Tail Spin

the whereabouts of some of our operatives in Pakistan—showing off, I guess, to impress her.
    “The CIA realized they had a big-ass problem almost immediately what with the murder of two operatives, and went on full alert. Jean David realized he was in deep trouble, so he told his father about the woman he’d met and fallen for.”
    “Do you recall the name of this woman, Timothy?” Sherlock asked.
    “It was something really sweet, like Mary—no, it was Anna. I don’t know her last name. Pierre didn’t know what to do. He came to me as a friend and in confidence to ask about the possibility of my defending his son legally from a psychiatric standpoint, maybe argue the boy was delusional or brainwashed and not legally responsible, and because he was worried about his son’s mental health. I told him that no psychiatric diagnosis would keep Jean David out of prison in a case like this. I agreed to see him, of course, but only if Jean David confessed his crime to the authorities. Many operatives might still be in danger, and the authorities needed to know about the security breach. In fact, I told Pierre it was ethically impossible for me to keep it a secret under these circumstances and that I would tell the authorities if Jean David did not.”

TWENTY-TWO
    MacLean paused, closed his eyes, and Sherlock asked, “What happened, Timothy?”
    “Now I’ve got to speak about Jean David in the past tense. I can’t tell you how I hate that. You already know about his death, don’t you?”
    “Yes. Tell us what happened.”
    “All right. A week after I spoke to Pierre, Jean David drowned in a boating accident on the Potomac. Bad weather hit—a squall, I guess you’d call it, vicious winds whipping up the water. The bad weather was expected but still Jean David and his father went out fishing for striped bass. Pierre always believed you caught more fish in the middle of a high storm. They were heading back because the fog was coming in real thick when the rocking and rolling got to him, and he got real sick and vomited over the side of the boat. Then it gets sketchy. A speedboat evidently didn’t see them in the rain and fog and rammed right into them. Pierre was tossed overboard. Jean David jumped in to save his father. So did one of the guys from the other boat. They managed to save Pierre, but Jean David drowned. Theysearched and searched, but they couldn’t find his body.
    “Pierre was distraught, and as sick as he was, he kept diving and searching, but it was no use. Jean David was ruled dead, and his death was ruled accidental two weeks ago. Was it really an accident? I know what you’re thinking—Pierre and Jean David set it up between them to get him out of Washington. But, you see, there was the speedboat, and the people on board witnessed everything. They’d never heard of Pierre Barbeau. I believe that. I spoke to Pierre before he called me a murderer and hung up on me. He was grief-stricken. His son was dead and he blamed me for it. I strongly doubt Pierre could feign grief like that, at least not to me. I spoke to some mutual friends, and they agreed that both Pierre and Estelle were wrecks. He was their only child, and now he’s dead at twenty-six. Because of me.”
    Sherlock said pleasantly, “You know that’s ridiculous, Dr. MacLean. As a psychiatrist, you also know that when people are grieving, particularly when they’ve lost a loved one in a stupid accident, they try to apportion blame. You know it’s natural, you’ve doubtless seen it countless times in your practice.
    “Now, if you say something like that again, I will tell Molly and she’ll deal with you.”
    He was frowning at her words, but at the threat about his wife, his mouth split into a grin. “Oh, all right, I guess I’m just feeling sorry for myself. Damn, I sure wish Pierre had never asked to see me. I’ve waded in quagmires before, but I’ve never been sucked down quite so deep.”
    Savich said, “So you told Pierre Barbeau that Jean David had to go to the authorities and confess or you were constrained morally and ethically to report him to the police?”
    “Yes. It’s like being a priest in the confessional. If the person making the confession is planning to do imminent harm, the priest has no choice but to go to the authorities. Would I have gone to the police? Actually I forgot all about it once I was in Lexington. I would hope they know exactly what Jean David did by now, but tomorrow, maybe I’ll