When we were ten yards away both men noticed us and put down their plastic forks. Albin Larsen’s dress was consistent with what I’d seen the day Mary Lou Koppel had failed to show up at her office: another sweater-vest, this one brown, over a tan linen shirt and a green wool tie. Franco Gull’s black suit was finely woven crepe with narrow lapels. Under it he wore a collarless white silk shirt buttoned to the neck. Gold wedding ring, gold watch.

Gull was broad-shouldered and powerful-looking, with a thick neck, a boxer’s nose, and a big, rough face that managed to be handsome. His head sported a mass of wavy, iron-flecked black hair. His chin preceded the rest of him by a half inch. Tailored eyebrows arched behind gray-lensed sunglasses, and his skin was rosy.

A bit younger than Larsen- midforties. When Milo and I reached the table, he removed the shades and exposed big, dark eyes. Sad eyes, bottomed by smudgy pouches. They added a couple of years and the suggestion of thoughtfulness.

He was eating take-out Chinese out of the carton. Shrimp swimming in red sauce and fried rice and a side of dwarf spring rolls. Albin Larsen’s lunch was mixed green salad heaped in a Styrofoam bowl. Both men sipped canned iced tea.

Larsen said, “Good day,” and gave a formal little nod. Gull held out a hand. His fingers were enormous.

Both men were in the shade, but Gull’s forehead was beaded with sweat. Spicy shrimp?

Milo and I brushed dust and leaves from the picnic bench and sat down. Larsen resumed eating. Gull smiled with uncertainty.

“Thanks for taking the time, Doctors,” said Milo. “Must be tough around the office.”

Larsen looked up from his salad. Neither man answered.

“Dr. Koppel’s patients,” said Milo. “Having to explain to them.”

“Yes,” said Larsen. “The vulnerability.”

Gull said, “Fortunately, we’re not talking about a huge number. Unlike physicians, each of us handles only forty, fifty patients at any given time. Albin and I divided up the actives and contacted each one. We’re still working on former patients, but it’s tough finding them. Mary didn’t hold on to her files for longer than a year.”

His voice was smooth and soft, but talking seemed to take the wind out of him. He wiped his forehead. The sweat kept coming.

“Is that typical?” said Milo. “Destroying files?”

“It’s something each therapist decides independently.”

“What about you and Dr. Larsen?”

“I hold on to files for two years. What about you, Albin?”

Larsen said, “It depends, but generally that’s about right.”

“No official group policy,” said Milo.

“We’re not an official group,” said Larsen. “We share an office suite.”

“So what happens to Dr. Koppel’s active patients now? In terms of treatment?”

Franco Gull said, “Those who choose to continue with either Albin or me are free to do so. If they prefer a female therapist, we’re happy to refer them out.”

“Sounds pretty organized,” said Milo.

“We need to be. As Albin said, we’re dealing with extreme vulnerability. What could be worse for someone needy than to be cast adrift so abruptly?” Gull shook his head and his wavy hair shimmied. “It’s a nightmare for them and for us. Unbelievable.”

“Dr. Koppel’s murder.”

Gull’s sad eyes tightened. “Are we talking about anything else?”

Albin Larsen speared a tomato but didn’t eat it.

“It’s a major loss,” said Gull. “For her patients, for us, for… Mary was vibrant, brilliant, dynamic. She was someone I learned from, Detective. It’s hard to comprehend that she’s really gone.”

He glanced at Larsen.

Larsen toyed with a lettuce leaf, and said, “To be snuffed out like that.” He wiped his eyes. “We’ve lost a dear friend.”

Franco Gull said, “Do you have any idea who did it?”

Milo placed his elbows on the picnic table. “I know you gentlemen are bound by confidentiality, but a viable threat nullifies that. Are either of you aware of any patient ever making a threat against Dr. Koppel? Any patient who resented her deeply?”

“A patient?” said Gull. “Why would you even think that?”

“I’m thinking anything, Doctor. Covering all bases.”

“No,” said Gull. “There are no patients like that. Absolutely not.” He groped for a napkin, took another swipe at his brow.

Milo glanced at Albin Larsen. Larsen shook his head.

Milo said, “Dr. Koppel dealt with troubled people. It seems a logical place to start.”

“Logical in the abstract,” said Gull, “but it doesn’t apply to our practice. Mary didn’t treat sociopaths.”

“Who did she treat?” said Milo.

“People with everyday problems of adjustment,” said Gull. “Anxiety, depression, what used to be called neurosis. And basically sound individuals facing choice points.”

“Career guidance?”

“All kinds of guidance,” said Gull.

“You don’t call ’em neurotic anymore, huh?”

“We avoid labeling, Detective. Avoid stigma. Therapy’s not treatment in the way a medical procedure is- a doctor doing something to a passive patient. It’s contractual. We see ourselves as partners with our patients.”

“Doctor and patient working as a team.”

“Exactly.”

“Problems of adjustment,” said Milo. “You’re absolutely certain there were no dangerous people in Dr. Koppel’s practice.”

Albin Larsen said, “Mary would not have enjoyed working with violent individuals.”

“And she did only what she enjoyed?”

“Mary was busy. She could choose her patients.”

“Why wouldn’t she enjoy working with violent people, Dr. Larsen?”

“Mary was committed to nonviolence.”

“We all are, Doctor, but that doesn’t mean we’re insulated from the uglier aspects of life.”

Larsen said, “Dr. Koppel was able to insulate herself.”

Milo said, “Really?”

“Yes.”

“I’ve heard radio tapes where Dr. Koppel talked about prison reform.”

“Ah,” said Larsen. “I’m afraid that was my influence. Was I on the tapes, as well?”

“Don’t think so, Doctor.”

Larsen’s mouth got tiny. “It was a topic I got Mary interested in. Not in a clinical sense. She was a socially aware individual, had a human as well as an academic interest in the larger social issues. But when it came to her practice, she concentrated on the everyday problems of everyday people. Women, mostly. And doesn’t that say something about the likelihood of her murderer being a patient?”

“Why’s that, Dr. Larsen?”

“Criminal violence is usually male-generated.”

“You’ve got an interest in criminal psychology?” said Milo.

“Only as part of the social rubric,” said Larsen.

Franco Gull said, “Albin’s being modest. He’s done terrific things as a human rights advocate.”

“From that to private practice,” I said.

Larsen glanced at me. “One does what one can in a given time.”

Milo said, “Human rights doesn’t pay the bills.”

Larsen turned to him. “I’m sorry to say, you’re correct, Detective.”

“So,” said Milo, “no psychopaths on Dr. Koppel’s patient roster.”

A statement, not a question, and neither psychologist responded. Albin Larsen ate a shred of lettuce. Franco Gull examined his gold watch.

Milo whipped out the picture of the blond girl. “Either of you gentlemen recognize her?”

Larsen and Gull examined the death shot. Both shook their heads.

Gull licked his lips. Sweat beaded atop his nose, and he wiped it away with irritation. “Who is she?”

“Was,” said Larsen. “She’s clearly deceased.” To Milo: “Is this related in some way to Mary’s murder?”

“Don’t know, yet, Doctor.”

“Did Mary know this girl?” said Gull.

“Don’t know that either, Doctor. So neither of you have seen her around the office.”

Gull said, “Never.”

Larsen shook his head. Tugged at a button of his sweater-vest. “Detective, is there something we need to know about? In terms of our own safety?”

“Are you worried about your safety?”