A Guilty Mind (23 page)

 

Chapter Forty-­Five

C
ANCINI HUNG HIS
brown leather jacket on a hook. He knotted his tie and slipped on a blue blazer. “Any stains?”

Smitty stepped back and appraised his partner. “Nope. You look good. Not used to seeing you so dressed up.”

He rolled his eyes. “Is everyone here?”

“The Vandenbergs just arrived. I put them in the captain's office.”

Cancini nodded and tucked his notebook into his jacket. “The widow?”

Smitty jerked a thumb toward the interview room. “In there, with her lawyer. He's pretty peeved, too.”

“Good.” The parties had been separated, just as he'd requested. “You ready?”

“As ready as I'll ever be, I guess.” He raked his hand through his white-­blond hair. “I've never worked anything like this before. This case is crazy.”

Cancini clapped the young man on the back. Crazy sounded right. He'd fit most of the puzzle pieces together in Boston and the rest came together after his return. They'd worked through the night and the next day, sorting through the evidence, and planning the arrest of Dr. Michael's murderer. There were no more “what ifs.” All the cards would be on the table, for better or for worse, and no player would be a winner. The stakes were just too high. “Martin okay?”

Smitty nodded.

Cancini's throat itched and his skin tingled. Gathering them here, in one place, could backfire. He swallowed some water. “Let's go.”

The lawyer started in right away. “You have no right to keep us here. Mrs. Michael has been through enough. How dare you hold her here as though she were a suspect? Have you no compassion?” The man stood guard behind his client, hands pressed on her shoulders. Nora Michael stared straight ahead, her eyes sunken and impenetrable.

Cancini walked to the large pane of glass. He couldn't see the district attorney on the other side, but neither could the lawyer. “Mrs. Michael,” he said, and swung around. “I've been thinking about our discussion the other day.”

“What discussion?” The lawyer bent his head to hers. “Did you speak to the police without my knowledge, Nora? Please tell me you didn't do that.”

Waiting to see what she would do, Cancini said nothing.

She shrugged. “It was nothing, Gerard. He asked me a ­couple of questions. That's all.”

“Yes, that's all, Gerard.” The lawyer's head shot up. “And your client failed to give me an answer.” Her face remained placid, and Cancini wondered how much the lawyer knew about his client's private life. “Actually, I wasn't referring to that conversation as much as the one at Monty's.”

The lawyer became agitated. “What's he talking about, Nora?”

She waved a hand in the air, brushing off the question. “I told you about this, Gerard. I spoke to him about a patient.”

“Right. I knew about that.” He eyed Cancini. “Did you find the patient?”

“Mrs. Michael told me she had spoken to her husband on the phone the night he was killed and he'd been upset about a patient. This patient, she didn't know the name, had lost his temper during his session that day. Also, she thought maybe the patient had a violent past.” He shifted his attention to the widow. “I got to thinking, the way you were able to steer me toward one of his patients for the murder, I wondered if your husband talked to you about other patients. Maybe bounced things off you?”

“Of course not.” Her skin turned pink. “I told you he didn't make a habit of discussing his cases with me. In fact, just the opposite.”

“But you knew about this patient?”

“Yes, but only because this patient had shown violent tendencies and it made him nervous. And I did not steer you toward anyone. It just so happened something happened during their session that day.”

“How long had you known about this patient?”

She threw up her hands. “I don't know. Like I told you, my husband was a little obsessed with this patient. He was worried so I guess he confided in his wife.”

“He must have had other patients with severe emotional issues, even other violent patients, yet he never shared that information with you.” Cancini cocked his head. “Did you ever wonder why he did now?”

“No. I just assumed he needed to talk. That's all,” she said, the words clipped.

The lawyer spoke up. “Detective, why are we here?”

Cancini glanced at Smitty. His young partner stood near the door holding a thin manila file folder. He looked at the widow again. “I went to Boston the other day.”

Nora's lips parted, then clamped shut. Even watching closely, he almost missed her split-­second reaction and instant recovery. “I think of Boston as home, Detective. I hope you enjoyed your trip.”

“Are you originally from Boston, Mrs. Michael?”

“No.” She gave him a weak smile. “We moved a lot when I was a child. I'm from all over, I guess. Boston is where I've lived the longest.”

“Fair enough. Would it be accurate to say you weren't eager to relocate to Washington then?”

“I suppose. Boston is my home.”

“I guess you have a lot of friends and family there, don't you?”

The attorney pulled back the sleeve of his jacket and tapped his watch. “I've got other meetings, so can we please get to the point? Surely you didn't bring us here to talk about Mrs. Michael's friends or what town she's from.”

Cancini forced a smile. “We brought you in because we thought you'd like to know we've got a suspect in custody.”

The man blinked, then beamed at his client. “That's excellent news. Great news. Why didn't you say so in the first place?”

Nora Michael sat stone-­faced. The lines around her mouth deepened. “Who is your suspect, Detective?”

“I brought you in to thank you personally, Mrs. Michael.” He watched her face. Her lipsticked mouth opened, new understanding in her eyes. “You've been very helpful, especially the information about the patient.” Her face paled. “You were right.”

“So, it was one of Dr. Michael's patients,” the lawyer said. He patted his client on the shoulder. “That's terrible.”

“The patient you told us about was struggling. He and your husband had some sessions I can only describe as emotional and volatile. They did have another one of those episodes on the day your husband was killed.” She dropped her head, breaking eye contact. “I must tell you, in a way, you provided the key to this case.”

“Did you hear that, Nora?” The lawyer patted her again.

Cancini turned to the glass and then to Smitty. “Can you bring them in now?”

Her head came up, dark eyes brimming with tears.

The lawyer frowned. “Are you bringing the suspect in? This is highly unusual, isn't it?” He bent toward his client. “Nora, dear, are you sure you're up to this? Because if you're not . . .” He let the words trail off.

White-­faced, she twisted her fingers, turning her wedding ring over and over. Cancini felt his muscles tighten. He moved back toward the viewing glass to see the door and the widow at the same time. The minutes passed and she lowered her head, shoulders shaking. Who was she crying for? The door opened and it was his turn to be surprised. Nora Michael, previously so cool and confident, wilted. Slumping over, she fainted.

 

Chapter Forty-­Six

G
EORGE'S BOD
Y ACHED
and he winced with every bump and turn in the road. Mary Helen sat close to him, her hand resting lightly on his leg. They passed Fredericksburg, and Quantico, and Springfield. Larry drove, making small talk occasionally, but mostly keeping quiet. No one spoke about the reason for their trip to D.C. No one spoke of Dr. Michael. Larry had prepped the pair as much as he could, but even he hadn't been told many details as to why they'd been summoned. George put on a brave face for Mary Helen, but he didn't think she was fooled. The closer they got to the capital, the less they talked, the silence among the three saying everything.

At the precinct, Larry did the talking. Face grim, he said, “You asked us to come in, Captain, and we have. Mr. Vandenberg has demonstrated his willingness to cooperate—­more than once, I might add. So perhaps you could explain why we're here today.”

Mary Helen squeezed his hand. She'd been doing that a lot since the accident. Unsure how to respond most of the time, he accepted the gesture without reciprocating. If she noticed, she never said.

“We appreciate you making the trip.” The captain folded his hands, lacing his fingers together. “The reason we asked you here is we're hoping to clarify a few things about the night Dr. Michael was murdered.” He squinted at George. “I don't think I have to tell you that things look a little suspicious that night. Your alibi, for one, Mr. Vandenberg, cannot be corroborated. You know that, of course?”

“Are you prepared to charge my client, Captain Martin?”

The captain flicked a toothpick in the trash and smiled. “I'd like to give your client a chance to explain a few inconsistencies in his story.”

George's heart skipped a beat, the implication clear. They didn't believe him, and sitting there, he knew he couldn't withstand a polygraph. How could he tell the truth about his activities that night when he didn't know what the truth was?

“We'd like to do that, Captain,” Larry said, nodding

“Good. Good.” A new toothpick bobbed along with the captain's words. “Why don't we start with when you left the club? You told one of my detectives you went straight home, guessing you arrived back at your apartment no later than ten-­thirty. Is that what you said?”

George cleared his throat. “I did say that, but I don't know if it's true or not.”

The toothpick stopped moving. George felt the heat of the captain's scrutiny. “You don't know if it's true? Either you went home or you didn't, Mr. Vandenberg. There's no in between.”

“Actually, Captain, my client is telling you the truth when he says—­”

Martin held one hand up in the air. “I'd like to hear what your client has to say for himself.”

Mary Helen squeezed his hand again, but did not utter a word. It was odd, he thought. He couldn't remember a time when she hadn't taken over and spoken for him. Stranger still, he almost missed her sure-­handed approach. On his own, he felt shaky but answered as honestly as he could. “I don't know if it's true, because I don't remember. I blacked out.”

The captain's face hardened. “That's convenient, isn't it?”

George winced. “I had a lot to drink at the club. I remember leaving and I remember waking up the next morning. That's it.”

The captain chewed on his toothpick until it fell out of his mouth in a pile of mush and spit. “All right, let's say I believe you.” He reached behind him and placed a videotape on the desk. “We have a surveillance tape that shows you in a convenience store just before midnight, nearly two hours after you left your club. That's a lot of time. Plenty of time, in fact, to drive to Dr. Michael's office and back.”

George's fingers and hands went cold. His breath quickened.

“Being at a store isn't a crime,” Larry said. “If you have something that places him near the doctor's building, we'd like to hear it. Mr. Vandenberg is being truthful. He cannot explain his whereabouts or actions. We are in the dark as much as you are.”

“Actually, I'd like to ask you another question, Mr. Vandenberg.”

He licked his lips. “I'll try.”

“We searched your apartment a few days ago. Were you aware of that?” George nodded. “You have a set of knives in a butcher block—­some steak knives and larger ones. Is that right?”

He nodded again. His tongue felt too large in his mouth and he couldn't speak.

“One was missing. The same size and brand as the one used to kill Dr. Michael.”

Mary Helen's free hand came to her mouth, stifling a small cry.

George's stomach rolled, the familiar nausea back. “I didn't know that.” The magnitude of this news, hearing it in front of his wife and lawyer, stunned him. “I don't think I knew it was missing,” he said, almost to himself. The tape. The knife. The blackout. A wave of hopelessness washed over him. They were going to arrest him for a murder he didn't believe he could have committed and certainly didn't remember.

“Captain, this is all terribly interesting, but it sounds circumstantial to me.” George looked at Larry with admiration and gratitude. “I'll ask you again. Are you planning to arrest my client?”

He wouldn't let Larry or Mary Helen down. This wasn't their fight. His fear ebbed and he squeezed his wife's hand. He would meet his fate head-­on, whatever that fate might be.

A knock on the door broke the tension. George recognized the tall blond detective. “It's time,” the man said.

Martin came to his feet. “If you'll follow me.”

“Why?” Larry held an arm in front of George and Mary Helen. “Where are we going?”

The captain waved them on. “It won't be long now. Things will be made clear in a few minutes.”

The group followed the captain to a large interview room. Cancini stood in the back of the room. At the table, George saw a man and a woman. The lady sat with her head bowed, her hands clasped in front of her. The man stood with his hands on her shoulders. He looked at Cancini again. Why was he here? Who were these ­people? He followed Cancini's gaze back to the man and woman. She raised her head. He sucked in his breath and stumbled. She looked older and sadder, but as beautiful as ever. “Sarah.”

 

Chapter Forty-­Seven

C
ONFUSION R
EIGNED.
T
HE
man with Sarah screamed for a doctor and then water. Larry demanded to know what was going on. George, wide-­eyed, wobbled on his feet and leaned against the wall. He mouthed her name again, but no sound came out. Someone rushed in with water just as she appeared to be coming around. The man with Sarah shielded her from view and bent close to her ear. Who was he? George took a step forward and then another. How could it be Sarah after all this time? How could she be alive? Hadn't he been mourning her death for more than twenty years? He stopped in his tracks, a new thought coming to him. Maybe it wasn't Sarah at all.

The woman lifted her head and pushed the man away. George stepped closer. She came to her feet. Close now, no more than ten feet apart, the two of them stared at each other. Dumbfounded, George felt the years slip away. His heart fluttered and his palms sweat. Sarah, older and more sophisticated, but still her. He'd know her anywhere.

“It's you,” he said. “I can't believe it.”

“George.” She brushed a stray hair off her face. “It's been a long time.”

He shivered when she spoke, and he forgot about the others in the room. “I thought you were dead.”

She half smiled. “I know. I'm sorry about that. It had to be that way.”

His heart leaped again. A million thoughts and feelings flooded his mind, but none more than joy. He was so glad to see her alive, the embodiment of his greatest fantasy standing before him, not dead but alive. “What are you doing here?”

She opened her mouth, then seemed to lose whatever courage she'd gathered up to that point. Tears filled her eyes and she shook her head.

Cancini moved between them. “This woman you know as Sarah,” he said, “is Dr. Michael's widow, Nora Michael.”

“What?” Sarah didn't move, didn't deny the detective's words. “What?” George swayed on his feet. Larry caught him by the arm and guided him to a chair.

Sarah's voice trembled and tears ran down her face. “I'm so sorry. I didn't know it was you. Oh my God, how could he not have told me?” She collapsed again.

George watched the man pat her back and speak in her ear. His arm and shoulder throbbed, but he ignored the pain. She was alive. That alone was miraculous, the most wonderful thing he could imagine, but the rest George didn't understand. Sarah was married to Dr. Michael? His therapist? Told her what? Seconds ticked by and no one said anything. Blood rushed to his head and he bent over. Dr. Michael had known. He'd listened to George pour his heart out and he'd known all along. Why did he let George suffer? It was sick!

An anger bubbled up in him and his jaw hardened. Sarah hadn't died. She'd lived and married. A new thought brought him to his feet and his head rotated toward his wife. She huddled against the wall near the door.

“How could you not tell me? How could you let me think I'd killed her?” he screamed, oblivious to the eyes watching him. “I was your husband, for God's sake! You knew how I'd suffered. You knew I couldn't forget. And you never stopped reminding me, either, always bringing it up and how you always had to save me from myself. It was all a lie. Everything was such a lie!”

“No.” Mascara trailed down her cheeks, “It wasn't like that. It was for your own good and—­”

“Stop lying!”

She shrank away but didn't back down. “I know you won't believe me, but I was trying to save you from yourself. I loved you.” She took a shaky breath. “I thought I didn't anymore, but I was wrong. I still love you.”

He laughed a high-­pitched laugh, a tinny, crazy sound that died in his throat. “You've got to be kidding me.” Wild-­eyed, he pointed at Mary Helen. “Did y'all hear that? My wife loves me! She let me think I could kill someone, let me spend my whole life hating myself, never let me forget what a loser I was. But guess what? She ruined my life because she loves me. Yes! She loves me!” His fists clenched and unclenched. Sweat dotted his forehead and he wanted to punch something—­anything—­but instead stood motionless, breathing in and out.

“It's true.” Sarah wiped her eyes and swallowed hard. “Mary Helen is telling the truth. She did love you.”

George spun around to face her. “How . . . how can you defend her?”

Sarah drew herself up to her full height. “Because it was my idea.”

The words were enough. George's fury faded. He fell back to his chair, shaking. A deathly silence filled the room. George, head in his hands, couldn't look at either woman. Was she defending Mary Helen?

Sarah's voice wobbled. “I'd like to explain, but I wonder if I might have some more water first?”

Cancini had a pitcher placed on the table.

George considered walking out. What could she possible have to explain? It would only be more lies. How could they do it? And how could Mary Helen claim it was out of love? All these years, all the blame, all the time wasted.

“You wouldn't let me go, George. Not easily, anyway. It's no excuse, I know, but that's how it started.” Sarah blew her nose and drank another sip of water. Pale and tear-­streaked, her beautiful face looked ravaged and old. “Mary Helen came to see me a few days before I came to the boathouse. She wanted me to break up with you, begged me to let you go. I told her not to worry. I wasn't stupid, George. Our worlds were too different. I couldn't take your family or your future from you. You couldn't see the hold they had on you, always complaining about your dad, how he wouldn't leave you alone. But to me, it sounded like heaven. My parents were gone and even when they were alive, they didn't care about my brother and me. But it was more than that.” She paused and glanced at Mary Helen. “I loved you and I knew you loved me, but it wasn't enough. I knew if we'd stayed together, you would have ended up resenting me until you'd wonder what you saw in me in the first place. I didn't think I could cut it in your world. Call me a coward if you want.” She stopped, her words ringing in the silence that followed.

“You thought you knew everything, but you were wrong.” His words sounded bitter to his ears and he took a breath. “I never would have resented you. I loved you too much. I had faith in us. It was you who didn't.”

She held his gaze. “Maybe. It doesn't matter. I had made up my mind and Mary Helen promised to help me financially if I left town.”

“What?” He jumped to his feet, his face hot. “You gave Sarah money to leave?”

Mary Helen didn't answer, but she didn't have to. The slope of her shoulders and her plaintive expression told him it was true. His pulse raced. His wife had bribed his girlfriend to leave him. Disgust and long-­suppressed resentment hit him and he lunged at her. Cancini stepped in front of him, and the blond detective caught him from behind.

Larry stepped in. “George. That's enough. You have got to calm down.” The lawyer shot a look at Mary Helen, eyebrows raised. Pale, she nodded once. “Okay. Let's figure this out.” They sat down together, George breathing hard.

Cancini cleared his throat. “I think we all need to calm down a little.” When no one said anything, he went to Sarah. “Mrs. Michael, I think the best thing would be for you to explain to everyone what happened at the boathouse and why you let Mr. Vandenberg think you were dead all these years. A lot has happened since then and in light of your husband's murder, I think you owe him that.”

Her gaze shifted from the detective to George. “Yes, I guess you're right.”