Omens (30 page)

“Notre Dame is famous for its gargoyles. Plenty of old churches have them.”

“Do you know why?”

“I know their original purpose is architectural. They divert water from the building itself. That’s why they lean out—to let water fall away from walls so they aren’t damaged by runoff.”

“Correct. But churches also used them for two other functions. Some thought they would scare people into churches—remind them of the hell and damnation that awaited if they skipped service. Others viewed them as guardians, keeping the worshippers safe. There developed, however, a third view. That they were demonic themselves or, at the very least, idolatrous. That’s why they kept churches out of Cainsville.” She rose, rubbing her back. “I should get back to work. Anytime you want to chat, though, I’m around. But if you’re interested in more, you can also speak to Rose Walsh. She’s quite the expert on folklore.”

“I have talked to her a couple of times. We had a, uh, session.”

“I’d be more pleased about that if your tone told me you took it seriously. You don’t believe in the sight, child?” She shook her head. “I bet you don’t believe in the protective powers of gargoyles, either.” A smile and a wink, and she trundled off with her cart.

G
abriel insisted on taking me to the interview with Evans. I suppose it fell under the same category as teaching me to use a gun—a dead client would look very bad on his résumé.

I made him drop me off a block away. Having William Evans glance out to see me stepping from Gabriel’s Jag would not be a good way to start the interview.

Evans lived with his wife in River Forest, an affluent suburb west of Chicago. Their house was in an older part, where the houses weren’t obscenely large and you actually had some green space between you and your neighbors. My original plan was to have Gabriel drop me at the nearest bus stop. But this wasn’t the kind of neighborhood where anyone took the bus.

When I reached the Evans home, a middle-aged housekeeper was on the front porch, speaking to a young gardener. She showed me into the study, where William Evans waited.

Evans sat at his desk. He was a thick-set man with an iron-gray, military-short buzz cut, dressed in a golf shirt that showed off biceps that would be the envy of men half his age. Not what I’d expected, given the soft-spoken voice on the phone.

“Ms. Jones,” he said when the housekeeper ushered me in. He strode around the desk to take my hand. “Do you go by Jones? Or Taylor-Jones?”

“Jones. Keeps things simple. But Olivia is even better.”

“Excellent. Please call me Will.” He looked over at the housekeeper. “I’m sorry, Maria. I know you were just leaving, and I completely forgot to mention Ms. Jones’s appointment. Is there any chance you could…?”

She smiled. “I’ll bring coffee.”

He thanked her and waved me to a seat as he took his. We talked about the weather until the coffee arrived. Then he said, “So you’re investigating my son’s murder.”

“I’m not a detective. I’m just…” I pretended to be debating how honest I should be, though I’d worked out a game plan already. “Pamela Larsen wants me to take her case to the Center on Wrongful Convictions. She would like them to focus on irregularities in the murders of your son and Jan Gunderson. I don’t want to do that until I’ve checked a few things myself. Otherwise…” I shrugged. “It gives the wrong impression.”

“That of a naive, socially advantaged young woman who believes her parents cannot be guilty simply because she doesn’t want them to be.”

I could feel the weight of his stare on me as he studied my reaction. I struggled not to squirm. I don’t like shrinks. They’re always assessing you, and even if their assessment seems wrong, you can’t help but wonder because, after all, they’re pros. Skilled scuba divers into the murky waters of the unconscious.

“Yes,” I said. “I want to know what I’m giving them and to agree that there is some modicum of doubt.”

“There is.”

When I glanced at him sharply, he said, “I believe there
is
some doubt. I believe you are correct to look closer at Christian Gunderson. I believe I know a reason why Christian may have murdered his sister.”

As determined as I’d been to play my cards close, his chuckle said I’d failed miserably.

“Did you expect mind games?” He shook his head. “I’m too old for that. If we’re being honest, I was always too old for that. Too impatient. I believe it is possible Christian Gunderson killed my son. Only possible. Perhaps not even likely. But that possibility has haunted me for twenty-two years.”

I met his gaze. “But it wasn’t haunting you a year ago? When Gabriel Walsh told you he was working on Pamela Larsen’s appeal?”

His smile didn’t falter. “Touché. The truth is that I don’t like defense lawyers, Olivia. I particularly do not like Gabriel Walsh. More than one family with Peter’s Angels has had to deal with the man, and it was a very unpleasant experience. Some lawyers defend criminals because they believe in the system and trust that it will convict the guilty. Others do it because the rewards assuage those jabs of conscience. A few, though, do it because they have no pricks of conscience. They see it as a game.”

“So you withheld the information because you dislike Gabriel Walsh.”

“No. I was quite willing to give it—if he pushed. I wanted to feel confident that he’d use it. When I rebuffed him, though, he lost interest, which suggested he didn’t really see Christian as a viable suspect. I feared that if I gave him what I had, he’d misuse it.”

“And you trust me to use it properly?” I said.

“I’ve done my research on you, Olivia. When I spoke to a mutual acquaintance, she couldn’t sing your praises highly enough. You weren’t merely a debutante taking a monthly shift in the soup kitchen. You worked hard. You care about people. I wondered what you were doing with Gabriel Walsh. I believe I see it now, though. He is beneficial to you, is he not? To your investigation?”

“He is.”

“Good. Make use of him, then, but please, be careful. He is not a man to be trusted. Also, I would ask that anything we discuss here not get back to him.”

I agreed. Quickly, easily, and—if his reaction was any indicator—believably. Which proved that my acting skills were improving. Once he’d secured my agreement, he began to talk.

In all my research on Jan Gunderson and Peter Evans, I’d never learned how they met. It seemed inconsequential. It wasn’t. Jan had been Dr. Evans’s patient. She’d been coming to his house for treatment, which is where she’d met his son. That was why the Evanses had objected to the relationship. Not because of the age difference but because of the circumstances.

“Eventually, we got past that,” Evans said. “Jan was a wonderful girl, and she was in love with our son. He was in love with her.”

“Were you still seeing her professionally?”

“No. As soon as she started dating Peter, she knew she should no longer see me as her therapist. That was correct and shows, I think, what a mature and levelheaded young woman she was. That decision was, however, part of the reason I was against the relationship. Jan and I were making headway. She had a serious issue to work through. I had to choose between seeing her achieve happiness by a breakthrough or by my son.”

“And you thought a therapeutic breakthrough was better.”

“Young love is fickle. Peter … liked to date. He rarely had one girlfriend at a time. I thought his relationship with Jan was simply a new phase.”

“Test-driving fidelity. Which wouldn’t last.”

“Yes. But it did. Which is when I came to realize that this was indeed what Jan needed, psychologically.”

“So she didn’t transfer to a new therapist.”

“She was going to. I made a couple of appointments for her. She found excuses to cancel, and I realized she needed a break. I didn’t push. Maybe I should have.”

“What was she seeing you for? Or is that still covered under client–patient confidentiality?”

“There’s the rub. Does confidentiality extend beyond death? Opinions vary. If Jan said to me, ‘I think my brother is going to kill me,’ then clearly I have an obligation to turn her files over. But if those files only suggested a possible motive? Not as clear. I decided that if the authorities requested her files, I’d hand them over. They did not. Nor did the Larsens’ lawyers.”

“Did the police know Jan had been your patient?”

“Yes. But because the professional relationship ended almost a year before her death, they didn’t see any causal link to her murder. They didn’t subpoena my files or ask me anything about our sessions.”

Which was a serious oversight when they’d been investigating her brother as a potential suspect. Maybe they’d trusted that Evans would volunteer anything that could help them catch his son’s killer.

He took a file folder from his desk and handed it to me. “Take this with you. I’ve redacted information that I feel is an unnecessary invasion of Jan’s privacy, but in those remaining pages, I believe you’ll find a motive.”

I took the file as he again warned me against sharing it with Gabriel. Again, I lied and said I wouldn’t.

Before I could leave, he said, “Are you seeing anyone, Olivia?” he asked. “A therapist, I mean. Since you discovered the Larsens are your parents?”

I stiffened.

“I can tell from that reaction that the answer is no and that you don’t appreciate the question. I’m sorry, but I had to ask. I’d be a poor psychologist if I wasn’t concerned about the effects of such a revelation.”

“I’m coping.”

“So I see. When I heard you were investigating the murders, I’ll admit I was concerned you might be in denial. That doesn’t seem to be the case, though. Still, if you’d like to talk to someone … free of charge, of course. You’re doing me a favor, setting my mind at ease about Christian.”

“I appreciate the offer. I know talking helps a lot of people, but it really doesn’t do it for me. I just need to work through this on my own. No offense.”

“None taken. You’re right that you don’t seem an ideal candidate for traditional therapy. I was going to suggest more of an information session. After my son’s death, I became something of an expert on serial killers. I’m sure you have questions. About them. About yourself.”

I had to struggle to keep my expression blank. I thanked him again and promised to call with any questions on the file.

G
iving me Jan’s file seemed like a breach in doctor–client confidentiality, but when I told Gabriel what Evans had done, he said that according to Illinois law, psychologists weren’t bound after a client’s death. Evans could refuse to turn it over, but it had been his idea, and he’d redacted information, so he was acting ethically.

As I read the file, Gabriel drove to Starbucks. River Forest wasn’t the kind of place where you were likely to find a nice little generic coffee shop. Which was fine, because I was craving a mocha and espresso brownie about as much as I’d been craving sushi.

We ate outside. It wasn’t perfect weather for it—a little windy, which in Chicago-speak means gusts that will snatch your newspaper but not your breath. It was overcast though, so we had the patio to ourselves.

I told Gabriel what Evans had said about him. He only snorted as he ripped a chunk from his muffin.

“Seems he did a background check on you when you first started sniffing around,” I said. “Allegations of drug dealing. Assault with intent. Murder.”

“I didn’t go
sniffing around
.”

“That’s the only accusation that bothers you?” I shook my head. “Anyway, yes, he doesn’t trust you, so I can’t share this.” I waved the file.

“Judging by the noises you made while reading it, I presume there’s something useful in there.”

That breeze gusting past seemed to turn to an icy blast. I shivered.

“Is it that bad?” Gabriel’s voice dropped.

“Do you have siblings?”

“No.”

“Me neither, but I still can’t imagine…” I trailed off and yanked my gaze from the folder.

He waved at my drink and snack. “Chocolate therapy?”

“Yes. A cliché, I know. But it works for me.” I pushed the folder over to Gabriel. “There’s no way you can help me on this investigation without reading that. So enjoy.” I paused. “Or not.”

According to that file, Christian Gunderson may have broken the oldest taboo. If he hadn’t, it wasn’t for lack of trying.

It started when Christian was thirteen and Jan was twelve. They’d been goofing around—Jan swiped something of his and when he caught her, they started play-wrestling and … well, it may not be a good idea to play-wrestle with your thirteen-year-old brother. From what I recall of that age, guys can get “stimulated” by rubbing against pretty much anything. Not their fault. It’s just hormones, and I’m sure it’s embarrassing as hell, especially when it’s your sister you’re rubbing against.

I’d think the natural reaction to that would be shame and humiliation. You’d feel like a pervert, even if it was a purely physiological response and didn’t mean you thought of her “that way.” Except that wasn’t what happened. Not according to Jan. Christian had his “reaction” and freaked out a little, but she pretended not to notice what happened. A mature response. When Jan feigned innocence, though, Christian seemed to think it meant she was okay with it. Evans didn’t speculate on Christian’s thought process. Jan was his patient and all he cared about was her reaction, her emotional fallout.

Was Jan ever a willing participant? She never said. How far did it go? Evans didn’t push. All he knew was that at fifteen, she’d gone to spend the summer with her grandmother and ended up staying with her for almost a year. When she came back, she’d told Christian to keep his hands off her or else.

That should have ended it. Instead, his physical advances turned to protestations of love. He loved her and, yes, it was wrong, but he couldn’t help himself. That continued until she left for college. When she returned, things seemed to have changed. Now Christian was actively trying to set her up with Tim Marlotte. Jan agreed to date him and soon they were engaged and all was fine … until she dumped Marlotte for Peter Evans.