A Guilty Mind (11 page)

 

Chapter Twenty-­One

L
A
UREN
T
EMPLE WAS
a pain in the ass. Her know-­it-­all attitude combined with her reluctance to answer any questions made her a difficult interview. Detective Cancini sincerely hoped he would never have to question the young woman again.

“I told you where I was that night,” she said through clenched teeth. The long and shapeless dress she wore hid whatever figure she possessed. Her hair, dyed almost black, hung across her face and spilled over her narrow shoulders. A dozen or more bangles clattered on her thin wrists. “Did you check it out or not? That's your job, isn't it?”

“We talked to your boyfriend. It looks like you were telling the truth.”

Her mouth dropped open. “It looks like I was telling the truth? I was telling the truth.” She folded her arms across her chest. “Why do I have to answer all these questions again? Why am I here at all?”

In spite of her manner, he managed to keep his tone neutral. “We're talking to everyone who saw Dr. Michael that day.”

“You already did that. Why am I doing it again?”

“Because he was your therapist and because you and some others had appointments with him just hours before he was stabbed to death. That makes you one of the last to see him alive. That's why.”

Her mouth opened and closed again. She uncrossed her arms and put them in her lap. “What do you want to know?”

“Did anything unusual happen that day when you saw Dr. Michael?”

“Unusual? Like what?”

Cancini swallowed a groan. “Was everything normal when you saw him last?”

Lauren Temple frowned. “I guess. As normal as it usually was.”

“Meaning?”

“It was a bore.” She waved a thin arm and the stack of bracelets jangled. “I was close to quitting anyway. It's not like it was doing me any good or anything.”

He made a note to speak with Mrs. Watson about the young woman. “Was that because you were disappointed in Dr. Michael? Was he an incompetent therapist?”

Her top lip curled. “That's good, Detective. You're trying to make me say I didn't like him or something. The truth is I didn't care about him one way or the other. I already told you going to him was kind of a lark. I thought it would be cool.” She snickered. “It wasn't.”

“Okay, I get it. How long had you been seeing Dr. Michael?”

“Off and on for about a year, I guess. I wasn't a regular or anything. I went once in a while, when I felt like it.”

“So, did you think Dr. Michael seemed like himself at your last appointment?”

She tossed her head and the fabric fell away from her bony frame. Her collarbone protruded awkwardly and spoiled the smooth line of her shoulder. She noticed his raised eyebrows and yanked the dress back up. “He was fine.”

“What did you talk about?”

Her dark eyes flashed. “You're not allowed to ask me that. I know about patients' rights, you know.”

“No one said you have to answer.” Her face reddened. “Since you were only seeing Dr. Michael because you thought it was cool, I didn't think you'd mind telling me what you were talking about. Unless there's something you don't want me to know.”

Lauren jumped to her feet. Her oversized purse grazed his head when she yanked it from the floor to her shoulder.

“Was seeing Dr. Michael more important than you would have me believe, Miss Temple?”

She stood over him, both hands on her hips. “Not the way you're implying, Detective.”

“If you say so.”

“Oh, for God's sake,” Her hands fell and she exhaled. “All I ever talked to him about was my parents, okay? I'm just another kid who has issues with her parents. You wouldn't understand . . . what it was like.” Her lip quivered as she spoke.

It was the first real emotion he'd seen from the girl. What wouldn't he understand?

She regained her composure, voice brittle. “Satisfied?”

He wasn't, but he had no room to press the point. “That wasn't so difficult was it?”

Her face hardened. “Are we done?”

“One more question. Would we have your permission to review Dr. Michael's files as they pertain to you?”

She glared at him, her mouth contorted in an angry gash. “Jerk,” she said, and stomped away.

He grinned, but it faded quickly when he realized she'd shown a quick temper. In his experience, ­people with hot tempers could be prone to violence. This young lady had a chip on her shoulder that matched her unpleasant demeanor. He thought of the odd broken bone. An accident or something worse? Whatever the nature of her problems, she had a solid alibi and this murder appeared to have been at least partially premeditated, not solely the result of an angry outburst. He flipped through his notes. Lauren Temple hadn't been one of the doctor's most frequent patients, having seen him only a dozen or so times in the past year. She'd been telling the truth about that. She might have had issues, possibly deep and disturbing issues, but she also had no apparent motive.

Watching her weave her way through the desks, he wondered how a young woman working as a restaurant hostess could afford a high-­priced shrink like Dr. Michael. She shared a dingy apartment with two other girls and drove an older car. Where did the money come from? Were dear old mom and dad footing the bill and if so, would they find the irony amusing? He made another note to check on it.

Smitty appeared with a fresh cup of coffee. “George Vandenberg is in the interrogation room. Seems kinda nervous.”

“Yeah? How so?”

“I don't know. A little jumpy maybe,” Smitty said. “Seems like a nice guy, though.”

“Don't they all?” Cancini sifted through the folders on his desk until he found the one he wanted. “Mrs. Watson?”

“I put her in the empty office down the hall and took her some coffee. I let it slip to Vandenberg she was here.”

Cancini looked up. “Good. How'd he seem?”

“Shaken at first, but he made a nice recovery. Asked how she was doing. Oh, and he recognized the Temple girl from Dr. Michael's office.”

“Did she see him?”

“I don't think so.”

“Doesn't matter,” Cancini said. “Check on Mrs. Watson again, feel her out a little, and then take a look at Vandenberg for me. I want your opinion about how he checks out. He's one of the only patients from that day that doesn't have an alibi. Plus, he's a transfer patient from Mrs. Michael's brother.”

“On it,” Smitty said, and headed down the hall.

Cancini swallowed the steaming coffee, drinking it as fast as his mouth could stand. He imagined the caffeine flowing down his throat and traveling directly into his bloodstream. It had already been a long morning and promised to be a longer afternoon. He didn't mind as long as they came up with something, some lead they could work with. So far, they hadn't gotten much. Still, they hadn't had a chance to talk to Mrs. Watson again and he felt sure she might know more than she realized. They just had to ask the right questions.

Questioning Vandenberg, Cancini suspected Smitty was right about the man and his level of anxiety. A light sheen of sweat covered his upper lip and he had difficulty maintaining eye contact. Early in the interview, news he was one of the last three ­people to see the therapist alive had left him at a momentary loss for words. The detective tried to take advantage.

“You were his last appointment for the day.”

Vandenberg raked his hand through his hair. “I didn't know that.”

“How was your session with Dr. Michael? How did it go?”

“Fine. Why wouldn't it?” He wiped his brow with a white handkerchief. “Is it hot in here?”

Silent, Cancini made notes. From under his lashes, he studied the man across the table. His skin was the color of putty and Cancini was sure the man's hands were shaking. “You did say you did some heavy drinking later that night. Maybe you'd had a bad day?”

The broad shoulders sank lower. “I drink too much every day, Detective. Well, at least I did. Just ask my wife.” He attempted a smile, a sheepish grin. “I'm trying to quit. The truth is, I'm not feeling so well.”

Cancini ignored the small joke and glimpsed the man's bare ring finger. “Does your wife live in Richmond or here in D.C.?”

“Richmond.”

Writing again, he asked, “How many days a week do you spend in the city?”

“About four, I guess.”

The pen kept moving. “Does your wife ever join you? Spend any of those days—­four days a week you said—­here, or is she always home in Richmond?”

“Is that important?”

“It's not,” Cancini said, although he thought it was. How had the man's relationship with his wife factored into his sessions with Dr. Michael? A strained marriage was not out of the ordinary, but he knew of cases where ­people had killed over less. He wrote in his notebook:
Mrs. Vandenberg?
“How did Dr. Michael seem to you during your last appointment?”

“How did he seem?” Vandenberg stumbled over his words. “I don't know. He seemed like Dr. Michael always seems.” A sad expression flitted across the handsome face. “He was a good man.”

“Yes, I've heard that.” Cancini sat forward, bringing his body and face closer. “What I mean is, did he seem upset at all or rattled or scared?”

Blinking, Vandenberg didn't answer right away. “No, he was fine.”

“Well, that's it then.” Cancini closed his notebook and offered his hand. “Thanks for coming in.” He led Vandenberg to the door and smiled. “By the way, we've been asking some of the patients if they might allow us to view their records, their case files. It could give us a feel for Dr. Michael's mental state and all that. What kind of pressure he was under, his workload, that sort of thing, you know.”

“My records?”

“Yes. I was wondering if you'd be willing to grant us permission to review your records?”

“I . . . I don't know,” the man stammered.

Cancini clapped him on the back, steering him toward the exit. “Well, it would be a help to us and I'm sure you have nothing to hide. Think about it and let me know.”

“Sure. I'll think about it,” he said, the words thick and uncertain.

Vandenberg gone, Cancini hurried to the viewing room where Smitty sat waiting. “You saw the interview?”

“Oh yeah,” Smitty said. A wide grin split his face. “Guess what I found out from Mrs. Watson.”

“Tell me.”

“Mrs. Watson saw Vandenberg and she remembered something. That last session between Dr. Michael and Vandenberg? She doesn't know how it happened, but a lamp got broken.”

“Did Vandenberg break the lamp?”

“She didn't know. She passed Vandenberg in the hall when he left but said he ran past her like he was in a hurry. Then she went in the office and found Dr. Michael cleaning up the lamp. He didn't say Vandenberg broke it, but she said he was distracted. Then he told her to make sure she locked the door when she left that night.”

Cancini dropped into a chair. George Vandenberg was a complicated man. “Well, there you have it. Vandenberg lied.”

 

Chapter Twenty-­Two

G
EORGE LAID HIS
head against the steering wheel and took long, deep breaths. The lie had been stupid. Mrs. Watson had to know about the broken lamp and might even have been the one to clean it up. He'd been so upset when he left that day, he'd run out without speaking to her. His mind spinning, he tried to gauge how much it mattered. No harm had been done and the doctor had assured him everything was fine. Although he hadn't told the truth, he hadn't entirely misrepresented the situation, either. His head dropped. Who was he kidding? If the police found out about the lamp, about his outburst, they'd know he lied. If only he could take back his words and his anger. The sound of Mary Helen's voice rattled in his head.
What have you done?

Back at the apartment, George picked at a peanut butter sandwich and pored over newspaper reports on Dr. Michael's murder. According to the articles, his therapist had been stabbed to death. Could he do that? Was he capable of sticking a knife in someone? Sober, he didn't think so, but drunk? George closed his eyes, straining to put together all the pieces of that night. He pushed the sandwich away. It was useless. He had nothing left but to have faith in his innocence.

He rose and tossed the plate in the sink. His fingers shook and he clutched at his stomach. Not for the first time, he was grateful he'd thrown out the liquor. He didn't need the temptation. He staggered to the couch, determined to focus his energy on his resolution to be strong and do the right thing. Had he already failed by lying to the police? Why had he been overcome with fear? He pulled a pillow over his head to block the afternoon glare. George felt awful. He lay with his arms folded across his chest and prayed for sleep. Dozing fitfully, he dreamed of another time and place and the one night he could never forget.

Mary Helen had touched him on the shoulder, her fingers pressing lightly into his skin. He'd jumped backward, nearly knocking her over.

She regained her balance and came closer, taking small steps. “God, George,” she said, choking out the words. “Did you do what I think you did?”

The young man couldn't answer. His face buried in his hands, sobs wracked his body.

Reaching out, she caressed his hair and whispered soft words in his ear. “It's okay, George. I know you didn't mean to. It's okay. We'll fix everything.”

At first, he didn't hear her, the grief and loss so sudden and terrifying. When her words did penetrate his conscious mind, he shook his head. “How will it be okay? Nothing will ever be okay again.”

She never stopped touching him, rubbing his back and stroking his arm. When she brushed at his tears, he flinched as though her hands burned his skin. Momentarily startled, she pulled away. “I know it doesn't seem like it, George, but it will be okay. We'll get through it together.”

Anger bubbling, he shouted, “We? You didn't kill the woman you love, the woman you wanted to marry. You,” he said, spitting out the words, “don't have anything to do with this.”

She took a step backward. Seeing the fear flit across her face, he sank to his knees, sobbing louder and harder than before. Rocking back and forth, he cried for an hour, the tears flowing until he couldn't cry anymore, his eyes red and stinging. When he looked up, she was still there, sitting cross-­legged on the grass.

“What are you doing here?” His throat raw, he struggled with the words.

“I came to find you,” she said, no apology in her voice. “I missed you and thought I might find you here.” She looked past him to the boathouse and the dark figure lying on the ground. Her blue eyes looked older. “I got here a few minutes before . . .” Her voice trailed off. “I heard you fighting.”

“Oh,” he said, unable to return her gaze.

“I thought it was over.”

A single tear slid down his face. “It was, I guess. I just didn't want it to be.”

“So I gathered.” Her tone was short, the words clipped. Sitting apart, the evening dusk grew denser as night approached. “What should we do now?” she asked.

George pushed himself up. His arms and legs hurt. “I don't know. Call the police, I suppose.”

She stood, too. “I don't think that's a good idea, George.”

He couldn't move. What did it matter? He'd lost her forever. The sudden empty space in his heart made him stumble. How could this be real? Aloud, he said nothing, but Mary Helen talked and talked. Her words filled the darkness. She promised to take care of him, offering the slimmest glimmer of light. She told him to go home, she would handle everything. Dazed and heartbroken, he followed her to his car, stopping at the shadow of Sarah's old clunker. He sobbed again. Mary Helen waited, then pushed him into his car and handed him the keys. “Go home, George. Get some sleep. You look like hell.” He drove the roads in a fog, stopping once for cigarettes. Home, he fell into bed, crying, alive but dead inside.

George woke with a start, the dream still fresh and terrifying. A light perspiration covered his face and chest. His stomach swirled and gurgled and he rushed to the bathroom, vomiting the bit of sandwich he'd eaten. He washed and raised his head, barely recognizing the ashen skin and sunken eyes of the man staring back at him. He wasn't well. It was the lie, the one he'd told that detective. Maybe it was small compared to the lie he'd lived with for more than twenty years, but both were wrong. For him, lies came with a price. No one understood the tumorlike guilt that coursed like wildfire through his veins. He bowed his head, no longer able to look at himself. The crossroads had come and what had he done? He'd vowed to change. He'd written letters to his children based on that vow. Then he'd gone to that police station and done what he'd always done. He'd lied. It had to stop. He lifted his head again, repeating the words out loud.
It had to stop.
He said the words over and over until his face lost the slack, loose look it had acquired over the years. His jaw hardened even as he clutched at the pain in his gut.

Finding the card with the detective's phone number, George dialed quickly before he lost his nerve.

“Cancini here.”

“Detective, it's George Vandenberg.” George could hear the tremor in his voice. “I was calling about something I said this morning. It wasn't exactly true.”

“What wasn't true, Mr. Vandenberg?”

“My last appointment with Dr. Michael. It was terrible, not normal at all.”

“I see,” the detective said. “What happened?”

George angled his face up to the window, drinking in the warm sunlight. His stomach rolled again, but he ignored it. He had to finish what he'd started. The words came without thought. “I yelled at Dr. Michael. I was mad at him and I yelled at him. Then I jumped up and knocked over a lamp. It smashed to bits. I calmed down then. Dr. Michael knew I didn't do it on purpose, but he was upset. The truth is, I think he was disappointed in me. He told me not to worry about the lamp though and I left right after that.”

“And that's when you went to your club?”

“Yes.”

“I'm glad you've decided to be honest with us, Mr. Vandenberg. Maybe you should come in so we could talk about this some more.”

“Oh.” George's shoulders sagged and he fell back on the sofa. “I don't feel well. I think I'm sick.”

“I'm sorry to hear that,” the detective said. “Are you sure you don't have more you need to tell us? I can send a car for you.”

Doubling over, George breathed in and out, waiting for the stabbing pain to pass. When it did, he spoke again. “No, but there is something else. It's about my records.”

“Your records? What about them?”

He closed his eyes, sat up straight, and tipped his chin toward the sky. There was no telling what could happen, where the truth might lead. Over the last year, he'd told Dr. Michael everything, leaving out nothing. Mary Helen might never forgive him. His children might shun him. His friends might pretend he didn't exist. He didn't care anymore. He couldn't erase the past or eradicate the guilt that had shaped his life, not completely anyway, but he could—­finally—­take responsibility for his actions. For the first time in a long time, he made a tough decision and carried it through.

“Mr. Vandenberg,” Cancini asked again, “what about your records?”

“What you said before.” There was a brief pause. “You can have them.”