“Good morning, Hunter.” I wait for him to get control.
He straightens, clearing his throat, but still blinking rapidly. “Good morning, Miss Harris. How are you today?”
I respond with the practiced social cue. “Very well, thank you. Would you like to sit?”
“Yes, thank you.” His hands clench in his lap, and he blinks fast at the floor.
“Now, why is Mr. Butterfield on your mind today?”
“He wasn’t trying to be a whistle-blower. He decided he would only tell about President Nixon’s White House taping system if asked directly.”
Through the years, I’ve learned Hunter’s anxiety flares up when he senses a confrontation.
Keeping my voice calm, I go back in his chart. “The last time you told me about Mr. Butterfield, you’d been putting trash bags in your neighbor’s can.”
“Mrs. Green never fills her can. She would never have known I’d done it if she hadn’t asked me directly. I wasn’t going to tell her.”
Nodding, I look at my notes. “What happened when you told her it was you?”
“She said she wished I’d asked her.”
This is good. “What else happened?”
“She said I could continue putting my bags in her can when mine was too full, and I offered to roll her can to the street with mine on trash days.”
His face relaxes, and I smile. “Has something happened with Mrs. Green?”
He shakes his head. “I am not using any of her belongings.”
“Okay.” I hold my smile, waiting.
The clock ticks, but he deflects. “Have you ever heard of Martha Mitchell syndrome? Of course, you have. You’re a therapist.”
“I’ve heard of it. What does it mean to you?”
“Martha Mitchell syndrome is when you know what’s happening and no one will believe you.” His fingers twist in his lap. “Martha Mitchell was the Cassandra of Watergate.”
I don’t answer. Sometimes asking questions moves Hunter farther away from what he needs to tell me. Instead, I make a note on the yellow legal pad. Afraid I don’t believe him. Martha Mitchell syndrome. Won’t tell unless asked directly. Alexander Butterfield.
We wait a few moments until I notice his time is running out. “I’m here to help you, Hunter. I want to believe you.”
“The X-Files took the nickname ‘Deep Throat’ from Woodward and Bernstein’s account of their mole during the Watergate investigation.”
Another warm smile. “I actually knew that one.”
“Fox Mulder wanted to believe. The question is, did he really?”
We’re quiet again, and the clock winds down. Finally, I take a chance. “Is there something you need to tell me, Hunter? Do you know something?”
His breath hitches, and he blurts fast, “My neighbor steals yard ornaments and hides them in her garage. She does it every night. Hundreds and hundreds of them. She can’t even park her car inside anymore. She takes them and keeps them a few days, then she returns them to the yards where they belong. Oh, God!” His cheeks are pink, and he covers his face with his hands, exhaling loudly. “I never should have told you. They shot down Dorothy Hunt’s plane over Chicago because she knew too much. Are you planning any plane trips to Chicago, Miss Harris?”
“I’m not planning any plane trips.” I place my palm on my upper chest and take a deep breath. “Look at me now. Let’s practice our deep breathing. Inhale… Exhale…”
He’s still agitated, and he’s huffing like a train.
My voice is calm, steady. “Breathe with me, Hunter. It’s going to be okay.”
“It’s not. First the trash bags and now this.”