A Guilty Mind (16 page)

 

Chapter Thirty-­One

G
EORGE S
AT AT
the table, slack-­jawed, and stared into space. Stunned, he rocked back and forth in his chair, going over everything in his mind. His apartment had been searched. He'd expected to be questioned in light of his relationship with Dr. Michael—­but investigated? He couldn't get his mind around the idea he was a suspect in the murder. He laughed out loud, the sound harsh and short, trailing off into a quiet moan.

He held his head in his hands. It was his own fault. He'd broken that vase and lied about it. He'd gotten so drunk he couldn't remember driving home. He gave them the tapes. It made a sick kind of sense. Still, the idea he could have murdered Dr. Michael was ludicrous to him. He'd needed the therapist, relied on him. His hands trembled and he shivered with cold. Dr. Michael believed in him.

“George,” his therapist had asked, “has it occurred to you that you were in shock?”

“Shock?” he'd repeated. “Yes. Oh my God, I was completely shocked. I didn't mean for any of it to happen. I didn't.”

“That's not what I meant,” Dr. Michael said. “Yes, you were shocked, but I'm wondering if you were in medical shock. Specifically, it's called acute stress reaction, although you may have heard of it as psychological shock. Your behavior, as you've described it to me, fits the symptoms.” George sat dumbly, his mind dredging up the horrible night. “You did as Mary Helen told you, barely thinking for yourself. Isn't that true?”

Even if it was, it didn't make the old George feel any better. “That's not her fault. She was trying to help.”

“That's not what I'm saying. Just listen for a moment.” The doctor pulled off his reading glasses. “After the fight and accident, you said you just sat there for what could have been hours, as though you were in a daze. You said your heart was racing and you were sweating. These are all symptoms of acute stress reaction. When Mary Helen arrived, having witnessed what happened, you never even heard her. And when you did become aware of her presence, you yielded all control to her, allowing her to make the decisions.”

“But I couldn't—­” George interrupted.

“Studies show the brain can shut down when it's traumatized.” Dr. Michael plowed on. “The body protects itself by maintaining function, the heart pumping, blood flowing, but the brain itself is off, so to speak, too shocked to comprehend and incapable of working properly.”

George said nothing, remembering the utter helplessness he felt at the sight of the woman he loved lying crumpled on the ground, her blood soaking her shining hair.

“It's my medical opinion you were in a state of shock at the accident. That's why you didn't call the police or go for help. You told me you stayed in your apartment for two days, eating nothing, lying on the bed. That's because something inside your brain simply shut down, turned off. So when Mary Helen took over, you let her because your mind wasn't able to process the events as they were happening. You even allowed her to steer you away from phoning the police, your first instinct, because you had no power to make decisions. You were helpless.”

George sprang from the couch and paced the small office. Could Dr. Michael be right?

Dr. Michael stroked his mustache. “What do you think might have happened that night if Mary Helen had not shown up?”

He stopped pacing and ran his hand through his hair. He faced the doctor, mouth screwed up. “I . . . I don't know.”

“Neither do I, George.” He paused. “But the shock had to wear off eventually. Symptoms can last a ­couple of days or up to a few weeks. Either way, if you had been alone when that happened, your actions that night might have been different. Maybe they wouldn't have, but we'll never know.”

George flopped back on the sofa, his eyes flat. “I don't get it, Dr. Michael. It's like you're saying I was in shock so that's my excuse but then the next minute, you act like I might have run away anyway, with or without the shock.”

“Would you have? Run away?”

“No!” George pounded his fist on the armrest.

“Very good. That's what I thought. But still, you've spent your entire life blaming yourself, wearing your guilt like a curse. It's possible the circumstances of that night may have been more than you were equipped to handle at the time. Because Mary Helen showed up, we'll never know for sure whether you would have done the right thing, but I'd place my bet you would have.”

George's head came up. Gratitude shone in his face. He'd never before considered those events from the perspective offered by Dr. Michael. For just a moment, he imagined he wasn't the monster he'd always believed. Then reality set in and other memories, just as terrifying, came flooding back.

“But I never did come forward. I could have the next day, or the day after that, or any time. But still, I did nothing.” He could no longer look his therapist in the eye. “I failed to do the right thing even when I wasn't, you know, in shock.”

“Don't you see, George? That night set things in motion. After that, you had to protect Mary Helen. You couldn't come forward later because she was afraid she would be seen as complicit in the events. Isn't that the way it happened?”

George nodded. “But she wouldn't have been there if it weren't for me. Crazy as it seems now, she just wanted to be with me. I had to protect her, even though I don't know what I was protecting her from.” Putting his head in his hands, he mumbled an apology. “I'm so sorry for everything, so sorry.”

“Guilt is an insidious bedfellow, George. It can . . . it can change a person if it's left to fester, to grow. That night led to a series of mistakes that compounded into your life as it is today.”

Seated on the couch, he felt tears prick his eyes. Yes, it was all true. He'd made a mess of his life. If only that night had ended differently. If only he'd let Sarah walk away. If only he hadn't been so afraid to lose her, she might still be alive. Would he still have chosen Mary Helen as his wife? Would he have followed the path laid out for him by his wife and his family? Did it even matter anymore? It was done now and he couldn't change it.

Sniffling, George blinked back tears. When the therapist spoke again, his tone was firm. “George, I think you know that there is only one way to undo everything that's been done. You must go all the way back, to where your guilt originated.”

His heart sank. The pronouncement was not new, nor was it outrageous, but to George, it was potentially fatal. The tiny bit of a life he had left, the tenuous threads of his marriage and the relationship with his children, could all be severed beyond repair. That was a risk he wasn't sure he could take.

“You don't have to answer now, George. We can discuss it some more next week.”

Relief had flooded through his body. “Okay.”

George lifted his eyes to the ceiling. Dr. Michael deserved better from him in death. He wasn't sure how, but he knew he would no longer watch his life from the sidelines. Dr. Michael's murder was not an event from the past. He couldn't hide from it or pretend it would go away. No, George reminded himself, he was a different man than he was two days ago. This was the present and unless he took action to prove his innocence, it could very well be his future.

His head ached and the pounding pressed against his skull. How had it come to this? He'd done the very thing his doctor had wanted. He'd allowed the truth to be exposed and risked the wrath of his wife, but it had come at a price neither he nor Dr. Michael could have anticipated. The truth had elevated him to the role of murder suspect. What next? A search of his Richmond home? His office? His car? It was insane. The irony made him sick to his stomach. He swallowed back the bile and looked down at his hands, willing them to be still. He breathed in and out until his heart rate slowed. Dr. Michael had been wrong. The truth had not set him free. It had made him look like a murderer.

 

Chapter Thirty-­Two

C
ANCINI RAREL
Y ESCAPED
the capital city. His travels in recent years had been limited to the city's vast suburbs and occasionally a tiny beach in Delaware. Richmond, with its vibrant history and deep Southern overtones, felt like a foreign country to the homicide detective. Mary Helen Vandenberg, with her soft drawl and honeyed tones, reminded him of parasols, waltzes, and large plantations. Small and slender, she wore a lemon silk suit and pearls that matched her shiny blond hair. She possessed a waiflike beauty, although her delicate looks were not the type to which he was usually drawn. With gracious manners, the sort he'd heard of yet rarely encountered in the gritty life he led, she ushered him inside the small mansion as though he were an old and dear friend. She waved a delicately boned hand at an elegant sitting room and excused herself to prepare tea and coffee. Cancini eyed the room with its antiques and dainty chairs. Ill at ease, he took the largest armchair in the room, although it still appeared fragile enough to shatter under his modest weight.

Returning with a silver tray and china cups, Mrs. Vandenberg set the ser­vice on an intricately carved cherry table. He sat stiffly, afraid to move. His former wife had aspired to this type of house, this type of decor, but he preferred a recliner and sturdier stuff. Mrs. Vandenberg handed him a cup and perched on the edge of an ornate sofa. Several picture frames sat on top of a gleaming black piano. It wasn't hard to spot the photos of the Vandenberg children, both blond with coloring similar to their mother's.

“Your kids, I take it?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said with a broad smile. “Both are in high school now. Wills is a senior, going to college soon, and Elizabeth Grace is a freshman. Do you have any children of your own, Detective?”

His attention was drawn back to a formal portrait of Mary Helen's daughter. The girl bore a strong resemblance to her father in spite of the light hair and eyes. Her attractive face, smooth and noble, was familiar to him, leaving him with the vague feeling he'd met her before. The boy, however, seemed to favor his mother in every way.

“Detective?” She broke into his thoughts, her voice honey-­sweet. “Do you have any children of your own?”

“No,” Cancini said. “I'm divorced.”

She lowered her lashes. “I'm sorry.” She waited another moment before asking, “How can I help you, Detective?”

“Well, ma'am, it's about a ­couple of things.” He jiggled the dainty cup and saucer and placed it safely on the table to his left. “You are aware that Mr. Vandenberg's therapist was murdered a few days ago?” Mary Helen nodded, face somber. “I assume your husband told you he was in the station yesterday,” the detective said, “and that he gave us access to his medical records with Dr. Michael?”

If he'd hoped to take her by surprise, he knew in an instant he had not succeeded. “Of course, Detective.” She smiled again. “When you've been married as long as George and I have, you don't keep secrets from one another.”

“Yes, ma'am,” Cancini said with a tiny smile of his own. “You only keep secrets from other ­people.”

Her lips twitched. “Pardon me?”

The detective stood, arched his back, and stretched his knees, which had already grown achy on the uncomfortable chair. He was no longer smiling. “Dr. Michael had a habit of taping his sessions with his patients. I don't know whether you knew that.” Her placid expression remained unchanged. “I've listened to a lot of your husband's tapes.”

The lady didn't flinch. “And?”

“And I think you know something about keeping secrets, Mrs. Vandenberg.”

Setting her cup aside, she folded her hands in her lap. “I don't usually discuss personal issues with strangers, Detective, and I find this conversation going into a very private area.” George's wife smiled again, the lilt in her voice softening the words. “I understand you're only doing your job. Still, I think it would be best if these matters were handled with an attorney present.”

The detective studied the woman in front of him. Mary Helen Vandenberg was a woman used to getting her way, and she did so with a Southern hospitality and manners so sweet a person would hardly notice. If she wanted it to, the interview would end as quickly as it started. He did not intend for that to happen. “That's up to you, of course, Mrs. Vandenberg. I'm more concerned at the present, however, with your husband's blackouts. Like the one he had in front of your son.”

This time, Cancini hit his mark. Her face paled. When she regained her composure, her voice was firm. “George is my husband, Detective, and whatever happens in this house stays between us.”

“Did he have a lot of blackouts, Mrs. Vandenberg? I'm curious because Dr. Michael seemed to be concerned about them. Were you concerned, too?”

“Still private, Detective, although I do admire your persistence.” The smile accompanying her words turned chilly. Standing, she smoothed the lines of her skirt. “Well, thank you for coming, Detective. If you need to speak with me again, please phone in advance and I will arrange a meeting.” She put out her small hand. “It was a pleasure to meet you.”

Cancini studied the woman in front of him. “What happened before, with the girl Sarah, was a long time ago.” He paused and caught the hint of long-­standing disgust coming from Mary Helen. “Your involvement in that is one thing, but Dr. Michael's murder, that is another.”

She dropped her outstretched hand. “Meaning what, Detective?”

His eyes lit on the tiny vein throbbing in her neck. “Meaning this: I don't know for sure what happened twenty years ago, although I mean to find out. But I do know a man was stabbed to death in my city by someone who wanted him quiet. And I'm going to find that someone and put them away for the rest of his, or her, life.”

“Well,” she said, the Southern drawl now sounding forced, “I hope you do find that someone, Detective. Murder is a terrible thing.”

“Yes, ma'am, it is.”

“Is that all then?”

Poker-­faced, she was much better at hiding her feelings than her husband. Dr. Michael's tapes played through the detective's mind. Mary Helen was more than complicit in covering up Sarah's death and her actions made her an accomplice. George wasn't the only one who might suffer if the past were revealed. How much did she know about what led up to Sarah's demise? How much did she see? Certainly, she had benefited from her rival's untimely death, marrying George only a few months later. What would Wills and Elizabeth Grace have to say about that?

“Just curious, Mrs. Vandenberg, did you ever meet Dr. Michael?”

The lines around her mouth deepened. “I told you, Detective, that I would rather have an attorney present if you had any more questions.”

“Yes,” he said, “you did say that, but this isn't really a personal question. And as I said, I'm just curious.”

She clucked her tongue. “Really, Detective? I'm quite sure your reasons for wanting to know something aren't as innocent as idle curiosity.”

“If you say so. But I am interested.”

She tipped her head to her shoulder. “Why? What does it matter?”

He pretended to consider the question. “It's something I picked up on from one of those tapes. Dr. Michael had proposed a joint session with you and your husband.”

“I'm sure I don't know why he would do that,” she said.

He pushed aside his jacket, putting his hands in his pockets. “Something about working out how you might come forward about that Sarah business. I gathered from the tapes that Dr. Michael thought you might be the primary reason George was unable to confess.”

“I am not even going to dignify that with a response,” she said, all trace of Southern manners gone.

“You still didn't answer the question. Did you or did you not ever meet Dr. Michael?”

She remained silent, her face averted.

He took a step toward her. “Well?”

She looked up at him, blue eyes hard as glaciers. “You said you listened to my husband's tapes, didn't you? Did you ever hear my voice on those tapes? Did you?”

“No, but I didn't listen to all of them.”

“That's your problem,” she said, voice cold. “The next time you want to talk to me, call my lawyer. We're finished here.” She raised her heart-­shaped face and showed him the door.

On the drive back to D.C., it occurred to the detective he'd been dismissed by two women that day, both angry and both bothered by too many questions. Mrs. Michael, with her secret cell phone calls, was hiding something or someone. Where was that phone now? He understood that even with a subpoena, he might never learn who was in possession of that phone on the night of the murder. Then there was Mary Helen Vandenberg. Her secrets were of a very different nature and she'd spent more than twenty years protecting a secret far more criminal than an affair. Just how far would she go to keep protecting it?