A Guilty Mind (19 page)

Smitty looked sideways at Cancini. “You sold it? To who?”

“I don't know.” Turner shrugged again. “I dint get a name. Got paid in cash and that was that. Dint see no harm.”

“Do you think you might recognize this person if you saw them again?” Cancini asked.

“I don't know. Maybe. She was wearing a wig or somethin'.” The man frowned. “But I don't wanna get involved. No way!”

“She? It was a woman who bought the tape?”

“That's what I jus' said, ain't it,” the manager said irritably. The two detectives exchanged glances. “Jesus Christ! Are you deaf? It was a lady that bought the tape.”

 

Chapter Thirty-­Seven

G
EORGE SL
AMMED DOWN
the phone. He raced around the cottage and checked the doors and windows, flipping every lock. Upstairs and down, he turned on all the lights, the yellow glow spilling out through the windows into the darkness. Trembling, he'd never felt so cut off from everything and everyone. Maybe it was time to leave. Maybe it wasn't safe to stay in the house alone. Already there had been a trespasser sneaking around the property, and then that horrifying, creepy phone call. He could hear the words echoing in his head.
Murderer. Murderer.
Who? Why?

He grabbed the phone off the wall. A sleepy voice answered, “Hello?”

“Are you all right?” He clutched the phone, pressing it into his ear. “Are the kids all right?”

“George? What time is it?” Mary Helen's voice sharpened. “Are you drunk?”

“No.” He paused, struggling to light a cigarette with fingers that refused to be still. “Is everything okay there? The kids fine?”

“They're fine. Why?”

His body coiled with tension. “Has anyone called for me? Did anything weird happen tonight?”

He heard the switch of the lamp. “No. George, what's wrong? You sound upset.”

“I . . . I don't know,” he said, inhaling on the cigarette. “It's nothing, I guess.”

Mary Helen didn't believe him. “Something happened, didn't it?”

“There was somebody here tonight, an intruder.”

“Oh my God,” she gasped. “Did you call the police? Was anything stolen?”

“No, no, they didn't take anything. It wasn't like that.” George hesitated but decided the truth was best. “Someone came onto the property tonight, after dark, with a flashlight and investigated the old boathouse. I couldn't see who it was. Then they went through the woods, got in a car, and drove away.”

“The old boathouse? Why?”

He sat down at the kitchen table, his legs still shaking. “I don't know. There's nothing to see there. It was so weird.”

“Maybe it was a vagrant, someone looking for some place to hole up. I think you should call the police, George, even if it was a . . . a homeless person.” She was firm, the same old Mary Helen he'd known for so long. “If you don't want to do it, I will. That's private property.”

He said nothing. In his heart, he knew the trespasser wasn't a vagrant. The homeless don't have cars and carefully park them where they won't be seen or heard. Vagrants don't sneak onto properties, search old boathouses, and take nothing. The trespasser's actions had a purpose. He just didn't know what it was. “There's something else.”

Mary Helen sighed. “What is it, George?”

“Someone called here a few minutes ago. I didn't recognize the voice. They only said two words. ‘Murderer. Murderer.' ” Saying it out loud made him shiver again. “Then whoever it was hung up.”

“Oh, for Pete's sake, George, it was probably a crank caller. Don't kids still do that sort of thing?”

Stubbing out the cigarette, he exhaled. He hadn't thought of that. She could be right. Maybe. “Yeah, I guess. Are you sure everyone is all right there?”

“Yes, everyone is fine.” A trace of tenderness tinged her words. “Are you okay, George?”

“Yeah. I'm sorry I woke you, Mary Helen. Go back to sleep. I'll call you in the morning.”

He hung up. It could have been a prank caller and the intruder might have been a vagrant. Both were logical explanations, but George was not convinced. Maybe he was growing paranoid in the wake of Dr. Michael's murder, but strange things were happening. These were not random occurrences. There had to be a connection. He prowled the house, checked and rechecked all the locks again. Every light in the cottage blazed. He settled on the sofa, drifting off into a fitful sleep. Images of the boathouse loomed up in his dreams, prickling at his semiconscious state, blurring the lines of what he thought was true and what he knew to be real.

The glare of the sun had made him squint and Sarah had started to cry.

“You hurt me.” She rubbed her arms and hips where purple and yellow bruises already marked her olive skin. He hurt, too, his knees and elbows hitting the hard wooden floor when they had fallen together, bodies joined in battle. “George, let go of me.” She pushed him away.

His hands fell away and he stood, looking down at her. Tears slipped down his cheeks. How had it gotten this bad, this awful? He loved this woman and she didn't want him anymore. She didn't trust him, and he could hardly blame her. The perfection, the purity of their love had imploded, leaving only ugliness and hurt. Hanging his head, he wiped at his tears.

“Help me up.” She held out her hand. Sniffling, he reached down and pulled the young woman to her feet. She stood in front of him, bruised and beautiful. Her slender fingers traced his lips and wet cheeks. Her chocolate eyes glowed, shining and wet. “George, you have to let me go. It's for your own good. Please, trust me that I'm doing the right thing.”

He couldn't face her, couldn't face the end. How could the brightest time in his life come to such an abrupt and unnecessary conclusion? Everything before seemed so gray, until this gorgeous and captivating creature appeared before him in a smoky and sour-­smelling bar. How could she ask him to forget? How could she expect him to go back to his boring and predictable life? Was that what she thought was best for him?

“I can't.”

Sarah's hand dropped. “You don't have any choice, George. I'm ending this relationship. It's over.”

“No.”

“It's over,” she said again, louder, firmer.

In a flash, he saw his future, the dull life his father had laid out for him. Before Sarah, he'd resented it, hated it, but hadn't bothered to find his own way, his own alternative. Young and spoiled, it hadn't seemed urgent. Now, after Sarah, he could say with conviction what he did and didn't want.

“I need you,” he begged.

“Jesus,” she said. “You're going to make me do it, aren't you?” George stared, his arms hanging limp at his sides. “I didn't want to do this.” She gazed past him up at the house and the drive. “Dammit. This is not going to be easy.” Sarah breathed and raised her chin. “I won't ruin your life, George. I won't do it.”

“You're not going to ruin my—­”

She cut him off, a steely edge to her voice. “There's something I have to tell you. The truth is, I haven't been completely honest with you.”

A loud, insistent banging snapped him from the fitful dream. He sat up and blinked. Sunlight streamed through the windows. The banging came again. There was someone pounding at the front door. He rose, joints stiff, and leaned over to look out the front window. Parked in the gravel driveway was a black and white car. The police.

 

Chapter Thirty-­Eight

C
ANCIN
I RUBBED HIS
bloodshot eyes. The phone calls, interviews, and random bits of information swirled around his brain, giving him a raging headache. He opened his drawer and fumbled for the bottle of ibuprofen. Three empty coffee cups littered his desk. A greasy sandwich wrapper sat crumpled on top of his notebook, the one filled with more questions than answers. A million thoughts raced through his head.

Who bought the surveillance tape? Who was the woman? A vague description—­dark wig, oversized sunglasses, and khaki-­colored coat—­wasn't much to go on. The manager thought she might have been tall, but he wasn't sure and he didn't notice her shoes. Why would the anonymous woman go to so much trouble? What was her connection to Vandenberg? To Michael? Just a good citizen? Highly unlikely.

The two women connected to the investigation and with the most to lose sprang to mind. Closest to Vandenberg, of course, was his wife. It wouldn't be the first time a wife had turned on her husband, but her involvement with the surveillance tape seemed improbable, although not impossible. Still, to buy the tape, she would have to know about its existence in the first place. How could she unless she was in Washington the night of the murder and had followed her husband? Cancini made a note to confirm her alibi.

Nora Michael had also drawn his suspicion, but her involvement seemed less likely. Even if Dr. Michael had revealed the troublesome patient's name, the widow couldn't know Vandenberg had been in a convenience mart just before midnight. She was in Chicago. Again, he wondered if she had a partner but dismissed the thought. There was no evidence of a connection between Mrs. Michael and Vandenberg.

As a person of interest, however, Nora Michael remained a case of smoke and mirrors. A subpoena of her cell phone records turned up little, but did reinforce his suspicion someone other than Mrs. Michael carried the second phone. Discovering who was far more difficult. The more they dug, the cloudier her past seemed. Friends and acquaintances from Boston couldn't enlighten them, admitting she maintained a distance and aloofness that most had given up trying to penetrate. The late Dr. Michael appeared to be the one person who knew her well, and he, of course, could tell them nothing. More than once, the detectives heard how Michael revered his wife, fond of telling everyone how lucky he was to have her. She, by all accounts, kept to herself. A talented tax attorney, she took long leaves of absence and extended vacations for weeks at a time. No one seemed to know why. Furthermore, they could find no additional verification she'd been a patient of her husband's or whether she had sought additional treatment since. He was stymied.

Martin brought in the precinct shrink to listen to Vandenberg's sessions and work up a profile on their suspect. His report sat on Cancini's desk, unread and untouched. He slurped the cold coffee, eyeing the folder. How close would the report be to his own analysis of the man? Would it be an affirmation of Vandenberg as a man who had reached the end of his rope, no longer able to withstand the doctor's pressure, a hatred festering and growing, ending in a cold-­blooded murder? Would the shrink paint George as a killer? He picked up the report, fingering the corners of the pages. Tossing the coffee, he skimmed the report, flipped back to the middle and reread the parts that caught his interest.

Vandenberg is prone to fits of temper. Alcoholic tendencies combined with periodic doses of antidepressants do not help the patient exhibit self-­control. There is a lack of forethought to many of his actions and little evidence he considers the consequences. The blackouts are a major concern and the patient should seek additional treatment in a substance-­abuse facility.

Suffering from mild bouts of depression, the patient wants to change his life but lacks belief it can be done.

The one thing that is consistent about the patient is his fear of the truth being known regarding the incident with the girl and her death. Most of his fear seems to originate with his wife. His loyalty to her wishes and demands does not waver in spite of his deep resentment toward her.

The guilt the patient feels about the dead girl is the source of his depression; however, it is the years since that have fed his sadness. The doctor's insistence that revealing the truth would relieve the depression seems naive and unfounded. How could he know that it would work and not plunge the patient into a deeper depression if his family were to abandon him after the fact?

Vandenberg was not an innocent man. He had done things that were wrong—­how criminal was debatable—­but clearly wrong. Was he a bad man? The detective couldn't decide. He'd lied. He'd exhibited a volatile temper and a propensity toward violence. Black and white. Right and wrong. So, why did he have questions? “Jesus,” he mumbled under his breath and dropped the report back on his desk. “I'm getting too old for this shit.”

“You bet you are,” Smitty said, smiling broadly. He handed Cancini a fresh cup of coffee. “Why don't you retire and give the rest of us a break?”

Cancini tried to smile, but his head ached and the exhaustion born of nonstop work had seeped into his bones. “Damn, that sounds good about now.”

Smitty's smile faded. “I was kidding.”

“Yeah,” Cancini told the younger man. “Me too.”

“Is that the shrink's report?” Smitty pointed at the papers on Cancini's desk. “Anything we can use?”

Cancini nodded. “Have at it.” He leaned back and rested his hands on his chest.

Smitty read, turning page after page until he'd finished the report. He cleared his throat. “I don't think our shrink liked Dr. Michael much.”

Cancini unfolded his hands. “Why do you say that?”

“Something he wrote that seemed like a slam to me. I don't think he liked the way Michael was treating Vandenberg, didn't agree with him about what the guy should do.”

“I saw that, too. How could Michael be sure it was right? What about the family? Blah, blah, blah. It's shrink bullshit.”

“I meant the other part, about getting too personal.”

Cancini sat up. Maybe he had skimmed too many parts. “What about getting too personal?”

Smitty turned to the back page. “Here it is: ‘After listening to many samplings of tapes, it is my opinion that the patient was becoming increasingly dependent on the therapist, placing all hope in the treatment. This was counterproductive, however, considering his reticence to take the doctor's advice to come forward about the girl's death. Most troubling though was not the patient's dependence, but the therapist's.' See what I mean?”

“Wait. Did you say the therapist's?” Cancini asked, twin lines between his dark brows. “As in Dr. Michael was dependent on Vandenberg?”

“Yeah, listen. ‘Reviewing the doctor's written notes, it appears the therapist was becoming more personally involved in the patient's decision-­making process, even trying to steer him in a particular direction. This is, of course, borderline unprofessional, but of more concern should be the consequences. Too involved with the patient, acting as though he had an almost personal stake in the man's treatment, he may have inadvertently pushed the patient to a violent act by forcing him into a life-­changing decision he was not ready to make. It is not clear why Dr. Michael was so adamant it was the only solution for the patient or why he would not accept the patient's reluctance.' ”

When Smitty stopped reading, neither man said anything for a moment. The shrink's words further incriminated Vandenberg and gave the police reasonable motive, but they meant something else to the detective. Shrinks weren't supposed to get personal. Not that he cared one whit whether Dr. Michael behaved unprofessionally, but it mattered if it led his death. Why was Michael so adamant? For what reason? Cancini jumped up, knocking his chair backward. “I'm going over to Michael's office.” Smitty stood, too, a quizzical look on his face. Cancini shoved his notebook into his pocket and moved toward the door. Over his shoulder, he said with a grin, “You can cancel the retirement party, wise ass.”