A Guilty Mind (12 page)

 

Chapter Twenty-­Three

“G
ODDAMN!”
C
ANCINI H
ELD
the phone in his hand, staring at the handset. Had Vandenberg really just offered up his records? Shaking his head, he placed calls to the department lawyer, the district attorney, and the captain. When the appropriate paperwork arrived, he sent Smitty to Vandenberg's apartment with instructions to get it signed before the man changed his mind. He sat at his desk waiting and sifting through his notes. Vandenberg had lied. The nature of the lie, the omission of an angry outburst that ended with a smashed lamp, had already made the detective suspicious. Then the man called and confessed the lie. Hell. Was Vandenberg trying to impress the detective with what a good guy he was? In a murder investigation, especially a murder so premeditated and brutal, that was a near impossibility. Even the widow had to be a suspect.

Vandenberg's brief explanation of events during his last session had not satisfied the detective, but the man's voluntary release of his patient records had. Vandenberg intrigued the detective. Cancini had known the man was lying, his intense discomfort evident in the interrogation room. Smitty's observation that he appeared anxious seemed like a mild understatement after the fact. Still, the man had a vulnerability that Cancini recognized. He tapped a pencil against the desk. In spite of Vandenberg's size and charismatic masculinity, he seemed broken somehow. His eyes lacked light. Cancini recognized a man who'd experienced loss and pain. He knew and understood loss, too. Was that Vandenberg's problem? Was it something with his wife? He pushed the questions from his mind. It was useless trying to guess what was in the man's head. Vandenberg could just be a terrific actor.

Cancini pulled together his notes, rereading the brief background they'd collected on Vandenberg. The man had led a privileged life. Expensive prep schools, fancy lessons, prestigious university, multiple homes. He'd married, settled into a career, and had a ­couple of kids. He'd raked in the rewards with a big house and a big social life. None of it sounded too bad to Cancini, a D.C. boy born and bred, but then again, one never knew. The man had been seeing a psychiatrist. Maybe his life wasn't as perfect as it appeared.

Vandenberg had started out seeing the victim's brother-­in-­law, but after only a few weeks, his doctor was dead in a hit-­and-­run car accident. Within a few weeks of transferring to his new therapist, Dr. Michael, Vandenberg increased his sessions to twice a week. Was that a vote of confidence in the doctor or an indication of the depths of the man's problems? Either way, whatever it was that made Vandenberg believe he needed to see a shrink would be in those case files. And if the detective got lucky, there might be a whole lot more.

Smitty met Cancini outside Dr. Michael's office building, a manila envelope clutched in his hand. “I got it,” he said.

“Any problems?” Cancini asked.

“None, but I gotta say he didn't look too good. Reminded me of a few guys I've picked up off the street—­withdrawal, the DTs.”

Cancini nodded. He recalled Vandenberg's trembling hands and nervous twitches. The man had also hinted he'd recently given up drinking. “Wouldn't surprise me. C'mon, let's go up.”

Together, they pulled aside the yellow crime scene tape and entered the reception area. Both stopped short of the large bloodstain in the middle of the room. The blood appeared almost black against the creamy-­white carpet. Cancini averted his eyes, stepped around the blood, and moved farther into the office.

“What do you want me to do?” Smitty asked.

“According to this, we can't take anything out of the office.” Cancini waved the document signed by Vandenberg. “But we can review anything the patient has given us permission to see. I want to put everything that has to do with George Vandenberg in this box. Any forms with vital information, payment records, notes on sessions, all of it.”

The blond man frowned. “Wouldn't this be easier if we had Sandy Watson pull everything for us? I mean, she'd know where stuff is.”

“It would be,” Cancini said. “Except then she'd know we're looking at Vandenberg. She's a sweet lady and everything, but . . .”

Smitty nodded. “I get it. There's a reason why maybe the doc didn't tell her anything about his cases.”

“She means well and I could be wrong, but I don't want to take any chances.” His face screwed up in a grimace. “Besides, the captain was pretty specific. No leaks to the press about anything or anyone.”

“Right.”

Cancini moved into the doctor's private office. “I'm gonna start in here.” He set the box on the floor. A large cherrywood desk sat to the right, its surface clear of pictures, staplers, and piles of papers. He stepped closer. There was nothing but a notebook and pen, a tape recorder, a phone, and a lamp. A bookcase against the wall behind the desk was neat and orderly, decorated with vases and medical books; no clutter spilled from the shelves. To his left, he saw a sofa flanked by a pair of end tables. On one of those tables was a lamp. The other was bare.

He found the wastebasket by the desk. It was empty as he expected. The cleaning ser­vice would have emptied the basket, any obvious remnants of the broken lamp long gone. He crouched and peered into the bottom of the basket. He ran his finger along the curved base, feeling tiny scraps of ceramic. Holding up his finger, he stood and walked to the lamp on the end table. The slivers on his finger matched the lamp.

He returned to the desk and sat down. Had the doctor been working at his desk that night? Cancini opened and closed the drawers, stopping on the last one. Inside, under an unopened package of cassette tapes, was a framed photograph of Nora Michael. He pulled out the picture, turning it over in his hand. The glass was intact and he stood the heavy frame up. The photo looked recent, no more than a ­couple of years old. Why had the doctor buried it in the bottom drawer? Was it just to discourage distractions during sessions or was there a deeper meaning? He returned it to the drawer.

Cancini picked up the single notebook and flipped through it page by page, but saw only random notes. Setting it aside, he pulled the tape recorder to him and popped open the cover. He reached out and fingered the tape inside. The label read, “G.V. Session 51.” He inhaled and removed the tape, turning it over in his hand. The crime scene catalog had listed the tape recorder, but not the tape. Was this what he thought it was? Did Michael tape every session? He pushed away from the desk and yanked open the desk drawers again. Nothing. He spun around. Behind him, built into the bottom of the bookcase, were large drawers. Opening the first one, he hit pay dirt. He sat back, holding a large box in his lap. It was filled with cassette tapes, each labeled with the initials G.V. and a session number. Cancini's heart pounded.

He uncurled his fingers and looked from the tape in his hand to the ones neatly aligned in the box. There were almost one hundred tapes in the box, all arranged in numerical order. In the outer office, Smitty rummaged through files, slamming drawers shut. Cancini considered the cassette in his hand. Why was tape number 51 in the machine? It couldn't be Vandenberg's last session because it was out of order and pulled from near the middle of the box. Had Michael been listening to it in the minutes before he was murdered? Or had the killer intentionally put the tape into the machine for the police to find? Was it a message?

Cancini put the tape in the cassette player and pushed the rewind button. He needed to hear the tapes and this was as good a place to start as any.

“Tell me again about the accident.” A man's voice, quiet and insistent, filled the room. Cancini leaned closer. “Tell me exactly how it happened and everything you remember.”

The next voice belonged to Vandenberg. “What's the point? I wish I never had to think about it or be reminded of it—­ever again!”

The doctor spoke again. “Please, George, indulge me. It might be more important than you think.”

Reclining again, the detective listened, riveted by the recollections of a middle-­aged man, the memories sometimes clear and other times rambling, all ultimately leading up to a startling and despicable act. The voice of George Vandenberg carried across the office. Smitty stood in the doorway, his face stunned.

Near the end of the tape, the patient's tone was subdued, sadder. “I wanted to confess then, but I didn't. Then later, when I had the chance, I still didn't come forward. And then, of course, it was too late.” Cancini clicked off the cassette.

“Jesus! Have we got two murders here? Right there on the tape, he admits what he did to that girl!”

Cancini said nothing for a moment. He removed the tape from the machine and placed it back in the box between numbers 50 and 52.

Smitty stepped into the room. “What do you think? Is he guilty?”

Bony fingers trailed the edges of the tapes. It would take days to listen to all of them. The man's life could be in that box. How many ­people could say that? How many ­people would want to? A low pulsing at the back of his neck promised a throbbing headache and he sighed. “Yeah, he's guilty. I don't know of what yet, but he's guilty of something.”

 

Chapter Twenty-­Four

C
ANCINI RUBBED
HIS
eyes and checked his watch. Four o'clock in the morning. He stood and stretched his arms, trying to shake off the feeling that the office walls were closing in on him. For the first time in hours, there was silence instead of the voices of George Vandenberg and Dr. Michael. He looked down at his notepad filled with scribbled observations and questions, and wondered how long it would take to get the sounds of the two men out of his head.

After Smitty returned to the station, Cancini had stayed. He'd planned to listen to only a handful of tapes, but as the evening wore on and the gnawing hunger in his belly faded, Cancini was hooked. As a cop, he saw most ­people and their actions in black and white. The law made it easy, but the story on the tapes didn't fit into a category. Yes, Vandenberg was guilty, but it wasn't clear of what. Was the girl's death an accident or homicide? There was so much gray.

He'd started with the first tape, then skipped ahead several sessions after he realized it had taken the patient weeks to trust his therapist. When Vandenberg did finally reveal the accident, Dr. Michael had remained aloof, not voicing any shock or surprise. Although impressed by the doctor's impartiality and ability to remove himself from the ugliness of what had occurred years earlier, Cancini was also horrified.

“Why didn't you call the police right away?” asked the doctor on one of the tapes. Silence. “That's not an answer, George. You must know why you ran away.”

Vandenberg's tone was sullen. “I didn't run, exactly. I just let her handle everything because it was easier.”

“Easier? That night, you mean, or later?”

“Both, I guess.”

“I see.” This was a phrase the doctor used frequently. “I seem to recall you told me once you wanted to come forward later. What happened that time?”

Vandenberg whined. “She didn't want me to. Mary Helen told me to let sleeping dogs lie. She likes expressions like that. Let sleeping dogs lie.”

It hadn't taken long for the detective to recall that Mary Helen was Vandenberg's wife, the woman he'd spoken with briefly when he phoned George in Richmond.

“Did you always tell Mary Helen when you were considering telling the truth about what happened to Sarah?”

“Of course. She's my wife and, you know, she already knew everything.”

“Yes, George, I do know.” Dr. Michael zeroed in on his patient. “But here's what I'm trying to get at, have you think about a little.” The therapist paused briefly. “Why let your wife know you're planning to come forward unless you want her to talk you out of it? Surely, you must've known she would try since she had all the other times.”

“Oh my God, do you think?” There was the sound of a low moan. “You do, don't you? That's what you think of me, that I never really wanted to tell the truth.”

“It's not what I think that matters,” said the doctor. “It's what you think.” There was a long period of silence before Dr. Michael spoke again. “Let's approach this from a different angle.”

Vandenberg's tone changed. “What do you mean?”

“Well, let's examine the present and your actions now. You come to see me regularly, which your wife does not like, and—­”

“Hates,” interrupted Vandenberg, “not doesn't like. Hates.”

“All right, hates,” said the therapist, “and yet you still do it. George, you've told me many things you've never told anyone else. You must look at this as a positive action. You must view this as an important first step.”

“Maybe, but she doesn't know I've told you about her or that night,” the patient said. “Not everything anyway. She'd probably kill me if she did.”

“Nevertheless, you continue to come here. Doesn't that show you that maybe your wife doesn't have the ability to dictate everything you do? Maybe you don't want her to anymore.”

“Maybe.” The voice was doubtful.

“Perhaps you're close to making your own decisions about this. After all, it was a long time ago, George.”

The detective realized he'd been right about Vandenberg. He was a broken man, scarred by far more than a shaky marriage. He'd lived a life built on a lie. That knowledge, crushing to a man as sensitive as Vandenberg, left him weak and paralyzed. Finding it increasingly difficult to live with his guilty conscience, but unable to break completely free from the bonds of his wife, his depression intensified. Whatever love he'd once had for the woman he'd married had been overshadowed by his resentment of her role in what he termed the worst night of his life. Was that why he'd given the police access to his medical records? Was he trying to assuage his guilt for Sarah's death or punish his wife? Or was it a confession to a more recent crime, the murder of the man who was trying to help him?

“It happened again, Doc,” Vandenberg said on a recent session tape. “She was in my dream, like she was still here, alive.”

“Sarah, you mean?”

“I could see her so clearly. I thought I forgot all the little things, but I didn't. She had this great laugh and could tell a dirty joke with the best of 'em. Sometime we'd go swimming naked at the river and she'd stand there on the shore, dripping, just amazingly beautiful. I even remember how soft her hair was and the way it smelled after she worked at the tavern serving drinks all night, kinda smoky and greasy, and still sexy.” His voice broke off, the reminiscence over. “Jesus,” he said, “what a sad sack of shit I am, still lusting after a woman who's been dead for more than twenty years. You must think I'm pathetic.”

“Of course not. I am interested, though, in what happened in your dream. Was it like the other one?”

“The one where we fought about the baby?”

“Yes, that one.”

“No. In this dream, we talked and laughed.” Vandenberg seemed to lose his focus for a second before continuing the description of the dream. “We actually did that a lot, you know. It wasn't just about the sex. She was smart and funny and . . . I guess none of that matters now.”

Dr. Michael indulged his patient. “I disagree. All of it matters. Everything you remember about her is important.”

Cancini had clicked off the tape there. Over several sessions, Vandenberg described Sarah's personality, her beauty, her relevance in his young life. Dr. Michael encouraged him, advising his patient that his memory would help him strengthen his resolve to do the right thing. The detective wasn't sure he agreed, wondering if perhaps the doctor wasn't pushing George toward a deeper depression. His worries seemed to be confirmed in one of the final sessions.

“I don't think I can do it. I don't know if I want to,” Vandenberg said.

A hint of irritation crept into the therapist's tone. “George, don't back out on me now. This is important. You must keep the faith that it's the right thing to do.”

“Right for who?” questioned the patient, unenthused. “Even if I confess now, it won't bring Sarah back, will it?”

“No, George, but it might bring you back.”

“Ha! And who the hell would care about that?”

Although he'd skipped around, Cancini had saved the most recent session for last, holding out the final tape until he'd learned more about Vandenberg. The man had lived an entire life responsible for the death of another human being, yet accepting no consequences for that act. While the patient was obviously troubled by these facts, he'd made a mess of that life and the second chance he'd taken. Vandenberg considered himself a failure as a husband and, at best, an ineffective father. Adrift in his guilt, he seemed incapable of living in the present.

Cancini sat down again, stretching his legs under the desk. Despite his disgust for what Vandenberg had done, the detective could not bring himself to hate Vandenberg. After hours of listening, he'd learned enough about the man to understand what a leap it was for him to relinquish his medical records as well as attempt to give up drinking. Clearly, Vandenberg had reached some sort of impasse, but that didn't excuse his behavior. Cancini had a job to do and a list of questions. What prompted Vandenberg to give up drinking and reveal his past? Was it a consequence of tragedy or something more sinister? Having taken a life once before, even accidentally, would it have been easier for him now? Had he graduated to cold-­blooded murder?

Cancini stifled a yawn and withdrew the final cassette from the box. He placed it in the recorder, already knowing he would hear some kind of argument resulting in the broken lamp. Now, he wondered if there was more. What had really happened that day? If Mrs. Michael was telling the truth, her husband was afraid of this patient following Vandenberg's furious tirade. Had the doctor pushed too hard, angering the man? Had it been enough to push George over the edge? Pushing the play button, Cancini closed his eyes, waited, and listened.