A Guilty Mind (9 page)

 

Chapter Seventeen

T
HE SCOTCH DULLED
his senses, though not enough Cancini forgot he was sitting alone at the bar with an aching head. He should be getting home, but since the divorce, he felt less and less like being in the apartment. The empty rooms reminded him of the failure in his personal life, of the failure in his judgment. It was one thing to be a loner; it was another to always be alone. Once upon a time, he'd wanted a family and a home life, something that would make his father proud. But he'd picked the wrong woman. He only wished they'd had a kid, wished he could've given his dad a grandson or a granddaughter. Instead, he'd disappointed the old man again. Cancini sipped the scotch and counted the bottles lined up along the mirrored wall. Smitty would have a smart comment, tell him he was delaying the inevitable. Smitty would be right.

A shout in the back corner of the bar made him look over his shoulder. A small group clustered around a dartboard. He lost interest and swallowed another slug of scotch. Picking at a stale bowl of pretzels, he watched an Orioles game playing on TV. It might not be home, but it beat an empty apartment any night. Besides, Monty kept the conversation to a minimum and the drinks ready and available. It was a good relationship, the detective thought, better than most.

A fresh glass with three cubes appeared in front of him. Monty tipped the bottle of scotch, filling it to the rim.

“I didn't order that,” Cancini said, looking up.

“I know.” The bartender hooked his thumb toward the end of the bar. “The lady did. It's on her.”

A sideways glance and he knew the woman who'd paid for his drink. Nora Michael. She sat perched on the end of a stool, long legs crossed. She raised her glass and smiled. He nodded once. She picked up her wine to join him.

“This seat taken, Detective?”

He shook his head. “It's all yours.”

“Great. How are the burgers here? I just ordered one.”

“Greasy, the way I like 'em.” Finishing his drink, he pulled the fresh scotch closer. “Thanks for the drink.”

She shifted on her stool, her lithe body facing him. “You looked like you needed one.”

“Maybe.”

Silent only a moment, her fingers trailed the rim of her glass. “You don't seem surprised to see me, Detective. Why not?”

His gaze flickered over her face. The makeup had been artfully applied, almost hiding the dark shadows under her bloodshot eyes. “What makes you think I'm not?”

She sipped her white wine. “You're not. I can tell.”

“Well, maybe I am and maybe I'm not, but something tells me you do a lot of things that surprise ­people.”

She smiled. “I'm not sure if that's a compliment, but I'm going to take it as one anyway.” Cancini shrugged but said nothing. “Well, I'll tell you why I'm here. To find you.”

Ice clinked in his glass when he drank. “So, you found me. I don't know what you expect to learn.”

“It's not what I can learn from you. It's what you can learn from me.”

Monty returned with the lady's plate, silverware, and condiments. Wordless, he took Cancini's first glass and swiped at the counter with a damp towel. The detective took another long swig of scotch. Mrs. Michael picked up the large burger, her long fingers pressing into the soft bun. Ketchup, grease, and gooey cheese oozed over the sides and she asked for extra napkins. Cancini remained quiet until she finished.

She pushed the plate away. “That was good.” She wiped her lips and polished off the wine. “I haven't had a burger in so long, I forgot how much I liked them.”

“Really? Are you one of those vegetarians, or vegans, or whatever they're called?”

She laughed out loud, a throaty, sensual laugh. The lovely red lips parted wide, revealing even, white teeth. “No, nothing like that. Edmund and I had been on this health kick, you know, eating chicken, fish, and vegetables. No beef allowed. No alcohol other than the occasional glass of wine. No fruit. No bread. I guess it sounds pretty boring.”

“Very.” He changed the subject. “Mrs. Michael, what is it that I could learn from you?”

She hesitated only a second. “It's about one of my husband's patients and I think one of my brother's. Edmund didn't normally talk to me about his cases—­never actually—­but there was one that kept eating at him. He brought it up a few weeks ago and I thought it might be important  . . .” Her voice trailed off.

Watching the lady's reflection in the glass, Cancini considered her words. “Conversations between a husband and wife can sometimes be ruled privileged. Does your lawyer know you're talking to me?”

“I don't need a lawyer, Detective.” A tinge of exasperation crept into her voice. “Do you want to hear what I have to say or not?”

He raised his shoulders. “I don't want to get burned if you scream privilege later.”

She frowned. “I'm not going to scream anything and I'm not going to say anything I don't want you to know. I'm trying to give you a picture of his state of mind the last ­couple of weeks and maybe some suggestion as to where to look for answers.” Her face softened. “Would that be okay?”

He took a swallow of scotch. He didn't trust her, but he wanted to hear what she had to say. “Sure.”

“Good. There's this patient and I don't know a name or even whether it's a man or woman, but whoever it was had been on my husband's mind more and more. He started talking about this person facing a life-­changing decision and how this decision could hurt a lot of ­people.”

Cancini's heavy eyebrows furrowed. “Hurt?”

“Yes, that's what he said. It was something like . . .” She looked past him, remembering. “Something about a terrible thing in this person's past they needed to admit. From what I could gather, Edmund was encouraging a confession.” She paused and smoothed her hair. “I'm not sure if I've got this right, but this terrible thing might have been a crime. Supposedly, no one knew about it, but once they did, it might wreck ­people's lives.”

“Your husband told you this?” The woman nodded. “Why?”

She looked down at her lap and wiped some imagined crumbs from her slacks. “I think  . . .” She hesitated. “I think Edmund wondered if he was doing the right thing, pushing this patient, telling this person to confess. I think he believed it was the only way the patient could get better, but he was worried about the consequences. I got the feeling he wanted my opinion, but I also think . . .” Mrs. Michael bit her lip. “I think he was afraid.”

Cancini let out a breath. “Afraid? Do you mean physically afraid?”

“I think so.”

“Afraid of this patient, the one you've been telling me about?”

“I'm pretty sure,” she said. Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Something happened in his appointment that day . . .” Her lower lip quivered. “He told me about it on the phone that night. He called me in my hotel room. That was the last time we spoke.”

Smitty had already given the detective the details of the calls between husband and wife the night of the murder. “What did he say?”

“Not much,” she said. “Only that one of his sessions had gone badly and this patient had gotten upset. Something got broken, a lamp or something. He said the patient told him to back off and stop pushing so hard.”

Cancini ran his fingertips through his short, spiky hair.
Stop pushing
. Coincidence? Out loud, he asked, “So, this patient may have been violent?”

“Oh, definitely. I think whatever happened in the past, the thing that might have been a crime, I think it was something violent.” She sighed. “I wish I'd told him to stop the sessions and tell the patient to find another doctor when it first started bothering him. Edmund had been acting so strangely recently. He wasn't sleeping. He was distracted. It was like he was obsessed.” She gave a nervous laugh, “I guess if I was the jealous type I might've been angry, but I knew how much his practice meant to him.”

Even though Cancini knew no response was necessary, he said, “Your husband was dedicated to his patients.”

She sucked in her breath. “Yes, he was.” She dabbed at her eye with a handkerchief. “I admired him very much and now he's gone.”

Sipping their drinks, the two sat at the bar for several more minutes, the anonymous patient weighing on both their minds. Could the patient have lost his temper with his therapist? Could he or she have decided they'd had enough? Could a patient have snuck back into the office and coldly murdered the one person who was trying to help him? An unstable patient made for a convincing suspect.
Stop pushing.
The words were eerily similar to the note she'd dropped in his lap.

Cancini set his glass on the bar. “I do have one question for you. I've been wondering why your husband didn't have a picture of you on his desk or somewhere in the office.”

She blinked, but not before he caught the look of surprise. “My husband liked to keep his sessions with his patients focused on them. He kept his personal life separate. Why? Does it matter?”

“No, I guess not.” Cancini hesitated, then said, “We haven't been able to find your husband's reading glasses. Do you know where they might be?”

Mrs. Michael's shoulders drooped and she polished off her wine. “They could be anywhere,” she said. Her eyes fell away from his. “My husband was always losing things. He must have ordered three pairs of glasses in the last year alone. Later, I would find them in the strangest places.” Her hand shook as she placed her glass on the bar.

He waited a moment, then slid from the barstool and threw some cash on the wooden bar. There was nothing more he could learn. “Thank you, Mrs. Michael. This has been helpful, but I need to be getting home.”

“You're welcome, Detective.” She straightened and waved a hand. “I don't know if any of it means anything. After all, this patient may be completely innocent. It's just . . . I thought you should know.”

At the door, he glanced over his shoulder. She remained at the bar, a solitary presence. In her suit and heels, she didn't belong in a dingy bar like this one. Did she notice the burnt rings on the bar or the black velvet paintings hung near the bathroom? Did her nose wrinkle at the odors of old beer and stale cigarettes rising from the patchy rug? Monty's was hardly the five-­star restaurant he pictured her in. How had she tracked him down and why? He left with a shrug, letting the door swing shut behind him. Was she telling the truth or simply diverting attention from herself? She hadn't asked once about the note or her brother. The urgency in the station had been eclipsed by this new information. It could be something, but even if it was, it would be difficult to prove. No patient in their right mind would voluntarily give up their right to privacy, and without more credible evidence, he was in no position to pursue a subpoena. Her story amounted to nothing more than hearsay in a court of law. Whistling under his breath, Detective Mike Cancini walked home in the dark. Baffled, he was sure of only one thing. The lady was a mystery.

 

Chapter Eighteen

G
EORGE SANK TO
the ground, the memory of Sarah bringing him to his knees. Oddly, it felt as close as yesterday. The flowers, grass, and dust smelled the same. The river still rushed past the property, just as it always had. The heat and humidity still spiked in the warm weather months, bringing families, boaters, and fishermen. Life here hadn't changed.

In Richmond, the years had ground to a slow crawl, dragging unmercifully to the dead end he lived every day. He hated his life. He hated his job. He hated his wife. He loved the children, but they were teenagers now and no longer needed him. Did they love him? He couldn't say for sure. In a moment of pure insight, he realized he'd made the classic mistake. He'd done everything he could not to be the domineering, controlling father he'd known. Instead, he'd been mostly absent, barely even registering on the radar, except as an annoyance, pestering them for tidbits about their lives. He didn't know what they felt, who their friends were, what they wanted out of life. He was a man who happened to live in their house—­some of the time.

Escaping to Washington, usually on the pretext of business, had grown into a weekly event. Mary Helen had stopped complaining a long time ago. Instead, she used his absences to live her life the way she wanted, free of him. They didn't have a marriage. They had an arrangement. He watched the rushing river and the rapids tipped with tiny whitecaps. He breathed in the warm air and knew he wanted to start over. The fading light cast shadows across the green grass down to the water. He raised his left hand. An indentation marked the third finger, a reminder his wedding ring sat at the bottom of the river. That was different. He was different.

He pulled in his knees and bowed his head. Dr. Michael's words replayed over and over in his mind.
It's time to come forward.
He'd resisted, afraid to lose his children, afraid of his wife. It wasn't just fear. George recognized his reluctance didn't all start with his wife. He'd been unwilling to put his family through a potentially public airing of a nasty accident, one he'd covered up for more than twenty years. Now, crouched in the grass, he wondered why he'd been so unsure.

“George,” Dr. Michael had said in one of their last sessions, “surely you must see the depression you suffer, the apathy, is all brought on by your own inability to reconcile your actions in the past with the present.”

He didn't answer. He'd barely listened to the therapeutic jargon, so focused on the fear that coursed through him when he considered confessing his sins. “Can you refill my prescription?” he'd asked, deliberately avoiding the subject.

He remembered Dr. Michael had written something in his notebook, the one he always kept in his lap during each of George's appointments. “Do you feel strong enough to have the dosage lowered? You've been on this antidepressant for a long time. Maybe we could cut back a little and see how you do.”

“I don't know. I guess, if you think it's okay,” he said, adding, “but I'm sure I still need it.”

“Perhaps.” Stroking his thin mustache, the doctor returned to the topic of a full confession. “You may find, George, that it's not as terrible as you think. I know you're afraid, but you must have faith.”

He'd stared at the therapist, eyes wide in disbelief. “You don't know what you're talking about, Dr. Michael. It would be a nightmare. What if the police didn't believe it was an accident? I could even go to jail.”

“Is that it? You're afraid you might go to jail?”

“No, no,” he'd said, waving his hands. “It's not just about me. There's my family, my wife's family, even . . . uh . . . Sarah's family, wherever they are.” George waved his hands in protest. “No, I want to. I do. I'd give almost anything to stop carrying around this burden, but it's not going to happen. I can't do it. It would be selfish of me.”

“Who told you that, George?”

He'd left the question unanswered, but they both knew. Now, breathing in the heady scent of honeysuckle and wild roses, George wondered at his misguided loyalty. Maybe he'd been wrong. George had allowed himself to be led down this path, a pretty and windy road that never ended, careening toward a consuming guilt that threatened to eclipse the man who bore it. Drowning in his own shame, sometimes too embarrassed to look at his own reflection, he was more than eager to numb his conscious mind. It was no kind of life. Dr. Michael had tried to help him change, but in the end, he'd shoved the doctor away—­in effect killing his own chance at finding happiness. What did that leave him? A wife who belittled him? Children who couldn't count on him? Friends who didn't really know him? His life was a sham, a gorgeous charade of how to have everything and how to have nothing.

Without knowing why, he recalled the summer after the accident. He'd graduated from college. That was followed by his engagement to Mary Helen. It was mostly a blur. He couldn't even remember how he'd become engaged, only that she stayed by his side every day, flashing a ring with a large diamond encircled by sapphires. Years later, he discovered she and his father had picked out the ring and paid for it with the trust fund he'd inherited on his twenty-­first birthday. He'd spent most of that summer at home, sitting by the pool and avoiding the river, drinking beer with his frat brothers until they passed out. No one around him seemed to notice; they were too busy planning his wedding, planning his career, planning his future. Mary Helen came over every day, conferring with his mother, their two heads bent over list after list of guests, food, and gifts. When he'd shown up at the ceremony and reception, even he'd been impressed, stunned by the attention to detail. Mary Helen had a talent for creating the illusion of perfection.

The honeymoon had been no more memorable than the months that preceded it. The holiday only gave him an excuse to begin drinking before noon, lie in the sun, and stumble into bed each night. Then he'd made a critical mistake. In an alcoholic haze during a heated session of lovemaking, he'd called her Sarah. His wife had jumped away as though his skin was that of a leper. “Never again, George. Under no circumstances can you ever mention that person's name to me again. Do you understand?” Wrapping the sheet around her naked body, she'd run to the shower. “If you do, I swear I'll take you for everything you have. That part of your life is over. This is your life now.” And she'd been right. It was over.

He stood and brushed the grass from his clothes. A soft breeze caressed his cheeks. The sun slipped over the horizon and dusk settled over the property. A calm settled over him and he knew this was where he wanted to be for the rest of his life. It wouldn't be easy to change course after all these years, to veer off the road paved by his wife and family, to drive down the rocky road he'd avoided for so long. They might never forgive him, but none of that mattered now. He needed to do what was right, not what was expected. He climbed into his car, sober, an unexpected surge of confidence in his heart. Leaving the rural roads of the river, he bypassed Richmond. Both hands firmly on the wheel, he kept his focus straight ahead. It was time to start over.