The Miranda warning is eloquent in its simplicity. And yet a few seconds after we advised Janek Hoffmann that anything he said “can and will be used against you in a court of law,” he assured us that he understood his rights and then blurted out, “I didn’t kill her. But if I did, I didn’t mean it.”
Kylie tossed me a grin that summed up what we were both thinking: We may not have enough evidence to convict this idiot, but with a little luck, he’ll hang himself.
In short order, he was assigned a lawyer from Legal Aid, arraigned, and remanded without bail. The mayor’s spin doctors did their best to drum up media buzz for the arrest, but in a city whose mantra is “If you see something, say something,” the two unsolved bombings dominated the airwaves.
By six thirty we’d wrapped up the paperwork. Since Dr. Langford’s office was across town, we welcomed the opportunity for some new dining options and drove to Pizzeria Sirenetta on Amsterdam Avenue for some rustic Italian fare.
Ninety minutes later, we parked at a hydrant on a tree-lined stretch of West End Avenue outside Langford’s apartment building. Kylie and I had Googled him before we left the office. He was forty-seven and had written five books, and with his thick mop of ginger hair, surfer-blue eyes, and camera-ready smile, he was the guy the TV stations called when they needed an expert.
“Just our luck,” Kylie said. “Another pain-in-the-ass celebrity shrink.”
The two of us had faced off with our share of A-list psychiatrists in the past, and humility is not their strong suit. Rule of thumb: the more famous they are, the more arrogant they can get.
“Cheryl likes him,” I told her. “She says he’s a no-bullshit kind of guy.”
“Cheryl’s a lousy judge of character,” Kylie said. “Look at who she’s dating.”
It turned out that Cheryl was right: Langford was likable from the get-go. Two minutes after we entered his waiting room, he stepped out of his office, walked his patient to the front door, and introduced himself.
“Morey Langford. I’ve heard quite a bit about you both. I’m sorry to meet you under such tragic circumstances. I’ve been in a news-free zone since this morning. Have you made any progress?”
“Not enough,” I said, and left it at that. I didn’t want Hoffmann’s arrest to color any of Langford’s comments.
He shook his head and escorted us into his office. It was warm and inviting, with curtained windows, upholstered furniture, and a deep red Persian rug, and in lieu of the usual ego gallery of framed diplomas and degrees, the walls were decorated with vintage movie posters. I stopped to admire the one behind his desk.
“Ah,” he said. “The proverbial elephant in the room.”
It was indeed an elephant—Walt Disney’s Dumbo, to be specific. “I saw the movie as a kid,” I said, “but for the life of me, I can’t figure out what a flying elephant has to do with sex therapy.”
He laughed. “Not all my patients are dealing with sexual dysfunction, but virtually every one of them has self-esteem issues. I hung the posters because I’m a film buff, and they cheer the place up. But Dumbo turned out to have a not-so-subliminal message. He symbolizes the power of belief. If we believe, we try; if we don’t believe, we give up.”
“What can you tell us about Aubrey?” Kylie asked.
“Here are her files,” he said, sliding an envelope across his desk. “But a doctor’s notes can be dreadfully clinical. I can probably be more helpful if you ask me some questions.”
“For starters, you prescribed Paxil and Zoloft,” I said. “What were you treating her for?”
“Both drugs are SSRIs—in layman’s terms, antidepressants—and if you check the dates on the bottles, you’ll see that I prescribed them months apart. I started her on the Paxil, but she complained that it was making her gain weight, so I transitioned her to Zoloft.”
“Did it help with the depression?”
“Depression wasn’t her problem. Aubrey had compulsive sexual thoughts and behavior that led her into liaisons that could have had life-threatening consequences. One of the most common side effects of SSRIs is diminished sexual desire. I used the pills to try to squelch her libido, but that was a Band-Aid. The real work was being done in our weekly sessions, yet clearly I failed her.”
“Doc,” I said, “cops know a thing or two about survivor guilt trips. You were trying to help her. Somebody strangled her to death. Not your fault.”
“You’re good, Detective,” he said. “And you’re right. Aubrey was deeply mired in her addiction when we first met. For her, sex had to be loveless and punishing, and like any addict, she kept chasing bigger and better highs. The men she had sex with became more dangerous. She stopped saying her safe words. Twice she was left for dead. She wanted to end the madness, but she couldn’t. That’s why she came to me. I won’t say I failed, but I accept that I didn’t succeed. The best thing I can do now is help you catch the bastard.”
“The file you gave us should help,” I said. “Does it name names?”
“Detective, Aubrey lived in a netherworld where men and women freely exchange bodily fluids, but not identities. If she saw the same men on more than one occasion, she would help me keep track of them by saying things like ‘the one from Queens who breathes like Darth Vader,’ or ‘the Puerto Rican guy I picked up on the L train who gave me the black eye.’ However, there is one real name in the file. She mentioned him often. Janek Hoffmann. He was her cameraman.”
“What can you tell us about him?” Kylie asked.
“Nobody terrified her more than Janek.”
“Why? What did he do that the others didn’t?”
“You may find this hard to understand, but after years of having men treat her like she was a worthless, unlovable piece of shit, Janek did the unthinkable.” Langford inhaled deeply and exhaled slowly. “He told her he loved her.”