Let Darkness Come (13 page)

T
wo days before Christmas, Briley drives out to Austin, a once-elegant suburb on Chicago's West Side. After checking the address, she pulls up outside an aging frame house and parks at the curb. A rusty mailbox affixed to the front porch lacks a cover, and a screen door hangs at an odd angle. The painted steps are peeling, and the lowest one protests as she climbs toward the front door. Though several houses on this street are gaily decorated, no wreath hangs on the door, no electric lights line the sagging porch.

So…this is the house Erin Tomassi once called home. No wonder she was eager to leave the place.

Briley presses the doorbell, but hears no chime or buzzer. After a moment, she wrestles the screen door open and raps on the wood behind it.

She waits in a quiet so thick the only sound is the roar of a jet in the distance. Then she hears the rattle of a chain lock and the click of a dead bolt.

The front door opens. An older woman stands in the doorway, her eyes as narrow as her frame. Her wiry hair matches the color of day-old snow and stands at attention on her head. “What do you want?”

“Eunice Wilson?”

“Who wants to know?”

Briley pulls a business card from her pocket. “My name is Briley Lester, and I'm a defense attorney. I'm representing your daughter, Erin Tomassi, in a murder trial.”

Mrs. Wilson takes the card and studies it, her face set in
a grim look that contains no suggestion of surprise. She lifts her gaze and stares at Briley, then steps forward and pushes the sprained screen away from the doorway. “Come on in, then. Mind the cat. Don't want him slipping out and getting himself killed.”

Briley bends to block the green-eyed tabby winding around Mrs. Wilson's swollen ankles, but the animal seems content to remain with his mistress. When the door has closed behind her, Briley widens her eyes in the shadows of the foyer and barely avoids stepping into a litter box against the wall. The place smells of cigarette smoke, ammonia, and stale furnishings; the rug looks as though it hasn't been cleaned in years.

“In here,” Mrs. Wilson calls, tightening the belt of her robe as she leads the way to a living room. Fraying blinds cover the windows, a paltry defense against the bone-rattling cold. Another slant-eyed cat lounges on the couch, its paws tucked beneath its chest, but as Briley approaches, the animal leaps up and scurries away.

“Have a seat,” the woman says, sinking into a patched recliner. She props one elbow on the leatherette armrest and fixes Briley in her pinched gaze. “What's that you said about Erin?”

Briley settles on the end of a couch cushion, removes her gloves, and tries not to think about the cat hair that will soon be clinging to her dark suit. “Your daughter is on trial for the murder of her husband. It's my job to defend her.”

A radiator against the wall hisses, nearly drowning out the sound of Eunice's snort. “I wouldn't blame Erin for killing the snob. Rich young man, thinkin' he can order her around just because he's got a hunk of his daddy's money. I never did like him much.”

Briley pulls her notepad from her briefcase. “Do you mind if I ask you a few questions? You might be able to help me prepare Erin's defense.”

From someplace within the bowels of the recliner, the
woman produces a package of cigarettes. She shakes out a smoke, then pats her pockets. “Go on, shoot. Ask what you like.”

Briley glances at her notes. “Erin mentioned that she grew up in this house. When did you move here?”

The woman pulls a lighter from her pocket, flicks it into flame, and touches the quivering yellow streak to the end of her cigarette. After inhaling, she takes another long drag and dangles her hand off the armrest. “I moved here—” she squints, as if peering into the past “—when I was twenty. When I married Carl Wilson.”

“Carl was Erin's father?”

“Yeah. She never really knew him, though.”

“Where is he now?”

Eunice snorts. “Graceland Cemetery. He fell off the L platform coming home from work—or at least that's what they told me.” She takes another drag and gives Briley a bright-eyed glance, brimming with wry humor. “He was a good man, just couldn't drink and walk a straight line. But nobody ever gave me the goose bumps like he done.”

“Well.” Briley searches for a segue into her next question. “How old was Erin when her father passed away?”

“Practically still a baby—she was about three and a half. Roger was five. Both of 'em awful young, so it was good they were too little to realize all that was goin' on.”

Briley looks away as a host of familiar feelings bubbles up from her own memories. She and her client have something in common, then—early loss resulting in a single-parent household. After her father died, did Erin also experience guilt and confusion? Did she toss and turn at night, worrying about losing her only remaining parent? Just because a young child can't verbalize her emotions doesn't mean they aren't powerfully present.

She gives the wizened woman a brief, distracted glance. Any child would worry if she had Eunice Wilson for a mother. The woman seems about as reliable as a tabloid
headline. At least Briley's father was dependable…until the night he died.

When Eunice coughs, Briley blinks the images of the past away. “Erin tells me she had an invisible friend when she was small.”

“You mean Lisa Marie?”

“So you knew. You knew her name.”

“Good heavens, yes. Erin talked about Lisa Marie like she was a real person. Nearly drove me crazy for a while, especially after Roger went away.”

“What do you mean?”

“Roger? He was retarded, you know. After Carl died, a social worker took him and put him in a special home. I didn't argue, because I didn't know how I was going to take care of two kids, one of 'em Down's, without a husband.”

Lucky Roger, getting away from this place. Briley forces a smile. “Caring for only one child must have made things easier for you.”

“I wouldn't say that. Life was never easy with Erin. She was too doggone picky.” The woman exhales a stream of smoke through her mouth. “Lisa Marie didn't like chicken. Lisa Marie didn't like to wear blue. Lisa Marie wasn't sleepy at bedtime. Lisa Marie didn't want to go to school. Hard enough to please one kid without having to please her imaginary pal, too.”

“Did Erin eventually outgrow that…phase?”

“Outgrow Lisa Marie?” Eunice purses her lips around her cigarette again. “I wish she'd outgrowed it. She kept talking about Lisa Marie at ten, eleven, twelve, never givin' up. One day I got so sick of hearing about that little brat that I hauled off and slapped Erin. After that—” She closes her eyes, squinching them in what looks like an involuntary spasm.

“Mrs. Wilson?” Briley leans forward. “Are you all right?”

The woman's features relax, then she lowers her head in a slow nod. “I slapped my kid,” she repeats, keeping her eyes closed. “Knocked her across the room and into the wall. I
didn't mean to hit her so hard, but all that talk about Lisa Marie nearly drove me batty.” Eunice opens her eyes and looks at Briley, lifting her hand. “After a minute, I knew she was okay, because she raised up and looked at me. But when she did—” she inhales deeply on her cigarette, sucking in nicotine like a starving woman “—this may sound crazy, but I coulda sworn a different person glared out at me through Erin's eyes. Erin had
never
looked at me so mean and hateful. I don't think she's ever had that much hate in her.”

Briley waits for the story to continue, but on her legal pad she makes a note:
suffered abuse at mother's hands, too. A pattern?

Eunice releases a tired laugh. “When I knew she wasn't hurt, I left the room. I don't know how to explain it, but I had a feeling that something inside Erin would hurt me if I tried to hit her again.”

Briley looks down at her notes, not certain how to proceed. This story might help explain Erin's delusion, but Eunice Wilson is not going to make a good witness. Instead of eliciting sympathy from the jury, she might convince them that the apple hasn't fallen far from the tree.

“Did you ever come up with an explanation for Erin's reaction?” Briley asks, determined to remain reasonable. “Obviously, the person looking back at you couldn't have been anyone but Erin. But if your perceptions were altered because you'd been taking some kind of medication, or drinking—”

“A mother knows her own daughter.” Eunice's brows arch into indignant triangles. “And that thing—whatever it was—inside Erin was
not
my girl. Scared me spitless, it did, so the next week I took her down to the church revival and asked them to cast out the demon.”

Briley breaks every rule of decorum and stares. “You did
what?
”

“I took her down to the church on the corner,” Eunice says, her gaze drifting to a memory Briley can barely imagine. “I took her down, sat with her through a whole lotta
hoo-ha, then dragged her down front and had them lay hands on her. They did a lot of prayin' and singing' and shoutin', and I hoped that would take care of Lisa Marie for good. But when we got home, Erin went straight to her room and slammed the door. The next day, she went to school and came home actin' like nothing had happened. Except before she went to bed, she drew me a picture of herself and Lisa Marie, holding hands on the playground. Her way of tellin' me she wasn't lettin' go.”

“Mrs. Wilson…” Briley pauses, not certain how to continue. “Were you drinking during those years?”

The woman tips her head, resentment in her eyes. “No more'n usual.”

“Well…do you think it might be fair to theorize that Erin clung to Lisa Marie because she felt she was unable to depend on you?”

Eunice sucks at the inside of her cheek for a minute, then draws on her cigarette and exhales twin streamers through flaring nostrils. “I was always here for that girl.” She punctuates every word with nicotine-stained fingers. “You ask her, she'll tell you. I was always here.”

And probably passed out on the couch. Briley glances around, imagining what life must have been like in this dingy house. She sees nothing to contradict Erin's dismal account.

“Did you know,” she asks, changing the subject, “your son-in-law and his family? Did you spend much time with Jeffrey Tomassi?”

Eunice flicks the smoldering end of her cigarette into an empty peanut can on the floor, then waves her hand like some glamorous movie star. “I was lucky to get invited to the wedding. They put some old woman in charge of me. I couldn't go to the toilet without that broad tagging along to be sure I wasn't going to embarrass the family.”

“Did you like Jeffrey? Did Erin seem happy with him?”

The woman tastes her cigarette again, her eyes narrowing in contemplation. “I didn't like him, but Erin isn't real
open about her feelings. She's more like her father than me. He was always reserved, but yeah, I'd say she seemed happy with Jeff. Happier with him than with me.”

Briley makes a note on her legal pad. No wonder the girl invented an invisible friend. With few friends, an alcoholic mother, and a quiet nature, Erin had no confidante but Lisa Marie.

Until Jeffrey Tomassi came along.

O
n the second day of the new year, Briley raps on Jim Myers's open door. “Just wanted to check in,” she says, waving when he gestures for her to enter. “Seattle's wet, your elevator witness fully corroborated your version of the accident, and I ordered regular turnaround from the court reporter. She said you should receive a copy of the deposition in the next couple of weeks.”

“Wait a minute,” Myers calls as Briley turns toward her office. “Come in, let's talk about it.”

“Can't.” She flaps her fingers in a wave. “I've got records to review, reports to read, and e-mail to answer.”

She exhales in exasperation when she finds her computer in-box overflowing. Along with the usual spam, urban myths, and interoffice memos, she discovers several important messages: Franklin wants a report on the status of the Tomassi case, Bystrowski wants a receipt for the documents he's messengered over, and the court clerk wants to confirm her hearing for pretrial motions on January 26—only four weeks away.

Briley grits her teeth as she deletes offers to help her lose weight, increase her libido, and deliver a thirty-million-dollar bequest if she'll send a measly ten thousand to a foreign bank account. If Franklin hadn't asked her to fly to Seattle to take that deposition, she could have stayed on top of all this correspondence. If she hadn't lost two days in travel time, she might have already finished her status report. And if she hadn't spent New Year's Day flying from one side of the country to the other, she might have enjoyed a wonderful holiday with Timothy.

Her finger freezes above the delete key when she recognizes a familiar name: Pamela Lu writes that she has completed her evaluation of Erin Tomassi and would be happy to meet and discuss it. If Briley will call her office at the earliest possible opportunity…

Briley dials the number before she finishes reading the e-mail. Relieved to find the doctor in her office, she greets the psychologist and asks if she's free for lunch.

“Do you know Los Dos Laredos on Twenty-sixth Street?” Dr. Lu asks in her throaty voice. “I'm craving an enchilada, so if you'd like to join me around noon…”

“I'll be there.”

Briley hangs up and settles back in her chair. Los Dos Laredos isn't far from the Cook County Jail, so while she's in the area she should stop and deposit another twenty dollars in Erin Tomassi's commissary account. The last time Briley checked, her client had only five dollars' credit. She'll need more before her trial is finished.

By the time Briley drives to Twenty-sixth Street, finds a parking place, and visits the jail, Dr. Lu has already settled in a booth and ordered tortilla chips. Briley slides into the seat across from her and apologizes for being late, then notices a large manila envelope on the table. “Is that for me?”

“My evaluation, along with a transcript of my session with your client. You'll also find the results of a standard personality test.”

“Thank you.” Briley sets the envelope on the seat and picks up the list of daily specials. “What's good here?”

“Everything,” Dr. Lu says, setting her menu aside. “You can't go wrong with Mexican food in this part of the city.”

Briley orders an enchilada platter with rice and gratefully accepts a glass of water from the waitress. When the woman has gone, she unwraps her straw and gives the petite psychologist her full attention. “So, let me have it straight out—is my client insane?”

Dr. Lu's mouth curls in an expression that barely deserves
to be called a smile. “Do you always cut to the chase before the food arrives?”

“I haven't much time, nor do I have much help on this one. I need to settle on a credible case theory as soon as possible.”

“Okay, then.” The doctor folds her arms. “At first I thought your client was a sure candidate for dissociative identity disorder. She fits most of the criteria—the presence of two or more distinct identities, occasions when each identity apparently takes control of the subject's behavior, blackouts and memory loss, and the lack of a physiological explanation like alcohol abuse or seizures. The typical DID patient will talk about having heard voices, or a voice, in her head since childhood, and your client
almost
fits that profile.”

“Why almost?”

“Because DID is the result of childhood trauma, usually sexual abuse. Dissociation is a creative way of keeping the unacceptable memories out of sight while allowing children to maintain an emotional attachment to the abuser. Your client, however, insists she was not sexually abused. So either she has totally repressed this information, perhaps within another alter, or she's telling the truth and doesn't fit the profile for DID.”

“If you interviewed her again, do you think you could somehow dig out a memory of the past abuse?”

“You're assuming abuse is present. Why do you think it is?”

“Because she's a grown woman who still believes she has an invisible friend. That
has
to be DID, doesn't it?”

Dr. Lu lifts one shoulder in a shrug. “It's possible. But even if you're right, it might take years of therapy before we're able to uncover the alter who is safeguarding the traumatic memories. Unless you have evidence that could point us to an individual who might have abused your client, I wouldn't know how to begin.”

Briley drops her straw into her glass. “Erin says Lisa Marie speaks to her in dreams. Don't people with DID have flashbacks in dreams? Isn't that enough to prove that Lisa
Marie is associated with some traumatic memory from Erin's childhood?”

Dr. Lu reaches for her coffee mug. “I could testify that Lisa Marie
might
be an alternate personality resulting from a previous trauma, but I could never affirm that as fact. The prosecutor would chew me up, because I could just as easily testify that there's no clear evidence to indicate Erin's delusion is the result of trauma.”

Briley sorts through her thoughts. While the doctor's belief that Lisa Marie might be an alter might help establish reasonable doubt, “could be” statements never cut it in court. The prosecutor would be on his feet in a flash, and the judge would rule the statement inadmissible. “Dr. Lu—” she looks the woman directly in the eye “—if Lisa Marie is not a product of DID, then what is she?”

The psychologist sips from her mug and smiles across the brim. “To use Erin's own words, Lisa Marie is an invisible friend.”

Beyond exasperation, Briley exhales in a rush. “Adult women do not have invisible friends.”

“Maybe they should. How is your client different from the lonely widow who spends all day talking to her Yorkie? Or the romance reader who fantasizes that she's lying in the hero's arms when her portly husband comes home? By keeping Lisa Marie alive, your client found a way to survive in a pressure-filled public arena. The verbal and physical abuse she suffered only intensified her need for a confidante. Since she felt she couldn't trust her mother or anyone in the Tomassi family, she relied upon her best friend from childhood. Until recently, her delusion was harmless, even beneficial. Unfortunately, other people are rarely willing to see the benefit of a good delusion.”

“So you're saying I should forget about mental illness and seriously consider the Ambien defense. Diminished capacity.”

The doctor tilts her head. “That's not bad, but you'd be placing the murder weapon directly in your client's hand. Are you sure you want to do that?”

Briley barks out a laugh. “It's not like I have many choices. The
evidence
puts the murder weapon in my client's hand. Unless…Do you believe…Did Erin say something that's led you to believe she'd be incapable of murder?”

“I think—” the psychologist pauses as the waitress approaches with two steaming platters “—I think it's highly unlikely that Erin Tomassi killed anyone. Her personality test reveals that she's not a schemer, not the sort to prepare for murder. She wants the people around her to live in harmony, and she may be one of the most phlegmatic people you or I will ever meet. If Jeffrey Tomassi hadn't been given an overdose of insulin, she might have borne his abuse for years without uttering a peep. Look how she endured her mother's indifference.”

Briley leans back in the booth, more confused than ever. “Maybe I should tell Travis Bystrowski to indict Lisa Marie.”

“Might as well tell him to arrest the tooth fairy. What I'm saying, Counselor, is that I don't believe your client is capable of planning and carrying out the murder of her husband. I'd testify to that in court. On the other hand, I can't swear that Erin Tomassi suffers from DID. As to whether Lisa Marie is a genuine delusion or a desperate attempt to evade a murder conviction…I'd have to vote for the former. I don't think your client is naturally duplicitous. The prosecutor's shrink, of course, is likely to disagree with everything I've just said.”

“Anyone,” Briley says, thinking of former clients, “is capable of surprising those who know them best. I can't tell you how many mothers have assured me that their children simply couldn't have committed the crimes they were accused of, but I knew those kids were as guilty as Cain.”

“No one is perfect, but few people are as bad as they can be.” Dr. Lu picks up her fork. “If I were you, I'd choose to believe in Erin Tomassi's innocence. I can't speak to the evidence, but I'd stake my professional reputation on my belief that your client has done nothing to deserve the death
penalty.” She nods at Briley's steaming plate. “Now, enjoy your lunch before it gets cold. I didn't ask you to come all the way down here to eat a cold enchilada.”