undiagnosed

short story

Thanks to everyone who has joined me here. Excited to share a brand new story…

We’re developing a film adaptation with some pretty damn exciting producers and director I hope to announce soon.

Originally titled “crazy in love,” we are trying “undiagnosed” on for size. Let me know what you think!

I hope you enjoy and thanks for your support.

---

Veronica really made a scene at Dr. Greenberg’s funeral.

Totally let it rip.

She just couldn’t help herself.

Not only was the good doctor her personal psychiatrist – the only one she could ever “be real” with – but it was Veronica who had found the body.

Dr. Greenberg practiced out of his home. He lived upstairs. The ground floor was set up with a kitchenette, waiting room, and an office with the big leather couch you’d expect for any good shrink.

Veronica had parked her charcoal Subaru Outback around the corner and walked up to the little white house on Wolf’s Lane. Usually, she used a code to buzz herself in. But when she got to the front door that day, she noticed it was cracked open.

She didn’t think much of it at the time. It was a safe neighborhood. Suburbia. The town of Pelham. Westchester, New York.

Maybe the last patient just forgot to close the door, she thought. No big deal.

But when Veronica stepped inside, the place was eerily quiet. The only sound was a dim but constant clacking coming from the office. Veronica’s stomach sank. She suddenly felt like she was somewhere she wasn’t supposed to be.

Still, she was very close to her doctor. They had a special connection. And she was a curious type. Raised on Nancy Drew books. The office door was ajar. About a third open. She couldn’t see inside, but it *was* open.

As Veronica pushed the door the rest of the way she saw where the sound was coming from:

One of those desk toys.

An executive ball clacker, she thought. Probably something you’d see on Patrick Bateman’s desk in the 80s.

Officially they were called a Newton’s Cradle. She’d learn that later from the police. That series of balls suspended on wire that clack back and forth. Veronica thought they also might be a “perpetual motion machine.” Technically incorrect. Eventually, thanks to gravity and friction, the balls stop clacking.

But at that moment on the doctor’s desk, they were still going strong. And behind the Newton’s Cradle, Veronica saw Dr. David Greenberg.

Or at least his balding head.

Face-planted on the desk.

His glasses shattered. Broken shards spread out over the various leather files in front of him.

Veronica didn’t even try to touch him.

Didn’t check for breathing.

Didn’t try and find a pulse.

She just fished her cell phone out of her purse and dialed 9-11.

It was obvious the doctor was dead.

---

James Butler, known to everyone but his mother as Jimmy Butler, noticed Veronica wailing at the funeral.

Jimmy liked to think of himself as observant. A “noticer.” Someone who clocks all the details. But even Jimmy had to admit, it didn’t take any special skill to notice Veronica.

The funeral was full of people who were obviously patients, Jimmy thought. Many were sniffling, like one lady with hoarder vibes who probably hadn’t left her house since the days her muumuu and a beehive were in style. Some were wiping away a tiny tear, like the guy with dark rings under his eyes, a bald dome with wisps of wild hair flying out of the sides like Doc Brown. Others were totally silent, like the teen girl who resembled an anime character with pink hair and oversized bucket headphones. Veronica was the only one absolutely bawling.

And Veronica was a beautiful woman, in a kind of tragic way. Jimmy immediately thought she looked like someone who had daddy issues. Or maybe someone who was married and divorced young? Despite her relatively young age, she had definitely *seen some shit*. She’d been through something heavy. Something intense. Maybe more than one thing.

Jimmy was very intrigued.

Like a boy scout, he’d come prepared to the funeral with one of those little travel packets of Kleenex you buy at the airport or the travel section of CVS. He scootched over two seats and pulled it out of his back jeans pocket.

“Here you go,” he whispered to her. “Take these.”

Veronica instantly thought Jimmy was a handsome man. Not in a grizzled, *he’s seen some shit* kind of way. No. Jimmy was handsome in a *I dropped out of high school and work at the gas station* kind of way. The kind of guy who wore a baseball hat with a very curved brim well into his forties.

“Thank you,” she mumbled to him, a bit mortified. But Jimmy seemed kind. Made her feel okay about crying.

She caught his eyes as he handed over the Kleenex and she noticed he was also handsome in a *crazy eyes* kind of way. He was charming. But maybe somehow unhinged too?

“James Butler,” he said. He offered his right to shake. “But everyone except my mother calls me Jimmy.”

Veronica smiled at that. This guy actually seemed sweet. Sure, the kind of guy who still lived with his mother. Probably a townie. These are people who never leave the little suburban bedroom community of Pelham, even though it’s only a twenty-minute train ride on the Metro North to Grand Central, New York City.

She delicately cupped his hand and shook back.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “This is embarrassing.”

“Not at all ma’am,” he said. “It’s appropriate. It *is* a funeral.”

She smiled again. “Well, it’s about to be super embarrassing, ‘cuz I’m gonna blow my nose.”

Jimmy couldn’t help but laugh as she took all of the Kleenex out of the plastic at once, balled it up into a single giant pile, pressed it to her nose, and honked.

Honked *really* loud.

After, Jimmy held out his hand.

“What are you doing?” she said.

“I can take care of that for you.”

She shook her head furiously. “Yeah, no. Absolutely not. I can dispose of my own booger tissue, thank you.”

He put up his hands, conceding. “Yes, ma’am. I’m sure you can.”

What’s with all the ma’am shit? she thought. Who *is* this guy? Was he from the South or something? This was suburban New York. Normal people didn’t talk like that.

“I’ll be right back. I’m gonna go toss this,” she said. “I’m Veronica, by the way.”

“Let me guess,” Jimmy said, nodding toward the casket in the front of the room. “You’re one of his patients, right?”

Oh, great! He thinks I look like a mental patient, she thought. Her mascara was running down her cheek, like a sad girl punk rocker.

“Wonder why you’d think that?” she finally said.

“No, it’s just – you’re too young to be his ex-wife. And honestly, too good-looking to be Dr. Greenberg’s daughter.”

“Dr. who?” she said. “You mean, Dr. David?”

Jimmy chuckled. “That’s what you called him? Dr. David?”

“Well, yeah...” Veronica said. “We were very close. If you must know, I did see him... and Dr. David really helped me.”

For a second she worried she was going to start bawling again. Instead, she took a deep breath and looked around for a garbage bin.

“Wait,” she suddenly said. “Are you a patient of Dr... uh Greenberg’s?”

Jimmy nodded noncommittally. “I have worked with the doctor,” he said. “I’m a police officer.”

Veronica was taken aback on multiple levels. First, the police had been grilling and harassing her for weeks since she found the body. She couldn’t believe it, but the person who found the body really does become a suspect – until the autopsy found that Dr. Greenberg died of heart failure. Second, there was something about Jimmy that just didn’t seem like a police officer. The crazy eyes, maybe? Quite unsettling.

But then again, she thought, in the Year of Our Lord 2025, what kind of person actually signs up to be a cop? Crazy, unsettling eyes might even be a job requirement at this point.

“You’re really a cop?” Veronica asked.

“Yes, ma’am,” Jimmy said, giving a small salute. “Third generation Pelham Manor Police Department. Officer of the law. Ready to serve and protect.”

Well, at least the whole “ma’am” thing made more sense now, Veronica thought.

---

Later, at the funeral reception, Veronica found herself at the buffet table. At first, she tried to eat healthy. She hated casserole. So, she went for the plastic container full of carrot sticks and celery with that bland white dip. Was it ranch? She couldn’t tell. All she knew was, it was disgusting. Next, she skipped right past the cold cut meat and moved in on asparagus wrapped in mozzarella and prosciutto.

It wasn’t much better.

Fucking funeral food, she thought.

“How’s the grub?” came a voice from behind her.

Jimmy Butler. Who else?

“You mean the charcuterie?” she said.

“Charkoot-er-what?”

Veronica laughed. “Never mind. I don’t know if it reaches the level of being called something that fancy.” she said, still poking at it.

“Yeah well,” he shrugged. “It’s funeral food.”

Jimmy frowned at the carrots, celery, and asparagus, and lunged for a pile of pepperoni, folded it into a soft white bread roll and took a huge bite.

“I’ve been looking for you!” he finally said, with his mouth full.

Oh God, she thought.

“You have?” she said.

Jimmy looked around the room, and when he decided the coast was clear, he switched to a whisper.

“I heard you found the body...”

Veronica nodded. “It’s been a very difficult time. I don’t really want to talk about it.”

He leaned in. “Sure, but I gotta tell you something.”

“What’s that?”

“Well,” he said, and checked over his shoulders one more time for eavesdroppers. “Let’s just call it a lawman’s hunch...” Now he whispered even more dramatically. “I don’t think Dr. Greenberg died of a heart attack.”

“Excuse me.” Veronica held up a hand to stop him right there. “No. I’ve been questioned repeatedly by your colleagues, your fellow officers or whatever. The autopsy came back. I’ve been totally cleared. One of them even apologized to me. He got ‘overzealous,’ he said. Then, he asked me on a date, the son of a bitch. But I told him absolutely not.”

“No, no,” Jimmy shook his head. “I’m not saying you had anything to do with it.”

“You’re not?”

“No! Of course not,” he said. “But you can’t tell me - you can’t honestly tell me – that you think there wasn’t something suspect going on. Can you? I mean. The way you found him? The door open, right? The whole thing. Very ‘sus’ as you young ladies like to say.”

“I’m not that young.”

Veronica locked eyes with Jimmy. She couldn’t help from being intrigued. When she heard about the autopsy, she was relieved that the police harassment was over, but something about it never sat right with her. And Jimmy was just so damn earnest, she couldn’t resist being earnest right back at him.

“I don’t know why I know this,” she finally said. “But some things? You just know. And I know Dr. David was murdered.”

---

Veronica agreed to meet Jimmy at Villagio’s Pizzeria the next day. It wasn’t a date. She told him she didn’t date cops. She would meet him only to discuss “the case” further. Villagio’s was a classic local place that opened in the 80s or 90s down the street from Dr. Greenberg’s office. The kind of place with red and white checkered tablecloths. Veronica had driven by there a hundred times, but had never gone in. She arrived early and sat in the back, her nerves tingling. It felt a little crazy to be doing this. Like something a damn mental patient would do – but it was also undeniably exciting.

She finished her Diet Dr. Pepper, pulled the straw out, and chewed the ice while she waited. When Jimmy finally arrived, he ordered two pepperoni calzones at the front counter and brought them back — steaming hot on a paper plate — to her table.

“What’s with you and pepperoni?” she said, picking at the calzone.

He shrugged. “This shit is the bomb. You know, people like to think us cops hang out at the donut shop, right? That’s the stereotype: Donuts and coffee. But no. Villagio’s is the real police hangout. Pepperoni calzones are what we eat!”

“I see...” Veronica said.

Once again, she blew right past her intention to eat healthy and took a bite. While it burned the top of her mouth, it was tasty.

“It’s very good,” she said. “I have to admit.”

“Right?” Jimmy smiled. Then, he got right down to business:

“Okay, first question...”

“Oh God, are you gonna grill me?”

He nodded. “Maybe.”

“Okay. Fine. Lay it on me.”

“Why did you ‘see’ Dr. Greenberg? Or, Dr. David as you call him?”

“Isn’t that a bit personal?”

“Maybe.”

“Not sure how it’s relevant to the case.”

“Maybe not. But I really want to know.”

“Okay. Whatever. Mental health should not be stigmatized.”

“I agree!”

“Okay. Good. Well, at first I wondered if I had OCD, you know? Obsessive Compulsive Disorder? Then I wondered if I was Bipolar? Or, at least Bipolar 2, which is the less intense classification. But then, before Dr. David... died... we were exploring if maybe I was Borderline. You know? Borderline Personality Disorder?”

“Yeah, I think I heard of that.”

“And what frustrates me? We were never able to get to the bottom of it.”

Jimmy looked carefully at her. “Sounds like maybe you’re a hypochondriac? Or the psychiatric version of that? If there’s a name for it.”

“Oh, you think so?”

“My theory? There’s probably not a damn thing wrong with you.”

Veronica laughed. “Oh, I’m pretty sure there’s a lot wrong with me.”

“Okay,” Jimmy said. “Can I ask: what do you do? You seem like a Big City Girl, speaking French and all that. Shouldn’t you be in New York City? Not Pelham.”

“Well, I did live in the city. I married young. Divorced young. My Dad has Alzheimer’s. So, I’m living back here for now. Doing some freelance stuff.”

Of course, Jimmy thought. He was almost jumping out of his skin with pride. His assumptions at the funeral had been incredibly accurate. Turns out, he *was* observant.

“Interesting,” is all he said, touching his chin. “Very interesting.”

“Is it?” Veronica smiled.

“Yes.”

“Okay. Now let me ask you something?” she said. “Let me grill you.”

Jimmy finished his calzone. “Fair enough. Go for it.”

“If Dr. David didn’t die of a heart attack... what did he die of? What’s your working theory? What happened?”

“Well, ma’am, I intend to find out. But I will tell you one thing right now: Heart failure? At his age? A healthy marathon runner like Dr. Greenberg? I mean, it’s technically possible. But I don’t buy it at all.”

“Okay, good. Neither do I.”

“Right? I mean, the Russians? Putin? They have all kinds of sophisticated poisons that are untraceable. Completely untraceable. And Putin’s victims? They go through their autopsy. It always comes up natural causes! Heart failure. Whatever.”

“Wait! Are you saying the Russians are involved with this? The Russians? Why would they want to kill Dr. David?”

Jimmy sighed. “No, no, no. I’m not saying that exactly. I’m just saying its possible.”

“The Russians are possible?”

“Anything’s possible!” he said. “It’s not about the Russians. I’m just saying that there are a lot of untraceable, undetectable poisons. So, heart failure my ass!”

Veronica laughed. “Okay...”

“Just look at that funeral! Did you see all those people? It was like One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest in there! How many patients did Dr. Greenberg have? How many weirdos?”

“Excuse me?”

“I’m sorry, but in my mind they’re all suspects. Every single one of them.”

“I did not kill Dr. David.”

Jimmy smiled. “Present company excluded, ma’am. Of course.”

“Thank you.”

“I don’t think you killed him. I think you were in love with him.”

“Oh, give me a goddamn break. He was short and bald! Not to mention OLD!”

“You’re telling me right now you don’t have daddy issues?”

Veronica laughed. “Come on!”

He shrugged. “You claim to have a lot of issues, so I sort of assumed...”

“Gee, thanks.”

‘Naw,” he chuckled. “I don’t think you killed ‘Dr. David.’”

He threw up air quotes, mocking her.

She blushed. “Your fellow officers cleared me, okay? They apologized! Did you get their police report or whatever?”

Jimmy shrugged. “Sure I did.”

“Okay, then.”

“But let me ask you one more thing. When you saw him there on the desk. Face-planted? Was there a drink? A glass of water? A rocks glass with some whiskey maybe?”

“I don’t know.” Veronica shrugged. “I can’t remember. Whatever was there I’m sure it’s gone now. The place has been roped off as a crime scene for weeks.”

“Okay. Why don’t we go over there and check it out?”

“Now?”

“No time like the present. Every minute that goes by after a murder makes it statistically less likely to be solved. Every single millisecond that goes by.”

“Really?”

“We don’t want a cold case here!”

“Can I at least finish my calzone first? You eat too fast!”

---

Veronica was expecting Dr. Greenberg’s house to still be in typical crime scene mode – boarded up, yellow police tape, maybe even a chalk outline where she found Dr. David all keeled over.

But from the outside, everything looked perfectly normal.

“It’s like nothing happened here at all,” she said.

Maybe it makes sense, she thought. She found the body weeks ago and it was ruled a heart failure. Everybody had already moved on.

Except for her. And Jimmy Butler.

“You know how to get in, right?” he said eagerly, as they approached the front door.

She nodded. “Yep. All the patients have the code. We let ourselves into the waiting room.”

She tapped the code 3587# into the keypad, got the beep, and swung the door open for him.

“Wait!” She suddenly spun around and frowned. “Don’t you have a warrant or something?”

Jimmy raised his eyebrows. “Um, no. This is actually Pelham. Where we’re standing here? On Wolf’s Lane? It’s Pelham. I’m a Pelham Manor Police Officer. Separate jurisdiction.”

“So, this isn’t even your jurisdiction?!?”

He shrugged. “Well, not technically.”

Oh God, she thought.

“So, you’re not even technically part of this investigation?”

“There *is* no investigation. Remember? The case is closed.”

Veronica sighed, exasperated.

Jimmy was already walking through the door.

She followed him inside into the waiting room and immediately saw Dr. David’s wall of books. Stuff like The Five Agreements, The Power of Now, and The 5 Love Languages. It made her sad. Didn’t Dr. David have any family? Who was coming to get all this stuff? How long until it was all going to be covered in dust?

Veronica watched as Jimmy “cased” the room. She couldn’t help thinking that he had less the vibe of an officer of the law and more like Shaggy from Scooby-Doo.

“Jimmy,” she said, trying to be serious. “Can I ask you something?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“How come you never wear your police uniform?”

“I’m off duty.”

“Okay, but don’t you guys like to wear your uniforms to things like funerals? Isn’t that what you guys do? Besides eating pepperoni calzones?”

He looked at her. “I’m a plain clothes detective.”

She scrunched her eyebrows. “Does the Pelham Manor Police Department even have those?”

“It’s a pilot program,” he shrugged. “It’s classified.”

That left Veronica with a dubious look on her face. But Jimmy brushed past her. He walked over to Dr. Greenberg’s office door and turned the doorknob.

It was locked.

“Dang,” he said.

Veronica tried the door. Same result. “So, what do we do? What’s next?” she asked.

Jimmy was already one step ahead of her. He pulled a single black glove out of his back pocket and pulled it on over his fingers.

“Who are you supposed to be? Michael Jackson?” she said. “What’s that for?”

Before he could even answer, he smashed the window panel next to the office door. A glass shard cut his hand through the glove.

“Ow!” he said.

“Jesus fucking Christ!” Veronica yelled.

“What?”

“What!?! You’re going rogue here? Is that what this is?”

Jimmy’s bloody hand was already through the glass and unlocking the office door from the inside. He swung it open and turned to look at Veronica with a wide smile. And yes – a flash of wild eyes.

“Are you coming in or what?” he said.

She sighed again, louder this time. But she knew the Nancy Drew in her could not resist.

And she had to admit, what Jimmy Butler just did?

It was kind of hot.

Jimmy quickly disappeared into Dr. Greenberg’s office.

“Look at this!” he shouted from inside.

She reluctantly followed him in.

“What is it?” she said.

“How did you *not* remember this?”

“What?”

He picked it up off the desk and waved it at her. “This mad scientist beaker thing on his desk!”

He was right again. It was crazy for her not to remember. She must have been distracted by the ball clacker, clacking away next to the dead body.

“Oh, that’s Dr. David’s wine decanter,” she said. “He was quite the sommelier, you know?”

“He was Somalian? I thought he was Jewish?”

Veronica laughed. “You should put that down,” she said, pressing her hand on his forearm.

“But there’s still wine in it!”

“Yeah, I can see that. But don’t you think you should leave the evidence alone? Like not touch it? You’re not even wearing your little glove! Now your fingerprints are all over it. And probably blood.”

He conceded the point and placed the decanter carefully back on the desk exactly as he had found it.

“Boy howdy!” he said. “My colleagues at Pelham Police really screwed the pooch on this investigation.”

“They did, huh?”

“Yeah! Why wouldn’t they bag this beaker as evidence?”

“Decanter...”

“Right,” he said, touching his hand to his chin. “You said when you found the body this thing was still clacking?”

He pointed to the Newton’s Cradle.

Veronica nodded.

He sighed. “Well, obviously we need to test this wine! The Russians got a dozen, a dozen-and-a-half different poisons that would send Dr. Greenberg into quote unquote ‘heart failure’ before those balls could even stop clacking.”

He pointed to the balls.

Veronica shook her head. Here we go again with the fucking Russians. What’s with this guy?

“Okay,” she said. “Then here’s an idea: Call it in. Tell your friends at Pelham Police to bag it. Test it for poison.”

But Jimmy was already reaching into his back pocket again.

Uh-oh.

This time, he pulled out a small cardboard box with what looked like Chinese writing all over it. He opened it and grabbed a handful of little paper strips.

“I knew we’d find some kind of beverage!” he said, mostly to himself.

“Wait, what the hell is that?” Veronica said, seconds before Jimmy tossed the first strip into the decanter.

“These strips can detect all the latest poisons.”

She raised her eyebrows. “And where exactly did you get those?”

He shrugged. “The Dark Web.”

“The Dark Web!?! Are you fucking kidding me?”

“Where else am I supposed to get that kind of thing?”

“Jimmy stop! Just stop!” Veronica said. “Stop for a second and look at me in the eyes.”

He did as he was told.

“Can I see your badge?”

A flash of wild eye again. He coughed. Stammered. “I, uh... don’t have it on me.”

“Right. Sure, Jimmy. Look, you’ve got to be honest with me, okay? I’m not gonna judge you. Who am I to judge anyone? But I’m not stupid. I know you’re *not* a cop. You don’t work for Pelham Police or Pelham Manor Police. You don’t even work for the dog pound!”

James Butler said nothing. He just stared at the ground.

Veronica went on: “You said you worked with Dr. David… Dr. Greenberg. You’re one of his patients, too. Aren’t you? Tell me the fucking truth Jimmy!”

His eyes glued to the ground, Jimmy managed a slight, almost imperceptible nod.

“Oh God! Wait, let me guess. It wasn’t OCD or bipolar or borderline.”

He shook his head. “No, ma’am. It wasn’t.”

“Are you schizophrenic, Jimmy? Do you suffer from delusions of grandeur?”

He didn’t answer.

“Oh my God!” Now Veronica started laughing. “So, we’re both nut jobs! Great! That’s just great. Perfect!”

She thought about walking out the front door right then and there.

“Wait! Are you off your meds, too?” she said.

“My meds?”

“Since Dr. David died, I can’t find anyone who will prescribe me the same cocktail... so—”

Jimmy didn’t answer. Instead, he quietly pulled the paper strip out of the decanter. During this revelatory conversation, Veronica hadn’t noticed that he’d already managed to slip a strip in the wine. Now it had two clear, bright red lines on it. Jimmy waved it at her victoriously, as if this was all the proof they were looking for.

“You know,” he finally said. “I don’t think it’s cool to judge people based on their mental health status.”

“I agree with that.”

“I could be a demented, deranged psychopath, okay?”

“You could!”

“But that wouldn’t erase the evidence. That wouldn’t affect these two red lines right here. Would it?”

“I guess not,” Veronica said. “But what do the red lines mean?”

Jimmy held the strip against the back of the box, where the red lines aligned perfectly with some Chinese characters. Next, he opened a translation app on his phone and pointed the camera at the characters.

“Look, I may not be a cop,” he said. “But I do my own research. I’m better than the cops. The cops obviously suck. The government sucks. Fuck the cops!”

Veronica looked at Jimmy.

“You do your own research?” she said, dubiously.

She was sure in this moment that he *did* still live with his mother.

But he was handsome. And maybe he was onto something... even if he might be a total schizo.

He showed her the translation on his phone.

“Novichok derivative?” she said. “What the fuck is that?”

“It’s a next-gen Russian poison! Probably designed by an A.I.!”

“Wait. It is? Are you serious?”

“So… we both know exactly what happened here!” Jimmy said.

“Uh, we do?” Veronica said. She pointed to the strip with her cracked black polish fingernail.

“Please don’t tell me you’re saying this means it was the Russians!”

“Well, we don’t know that for sure,” Jimmy said, holding the strip up to the office light. “But we *do* know with one hundred percent certainty your beloved Dr. David was poisoned. And, by some pretty sophisticated shit.” He smiled widely. “And his whackjob patients were the ones with the access code.”

One thing that Veronica did have a diagnosed issue with?

Impulse control.

And in that moment, she just couldn’t help herself. Jimmy was so damn charismatic.

And righteous.

She leaned in and kissed him.

Tongue and all.

He staggered back and wiped his mouth. “Woah.”

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“Nothing to be sorry about... ma’-”

“Don’t call me ma’am!” she said. “I think I’m in love with you.”

“I thought you didn’t date cops!”

Veronica looked at him, catching her breath. She shook her head.

“Jimmy! You’re *not* a cop!”

---

Coming soon… a wild buddy story set in Los Angeles called “Save the Children”…

This story would not exist without my longtime friend and occasional producing partner, “The Idea Man of Mexico City” Danny Sherman. Special thanks also to Isaac Klausner and Jeff Ciabattari.

If you’re interested in rights contact: chris@winterlightpictures.com

©️ Max Winter 2025