A Guilty Mind (24 page)

 

Chapter Forty-­Eight

“I
THIN
K
I
was unconscious after I fell. I don't know how long. My head hurt so badly when I woke up. There was blood on my face and in my hair.” Her voice was so low, they leaned forward to hear. “George, you were gone when I woke up. Only Mary Helen was still there. I told her I broke up with you, but I knew you'd be stubborn. You wouldn't listen.” Mrs. Michael sighed, her face drawn and tense. Her words were jumbled, skipping around in time. “All of it had taken a lot longer than I'd expected and I knew Mary Helen was going to show up soon. So I had to go to the backup plan.”

Vandenberg's head came up. “Gordon?”

“Yes.” She blushed, unable to meet his eyes. She took a deep breath, focusing on Cancini instead. “I told him this story about how I'd slept with his roommate. At first, I could tell he didn't believe me but then, later, he did. I used some gossip from one of the waitresses where I worked. Some personal stuff. That did the trick.” Nora Michael took a breath. “I shouldn't have done it, though. He was pretty mad, not that I blamed him. It was a rotten thing to do, but he hadn't left me any choice.”

“So you fought about the roommate?” Cancini asked.

“Right. And then I tried to leave.”

“That's when he pushed you and you fell?” Cancini had heard the story on the tapes, but that was George's story. This one belonged to her.

“Yes. Mary Helen was supposed to get there after I was gone to comfort him, but I was still there when she pulled up. She saw everything. He didn't even know she was there.”

Cancini remembered the detailed timeline prepared by Dr. Michael. Sarah had been looking over George's shoulder when she told her story, not because she couldn't face him as George had assumed, but because she'd been expecting Mary Helen all along. Had Dr. Michael been trying to help George discover the truth on his own?

“Mary Helen helped me to my feet and got me cleaned up. That's when I cooked up the plan. She told me George thought he'd killed me, and I decided it was for the best. It was easier that way and I could leave town knowing he wouldn't follow me. I wanted to start over. I wanted my brother to be able to start over and get all the chances he'd never been able to have with our parents.” Nora Michael looked at Mary Helen. “The money she offered was everything to us. It wasn't a lot, but we had enough to move, change our names, and start college. If it weren't for her, neither of us would have gotten as far as we did.”

George's lips curled. “You took a bribe.”

“You're wrong. I was grateful, don't you see? I was going to leave anyway and she knew that. I didn't leave because of the money. Mary Helen and I weren't friends, but we understood each other. She helped me.”

His face fell and his shoulders slumped. “But why? Maybe I was a jerk but I would have gotten the hint eventually. Why this way?”

She bit her lip and turned her head away. “My husband was preoccupied with you, George. He told me about a man who'd committed an act he regretted, who was depressed and angry, that he hadn't been able to help. He told me he thought you should come forward and confess.” Her voice cracked. “I didn't know it was you. I wouldn't have told them about you if I'd known. I swear.”

Cancini watched as both Vandenbergs recognized the irony. The lie they'd shared had come full circle.

A sob escaped Mary Helen's lips. “It's my fault,” she said. Her gaze slid to Cancini. “You knew, didn't you? You knew I'd been to see Dr. Michael.” Cancini gave a quick nod. Dr. Michael had given it away on one of his session tapes, referring to Mrs. Vandenberg's diminutive size and hinting at the impossibility of her moving Sarah after she was assumed to be dead. He couldn't have known that without meeting Mary Helen. Again, the therapist had tried to help George see the truth without betraying Nora, but the patient's self-­loathing had made that impossible. “It's my fault. George didn't confess because I knew then he'd find out the truth. Maybe not at first, but eventually. I was so afraid,” she said, the words difficult to understand between sobs. “I didn't want to lose everything. I didn't want him to know. I didn't want him to hate me.” She couldn't look at her husband, her head in her hands.

Cancini watched the emotions play on Vandenberg's face. Disbelief, anger, sadness, but mostly confusion.

“Why didn't Dr. Michael just tell me the truth? Why keep pushing the confession when he knew my wife was pushing me not to? He knew the stress was making everything worse. I kept getting madder and madder at him. Why didn't he just tell me?”

“He couldn't,” Cancini said and cast a quick look at the widow. “There were ethics involved and he couldn't betray things he'd learned from his patient.”

“What do you mean? What patient?”

“I think he means me,” Nora admitted after a moment. “I was one of my husband's first patients. My brother introduced me to him. They were friends in med school, both studying psychiatry. I was having a hard time dealing with everything and what had happened, so he thought I should talk to someone. That someone was Edmund. A ­couple of years after I'd stopped going to therapy, we ran into each other and started dating, got married. It felt so natural and safe. But it doesn't matter, everything I told Edmund before was privileged. He couldn't tell you.”

Stunned, George's face was blank. “Oh.”

“Your husband must have loved you, Mrs. Michael,” the detective said, “to keep your secret for so long.”

Her lower lip trembled. “I suppose he did.”

Cancini's eyes swept the room, his job not yet finished. There was still a little guesswork to do, although after his trip to Boston, he had filled in most of the blanks.

“Mrs. Michael, the day of your husband's death, Mr. Vandenberg argued with your husband. That night, at a party, he had too much to drink. He left the party early, around ten, originally claiming he went straight home. However, a surveillance tape has come into our possession that places him in an all-­night convenience store just before twelve. The coroner estimates that your husband was murdered between nine and twelve. Mr. Vandenberg has no alibi for most of that time.” He studied each of the players, gauging their reactions. Mary Helen listened to every detail, eyes wide. Her husband, however, sat slumped again, resignation on his face. Mrs. Michael looked past him at the large pane of glass, her face unreadable.

“Mr. Vandenberg owns a set of cooking knives. One is missing, the same brand and size that was used to murder your husband. The coroner has also been able to give us a partial description of your husband's assailant, including approximate height and strength. Mr. Vandenberg fits that description.” The detective paused. “In addition, Mr. Vandenberg voluntarily allowed us access to his sessions with your husband. They were all recorded on tape.” Mrs. Michael's eyes met his, then dropped away again. “After listening to most of the tapes, we learned that Mr. Vandenberg did have a temper, had a history of blackouts, and was under tremendous pressure from your husband, at times expressing deep anger. Our precinct psychologist agreed with this assessment and the district attorney felt we had enough evidence to arrest Mr. Vandenberg.”

Larry started to say something, seemed to think better of it, and closed his mouth. Mary Helen sobbed openly.

“Dr. Michael knew the truth about Mr. Vandenberg and wanted him to confess, knowing if the truth were exposed, his patient might discover he wasn't actually guilty of anything. I couldn't understand at first why Dr. Michael was pushing so hard until my partner pointed out to me that the patient's case had become almost personal to the therapist. I think he began to see Mr. Vandenberg as more than a patient, as someone to whom the truth was owed. I kept asking myself,
What was in it for him?
Reading through Dr. Michael's notes, it occurred to me that he felt a responsibility that went beyond doctor-­patient. Against his will, he'd become a party to the lie, but professional ethics kept his hands tied. Yet I think he did everything he could to steer Mr. Vandenberg in the right direction.” Cancini walked toward the widow and placed his hands on the table. “He would no more betray George than he would betray you, Mrs. Michael.”

She blinked, saying nothing.

“Tell me about your relationship with your husband, Mrs. Michael.”

Her lawyer placed a protective arm around her shoulder. “I don't think this is necessary, Detective.”

Cancini shrugged. “What I'm getting at is my question from the other day, Mrs. Michael. Who did you call three times on the night your husband was murdered?” Every head turned in her direction. Mrs. Michael slumped down low in her chair, her lower lip quivering. “As I said, I went to Boston the other day. Is it possible you have another secret, Mrs. Michael, one even your husband didn't know about?”

 

Chapter Forty-­Nine

A
HUSH FELL
over the room. All eyes on her, Mrs. Michael pressed her lips together and shook her head.

Cancini stepped back. “You can't answer, Mrs. Michael, or you won't?” Behind him, Vandenberg breathed heavily. “Who did you call that night? We know the phone is in your name, but not in your possession. Why can't you tell us?”

“The lady chooses not to answer,” Gerard said. She mouthed a thank-­you to her lawyer.

Cancini shrugged. “Then I'll tell you a story and you can listen.” Keeping his voice soft, he spoke to the widow as though she were the only one in the room. “Although you moved to Washington, you've maintained your Boston ties. In fact, you still have a bank account at a local branch there, a bank account in your name only and one I'm pretty sure your husband didn't know anything about. Not only that, you've been making cash withdrawals from that account even after you moved, having the money wired to you at your office, never at home.” She looked down at her hands, twisting and twisting her fingers. “So, one has to wonder what all that cash was for? Naturally, we checked out all the usual possibilities. Alcohol? Drugs? Gambling? Nothing we could find. Then we discovered you have two cell phones on your personal account, but the second phone doesn't belong to your husband or to you. An affair maybe?” Nora's face reddened. “Mrs. Michael?” Cancini asked, but she turned away. He shrugged again. “You called your second cell phone three times on the night your husband was stabbed to death. Three times.”

Nora's lawyer's lips tightened. “Detective, harassing my client is unnecessary. Can we get to the point, please?”

“I'm glad you asked,” he said, his eyes sweeping over the man. “The rest of the story goes something like this.” He looked again at the widow. “Mrs. Michael, feel free to correct me at any time, but I'm reminded you brought me a piece of evidence, a threatening note that couldn't be substantiated or traced. You claimed there was a connection between your brother's hit-­and-­run and your husband's murder. You successfully distracted more than one of my detectives, but there was no phantom killer targeting psychiatrists. Your brother's death was an accident, fully investigated and corroborated by witnesses.” The widow flinched. “Then you came to me with the story about the violent patient and told me your husband was anxious and uptight, maybe even scared.” Vandenberg's chin dropped and Mary Helen stifled another sob. Cancini continued, “This part was true but still only meant to distract me. This I understood, but what I couldn't know at the time was the reason.” Cancini paused. “Tell me when I'm way off base.”

“Enough.” The lawyer took Nora by the elbow and pulled her to her feet. “Detective, I don't see what any of this has to do with Dr. Michael's murder. So what if Mrs. Michael used to be Sarah Somebody? So what if she keeps a bank account in Boston and takes out some cash? So what if she made some phone calls the night her husband was murdered? She gave you the note and information in good conscience. Mrs. Michael has been more than cooperative with you and this office.” He glared at Vandenberg. “We know who killed Dr. Michael. Why don't you arrest him now and stop putting Mrs. Michael through this torture?”

Cancini smiled thinly. “Perhaps Mrs. Michael would like to tell us why all this is relevant. Maybe she would like to explain what she did with the money and why she didn't want to move away from Boston and why she's made so many trips back.” He waited, but still she said nothing. “No? Well, then, I'll tell you what I think. Mrs. Michael has a lot of secrets and she has been hiding something for a very long time.” He paused again. “Actually, someone, for a long time.”

“No. No.” She clung to Gerard, eyes begging. “Please don't.”

Cancini had to look away. His job wasn't finished. “If Mrs. Michael won't tell us, maybe Mrs. Vandenberg can.”

Mary Helen's blond head snapped up. “Me? How? I didn't know she was Dr. Michael's wife. I didn't even know she lived in Boston.”

Cancini pulled a notebook from his jacket pocket and flipped a few pages. “Mrs. Vandenberg, in January you took out one thousand dollars in money orders. In February, two thousand. By March, it was up to three. Shall I go on?”

White as a sheet, Mary Helen swayed. Vandenberg and the lawyers gaped at her, but no one with more interest than Nora Michael.

“At first,” Cancini said, “I thought maybe there was some conspiracy between the two of you, some passing of money I couldn't understand. Why the cash withdrawals? I just didn't get it.” He glanced at Mrs. Michael. “The second cell phone bothered me. Why call that phone three times that night? Who was on the other end of that phone? I was missing a key piece of evidence, but I just couldn't put my finger on it. Then it came to me. Boston. There was someone else in Boston.” He looked from one woman to the other. “I think both of you know who I'm talking about.”

“Please,” Mrs. Michael begged. “Please, don't.”

For a brief moment he felt sorry for her. Then he remembered she'd allowed this to happen. All this could be traced back to her and the secrets she was so determined to keep. Her reasons didn't matter now. He was a homicide detective and there was no room for absolution or forgiveness or gray areas. The guilty had to be punished. That's the way it had to be. He swallowed the lump in his throat. “It's too late for that, Mrs. Michael. Your husband is dead and I think you need to tell the truth, the whole truth.”

Gerard moved in front of Mrs. Michael. “I'm advising my client to keep quiet at this time, at least until after we've been able to discuss these matters in private.”

Cancini ignored the attorney, speaking softly. “It's over, Mrs. Michael. We've already picked her up. She's in custody.”

Her legs gave out and she landed in a heap. The wail started low, a mournful moan that grew louder and louder. “No, no, no,” she repeated over and over, holding her arms close to her stomach, her body shaking with sobs. Mary Helen went to her and crouched down. She reached out a hand and rubbed her back in soothing circles.

George sprang to his feet. “What in God's name is going on? Why is she so upset?” He whirled in his wife's direction. His voice was strained, thin with fear. “Tell me, please. Who was picked up? Who are we talking about?”

Cancini opened his mouth to speak, but Mary Helen stopped him. She took Sarah's hand and squeezed. Tears ran down her face, too, but she held her husband's gaze. “I'm so sorry, George. I had no idea it would end up this way.” She took a deep breath. “It's your daughter, George. Yours and Sarah's.”