A Guilty Mind (2 page)

 

Chapter Three

G
EORGE SA
T ON
the steps of the small bungalow, knees jutting up toward his chest, and breathed in the crisp night air. A nearly empty bottle of Jack Black, swiped from his dad's liquor cabinet, sat next to him. Eyes bleary, he turned toward the drive and the approaching headlights. She was late. He grabbed the neck of the bottle and drank deeply, coughing at the strong taste of the alcohol. Hand holding tight to the railing, he staggered to his feet. Watching the car, he waited.

The battered yellow Toyota rolled to a stop on the gravel drive. He watched her alight from the car and walk toward him, hips swaying with each step. Wavy chestnut hair fell past her shoulders, accentuating almond eyes and an olive complexion. Tall and lean, she brushed at the hair, pushing it off her face. The black stretch pants and white shirt she wore for work at the Red Raider Tavern could not hide the curves of her lithe body. Drawing in his breath, he felt a rush in his stomach at the sight of her.

“Where've you been?” he asked. He heard the slur in his voice and concentrated as he spoke. “You were s'posed to be here an hour ago.”

Facing him, she brushed it off. “Bob made me work late because Susie didn't show up.”

“You could have called.”

She squatted and picked up the bottle, tipping it slightly. Her dark eyes slid back and forth between him and the liquor. “You're drunk.”

George started to deny it, then thought better of it. “Yeah, maybe I am.” Sinking to the steps again, he ran his fingers through his longish hair. Stubble had erupted across his chin. Sitting next to him, she reached over and touched it, lightly rubbing her fingers across the rough skin. Reaching up, he took her hand in his. “I was afraid you wouldn't come.”

“I almost didn't,” she said, eyes weary.

The single light on the porch cast shadows across their faces. They sat together for several minutes, holding hands, staring out at the river that ran along the edge of the property. A full moon hung in the cloudless sky, perfectly reflected in the calm waters. Glancing at her, he saw the wisps of glossy hair that caressed her high-­boned cheeks in the warm breeze. Closing his eyes, he took deep breaths to counteract the woozy effect of the Jack Daniel's. “I'm glad you're here,” he whispered.

She pulled her hand away. “I haven't changed my mind, George.”

“But I have.” He leaned closer. “Let's get married.” Her eyes narrowed. “I mean it,” he said. “I'll graduate next month and we can have the wedding right after that if you want.”

She looked away. “What about your girlfriend? What about her?”

“I told you I was through with Mary Helen.”

“Yeah, right.” Sarah stood and took a few steps toward the river, her back to him. “I saw you, remember?”

“That wasn't my idea. It was my father's. He invited her to dinner, not me.”

Her back stiffened and she whirled, eyes flashing. “You know, George, I may not be part of your la-­di-­da society or born with money or anything else for that matter, but that doesn't make me stupid. Even if your father did invite Mary Helen, it's because he thought you were still with her.” Hands on hips, her top lip curled into a sneer. “That's what you want, isn't it, George?”

“No,” he said, and lurched to his feet.

She yanked her arm away. “Don't touch me.”

Hand outstretched, he froze. The young man understood her anger, knowing in his heart it was well deserved. When she'd told him about the baby, he'd been scared, behaving in the immature way many college boys would. But later, after she'd walked out on him, he'd been ashamed. Worse, he realized his affair with the townie girl had turned into something real, something that mattered. Hiding out from his family, his friends, and Mary Helen, he'd spent the last ­couple of days thinking, making a decision on his own. It wouldn't be easy, but he knew it was right.

“I don't want your pity,” she said, eyes boring into his.

Swaying, he made a promise. “It's not pity, Sarah. I want to marry you and raise this baby. I really do.” She was quiet, but he saw the doubt in her eyes. He reached out for her again, and this time, she didn't stop him. “I know you don't trust me and you have every reason not to, but I mean it. I've been thinking about it all weekend and I'm sure. Please believe me.”

“I don't know.” Tears slipped over her cheeks and she brushed them away. “I don't even know what I want.”

He pulled her close and stroked her silky hair. She reached up and circled his neck, fingers brushing the hair skirting the collar of his shirt. Kissing her forehead and her cheeks, he moaned. She arched closer to him, quietly sobbing. Without words, he took her hand and led her inside. Together they slowly climbed the stairs to the bedroom, the one he thought of as theirs.

The jarring sound of the telephone interrupted the dream, yanking him back from the past and into the present. The hazy images, both beautiful and heartbreaking, vanished. He lay still, savoring the memory. The phone rang a second time, insistent and loud. Head aching, he stirred. Bright sunlight streamed through the windows and stung his eyes. He glared at the digital clock and swallowed, fighting the rising nausea. The phone rang again. He threw back the covers.

“Hello?” George's throat hurt and his mouth tasted like ash.

“Mr. Vandenberg? It's Sandy Watson from Dr. Michael's office.” The woman's voice was little more than a whisper.

He flopped back down and squeezed his eyes shut. “Yes?”

“I was calling to let you know your appointment with Dr. Michael this afternoon will have to be canceled.”

“Oh.” He sat up again. The extra session had been Dr. Michael's idea. After the way their appointment the day before had ended, George had readily agreed. Had something changed? “Can I reschedule?” He wanted to tell his therapist that the dream was back, more detailed and vivid than ever. “I need to see him.”

“I'm sorry, Mr. Vandenberg, that won't be possible.” He thought he heard a muffled sound, a cough or a cry, before she spoke again. “If you have an emergency or would like me to refer another doctor, please give me a call at the office.”

“But why?” Swinging his legs around, he stood up. “Have I done something to offend Dr. Michael? Did I do something wrong?”

“I'm sorry.”

“But—­” He held the receiver away from his ear. Mrs. Watson had hung up on him, the loud buzz of the broken connection ringing in his ear.

With a start, George realized he was buck-­naked. His slacks, coat, and tie were strewn around the room, apparently flung from his body in a drunken stagger. A pair of leather shoes had been dropped in the hallway leading to the bedroom. White silk boxer shorts were crumpled on the bathroom floor. His wife would not have approved. The quick thought as he spotted his shirt dangling from a lamp brought a smile to his lips. Then, remembering the previous day's session with his therapist, the smile faded. Everything had not gone as he'd hoped and now the dream was coming almost every night. George needed that appointment. Snapping up the phone again, he dialed Dr. Michael's office. Three times he tried, but after repeatedly getting a busy signal, he slammed down the phone.

It took three cups of black coffee and another hour before George felt human again. He drove to his therapist's office. Grumbling, he parked a ­couple of blocks from the building when he encountered a small traffic snarl. Baffled by the unexplained delay, he walked the remaining distance. The sun, a fireball in the sky, beat down on him, and sweat trickled down his back. Half a block from the office, he stopped short. Four police cars blocked the street and a handful of uniformed officers kept onlookers behind a makeshift barricade. A shiver ran up his spine and sweat broke out on his forehead.

George's steps slowed. A small crowd filled the sidewalk in front of Dr. Michael's building. He shaded his eyes, unsure. Inching forward, he pushed his way through until he was standing in the front of the semicircle of gawkers. Next to him, a young woman wearing a press card scribbled in a memo pad. Every few minutes, she glanced up at the doors, watching for anything new. Straining his ears, George tried to hear the conversation between some of the policemen but caught only snatches of meaningless chitchat.

An uncomfortable, tingly sensation formed in the pit of his stomach. Taking deep breaths as Dr. Michael had taught him, he closed his eyes and concentrated on relaxation. The panic attacks, mild but disorienting, were relatively new for George. He'd never had them before he began seeing Dr. Michael, but lately, like the dreams, they were coming more frequently. He was not a stupid man. The subject matter of their sessions was having an unsettling effect on him, often putting him on edge, making his moods unpredictable. Still, he didn't know why he should be having one now. After several minutes, his breathing slowed to normal. Opening his eyes, he found the young woman staring at him. With a sheepish grin, he shrugged his shoulders.

“Hey,” he asked the reporter, “what's going on here?”

Pursing her lips, the woman gave an answer that was short and chilling. “Homicide.”

A hum rose in the crowd and she lost interest in him, her attention focused on a dark-­haired man who'd just exited the building. A badge hung around his neck. The uniformed officers spread out, clearing a path for the detective. A man of medium stature and size, he was nevertheless a commanding presence at the scene. His eyes, intelligent and world-­weary, were deep-­set next to an aquiline nose that dominated a hawkish face. He moved with surefootedness, and George watched, mouth hanging open. After a few moments, Mrs. Watson followed. The detective leaned down and spoke in her ear. He gave her shoulder a slight squeeze and steered her toward an unmarked vehicle. George stepped back to make room for the group and trounced on the reporter's foot. She yelped, drawing Mrs. Watson's attention. The secretary's head shot up, her red-­rimmed eyes locking on his. He raised his hand in a half wave. She broke into a sob and his hand dropped back to his side. George watched the car pull away, staring long after she was gone and out of sight. As the crowd dispersed, the realization hit him like a punch to his gut. Dr. Michael was dead.

 

Chapter Four

C
OFFEE.
C
ANCIN
I NEEDED
it, craved it like a junkie needed heroin or meth. A few years earlier, he'd given up cigarettes, resulting in a caffeine addiction in overdrive. After the long morning at the Michael crime scene, he made a beeline for the office pot, pouring some of the vile black liquid that passed for coffee into a flimsy paper cup. He gulped as much as he could without scalding the roof of his mouth and considered the questioning ahead of him. Mrs. Watson, the victim's secretary, waited in a room down the hall. She hadn't yet thought to call a lawyer but had insisted on phoning her husband for support. Cancini, sympathetic to the woman's grief and shock at discovering the dead body of her boss, had agreed. At the therapist's office, the secretary's eyes had flooded with tears and her words had been difficult to understand through the sobs. Believing the murder scene itself was making it harder on the woman, he'd suggested she accompany him to the station. He needed the lady coherent.

Cup in hand, Cancini watched Mrs. Watson through a large pane of one-­way glass. How much did she know and how much would she be willing to tell? Her pale face, wiped clean of smeared mascara, wore the blank, disoriented expression of a woman who'd unexpectedly lost someone close to her. Was she acting? The detective couldn't say, but he doubted it. Her grief appeared genuine.

He tossed the empty cup in the trash and shoved his hands in his pockets. Watching her blink back the tears, he knew he couldn't walk in blazing with questions. If he came off like a bully, he would never get any answers. However, he had other concerns. How versed was she in patients' rights and privacy issues? Did the doctor confide in her about his patients? What about his wife? His family? How much did she know? Considering the woman's emotional state, the interview would not be easy. Still, his only focus had to be the body sent to the morgue, the body turning colder with each passing minute.

Smitty appeared by his side. “The husband is here. You want me to send him in?”

Cancini shook his head. “No. Let me talk to her first, see if I can get anywhere. Tell him she's in the middle of giving a statement and to wait.”

The young detective agreed. “By the way, I confirmed the wife's alibi. She was in Chi-­town last night, having dinner with some of the other speakers. About six or seven witnesses can account for her whereabouts.”

Cancini glanced at Smitty. “Did you notice there were no pictures of the wife in the doctor's office?”

“Yeah. You think it means something?”

“Don't know, but let's look into the nature of their relationship, interview neighbors, friends, coworkers. Do it kinda quiet, though. If the lady has anything to hide, we don't want her trying to hush anyone up. It's too soon to rule anyone out.”

His white-­blond hair flopped over his eyes. “I'll get right on it. Anything else?”

Cancini's eyes slid back to the glass. Cancini liked the young man's temperament, his smarts. He hoped it lasted. “I want you to watch the interview, let me know if you have any observations.”

“Sure.”

He grabbed two fresh cups of coffee. “Mrs. Watson, I'd like to offer my sympathies again for the loss of your boss.” He passed her a cup and laid his notebook on the table. Her lips quivered and she blinked, fresh tears threatening to fall. He reached out and took her hands again, just as he'd done at Dr. Michael's office. Her mouth moved, but there was no sound. He held her gaze and squeezed her hands gently. “It's okay. I know how hard this day has been. Losing someone you care about is one of the hardest things there is.” This time, she made no attempt to talk, just nodded.

Cancini had insisted on speaking with Mrs. Watson alone. Using compassion wasn't a popular or recommended technique, and he knew the irony of his approach drew snide comments from some of the other men. Most explained it away as good acting, the ultimate bait-­and switch. First gain their trust, then pounce. Cancini, for his part, did nothing to dissuade them or offer any explanation. He suspected Smitty had his own theory about Cancini's soft-­spoken manner with witnesses, particularly the families and friends of the victims.

Cancini's eyes never left Mrs. Watson's face. “Let's take a deep breath together,” he said. She nodded slowly, and they did. “I'm going to ask you some questions and it's important you answer them in the best way you can.” He paused. “This won't be pleasant, but anything you know, any information you have, even without realizing it, could help us find Dr. Michael's murderer.” She squeezed her eyes shut, and he waited a moment until she opened them again. “Can you do it? Can you help me?”

“I'll try,” she said. “I'll do my best.” He relaxed and let go of her hands. “Is my husband here yet?”

“I haven't seen him,” the detective said, evading the truth. He didn't want her distracted during the questioning, or worse, given advice that might impede the investigation. “I'm sure you'll be with him soon.” He pushed the coffee and a box of tissues across the table. “Mrs. Watson, I'm sorry, but we'll need to start at the beginning again, when you found Dr. Michael.” She dropped her gaze. “I understand if you need to take your time.”

With an apology, she took a handful of tissues and dabbed at her eyes and wiped her nose.

“It's okay, Mrs. Watson. Whenever you're ready.”

“I'm ready,” she whispered, taking another deep breath. “I came in at eight-­thirty. I come in at the same time every day.” Her voice trembled, but she stayed focused on her story, the words slow and deliberate. Lines of concentration deepened on her forehead. “The door wasn't locked. I didn't think much of it, though. Sometimes Dr. Michael comes in a little early to prepare for the day's appointments.” She paused and bit her trembling lip. “When I got inside, I saw him right away. He was just lying there on the floor.”

“Go on,” he said, his voice soft.

“I think I screamed. I'm not sure though. It seems like I would have. There was so much blood, you know. Then I called 911.” She stopped again. “That's all there is to tell. I'm sorry.”

“It's okay, Mrs. Watson. You're doing fine.” He reached across the table and patted her hand. “Did you see anyone else when you arrived at the office? Anyone on the elevator? Anyone or anything unusual?”

She rubbed her forehead. “The only person I saw was Mr. Tebow. He has an accounting office on the first floor. I always stick my head in and say hi in the mornings.”

Cancini wrote the name in his notebook. “Did you see or speak to anyone else?”

“No.”

“Okay. What time did you leave the office last night?”

“Around six I guess.”

“Did you see anyone when you left?”

“No. The travel agency on the top floor closes at five and Mr. Tebow was still there I think, but his door was closed.”

He made a note to have all the tenants in the building interviewed before the day was out. “Do you always leave at six?”

“Oh yes, every night. Dr. Michael and I usually walk out together, but Mrs. Michael was out of town, so he wanted to work late.”

“Did he do that often?”

“No,” she said. “Only when Mrs. Michael wasn't in town. They were very close.” She frowned, eyes welling again. “Has anyone contacted her yet? She's going to be heartbroken.”

“Yes, ma'am. I believe she's arriving at Ronald Reagan shortly.” Making a ­couple of quick notes, Detective Cancini changed the subject. “How many appointments did the doctor have yesterday?”

“Seven,” she said, twisting her wedding ring. “He always sees seven a day.”

“Did anything strange happen in those appointments?” Her head came up. “You know, like did anything unusual go on yesterday with any of his patients?”

“No,” Mrs. Watson said. “Not that I know of.”

“Was he having any trouble with any of his patients?” It wasn't privileged information, he reasoned, if the doctor had already confided it to his secretary. “Maybe any confrontations or anything he might have told you about?”

“You don't think . . .” She hesitated, her eyes wide. “Maybe one of his patients killed him?”

“I don't think anything yet, Mrs. Watson. I'm only trying to find out about the doctor's day. I may need to question anyone who had contact with the doctor yesterday.” When she was silent, he probed again. “Had he said anything about any patient giving him trouble or difficulty? Maybe someone was threatening him?”

“Well, no, he didn't say anything in particular. I mean, I noticed things sometimes, about certain patients, but Dr. Michael would never confide in me about his cases. He's a real stickler for privacy and—­” She slapped her hand over her mouth, stifling another sob. The detective waited, nudging the tissue box once more. “Oh my God,” she whispered, “I'm so sorry. I just can't believe he's gone. It doesn't seem real.”

He waited a few minutes, then asked, “Did Dr. Michael wear glasses?”

“He had prescription reading glasses. They were gold.”

“Did he need them to work?”

Her brows drew together. “I think so. He wore them quite a bit.”

“Okay.” Cancini made a note to follow up on the glasses, then asked, “Did he go out for lunch yesterday?”

“He picked up a sandwich and brought it back to the office.”

“Okay. Did he go out for any reason later in the day?”

Smitty interrupted then. He bent close to Cancini, keeping his voice low. “The wife's on the phone, calling from the plane. She insists she needs to talk to the lead detective right away, won't talk to anyone else.”

Cancini rose. “Smitty, can you bring Mrs. Watson some more coffee?” To her, he said, “I need you to stay a little longer, okay? I won't be long.”

Cancini followed Smitty to the phone. “She may know something about a patient. See what you can find out.”

“Sure.” Smitty hesitated, then said, “By the way, the captain wants to see you as soon as you're done.”

Cancini's eyes rolled. A dull pain thudded in his head. “Perfect.”

“Sorry.”

“It's not your fault.” He picked up the blinking line. “Cancini here.”

“Detective Cancini.” She spoke fast, her voice husky. “This is Nora Michael. Are you the lead detective on my husband's case?”

“Yes, ma'am. I'm sorry about your husband.” He wrote her name in his notebook.

“Thank you, Detective, but that's not why I called. Well, it is, but not exactly.”

He'd expected to hear sorrow, anguish, and even anger. Instead, he found it difficult to reconcile the confident, throaty voice on the phone with what he expected from a woman whose husband had been fatally knifed in the back. “I'm listening.”

“It's about my brother.”

“Your brother?”

“Yes. He's dead, too.”