Indefensible (30 page)

Tuesday, 9:38 a.m.

“D
r. Gainsford, this is Ralph Moore. We spoke yesterday. I'm the Crown prosecutor handling the case against Randall Barrett.”

“Good morning, Mr. Moore.”

“As you know, Randall Barrett's bail hearing is this afternoon. I'd like to run through your notes with you, if I may.”

Jamie glanced at his watch. It was just after 9:00 a.m. It would take him at least two hours to get to Prospect from his cabin. And he still had some last-minute things to set up in the basement…

“Of course,” he said. “I'd like to help in any way I can.”

Jamie heard notes shuffling over the phone line.

“We'll start at the beginning…” Moore said. Jamie stifled a groan. Why didn't the Crown prosecutor do this yesterday when he called? “How did you meet Ms. Vanderzell?”

“She was my client.”

“And was she referred to you?”

“No.” The memories rushed back: Elise walking into his office, so beautiful, so damaged. He sank into a chair. “I'd been working in Nova Scotia. I had the opportunity to purchase the practice of a retiring psychologist located in Toronto. Elise had been one of the psychologist's clients.”

“And you treated her for what conditions?”

“She was experiencing tremendous stress in her life over her relationship with her ex-husband and her son. She suffered from anxiety, and had a history of postpartum depression. Fortunately, we established a good rapport and I felt comfortable taking over that therapeutic relationship.”

“I see in your notes that Lucy Barrett attended two sessions with her mother.” The prosecutor paused. “Were you treating her, as well?”

Ah, nice try, Mr. Moore. Testing your expert, are you?
“As you are most likely aware, Mr. Moore, it would be a breach of professional ethics to treat both the mother and the daughter.”

“Yes, I am aware of that. So why was Lucy present at two of Elise Vanderzell's sessions?”

“As my notes indicate, Ms. Vanderzell was very concerned about her son's behavior. I suggested that her daughter might be able to provide additional insight from a peer/sibling perspective.”

“Good,” Moore said, his voice brisk.

And so the questions went on. Every single item in Jamie's notes from June was parsed to the finest detail. Jamie sensed time ticking away, the time he needed to drive to Prospect without risking speeding. The time
he needed to stake out Lucy's grandmother's house. He made another attempt to rush the prosecutor through his notes, but the guy wasn't going to be rushed. He was methodical to the point of OCD. So Jamie answered his questions, his manner calm, patient, helpful, his gaze fixed on his truck parked outside his window.

As soon as the Crown prosecutor was done, Jamie rushed to his truck and sped out to the highway, his spine crunching as he took the rutted track much too fast. He forced himself to slow down. The worst thing that could happen—when he was so close to getting Lucy that he could almost taste it—would be getting stopped for speeding on his way to Prospect. Then his license plate would be recorded, and his out-of-province driver's license would be noted.

An hour into his journey, the sky clouded over. He switched on the radio. Maybe he'd get a weather forecast. Rain would be a good thing. It would eradicate tire tracks, eliminate his scent and make a search for Lucy slower.

On the other hand, rain might keep Lucy from taking Scrubby for a walk. And he was counting on intercepting her while she was outside. He stepped harder on the accelerator.

He was only an hour away. His heart began to pound. All this planning, all this effort.

And he was only an hour away.

He glanced at the passenger seat. A new roll of duct tape nestled inside a coil of rope. Inside the duct tape sat a bottle of orange juice. The protective seal had been removed by him hours ago.

He doubted he would have to use rope or duct tape,
but he hadn't come this far to not make sure every possibility was covered. He couldn't predict how Lucy would react. Would she buy his story that her grandmother had suggested he take her for a drive?

Or would he have to threaten to kill Scrubby to convince her to get into the truck with him?

Once in the truck, he would force her to drink the orange juice.

After that, the chloral hydrate would put her asleep for several hours. Just enough time to get to the cabin.

 

Nat pounded furiously on her keyboard.

“Whatcha up to?” Manny, the
Post
's entertainment reporter, strolled by, coffee cup in hand, ready for a chat, but she barely managed a grunt. She was too absorbed in the online archive of the
Durban Times
.

“Just background,” she said, angling her body so Manny couldn't peer at the screen.

She waited until he left, then scrolled through the articles about Dr.
William
James Gainsford. At first she wasn't sure it was the same guy, but she'd looked up Dr. Gainsford's Canadian license, and it indicated he'd come from South Africa and gave the name of the university from which he'd attained his degree. From that, she'd looked at alumni for his graduating class and found his full name.

When she entered his full name into the internet search engine, she grinned. Kate was right. This was one juicy story. She couldn't wait to write it up. The man's wife and stepdaughter had died in a murder-suicide just before he moved to Canada. It was a bit ironic that a psychologist's wife should commit suicide… Couldn't
be much of a therapist.
They're all quacks,
she thought. She'd rather bare her soul to the ducks on her family farm.

But she couldn't dismiss the suicide angle. Kate might be able to use it. Nat entered Dr. Gainsford's name in the search engine and added the term “suicide.” She gave a low whistle when she got a whack of hits. The more recent ones related to his personal tragedy. But there were old hits, as well. Ones that referred to the sad case of Alison Gilling, a twelve-year-old patient of Dr. Gainsford's who had killed herself by swallowing a bottle of sleeping pills.

The
Durban Times
had had a field day with photos of Dr. Gainsford and his family, showing Dr. Gainsford's grief-stricken visage after the deaths of his family, and the smiling faces of the trio taken while they were on a holiday safari. Nat printed out their photos, then searched for one of Alison Gilling. She found one of the young suicide victim in her school uniform, her blond hair pulled back by a headband, a charming sprinkle of freckles on her nose. She bore a striking resemblance to Dr. Gainsford's dead stepdaughter. Same age, too. Also dead.

She peered at the photo of Mrs. Laura Gainsford. She, too, was blonde. She, too, was dead.

She thought of Elise Vanderzell. Another blonde. Now dead.

All of these girls and woman had one common connection: Dr. Jamie Gainsford. And all were initially believed to have committed suicide—except for Maggie Gainsford, who'd been killed by a suicidal mother.

Nat's pulse hammered. A coincidence?

I think not.

She printed all the photos and articles, stuffed them in an envelope and sprang out of the newsroom.

She tracked down Kate and Eddie on the helipad by Kate's office building. Eddie was having a pre-bail hearing smoke while Kate crouched on a bench, running through her notes.

“Look.” Nat shoved the pictures under Kate's nose.

Kate tried to focus on the grainy photos. Nat shook them. “Look! Dr. Gainsford left a string of suicides in South Africa.”

“How many?” Eddie asked.

“First one was a patient. She was the same age as his stepdaughter. She OD'd on sleeping pills. Two years later, his wife became suicidal, gave her daughter sleeping pills and drove them off a bridge.”

“So one woman and two twelve-year-old girls.” Kate took the pictures and studied them carefully. “The girls resemble each other.”

“Why did they kill themselves?” Eddie asked.

“The patient didn't leave a note. But Dr. Gainsford's wife just said she was depressed and couldn't bear to die without her daughter by her side.”

“Was it ever investigated?”

“The authorities ruled it murder-suicide.”

“And sleeping pills were involved in each of the cases,” Kate added, flipping through the articles.

“Including Elise Vanderzell's.”

“What did Dr. Gainsford do after that?” Eddie asked.

“He came to Canada,” Nat said. “Once he got licensed here, he practiced in several small towns out
West, before moving to Nova Scotia. I couldn't find any more dead patients.” She sounded disappointed.

“Oh, my God,” Kate whispered. She held the vacation photo of Dr. Gainsford and his family. “Look at Jamie Gainsford.”

“Yeah, he's cute,” Nat said. “He's got that whole outdoorsy thing working for him.”

The Gainsfords were on a beach. Jamie Gainsford stood with his arms around his wife and stepdaughter, bare chested and buff. They all looked happy, Jamie in particular. He gazed at the camera, the wind ruffling his blond hair, his skin tanned, slightly sun-damaged and freckled. A light stubble shadowed his jaw.

Every hair on Kate's body quivered. “From the back, Eddie, do you think he could look like Randall?” She passed the picture to Eddie and held her breath for his response.

Eddie's eyes narrowed. “I think we just found our man.”

Kate dug around in her purse for her cell phone. “I've got to call Ethan.”

Eddie placed a hand on her arm. “We need to show these to Detective Drake. In this case, a picture speaks a thousand words.”

Kate dialed Ethan's number. She hadn't called him on that line for months. When he answered, she cleared her throat. It didn't matter things had officially ended eight months ago, she'd thought she would be spending her life with this man. It was hard to forget that.

“Ethan, it's Kate.”

“I know.” His voice was terse.

“Look, I've got something you need to see ASAP.”

“Can't it wait until after the bail hearing?”

“Please, Ethan.” She gripped the phone tightly against her cheek. She was aware of Eddie's eyes covertly watching her through a plume of cigarette smoke; of Nat's frank interest.

“Fine,” Ethan said grudgingly. “I'll meet you in the barristers' lounge of the courthouse. I can be there in ten minutes.”

“Perfect.”

Tuesday, 12:01 p.m.

E
ven though Barrett's bail hearing wasn't due to begin for over an hour, the media thronged the foyer and the upstairs hallway outside the courtroom.

Ethan jogged up the stairwell, hoping he wouldn't encounter a keener journalist on his way.
No. The coast was clear.
He stepped onto the seventh floor. It didn't have the traditional air of the Provincial Court, ironically, given that the Supreme Court was its superior, but the building had an air of quiet authority.

The door to the barristers' lounge was dark brown laminate. Ethan knocked lightly, then entered. Kate stood by one of the vinyl sofas. Ethan's brows rose at the sight of Eddie Bent.
Jeesh. Randall Barrett must have been really desperate to hire that old drunk.

“So whaddya got?” Ethan asked, trying to appear casual despite the effect Kate had on him.

Would it ever go away?

Kate passed him a printout from the
Durban Times'
website. It was an article about Dr. Jamie Gainsford,
with a vacation photo showing a grinning man with his arms draped around the shoulders of a woman and young girl at the beach.

“Ethan, have you met Dr. Gainsford?”

“No. He's in Toronto. I only spoke to him on the phone.” He studied the picture. Without his shirt on, Dr. Gainsford was impressively built. Well-developed shoulders, trim but strong waist. He could hold his own, Ethan thought.

“Does anything strike you about the photo?”

His gaze shot to Kate's face. “This isn't Twenty Questions, Kate. What's so important about this picture?”

“Don't you think Jamie Gainsford resembles my client?”

He stiffened at Kate's reference to Barrett as her client. He hoped that was all there was to the relationship, but he didn't believe it.

“He's blond and broad-shouldered.” He passed the photo back to Kate. “Like a number of men in South Africa.”

“He also had a twelve-year-old patient who died from an overdose of sleeping pills.”

“That happens, Kate. He's a psychologist. He deals with depressed people.”

“His wife also killed herself, Ethan. And she killed her daughter, too. She drugged her with sleeping pills. And guess how old her daughter was?” Kate didn't wait for him to answer. “Twelve.”

Ethan took the photo from her.

Jesus.
He hadn't done much background on Jamie Gainsford beyond checking his credentials and license in Canada.

“Do you know where he was the night Elise Vanderzell was killed?” Kate demanded.

Ethan shook his head. “No,” he said, feeling as if he'd been punched in the stomach. “But I'm about to find out.”

“Why don't you check his office for a blackjack, while you're at it,” Eddie drawled.

Ethan ignored him and walked over to the window, trying to create a small barrier. He couldn't go out in the hallway for fear of running into the media, and there wasn't enough time for him to run down to his car.

His fingers were not as sure as he wanted them to be when he dialed Dr. Gainsford's cell phone number. The phone rang three times. Ethan was just about to hang up and try Dr. Gainsford's office when the doctor answered. His voice was oddly breathless.

“Dr. Gainsford, it's Detective Drake.”

“Ah, yes, Detective. I spoke with your Crown prosecutor this morning. I believe I provided him with enough information to proceed.”

“Yes, you were very helpful.” Ethan watched a pigeon land on the windowsill. It fluffed its feathers. “Look, Dr. Gainsford, we are just crossing our t's and dotting our i's prior to the preliminary hearing. I need to find out where you were the night Ms. Vanderzell was killed.”

 

He smiled to himself. “I can tell you exactly where I was.”

He'd been sitting in the dank basement of Dr. Cathy Feldman's house since four o'clock in the morning. Getting into the house had been a cinch. Elise had told him
that the house minder had put the key in the mailbox for the housecleaner the day before.

Every forty minutes or so he'd stand, flexing his muscles, stamping his feet, ridding himself of any cramps. On three occasions he'd crept upstairs and used the small powder room under the stairs in the back of the kitchen. Each of those times, he'd clad his shoes in Tyvek shoe covers, gloved his hands and wiped the surfaces afterward with disinfectant wipes. He put those in a Ziploc bag and stuffed the bag into a pocket of his black cargo pants. He hadn't eaten or drunk anything since he'd left his car—could not risk leaving a crumb in this house with his DNA on it—so his bladder and bowels no longer bothered him.

“I was at my cottage, Detective Drake. I had been on vacation since Monday. Still am on vacation, as a matter of fact.”

“And you were there when Elise Vanderzell phoned you at 8:25 p.m. that night?”

“Jamie,” she said, her voice tremulous. His fingers holding the phone spasmed. How strange that she would call him when he was staring into the deepening shadows of Dr. Feldman's basement, visualizing how he would creep up the stairs while she slept. And then kill her. If he believed in the paranormal, he would have seen this as an omen.

Calm down,
he told himself.
It's not an omen but an opportunity. You need to detach. Right now.

Something he'd told himself on the occasions when a client got under his skin. He was, after all, only human. Sometimes a client would challenge him, provoke him or just plain irritate him. And he'd force himself to detach.
He'd force himself to do the job he was paid to do, maintain his professional detachment and try to help the exasperating son of a bitch.

This case was no different.

Elise was his client.

The least he could do for Elise, who was weeping silently on the phone, was let her die with her mind calmed.

“Let's talk,” he said, and settled his back against the damp concrete wall two stories beneath her.

 

A song played over the cell phone. Sounded as if it came from a car stereo. Ethan counted at least three bars before Dr. Gainsford answered, “Sorry, just took a wrong turn here. Can I answer these questions later? I'm driving.”

“Perhaps you could pull over,” Ethan said, alarm churning his gut. “I'm sorry, but this will only take a minute. Were you with anyone that night?”

 

The fluorescent dial of Jamie's watch glowed 1:15 a.m.

The house was silent.

Deadly silent.

He eased himself out of the damp corner behind the rancid armchair, knowing his wait was about to end.

Exhilaration and a fierce excitement shot through him. Just like when he was fifteen and he'd been big game hunting on a reserve. He and his father had waited in a blind, rifles in position for hours. His arm had gone numb. Dead. He knew better than to complain. His father would have knocked the crap out of
him if he'd scared the game away. So he'd lain there. Not sure if lying in the bush, with flies buzzing around his sweating face and dust blowing into his nostrils, would be worth the wait.

The gazelle had been wary. Not an easy kill by any means. Just like Elise. Not an easy lay by any means. He'd had to take it very slowly.

When the gazelle finally dared to return to its grazing ground, the wait had been worth it. The adrenaline was so intense that his muscles jumped to life. He waited, breath in his throat, until the gazelle wandered into range.

Then he killed it.

He had crept up the stairs of Cathy Feldman's house, sliding the thong of the blackjack around his wrist.

In less than a minute, he stood a foot inside the doorway of Elise's room.

Her soft breathing met his ears.

He walked on the balls of his feet, his rubber-soled shoes making no sound. He stopped by the nightstand and looked at her.

Her blond hair spread out around her head. The strap of her nightgown had slid off one shoulder. Her chest rose with each light breath.

He'd never seen her asleep. They'd always made love during her therapy sessions. He admired her beauty in a detached, clinical way. Then he raised his arm and smashed the blackjack against her temple.

A low moan escaped from her mouth. He quickly pressed a gloved hand over her lips, scooped his other arm under her shoulders and pulled her from the bed.

Damn. She was still breathing.
He half carried her
over his shoulder, her hair brushing his jaw. He could feel her breath hot and rapid against his shoulder blade.

Should he strike her again?

She convulsed, her body jerking so violently he almost dropped her. He yanked her back against him, his own actions jerky. He pulled open the patio door, his muscles so overwhelmed with adrenaline that he almost pulled the door off its runners. It bounced loudly on the track.

He stepped out onto the deck.

 

Dr. Gainsford cleared his throat. “No, Detective. After listening to clients all week, I craved solitude. It was just me, my canoe and my fishing rod.”

“Did you see anyone that night who can verify this?”

 

Elise convulsed again. The blackjack had done some significant damage, but he would hit her one more time before throwing her over.

Then he'd know for sure she'd be dead.

He raised his arm.

“Mum?”

The hairs on the back of Jamie's neck rose at the sound of Elise's fifteen-year-old son's panicked voice.

 

“If you call an otter a reliable witness.” There was a forced note to Dr. Gainsford's jocularity that had all of Ethan's nerves on edge.

“I'm afraid an otter will not cut it, Dr. Gainsford. We'd like to set up an interview at a station in Toronto
and discuss this in more detail.” Ethan did a mental run-through of his contacts and prayed that he could get a Toronto detective to pinch-hit for him on short notice. “Could you come for five?”

“That's not possible, I'm sorry, Detective. I'm in the middle of a plumbing project at my cottage. How does tomorrow work?”

“Just fine,” Ethan said. They'd keep an eye on the airports in Ontario to make sure Dr. Gainsford didn't decide to catch an early flight. “How about first thing? I'll call later to confirm the details.”

“Fine.”

Dr. Gainsford would be a no-show, Ethan could tell. He called Lamond. “You need to do a background check on Dr. Jamie Gainsford.”

“He goes by William James Gainsford in South Africa,” Kate called from the other side of the room.

Ethan hunched his shoulders and lowered his voice. “William James Gainsford. Find out what the hell went on in South Africa. We need grounds for a warrant for his arrest. And get Detective Iqbal from Toronto Homicide Squad on the phone.”