A Guilty Mind (7 page)

 

Chapter Thirteen

“I
T'S FOR Y
OU.
” Mary Helen handed him the phone, lips turned down in disapproval. “A detective from the Washington police,” she said, her delicate hand cupped over the phone.

He rose from the kitchen table. The scrambled eggs and sausage he'd eaten rumbled in his belly. “This is George Vandenberg.” He turned his back on his wife.

The voice on the other end of the line was deep and gruff, but not harsh. “Mr. Vandenberg, my name is Detective Mike Cancini and I'm sorry to have to track you down at your home in Richmond, but I have a ­couple of questions for you.”

George gripped the kitchen counter with his left hand. “What is this about, Detective?”

“Well, I don't like doing this over the phone, but since you're not in Washington, there's no other way. Dr. Edmund Michael, I believe you're a patient of his, is that right?”

“Yes, I am.”

“I'm afraid I have some bad news for you.” Five seconds ticked by. “He's been killed.”

Hearing it out loud made him shiver. “That's terrible.”

“Dr. Michael died two nights ago and we're asking all his patients with appointments that day to verify their whereabouts that day and evening.” George could feel his wife's eyes boring into his back. He wiped his left hand on his pants. “Mr. Vandenberg? Are you there?”

“Yes, Detective, I'm here,” he said. “That was Thursday, right? I did have an appointment with Dr. Michael that day, as you said. After I left his office, I went to my country club for drinks. There was a members' party.” Larry had advised George to be honest and keep it simple. With his attorney's advice in mind, he briefly outlined the evening, concluding with his departure from the club and his return to his apartment.

“Fine,” Cancini said. “I assume you can give me some names of ­people who saw you at the club.”

“Yes, sir.” George heard a pen scratching as he rattled off half a dozen names of members he knew had been at the party.

“What time did you say you left the club and what time did you get home?”

Holding the phone, George hesitated. “I think I left around ten or so and went straight home, so that would put me back at my apartment around ten-­fifteen, maybe a little after.” He forced a laugh. “I'm not sure the exact time. Like I told you before, I did have a few drinks.”

“Okay, got it.”

A wave of relief washed over him. “Anything else I can do, let me know.”

“One more thing,” Cancini said. “Was anyone with you in your apartment that night? Can anyone verify you were there from, let's say, ten-­thirty on?”

The short-­lived relief evaporated. “No, Detective, I'm afraid not.”

“No one?”

“No, sir.”

“I see.” Cancini's voice took on a different tone. “I'll be in touch, Mr. Vandenberg. Good-­bye.”

Fingers trembling, George replaced the receiver. He leaned against the counter and breathed in and out. He straightened when he sensed Mary Helen standing behind him.

“Well? What did he say? What did he want?” He flinched at the accusation in her eyes. “Why did he want to know where you were? What do the police know?”

The tension faded, replaced by a growing irritation with his demanding wife. “What do you mean what do they know? There's nothing to know. How many times do I have to keep telling you that?”

“Oh?” Her tiny hands flew to her narrow hips. “Then why did you have to tell them where you were that night?”

He brushed past her and poured a fresh cup of coffee. He stirred in cream and sugar, speaking over his shoulder. “The detective said they're asking everyone who had an appointment with Dr. Michael on Thursday where they were.” With more confidence than he felt, he said, “I think it's routine or something.”

“Oh . . . well, that's good then.”

“Don't sound so happy, Mary Helen. I swear it's almost like you want me to have done something wrong.”

“Don't be ridiculous.” She reached for the phone. “I'm going to call Larry.”

“What for?”

“To let him know you talked to the police.”

He dumped the coffee down the sink. “Do what you have to. I'm going to the office.”

“It's Saturday,” she said to his retreating back. Phone call forgotten, she followed him from the kitchen to the foyer. Her low-­heeled shoes clicked across the marble floor and echoed off the arched ceiling and circular staircase. The mid-­morning sun streamed through six-­foot windows, brightening the antique furnishings and bathing his wife in light. “George . . .” Her voice was more tentative, less bossy. “What if they call again? What if they want to know why you were seeing Dr. Michael?”

“I don't think they can ask that.”

“Oh.” She tucked her hair behind her ears. “How much did you tell him, George? Did he know everything . . . about that night?”

The question caught him off guard. Before, whenever he'd tried to bring up the subject and include her in his therapy, she'd scorned the idea. She harped on the importance of family and privacy. She hated that he'd confided in a stranger, told someone outside the family their secrets. Now that Dr. Michael was gone, she'd developed a sudden curiosity. “Yes. He knew everything.”

She reached out and pressed her fingers into his forearm. “What do you mean by everything?”

How could he explain? He'd told the therapist about the accident, every detail, from start to horrendous finish. He'd told the man his entire life story, for whatever that was worth. She couldn't understand, preferring to guard secrets and keep unpleasant memories tucked neatly into the past. Seeing a therapist had been his idea, criticized by his wife, and hidden from his children. He pulled Mary Helen's hand from his arm. “Nothing. I don't mean anything.”

He left her standing in the doorway, mouth gaping. In the car, he forgot the office and turned eastward toward the family river house. After a little more than an hour, the car rolled down the gravel drive. The new version of the place, renovated by Mary Helen, reminded him of their house in town. But even his wife's commanding hand could not keep nature at bay. Wildflowers crept outside their borders, infringing on the miniature bushes she'd ordered the gardeners to plant. The woods that edged one side of the property were dark and thick, filled with brush and bramble. Getting out of the car, he glanced at the large house and the smaller cottage before strolling down to the dock where the new boathouse stood.

Down by the water, he pulled off his shirt and shoes. He rolled up his pants and let his feet dangle in the river. The cool water lapped at his toes. This was the part of the property he loved, the water itself, the wildlife, the natural beauty. For years, he'd denied himself time at the river, afraid of the memories. It wasn't until he'd begun seeing Dr. Michael that he realized how much he'd given up. When the dreams started, he'd known it was time. He came often and alone, when he was sure the place would be empty.

George looked down at his hand, at the gold ring encircling the third finger of his left hand. It had grown tight over the years with the weight he'd gained, and it was difficult to remove. He touched the smooth metal and tugged at the ring. It wouldn't budge. Leaning over, he dipped his hand into the water, waving it back and forth in the light current. Wet, the ring slipped down to his knuckle. He worked it back and forth until it dropped into the palm of his hand. The ring glittered in the afternoon sun. He held it up and read the inscription, his wedding date followed by his initials.

His fingers closed over the ring and the memories of that day flooded his mind. He'd started drinking early. Bloody Marys with the frat brothers by ten, beer at lunch, and gin in the late afternoon. The ceremony itself was a blur, but he remembered Mary Helen's face as she came toward him. The church had been crowded with their families' wealthy friends, all decked out in black tie and tasteful jewels. His wife-­to-­be had sauntered down the aisle, nodding at ­people she recognized and elongating the moment. At the altar, she'd taken his hand, leaned in close, and whispered in his ear. “It's going to be all right, darling. This is how it was meant to be.” Stepping back, she'd smiled, so sure, so triumphant.

He didn't remember much else except going through the motions, repeating the vows, doing whatever was expected of him. It wasn't a great start to any marriage, but he had no one to blame but himself. He didn't love Mary Helen then any more than he did now. He was grateful to her, sure, but that wasn't love. They were bound together now only by the life they had built around the children. Love was a distant memory from his past with a different woman. Those days were long gone and the life he'd chosen was the one he'd allowed Mary Helen to choose for him. Opening his fingers again, he stared at the ring, the symbol of commitment in a marriage. Tears pricked his eyes until the gold circle in his palm blurred. George blinked, closed his hand around the ring, and tossed it in the river. He listened for the plink and watched it disappear under the water, gone forever.

 

Chapter Fourteen

F
ATHER
J
OE SIP
PED
the coffee. “Ahh. Dunkin' Donuts. My favorite, Michael.”

Cancini grinned, leaning back in the guest chair. “I know.” Both men sat quietly a few moments, drinking their coffee. The morning light streamed in through the tall windows of the priest's living quarters. Outside, the streets were quiet; the only sound the chirping birds.

Father Joe balanced his cup in his lap. “Any sins to confess this morning, my friend?” Their relationship, long and filled with mutual respect, was rooted in tradition.

“Same ones as always, Father. Sorry to say, I'm still a sinner.”

“Well, aren't we all?” The elderly man chuckled. His face crinkled when he laughed and his nose tipped up toward the heavens. “Keep trying, Michael. Say three Hail Marys and that should do it then.”

“Yes, Father,” Cancini said.

“Will I see you at Mass tomorrow?”

Cancini grinned again, these questions and answers the same every visit. “No, Father.” He glanced around the room, taking in the new stack of books piled around the priest's armchair. Dark brows furrowed, he squinted to read the wide variety of titles. He saw mysteries, biographies, and history. The old man read books the way some ­people did puzzles, or went to the movies, or drank coffee. It was his favorite pastime, his only pastime other than prayer. Cancini didn't like to read. It took too long and he preferred reality, but he understood the desire to escape. They sat for several minutes, drinking their coffee, the silence both comforting and familiar.

When the priest did speak again, his words were as much a pronouncement as a question. “It's been a few days since I've heard from you, Michael. I presume there's a new case then?”

“Yes, Father.”

“Let me guess? The psychiatrist? The one I read about in the papers?”

“That's the one.”

Father Joe clucked his tongue. “Sad. I will never understand what would drive a soul to take another man's life.”

Cancini said nothing. It wasn't a new conversation. As a homicide detective, he'd known many violent men, even evil men. In his world, men were judged for their crimes. The appropriate punishment was supposed to be meted out through the justice system, although it didn't always work that way. Still, it was a world that condemned a man for his sins. In contrast, Father Joe accepted all men as sinners, believing fully in repentance followed by forgiveness, no matter the sin. In spite of his all-­encompassing compassion, the priest was fascinated by Cancini's cases and the complexities of police work.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“There's not much to say other than what you've heard on the news. We have no witnesses, no tangible DNA evidence, and as of yet, no motive.”

“You're frustrated.”

“Yes.”

“The method of killing was not a gun. It was a knife. That's unusual, isn't it?”

“Yes.” Cancini walked to the large window. The neighborhood had changed since the priest had first come to the parish. He could see the houses across the street with their sagging porches, peeling paint, and dandelion yards. A few homes had been renovated by young ­couples, but most were run-­down with old wiring and older plumbing. New houses and new neighborhoods had sprung up in rings around the city, drawing anyone who could afford bigger and better. The parishioners, like the homes they lived in, were mostly old, or poor, or both. Yet, Father Joe stayed.

“A stabbing then. Like your mother,” the priest said.

Cancini's head jerked back. “No, it's not the same.” He paused and rubbed his hands on his thighs. “The victim was knifed in the back. I don't even think he saw it coming. And there was no robbery. I think the murderer knew the victim.”

“I see.”

“My best guess right now is that it was premeditated—­at least partly.”

“So, you believe it could be someone close to the psychiatrist?”

“Maybe. I don't know. I have no real idea at this point. It's just a feeling.” An image of the man lying on the floor, facedown in his own blood, melded with that of his young mother, crumpled and bleeding to death on the hard floor of a convenience store. He remembered the rusty stains on the coat and shoes the police had sent home to his father. Her purse and the rest of her belongings had come home in a cardboard box. He shivered.

“You should trust your instincts,” the priest said, interrupting his memories. “Stay with those who had a connection to him.” Cancini nodded but said nothing. The priest picked up his coffee and took a long sip. “Well, how's your father then?”

Cancini stared down into his cup. “About the same, I guess. Good days and bad.”

“What's the prognosis?”

“Don't know. The chemo's been making him so sick. It's hard to believe that stuff is supposed to make him better.” The detective swallowed. “He's seventy years old. How much can he take?”

“Your father is a strong man, Michael. You know that.”

“Stubborn, Father, not strong.”

“Be that as it may, Michael, your father did survive the murder of his wife and raised you by himself. It was not an easy life for him.” Cancini frowned. “We must all learn to accept what we cannot change and make the best of what we've been given. It is God's will.”

The detective finished his coffee and stood. “Well, Father, I wonder how my murder victim would feel about God's will right now, or how his wife feels, or his secretary for that matter.”

Father Joe gazed at his friend, his kind eyes never leaving the younger man's face. “I will pray for them, Michael.”

Cancini looked down at the floor, his face grim. “Yeah, I'm sure they'd appreciate that.”

He was almost out the door when the old priest spoke again, his voice soft. “And I'll pray for you, Michael. I'll pray for you, too.”