Blind Spot (11 page)

Suki sat down across from Lindsey. “Want to tell me about it?” she asked gently, wondering if Lindsey might decide Bridgeriver was preferable to Watkins.

Lindsey raised her hand to her cheek and Suki noticed her fingernails were bitten down to nubs. “It happens,” Lindsey said, jutting out her chin. Again, the painful smile. “Life on the inside.”

Suki nodded sympathetically and began to rummage through the papers for Lindsey’s medical file. Then she stopped.
Life on the inside
. Suddenly, these words had new meaning. This wasn’t just about a patient, about something that happened at work, something she could leave at the door like a wet coat or a pair of muddy boots. “Life on the inside” could be life for Alexa.

“I’m sorry about your troubles,” Lindsey said.

Suki glanced at her, surprised.

“Even in here we get the paper. Watch the news.”

“Oh, sure,” Suki said. “Thanks.”

“So that call you got when you were here last week
was
about your daughter.”

“
Trouble with one of your children
?” Lindsey had asked when Suki’s pager beeped. Suki had completely forgotten. “No,” she said slowly, “the accident wasn’t until the next day.”

“Still,” Lindsey pressed.

Suki smiled and raised a thick file with dog-eared pages sticking out from three sides. “We’ve got a lot of ground to cover in very little time,” she said. “What do you say we get a move on?”

Lindsey nodded. “Microscope, red, baseball, love.”

Suki laughed out loud. “Very good.” She couldn’t help being drawn to Lindsey; she was like a tough little kid, struggling to keep from crying, valiantly trying to pretend things weren’t as they were. But it wasn’t Suki’s job to empathize with Lindsey, it was her job to evaluate her. Suki realized it was much easier to maintain clinical distance with someone who smelled bad and needed to see a dentist. “So, did Dr. Breman explain the issue of criminal responsibility to you?” Suki asked. “About what I’m trying to figure out, and how Mike’s hoping to use the report I give him?”

“Mike wants you to say I was so nuts that night that I didn’t know killing Richard was wrong.” Lindsey began to quote solemnly, “‘A person who is mentally ill has less freedom to make choices, and therefore has a diminished ability to conform to the law.’”

Suki watched Lindsey, who was calmly scrutinizing her fingers, an amused smile playing on the unbruised side of her lips. At this moment, the woman appeared completely lucid and in control—astonishingly sane. But Suki knew appearances could be deceiving. “Right,” she said, “but that’s only half of it: Mike could also try to prove you were incapable of stopping yourself from killing Richard.”

Appreciate and conform. These two concepts were, in essence, the legal definition of sanity. Suki, and every forensic psychologist, knew the ALI—American Law Institute—rule by heart: “A defendant is excused from criminal responsibility if, because of a mental disease or defect, he lacks substantial capacity to appreciate the criminality of his conduct or is unable to conform his conduct to the requirements of the law.” Massachusetts Penal Code, Section 4.01.

Lindsey raised her swollen face, and Suki could see the raw pain in her open eye. “Except I didn’t kill him—Isabel did.”

She didn’t do it, Suki thought, and then caught herself: jumping to conclusions this early in an evaluation was not a good idea.

“Isabel Lyman Jessel Davenport,” Lindsey continued, and the pain on her face shifted into something else. “Born, August twenty-eighth, 1863. Died, never.”

“Lindsey—”

“Do you know that there have been thousands, maybe millions, of people who have seen ghosts?” Lindsey interrupted. “There was a
Nova
show, on PBS, just the other night, that aired a tape that had been recorded in a haunted house in Maryland. They used some kind of special camera and you could clearly see the ghost—there was no question it was real.” Lindsey raised her chin and Suki guessed that her black eye was the result of a debate on the ghost from Maryland.

“The show was hosted by this professor from Brown,” Lindsey continued. “He sure knew his stuff. Talked about the difference between a one-time ghost sighting and what he called ‘recurrent localized apparitions’—a ghost who’s seen by a bunch of different people, at different times, but in the same place.”

“Did anyone else ever see Isabel?”

“Edgar did.”

“Edgar Price?” Suki asked. “The eyewitness?”

“He’s a jerk.” Lindsey dismissed Edgar with the wave of a hand. “But I want to tell you about this professor, I forget his name, who was talking about Isabel.”

“Your Isabel?”

“Not exactly Isabel,” Lindsey said impatiently. “What he was
saying
was about Isabel. He explained it so clearly. Perfectly. He said ghosts are the ‘emotional memory’ of a person caught between two states who can’t adjust to either one. The ghost refuses to accept her death and holds onto the material surroundings she had when she was alive. Her feelings then become psychotic, and she believes whoever’s living in her house is an intruder who must be kicked out—or destroyed.” Lindsey leaned closer to Suki.” ‘Discarnateentity theory,’ he called it. The soul is detained by some terrible event—a rape or a murder, something like that—and then impregnates the place where the event occurred, locking itself in. And that’s what happened to Isabel.”

“You think Isabel impregnated your condominium?” As soon as the words were out of her mouth, Suki wished she could take them back. There was something in her phrasing that implied a lack of sincerity, almost ridicule. Unfortunately, Lindsey thought so, too.

“I don’t understand why we’re wasting our time with this metaphysical discussion,” Lindsey said, forgetting it was she who had raised the issue. “Isabel is as real as you and I, and it’s Isabel who needs to be assessed for criminal responsibility—not me.” Her voice grew louder and her diction more precise. “At Isabel’s trial, I will gladly testify to the fact that Isabel Jessel Davenport did indeed know right from wrong the night she killed Richard Stoddard. She knew it then, and she knows it still.” Lindsey threw her head back and then brought it quickly forward, wincing.

“Isabel still knows right from wrong?” Suki asked. Lindsey’s mood swings reminded her of Alexa’s. She pushed the thought away.

“Indeed she does.”

“But I thought you said you hadn’t seen Isabel since the night Richard was killed?” Suki asked. “Didn’t you tell me you wished you could see her again?”

“I can see Isabel whenever I want. I can find people—living or dead. Anywhere they are,” Lindsey declared. “Try me the next time you want to find someone.”

Suki watched Lindsey in silence, annoyed with herself. She knew better than to contradict a patient as skittish as Lindsey. She pulled another pen from her case, hoping to give Lindsey time to save face.

Instead, Lindsey grew increasingly agitated by the silence. She squirmed in her seat. Beat her index finger against the table. Pulled at her earlobe.

Suki calmly scanned the files before her. She made a quick note.

“I never said I wanted to see her again.”

“I must be mistaken, then,” Suki said. “Sorry.”

“I didn’t.”

“It doesn’t matter, Lindsey. I’m sorry if I misunderstood you. It’s my mistake. Right now, I need to talk to you about these neurological tests Dr. Smith-Holt conducted. Do you remember having an MRI?”

“A person doesn’t forget an MRI.” Lindsey gave Suki a withering look, stood and walked over to the door. She rapped loudly.

The door immediately swung inward, the impressive heft of the officer filling the entire opening. Suki started to stand, but Darla motioned for her to stay where she was. “You ready to go back, hon?” she asked Lindsey.

“Yes,” Lindsey said. “We’re finished.”

Darla glanced over at Suki, who nodded, then placed her hand gently on Lindsey’s arm and started to escort her from the room.

Lindsey looked at Suki. “What you plan to do won’t solve your problems,” she said. “Pan to fire.”

“I don’t understand—”

“What you need to know is written in a dead boy’s hand.” Lindsey turned and walked out ahead of Darla.

The Witton Recreation Center sits atop a wide rolling hill on the western edge of town. Three ivy-covered buildings flank the perimeter of a sweeping circular drive; one houses a skating rink, one an indoor swimming pool, and the largest, the oldest, the original building, contains two gyms as well as a warren of exercise and game rooms. When the gyms were built in the early forties, one had been designated for girls and the other for boys; this outdated configuration now afforded Witton the luxury of dual programming. After school, the high school girls could play basketball while fifth graders climbed ropes in Adventure class; at mid-morning, postpartum mothers could practice step aerobics while preschoolers stumbled through modern dance.

The campus spreads out behind the brick buildings: a series of playing fields—baseball, football, soccer—a dozen tennis courts and two swimming pools. Real estate agents drive prospective buyers past the center because it enhances sales. At the rec center, Ellery McKinna is king.

As Suki turned onto the road leading to the center, she noticed a Witton police car behind her. Looking more closely in her rearview mirror, she saw the driver was Abe Fleming, a friend of Stan’s—one of the few she liked. Abe followed her to the entrance, pulling directly behind her, his indicator, in rhythm with hers, blinking his desire to turn into the parking lot. Probably stopping in for his midday bench press, Suki thought. She waved to him, but apparently he didn’t notice it was she in the car; he didn’t wave back.

Suki turned and began to hunt for a parking spot in the lot crowded with lunch-hour exercisers. But before she could find a place, Abe’s siren began to whoop, his blue lights to strobe. She looked for a place to pull over, to let him by, but there was none. So she headed toward the back of the lot as quickly as she could, trying to get out of his way. But he didn’t want her out of his way. He wanted her.

When she finally found a spot, Abe pulled his cruiser perpendicular to the back of her car, as if he were blocking her escape route. He cut the siren, but left the lights strobing.

“Hey Abe,” Suki called, as she started to climb from the car. “What’s up?” She glanced at her watch, anxious to find Ellery and Finlay before they left for lunch. The digital numbers were difficult to read in the flashing light.

“Stay in the car, please,” Abe said, not looking at her face. “License and registration.”

Suki shrugged and dropped back into the seat. She reached into the glove compartment. “As if you didn’t know my name,” she said, poking her head out of the car. “As if you hadn’t ridden in this car dozens of times.” She smiled up at Abe, but he wasn’t smiling. His badge winked blue, then silver, then blue again.

“May I see your license and registration, please?”

Suki’s palms began to sweat. Then her brain caught up with her senses. Abe was a regular in the Friday night poker game. Gasperini and McKinna’s poker game. “What’s this about?” she demanded, slapping both her license and the registration into his hand. She climbed from the car and stood with her hands on her hips.

Abe stared at the documents as if he were a state trooper who had stopped an out-of-state speeder. He grunted, then cleared his throat. “Gonna have to take you in,” he said.

“Take me in?” Suki sputtered. “To the police station? Take me in for what?”

He pointed to the inspection sticker on her windshield. “You had forty-eight hours to get a new one. Been more than twice that since you got the ticket.”

“I’ve been a bit distracted over the last few days—as if you didn’t know.”

“Law’s the law.”

“So you’re going to
arrest
me?”

“It’s the law,” he said, avoiding eye contact.

“This isn’t about the law,” Suki corrected him. “This is about Ellery McKinna pulling the strings to get his precious son off the hook. He’s afraid to talk to me—he’s afraid for me to talk to Finlay Thompson.”

“If you look at your ticket, you’ll see that it clearly states you have forty-eight hours to get the car inspected,” Abe said to his shoes. “After that, it’s the prerogative of the arresting officer to issue an additional ticket, at a greatly increased fine, or to arrest the perpetrator.”

“The perpetrator?” Suki cried. “How the hell did you guys even know I got a ticket—” She stopped short.

Clumps of women were sprouting behind Abe: standing next to their vans, behind their station wagons, on the edge of the grass. Suki recognized Diane Tyler and Sue Silverstone and Becky Alley. Not a single one said a word, and not a single one bothered to pretend she wasn’t gawking.

“Abe,” Suki said softly. “This is me, Suki. Suki Jacobs. You know, the one who got your sister into the alcoholism program? Who got your mother to go to Al-Anon?” She touched his arm. “Look at me, Abe. Look at me.”

Abe sighed and his eyes flickered to hers for a second. “Go to the gas station and get a new sticker right now,” he said between clenched teeth. “Don’t stop anywhere and forget I ever talked to you about it.” Then he strode to his car, cut the flashing lights and quickly drove out of the parking lot.

CHAPTER EIGHT

A
lthough she was furious with Abe, Suki knew she had to follow his instructions, so she went straight to the Shell station and got a new inspection sticker. Then she went to her office and saw two of her regular patients. Between sessions she put calls into Dr. Smith-Holt and Kenneth Pendergast. Smith-Holt was unavailable and Kenneth hesitated when she said she needed to talk to him, but then he acquiesced, suggesting they meet at the Pepperell Coffee Shoppe because it was on his way home and “made a mean cranberry muffin.” Pepperell was a sleepy village about twenty miles northwest of Witton, and Suki had no doubt as to the real reason Kenneth had chosen such an out-of-the-way spot.

As Suki headed west on Route 2A, she checked the time and punched the
SPEED DIAL
button on her phone; Alexa was home from her first day at school since Jonah’s death.