managed a weak smile. “No, a