A Guilty Mind (3 page)

 

Chapter Five

G
EORGE GRI
PPED THE
heavy glass in his large hands and took a long drink. He tasted the icy vodka on his tongue and felt the cool liquid slide down his throat. He shouldn't be drinking, but why the hell not? At least his heartbeat and breathing had returned to normal. It was that reporter, the one who used the word “homicide.” He didn't want to believe it, but there was no other explanation. Surely that look of devastation on Sandy Watson's face could mean only one thing. Dr. Michael was gone—­murdered! How? Why? Tossing back the rest of his drink, he ordered a second. The bartender brought a fresh vodka tonic and moved down the polished oak bar.

A large hand clapped him on the back. “Georgie, I didn't expect to see you here after last night, ol' buddy.” Wincing at the childish nickname, he shook hands with Fred Trenton, his boyhood friend. The burly man, wearing a collared shirt with powder-­blue slacks, plopped onto the barstool next to him. “Man, if I was you, it would have taken me two days to sleep that one off.” Nodding at the vodka tonic, he said, “Guess you're a better man than me.”

George raised the drink in a halfhearted gesture of cheers. It occurred to George he barely remembered seeing his friend the previous evening.

With his bulk perched precariously on the stool, Fred rested his thick forearms on the bar. Turning to face his old chum, he asked, “Why'd you run out in such a hurry last night anyway? The party was just getting going.”

George had only a vague memory of leaving the club. “It was getting late.”

“Late?” Fred repeated. “It was only ten o'clock.”

George shrugged, sucking on the vodka tonic. “Well, like you said, I guess I'd had enough.”

“I'll second that.” Preston Cain sat next to Fred. “You must have started into the scotch pretty early, Vandenberg. I tried to call you a cab, but you're such a stubborn asshole, you were gone before I could stop you.”

“Sorry,” George said. It was true he'd begun drinking early. His session with Dr. Michael that afternoon had been rough and ended badly. Angry and disappointed in himself, George had driven to the club to drown his worries in the best bottle of scotch the place had to offer.

“Doesn't matter to me,” Preston said. “It was the manager who thought maybe you shouldn't drive. I'm not your babysitter.”

Raising a hand to get the bartender back, George wished they would both go away. He couldn't stop thinking about Dr. Michael. Why would someone kill him? Dr. Michael was a good man. Even in their most painful sessions, the man had always been kind and compassionate. Yet, George had to admit their most recent sessions had been difficult. The doctor pushed harder and with more urgency, and their relationship had become strained. Now, none of that mattered. Everything they'd worked toward, everything George had hoped for, was gone. There would be no more possibility of confession, no more hard decisions to make. George expected to feel some relief. Instead, he was overwhelmed with sadness. For nearly a year, George had allowed Dr. Michael to lighten his burdens. In fact, he'd welcomed the dream of confession until outside forces made the reality nearly impossible. Without Dr. Michael, those same burdens seemed heavier than ever.

“George, how do you see your future?” Dr. Michael had asked in their final session.

Averting his eyes, George remained silent, afraid to give an answer, afraid to speak at all.

When no response was forthcoming, Dr. Michael said, “Correct me if I'm wrong, but I thought that's why you started coming to me. To change how things are, to make things better, to have a chance at a happy life.”

He frowned. “I don't deserve a happy life.”

“That's not you talking, George. What's happened these last few weeks? You said things have changed. What things? Why have you changed your mind about coming forward?”

“Nothing's different. It's for the best.”

“I don't believe that. Something happened. What is it?”

“Nothing,” George said. He rubbed his hands across his thighs. “Just let it go, for God's sake.”

The therapist sat back in his chair, stroking his mustache, watching his patient. George couldn't meet the doctor's eyes. He folded his arms and clamped his lips into a thin, hard line. A tiny vein pulsed in his temple. “You're afraid of something, or someone.” Dr. Michael uncrossed his legs and shifted toward him. “Who is it, George? Who are you afraid of?”

“No one. Goddammit, I'm not afraid of anyone.” He jumped to his feet and stabbed the air in front of the doctor. “Why can't you just believe that I've changed my mind?”

“I think you want to confess, George, so something or someone is causing this,” he said, his eyes never leaving George's face.

“Well, you're wrong. You don't' know everything, okay?” He gestured wildly, his face reddening. “Why can't you accept that I don't want to play your pointless cleansing-­of-­the-­soul game anymore? Why can't you leave me alone?” George stepped forward, towering over the therapist. Dr. Michael shrank in his chair.

“You need to calm down, George.”

“Jesus! Don't tell me what to do! For God's sake, don't I get enough of that at home? I sure as hell don't need it from you.” Fists curled tightly, his eyes were dark with fury. Dr. Michael paled but remained in the chair, motionless and silent. George turned away, sweeping a ceramic lamp to the floor, the smashed bits scattering across the floor. Staring at the broken lamp, he felt his anger evaporate. He fell onto the sofa, limp and devastated.

“I'm sorry,” he said, words like a moan. “I'm sorry.”

“It's okay, George,” Dr. Michael said softly, still gripping the arms of his chair.

George raised his eyes. “No. It's not okay and we both know it.”

“It's only a lamp,” the doctor said. “But this anger of yours goes back to what I'm saying. This is not an easy thing I'm suggesting, George, and I can't make you do it, nor do I want to. I'm sorry if you feel pushed by me. I want the decision to be yours. You're so close. Without this step, it may be difficult for you to overcome your . . .” The doctor seemed to hesitate, as though searching for a word that wouldn't offend his patient. “Your guilt.”

George stood awkwardly, a tear slipping from his eye. “I can never be free, Dr. Michael. It's out of my hands,” he said, his voice empty of the passion it had held only moments earlier. “I'm tired. Time's up for today, Doc.”

He'd walked out, nearly knocking into Mrs. Watson. Brushing by her without a word, he'd gone straight to the club and a fifth of the best scotch he could get his hands on. It was not the kind of day or night that made a man proud.

Less than twenty-­four hours later, seated at the bar between two of his oldest friends, men who'd known him most of his life—­through college, marriage, and children—­he felt painfully alone. They didn't really know him. Dr. Michael did, though. George wished he could have the day back, do the session again and thank his therapist for listening when no one else could. He wiped at his eyes. Now, it was too late.

“Mr. Vandenberg?” George's head jerked up. The bartender stood in front of him. “Your wife's on the phone. Said she hasn't been able to get you on your cell.”

“Oh.”

“You can take the call over there.” He pointed to a small table and phone in the corner of the bar.

Excusing himself, he went to the table and picked up the receiver. “Mary Helen?”

“George! I've been so worried. Where have you been?” his wife asked, her Southern lilt more pronounced than usual.

He took a breath. “Here mostly. Sorry my phone wasn't on.”

“You're all right then?”

“Yes. I'm fine.”

“You missed your conference call with Daddy this morning.” She didn't disguise the scorn in her voice. “Again. I had to explain you called me to cancel for you and I forgot. You know I hate it when you do this to me, George. What's your excuse this time?”

Falling into the leather chair, he decided he was too exhausted to fight with his wife. “I don't have one.”

“That's so like you, George. God, you make me so mad.”

“Sorry.”

“You must think I'm stupid. Why don't you admit that you were out drinking all night, and were too hungover to remember the conference call?” Without waiting for a response, she said, “I'm right, aren't I? And knowing you, when you weren't drunk, you were probably spilling your guts to that quack doctor again. Is that where you were, George? Please tell me the truth for a change.”

“Shut up!” Fred and Preston looked over, and he lowered his voice. “Dr. Michael's not a quack and it's not what you think.”

For a moment, neither of them spoke. During the brief silence, George closed his eyes and waited, knowing she would demand an explanation. “Okay, George, if it's not what I think,” she drawled icily, “then what is it?”

He slumped down in the chair. His heart pounded in his chest. “Dr. Michael is dead. The police were outside his building today.”

“What? Oh my God. Are you sure?”

“I'm sure. It's awful. I was in the crowd outside his office and I saw his secretary. She was crying and everything. Some reporter told me it was a homicide.”

“Oh my God,” she said again.

“I still can't believe it. He's dead, Mary Helen, dead.”

“Jesus, George,” she said, her voice dropping to a whisper. “What have you done?”

 

Chapter Six

M
RS.
M
ICHAEL SAT
across from Cancini, dry-­eyed, her back ramrod straight.

“I'd like to offer my condolences again, Mrs. Michael,” he said. She nodded once. “I also wanted to thank you for flying home so quickly.”

“Of course. I came straight from the airport,” she said.

Cancini sat back and studied the widow. She was tall, possibly taller than he. She wore a well-­fitted ivory linen business suit and large pearl earrings. No trace of tears stained her smooth skin or mussed her lightly applied mascara. Her manner, icy and distant, contrasted with the sensual curve of her mouth and cheeks. On her ring finger, he spied a plain gold ring. Her fingers, long and shapely, were marred by short, stubby nails.

She pulled a creased piece of paper from her purse and placed it on the table. “I've never believed my brother's death was an accident.”

“I'm not sure I understand,” Cancini said. He wrote
Brother?
in his notebook.

Nora Michael unfolded the page. “I'm sorry. I'm not making any sense, am I? My brother was killed a year ago in a hit-­and-­run accident, run down in the street. The police never found the driver or the car. They ruled it an accident. But I never believed that and I still don't.” She paused, her tone a little quieter. “Neither did my Edmund.”

Her husband had just been murdered, brutally stabbed, and she was babbling on about her brother being killed in a car accident a year earlier. Cancini was baffled. She sounded sane, but so did a lot of ­people who were stark raving mad. “Mrs. Michael, you do understand that I've been assigned to the murder investigation of your husband, right? I'm afraid I can't help you with your brother's accident.”

“No! No, you're not listening,” she said, her voice rising an octave. “This is about my husband. That's why I've brought you this.” She slid the paper across the table. “It's why I'm more convinced than ever my brother was murdered, too.”

Cancini took the page, holding it between his thumb and index fingers. He read the words twice. After a few moments, he raised his eyes to meet her gaze. “If I've got this right, you're telling me you think the deaths are related?”

“Yes, Detective, I do.”

He sat back, studying Mrs. Michael. “Okay,” he said, “I think I see what you mean.”

Her shoulders slumped and she let out a long sigh. “I knew it. They were both murdered then. It's connected.”

“I didn't say that exactly.” Cancini glanced from the paper to the woman. “It could be important. But I don't know that yet.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Could be?” She reached for the paper to snatch it back. “That's all you have to say? It could be important?”

Cancini pulled the page out of reach, leaving the lady's long fingers grabbing at air. “It's evidence, Mrs. Michael, and as such will need to be checked out. The deaths being connected is possible, but until I know more, that's all I can say.”

“But the threat is clear!”

“Maybe, but your husband was a head doctor, a shrink.”

“That's an offensive expression, Detective.”

“Sorry. It could just be a crank note from one of his more colorful patients or former patients.”

“Or one of my brother's.”

The detective frowned. “Your brother was a shr—­ psychiatrist, too?”

“Yes. They went to medical school together. After my brother died, some of his patients started seeing my husband. Not all of them, but some.” She paused, her dark eyes wandering to the glass. She plucked absently at her skirt. “That's why when the letter came I got so upset. Edmund though, he didn't give it a thought. Said I was making too much of it.”

“But you didn't think so?”

“Yes. No. I don't know what I thought.”

He looked at the note again. “When was the letter sent?”

She shook her head. “It wasn't sent. It was pushed through the mail slot in our front door. We went to bed one night and in the morning, it was just there, lying on the floor.”

“How long ago was that?”

Tiny lines appeared between her arched brows. “A few days ago maybe. I'm not sure the exact day.”

“But you didn't go to the police?”

“My husband didn't want to. As I said, he thought I was overreacting, but I knew I wasn't. Sean's death was not an accident.” She paused, taking a deep breath.

“Sean was your brother?”

“Yes. Dr. Sean Burns. They could never locate the car that ran him over and it had dark windows and none of the witnesses could give a good description. But I talked to one of the witnesses myself and—­”

“What?” Cancini interrupted. “You talked to a witness? On your own?”

She brushed aside his question. “That's not the point. The woman I spoke with said the car sped up when my brother came out of the building. She knows because she works at the magazine stand on the corner and she'd noticed the car circling the block a few times before my brother came out. Then she said the car sped up and practically flattened him to the ground!” The widow paused and rubbed her arms “The detective—­Harrison, I think was his name—­he wouldn't listen and said he had no proof of anything suspicious.”

Cancini examined the slip of paper he held between his fingers. “Did your brother have any enemies? Had there been any threats?”

“No,” the lady said, eyes flashing. “And I know what you're going to ask next, but he wasn't in any kind of trouble or anything like that. I had my own suspicions. When Edmund took over some of my brother's patients, I told him I didn't like it.”

“Why's that?”

“My brother liked a challenge. No neurosis or paranoia was too much for him. Edmund thought I was being silly. He actually thought it was cute.” She waved a hand at the memory. “I don't know how many of my brother's patients he was seeing, but some.”

“You suspected a patient then?”

“Yes, but the police couldn't question the patients much because of privilege. Edmund, of course, agreed.” She clucked her tongue. “Just like him, too.”

“The investigation stalled,” Cancini said.

“I guess you could put it that way, but from my vantage point, it never got started. They swept it under the rug and slapped the word ‘accident' on it.” Her chin tilted up, her full mouth set in a hard line.

“You think the note proves a connection?”

“I do. Like I said, after my brother died, some of his patients began seeing Edmund. I had a bad feeling about it.” Mrs. Michael hesitated, cocked her head to one side. “There was one he seemed determined to take. I wouldn't be surprised if—­” She stopped mid-­sentence when the door slammed against the wall.

“Don't say anything, Nora.” A tall man in a gray suit rushed to the woman's side. He placed a hand on her shoulder and glared at Cancini. “Detective, you should know better than to question Mrs. Michael without an attorney present.”

Smitty, a why-­am-­I-­not-­surprised expression pasted on his face, followed the man into the room and closed the door behind him.

Gesturing for Smitty to approach, the dark-­haired detective said, “I wasn't aware she needed a lawyer.” Cancini folded the note, careful to touch the edges only. He handed it to his young partner, then whispered instructions to have it placed in evidence and dusted for prints. Aloud, he said, “As far as I know, she isn't being charged with anything.”

The attorney looked from the letter to his client. “Nora, is that what I think it is?”

They all watched Smitty leave the room, the note dangling from his fingertips. She touched her lawyer's arm. “Yes, Gerard, and don't get yourself in a tizzy about it.”

“I thought we agreed I needed to see that first,” the man said, thin lips pursed.

“No, Gerard, you agreed.”

He sucked in his cheeks. “Nevertheless,” he said, “you shouldn't have turned it over to the police, nor should you have spoken to them without me present. I told you that on the phone.”

Cancini leaned back on the hard wooden chair. “Are you suggesting the lady has something to hide?”

“Of course not!” The lawyer wagged a long, bony finger in Cancini's direction. “Everyone has the right to the presence of an attorney, you imbecile, and you know it.”

Sitting forward, his face darkening, the detective said, “For your information, Mrs. Michael came to me with this letter. She phoned me and insisted on coming in right away. This investigation is barely under way and I'm happy to take any leads I can get. I think you're getting a little ahead of yourself, Gerard.” He allowed a trace of sarcasm to creep into his tone. “But if you think she needs a lawyer, maybe there's something I need to know about.” Cancini's eyes lit on the widow. “How about it, Mrs. Michael?”

“How dare you?” The lawyer's pale skin turned a blustery red. “I am merely pointing out that it's in her best interest to have the advice of counsel when she is being interrogated by the police. And don't give me that crap about her coming to you. We both know you'll take advantage of her goodwill given the opportunity. It's my job to protect my client and I don't think there's a respectable attorney in this town who wouldn't do the same.”

“Stop it!” Mrs. Michael jumped to her feet. “Gerard, please stop treating me like a child. I know what I'm doing. I may not practice criminal law, but I'm still a lawyer, too.” She faced Cancini, one hand on her hip. “Detective, as absurd as this question is, am I a suspect in the murder of my own husband?”

Rising to his feet, Cancini found he had to look up at the widow. In three-­inch heels, she stood two inches taller than he. “It's too early for us to have any suspects, ma'am,” he said. “I meant it when I said we're just getting started. So for now, the answer is no, but I can't tell you for sure where the investigation might lead.”

She stared at him for several minutes, then nodded. Her hand dropped to her side. “Fair enough.”

“Detective,” the lawyer asked, “is it true that the secretary discovered the body?”

“She did.”

“Well, assuming you've had the chance to question her, is there anything you can share with Mrs. Michael? Anything that might shed some light on the reason for this terrible tragedy?”

Smitty reentered the room. “No,” Cancini said.

Holding the detective's gaze, the attorney seemed to consider the brief answer. “I see.” Leaning toward his client, he whispered in her ear.

With a nod, she hooked her purse on her shoulder and smoothed her skirt. “You'll let me know what leads you get from the letter?”

“We'll look into it.” Gerard took Nora Michael's elbow, steering her toward the door. “Oh, by the way, Mrs. Michael, there was a patient you started to tell me about?”

Squeezing the lady's elbow, the lawyer answered for her. “The next time Mrs. Michael speaks to the police will be under the advice of counsel and I think she's said enough for today. She needs time to grieve. This has all been very shocking for her.”

Cancini sat down again, watching the pair leave. “Shocking, huh? How could he tell?”

“Yeah, she doesn't seem too broken up, does she?”

“No, she doesn't.” Cancini's eyes crinkled. “Kinda reminds me of my ex on the day of our divorce.”

Smitty pulled out a chair and flipped it around. He sat with his long legs splayed out in front of him. “What's your read on the lady then?”

Cancini's smile faded. His ex had kept her emotions close and at arm's length. Mrs. Michael appeared to be cut from the same cloth. Still, the nails of her long and elegant fingers were chewed and broken. In spite of her outward calm, she'd swung one leg nervously for the duration of the interview. “I don't know. ­People deal with bad news in all different ways, I guess. What I do know is that asshole lawyer isn't doing her any favors. It's just all the more reason for you to do a thorough background check on her. You know the drill.”

“And the note?”

“A death threat. Allegedly,” Cancini said. “Dropped through the mail slot in their door a few days ago.”

“Do you think it's for real?”

“Who knows?” Cancini said. “The thing was written in block letters on a plain piece of notebook paper, like the kind kids use at school. So even if it is legit, if there aren't any prints, it'll be impossible to trace.”

“But if she is telling the truth, the two deaths could be connected.”

“That's a pretty big if.” Cancini stood again and slid his notebook into his pocket. “I need some coffee. Want some?”

“Sure. What did the letter say anyway?”

“Just this . . .” Cancini recited the short message, having memorized the words after only one reading.

“
Stop pushing or you'll end up in a body bag like your brother-­in-­law
.”